[No, that's not a typo.]

His skin is sweet, his laughter bright, his smile radiant, his kisses easy; how many men has he kissed in his time? Better not to ask, better not to think

-- of virginal lips, disdainful with a sneer, of the careful knot of a cravat settled on the pale, pure skin of a sculpted collarbone, of blond hair pulled neatly back --

Better to kiss he who accepts the kisses, whose cravat is loose and dangling onto the floor, whose hands know their path all too well. Courfeyrac will never complain if kisses taste of wine, of absinthe, of sharper, earthier tones.

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