Deven and the Dragon - Eliot Grayson Page 0,41

his wrist, stilling him and the bottle both.

“Steady on,” Deven said, voice deep and amused, and right in his ear. “Don’t want to waste it. There’s a couple more, but I could only sneak so much out of the pantry without getting caught by Mrs. Pittel and her steely-eyed minions. I should’ve taken you with me, come to think of it. We could’ve carried more, and you might’ve enjoyed it.”

“Stealing ale from my own house?” Fiora demanded, blinking. Should he try to pull his arm away? Deven’s hand was on his sleeve, mostly. But Deven’s thumb pressed against the back of Fiora’s hand, skin to skin — and that little point of contact burned, as if it were drawing Fiora’s banked fires to the surface. “Thass — that’s a bit silly, isn’t it? And, and, undif—dignified.”

“But fun.” Deven grinned, and his face filled Fiora’s whole range of vision. “Lots of fun. You don’t have enough of it. Come on, drink up.”

He let go of Fiora’s arm, leaving him free to lift the bottle again. Deven, or more ale? Fuzzily, Fiora would’ve preferred Deven. But he drank, anyway, since Deven had leaned back again, out of Fiora’s reach. The ale slid down his throat and fizzed in his veins. Why hadn’t he ever drunk ale, again?

He must have mumbled that aloud, because Deven laughed. “Because you’ve been deprived, Fiora. I’m fixing that. Drink up,” he repeated, and took a long pull from his own bottle.

Fiora drank up, deeply, and only realized how far he’d listed to the side while drinking when he tipped too far and slumped into Deven’s shoulder. His head spun a bit, and he let it drop. Deven held his weight without complaint, though had his muscles gone a trifle rigid? That wouldn’t do. Fiora needed a softer pillow than that. He wriggled about, nudging Deven’s arm into a better position.

Wrapped around Fiora’s back, that was perfect. Fiora snuggled into Deven’s side, his eyes sliding closed. Everything was spinning, gently but inexorably. He flopped an arm over, his hand coming to rest on Deven’s lap. His pillow was all tense again.

Fiora passed out.

Chapter Eleven

“Fiora?” Deven gave him a gentle shake, and then another, this one not so gentle. “Fiora, wake up.”

A soft snore was the only answer he got. Fiora slid down a little, his head resting against Deven’s ribs, and his hand flexed, the long fingers of it skating over Deven’s — oh, God, no. Deven removed the arm as quickly as he could, letting it flop down on Fiora’s other side.

Deven took a moment to panic silently, his heart pounding and his cock straining the front of his trousers. Fiora smelled like ale and lemon and rosemary, the latter two probably from his soap, but mingling with the sweetness of Fiora himself and creating a heady fragrance that had Deven’s head reeling.

Or maybe that was the ale. Deven was more than willing to pin it all, including his erection, on the ale, although drinking too much wasn’t notorious for making a man stand to attention.

Maybe the problem was that Deven hadn’t drunk enough ale. In that spirit, he polished off his own, retrieved Fiora’s half-finished bottle and killed that, and then set the empties aside. It didn’t do much. Deven worked in a taproom, and even if he hadn’t built up a tolerance that’d be the envy of a lot of drunks, his size alone made it difficult for him to get well and truly sloshed.

He was nearly sober, he had to face the facts — and Fiora, little lightweight that he was, was down for the count. Well, perhaps he was being uncharitable. That was some strong ale, surprisingly so, and the bottles weren’t small. Fiora had taken to it like a natural, only making one little moue of distaste when he realized Deven hadn’t brought any glasses for it.

With a sigh, Deven began the tedious but inevitable process of getting Fiora to bed. First, extracting himself from underneath ten stone of drunken dragon. He accomplished that well enough, gently laying Fiora’s head down on Deven’s discarded coat. His hands slipped through Fiora’s hair, like heavy silk flowing around his fingers. He jerked his hands away. Fuck, it wasn’t nearly tedious enough. Tedious would be a blessing. No, no, he would not linger. Fiora was unconscious. Deven wasn’t a creepy bastard. No, he wouldn’t stroke that lock of hair away from where it had fallen over Fiora’s face, half-veiling his smooth cheek and the delectable