Daizell kissed his hair, his ear, anything that he could reach, and Cassian kissed his neck open-mouthed, hungry and urgent. ‘Daize. Lord. My good, my lovely Daize.’ Daizell knew that tone by now. ‘Talk to me,’ he whispered. ‘Please.’ And Cassian did, so gentle, so loving, whispering endearments, taking it long and slow so that Daizell spent again, soothed and shivering and cherished, in his tight embrace.
