Page 6 of The Scouts

The linen sheets crumpled around his hands as he bunched up the fabric, growling a curse into the pillow. “Ervyn, please,” he panted, throwing me a wanton, long-lashed look over his shoulder, “I’m almost there.” His lush lips parted, the blue wells of his gaze molten, sheeny and dissolute.

Mighty gods.

He shouldn’t have been able to stop my heart with a single glance like that. Never had I encountered anyone who combined the sweet and the obscene with such ease. Any other night he would’ve swayed me, too—the master of manipulation. Just not right then.

Oh, yes. He enjoyed getting his way. But at times, he loved being denied even more.

I squeezed my cock between my thumb and forefinger to rein in my need so I could see to his first. The slap I applied to his arse—which elicited a thick groan from him—brought a warm sting to my palm and a lovely pink blush to his flesh. I wished I could’ve spent a while spreading the mark by running my tongue and teeth over it until I made him squirm. Alas, at that point, we were both too far gone for such subtlety. “Turn around, mu’hrōnye.” My drawl scraped hoarse with breathlessness. “I want to see your face when you come.”

The ragged pace of his breathing rivalled mine. He sent me a very Lochanesque glare, but acquiesced nonetheless. The way he shifted his sculpted limbs around me as he settled on his back, seductive without a conscious effort, left me choking on my spit.

Before I entered him again, I couldn’t refuse myself a languid, sloppy kiss. I leant into him, enveloping him with the weight and heat of my muscle, and licked at the outline of his lips, demanding he let me inside.

Immediately, he opened up to invite me in. Pursuing my tongue with his pierced one, he pulled me closer and slid his hands down my sides until they reached my arse and anchored themselves there, his impatient fingers digging into my skin, enticing me nearer still. Sometimes I sensed he wouldn’t have minded if I crawled into him whole, and the idea tickled my possessiveness in all the right places.

A floaty sensation descended upon me, disturbing my grip on reality. My head spun from the pleasure of having his solid, honed body beneath me, desperate for the taking.

All mine. That night, at least.

A reminder of what would pass the following day stabbed me like a jagged-edged poker through the chest. One dragged red-hot from the fire and wielded by some sadistic fucker with a grudge.

He reclaimed my attention by moaning into my mouth and arching into me, as if my torment didn’t escape his notice. My thoughts dissipated, banished into the dark recesses of my mind. I wouldn’t give in to anxiety and ruin the hours we had ahead of us—together, alone and naked.

I shoved his face to one side and he groaned. I trailed my lips along his jaw and down the crook of his neck. The tendon there begged to be sucked and branded. Mine. So I sank my teeth in that juicy curve and smiled around it when he tensed in a silent spasm underneath me, a trickle from his cock slicking my groin. Dizzy with want, I brushed my nose against his skin, taking in his mellow, exotic scent, which grew headier with each inhalation, layered so thick on him there.

My sternum ached almost as much as my balls when I buried myself in him for the second time.

We both let out a moan.

His fine features softened, allowing me to observe a rare expression on him—heavy-lidded, unshielded and raw. Exquisite.

I gripped his chin in my palm and yanked it up.

“Don’t take your eyes off me, Lochan,” I rasped, my voice steady despite the fear that it would fail me. “Look at me.”

The one who’s fucking you.

The one who loves you.

As always, he gave me precisely what I wanted. And more. The conviction that there would never be another like him, that he was it for me—everything I needed in the world—washed over me in a familiar wave. Equally frightening and comforting.

I switched to long strokes, deep and slow. He came quickly, and I didn’t linger myself after his release coated his pale, taut stomach.

Afterwards, I wrapped him tightly in my arms, the way I knew he needed. But I held him as much for myself as I did for him.

All that strength in him. All that beauty. And he’d chosen to trust me. To yield to me.

To let me own him.

And love him.

It had never stopped being a thrill, the knowledge that he could shake me off in a snap and wrestle me into submission. I could fight as well as the next Elf, but if it came to a physical confrontation between Lochan and me, I’d be glad to last three heartbeats. Yet there he lay—a warrior, lethal and feared, who loathed being touched—letting me have him, clinging to my body as if starved for the contact. And I’d have been lying if I said it didn’t sharpen my senses and turn my blood into lava.

I’d developed a fascination with his hair, its silken length just made for me to twist around my fingers or, when things got heated, around my fist. A great measure to control him by and to lavish affection upon him, too. My caresses—a mute apology for subjecting him to a punishing treatment for something that wasn’t his fault—drew contented, sleepy purrs from him.

For the love of the gods.

As if he hadn’t eradicated all of my defences already and taken command of every scrap of my mind and heart. However it looked, it had never been I who called the shots.