Grayson closed his eyes. He could still taste the alcohol on his lips. The ocean pheromones were desperately clinging to his skin and clothes. The phantom pressure of those soft hands cupping his face, pulling him down into a kiss—
Once, it might have been an accident.
But twice?
"Stupidly pretty," he muttered, echoing Neville's drunken words. A laugh bubbled up, helpless and bewildered. "Of all the things to say."
Grayson's hand moved before he could stop it, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from Neville's forehead.
Then paused.
"We'll talk again when you're sober."
Then he left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Inside the room, Neville lay sprawled across the bed in an undignified heap, one arm dangling off the edge while the other was flung across his face.
For a moment, since Grayson came out, the room remained in this state of peaceful stillness.
Then Neville groaned.
