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The village sits half a day's ride outside of Ravenel, its streets winding and cobblestoned, flanked by squat little houses. The main street, though, is lined by a great many stalls and shops, a kaleidoscope of colours and offerings and smells. Dark green dolmades sit in woven bowls, marinated strips of beef and lamb sprinkled with spices on platters. Garments of yellow, orange and pink flutter in the breeze, providing shelter for the vendors to crouch behind and wipe their face free of sweat between customers.
Music filters through the marketplace, too, stretching down side streets, wrapping stragglers in its grip and orienting them toward the centre. Damen is tempted to follow its call, but his destination is far more important. So, he bypasses the music, the shouts of people and the sizzling of food, and takes the long way around the village until he reaches the tavern.
It’s a tad more dilapidated than had been described, but Damen is not one to be deterred by this. He dismounts his horse and leads it to the attached stable, handing it off to a stable boy and pressing two coppers in his hand in payment. The boy’s eyes go wide and he sets about untacking Damen’s horse as quickly as possible, his brow crinkled and determined.
The inside of the tavern is as unremarkable as the outside. Two barmaids are wiping down tables, hair held back by colourful cloth tied at the base of their neck, their sleeves pushed up to their elbows. Patrons are scattered amongst tables, large tankards of ale by their elbows and stew before them. Damen’s stomach gives a traitorous little rumble as the smell reaches him.
He casts an eye toward the stairwell. The urge to ascend is fierce. Yet, he must eat. After all, he has traveled such a long way.
Damen sits himself at the bar and in a flash one of the barmaids is before him. “What’ll it be?” She asks.
“Your biggest room,” Damen says and withdraws his coin purse again. “Stew and a tankard.” He slips the coins across the bar and she pockets the extra in a flash.
“It’s yours. Just a few minutes.”
Some more patrons enter, voices loud, likely already inebriated from the festivities in the main square. Damen turns away and pulls his cloak tighter around his profile, though it doesn’t do much to conceal his bulk or the shine of his boots. It is enough to have him left alone, though.
A bowl of stew is placed before him alongside a large tankard. He downs both as the sky darkens and the stable boy comes in to build the fire higher, feeding the orange mouth logs until the chill is driven away. If he strains his ears, he swears he can almost hear the music from the square.
When a particularly loud group enters the tavern, Damen drains the last of his ale. “The room?” He asks, slipping off the stool.
“Two floors up, first door on the left,” the barmaid who had served him says, jerking her chin toward the stairwell.
Damen thanks her and ascends the two flights of stairs, his cloak trailing behind him. When he reaches the top floor, he pushes open the first door on the left and turns to pull the deadbolt into place. He wiggles the doorknob and, satisfied, turns to survey the room.
On his bed lies a man, pellucid eyes tracking Damen as Damen unfastens his cloak and lets it fall, pooling around his ankles. His jacket is shed next, landing in a heap behind him.
The man’s head tilts sideways as he examines Damen, chin length blonde hair falling across his face. “Hello, lover.”
Damen’s heart grows three sizes. “Hello, sweetheart.”
He crosses the room in two strides and meets the heel of Laurent’s boot with the firm ridges of his chest. Laurent gazes up at him from under pale lashes as Damen runs a hand up the underside of his finely made boot, the leather supple under his fingertips.
Over a great many months, Damen had become good at this. It is as easy as breathing now. He unlaces the shoe with deft fingers and pulls it off. The other comes off easier, but Damen keeps hold of Laurent’s ankle this time. He kisses the inner part of Laurent’s foot and then his ankle joint before pressing his thumbs into the arch and beginning to massage.
Laurent’s eyes close, brows lifting ever so slightly in pleasure. Damen watches the planes of his face, the haughtiness falling away. In their year together, Laurent has learned to drop the mask, and he sighs softly as Damen reaches for his other foot and begins to work that one too.
“I missed you,” Damen says. He does nothing to keep the longing from his voice.
