by Aldrea Alien
Although Tracker hid his surprise well on his face, his body was another matter. It twitched beneath Dylan as if hit with a bolt of lightning. “What I want?” he echoed. “Not many have asked me that before. Honestly, I thought you would realise by now that I aim for your pleasure—”
“Above your own?” Dylan finished for him. “Is that why you made me stop?” This wasn’t like that morning where they’d fooled around whilst the others sat outside. The hound had already sated Dylan, then. This was a new day, all scores swept clean.
Tracker bit his lip. “Do you perhaps want to continue this conversation when I am not currently inside you?”
Dylan threw himself upon the man, pushing Tracker against the floor, where he rested his chin on an upraised fist. “You are staying right where you are until you answer me.”
The man’s brows rose to their highest. Sighing, he tipped his head back. “Very well. The answer you are looking for is ‘yes’, but I suspect you already knew that. Why? Well, simply put, The Gilded Lily is a harsh mistress. Male workers are not permitted to finish before their clients wish them to and she punishes those who do. I might not have been there long, but holding back until all parties are satisfied has become rather ingrained.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” It was so infuriating, not knowing the little bits of himself the man didn’t seem to trust Dylan with. The hound kept prying into all of Dylan’s past, seemingly wishing to learn all he could. Why didn’t that same openness work the other way?
Tracker shrugged. “I simply did not think it would matter. I have never heard any complaints in the past and you do not strike me as the type of man who would leave their bed partner unsatisfied.”
Dylan shook his head, softly laughing to himself. He most certainly wasn’t that type. “I could’ve had you screaming my name if you hadn’t stopped me.”
The hound’s chuckling bounced them. “My apologies. I will try not to get in your way whenever you choose to ravage me again.” His head tipped to one side. “Speaking of which… Are you going to get off me or do something before I go soft?” Tracker smirked. “Or perhaps there is something you would like me to do to you instead, yes?”
Dylan sat up, thinking. He’d rarely been given much of choice in the past. In the tower, discovery could happen at any moment and it was best to get the main event done with before that happened. Now he had the luxury, although he’d not truly tried to ask much of Authril. Tracker on the other hand…
Was there anything in particular he wanted from the man tonight?
He grinned, a slow-burning warmth creeping its way across his cheeks. There was indeed one thing he’d very much like to do again. “The first time we were intimate in a tent, you did this… thing.”
“Thing?” the hound echoed before his lips stretched into a rather predatory grin. “I believe I know what you speak of. You wish for me to do it again?”
Dylan bit his lip and nodded.
That honey-coloured gaze dropped to their waists, then flicked back up. “Well, that will require you to lie on your back. I may be flexible, but not enough that I can reach you from here.”
Before Dylan could utter a word, the hound rolled them across the blankets and pulled out in one smooth movement. A grunt rumbled in Dylan’s throat as his back met the ground. The barely-caring protest halted on his tongue as Tracker’s mouth slanted across his. So teasingly chaste.
Coherent thought fled as the man’s fingers slid down Dylan’s stomach. Tracker’s touch all but burned against his skin, the fingertips weaving a path through the hair on his abdomen.
Dylan rolled his hips, rubbing himself against the hound. The fire deep inside had dulled during their talk, now it flared anew, the pulse of it throbbing through his length. He slid his hands across the warm skin bent over him, clumsily mimicking wherever the man’s hand roamed.
Infuriatingly, Tracker’s fingers didn’t drift near where Dylan so desperately needed him. The man had become passive, waiting, using anticipation to tease him.
That would not do.
Growling, Dylan threaded his fingers into the man’s hair and captured the hound’s mouth. With one hand cupped behind Tracker’s neck, his free hand roamed the elf’s body, grasped his rear and moulded one cheek. He rubbed himself against the man’s thigh, whimpering as the spot grew slick. “Please,” Dylan breathed into the hound’s mouth. If he didn’t do something soon—
Tracker responded feverishly, as if they’d spent far longer than just one night without being in each other’s arms. He was suddenly everywhere at once. Crawling down Dylan’s body, utter smugness twisting his lips. He left a hot, slightly painful, trail of kisses branding Dylan’s skin. The spots tingled with healing magic.
