by Jane Davitt
Jamie sighed and rolled over. “Fine. Ask."
The sudden, and not entirely welcome, capitulation left Peter feeling at a loss. Sitting up and wrapping his arms around his knees to keep himself from reaching out to Jamie as he was tempted to do, he stared across the room, which was, judging by the sloping roof, in the attic, and tried to compose himself.
He intended to demand an explanation for Jamie's appalling behavior, but when he spoke he found himself asking, “Have you bespelled me? Because I can't look at you without wanting you and that's just ridiculous given that we've barely met."
"You looked at me like that the instant you saw me,” Jamie said, sounding tired. “How the hell could I have bespelled you that fast?"
Peter flushed, feeling the tips of his ears turn pink. “I was—you weren't what I was expecting,” he confessed. “I thought—I don't know who I thought I'd find. Not you.” He turned his head. Against the green and white diamonds of the patchwork quilt, the colors clear and fresh as snowdrops in the grass, Jamie's bare arms and chest looked nut-brown, and the red in Jamie's hair shone like bright autumn leaves. Peter wanted to lie against that broad chest, his fingers teasing the sprinkle of brown hair curling softly over it, his tongue tasting the tanned skin, his head filled with the reassuringly steady thump-thud of Jamie's heart.
He'd done none of that, and yet he knew exactly how all of it would feel.
"Look, it's late,” Jamie said. “Ask what you will and let's get some sleep. Tomorrow I'll send you on your way, never fear."
"My broomstick—"
"I'll drive you,” Jamie said shortly. “The castle's not far away, although we'll have to do some digging first to clear a path."
"I have to fly, I'm afraid,” Peter said. “I don't suppose—"
"No,” Jamie said. “I don't have a broomstick I can lend you."
"Then I'll have to walk,” Peter said with a sigh. Walking wasn't magical in itself, but if he enchanted his shoes to hover it should fulfill the requirements.
"Suit yourself,” Jamie said. “Is that it?"
"You know it isn't,” Peter said gently. “You have to agree that your treatment of me has been—"
"Better than you deserve."
Anger stirred, driving his arousal down. “I beg your pardon? Clearly you have some connection to the clan—” Jamie snorted inelegantly but Peter carried on. “You can't be a potential Head, or you'd be at the castle waiting for me. Would you care to tell me your interest in this matter?"
"No, I would not,” Jamie said, the rich, deep timbre of his voice changing to a cold, clipped tone. “Would you care to make me?” Peter smiled because somehow the idea of Jamie threatening him was something he couldn't take seriously, and after a moment Jamie's face softened. “You'll be thinking me insane, won't you?"
"No,” Peter said without hesitation. He didn't have the faintest idea what Jamie was up to, but the gray eyes that met his were concerned, not crazed.
"I can't expect you to trust me—"
"You know that I do,” Peter said steadily. “I can see that you're not willing, or able, to tell me the truth, but tell me this; when you searched me, what were you looking for?” That was puzzling him; the garnet was in his flying suit; there had been no need to strip him of all his clothes once that had been found.
Jamie sighed and rolled his eyes, looking a little shame-faced. “I was looking for witch marks,” he confessed.
Peter gaped at Jamie and then went scarlet. “You—but—” He wasn't sure if it was the enormity of the accusation that bothered him the most, or the fact that to be sure he carried none Jamie would have had to have examined his body quite literally inch-by inch, from his scalp to between his toes.
His skin should have crawled at the thought of such an invasion; instead it tingled as if Jamie's hands were still on it and he was left breathless with the intensity of his arousal.
"You've nothing to be ashamed of,” Jamie said in a reasonable voice that made Peter long to punch him. “You're—what was it? ‘Gorgeous'? Aye. You are. You're a summerchild, aren't you?"
Blue eyes, golden hair, fair skin that showed every fugitive emotion ... Peter shrugged. “And you're an autumnson. So?"
"Our sort are rare these days,” Jamie said thoughtfully. “Rare and powerful. And you tell me you're a lawyer, sent on errands?"
"My powers are not—they're no more than average,” Peter said, keeping his voice calm as he made an admission that got no easier to say no matter how often he voiced it.
