Page 62 of What Fools These Immortals Be
Maurice smirks, the faint pink on his cheekbones showing me just how pleased he is. He unfastens the rest of my shirt quickly, then spreads it open, running big hands over my chest and stomach.
“If I had a week…” he murmurs, and I suspect those aren’t words for my ears, so instead I relax beneath him, panting as he maps out my torso by touch. He teases my nipples, moving on when he realises that I’m not so sensitive there, and rocks his hips against mine as he squeezes my pecs and the flesh beneath my ribs.
I’m already hard—I think I have been since I started to drink from him—but it becomes a pressing need the more he touches me, and the more I realise Ican’ttouch him. I strain against the magical bonds holding me in place, and Maurice lowers his headto trail his lips over my collarbone as though he doesn’t know what I want.
“Maurice,” I say, and when he doesn’t look at me, louder, “Maurice!”
“Yes?” The sweet tone of his voice is at odds with that devilish smirk. He presses his hips forward and I groan—he’s just as hard as I am.
“Let me touch you.”
“Not yet.”
“Please. If this—” I can’t say it, even though we both know it’s true. If this is to be our one and only time together—and itis, isn’t it, because despite our never-ending lifespans, we live our lives so differently, so separately—then I want to touch him.
Maurice smiles at me and kisses the hollow of my throat, and all at once my arms are free.
I sit up, dragging him with me, and kiss him with all that I can. Maurice groans into it, sounding almost surprised. He tugs my hair again, digging his fingernails into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks behind. I want them. I want all of him, I realise, and I won’t be satisfied with just tonight, but I would be even less satisfied with nothing at all.
He nips at my throat as I fumble his shirt open, then off, his buttons far less fiddly than my own. It’s Maurice, though, who gets our trousers open, who pulls out my cock and strokes me hard. I tip my head back and moan, uncaring that we might be heard, might beseen. It is not something I usually want—not something I want at all—but I need his hands on me more than I care about that.
“Do you want me to tell you how I’d take my time?” Maurice murmurs. He takes both our cocks in one hand, pressing them together. I don’t know whose pre-cum he uses to slick us up, only that we are slick now, and he feels perfect next to me, like we were both made for this.
“I—Yes?” My hands are splayed over his back. He has a scar beneath his collarbone, over his left pec. It’s too neat to be anything but intentional and I want to coax its story out of him, but we have no time for that.
Maurice presses his forehead against mine, stroking us both firmly but slowly. He rolls his hips into each thrust, mouth half-open, and I know it’s not the fae blessing that has him looking like the wildest, most sensual creature I’ve ever seen in my life.
“I’d peel you out of one of those ridiculous suits,” he says and cuts off my protests with a fleeting kiss. “No, no. I know you hate them. So I’d have you naked and relaxed…”
I kiss his jaw, let my lips linger just below his ear.
“And I’d bury my face between your legs until you were sobbing, begging me to let you come.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“What?”
“Let me?”
Maurice’s chuckle is dark, and my cock jerks in his grip. “Not at first. I’d taste your pretty hole, too. Spend as much time as I wanted getting you loose and aching for me.”
“Maurice…”
“Have you been fucked before, Njáll? Surely?”
“Yes.”
“You’d never remember a time before me,” he says, just as he squeezes around the heads of our cocks. I let out a faint cry and bury my face in his throat, and his next words are delivered directly into my ear. “I can promise you that. You’d be sobbing, begging even before you got my cock. I might not even fuck you. Might line myself up and let you do all the work…”
Fuck. I’m panting, holding him so tightly it has to hurt, but Maurice doesn’t seem to care about that at all. He’s moving faster, though—his hand, his hips. I don’t know that he’s as close as I am, but he’s getting there.
“Is that what you want?” Maurice murmurs. “Someone to take care of you? Take all the burdens away?”
It’s not what I want all the time, and we both know that. But the fantasy of it, the idea of occasionally indulging in it, and with someone who would not judge me for it, who could carry the weight of all my responsibilities with ease, is more intoxicating than Maurice’s blood could ever be.
“Yes,” I whisper back, and Maurice bites my throat harder, grazing my skin with his fangs.
I cry out at the sensation—his hand, the closeness of his body, his teeth—and come hard, pleasure riding shockwave after shockwave through me. I don’t look up at Maurice, but I feel his eyes on me, then the way his body stiffens, trembling just slightly before he comes, too.
