Page 66 of The Prince and the Ice King

“I will not hurt you. But I can still give you a taste and take my pleasure too.”

Removing his fingers entirely, Jack dripped more oil to coat them, finding that the slide of two fingers, even eventually deeply thrust, made their way in more easily after a time. With each renewed twist, Reardon’s tension receded, any signs that it was too tight or painful banished, as his breathing picked up in their stead. Still, Jack could tell that anything more would be too much.

He started his thrusts slow but gradually began to increase the rhythm. Fresh whines floundered off Reardon’s tongue, fingers clawing into the sheets like before, with his forehead pressed to the mattress.

“Oh… oh…Jack,” Reardon moaned again, as Jack fucked him with a kind hand, his own length leaking rivulets onto the sheets behind the entrance he so wished to ravish. “Are you certain you can’t—”

“I am. But I promise the taste I do give you will be sweet.”

Thrusting deeper and harder and as fast as he could, Jack soon had Reardon crying out in unrestraint, made even more vocal by Jack reaching around him with his other hand to grip Reardon’s soaked member and pump in time to the twist of his fingers.

The dual touch upon Reardon brought Jack’s hips closer, his hardness finding refuge against Reardon’s thigh. The searing hot skin made Jack moan with Reardon, forgetting he was supposed to be the composed one. He wanted to come. He wanted to pull Reardon there with him. He wanted to fuck his sweet prince until stars exploded behind his eyes and they woke up somewhere else.

“Please… please…,” Reardon begged, and Jack’s mind went blank with his own need, fingers retracting to position himself at Reardon’s entrance andpush.

Another pained gasp brought Jack to his senses.

“Please,” Reardon said again when Jack tried to pull away.

As a lesson, as appeasement, Jack returned his head and pressed just enough to risk its breach, waiting for Reardon to tell him no.

The prince took in several sharp breaths but said nothing.

Jack risked another shift forward, a faint pop resounding as Reardon gave way and encircled him fully around his head.

Reardon bit his lip as if to keep from crying out, rocking away from Jack to pull him with him, and then back again to bring him in deeper.The moan he released encouraged Jack, but the panted breaths sobered him. He couldn’t go any harder or deeper than this, but he could dothisand drive Reardon over the edge with him.

Not once did Jack cease his pumping of Reardon’s cock, thrusting rhythmically behind him in turn but only as deep as his head. It was torture to not pound Reardon into the mattress but also bliss, because it had been so long, and no one had ever felt this rewarding to make sing.

Reardon’s utterances were like pleas for mercy, but mercy to be allowed to come, not discomfort. Once Jack’s urgency grew desperate too, he pulled out and slid his shaft up along Reardon’s entrance instead of in, seeking friction, wetness,warmth, and receiving all in abundance.

“Please,” Reardon continued to beg, but Jack would do no more, only increasing his pace and allowing every few passes of his cock to press its head in again.

Finally, Jack’s grip brought forth a yielding cry, and Reardon sagged, deadweight beneath him. Feeling the sticky proof on his hand, Jack kept on faster, seeking oblivion and the sweet relief that only another body could provide, and then—

Jack shot across the curve of Reardon’s inviting crease, staining his skin in opalescent streaks. He sagged as Reardon had sagged, collapsing atop him. At last he’d had his prince, not as fully as he wanted, but so… so good.

Pulling away to relax back on his ankles, Jack took in the sight of Reardon once more, face pressed to the sheets, eyes closed, with his ass ripe and used, now with Jack’s claim all over it. Nothing had ever looked so beautiful.

“You are a sight… little prince.”

Reardon smiled, half invisible against the mattress but as blissed as Jack had intended. Jack wanted to mold himself across that gorgeous form again, but first, it needed to be cleaned.

“Do not open your eyes,” he warned.

“Yes, Majesty,” Reardon whispered like an exhale. “I am content with your touch.”

Reardon

Reardon had never known such pleasure. No touch of his own could compare. No other indulgence either. The limpness he felt without injury—well, without dire injury, for he would certainly be soretomorrow—was indescribable and made him incapable of movement or protest as the king lifted his spent and soiled body from the bed.

A few short moments later, he felt himself lowered into a soothing bath, smelling of lilacs, whereas the substance the king had used to ease Reardon’s pleasures had been headier. The king’s release that had stained him was rinsed away, and Reardon went even more boneless, afraid he might sink right down, until a firm body climbed in behind him to act as anchor.

Like that, with the king wrapped around him, Reardon could feel his scars everywhere, but it stirred no wince or need to withdraw, only a deep pity for a man who did not deserve this punishment. Maybe once he had, but not anymore.

“Majesty… if I swear to keep my head forward, may I open my eyes to see the room?”

“I suppose.”

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