Softness.
That was the first thing Cherion felt. Not the kind of scratchy softness of the velvet couch, but a deep, luxurious, high-thread-count kind of comfort that made him want to burrow in and stay forever. He stirred, a languid sigh escaping his lips as he squeezed the pillow he was holding. Except, it wasn't a pillow. It was firm and turdy. There was a faint, rhythmic thrumming beneath his cheek, and it was warm. Very, very warm.
Wait, he thought, his brain finally kicking into low gear. My pillows don't have heartbeats.
Cherion's eyes snapped open. The first thing he saw wasn't the ceiling. It was the silver-threaded embroidery of a nightshirt, and the vast, muscular chest beneath it. His arms were wrapped quite contentedly around Zarius's torso, and he realized with a jolt of pure electricity that he was essentially using the Duke as a giant, breathing bolster.