Happiness rises in Damen again as he surveys Laurent, his pulse quickening as he observes the pinkening of Laurent’s cheeks. He has removed his doublet already, leaving him only in thin, piquant cotton, through which Damen can spot the line of his clavicles and curve of his pectorals.
Laurent’s eyes are soft as he says, “And I, you.”
Damen presses his tongue against the back of his front teeth, trying not to chuckle. He feels Laurent taut beneath him, his body primed to launch into action at any moment. Ready and waiting, eager to begin their play. So, he puts Laurent’s foot down.
“Perhaps, I should bathe.”
“Bathe,” Laurent repeats.
“I am dusty from my ride,” Damen shrugs. He leans back on his hunches and pulls at his own doublet, discarding it. His undercloth is dark, still clinging to him in some places, pressed into his skin during the long ride. It had been unseasonably cool, requiring far more layers than normal. “I will hurry,” he promises, voice low.
Laurent surveys him with austerity, though the darkness of his eyes gives him away. “I suppose that is prudent,” he murmurs.
Damen peels his undershirt off and discards it. “Do I have your leave?” he prompts.
Silence stretches between them. Damen attunes himself to each of Laurent’s breaths, each shift of his lightly muscled body, and waits for the knot in Laurent to loosen.
Laurent muses in silence. His left leg, bent at the knee, falls open. Damen stays poised before him. His chest rises and falls as Laurent’s foot inches down the silks. Eyes locked on Damen’s, Laurent lifts his foot and hooks it behind Damen’s elbow. “And if I ask you to attend to me, first?”
“Then, it would be my honour, my king.”
Another flush crawls over Laurent’s cheeks. “Kiss me,” he demands and Damen is crawling up the length of his body at once.
Laurent’s lips are warm and pliant. He opens to Damen, fingers suddenly in the hairs at the nape of Damen’s neck, curling into them for leverage. His enthusiasm is so lovely Damen can hardly contain his longing. If he could fuse them together right now, he would.
Instead, he savours each delicious increment. The taste of Laurent and the way his golden hair splays across the pillow like a halo. The blazing heat of Laurent’s fingertips slipping across the breadth of Damen’s shoulders, so tender and gentle. A slender thigh hooking around Damen’s own, and the shudder that comes after as their groins brush.
“I believe,” Laurent murmurs as Damen pulls back, leaving only an inch or so between their faces, “my trousers are still on.”
“Shall I escort Your Majesty to the bath first?”
“What is the use when we will only need to wash again?”
Damen smiles widely. He cannot help the rush of affection. Laurent’s shy awkwardness has transformed; he is now a man who knows what he wants and is unafraid to ask for it. “You’re right,” he says earnestly and presses a kiss to Laurent’s nose.
His expression is scandalised when Damen pulls back. “My nose?”
“It is a fine nose,” Damen says. He kisses it again, enjoying Laurent’s flushed skin. “It suits your face well.”
“And my mouth?” Laurent asks, aggrieved.
Damen grins. It is as wicked and sharp as ever. Laurent has only improved his ability to eviscerate men with only his lips and tongue in the year past. With Damen, though …
“Sweet,” he says. “Gentle.” He leans over and whispers in Laurent’s ear, “Adept.”
“You exist to torment me,” Laurent says archly, but warmth simmers beneath the surface. He turns his head and Damen lets him capture his lips.
There is more force behind Laurent’s lips now. Hands press against Damen’s shoulders, pushing him back until they’re sitting up, Damen hovering above Laurent by virtue of his height. “What do you want?” he hears himself ask.
Laurent’s eyes blaze. “Everything.”
Within moments, both of their trousers are discarded and the wooden bedhead smacks against the wall as they shift. Damen barely registers the sound as he presses Laurent into the mattress, heartbeat in his ears as Laurent’s back curves in a stretch.
“Damen.”
His hair is pushed back from his face, tucked behind his ear. Damen briefly remembers the first time Laurent had done so, and the shock he had felt, the unspooling of something in his chest. The easy intimacy still steals his breath.
