Page 162 of Threadbound

“I want you inside me.” He itched with it—desperate to feel Jamie’s skin against his own, Jamie’s hands on his body, Jamie’s breath in his lungs, Jamie’s heat filling him.

Jamie’s response was a soft, low groan, pressing up with his arms so that he could rest his forehead against Bran’s. Brangrasped the back of his head, pulling him down into another kiss. Jamie pulled away before Bran was ready to let him go, and he made a soft noise of protest.

“I’ll come back,” Jamie promised, rolling so that he could reach the drawer where he kept lube and condoms.

“Just you,” Bran whispered. He wanted to feel Jamie’s skin everywhere—wanted to feel every pulse and shift of skin and muscle, wanted to feel the heat and slickness of Jamie when he came inside him.

Jamie took only the little bottle of lube.

Bran spread his legs, giving Jamie the space he needed to reach what he wanted Jamie to touch, pressing up with his legs. Jamie pulled a pillow from near their heads, pushing it under Bran’s hips, then slicked two fingers on one hand.

Bran’s back arched as Jamie pushed a finger into his body, pulling at his aching ribs, but he ignored the discomfort—the feeling of Jamie stretching him, rubbing a finger against sensitive nerves, was far more intense than the pain of a few cracked ribs.

More.

A second finger pressed into him, and Bran let his head fall back, his feet instinctively knotting in the sheets as he pushed his hips into Jamie’s hand.

“God. Bran.” Jamie’s voice was rough, his breath coming faster as he worked Bran’s body with his fingers. Bran pushed against Jamie’s hand again.

More.

Jamie withdrew his hand, then moved between Bran’s legs, bracing his arms on either side of Bran’s head, his cock pressed up against Bran’s body, its tip trembling at his entrance. Bran reached up, gripping Jamie’s forearm with his good hand.

Yes.

Jamie bent, pressing his lips to Bran’s forehead, the gesture tender. Bran’s long fingers tightened around his arm as Jamie pushed—slowly, so achingly slowly—into Bran’s body, stretching muscle, sliding along nerves already sensitized by his questing fingers. Bran could feel Jamie’s breath against his forehead, the rasp of careful control pushing up against the desire to move faster, push deeper. A desire Bran very much wanted him to fulfill.

More.

Jamie moaned again, but began to move, sliding himself away until Bran thought he might pull out altogether, but then pushing his way back home, the friction causing the back of Bran’s throat to tighten with need. He used his legs to pull Jamie all the way in, letting him withdraw, then forcing him to move faster and harder.

I don’t want to hurt you.

Never.

Jamie let Bran win, finally giving himself over to the rhythm of their bodies together, letting himself thrust hard into Bran’s willing body until their hips met with an audible impact, skin and sweat-slicked flesh striking like flint and steel between them.

Bran could feel his body tightening, the ache in his cock desperate for release.

Please.

Jamie dropped to one elbow, their teeth scraping as he all but tore a kiss from Bran’s mouth, his other hand reaching between them to wrap around Bran’s erection, a few quick strokes all it took to send him spiraling over the edge, his toes gripping the back of Jamie’s thighs as Jamie thrust a handful of times and then moaned his own release against Bran’s bruised lips.

They stayed, forehead to forehead, catching their breaths, Jamie holding himself up on his elbows, his body still buried in Bran’s. Bran re-tangled his fingers in Jamie’s blond hair.

“We can stay here, in Dunehame, if you wish,” he murmured, his breath brushing Jamie’s lips.

“Is—Is that what you want?” Jamie asked, his voice soft and vulnerable.

“I want you,” Bran answered. Did he want to stay in Dunehame forever? No. But their lives would outlast those of the humans Jamie loved—it would be sad, to watch them grow old, to watch them die, as all mortals did, but half a century, three-quarters, even, was not so long when your life could span a thousand years or more.

“And if I want this life?” Jamie asked. “Here, the museum, a tiny apartment?”

“Then that is the life we have,” Bran answered. Then his lips curved in a smile. “This lifetime, anyway.”

Epilogue

Jamie stood on the wall at the keep of the Court of Shadows, Patch wrapped around his shoulders. It was autumn, and the spreading arms of the Nimh Coille—the forest that formed a half-moon shape around one side of the field surrounding the keep—were painted in riotous color. It was dusk, and Jamie had come up to stand in the last hour of the sun’s fading light.

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