The hound’s tongue slid along that same path, stopping only to flick across Dylan’s nipple before his lips fastened onto one.
Dylan bucked, gasping at the suddenness and almost unaware of the hand gently parting his thighs to give the elf room. He tipped his head back, huffing and whimpering, breathing in the heady scent of his own need permeating the tent.
Finally, Tracker slipped back inside. He sat back, one hand gliding up Dylan’s chest, burrowing through his hair. “Gods,” he whispered. “Look at you. Already a frantic mess and I have yet to begin.” Those wicked fingers slid down Dylan’s body, grasping his length. Tracker bent over, glancing up with one brow raised. “Are you certain you will last long enough?”
“Why don’t you find out?” he rasped, wriggling his hips impatiently. The action was rewarded with Tracker’s breathy moan heating his groin.
Hot wetness enveloped Dylan’s length with such speed as Tracker thrust deeper, that his hips spasmed. A soft moan vibrated through the hound’s throat and he waited a moment before slowly moving his hips in tandem with his head.
A long, low groan snaked out Dylan’s lips to fill the tent. Last time, he’d been a little preoccupied in keeping silent, and far too amazed by Tracker’s display of dexterity, to fully enjoy the man’s talent. Although the moans escaping his lips were no louder than back then, he no longer felt the need to muffle them quite so vehemently.
Still, he bit his knuckles and clutched at the bedding. After all the teasing, he wasn’t going to last long. Already, his hips rocked, sending him deeper down the hound’s throat. The edge was rushing at him and he’d no way to slow its arrival without stopping Tracker altogether.
The hound didn’t seem to have a problem with it. He merely latched onto Dylan’s hips, his thumbs settling into the hollows and pinning him in place before increasing his speed, clearly working to hasten the end for the both of them.
Dylan arched. He stared blindly at the tent roof, spots of light dancing before him. He fisted the bedding, fighting to ground himself, to remember there were other things in the world than the delicious man bent over him, wrapping those wicked lips around him and pounding that hard length deep inside him.
Gods… The silent cry very nearly touched his tongue, held back in the final moment. He could feel his brain turning to mush, he was certain of it, coherent thought failing at the onslaught of pleasure pillaging his mind.
His hips lifted of their own accord, pushing his whole length into the elf’s welcoming mouth, as Dylan tumbled over the edge. A noise rattled out from between his lips, a strange rasping gasp that rather hurt his throat. Even though the others knew and he’d rather forsaken complete silence, that didn’t mean he was ready to announce his arrival to the entire camp.
The velvety warmth enveloping his length tightened as Tracker swallowed.
He moaned anew. “Gods, Track.” The words left his mouth in a breathy rush. He lay still, every inch of his body flushed and sated.
Tracker slunk up his body, pressing little kisses to Dylan’s skin every inch or so. Finally, he reached Dylan’s neck. “I aim to please.”
His gut squirmed at the declaration. His thoughts fluttered treacherously to what the man had said about his time in The Gilded Lily. How m
any times had Tracker said those words to others?
Stop it, he hissed. He didn’t want the elation still flooding his body to leave due to what he’d only grudgingly come to accept was jealousy. The hound was here, in his arms. The past, and what he’d done in it—who he’d done—didn’t matter.
“You have gone very quiet.” Tracker’s weight lifted. His face came into view, concern moulding his features. “Did I hurt you?”
He shook his head, a small smile tweaking the corners of his mouth. Although the hound often dominated, he was always gentle. “Just thinking.”
“Care to share?” the hound purred between adorning Dylan’s neck in kisses.
“Was that one of the tricks you learnt in The Gilded Lily?”
Tracker’s low laughter heated his skin and Dylan felt the man’s lips twist into a smug little smile. “I knew that would start eating at you eventually. To answer your question: No, but I would not dwell on it if I were you. What happened then has no effect on the now.”
