The heat and light of the fire drew him, as did the faint glimmer of firelight on the objects perched on the mantel. One proved to be a ridiculous gold goblet, odd amidst all the silver of Aeretoll, set with rubies and sapphires and diamonds. When Oliver picked it up, he was surprised by its heft. Next were a sequence of small wooden frames that held stained glass pictures: one of a mountain range, one of a sunrise, another of a woman, pretty, if geometric in colored glass fragments. He found two daggers, also, one ceremonial, with a silver sheath. The other with a sheath of plain, brown leather worn smooth from lots of handling. The handle was of bone, and, struck by curiosity, Oliver drew the weapon, watching the firelight dance along the gleaming, razor-sharp edge of it. It was a wicked weapon, one that probably saw most of its use as a practical tool, but which could have killed a man in a dozen ways. The grip was slightly too big for his hand, because it was Erik’s, and Erik had such large hands–
“Planning to stab me?” Erik’s amused voice asked from the doorway, and Oliver froze.
Slowly, still holding the dagger, he turned around.
He hadn’t heard the door open, but Erik stood with arms folded, one shoulder braced in the doorway. He’d lost his heavy fur cloak, and stood in his richly embroidered tunic, trousers, and boots. The fire was the only light source, but it caught the beads in his hair, and the otherworldly blue of his eyes. He was smiling, smug and happy – and predatory.
Unable to take his eyes from him, Oliver set the dagger back on the mantel and swallowed with difficulty. “Well. I’m open to suggestion if you have a better idea.”
Erik’s grin became a smirk. He straightened, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.
23
They were alone together.
They had been earlier, when Erik braided his hair, but then there had been a feast and a hall full of guests waiting, public performances to put on.
Now there was only the dark of night, and a massive bed, and the two of them, with only distance and a few layers of clothes between them.
The first Erik took care of immediately. He crossed the room in a handful of long strides, the beads in his hair clicking together with the force of his movement. In the time it took to reach Oliver, his expression slid from darkly intent to openly wondering, so that, when he finally reached out with one hand to cup Oliver’s face, he stood before him trembling, faintly, with emotion.
Erik took a short, sharp breath, his thumb smoothing across Oliver’s cheek, and said, “You’re shaking.”
“So are you.”
And he was: Oliver could feel Erik trembling in the touch of his fingers, and in the front of his tunic, which he’d taken, quite unaware, between his fingers. Oliver gripped the soft velvet with his own unsteady fingers and leaned into the hand that held his face.
“I feel like there are things that ought to be said,” Oliver said.
Understanding flickered in Erik’s gaze. No doubt he’d listened to his own inner voice chiding him, informing him of all the reasons this could never work.
He said, “Will saying them change anything?” Lips curved in a faintly sad smile.
It hurt to swallow; Oliver ached all over, with want, and need, and worry, and the sort of anticipatory melancholy that could ruin this, if he let it. So he shoved it all down, tightened his grip on the tunic in his hands, and said, “Not in the slightest.”
“I thought not. Say them later, then,” Erik said, and leaned down to kiss him.
It was gentle at first, a lingering press. Chaste and almost sweet. Like a question – an invitation. Do you want this? Do you want me?
Yes, you silly sod. Oliver stood up on his tiptoes and kissed him back, open-mouthed, eager.
He knew then how carefully Erik had been holding himself in check, because he let go with a deep groan that reverberated through his chest and into Oliver’s knuckles, where they were pressed against it, still caught up in his tunic. Erik gripped Oliver’s hair with both hands, angled his head, and devoured him with kiss after kiss, wet and frantic.
Oliver lost himself in the heated, slippery slide of it, eyes shut, fingers clenched tight in fine velvet. He wanted so much – wanted everything – but he didn’t dare pull away or loosen his grip, for fear that this was all a dream, and that it would dispel like smoke if he so much as paused for breath.
It was Erik who broke away, finally, panting – but didn’t go far, thankfully. He rested their foreheads together, hands sliding out of Oliver’s hair and down the back of his neck; they smoothed across his shoulders, and then down his back, reeling him in even closer. “Gods, you’re eager.” He reached to thumb at Oliver’s kiss-damp lower lip, tracing back and forth across the width of it.
