“Luchino—” Frederick’s protest cut short as Luchino caught his wrist. His grip was warm, ungloved and Frederick could feel the faint tackiness of ink smearing against his pristine leather. The urge to recoil warred with the strange, shuddering heat that locked him in place.
“You hate it,” Luchino murmured, lifting Frederick’s hand as though to study the contrast of black stains against pale glove. “But maybe you hate wanting it even more.”
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