Page 41 of Golden Eagle

Sasha fumbled along, eyes still shut, until he found Nik’s hand, and brought it to his own waist, encouraging Nik to pet over his ribs, up and down, which he did. Then, casual as anything, said, “You should fuck me.”

Nik pushed up on an elbow and made a sound that was embarrassingly reminiscent of an inquiring cat.

Sasha cracked his eyes open to blue slits. “Don’t you want to?”

“More than I ever want to eat solid food again.”

Sasha frowned. “You hate food. That’s not a compliment.”

Nikita leaned down and kissed him until he felt his lips curve up in a smile. “What I mean,” he said as he drew back, “is that this is your first time, and we don’t need to rush anything.”

“You’re very thoughtful and wise. It must be because you’re so old.”

Nikita bared his fangs at him and growled.

Sasha shut his eyes again, laughing. Happy, and glowing, and about to fall asleep.

Nikita leaned back down; snuggled up to him, put his face in his throat.

Sasha’s hand trailed unhurriedly down his back, skirting playfully around the dimples above his ass. “What about you, though? You still need to come.”

“No, I’m alright.” He was still hard, his blood still heated, little electric jolts moving through him every time Sasha shifted and his cock rubbed up against his hip.

Sasha made a disagreeing sound. “No, no, no. Here.” He urged Nikita to lie fully over him. Palmed his ass with a boldness Nikita hadn’t expected – but should have – and reached for Nik’s cock with his other hand. “Come on. Show me how you like it.”

He started to protest – Sasha was tired – but he caught a glimpse of his face, the determined set to his jaw. And he said, “Alright.” And closed his hand over Sasha’s. Showed him how hard, and how quick. His hips kicked, and Sasha’s fingers dug into the meat of his ass, encouraging him.

“That’s it,” he crooned, and suddenly he was the patient lover, and Nikita the breathless one unraveling. “You can lean on me; I can take it. I want to see you come.”

Nik braced both hands on the bed and let Sasha grip him; a fast learner, squeezing tight. Too dry, but there was sweat still slick on Sasha’s hip and belly, and that was where Nikita rutted, overcome, now, helpless to do anything but fuck into the tightness of Sasha’s hand and breathe right at his familiar throat, and let it wash over him.

And wash it did. Not just this moment – this act. A hand on his cock and a warm, sweaty body beneath his own. But the wondrous knowledge that this was Sasha. That the boy he cherished above all else cherished him back. That this was not just lust, but love; it was sweet, and so, so long-awaited. They could have had this years ago; could have had it in a terrible Soviet apartment building, when they were two mortal boys scared to death and full-up with longing.

His chest ached. He sucked in a ragged breath and realized he was crying; tears ran down his face, ran wet down Sasha’s neck.

And Sasha held him, and whispered to him in Russian: “Shh, it’s alright, I’m here. I’m here, darling, and I won’t ever leave.”

He came with a tiger’s snarl that turned into a choked sob, collapsing on top of Sasha. But that was alright – Sasha was strong; Sasha could take it.

“Oh my God,” he murmured, reverent. “My Sashka.”

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