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He smiles again. “Are you always in such a rush?”

“Do you always need to perform, even when you are crumbling?”

Evander huffs.

“Who is crumbling?”

“You are, Viscount.”

My hand slides over the fabric of his trousers; I strip them off with resolve, without hesitation.

“Never drink like that again.”

He stares at my hands, an eyebrow lifting, his eyes filling with confusion.

“What?”

I slide the trousers from his feet, laying them on the edge of the bed. “You are reckless when you are drunk.”

He props himself up on an elbow, a hand tucked under his head, his black hair spilling across the pillow.

“You are sober... yet here you are, acting as a servant to a man. A viscount. To me.”

My hand drops, a finger brushing his ankle.

“I am not acting as a servant.”

He pulls his leg back, moving it away from me.

“And what are you doing, then?”

I lift my gaze. I see him stretched across the bed; raven hair scattered on the pillow, face flushed, body nearly naked, lips curved in a sardonic smile, eyes glassy and half-closed.

I feel my cock hardening against my fly, a thick, aching throb that strains the fabric. My breath turns shallow, jagged, as the blood rushes south with a violent heat I can’t, and won’t suppress.

“It is strange to see you hesitant.”

“Strange you haven’t run away yet,” I retort. “I suppose that’s only because you are unable to.”

“I am not the one who vanished.”

You are. You shut me out the moment you walked out of my manor.

I kneel beside him, feeling the heat of the fever radiating through his skin beneath my hands.

“Do you want to purify me, Dorian?” he mumbles. “Like a saint attempting to wash away sin?”

I slide the cloth over his collarbone.

“There is nothing to purify.”

The cloth lingers on his chest.

“Not yet.”

My fingers brush more than I intend, too close.

“You’re trying not to desire me. It’s almost touching.”