Dean was still laughing when the car stopped beneath the private entrance of the imperial residence.
Arion had spent the last nine minutes with one hand on Dean's waist and an expression that suggested he had personally negotiated the distance between the restaurant and their bedroom down to an unacceptable number of kilometers.
Dean found the entire situation increasingly funny.
The rear door opened onto the heated stone portico, where pale columns framed the entrance and winter wind pushed thin traces of snow across the courtyard beyond the glass barriers. Arion stepped out first, dark coat hanging open over his charcoal shirt, then turned and offered Dean a hand.
Dean accepted it.
Mostly because he wanted to see how long Arion could maintain his dignity.
Not very long, apparently.
The moment Dean reached the stone floor, Arion's arm settled around his waist and pulled him close.
Dean burst out laughing again.
"You survived the drive."
"Barely."
"You're dramatic."
