Page 55 of Nemesis Mine
And in that case, there could be no holding back at all. Cyrus made an impatient noise. “My wound will get over it,” he muttered, and then he reached out, grabbed a handful of Maximillian’s shirt, and yanked him back in.
Maximillian made a startled noise that shouldn’t have been cute but still managed to be. Cyrus kissed him greedily, relishing the scratch of his stubble against soft skin. Possessive fingers curled around the back of Maximillian’s head and disrupted the artful flow of coppery waves. His nerves seemed to sing with it, the proximity of the onehe wanted—and hedidwant Maximillian, desperately, urgently. He had wanted him all along.
“Wait—”
Cyrus didn’t care for waiting. He was all about instant gratification. But Maximillian had pulled back again, heedless of Cyrus’s little growl.
Maximillian’s eyes searched his. “You’re not angry?”
He should be. A stabbing, a devious plot against his life: These were things he should probably be concerned about. Maximillian had been manipulative and deceitful and sly. He had proved himself unpredictable. Dangerous.
Cyrus, gods help him, found that extremely fucking sexy.
Realising that was one thing; voicing it was another. Maximillian’s ego was hefty enough as it was. Cyrus certainly wasn’t going to inflate his head any further.
“Furious,” he mumbled, resuming his efforts to kiss Maximillian. “Raging. Probably try and kill you tomorrow.”
Maximillian stopped trying to resist him, huffing out a laugh. Cyrus leaned in, too close. Their foreheads knocked together but Cyrus paid it no heed, too busy drawing the champion’s lower lip between his own and pulling him even closer. A low hiss escaped as his wound twinged, and Maximillian shifted, but before he could think of withdrawing again Cyrus dug his teeth in slightly. An incisor nicked the soft flesh of Maximillian’s lip.
“Easy,” Maximillian muttered, and Cyrusfeltthe rumble of his voice, the reverberation against his own chest, and then he felt his own blood rush south almost as quickly. His breath hitched, a stuttering exhale.
Maximillian flashed him a smirk that didn’t help the situation at all. “Don’t stop on my account,” he murmured. “Think I quite like it when you make those noises.”
He’d never heard Maximillian’s voice pitched like that before. Low, teasing. Ever so slightly ragged and just for him. Cyrus thought his brain might’ve fizzled out entirely at the sound of it. With nothing coherent to say he made do with snatching another kiss, even as Maximillian nudged him to lie back against the pillows, guiding him with a careful but firm hand. The champion came with him, keeping the barely there distance between them until he was pressed up close to Cyrus’s uninjured side.
Now that Maximillian was where he wanted to be, he wasn’t holding back. He was as greedy as Cyrus, their shirts dragged free and thrown aside. When he turned back to Cyrus he was all warm tanned skin with a few faded scars, a dusting of freckles. All the times he’d pressed up close to that chest during their fights; brushed those muscled arms when they sat together, already too close for two people calling each otherenemy. All the times Cyrus’s eyes had lingered on the stretch of material over Maximillian’s shoulders, the sliver of skin at his waist when he lifted his arms. Each burst of attraction had been shoved down, repressed, so certain was his belief that this could never be.
Now, Cyrus let himself stare. His eyes could never have their fill, but he would give it his best shot.
Their mouths met again, urgent and eager, glutting themselves on each other. Maximillian explored his chest, his collarbones, each trail of fingers against skin causing shudders to skitter out in their wake until they knottedloosely in Cyrus’s hair and exerted just enough pressure to nudge his head back into the pillow. Lips found the curve of his throat, hot and wet against the delicate skin, and the pressure of Maximillian sucking a purpled bruise into his flesh had Cyrus’s fingers clenching in the sheets beside him, a gasp fighting free.
Two could play at that game. Cyrus reached out, burying his fingers in bronzed waves, and squeezed until Maximillian groaned. He tugged, sharply, bringing Maximillian’s head up. He looked debauched already, flushed, his hair in disarray. Cyrus wanted to devour him.
For now he would settle for biting his own bruises into Maximillian’s throat, the muscular slope of his shoulder. A soft laugh rumbled in Maximillian’s chest.
“Not sure it’s a good idea, letting you and your teeth near my throat.” He sounded breathless. Cyrus had done that to him. The knowledge made pleasure surge fiercely. “You might start plotting your revenge.”
Cyrus hummed in response, kissing along the champion’s collarbone to the curve of his shoulder. His lips ghosted over warm skin, tasting soap and sweat. Maximillian sighed, leaning into it.
Cyrus bit him. Maximillian yelped. Cyrus flicked his eyes up, demure, as he ran his tongue over the bite mark soothingly.
“Don’t give me ideas.”
Maximillian laughed again, settling himself into a comfortable position propped on one elbow. There was something giddy in that laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d let go and allowed this to happen. When Cyrus raised hishead, Maximillian caught him under his chin and drew him in for another kiss. It was almost chaste, their lips barely brushing, and yet something in the atmosphere felt heavier, a weight of anticipation hanging over them.
Their lips were still touching, just about, but Cyrus could sense Maximillian looking at him. He let his eyes drift open. At this proximity he could see every fleck of blue that made up Maximillian’s irises; every dark golden eyelash; every faint line left behind by laughter and worry and anger. Cyrus wanted to touch them all.
“We need to take this slow,” Maximillian murmured against his mouth. Cyrus did not care for the sound of that, but Maximillian intercepted him before he could speak. “No, don’t argue. You’re injured.”
As if Cyrus had ever responded well to being told not to do something. “Mm. See, I disagree.Ithink that I should get to do whatever I want. Becauseyouinjured me.”
Maximillian swallowed. Cyrus’s eyes dropped to the movement of his throat, fascinated. He was going to kiss every inch of that golden skin before this night was through.
“What do you want?”
Cyrus sat up, leaning against the headboard. He let his thighs fall open, then met Maximillian’s gaze, a challenge issued.
“Make it up to me,” Cyrus ordered.