"Nonsense,” Jamie said matter-of-factly. “We wouldn't be sparking like this if you were no more than middle-range, and you know it."
"Witch marks?” Peter said abruptly. “You really thought I—” He shuddered. Those bearing the marks were damned souls, capable of much, yes, but paying for their borrowed power in so many terrible ways that Peter had never been able to understand the temptation.
"Well, it's possible I just wanted to see you bare,” Jamie said easily. Peter glared at him, and he sighed. “You made me feel like I wanted to fuck you where you stood and you were carrying the Luck; what else was I to think but that you were sent to tempt me?"
"Right,” said Peter coldly. “Perfectly reasonable to think I was hellspawn. Mistake anyone could have made, I'm sure."
He hunched his shoulder and stared at the un-curtained window, watching the snow flurries beat silently against the glass.
"Peter?” Jamie's voice sounded uncertain. “I didn't—I was scared. I'm sorry."
"'Scared'?” Peter said incredulously. “Of me? Oh, please! You could have overpowered me without breaking a sweat; you didn't need to do any of what you did."
He felt the tentative brush of fingers against his arm but refused to turn around.
"Will you not look at me?” Jamie begged. Peter shook his head and shivered as Jamie's lips pressed a kiss on the back of his neck. “God, I wish I could have it to do again,” Jamie whispered, sounding tormented. “I was so damn afraid I'd weaken, and as for overpowering you, if I'd tried, if I'd got that close, I'd have been lost.” Another kiss, and then a third, and Peter was shaking with the need to turn toward Jamie and slip inside the arms he knew would be waiting for him.
"You must tell me,” Peter said, making his voice as steady as he could.
"Tell you that I want you?” Jamie said roughly. “That you taste of sunshine and light and I could sleep in the snow and not cool the heat that's in me when I think of how you'll feel around me?"
"Sweet talk,” Peter said. “Sweet as heather honey. Can you save it, please? The truth's sweeter still."
"You're a stubborn one, aren't you?"
Peter closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the urge to lean back, turn around, surrender. “I've had to be,” he said coolly.
"If I tell you—"
"No bargains,” Peter said swiftly. “D'you understand? I can't agree to anything whilst I'm under contract to my employer anyway."
"I want you to look at me,” Jamie said, his voice low and forceful. “That's all."
"If I do, we won't be talking, and you know it,” Peter said harshly. “Tell me, damn it."
The bed creaked as Jamie moved away from him, leaving emptiness where there had been warmth.
"If it's what it takes, I will.” Jamie sounded dispirited. “You were wrong; my name's in the hat along with the rest of them; I felt the Summons as soon as Amanda passed over, bless her soul."
"You did?” Peter frowned. “Your name—did you lie to me then?"
"I'm a Callum on my mother's side, you idiot, and if I could touch you in anger, which I can't, the way I'm feeling about you, I'd bloody well thump you for that!"
Peter winced. As insults went, accusing someone of lying about their name was right up there with the worst of them. Still—"You thought I was witch-marked!"
"Aye,” Jamie growled, the sound of it creating a not unwelcome heat in the pit of Peter's stomach. “So I did. But if you think that means we're quits—"
"I do,”
Peter said firmly. “Now can we move on?"
The silence that followed might well have been described as seething, but after a long moment Jamie made an indeterminate sound that might have been a curse in Gaelic and began to speak.
"I don't want it and that's the top and bottom of it. Don't care to be part of a family that disowned my mother for marrying beneath her; don't want to be head of it. And I really don't care to be Summoned when I made it plain as day that if they gave me that fucking jewel, I'd sink it in the ocean."
Peter shook his head. “The Summons goes to all who are eligible,” he said. “It's automatic and can't be tampered with. So you can scratch that off your list of grievances for a start."
This time he could have sworn he heard teeth grinding. Fixing his eyes on the window again, he clenched his fists to keep from turning.
"Be that as it may,” Jamie said through his teeth, “I'm not going."
"It's immaterial,” Peter said. “Your presence isn't required. If—and you don't seem to be taking into account that the odds are slim—you're chosen, then that's it. There's no appeal. You don't have to ever set foot in the castle, don't have to lift a finger to deal with the Family's affairs, but you're still the Head until the next one's chosen."