Damen chases Laurent’s palm, leaning into it and sighing contentedly as Laurent’s thumb skims his cheekbone. “Mine.”
He nods and presses his lips to Laurent’s palm. “Yes.”
“I am yours.”
“Yes,” Damen says earnestly, nuzzling into his open palm again. “My heart is yours.”
Laurent hums contentedly and kisses him. Hard. Damen kisses him back, and then he kisses his face. Nose and cheekbones and brow, along his slender jaw, behind his ear and down the column of his throat. The tension drains from Laurent as Damen continues his journey, down over the fabric of Laurent’s undershirt.
The hem stops midthigh. Damen pushes it up, baring more pale, muscular legs to his admiring gaze. Rounded thighs and soft skin. Damen tugs it higher, over Laurent’s cock, past his stomach, paler than the rest of him. Laurent makes a tiny noise of assent as Damen dips his head and kisses over his freckled stomach and hip bones and then, finally, his cock.
Already half hard, it’s easy to rouse Laurent to completion, his cock silky and warm in Damen’s mouth. His pleasure shows itself in uneven inhales and the hollowing of his stomach, the ridges of his ribs protruding upwards until he lets out a breath so quiet Damen has to strain to hear it.
A year of sexual experimentation has brought them to this point. Laurent, slow to unravel, and Damen, eager to please. Damen does not care how long it takes Laurent to sink into the moment and to shed all his layers of armour. He sets them aside one by one, watching diligently as Laurent’s spine melts into the mattress and all his burdens dissipate.
Pale thighs lift, grazing Damen’s cheeks. He strokes up one, feeling goosebumps and fine hair, and fits a hand into the curve of the joint and pulls it higher. Laurent’s grunt is muffled by the sound Damen makes as he pulls his mouth off and glances up at his lover.
He’s sprawled on his back, hands wound around the tussles of the pillows, chest rising and falling. His nipples are hard, and it takes everything in Damen to stay at his post rather than to rise up his body and lavish them with attention.
Instead, Damen cups Laurent gently, brushing a thumb over the velvet skin. His sack is heavy in Damen’s hand, but he does not squeeze or pay further attention to it; he knows Laurent’s preferences like the back of his hand. Holding him is enough; one brush of his thumb and he shivers, knee pressing into Damen’s side.
Laurent also likes to be sucked slowly, his cock worked over with a looser grip than Damen himself prefers. Right now, Laurent’s tip is flushed red, and so Damen presses his thumb to his frenulum and watches a bead of precum spill forth with fascination.
“Damen,” Laurent says and his eyebrows knit together as Damen makes a show of swiping the bead and pressing his finger into his mouth to suck it dry. It’s salty, tangy and uniquely Laurent in a way that has his blood humming. He needs more, so he lowers his head.
He licks a stripe up Laurent’s cock and suckles at his tip, each bob of his head taking barely a centimetre. Slow, building, while he massages Laurent’s hipbone and tries to ignore how hard he is and how good the mattress feels beneath him. The slow roll of his hips is nothing compared to the feeling of being buried inside Laurent, but it is enough to whet his appetite.
“Damen.” Laurent tugs at his hair in a feeble plea. The sting only emboldens him.
In response, Damen relaxes his throat and swallows him down at a slightly quicker pace until his nose is buried in wiry curls and Laurent’s cock fills his mouth. A tremble of Laurent’s body has him slipping off, spit on his chin, the taste of salt still on his tongue. “My king.”
“You are playing with me.” He sounds almost sulky.
“I am worshipping you.”
Laurent’s body shudders involuntarily. “You leave no stone unturned.” His long fingers take Damen’s chin and tilt it up. “But, I need you inside me.”
Damen’s heart takes flight. He nods fervently, turning to nip playfully at Laurent’s palm. “Oil?”
Laurent waves lazily at the nightstand, light blue eyes following Damen’s movements as he stretches over him and feels around for the small jar. He’s untwisting the lid when he feels Laurent’s hands on the scar; not quite old, but, healed, certainly.
