by Lyra Evans
“Then give me the Obscura information,” Oliver said, angling his head back to maintain eye contact with Connor. He could feel his heart beating painfully in his chest, and Connor was so close, he almost thought he could feel Connor’s heart beating too.
Connor licked his lips. “We could talk about that, I suppose. But I’ve a more interesting topic in mind.” Oliver cocked an eyebrow. Connor’s eyes were sparkling with light, but his face turned more serious, intent on an answer. “When Blake Murphy mentioned being fated to Eloise, you reacted—oddly.”
Oliver fought to swallow, all the moisture having apparently deserted his mouth. “Well it was ridiculous,” he said, though he couldn’t manage to put as much weight behind the words as he wanted. Connor raised an eyebrow. “Fated love is just something they talk about in fantasies and children stories. Even the Fae don’t push those kinds of tales anymore.” He tried to laugh, to shrug it off, but his voice came out in a near whisper.
“So you don’t believe in anything he said? Not the immediate response he and Eloise felt? Not the way he said he smelled her and knew, the instant and unrelenting melding of two souls?” Connor leaned in closer, his lips brushing over Oliver’s with every word spoken.
“I—” Oliver began, trying to pull back, to breathe air clear of Connor’s intoxicating scent. “I believe they were attracted to each other. Maybe infatuation—”
“That wasn’t infatuation,” Connor said, and though he hadn’t raised his voice or changed his tone, the words struck Oliver hard. He felt guilty; he knew what he saw in Blake Murphy wasn’t infatuation. He knew it as he knew he was a Wizard. It was an unquestionable truth.
“Fine, he loved her,” Oliver said, trying to maintain his hold on solid ground as Connor pressed in on him. “But fated? How is it fate that they met and fell in love only for her to be murdered? Pretty sick kind of fate, isn’t it?”
Connor stilled, his eyelashes low as he let his eyes rove over Oliver’s lips. “Sometimes fate is cruel,” Connor whispered. “It isn’t meant to be fair or easy.” He sighed and looked back into Oliver’s eyes. “Definitely not easy.”
Oliver inhaled sharply, having stopped breathing for a moment. “You’re telling me you believe in this fated love stuff?”
Connor smiled. “I don’t believe it; I know it,” he said, leaning in closer to whisper into Oliver’s ear. “I can smell you, Oliver. I can smell how much you want me, how perfectly we fit together.” Oliver’s head was swimming with Connor now, his mind spinning with what Connor was telling him. Connor pulled back slightly, face to face with Oliver again. “And I know you can smell me too.”
“I…” Oliver began, the excuse trailing off on his tongue. As he faced Connor now, there was nothing in the way. There were no Wolves around, demanding evidence, no people interfering. The case would move forward on its own in time, and there was nothing for Oliver to do. He couldn’t find an excuse to run away, to break away from Connor now.
So he didn’t.
He lifted his head and found Connor’s mouth already there, poised to catch his. He kissed Oliver deeply, dragging him closer, as though a magnetic force demanded it, as though nothing in the world could stop the pull between them. Oliver let the doubts and feeble protests at the back of his mind slip away, falling through the cracks as his chest opened, his heart pounding.
Connor’s hands were on his back, dragging down, his nails scratching through the shirt, and Oliver gasped into the kiss. Connor took the opportunity and slipped his tongue into Oliver’s mouth as Oliver melted into him. A pool of molten desire spread through Oli’s stomach, dripping downward and lighting every one of his nerves on fire. He buried his hands in Connor’s hair again, letting the silk-soft locks pass through his fingers as his fingertips massaged circles into Connor’s skull.
Connor moaned and the kiss changed, becoming hungrier, more feral. Oliver felt himself slammed into the bookcase, the volumes carefully displayed there shuddering with the impact. Oliver knocked his head against a shelf but couldn’t bring himself to care. The motion broke their kiss for only a moment, long enough for Oliver to take in the sight of Connor, mouth red and swollen, eyes half-lidded and dark with need. Connor’s hands found their way to Oliver’s hips, and Connor ground their hips together, holding Oliver in place.
