Page 38 of Paris and the Reaper

“Because we’re bonded,” Paris said, as he sent a pulse of understanding—of acceptance—along the connection between them.

Gasping, Mac released his chin and splayed his hand over Paris’s chest, right where Paris felt their connection. “You grabbed hold, and now I can’t let go either.” Forehead to his temple, he nuzzled the side of Paris’s face, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “I’m terrified, Paris, but I can’t fight this. I don’t want to.”

“I don’t want you to fight it.” He turned over in Mac’s arms so he could hold his face, so Mac could see—would believe—the conviction in his gaze as he repeated his promise from last night. “It’s my turn now. I’ve got you.”

Mac groaned, relief made audible, that same emotion Paris was getting used to thanks to him, and then his lips were on Paris’s, hard and greedy, forcing Paris’s apart so he could spear his tongue inside his mouth. Paris sucked him in deeper, threw a leg over his hip, and hauled his body closer, their cocksbumping. The needy whine that rumbled up from Mac’s chest was a sound Paris wanted to wallow in, wanted to hear over and over again. Better to be had with Mac on top, grinding down on him. Using his leg over Mac’s hip, he moved to roll him, but Mac caught himself before falling through Paris’s open legs, his features pinched. “Paris, I?—”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Stop overthinking.” It was a habit of Mac’s, consideration from all angles. Good for a detective, less so for a lover. Paris wanted him to let go and just feel this, feel them.

“No.” He shook his head and bit his bottom lip as red climbed his cheeks again. “I don’t know how to dothis,” he said with a pointed glance down to where their cocks were straining between them.

Oh, fuck...“Are you saying you’re a virgin?”

He hid his flaming face in the crook of Paris’s neck. “I’ve only been attracted to one other person, and I didn’t tell him. We didn’t get this far.”

“Hank?”

He nodded, and by the hitch of his torso, by the grief and regret that flared in his aura, the mention had brought his former loss to the surface again.

Paris carded his fingers through his hair and kissed his temple. “One, you have nothing to be embarrassed about, and two, I’m sorry, for both your sakes. I could see in that picture how much you loved each other. You should have gotten this chance with him.”

Mac lifted his face from his neck, eyes glassy, and for a split second, Paris thought he was going to pull away, that he might leave the bed altogether, but then he shifted and sank between his thighs, fully on top of Paris, his elbows braced on either side of his head, fingertips soft at his temples, like that first timeParis had woken to his gaze. “I don’t know how to do any of this. I swore I never would again. But I want to, with you. Just please...” He lowered his forehead against Paris’s, their noses bumping, lips brushing. “Please be patient with me.”

“I’ve got you,” Paris vowed a final time before acting on his words, closing the distance between their lips and sending a wave of comfort and care down the bond between them.

Pink and red cracked through Mac’s aura again, brightening as Mac deepened their kiss, as he began to explore, a hand roving down Paris’s side and under his thigh, hitching it higher and bringing their cocks back into contact. And when Paris rocked up this time, Mac countered, rutting with a hungry growl that lifted goose bumps along Paris’s skin and made his dick ache.

“Fuck, yes,” Paris groaned.

“Show me what you like.”

He encouraged Mac to keep rutting, to keep questing, a hand in Mac’s hair guiding his lips down his throat and to all the places he loved being teased. Behind his ear, the divot at the base of his throat, along his collar bones and around his nipples. He was writhing beneath him in no time, his dick a sticky mess in his boxers. Desperate to get them the rest of the way undressed, he skated a hand down Mac’s back and inside the waistband of his boxers. “Let’s get these off.”

Mac helped shove his own off, then Paris’s, and when they came back together, bare, Mac trembled. Then damn near jolted off the bed when Paris wrapped a hand around both their cocks. “Oh, fuck.”

“Not there yet.” Paris smirked as he stroked them together, smearing precome between them. He wasn’t usually such a bossy bottom, but he was the more experienced one here, and the less Mac thought, the more he just felt, the better this would be for both of them. “Soon,” he promised. “And just to be clear,once you get inside me, I fully expect you to blow in two seconds flat. And that’s a compliment to me; it says nothing about you.”

“But what aboutyou?” Mac gritted out as he tunneled into Paris’s fist, dragging his cock along Paris’s. “I have no idea what I’m doing, but it feels good. And I want it to feel good for you too.”

“Oh, it will.” He captured Mac’s lips again, dragging him into a plundering kiss, only coming for air when the pace of Mac’s thrusts came too fast, too close. “I’m going to make you come, and then after, you’re going to suck me off while you play with the come you leave in my ass.”

Mac’s eyes grew wide. “Fuck, you’re amazing.”

Pride swelled, Mac always so good at doing that for him, at making him feel like he was more than the fool he’d always been led to believe was his fate. In this man’s life, in his arms, he could be so much more. “I’m about to show you how amazing.” Grinning, he planted an elbow in the bed beneath him and flipped them so Mac was on his back, Paris straddling his hips.

And fuck, as much as Paris wanted to sink onto his dick, all that rosy tan skin on display had him leaning forward and kissing a similar path to the one he’d led Mac on earlier. From the sensitive spot behind his ear, down either side of his neck to the dip where his sharp collar bones met, then across every inch of his chest, giving each nipple extra attention, Mac seeming to especially enjoy it when Paris alternated between nipping the sensitive nub and running the flat of his tongue around it. He shivered and moaned under Paris’s touch, begging for more among a litany of curses.

He’d begun a trek south, covering more of Mac’s torso with kisses, when the raven grasped his shoulders and hauled him up, panting “About to come” against his lips. “Need to be inside, please.”

“Grit your teeth,” Paris said, before spitting in his hand, then reaching behind himself to stroke Mac’s length, smearing it with the precome there before shoving his own slick fingers into his hole, hastily working himself open. They’d do more prep next time, he’d let Mac have all day exploring his hole if he wanted, but if the tightness in Mac’s jaw was any indication, two seconds was being generous.

“Okay, breathe with me,” he coached, waiting for Mac to match his inhale, his exhale before he took Mac in hand and slid down onto him, inch by glorious inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

Mac’s hands clutched his thighs. “Fucking hell, Paris,” he cursed as he closed his eyes and arched his neck, head jammed into the pillow.

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