The court physician had done a good job stitching him back together. Paschal had been elsewhere, but Cyr had tended to him under Laurent’s sharp eyes. He is alive, and the slightly reddened and raised scar will fade further with time.
“Darling,” he says quietly, tugging Laurent from quiet contemplation. His eyes lift to Damen and he accepts a long, lingering kiss, Damen’s hand cradling his jaw. “Let me attend you.”
Laurent makes a tiny hissing sound as Damen trails back down his body. Slicking his fingers first, he tosses the jar aside and slides his free palm over Laurent’s flank, then beneath, squeezing him teasingly and watching the pleasure brighten Laurent’s face
Damen touches him gently, forefinger slowly teasing his entrance. He leans over and mouths at pale inner thighs, leaving tiny red lovebites as Laurent opens to him. His pleasure is Damen’s, and he easily finds the right places to press, his memory sharp. The juncture between groin and thigh, his hipbone, the slow trail of kisses up his thigh and the ghost of breath over his cock.
He’s tight and warm when Damen presses into him. Laurent’s brows scrunch as Damen thrusts his finger slowly, coaxing him into readiness. He is content to pleasure him like this until Laurent defeats that old foe and succeeds in driving away the kneejerk reaction to control every square inch of his body, down to the nerve-endings spiderwebbing under the surface of his skin.
The wrinkle between Laurent’s brow disappears as Damen laces their free hands. After a moment, Damen carefully adds another finger. Scissoring them slowly and surely, he thumbs Laurent’s hipbone and listens to his exhale. He’s loose now, hips rolling, cock at half mast.
“More, darling,” he encourages Laurent. He groans louder, clenching down around Damen’s fingers and rocking back and forth. Searching. Deliberately, Damen cocks his finger in a come hither motion and presses down.
“Oh,” Laurent murmurs. Exhales soft enough Damen barely hears it through the slippery sound of his moving body.
“That’s it, darling.” He scissors his fingers, stretching him as Laurent bears down, hips moving in earnest now, practically fucking himself on Damen’s fingers. “You’re gorgeous like this.”
“This,” Laurent enunciates, “is not worship.” His body stills, at rest, but his curled toes give him away.
He smothers a smirk at Laurent’s aggrievance. He slips his fingers out and coats his cock instead under Laurent’s narrow-eyed gaze. Inching forward on his knees he lets himself rest against Laurent’s own cock.
They are both proportionate, his own cock thicker and longer. He likes looking; not to compare the two, but to know where to press down upon after he slips inside. Laurent tilts his head sideways, watching wordlessly, pink lip caught between his teeth and pupils blown wide. It rings a thousand times louder than any words would, and so Damen positions himself at Laurent’s entrance.
Slowly, he presses inside. Laurent’s body gives way beautifully, cloaking him in heat, in the most perfect pressure. Damen squeezes his eyes shut, focusing only on what he feels, and on the way his own body relaxes, as though finally home.
Soft fingertips on his cheeks rouse him. Laurent strokes his cheekbone, expression so open and bright that the words on the tip of Damen’s tongue come tumbling out. “I missed you,” he repeats as he sheaths himself fully inside, breathy and hopelessly lost in the blue ocean of Laurent’s eyes.
“I missed you,” Laurent breathes in the moment it takes for Damen to lean down and kiss him.
Laurent’s legs lift, wrapping around his hips. Damen groans into his mouth, flattening them into the mattress, pushing, aching for as much closeness as possible. Laurent responds to his need enthusiastically, twisting his hands in Damen’s hair, tugging, swallowing the tiny sounds Damen can’t hold back. He can’t control them; it feels too good.
They join slowly at first, grinding slow and sensual, mouths sliding over each other. Laurent’s tongue is in his mouth, his hand gripping Damen’s ass, and the rhythm shifts. Faster. A little rougher. Laurent’s legs stay wrapped around him, Damen’s thrusts stay controlled as they find their pleasure.
