Page 86 of The Prince and the Ice King

Jack hadn’t removed any of his clothes yet, and Reardon was only missing his bottoms. The neediness to rut as quickly as possible, clothes or other barriers be damned, brought Jack back to his younger days,when fucking someone in the stables was for convenience more than anything—it never mattered who—becausenowwas better than taking the time to bring someone up to his rooms.

He had Reardon in his rooms—the Emerald Prince who begged and mewled and deserved all the time Jack could spare him.

“Shhh….” Jack pulled his hand away to shuck down his own trousers, shifting up close behind Reardon and forming against his back with a warm slide between his cheeks—not to press in yet, just to rest there in wait.

Reaching around Reardon to bring his hand between them, Jack fumbled to connect their cocks as much as possible in this position, pumping his hand messily over each of them, adding Reardon’s wetness from ready dribbles and Jack’s own spit to their leaking fluids.

“I-I… want….” Reardon murmured inaudibly.

“I know what you want. Shhh…,” Jack hushed again. “Relax, little prince, and I’ll give it to you.”

The stress on Reardon’s arms to hold him up gave way, and he fell forward, resting his head against the mattress, hips still rocking to slide their skin together, hot and wet but not with enough friction.

Jack ran his hand over every bit of them colliding together until Reardon was a ragged mess, limp and quaking, so ready for any promise of release that when Jack rolled up to coat himself more slickly and returned to Reardon’s stretched hole with easing pressure, Reardon swallowed him up like the hungry maw from his first song.

Reardon

Yes.

Reardon could handle it. He could take it. He—

He hissed. The base of the king was still somuch. All that length and fullness inside him felt so good, but he knew it wasn’t everything from his own cringe and the king’s grunt of frustration.

“I-I’m… sorry.”

“No,” the king growled. “Your body is its own beast. Don’t force it.”

“I want—”

“I know. Relax, but if it’s not meant to be yet—”

“Itwillbe,” Reardon insisted, pulling forward and back again to move the king inside him. That was its own magic, and Reardon lovedit more than any display of power or alchemist’s concoction. “Please, Majesty. I will open for you.”

Another grunt resounded, desire dripping from the low utterance and making Reardon melt that much further. He was supposed to be melting the king, but melting together was just as good.

The slick slide of him was good too, the pull out and press back in of the king’s cock, making Reardon smother his moans into the sheets in ecstasy. The king got so close to sheathing all the way inside him but kept hitting resistance, causing Reardon to hiss or wince, and whenever that happened, he’d relent, pull back, and fuck Reardon more shallowly.

Reardon didn’t want shallow, so he focused on enjoying what he had—on the heat, the pressure, the rhythm starting to build, that little by little stretched him open more, brought the king in deeper, and gods above and below them, Reardon was determined to take him all.

And then a hard, slow thrust breached that stubborn resistance, and Reardon expected a ratchet of pain, only for the ache to give way to more pressure, and then just… fullness, such wonderful fullness, that skimmed some marvelous spot inside Reardon and made him scream.

The king pulled out, and Reardon slapped a hand back on his forearm, demanding, “No,” gripping his wrist tight and squeezing, “more.”

The next hard thrust brought the king in with a single stroke, Reardon’s mouth dropping open in a silent cry. Everything burned, filling him to the brim, but it was a beautiful burn, and he wanted to chase that heat to its embers.

“Yes….”

Again and again the king slammed into him, Reardon’s hand falling forward to clutch at the sheets for purchase. He turned his head, cheek to the mattress to let his silent cries out, and glanced back.

His eyes remained covered, so there was nothing to see, but he imagined the king’s eyes on him, watching the rapture on his face growing in crescendo.

The king had to see it, had to be watching, like he always watched, because his thrusts grew more frantic, sliding in so effortlessly now, like he was made to fit between Reardon’s cheeks and drive him to madness in his bedchamber.

That woodsy floral scent filled the room with sweat and musk andthem. Reardon couldn’t even push back to meet the king’s slams anymore, so immobilized by how good it felt, a fluttering, ticklingsensation growing in the pit of his stomach with that same incredibleheat. He knew what it meant to pleasure himself, but it had never felt like this, and each slam built the sensation higher.

And that spot, that wonderful spot inside him, touched only ever by having the king rock with abandon, made him moan and cry and plead to finally reach the end of this incredible driving force.

Reardon’s own pleasure would have been enough, but it was a haggard moan from the king, scarred hands smoothing up Reardon’s back beneath his shirt and half-untied doublet, like some deep need to connect and feel him, that tumbled Reardon off the precipice.

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