Page 81 of Heart of Winter
“I don’t get what I want. Not ever. And I’m fine with that, normally, but now…”
Another step.
He swallowed again, with difficulty. “I don’t get what I want,” he repeated.
Something in Erik’s gaze softened, heartbroken. “And what do you want right now?”
Madness, it was madness, it was… “You. I want you. More – more than I have ever wanted anything in mylife.”
Erik said, “Don’t move,” and closed the final distance between them with a few charging strides, displaced water slapping and overflowing the edges of the pool.
Oliver choked on his own breath; tremors overtook him, a cold chill, despite the heat of the water. “We can’t – you can’t – it won’t–”
Erik cupped his face in both big, warm, wet hands, thumbs smoothing across his beardless cheeks, silencing him. Soothing him. His eyes were gemstones, and his breath was hot across Oliver’s lips. “You said so yourself,” he murmured. “I’m the king. And Icanhave what I want.”
Oliver clutched at his forearms, felt the solid steel of them, and the flicker of muscles in reaction to his touch – tohistouch. This gorgeous, glorious king was reacting tohim. “Oh,” he breathed.
Erik ducked his head, and Oliver’s lashes lowered, already anticipating a kiss.
But Erik pressed his lips to his temple, instead, and one hand shifted to card through his hair. “I want your hair through my fingers,” he whispered. His lips trailed down to Oliver’s ear. “I want it on my pillow. I want to wake up with my face buried in it.”
His hand slid down to cup the side of Oliver’s neck. And he kept whispering. “I want to see the marks of my teeth in your throat.” Callused fingertips strummed over his pulse, across his collarbone. “I want to drape you in gemstones and fine furs. I want you in my bed.” His hand opened against Oliver’s chest, over his galloping heart, and Oliver was helpless but to press into the touch, whimpering. He was melting against him.
Lower, throatier, while he crowded in closer: “I want to know what you taste like. I want to get on my knees for you.” The tip of his nose traced the edge of Oliver’s ear. “I want to be inside you. I want tokeepyou.”
“Oh.” Oliver moaned and swayed forward against him, his imagination vivid and wild, his blood deliciously overheated. “That – that, all of that – you can have it. You can have everything.Please–”
ThenErik kissed him.
It was shockingly gentle. A faint brush, a gentle press, a careful swipe of a tongue against the seam of Oliver’s lips. It was a question, rather than a demand.Can I? Will you let me?Oliver had all but swooned into his arms, had told him to take everything, and here was this big man with his big hands, reverently stroking his face, fingertips dancing across his chest in little frantic patterns that told the story of his want, and of his restraint.
Oliver reached up to wind both hands in his long, wet hair, and pulled back just far enough to hear the sharpness of his breath, and to say, “I may be little, but I won’t break, sweetheart.”
Oliver watched his pupils blow, until there was only a thin ring of bright blue around them. Erik shuddered all over, a full-body twitch like a horse shaking off flies. Then he gripped the hair at Oliver’s nape, tight, growled low in his throat, and kissed him like he meant it.
It was savage: wet, and messy, sharp at the edges with teeth, and exactly what Oliver had pictured kissing him would be like. There was nothing to do but submit, open to him, and gladly be invaded.
Erik’s tongue slid against his, and Erik pressed him back against the edge of the pool, the hand on his chest sliding boldly down his ribs, and around his hip to cup his ass. When he pulled Oliver’s hips forward, he went willingly, gasping a glad sound against Erik’s mouth when he felt his hardening cock against his stomach.
He was like a tide, sweeping Oliver along, and Oliver clutched at him, trying to hold on: broad shoulders, thick arms. He raked his fingers through the hair on Erik’s chest and earned a growl in response, one that vibrated through the kiss, and down Oliver’s throat.
It was–
“Erik.”
…being interrupted.
A throat cleared from somewhere above them, loudly.
Erik lifted his head, panting, chest heaving beneath Oliver’s hands. He closed his eyes a moment, and rested his forehead against Oliver’s, so that all Oliver could see was his face, blurry and too close. All he could feel was the tight grip of Erik’s hands: one in his hair, one on his backside. Oliver’s heart hammered, because they’d been caught, and oh, gods, but he didn’t pull away, he wouldn’t, not so long as Erik kept holding him.
He was the king, and he got what he wanted. If he wanted to keep holding Oliver, in front of witnesses, Oliver didn’t have the strength of will to protest that.
Without lifting his head, Erik snarled, “What?”
Bjorn’s voice answered. “There’s been another break-in.”
Erik was silent a long moment, still save for his rough breathing. Then he swore, softly, and lifted his head. “Of course there was,” he muttered.