“Like this,” Laurent instructs, and suddenly his legs are spread again and he’s placing Damen’s hand on his thigh. He follows the path set for him by hundreds of joinings.
“Look at me,” he says and Laurent does, eyes half-lidded as Damen folds him in half, dragging him further down the bed. He clenches down around Damen, pulling a rough groan from Damen’s own throat. He’s brazen in his mischief, resting a foot on Damen’s chest until he grabs that too and hooks his arm under his knee.
He slams into Laurent and the slap of their skin fills the room. Laurent is silent, mouth parted and eyes closed as Damen takes him again. He withdraws almost to completion, watching himself appear and disappear into Laurent’s tightness. He’s slick with oil, and the noise is wet, almost filthy, as he thrusts.
“Laurent,” he rasps out. “Laurent.” They move in earnest until Damen spots it. The outline of himself, the bulge just below Laurent’s navel. He moans loudly, uncaring who in this godforsaken tavern hears, and presses down on it, feeling the slide of himself, the thick head of his cock and the distention of Laurent’s flat abdominals.
“I,” Laurent touches his own stomach. “I can feel you. Everywhere.” His eyes are hungry as he catches Damen’s gaze, tugging him down for a protracted kiss, legs wrapped so tightly around him again he cannot even contemplate moving.
Damen grunts as Laurent clenches around him. “I have you,” he says. Blurts out more words, more promises. Rocking now, hand pressed on Laurent’s stomach and then lower, and Laurent tells him good and there and squirms as the pressure on his bladder,and snaps when Damen lets up even an inch.
He is sweating. Both of them are, he realises. Their bodies continue to grind together, the room stiflingly hot. Damen feels like he is burning up, and though he is not at all inclined to pause his love-making for something so immaterial, when Laurent presses a hand to his chest he lets himself be flipped.
Laurent sits astride him, elegant and beautiful. Locks of golden hair stick to his sweaty forehead and cheeks, so bright beside full pink lips, parted now as he sucks in air. Damen touches only his thighs, watching in wonder as Laurent’s hands meander across Damen’s own chest.
Damen knows he is strong; that defined muscles are attractive to Laurent. He takes great pleasure in letting his hands wander, has more than once indulged himself in squeezing and tracing and nibbling at Damen’s chest, leaving marks Damen cannot—would not— cover up.
He purposely thumbs a nipple, squeezes it, and Damen watches breathlessly as he waits for something. An order or a comment, a satisfied expression.
“My heart,” Laurent says in quiet Akielon and places a palm over where Damen’s heart rests in his chest. He feels it speed up in response, and cannot hide the full smile that takes over his face as Laurent takes Damen’s hand and presses it over his own heart.
“My light,” Damen responds in Veretian and watches Laurent’s face glow as the words wash over him.
They kiss again, slow and measured, until Laurent moves in his lap. Damen hears himself whine and Laurent smiles against his lips happily. “They will hear you.”
“Let them,” Damen says back dazedly. Laurent grinds hard against him and he whimpers loudly. “Laurent.”
It is not long before Laurent is actively ruining him. Bouncing in his lap, their skin slapping against each other, Laurent’s cock bobbing before him. The muscles in his upper thighs flex, and his skin is covered in a light sheen of sweat Damen yearns to taste. He cannot touch, though, his palms relegated to Laurent’s hips.
They are narrow and he is firm and well proportioned; all muscular thighs and toned stomach, strong but lithe. He rolls his hips expertly, confident in his ability, his expression one of relaxed amusement as Damen stares up at him, entirely captivated.
Laurent rides him expertly. Slow at first, savouring each delicious inch, eyes fluttering closed as he finds rhythm. Then he quickens, pale skin flushing red, his control a tight leash Damen does not question.
Instead, he submits to it. Let’s Laurent take, and give, and take some more. Short, sharp, repetitive movements steal every thought from his head, his arousal flaying him of any thought outside of Laurent and their coupling. It is worse and also unimaginably better when Laurent shifts gears, grinding his hips down, stimulating that spot inside himself. Damen feels absurdly proud in being able to give him that, even though he is not the one in control. It’s dizzyingly erotic to be used in such a way.
