Dorian laughs, and the Bull watches him stretch out on the rug in front of the fire, body all long lines as he reaches for the pitcher of wine and refills his goblet. They’re lying foot to head, pillows and blankets arranged about them; the Bull has the perfect view. Dorian’s limbs are loose and relaxed, and this may be the Bull’s favorite look on him. Other than rope, that is, Dorian does look good in rope.
But this Dorian, this laughing, happy Dorian, makes something in him feel as warm and bright as the fire burning in the grate at Dorian’s back. The Bull can’t take his eye off the way the light gilds his skin, catching where sweat is beginning to gather again, though not through any efforts of the Bull this time. Light and shadow play across him, and the Bull thinks, I am a lucky man, even as Dorian reaches out to poke him in the chest with his foot.
“Did you really throw them through the window? Wait, why am I even asking? Of course you did.” He takes a sip of wine, the drink clinging enticingly to his lips and runs his free hand over his hair, mussing it. The Bull feels privileged.
“What can I say.” He reaches out for Dorian’s nearest foot, the one he prodded the Bull with, and wraps his fingers around Dorian’s ankle, can feel the shift of tendon and bone, Dorian’s skin warm beneath his palm. For a moment, his thoughts drift to the last time he bound Dorian, how he’d looked, his arms and legs spread. The Bull’s blood stirs, and Dorian raises an eyebrow. “What can I say,” he repeats. “I am a being of passion.”
Dorian raises a disinterested eyebrow, gazing down at the wine he swirls in his cup. When he looks back up, there’s a smirk tugging at his lips and his eyes linger over the Bull’s stirring prick. “Or,” he says, licking his lips, “would another word for that be horny?”
The Bull stares at him, can barely believe the cocky look Dorian levels at him. He’s trying to hold back a laugh, the Bull can tell, and, Maker, he is a lucky man.
“Holy shit, Dorian,” he says, pushing himself up. “Ho-lee shit.”
Dorian stares up at him, wide-eyed. “You’re not–you can’t leave because–fuck!”
Somehow he manages to pick Dorian up, to throw him over his shoulder without spilling anything. He smacks Dorian’s ass, kissing the side of it when Dorian squawks. “Oh, I’m not leaving. I’m going to reward you. Looks like I’m rubbing off on you after all.”
“Or you soon will be,” Dorian says, his voice slightly muffled at the Bull’s back.
Another kiss to the nearest curve of Dorian’s perfect ass. “Kadan,” he says, “that’s the plan.”