Page 56 of Nemesis Mine
A moment of quiet dragged out, delicious, prickling with tension. Maximillian’s gaze was dark as it dipped to the space between Cyrus’s thighs. Cyrus was hard, he’d been hard since the moment he felt Maximillian’s tongue against his. The champion was in a similar state. Cyruscould see the outline of his erection, straining against the leather.
A slow exhale. Then, a murmur in that rumbling voice that made arousal trickle like liquid fire through Cyrus’s whole body: “I’ll make it up to you.”
It was Cyrus’s turn to swallow. Maximillian gave him a slow smile. He stayed propped up on his elbow as he reached out. Warm fingers loosened the laces of his trousers, guided the fabric carefully down. Cyrus shuddered as Maximillian touched him. The champion’s eyes stayed fixed on his face, cataloguing reactions to every inch of flesh mapped beneath his fingertips.
Then the bed dipped with movement. Maximillian leaned over the side to pick something up: a glass vial, half full of oil. It glugged quietly, viscous and glistening. Cyrus swallowed at the sound of the stopper coming free as Maximillian thumbed it loose. Oil trickled over his fingers.
When Maximillian’s warm hand wrapped around his length, Cyrus’s hips jerked of their own accord, a gasp punching its way out. Maximillian’s touch was firm and sure, his thumb tracing tantilising patterns against sensitive flesh. Cyrus tipped his head back and inhaled sharply, trying to fill lungs that seemed devoid of air. He was only half aware of one hand clutching tight at Maximillian’s bedsheets. Everything in him was focused on the heat of Maximillian’s fingers, his torturous caress.
He changed pace, just slightly. A groan escaped, caught between his teeth, followed by Maximillian’s quiet chuckle. Soft, teasing, just like his touch.
His hand kept moving, a steady rhythm interspersedwith moments of unpredictability, whilst Maximillian rearranged himself beside Cyrus, sitting up so that he could lean in and press kisses to his jaw, sucking little bruises against the bone. Cyrus was too distracted to respond with any finesse, turning his head and catching Maximillian’s mouth with a sloppy estimation of a kiss. It earned another laugh, half stifled into his mouth.
“I like it when you make those noises,” Maximillian murmured. He did something with his wrist that made Cyrus’s entire body twitch, a groan catching in his throat. “Mm, like that.”
He sounded like he was in control, just a little ragged, but when Cyrus forced himself to focus he saw the flush sitting high in Maximillian’s cheeks, painting his chest. He could put on a show of control, but he could not truly hide how affected he was. Especially when Cyrus’s eyes dropped to the tent in his leather trousers. No, Maximillian could not hide his arousal at all.
And that was fuckinghot. Cyrus kissed him again. It was messy and rough and the angle was off but he didn’t care. Neither did Maximillian, judging by his swallowed gasp. Cyrus grinned into his mouth, fierce and pleased. Then Maximillian moved his wrist again and Cyrus’s shoulders jolted, a moan reverberating against Maximillian’s lips.
Pleasure built in his belly, an inescapable crescendo. Maximillian’s fingers were clever and relentless and Cyrus didn’t know when he had started clutching at him with his free hand but he was, his fingers digging into the muscle of Maximillian’s thigh as his other hand fisted in the bedsheets. He could feel the intensity of Maximillian’s gaze pinning him in place, hot breath against his neck.
“Maximillian,” Cyrus groaned, or tried to. There were too many syllables, his tongue stumbling over the name. “Fucking hell—fuck—Max—”
Maximillian’s breath shuddered against his ear. “Yeah, call me that. Fuck, call me that, come for me, Cyrus—”
Cyrus’s hips jerked and that was it, a surge of hot pleasure scattering his thoughts until there was nothing but the feel and the smell and the taste of Maximillian, his name on the champion’s lips.
Through the haze, he was dimly aware of Maximillian turning his attentions to himself. His hand between their bodies, his breath fast against Cyrus’s ear. He pressed his forehead to Cyrus’s shoulder, a moan escaping from between clenched teeth, and shuddered through his own pleasure. His panting breaths still sounded far away.
They lay still for a time, wordless. Cyrus’s heart pounded and his ears rang and his wound ached but in a distant, sulky sort of way, like it knew it didn’t have a chance in competing for his attention.
How could it? Maximillian shifted against him, his body heavy with tiredness. They would need to clean up soon. Reality would creep in. But for now, if Cyrus opened his eyes, bronze hair and golden skin would fill his vision. Tangled up with Maximillian like this, he was encased in their own little world. Facing reality could wait.
Chapter Fourteen
Cyrus woke to the patchouli-and-wood scent of Maximillian on the pillows, and to midmorning sunshine streaming in through the window. The muslin drapes had been parted slightly, daylight cutting a neat slice into the bedroom.
He stretched out with a sigh, burrowing his face into the softness of the bed, far more comfortable than the inns he had stayed in overnight on the way to Heliarth. Awareness slowly trickled through, prodding its way past the haze of sleep until Cyrus opened his eyes and remembered where he was. What had happened the previous night.
Maximillian.
He sat up quickly, wincing when his side throbbed. Something that could have been anticipation or apprehension flared at the thought of finding another body sharing the bed—a sun-kissed shoulder turned towards him, or Maximillian’s sleeping face on the pillow.
But the other side of the bed was empty, the pillow still indented with the shape of Maximillian’s head. On thesmall bedside table, ebony to match the writing desk in the corner, a scroll of parchment was half tucked under a leather-bound book.
Cyrus shuffled over, a steadying hand to his side. He picked up the book first, hoping it might be a diary—he had no qualms about reading, he would love to see what Maximillian had written about their first encounters—but it was a self-help guide from a Valyxi healer preaching about how to find peace within yourself.
The scroll bore familiar loopy handwriting.
Gone to smooth things over. Back for lunch.
Stay?
M x
p.s. Don’t steal any of my stuff. I know you.
Well, if Maximillianreallywanted him to stay, he supposed he could.
