Page 134 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
And all because of those firm lips, that seeking tongue. Those needy, greedy strokes and nips.
I manage to pull away long enough to look down at him, and he does look like a man drugged now, like someone dosed well past sobriety. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, and his lips swollen and wet. The high contours of his cheekbones are dusted with pink.
Underneath me, his chest heaves and heaves and heaves.
“What next?” he asks, blinking up at me, and his eyes are so bright, his pupils so blown, that I know I could say anything to him, I could do anything I wanted.
Anything anything.
“They’d need your blood,” I say, and then I bend my head and bite him over the heart, just as he once did to me. “There’d be knives.”
I soothe the spot I just bit with my tongue and then bite him again. He jolts underneath me, and then trembles. I do it again, and again, moving my mouth to bite him everywhere I please—his collarbone, under his nipple, the juicy muscle between his neck and his shoulder. I let go of his wrists so that I can work my way down his stomach, nipping and licking, and he gasps.
Oh, how he gasps.
“These—are magnificent—knives—” he manages to say as my tongue dances around his navel.
I find the trail of silky hair leading down, and I lick through it, I bite my way down it until I get to the waistband of his shorts.
We both go still.
This is the moment, this is the choice. After this, there’s no pretending, because brothers don’t do this. They don’t slowly pop the button on their brother’s shorts, as I’m doing now. They don’t unzip the zipper and groan when they see there’s no underpants underneath, not even the poncy designer briefs Auden normally likes. They don’t drag their lip piercing up and down the velvet skin of their brother’s bare erection.
They don’t.
They don’t.
“St. Sebastian,” says Auden, lifting his head to look down at me over his stomach.
I look up at him from between his legs, my mouth hovering over his thickness. “Yes?”
He blinks at me. “Why?” he asks, and he doesn’t have to elaborate, I know what he’s asking.
Why am I doing this?
Why now? Why this way?
I tell him the truth. “I don’t know.”
He stares at me for a long moment, his pupils still blown, his lips still parted. A man deeply drugged. “I should need a better answer,” he murmurs. But then his head drops back into the grass, and he doesn’t speak again—not until I suck the tip of him into my mouth and I hear him grunt my name.
He is, as he is in all other ways, perfect here. Eight and a half straight inches, thick and proud and crowned with a deliciously flared tip. The hair here is darker than the hair on his head, the color of chocolate rather than cinnamon, and it’s short and silky and curled in perfect waves, as if he was painted or sculpted and not grown all messy and crooked like the rest of us.
I nuzzle the curls at his base and breathe him in—clean skin and the lingering smell of his soap—and then I tease my tongue along the soft underside of him. I let him between my lips and seal my mouth around his length.
He obeys the unspoken rules of our game, and he doesn’t grab my head and fuck my mouth deeper, he doesn’t search for my throat to hold as his cock nudges in and out of it. He keeps his hands to his sides—although they’re hardly passive in their obedience. He rips at the grass next to him, clutches and yanks at it as I take him deep in my mouth for the first time since Beltane.
He’s mine, like this, mine in a way that’s so potent I’m nearly giddy with it. He quivers for me, he gasps for me. He grabs at grass and clenches his jaw for me. And when I crawl back up over him, there’s nothing but wild desperation in his face. A king at his final battle. A god at the burning of his temple.
“Don’t stop,” he begs. “Don’t leave.”
“I won’t,” I promise, kissing him again. “I won’t. I’m not done yet.”
“Yours,” he says, still begging. “Let me feel yours.”
Lust punches me right in the stomach. I’m fumbling at my zipper almost before he even finishes speaking, shoving my jeans down far enough to expose myself. The minute I lower my hips and rub against his slick erection, we both grunt. His cock is so hard, so slippery, and I have to press all the way against him to keep us together the way we need. Press so that our stomachs and chest are flush, our legs a tangle of denim and yellow cotton-silk blend. When I grind against him, I feel the hot bar of him beneath me; each thrust of my hips has us both exhaling in sharp, short bursts. Mating, but cock to cock.
I won’t last like this, it’s too hot. Too, too hot.
