"You clean all that."
Dean stood at the side of the bed with his arms crossed, staring at the ruined sheets as though Arion had personally flooded the mattress out of spite.
Arion had just returned from the bathroom.
His dark hair was still wet from the shower, pushed carelessly away from his forehead, and he wore nothing except loose black lounge trousers sitting low on his hips. Steam followed him through the open bathroom door, carrying the clean scent of soap beneath the vetiver that had settled back into something considerably less aggressive.
He looked at the bed.
Then at Dean.
"We have staff. A lot of it, I might add."
Dean’s face heated immediately.
"That is exactly why you are cleaning it."
Arion’s mouth curved.
Dean hated that expression.
He had showered first because remaining sticky had become intolerable approximately thirty seconds after his body stopped shaking. He had changed into fresh underwear and an oversized dark green sweater that reached almost to mid-thigh, apparently deciding trousers were unnecessary if he intended to remain inside their private rooms.
That decision had been perfectly reasonable until Arion returned looking entirely too satisfied with himself.
The sheets were not helping.
Dean pointed toward them.
"No one needs to see that."
"They change our sheets."
"Usually the sheets are not soaked."
Arion walked closer.
Dean took one step backward. Not because he was intimidated. Because Arion was clearly enjoying this far too much.
"You’re embarrassed."
"I am not."
"You’re red."
"I am angry."
"At the sheets?"
"At you."
Arion stopped directly in front of him.
Dean had to tilt his head back.
The bastard was smiling.
It was the subtle one, the slight shift at the corner of his mouth, that told Dean Arion had discovered something entertaining and intended to preserve it for as long as possible.
Dean narrowed his eyes.
"Do not."
"I haven’t said anything."
"You are thinking loudly."
Arion’s hands settled loosely at Dean’s waist.
Dean caught both wrists before they could move anywhere more dangerous.
"No."
"I was holding you."
"You lost your privileges."
"For what?"
Dean looked toward the bed.
Arion followed his gaze.
Then looked back at him.
That smile deepened.
Dean wanted to disappear.
"That was your fault."
"You told me not to stop."
Dean’s entire face went hot.
Arion had the decency to look pleased rather than innocent.
"Shut up."
"You said it several times."
"Arion."
"And then—"
Dean slapped one hand over his mouth.
Arion stopped speaking.
His eyes, however, became considerably more amused.
Dean stared at him.
"You are thirty years old."
Arion kissed his palm.
Dean jerked his hand away.
"That was not permission."
"You put it over my mouth."
"To stop you talking."
"It worked."
Dean walked away before Arion could continue and began stripping the pillowcases from the bed with unnecessary force.
Behind him, Arion remained exactly where he was.
Dean felt the stare against his back.
He turned.
"Help."
"You said I had to clean it."
"Yes."
"So I assumed you were supervising."
Dean threw a pillowcase at him.
Arion caught it with one hand.
"Insufferable."
Arion finally moved.
He came around the opposite side of the bed and pulled the duvet free, folding it away from the damp section before removing the fitted sheet with efficient movements.
Dean grabbed the other corner.
The moment the sheet lifted, the extent of the damage became significantly more obvious.
Dean froze.
Arion did too.
Dean slowly looked at him.
"Not. One. Word."
Arion pressed his lips together.
Dean could see the laughter threatening anyway.
"You are enjoying this."
"Very much."
At least he admitted it.
Dean bundled the sheet into itself.
"We are washing these ourselves."
Arion stared at him.
"Yes."
"Dean."
"No."
"There is an entire laundry staff downstairs."
"They are not getting this."
"They have handled considerably worse."
Dean went still.
Arion realized his mistake approximately half a second too late.
Dean’s eyes narrowed.
"From whom?"
Arion lifted the bundled duvet between them like a shield.
"That was a general statement."
"No. You said considerably worse with confidence."
"I have lived in this palace for thirty years."
"That does not answer the question."
"It was not intended to."
Dean abandoned the sheet and came around the bed.
Arion laughed and stepped backward.
Dean stopped.
The sound caught him off guard enough that some of his indignation disappeared.
Arion had been tired for weeks.
Not merely sleepy. Worn down in that quiet way Dean recognized because he had been exactly the same, functioning from one obligation to the next until exhaustion started feeling ordinary.
Now his hair was wet, his chest bare, and there was real amusement in his face.
Dean’s irritation weakened despite himself.
"You’re terrible."
Arion caught him around the waist when Dean reached him.
This time Dean allowed it.
"I woke up peacefully," Arion reminded him.
Dean immediately regretted the softness.
"And?"
"You climbed on top of me."
Dean buried his face against Arion’s chest.
If he could not see Arion, perhaps Arion could not see how violently his face had heated again.
Unfortunately, Arion’s chest moved beneath his cheek with another quiet laugh.
"Stop."
"You wanted your husband."
Dean groaned.
There was no defense against hearing his own reasoning returned to him.
"You were lying there half naked."
"I was asleep."
"Provocatively."
Arion’s hand moved slowly down his back.
"That sounds difficult to prove."
"I was there."
"You were biased."
Dean lifted his head enough to glare.
Arion kissed his forehead.
The gesture was so gentle compared with everything that had happened an hour earlier that Dean’s embarrassment became even more ridiculous.
He sighed and let himself lean against him.
"I still don’t want the staff seeing the sheets."
"Then we wash them."
Dean glanced up suspiciously.
"That easy?"
"Yes."
"You could have agreed five minutes ago."
"I could have."
Dean understood.
"You wanted to watch me suffer."
Arion’s mouth curved again.
"A little."
Dean pinched his side.
Arion did not even flinch, which was deeply unfair.
They eventually carried the bundled linen into the private utility room adjoining the dressing suite, where the palace designers had apparently anticipated that royal occupants might occasionally want to wash something without involving twenty members of staff.
Dean shoved everything into the large machine.
Arion leaned against the doorframe watching him.
Still amused.
Dean added detergent.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I’m remembering this morning."
Dean nearly dropped the cap.
"Get out."
"We live here."
"Then go live somewhere else for five minutes."
Arion crossed the small room instead.
Dean had enough warning to turn before large hands settled around his waist and lifted him onto the counter.
His sweater rode higher over his thighs.
Dean immediately caught the hem.
"No."
Arion rested between his knees without trying anything further.
"I know."
Dean studied him.
"You’re still smug."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Arion touched one damp strand of Dean’s pale hair where it had curled near his temple.
"Because you woke up at six in the morning, looked at me sleeping, and decided you wanted me."
Dean’s embarrassment returned, but differently this time.
They had been married three years.
He should not be embarrassed by wanting Arion.
Apparently his body disagreed when confronted with the evidence afterward.
Dean hooked one ankle behind Arion’s leg.
"Well, don’t get used to six in the morning."
"I wasn’t planning to."
"Good."
"Our date is tonight."
Dean’s expression changed immediately.
"You remembered."
Arion looked almost offended.
"Of course."
Dean slid both arms around his neck.
"Where?"
"You said I decide."
"I regret that."
"You agreed yesterday."
"I was emotionally compromised by returning home."
Arion kissed him before he could build a legal argument against his own promise.
Dean smiled against his mouth.
When Arion pulled back, the washing machine began turning behind them, wet sheets disappearing beneath water and soap until there was no evidence left of Dean’s humiliatingly enthusiastic morning.
Dean looked at it.
Then at Arion.
"If you tell anyone—"
Arion kissed him again.
Dean suspected that meant absolutely nothing reassuring.
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