champagne, cocaine, gasoline; and most things in between
It doesn't just work in the House of Midnight, Hawthorn will find - and his too muchness hasn't met Mateo Taliesin's just yet, but that's all about to change. With his lips still pressed to the whore's fingertips, the botanist glances up at the back of the chaise lounge which appears to have grown a second (and very handsome) head. Smiling and releasing his partners hand, he leans up and into Thorn's space, all cherry lips and too-blue eyes.
"Mio Dio, but the gods broke the mould when they made you," he murmurs, his accent heavier from drink and drugs, but thankfully still understandable for now. "It is not a party unless there are more than two, right?" Glancing to the woman whose lap he's been enjoying, her catlike smile is all the permission he needs to close the distance between himself and this man whose name he doesn't know.
Kissing him hard enough to try and tumble him onto the chaise lounge (and conveniently on top of Mateo) but soft enough to suggest that he's in no mood for bruising touches and rough play, Thorn can consider his invitation accepted.
"Mio Dio, but the gods broke the mould when they made you," he murmurs, his accent heavier from drink and drugs, but thankfully still understandable for now. "It is not a party unless there are more than two, right?" Glancing to the woman whose lap he's been enjoying, her catlike smile is all the permission he needs to close the distance between himself and this man whose name he doesn't know.
Kissing him hard enough to try and tumble him onto the chaise lounge (and conveniently on top of Mateo) but soft enough to suggest that he's in no mood for bruising touches and rough play, Thorn can consider his invitation accepted.
