Frost silvered the palace loggia. Lysander arrived wearing nothing but a travel cloak and the sting of memory. Prince Dorian reclined on a chaise, robe parted, cock half-hard against a belly lined with lean muscle. He dangled the tasting cup by its chain.
“You’re late by three heartbeats,” he said. “Mouth.”
Lysander crawled. The first lick traced the prince’s slit; Dorian poured honey-wine over his head so warm syrup ran down his spine. “Suck.” Tongue circled velvet crown, taking each inch until nose pressed dark curls. The cup balanced on his nape—one spill would cost skin.
When Dorian groaned, Lysander swallowed him deeper. Wine and pre-come slicked his throat; sticky warmth slid between his cheeks. “Don’t spill,” the prince warned, then bit his lip and emptied down his throat. He swallowed every drop.
Dorian smeared leftover wine across the collar’s pomegranate stain. “Court opens in an hour. Trousers, nothing else.” Honey glistened on Lysander’s shoulders as he bowed out, pulse loud as bells.