Suddenly the friction was painful, pressing roughly against his cock. He was harder than he imagined possible, his head swimming with Connor—with the taste of him, the smell of him, the wanting. Oliver yanked Connor back into a kiss, biting at his lower lip as Oliver sucked it. He was pinning himself to the bookcase now, desperate for Connor’s body against him. All the wanting from the day, the slowly uncoiling yearning that had begun the moment he met Connor in the Black Moon club, suddenly hit him full force. The restraint Oliver had before, when they’d rubbed up on each other on the bed, or when they’d made out in the chair at Hunt in front of Lane and his Wolves, had completely vanished. The thing that stopped him then, that allowed him to pull back from the brink, had given way.
Nothing but Connor existed now, and Oliver couldn’t imagine why he’d want it any other way.
Tongues sliding over each other, they kept their lips locked, barely breathing, as Connor slipped his hands under Oliver’s shirt. His palms were red hot against Oliver’s flushed skin. Every touch felt like a brand, like Connor was leaving his mark on Oliver and wanted to leave it everywhere. The fabric of Oliver’s shirt wrinkled, bunched up as Connor exposed more and more of his stomach. Determined not to be the first one disrobed, Oliver brought his hands around to Connor’s front, sliding his palms down Connor’s sides, and began pulling at his dress shirt.
But he couldn’t bring himself to break the kiss, so he tugged fruitlessly at Connor’s shirt, finally popping buttons off as he tore it open. Chest heaving, Connor smiled against Oliver’s mouth.
“Desperate, are we?” Connor breathed, and Oliver pulled him into another crushing kiss to wipe the smirk off his face. Connor complied roughly, pressing back into Oliver and taking his lead. He tore open Oliver’s shirt and buttons pinged distantly off the shelves and the walls. The briefest distance between them ghosted cool air over Oliver’s exposed stomach and chest. He hooked his fingers into Connor’s belt and arched his back, pressing them together with a moan.
Connor felt hot, solid, perfect. Every detail of his muscled stomach felt right against Oliver, every inch of him smooth and heaving in time with Oliver’s shallow, rapid breaths. Connor’s hands were around Oliver’s back now, sliding down his spine to his ass. He kneaded there, making Oliver’s eyebrows knit together as he tried to focus on undressing Connor. But Connor slid a hand between his legs, spreading them from behind and cupping his testicles. Connor pressed, still kneading, and Oliver moaned loudly, releasing the kiss, his head knocking back against the shelf again.
Connor hummed and pressed his mouth, open and wet, to Oliver’s jaw, drawing slow lines down his neck in kisses. He stopped in the crook of Oli’s neck, just above the obsidian choker. Oliver jumped, his cock throbbing harder and harder, as Connor raked his teeth over Oliver’s skin, sucking everywhere he scratched. Oliver grasped the waist of Connor’s pants tightly, bucking his hips into Connor’s. Their cocks pressed hard together, shifting over one another through the now painfully tight fabric of their pants.
Finally, Oliver couldn’t bear it anymore. He placed a palm to Connor’s chest and forced him back, breaking contact entirely. Connor’s breathing was heavy, uneven, his eyebrows drawn low over his darkened eyes. He seemed confused for a moment, as Oliver drank in the sight of him, licking his lips. Then Oliver advanced on him, his hands deftly unbuckling Connor’s belt and undoing his pants. Connor’s confusion turned to devilish pleasure, and he made quick work of Oliver’s belt and pants too. Forcing down Connor’s pants and boxers, Oliver let Connor do the same to him, and he stepped out of the pool of his clothing on the ground.
Before Connor could pin him again, Oliver pushed him backward until Conn
or fell into a large leather armchair in front of the desk. Connor dropped into it, his blond hair a mess over his eyes, his strong legs splayed wide, his arms on either arm rest. He didn’t take his eyes off Oliver, and Oliver let himself look over Connor, sitting exposed and delicious before him. His eyes lingered on Connor’s thick, leaking cock, falling heavily against his chiseled stomach.