"You're wrong there,” Jamie said, sounding smug. “I have to lift a finger to take the Luck."
"Well, yes,” Peter allowed. “I suppose you do have to do that.” A horrifying thought struck him. “You wouldn't."
"Refuse to let it near me? Watch the castle that my mother was turned away from crumble into dust at sunset?” Jamie chuckled. “You know, you've convinced me. I'll go with you and watch the show; it'll be well worth the trip."
"You haven't been chosen yet,” Peter said coldly. “And if you were, it's highly unlikely that you'd be chosen a second time, so you'd only need to bear the terrible burden for two weeks."
"Amanda was chosen again and again,” Jamie pointed out.
"True, but why are you so convinced that you'll be picked?” Peter asked.
Jamie stood up and walked over to a picture hanging in the corner, lost in the shadows, his path taking him in front of Peter who found himself utterly unable to look away. Jamie's hair hung in a shaggy point, low on his neck, and his back was smooth and heavy with muscle. His backside was—Peter bit back a moan of longing—firm and neatly-rounded, the skin a shade or two lighter there.
"You're staring at me again,” Jamie said, unhooking the picture. “I can tell.” He turned around and smiled as Peter whimpered. “I'd laugh at you if I didn't know how you were feeling.” Jamie glanced down at his thick cock, jutting out proudly, and sighed, smacking it. “No. It's not seeing sense, I'm afraid."
Peter lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and reciting the clauses of the Abuse of Unicorns Act in his head in the original Faerie. It didn't help.
"Stop that and look, will you?” Jamie said.
Peter opened his eyes. The painting was of the Lost Prince, astride a horse at the battle of Lothian, judging by the goblin spitted on the end of his sword. His hair was black but his face was Jamie's.
"Oh."
"Aye,” Jamie said savagely. “Oh. Now do you see? This will be the first drawing since I came of age. It will be me."
"It's still not certain,” Peter protested. “Really, it isn't."
Jamie shrugged. “I don't care. When the drawing is made at dawn, I'll know. If it's me—"
"If it's you?” Peter asked, knowing what the answer would be.
Jamie's wide mouth split open in a grin. “Then—nothing. It's simple, no? All I need do is—nothing."
"I could force you to take the Luck.” Peter said, knowing he couldn't.
Jamie's grin widened. “You'll have to find it first, laddie.” He shook his head at Peter's furious look. “What, do you think I left it for you? It's safely hidden. Oh, never fear; I'm an honorable man; if by chance another's chosen, I'll give it up and let you take it to them. It would seem like cheating to bring down the clan when the power wasn't mine to wield.” He set the painting aside and sat down on the bed, cupping Peter's face in his hand. “But if the spirit of that blasted idiot chooses me, I'll show no mercy, d'you hear me?” His fingers spread and his thumb stroked slowly along the line of Peter's cheekbone. “And now that you're finally condescending to look at me, and there're no secrets between us—barring one—do you not think we can occupy ourselves until dawn in some other way than fighting?"
"I should tell you that I'll have nothing to do with you,” Peter said ruefully, knowing that he wouldn't do anything of the sort. “Mr. Callum wouldn't approve of this at all."
"He's your boss? Got his eye on you himself, has he?” Jamie said, sounding interested. “Never thought any of my maternal relatives had that much good taste."
"The very thought of that's enough to render me incapable,” Peter snapped.
The sheet was pulled aside and Jamie glanced down, his lips twitching as he tried not to grin. “No, it's not,” he said.
Peter slipped his hands behind Jamie's neck and brought their faces close. “Perhaps you're right,” he said, and then he had Jamie's mouth on his for the first time and the world shrank to a bed, in an attic, in a cottage, storm-held and safe.
The first kiss was no more than a touch, mouths closed, lips meeting in a rush, because neither of them was capable of keeping apart. It didn't need to be more for them to both feel the promise of what was to come. Jamie pulled back from it a moment later, and Peter watched the gray in his eyes darken with passion before Jamie put his hand on Peter's shoulder and pushed Peter down onto the bed. Peter gasped as Jamie lay on him. Their bodies met, the solid weight of a lean, hard body full on Peter's until Jamie propped himself up on his elbows, hands thrust deeply into Peter's hair. Jamie smiled and kissed him again.