It’s a part of himself only Laurent has canvassed, coaxing it free from the depths inside Damen. Always powerful, always thrust into leadership, he relishes the relief of placing himself before his lover; the satisfying buzz building in the back of his head, the euphoria of letting it all go.
Sight. Sounds. Touch. Damen swims in it, tethered by the warmth of Laurent and fingernails digging into his pec. He’s close. Still, he lets Laurent take until he realises the noises he can hear—muffled whines and pleas— it’s him.
“You are my undoing,” he blurts out, his grip on Laurent’s thighs tightening. “Laurent. Please.”
Laurent slows and finally stops, Damen still inside him. Pressing so deep Damen’s toes curl and he grits his teeth. “Please,” he rasps, eyes fluttering closed. He feels the surge of heat inside him, straddling the edge.
“Not until I say so.”
He whimpers, but accedes. Watches through the haze as Laurent rides him, poised and practiced, taking all of Damen that he can. The tight warmth is choking and, still, he takes in the confident roll of Laurent’s spine and the gleam of more sweat on his chest, unable to tear his eyes away.
A frown appears between his eyebrows and Damen knows. Laurent unravels more quickly than anticipated, hands splayed across Damen’s pecs as he fucks himself on Damen’s cock. The torturous heat in his gut burns brighter as he watches without touching, taking in the sight of Laurent using him, the quick bounces, the sight of himself entering Laurent over and over and over again.
Damen bites down on his bottom lip to stop from crying out. Laurent is the one that makes a noise though, dragging Damen up into a sitting position and grinding in his lap until Damen has no choice but to choke out a plea.
“Please, my king,” Damen whispers into the shell of Laurent’s ear. “Please.”
“Make me. First.”
Damen reaches for Laurent’s cock, jerking him as slowly as he can, his thumb rubbing over the head. There’s the slap of skin and then a low gasp and Laurent’s body stills. Fingernails dig into Damen’s pecs, harsh enough to draw blood, and still Damen holds onto Laurent and watches fastidiously.
Awe and pleasure mingle on his classically handsome face. His lips part but only the tiniest of sounds come out, eyes scrunched up as his body spasms in Damen’s lap. Face alight with euphoria, his cock spurts between them, warm droplets hitting Damen’s chest and stomach.
“Lau-”
“Inside me,” he rasps, both hands cupping Damen’s face, guiding his gaze up.
Laurent’s eyes are endless blue is Damen’s last thought as he finds his release, his cock twitching inside Laurent as he comes. Unable to look away he cries out, and watches the smug self-satisfaction curl around Laurent’s smile.
“Good,” Laurent says and Damen closes his eyes against the praise, unable to contend with the fire that licks up his spine in response. It’s too … well, good, pleasure verging on pain as he guides Laurent’s ass forwards and backwards to milk himself dry. “Damen.”
“Hm?”
“Stay.”
“Stay?” He blinks at Laurent. Pink cheeks practically glow in the low lighting. “Inside you?”
Laurent nods, and for all his flushing, his gaze is determined. “Yes, darling.”
He cannot imagine saying no. Instead, he draws Laurent down into a slow kiss. The barest brush of lips, breathing hard into the inch between them before kissing again, and again, until it’s suddenly turned into lazy open-mouthed kisses that make his toes curl. Laurent. He clutches Laurent to him, hands sliding up his back, pressing into the muscles there.
Laurent’s body is loose, free from the tension that dogs him from sunrise to sundown, into lavish dinners and gatherings. Here, with Damen, his body is a mutable thing when he wants it to be. A press of Damen’s hand against his lower back has his body plastered against Damen’s chest, arms wound so tight around his shoulders Damen is pleased by the thought he may never let go.
It’s enough to rouse him. He feels his cock harden inside Laurent’s body. The slick sound of oil and his release reach his ears as his hips jerk upwards. Laurent’s head turns toward him, pink lips kiss-swollen, blue eyes dark.