“Is that a problem?”
He chuckled. “No.” He kissed Oliver again, slow and deep, and then trailed damp lips along his jaw, his ear; pressed a string of kisses down his throat, fingertips sliding over his pulse point on the other side.
Oliver’s breath came quick and ragged through an open mouth, his pulse thunderous in his ears. He’d imagined this in lurid detail, so many times, but now that it was happening, he felt weak as water, and clumsy as a blushing teenager again.
Erik nosed at the collar of his tunic on one side, and slipped his fingertips beneath velvet and linen on the other; his breath was warm on Oliver’s skin, his hair silky-soft where it brushed his throat.
“Oliver,” he murmured, shifting back up so the words rumbled right in Oliver’s ear. The hand at his collar delved deeper, palm splaying across the top of his bare shoulder, and his other hand moved to the laces of his tunic and slowly worked them loose. “This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, is it?”
Oliver was so distracted by the heat of his hand on bare skin, the brush of his lips on his ear, the thoroughly devastating purr of his voice, that it took him a moment to register Erik’s actual words. “I – what?” The fingers at his throat pulled the laces looser, and looser, and, oh, gods, Erik thought he was a stumbling, awkward virgin.
“No,” he said, more emphatically than he’d meant.
Erik laughed, and that was deep and rumbling too, and shiver-inducing.
“No,” Oliver said again, turning his head to catch Erik’s gaze. They stood so close, faces overlapping; he caught a blurred impression of eyes turned to sapphires in the firelight, and their cheeks brushed together, Erik’s short beard rasping his own smooth jaw. “This is not – I’m not – this is definitely not my” – he swallowed, throat sticking – “first time.”
“Hm.” Erik bumped their noses together. “That’s almost a pity.” He tugged the last bit of lacing undone with a hooked finger, and then slipped his other hand inside Oliver’s tunic and shirt, large palm pressed over his thudding heart. He angled their faces, lips hovering over lips. “But I’ll be grateful not to frighten you.”
Oliver swayed forward, catching himself against Erik’s broad chest with both hands. “Oh, you could still frighten me, but I’d like it.”
That earned another low chuckle, and then a kiss, languid, thorough, but more insistent than any that had come before.
Oliver slid his hands regretfully down Erik’s stomach, and then reached for the buckle of his own belt; it was very important that he get naked as soon as possible, suddenly.
Erik broke the kiss to whisper, “No, let me do that.” His hands pulled out of Oliver’s clothes, a sudden loss of warm and stirring touch – but then he put them at Oliver’s belt, and had the silver buckle loose in a matter of moments. The thick band of tooled leather made a soft thunk as it hit the carpet, and then Erik was bundling Oliver’s tunic and shirt in his hands, and lifting them up and over his head and off.
Gooseflesh prickled across his skin; his nipples drew tight. Oliver resisted the immediate, kneejerk urge to cover himself, because Erik had already seen him, several times now, and he’d looked nothing but hungry and wanting every time.
Like now, as he took a half-step back and let his gaze sh
ift over Oliver’s lean torso, marble pale in the firelight, no doubt.
Erik took a low, audible breath in through his nose; then licked his lips and stepped in close again. He caught Oliver’s chin with one hand, and kissed him, clever tongue pressing right in; his other hand went to Oliver’s waistband, and his flies, working them in a few quick tugs.
“Boots,” he murmured between kisses.
“Shit.” Oliver caught at his waist for balance as he clumsily toed them off.
When his bare feet were braced on the carpet, Erik smoothed the trousers down over his hips, smalls too, and then he stood naked, drawn to the warmth of the large body curved around his, mouth falling open in helpless oversensitivity as hands skated and petted over him – all of him.
Erik stroked his throat, and his shoulders, his chest; played with his nipples, and strummed over his ribs like harp strings. Warm, sword-callused palms swept up and down the dip of his waist, the small of his back. Cupped his ass and squeezed; flirted, faintly, between – and then a hand covered his cock and stayed there, squeezing and stroking until he was filling and hardening within that grasp.
