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Zevran had been behaving. This in itself was enough of a marvel. The fact that behaving in this case meant keeping his hands to himself and accepting whatever little crumbs of affection Alistair felt ready to give was...mind-boggling, truly.
But he could read the uncertainty in every line of Alistair's body, and he was remarkably patient despite his own claims to the contrary. So he kept his hands to himself, he didn't push, and he was patient.
...yet that didn't mean he intended to allow Alistair to ignore that spark between them. And now that some time had passed, it seemed the other man needed a reminder. A very pointed, very attractive, very naked reminder.
Which is why, when Alistair stepped into the bathing room at his usual time, it was already hot with steam. As if by pure accident, Zevran was standing from the large round bathing pool the moment Alistair stepped inside--back to him, dark lines of his tattoo swirling down his back, his flank, drawing the eye just as the rivulets of water sluicing along dusky skin drew the eye.
His hair was loose and damp, clinging to his (bare) shoulders. His (bare) ass, if Zevran did so say himself, was perfect. In fact, he would make a strong argument that all of him was perfect. He was betting on Alistair thinking the same.
Zevran looked over his shoulder as the door swung shut behind Alistair, knowing his muscles played beautifully beneath his skin. "Alistair," he murmured. Just that.
But he could read the uncertainty in every line of Alistair's body, and he was remarkably patient despite his own claims to the contrary. So he kept his hands to himself, he didn't push, and he was patient.
...yet that didn't mean he intended to allow Alistair to ignore that spark between them. And now that some time had passed, it seemed the other man needed a reminder. A very pointed, very attractive, very naked reminder.
Which is why, when Alistair stepped into the bathing room at his usual time, it was already hot with steam. As if by pure accident, Zevran was standing from the large round bathing pool the moment Alistair stepped inside--back to him, dark lines of his tattoo swirling down his back, his flank, drawing the eye just as the rivulets of water sluicing along dusky skin drew the eye.
His hair was loose and damp, clinging to his (bare) shoulders. His (bare) ass, if Zevran did so say himself, was perfect. In fact, he would make a strong argument that all of him was perfect. He was betting on Alistair thinking the same.
Zevran looked over his shoulder as the door swung shut behind Alistair, knowing his muscles played beautifully beneath his skin. "Alistair," he murmured. Just that.