“I can feel you.”
Damen cups his cheek and kisses him as he rolls his hips upwards. Laurent makes another tiny sound, but he does not pull away. His body betrays his excitement, his cock hardening against Damen’s stomach. He takes it in his hand and slowly pumps it, feeling his own grow as Laurent grits his teeth and bears down upon him.
“Sweetheart,” Damen says, guiding Laurent’s hand to his own cock.
For a moment, Laurent’s fingers remain splayed out straight, fingertips trembling. Then he takes himself in hand, competent fingers wrapped around his cock, working himself over as he does when he’s alone—mostly when he and Damen are torn apart by circumstance for Damen knows it is not a common need of his; that he is not as sexually virile as Damen himself. But, he does enjoy it, and he is enjoying it now.
Laurent’s head tips back, his golden hair forming a messy halo around his face, pointed chin peeking out. His stomach is taut, abdominals flexing as he sucks in a breath, thumb rubbing the pink tip of his cock. Damen drinks him in, the whole picture and all the tiny details. White raised scars from battles hard fought, the point of his hip bones, the tiny smattering of golden hair over his chest.
When Laurent comes back to his senses, eyes opening and showing brilliant blue, Damen feels silly with emotion, too much of it pressing against his skin, his heart too big. He wants to lavish Laurent; treat him like a king. All night, and for all their life.
He rolls them over and time seems to seep through their fingers with each square inch explored. He maps and maps again, fingers and tongue and lips. His face, his torso, his legs. Rolls him over onto his stomach and spreads him wide, mapping there too, watching him pucker, watching as he takes Damen’s fingers and cock. Too big pressed into something once so tightly curled. Even loose and ready Laurent groans into the pillow until Damen is sheathed inside. It is exquisite.
Damen doesn’t often take Laurent like this, but tonight they both relish in it. Laurent’s hips tilt upwards, the slope of his back like looking down from a mountain ridge. When Damen buries himself inside, Laurent’s rear turns red with the force of it, cheeks recoiling. He thrusts again, his finger pressed against Laurent’s entrance, the plumpness of his ass and the tight squeeze of him beckoning Damen into fruition only minutes later.
The third time happens much later. Slower. Wrapped in a hug—no, a cuddle—limbs fused together. Laurent whispering in his ear, sucking on his earlobe, running a hand through his chest hair and tweaking his nipple. The candle burns out while they make love, Damen’s hips rocking so very gently, the pace tortuously slow. Laurent’s head is buried in the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and his cock against Damen’s thigh.
“I cannot bear to be without you,” Damen tells him as he comes, and a moment later Laurent lets out the quietest of whimpers into his chest, a warm breath pebbling Damen’s nipples as Laurent’s body jerks through his third orgasm.
“I love you,” Laurent returns, sluggish. His eyes are half-lidded as he props himself up. “But, you are too sticky.”
Damen makes an amused sound and rolls onto his back. “I thought you did not want to waste time washing twice.”
“I changed my mind.”
Damen takes him in the bathroom again, cleaner this time. Laurent’s shoulders press against the wall, hands using Damen’s shoulders for leverage as they fuck against the door. He meets each of Damen’s thrusts until it becomes too much. The drag against that sweet spot inside of him turns him to jelly, and when Damen finally lets him down several minutes later, his legs are weak from it.
“I do not know how I will ride tomorrow,” Laurent murmurs when Damen pulls the covers over them and wiggles together.
“Then do not,” Damen tells him. “Stay. One more day.”
Laurent smiles at him, soft and sweet. “Locked away for a day with you? What ever shall we get up to, I wonder.” In the silence of the night they share a small chuckle. “Unfortunately, I do need to be able to return to Arles.”
“I think perhaps you have exhausted me,” Damen admits. “You are insatiable after we are apart.” He touches a loose strand of hair and grins, a little proud. Laurent scoffs and bats his hand away.
“Exhausted you? That, I doubt.”