Without planning, Oliver sank to his knees in front of Connor and watched as Connor watched him, mouth open. Oliver palmed Connor’s cock and drew it into his mouth, sliding his lips over the head and sucking. Connor blinked slowly, his jaw tight as he fought for breath and against the pleasure Oliver was giving. Pleased with himself and how easily Connor was coming undone, Oliver swirled his tongue over the head and drew more of Connor’s cock into his mouth. He went down as far as he could, letting the solid weight of Connor’s erection slide against his tongue and down his throat. His eyes open, trained on Connor’s face, Oliver bobbed his head slowly up and down, licking every inch of Connor’s cock he could.
But Connor had other things in mind, and he grabbed a handful of Oliver’s dark hair, dragging him upward and into another bruising kiss. Oliver kissed back hungrily, straddling Connor’s hips the same way he did back at the club. This time, when their erections slid against one another, there were no clothes in the way and no nosy Werewolves watching them. Oliver bucked his hips, desperate for more friction, for more skin on skin contact.
Connor’s hands at Oliver’s hips, urging him up and down, he moved one hand around to Oliver’s back and slid one finger down. He traced a searing line to Oliver’s entrance, pressing the tip of his fingers against it and eliciting a wave of sparks in Oliver’s body. Oliver rolled his hips against Connor, pressing back into Connor’s finger. Breaking the kiss a moment, Oliver whispered a spell and suddenly Connor’s hand was slick, his fingertip sliding much more easily into Oliver. Oliver moaned again, biting his lip as his body tried to accommodate Connor’s finger.
Connor’s eyes flashed bright, his mouth hovering only a breath away from Oliver’s. “Useful,” he said, and kissed Oliver again. Oliver sighed into it, pushing away the thought that every moment not kissing Connor was somehow painful. He’d never let any of his partners kiss him this much.
But as Connor slid a second finger into Oliver, stretching him and probing him, Oliver forgot everything else. He forgot he’d ever had any other lovers, any partners at all. He forgot everything that existed before Connor, everything that existed apart from him. Lifting himself on the chair with his knees, Oliver let himself sink back down onto Connor’s fingers, and again, and again.
“That’s enough,” Connor growled suddenly, his voice wilder, more savage than it had been until this point. He grasped Oliver’s legs and lifted him as he stood. Oliver swung an arm around Connor’s neck, holding tightly to him as he pressed his tongue into Connor’s mouth. Holding Oliver aloft, Connor stepped forward and set him down on the desk. Oliver lay back as Connor leaned over, taking the direction, and felt Connor shifting between his legs.
“Fuck, yes,” Oliver said, his words husky and full of heat, as Connor pressed the tip of his cock to Oliver’s hole. Oliver spread his legs wider. “Fuck me now.”
Connor didn’t hesitate, thrusting himself hard and deep into Oliver and causing Oliver to cry out. Head thrown back, Oliver slammed one hand down on the desk by his head, gripping the edge tightly to brace against the impact of Connor’s thrusts. Connor didn’t let up at all, pounding hard into Oliver, deeper and harder with every push. He filled Oliver so fully he thought he would break apart. Oliver was moaning almost constantly now, his mouth open and his eyes shut. Connor grabbed his hips, draping Oliver’s legs over each of his forearms, and pulled Oliver into him with every pumping thrust.
His stomach taut, his muscles tight and screaming, Oliver felt his pleasure build. “Yes, fuck, yes, Connor,” Oliver cried, reaching for his own cock in an afterthought. He gripped it tightly with one hand and began stroking himself in time with Connor’s thrusts, but after a moment, Connor knocked his hand away.
“No,” he said gruffly. “You’re going to come just from me inside you.” And Oliver brought his other hand up to grip the desk as well, blind and mute from the increasing ecstasy. He felt Connor lean over him, folding his legs up to pin him against the surface of the desk and deepening the angle. His cock hit deep into Oliver, pounding against the sweet spot, and Oliver could barely breathe. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Connor breathed. “This is how you wanted to be fucked. By those other men. They’ll never give you what I can.”
Oliver couldn’t answer. He tried to nod, unaware of anything but the way Connor pumped into him, like his only purpose was to bring Oliver pleasure. He pressed his lips to Oliver’s, Oliver’s legs searing with the painful position, but it was all he needed. Oliver yelled out, unsure of what he said, as a burst of white and gold exploded behind his eyes and he came. He felt hot, thick liquid splatter his own stomach, splashing off Connor’s. The wave lasted longer than it ever had, his entire body tense and twitching for a full minute.
