Gortash's hands come up to brace him just in time to stop from knocking his face against the wall, though the coolness of the stone might have done something to abate the heat and embarrassment marring his features. This should have terrified him, enraged him, but just the opposite. And then he is trapped between the Dark Urge's hand gripping him and his more than apparent interest against his backside, immediately putty in his grasp as his attention is effortlessly coaxed.

Even for a party such as this, the human had dressed comparably light compared to others and still felt like he was wearing too much. Enver stated in no uncertain terms that he would not be treated as replaceable. He said to take his pick, and the Bhaalspawn responded with subtle, delicious blasphemy: making his selection of a god's Chosen.

Probably for the better in the moment that a tyrant Chosen of a tyrant deity is not likely to be contrite about getting what he wants.

Want takes the place of sense. He is not thinking in the moment how near they are still to the event beyond, near enough to be heard. Nor is he thinking of the fact that he pointedly did not bring a vial with him from his office. Whatever he got up to tonight was not supposed to go that far.

"Show me." And his hips press back into that heat and hardness. A plea. A challenge.