Damen is unabashed under his incredulous look. “Tomorrow, we will rest. The day after, we part ways again.” He takes Laurent’s hand and kisses the gold cuff on it. “For now, we sleep.”
Silence. Then, “If that is what you wish,” Laurent agrees.
“You disagree?”
“With part of it.”
Damen’s heart skips a beat in his chest. “Which part of it?”
The bed shifts and the shadow of Laurent’s body rises up. He pinches the fabric of the blanket between his forefinger and thumb and tugs. “May I show you?”
Damen’s body heats; already there’s stirrings low in his belly, the huskiness of Laurent’s voice enough to stoke a spark. “Always, darling.”
The shadow dips lower, pulling aside the blanket and settling between Damen’s legs. There is no moon tonight, only the faint light of the stars and the slight orange glow under the crack of the door. It’s like being blindfolded, but Damen does not resent not being able to see. Not right now when he can let his eyes flicker closed and give himself over to the sensations.
Laurent’s warm mouth envelops him and it takes every fibre of his being to remain still. Damen doesn’t hold back the whimper; his nerve-endings feel electrified, overly sensitive even after hours of pleasure. Any residual fatigue vanishes under Laurent’s expert mouth.
He swears, low and guttural, hand resting lightly on the crown of Laurent’s golden head. His hair is soft under his fingertips, slippery like silk and just as beautiful. Damen runs a thumb across Laurent’s eyebrow as his mouth works its magic, considered and calculated to the exact degree that drives Damen insane.
“Darling,” Damen whispers into the darkness. The only response is wet, slurping sounds and an increase in pressure. “Oh,” he gasps out as Laurent fondles him. “Oh.”
Damen’s back curves upward as pleasure overtakes him, eyes shut tight as it races through him, spilling over Laurent’s fist. “Laure-“
A hand planted on the middle of his chest keeps him still as Laurent mounts him and leans over to kiss him. It is only the uneven breaths that alert him to his other machinations—he can feel the movement in the shadows, and if he strains his ears, hear the sounds of Laurent pleasuring himself. It takes an unusually short amount of time for the tell-tale squeeze of his hand to come, and Damen yearns for a candle so that he may gaze upon Laurent’s face. The slippery, wet sounds increase, loud, indicating he is near.
Reticent no longer, Laurent gasps out Damen’s name as he finishes, his release splattering over Damen’s chest. The warmth settles over him, dripping down into his sternum. Damen feels himself grin at the sensation, relishing the feeling of being so thoroughly claimed and wrecked and claimed all over again.
“I can see that fool grin even in the dark,” Laurent warns him.
Damen only grins wider. The mixture of bodily fluids has them both slipping and sticking against each other. He manages to hook an arm around Laurent’s waist as he attempts to scramble off backwards and feels his body relent at the offer. He twists toward Damen and kisses him again, and though they have traded so very, very many tonight, it’s the sweetest one by far.
“You ought to bathe,” Laurent informs him, a teasing lilt in his voice. “You’re filthy.”
“Accept my sincerest apologies.” Damen stands and tugs Laurent with him. Walks backwards until his back is against the bathing room door. “Let me make it up to you.”
Laurent raises an eyebrow at him. “Again?” he asks wryly.
“Why should we stop at eight hours?” Damen asks, feeling uncharacteristically wicked. Laurent’s face pinkens.
“You intend to see to it that I never ride again,” he murmurs. His touch is possessive, though, as they back through the door. His blue eyes gleam as Damen submits to his directions until they’re beside the tub.
“Never,” Damen promises, leaning down and nuzzling into his lover. “I will not pretend I do not want to spend as long as I can with you, though. Always.”
Laurent’s arms find Damen’s waist, slipping around him and holding him tight. It’s a joy to be held so sweetly, Laurent’s mouth brushing his cheek. Voice pitched low and sweet, Laurent says, “One day soon, our palace will be ready. I promise.”
“We hold the centre,” Damen repeats the words from long ago.
“We hold the centre,” Laurent affirms and presses a lingering kiss to Damen’s jaw.