Dylan turned his gaze to the tent walls. The firelight seemed dimmer. That was generally a sign that Marin was on watch. “Sometimes I wonder,” he whispered.
“I assure you, what I did there and what we do now are two different things.”
“How? Aren’t both acts just as meaningless?”
Tracker sat back. Although he was backlit by the faint campfire light leaking through the tent canvas, Dylan keenly felt the man’s gaze on him. “Perhaps not as meaningless. We are friends, are we not?”
Friends. Not more? He wet his lips. Perhaps Katarina was wrong about the man. “We are.”
“Then there is that difference. And besides, if you had been a client, you would have accrued quite the bill.”
“Except I don’t have any money.” Even if the crown had gifted spellsters with a soldier’s pay, he doubted the army would’ve allowed him to leave the camp’s confines much less visit a brothel.
Tracker chuckled. “Fortunate then that we do this as friends.” The hound lowered himself back onto Dylan’s front. “Now we have cleared up that little misunderstanding…”
He pulled away as the man went to kiss him.
“You wish to speak further? I am game.”
“One more question,” he promised. “What would you have done if I’d visited The Gilded Lily back then?”
The hound cocked his head as he hummed. “What ifs are dangerous questions to ask. I was a different man back then, but for the chance to take your virginity—”
Dylan’s throat squeezed shut, his tongue froze. He sputtered several attempts at denial before he was able to speak. “I was not a virgin the first time we were intimate. I lost that years ago.”
Tracker gave a contemptuous little chuckle. “What is this? You think you only have the one to lose? You are a virgin for every new thing you try.”
“That’s just being inexperienced.”
“Is that not what is meant by the word?” The man cupped Dylan’s face, silencing him. “Come now, this is too heavy a topic for the night. I have a far better task for your lips than talk.”
Before he’d the chance to ask what, the hound’s mouth had claimed his.
Tracker kissed as if he were reluctant for them to part even for a moment, stealing breaths between chaste pecks and languid sweeps of exploring tongues.
Dylan’s stomach fluttered and he almost burst out laughing. By the gods, they’d just had sex. A kiss shouldn’t give him butterflies. But it did, even if he could barely admit to himself how much he loved this light, giddy feeling brought on by the brush of their lips and the warmth of Tracker’s breath in his lungs.
They lay there for some time, just the heat of their bodies and the lazy silken sweep of their lips against each other.
Eventually, he sensed something stirring near his abdomen. “Track?”
The hound nuzzled Dylan’s jaw line and left little wet pecks down his throat. “Ignore it.”
Dylan tried. It was rather difficult to do so when his every breath pressed the man’s length against his stomach. “I can’t.”
Tracker tilted his hips, relieving Dylan of his full weight. “Better?”
Not really. Nothing had changed in the way the man kissed. If Tracker wanted to go further, then he was clearly willing enough to wait for Dylan to make the first move. He tipped the hound back enough to part their mouths. “Wouldn’t you rather use it?”
A small grin curved the man’s lips. “If that is what you wish to do, then certainly. Do not think your own resurrection has gone unnoticed.” His leg shifted, allowing Dylan a little more freedom. “But I would prefer not to for a little while longer, if you do not mind.”
“Later sounds good.”
A smile twisted his lips as the hound resumed his purposely slow kisses. The fluttering returned, spreading to his chest. He wrapped his legs around the man’s waist, pinning them together.
Tracker drew back, smirking. “I have no plans to leave your side.”
“I know.” He tightened his hold around the hound’s shoulders, drawing Tracker’s mouth back to him. There was no use denying it. Like an infatuated adolescent, he’d become addicted to butterflies.
It took them two days to reach Riverton instead of the one Katarina had calculated. Dylan had caught her frowning at her map several times since Tracker gave the order to set up camp last night. The hedgewitch had insisted the village couldn’t be much farther from their current location and they could reach it before nightfall, if they only picked up the pace.
