Page 78 of Nemesis Mine
“Ready?”
A somersault turned to free fall in the pit of Cyrus’s stomach. He didn’t have anything left in him but a nod.
Max dipped his head to kiss the corner of Cyrus’s mouth, his neck, exactly where he was sensitive. Teeth grazed the spot that always made him shudder; a bruise was sucked into the crook of his throat. And all the while Max was pushing into him, slowly, gently, until they were pressed flush together, breath shuddering between them. Max’s mouth found his again, swallowing his moan. His legs shook, muscles twitching. A hand rubbed soothingly at Cyrus’s hip.
“I’ve got you,” Max murmured. Pure instinct, how that voice cut through everything. The calloused fingers that had wielded a weapon against Cyrus so many times were impossibly gentle as Max stroked hair from his forehead. He was flushed above Cyrus, muscles bunched with the strain of not moving. There was a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. He was fighting to stay still, until Cyrus was ready.
The sudden rush of emotion was startling in its ferocity, as though the past few months had hit him all at once. Cyrus did not have a name for it, not in that moment. He only knew that it made him feel utterly helpless and invincible all at once.
“You can move,” he rasped. It came out more like a plea than a command.
They groaned in unison when Max rocked into him. Cyrus hooked a leg around him, bringing him closer still, and Max swore, his hips delivering a short, sharp thrust as he sought a tempo that worked for both. He tried forsomething deeper and slower and Cyrus’s hands scrabbled at the sheets.
Max’s head dropped so they were forehead to forehead, his panting breaths hot against Cyrus’s cheek.
“Fuck, Cy, you feel so good...”
Cyrus shuddered beneath him, then jolted as Max hitthatspot again, the one that made him feel like magic had just crackled down the length of his spine and into the tips of his toes. He was hardly aware of the noise he made, but it made Max swear again, a shaky gasp.
“So good,” he panted against Cyrus’s lips, “so good for me. You’re so good, Cy—”
“I’m a fucking wrongdoer,” Cyrus gasped out, and then they were stifling laughter with messy kisses, half wild.
Max’s hips snapped up again. Cyrus dug his nails into his back, marking him with red crescent moons before he snaked a hand between their bodies to take himself in hand. Max batted his hand away, wrapping his own fingers around Cyrus’s length instead.
The pleasure that had been building seemed to flow to every bit of him, dazing in its intensity. Cyrus’s back arched, bringing Max deeper. He was aware of his surroundings and yet he was not. Max’s hips still moved, but he’d followed Cyrus over the edge, his rhythm uneven, his breath stuttering. Through it all, he groaned Cyrus’s name, breathless and strained and reverent.
It took a while for Cyrus’s vision to stop spinning. Max’s shoulder came into focus first, the familiar dusting of freckles. Beyond, the tangled vines across the ceiling painted their sky a rich dark green. Every part of Cyrus feltsated, like he could sink into the bed below and keep on going, right into the earth.
Max clearly felt the same. He sprawled atop Cyrus, half asleep already, heedless of his weight on Cyrus’s body or the mess they’d made. He’d need to take a hurried bath again tomorrow morning, before he left for Durov.
Durov. Against his will, Cyrus’s thoughts surfaced from the hazy pool of pleasure trying to tug him down to sleep, and turned back towards the election.
Would Max really win? Cyrus looked at the tousled head at his shoulder, listened to the deep breathing. It meant so much to him. By the four old gods and all the powers of the seasons, Cyrus hoped he would.
He wished too that he could be there. That he didn’t have to wave Max away tomorrow to handle this on his own, forced to part ways because of outside dangers.
A particularly unwelcome intrusion into their little world, Balthazar’s voice drifted across his mind.
I wouldn’t have thought you’d let that stop you.
Cyrus’s hand came up. He stroked Max’s back, feeling warm muscles twitch beneath his fingertips. Max sighed into Cyrus’s neck.
For the first (and perhaps only) time, he thought Balthazar might, potentially, have a point.
Chapter Eighteen
The day of the election dawned bright and blustery. Durov’s position by the southern coast was about as far from Ranragh as was possible whilst remaining on Athacan land, nearly four days by horse. The city shimmered against the fierce blue of the sky, carved into the land from the silvery stone native to this part of Athaca.
Durov Castle sat atop a sloping hill beside the city, guarded by a wide courtyard and great stone wall, with a track winding down the hillside and into the outer town that sprawled alongside. Cyrus’s eyes traced the outline of the castle, the noble turret protruding self-righteously next to the keep bordered by four grand towers. A large flag billowed from the centre of the keep, a crimson smudge against the blue expanse. Durov’s was the only castle in Athaca, constructed under order of the Federation’s founder a century ago. They had cleared woodland to make room for it, but nature remembered its home. The castle was shrouded in greenery, ivy twisting into any gap or crevice it could find until Durov’s pale walls were swathed in darkglossy green. Cyrus resisted the urge to tweak at the ivy with his powers, just to see what would happen. He was here to behave himself today.
Soulripper shifted beneath him, restless, and Cyrus soothed a hand over her neck. On the road into the city, travellers thronged about them, their chatter an indecipherable rumble. Anticipation was high in the air, eagerness in the faces around him. He caught only snatches of conversations, but the election was everywhere—a champion’s name, betting odds, a town where the vote could slide one way or the other. A cart trundled by on uneven wheels, sacking thrown haphazardly over the peddler’s wares. Cyrus caught a glimpse of hand-painted figurines, champions clutching needle-sharp swords. Tempting, to sneak a hand in and try to find a figurine with coppery hair and bright blue eyes. But he needed to keep his head down.
He looked back to the castle. An encampment had been set up in the courtyard, protected from the curious masses by the stone wall, where the champions nervously awaiting election results had made their base. If he squinted, he could just about make out the tips of their tents, deep red against Durov’s silver and green. He would find Max there.
Max, who was probably going to pitch a fit when he realised Cyrus had decided to come along. But Cyrus would be careful, and given Max’s realisation would only occur once the election results had been called, it wasn’t like he was causing any additional stress.
Balthazar had been right; Cyrus supposed it had to happen from time to time. He wasn’t one to sit obediently at home awaiting Max’s return.
