The taste of Julian seemed to snap the last thread of the Duke's control. He let out a low growl, looking into Julian's eyes, and, before Julian could process the change in momentum, he felt the world tilt.
The Duke didn't just help him up; he scooped Julian off the velvet couch as if he weighed nothing. Julian's head fell against Alaric's shoulder, his face buried in the crook of the Duke's neck. He could smell the salt from sweat, the wine, and the raw, heavy heat of a man who was completely undone.
Julian's heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird trying to get out. Inwardly, he was screaming. He should stop this. He should pretend to wake up from the alcohol delusion and stop the Duke before he went any further.
But as Alaric carried him toward the massive bed, Julian felt a terrifying lack of will. He wasn't disgusted. He was hot—feverish, even—and the way the Duke's arms tightened around him made his own blood feel like it was boiling.
