Page 74 of Finch

Finch’s heart was beating so rapidly, it felt like he was going to pass out. “Indeed, I… yes.”

“Yes to naps,” Hugh supplied. “Very good. Let’s get inside, then. I must say, I’m eager for my

bed.”

While Hugh wrestled open the heavy door, Finch stood perfectly still and worked on calming

down. Hugh was a delightful, if slightly simple, dragon, and there was no way he was bringing

Finch into his hoard for that. Not that that was bound to happen. In fact, the very possibility

of that was to be discouraged. Finch was Hugh’s secretary, not a beta plaything ribbed for his

pleasure. If Finch was to remain under his employ, it had to stay that way.

Midway through mentally chastising himself, the door to the hoard swung open, and Finch’s

mind went blank. He’d been braced for treasure, but nothing could have prepared him for the

magnificence that was Hugh’s hoard. Literal mountains of coins, jewels, and assorted golden

trinkets were piled haphazardly within its walls. Interspersed throughout were pieces of

furniture—a gilt armchair here, a throne there, and at the center of the room, a tremendous

bed with soft-looking sheets and large, cloud-like pillows. The room was bathed in light from

both sconces and overhead fixtures alike, positioned as if to celebrate even the smallest piece

of treasure. “My lord…”

“Well, yes. I am an earl. How clever of you to remember. And possibly a baronet. I forget. It

was all a very long time ago.” Hugh began to unbutton his shirt. “I honestly have no idea how

I’d function without you, Finch.” He pulled the unbuttoned shirt off and tossed it onto a nearby

chaise upholstered in dark purple velvet. “You keep track of me so flawlessly, even the parts

of me I forget. If I had a mind like yours, there wouldn’t be a dragon in the world who would be

my rival.”

A slack-jawed Finch turned his gaze from several museums’ worth of antiquities to ogle the

room’s newest treasure—Hugh. All dragons were beautiful, but Hugh was particularly lovely.

His body was strong and sleek, with dark hair that ran down his chest and to his flat navel.

From the short distance that separated them, Finch could see Hugh’s pink nipples were erect.

God. How on earth was he supposed to deal with seeing Hugh’s nipples? It was all so

impossible. “Thank you, sir,” Finch said when he remembered that he had a tongue. “But…

are you undressing?”

“Yes, I am. Otherwise I’ll ruin a perfectly good pair of Brioni trousers, and you do yell when you

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