Connor continued to pound into him, harder and faster, without rhyme or reason, as though he couldn’t control himself anymore. He finally stopped, after a last punishing thrust, his fingers digging into Oliver’s thighs. He filled Oliver completely, Connor’s cock suddenly seeming a thousand times bigger inside him. Oliver gasped again, his entire body begging to give out.
Finally, Connor slumped against Oliver, the weight of his whole body warm and comforting on top of Oliver’s heaving form. Connor slipped himself out of Oliver after a moment, shifting slightly to ease the pressure on Oliver’s stomach. Oliver opened his eyes lazily, the ceiling of the office swimming back into view. As though he only just noticed it, Oliver began to feel the edges of the desk digging into him, the hardness of the surface on his back and head, the stickiness of the sweat beading all over his body.
He blinked once or twice, his head still hazy with the aftermath of sex and taste of Connor on his tongue. Moments passed into minutes, and neither of them moved, only lying there, trying to breathe and yearning for rest. Then it hit him.
This was usually when Oliver left. He would get up, collect his clothes, make some excuse, and walk out. He wouldn’t have given his real name or his job. He wouldn’t be lying under his partner, relishing the sated fog in his brain.
A twinge of fear struck Oliver then, his eyes roving slowly over to Connor’s face. His expression was relaxed, happy, and he was pressed against Oliver’s shoulder, still breathing hard. The pale locks of his hair fell into his eyes and over Oliver’s skin, tickling him gently. Licking his lips, Oliver studied Connor’s face. He was beautiful, frankly. More beautiful than anyone Oliver had ever seen. Even more beautiful than Drake Murphy had been. A waft of air brought with it a smell Oliver couldn’t describe, but he knew in his bones it was Connor.
Without really knowing why, the twinge of fear in Oliver’s chest turned to warmth. And soon the twinge grew, radiating outward like a glowing coal, until Oliver’s entire chest was filled with it. Even that should have scared him more, but it didn’t. Yes, he normally would have left at this point, but as he lay under Connor, he found he didn’t really want to.
Connor opened his eyes and looked questioningly at Oliver. “What is it?” he asked, even his words drenched in exhaustion. He was as worn out as Oliver felt.
Oli opened his mouth, an excuse on his lips, but stopped himself. Then, without consciously making the decision, Oliver shut his mouth. He didn’t make an excuse this time.
He pulled Connor into a kiss instead.
Chapter 17
A soft dinging sound roused Oliver. He’d been dozing against Connor, nestled in the leather armchair and still naked. They’d been so spent it had been difficult to fight sleep. So Connor drew Oliver over to the chair again, pulling him close and enfolding him in his arms, and they fell into a shallow, comfortable sleep.
Oliver blinked wearily at t
he dark room, only vaguely aware of the noise. It took him a full minute to realize it was Connor’s computer jingling, and that it probably meant the report on Obscura Industries’ finances had come through. He got to his feet, ignoring Connor’s murmur of displeasure at losing Oliver’s warmth or weight.
He went over to the laptop, now sitting precariously at the side of the desk, and tapped the keyboard. The screen flicked to life, but a password box stopped his progress.
“Connor,” Oliver said, “I think we’ve got the Obscura report. Come log in so I can read it.”
Connor cracked one eye open, considering Oliver from the comfort of his curled position in the chair. He seemed to be wavering between his desire to comply with Oliver’s wishes and his desire to continue napping. Oliver gave him a look that told him which option would be better for his wellbeing, and Connor smirked as he extricated himself from the armchair. Oliver tried not to look at Connor—naked in all his considerable glory—and focus on the task at hand. He had a case to work on, and now he could do so.
Connor cleared his throat, one eyebrow raised, and Oliver pursed his lips and stepped aside. Taking the laptop, Connor tapped in a password Oliver couldn’t see. At Oliver’s pointed look, Connor said, “If I gave you my password what use would you have to keep me around?”
It was a joke, Oli was sure, but there was an undertone of uncertainty in it. Oliver shifted but tried to play it off. “I can think of a few things,” he said, then turned his attention to the report that sprung open on Connor’s screen.
