It was a near thing. Between dodging a wide-eyed maid carrying towels into Marcus’s room and accidentally frightening Robin’s hairless gargoyle of a cat when they came in, Marcus thought he’d die from anticipation before the first button on Robin’s shirt was popped from its prison. The cat screamed her displeasure, probably calling down the fury of all cat gods on their heads, but she slipped out of the room in a high temper, and Marcus kicked the door shut behind them. He’d slammed it hard enough to rattle the glazed glass windows, but he kept Robin busy enough the man didn’t notice the noise. Marcus’s hands were hot from running over Robin’s slender torso, and he could taste the brandy on Robin’s tongue, flavored with a hint of the cigarillo smoke he’d blown into the man’s mouth. Beneath that was the sweetness of Robin, a blend of man, lemon soap, and a hint of arcane―a tingle of erotic strangeness he’d had no contact with until he’d met his bespectacled inventor.
