The soft glow of the moon poured through the wide windows of Salviana and Alaric's room, casting silver light across the sheer curtains that danced with the breeze.
The air smelled faintly of roses and the spice of wine.
Salviana giggled as she stumbled into Alaric's arms, her cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with both mischief and tipsiness. "You shouldn't have let me have that third goblet," she whispered against his throat, fingers trailing up the buttons of his shirt.
"You shouldn't have ordered the maid to pour it for you," Alaric replied, his voice husky with amusement and something deeper.
She smiled wickedly and leaned up to kiss him — slow, languid, tasting of grapes and secrets.
His arms wrapped around her tightly as she tugged his tunic over his head and let her gown fall in a cascade of silk at their feet.
"You're drunk," he murmured, even as he kissed her again, lips hungry and gentle all at once. "And dangerous."