Oliver had given up all pretense of kissing; he’d pressed his forehead to Erik’s throat and breathed in short, cut-off little gasps, thrusting in aborted surges as Erik worked his cock.
“If you come now,” Erik asked, “can you come again later?”
It was an effort to form words. “Yeah – yes. I’m always – good for a few.”
Erik’s thumb smoothed over the head of his cock, and he breathed a laugh. “I don’t doubt it.”
Then, before Oliver could comprehend it, he went down on his knees on the carpet, gripped Oliver’s hips, and took Oliver in his mouth.
Oh gods, there’s a king sucking my cock, he thought, wildly, and then Erik drew off with a long, slow suck, and set to torturing him in the most wonderful way.
It turned out that Erik Frodeson of Aeretoll was a tease – one with a wickedly skilled tongue. He would take Oliver deep, all the way, swallowing around him – and then he would pull back, ghosting lips down his length, sucking at the head with a curved tongue. Each time Oliver thought he might be close, trembling and gasping, Erik would ease back, until he was barely touching him, or, worse, would grip him at the base and hold him off.
Oliver finally got to sink his hands into that mass of glorious hair, though, unsteady fingertips catching on braids, and on beads, the metal cool against his overheated skin. When he gripped it between his fingers, Erik made a low, encouraging sound and took him deep again.
“Gods,” Oliver breathed out. “Fuck, I won’t–”
Erik pulled off, and pressed a string of messy kisses low across his belly, looking up at Oliver through his lashes; his mouth shiny and pink, his pupils blown, his hair tangled around Oliver’s fingers – it was too much.
When he swallowed Oliver down again, he came with a whimper. “Erik.”
Erik gentled him through it with mouth and hands, and, when Oliver flinched away, overstimulated, he cleaned him with a few last passes of his tongue and got to his feet, trailing hands and lips up Oliver’s body as he went, until he could hold his waist and reel him in for a gentle kiss.
Oliver was too weak to return it with any finesse, but tasting himself on the king’s lips sent a fresh wave of crackling aftershocks through him.
“Say that again,” Erik murmured against the corner of his mouth.
“What?”
“My name. When we’re alone like this, I don’t want to be ‘your majesty.’”
The immediate, post-coital sleepiness had hit Oliver like a truck, but he smiled, his chest light and warm, and leaned into the hands petting his waist. “All right, then. You’re very good at sucking cock, Erik. How very un-your majesty of you.”
Erik snorted against his hairline, breath warm, ruffling his curls. “And what shall I call you, little intransigent one?”
Despite the low, even timbre of his voice, Erik’s pulse pounded, hot and hard in his throat. Oliver burrowed closer into it and said, “I have a perfectly fine name.”
“Mr. Meacham?” Erik asked, innocently, voice threaded still with laughter.
“You could call me – Ollie.”
“Ollie.” That was delicious. When Oliver shivered, Erik kissed his temple, his cheek. “What about sweetheart?”
That put a lump in his throat. “I’m not sweet.”
“Oh, I beg to differ.” A kiss to his nose, to his lips. “Darling? Love?”
“You can call me whatever you want.”
Another kiss. A voice gone heated with anticipation. “Come to bed with me, Ollie.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
~*~
Some other time – and Oliver couldn’t believe that he was optimistic enough to even hope for another time – he was going to unwrap Erik like a present, peel off his layers of finery and get down to the flesh and blood man beneath the veneer of king.
But tonight, he went, amused and turned on, when Erik bodily picked him up, set him on the edge of the bed, and then stripped off his own clothes in a rush. Despite a lack of intention to be, he was still graceful; the bunch and play of shadowed muscles as he threw his richly embroidered garments to the carpet, heedless, spoke of a body well-seasoned in not just combat, but courtly poise, too. Erik had spent a lifetime learning how to hold himself first like a prince, then like a king, and it showed, even when he was wrenching off his boots and shoving down his trousers.