This time, with Jamie's thigh between his and their cocks warm and hard against each other, the kiss was something that left Peter moaning into it, Jamie's tongue teasing at his lips, which were kept closed simply to invite exactly that insistent request.
Peter's hands were still linked behind Jamie's neck, the soft fall of Jamie's hair caressing them as Jamie kissed him. He could feel the tension there as Jamie fought to keep still, tongue tracing over his lips as they parted. Jamie's cock jerked as Peter darted his tongue out to slip inside Jamie's mouth, finding the taste of Jamie at last, sweet and spicy.
Slowly, relishing the first strokes of his hands over Jamie's skin, Peter ran his hands over Jamie's shoulders and down the wide back, taking his time, lingering over every place where his questing fingers made Jamie's breath come faster, Jamie's kisses harder. One of Jamie's hands was moving, too, roaming over what he could reach of Peter's body; a callused thumb rasping over a nipple and leaving it swollen and ready for a softer tongue to soothe, the curved backs of Jamie's fingers dragging over the hollow of Peter's hip with maddening delicacy.
Then, with a timing that surprised neither of them, Peter's hands reached Jamie's backside just as Jamie's fingernails scraped gently across Peter's belly and curled lightly around his cock.
The kiss ended and they stared at each other, their breath coming fast now, heartbeats quickening.
"Can't make this last,” Jamie warned him.
Peter shrugged, his attention divided between the throb of his cock and the way Jamie's mouth looked when it was kiss-swollen and wet from his tongue on it. “Don't try,” he said briefly. “We've got all night."
"You've more sense than most,” Jamie said admiringly. “Are you sure you're a lawyer?"
Peter lifted his hand and brought it down on Jamie's ass, hard enough to sting his palm. “Yes! Now will you just—"
"Oh, you're going to pay for that,” Jamie said, wriggling his ass and not looking in the least upset.
"Jamie...” Peter said, willing to plead if it got Jamie's hand tighter and moving. “Please?"
"You want it fast?” Jamie whispered, fingers threading though Peter's hair, pushing it b
ack off his forehead.
"I thought that we both did,” Peter said, tilting his hips up so that he got a little friction at least.
Jamie's leg shifted and bent, his knee pinning Peter's leg to the bed. “That,” he said austerely, “was before you assaulted my arse."
"Can I apologize later?” Peter said hopefully.
Jamie's quick grin flashed over his face. “Well, you can do it again, if you've a mind to, if that's what you mean."
"I see,” Peter said ominously. Jamie began to laugh and he took advantage of that, rolling them over and slipping down the bed to take Jamie's cock in his mouth, hearing the laughter cut off with satisfying abruptness.
"You—och, Peter—” Jamie groaned, his body taut and trembling, hands coming to stroke through Peter's hair in jerky, rough touches. Peter lifted his head, rubbing his cheek against one of those large hands before returning to what he was doing.
He could feel Jamie's urgent need—could taste it against his tongue as he lapped around the head of Jamie's cock, could smell it, musky and male as he nuzzled into the soft curled hair framing Jamie's cock and heavy, tight balls. With a pang of regret, because he wanted more of this, all of it, he allowed himself one final long lick along the length of Jamie's cock, exploring the ridges and changes in texture with his tongue and fingers, and then took Jamie in deep again. The grateful moan he got reconciled him to the need to hurry, as did the warning pulse that brought his own climax closer as his body responded to the feel of Jamie's cock in his mouth. His legs parted as well as his lips, in an instinctive, unseen invitation.
When Jamie came, crying out Peter's name, his body writhing under Peter's firm hands, it felt like a beginning, not an end. Peter rolled onto his back a moment later and let Jamie's hand finish him, clutching at Jamie's arms, his mouth hungry on Jamie's throat and chest, marking Jamie's shoulder as Jamie's thumb swept across the slick spill of pre-come leaking from Peter's cock. He pressed as close as he could to Jamie as his climax swept through him, so that they both felt the jolt and splash of heat against their skin.
Jamie's arms came up to hold Peter even closer, not speaking until they had both calmed enough to make coherence possible.
