Trevor waited inside the doorway, leaning a shoulder against the frame as Lucas crossed to the wardrobe. The drawers slid open without protest, Windstone's efficiency had already reached even here, neatly folding away anything worth keeping, quietly discarding what Trevor had long decided didn't belong.
Lucas stood in the spill of morning light, pale skin catching the gold in a way that turned every smooth line of him into something artful. The curve of his spine as he reached into the wardrobe and the easy, unhurried stretch of long limbs that had no business being that elegant this early in the day, it all tugged at Trevor's control in ways he didn't particularly want to rein in.
He told himself to look away, but didn't. His gaze traced the play of lean muscle under skin, the faint shadow of collarbone, the clean elegance of each movement. Even the act of buttoning his shirt, slow, measured, fingers working from hem to throat, felt like it had been staged solely to test him.