Oliver had seen him naked before, in the baths. Seeing him so now wasn’t a surprise – but Oliver’s belly clenched tight with refreshed need at sight of him naked now. Because now, he knew what it was like to kiss him; knew what it was like to taste his own release on his tongue; was still warm and buzzing from coming, and already feeling needy again. Now, Erik was limned by firelight, his carefully braided and bejeweled hair falling into disarray thanks to Oliver’s fingers, and he was fully aroused, standing with his stomach hollow thanks to the careful way he held himself, turned on in a way that Oliver knew was almost painful.
He slid backward until he was in the center of the bed, legs spread in invitation, and said, “Come here.”
And Erik did come. Took the last few strides to the bed, climbed up, and prowled to Oliver on hands and knees, mattress dipping beneath him, gaze fixed on Oliver’s, unwavering, as intense and predatory as a wildcat.
When he was in range, Oliver reached up and took two handfuls of his hair so he could reel him in and kiss him.
For a few minutes, Erik seemed content to let Oliver set the pace, braced above him with his hands on the mattress on either side of his hips, on his knees between his legs, his mouth yielding and sweet when Oliver slipped his tongue inside. But then he stroked Oliver’s belly and chest with one hand; pressed it flat to his sternum and pushed him back onto the pillows, following him down, so that Oliver lay flat, Erik’s larger body caging him in.
Oliver tipped his head to the side, and let Erik kiss and suck at his throat; tightened his grip on his hair and arched up into him so that skin pressed to warm skin; the crisp thatch of hair on Erik’s chest tickled. Oliver wrapped his legs around his waist, bringing their hips together, delighted by the hard brush of Erik’s cock alongside his own; he wanted to be even closer, to be joined; shifted his grip to broad shoulders and dug in with his blunt nails, shamelessly grinding up against him.
“Erik…”
“I know, I know.” The hand on his chest slid down, gave his still-sensitive cock an experimental stroke, and then dipped down between his legs; cupped his balls, briefly, and moved back.
But then Oliver remembered the vial in his room, and he groaned.
Erik stilled. “What?” He nuzzled at the hollow of his throat. “What’s wrong?”
“Olaf gave me oil.”
Erik pushed up so he could make eye contact, his own gaze so comically wide that Oliver couldn’t help a laugh. “He gave you…oil?”
“In case yo
u haven’t noticed.” Oliver traced his beard with the backs of his fingers, rasping along the short bristles. “Your entire household, sister and staff alike, have been conspiring to get us into just this position.”
One brow went up.
“Olaf gave me some oil. Rose, by the way. And now it’s all the way down the hall in my room, and of no use to us now.”
Erik stared at him, that single brow cocked, for a long moment. Then he snorted, said, “I’m going to have to have a talk with – everyone I know.” Then he pulled away and crawled over to rummage around in a drawer of the bedside table.
Oliver missed his presence bearing him down into the mattress, but he had a lovely view of his backside while he waited.
A hand shot up, vial held aloft in triumph, and Erik grinned when he crawled back into position.
“Entertain many guests here, do you?” Oliver asked, teasingly polite.
“None. We’re woefully short of auburn-haired Southerners here. Lie back.” He uncorked the bottle with his teeth – oh, that did things to Oliver’s insides – and poured a generous amount of oil into his hand, the scent of roses blooming between them.
Oliver reclined back on the pillows, legs falling open again, and was already shivering in delighted anticipation before the first touch.
Erik leaned down to suck more bruises into his throat while he worked the first finger inside.
“Oh. You’re – you have big hands.”
“Too much?”
“No. No, it’s – oh, yes, just like that.”
A pleased hum against his throat. A flex of clever fingers. Erik stroked him all over with his other hand, teasing caresses along the join of thigh and hip, and over his chest, plucking at his nipples in turn. He thumbed a damp curl off Oliver’s forehead, and stroked along his cheek, his eyes wide, and dark, and wondrous. “You’re so very pretty, little drake. How did I get so lucky?” He added another finger, pressed deep, and Oliver couldn’t fight the moan that caught in his throat, nor the way his eyes fluttered shut.
Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles Book 1) Page 30
