“But you are pretty,” Becket said, then clapped a hand over his mouth.
Too late. Glen whirled around from where he’d been glaring at the scenery beyond the bedroom window, gold eyes flaring. “I am not,” he said, thoroughly scandalized, and Becket suspected that if griffons could blush he probably would be. “I’m not half-surprised to hear such idiocy from that nitwit elf downstairs – but you!”
Becket opened his mouth, then closed it, then shrugged and spoke anyway. “I thought it the very first time I saw you. Hells, saw the picture of you posted in the village square along with the announcement of the Quest. I remember thinking that if any griffon was worth calling pretty, you were.”
Glen frowned, miserable. “I am not pretty. Flowers are pretty. Girls are called pretty. I’m descended from the house of—” He was cut off as Becket kissed him, and gave in briefly, warm cinnamon and nutmeg mouth fitted perfectly to his own.
He wasn’t, however, to be distracted. “I’m not pretty.”
“You are,” Becket said with a faint smile, “but only in the way that deadly animals can be pretty. Not like flowers and frills pretty.”
Glen narrowed his eyes and hooked his talons lightly into the fabric of Becket’s breeches. “You just called me both a wild animal and pretty in the same breath.”
Becket grinned. “If I added sexy, would I manage to get myself out of trouble?”
“No,” Glen replied, then snatched him up and carried him to their bed, dumping him unceremoniously in it. “I am not wild, I am quite civilized. Nor am I pretty”
Smirking, Becket tugged him down and ran his claws through the feathers along Glen’s back, pressing hard at the junction of back and wings, making his lover shiver, those gold eyes burn. “Not too civilized I hope, pretty catbird.”
“No,” Glen said with a growl that promised revenge would be had, then proceeded to be thoroughly uncivilized.
But, Becket thought privately, still quite pretty.