Strangely, Tracker had refused.
But now Dylan caught the hint of buildings appearing through the trees. And so early in the morning. Which meant they must have been almost on top of the small fishing village last night.
The women picked up the pace, likely eager to replenish their supplies.
Dylan lengthened his stride to follow, slowing only when it became clear that Tracker wasn’t in any hurry. The hound had halted in the middle of the road, staring ahead like the Seven Sisters waited by the river. “What is it?”
“That.” He indicated the village when a thrust of his chin. The trees seemed to fall back like curtains, revealing a mass of tents surrounding the western side of Riverton. Almost enough to be another village in its own right. Quite a number of carts sat amongst the canvas homes, too.
There’d been fewer appearances of such transport on the road the further east they’d walked. Dylan had expected more to be travelling back by now—they’d come across a handful, but nowhere near the amount that went east—but he supposed even horses took a while to reach their destinations and who knew what they’d be required to lug back before the boats returned to the river.
And yet, they all seemed to be collecting here.
“If that signifies what I think it does,” Tracker said. “Then we will have a hard time getting what we require today. Come, we best tell the others.”
Dylan’s gaze lifted to the actual village as they walked. Unlike the much bigger town they’d left upriver, Riverton took up very little space. The majority of the single-level buildings sat opposite a fork in the river. There didn’t seem enough to warrant this many people camped on their doorsteps.
A wide path cut through the village centre, right up to the river’s edge. Small boats dotted the water. All of them seemed to be fishing vessels with their nets draped over the sides. No sign of anything bigger.
The women had stopped on the edge of the tent village, waiting for them. They remained silent as they strode by colourful tents and hastily-made stalls. A great drone of noise filled his ears, the murmur of sales being made and hawkers calling out to potential customers.
Tracker urged them on.
The bustle in the sole market square caught Dylan’s eye as they entered Riverton. Even without taking into account the dozens of people at their backs, the village looked far livelier than Tracker’s stories had led him to believe. People milled around, hanging pennants and garlands around their stalls. There ap
peared to be some sort of platform closer to the river and several men were erecting an awning over it.
“What is all this?” Dylan asked, the words escaping his lips in a hushed tone. Clearly, the people were celebrating, but it wasn’t any particular time of the year for the festivities Dylan knew of.
“I believe this is their founding festival,” Tracker said, sighing. “It is around this time of year. I had hoped we would not get caught up in it. Come.” He jerked his head towards one of the few two-level buildings. There were no words on the sign hanging above the door, just a picture of a broken fishing rod. “I do not fancy our chances, but perhaps they will have room for us.”
“Why do we need to rent a room?” Authril muttered. “We could get supplies and be well away from here before sunset.”
“A bed would be nice,” Katarina said, a little wistful.
Dylan nodded in agreement. Especially if that bed also happened to have a certain man beneath its sheets.
“My dear warrior,” Tracker said. “The people of Riverton do not trade with outsiders during the founding festival. The Broken Rod is the exception. We will have to wait until tomorrow to gather supplies.”
“What about those people?” Marin jerked a thumb at the tents.
The hound sneered. “I would not feed those vultures. They are here only to prey on the impatient. Wintervale is not going anywhere and staying for the night will not change that.” He pushed open the inn door. Sickly-sweet smoke greeted them.
Dylan squinted as they stepped into the hazy room, the air causing his eyes to water. The area seemed to take up much of the lower floor. Tables and low stools dotted the room—a large percentage of them full even at this early hour. Most of the patrons had their noses deep in their tankards. Were they perhaps revellers from the previous night?
Tracker wove through the haphazard layout of the tables, strutting up to the bar where a single human man served the livelier customers. “Greetings, my dear man.”
The bartender eyed the hound before shifting his piggish gaze to the rest of them. He was big, but slender. Not overly old either, or at least his hair clung to his scalp well. The man sniffed long and loud, then spat into a bowl sitting at his elbow. “What do you want?” The words sounded as if they had to fight their way through the man’s throat.
