Page 95 of Edge of the Wild

Erik’s lips compressed; his jaw flexed. He made a low, growling sound in his throat and snapped, “Both! All of it! What do you want me to say? I can’t – gods, I cannot–” His gaze dropped to the floor, and he reached with both hands to push his hair back from his face, fingers clenched tight in the dark locks, tugging his braids loose.

Oliver took a step closer, pulse picking up. “Erik–”

“I want to keep you safe. I don’t want to have dragged you through the wilderness, at the mercy of the clans, just to prove a political point. I don’t – I don’t want you to be cold, or sick, or miserable, or in danger of beingeaten.” He shook his head, and his voice cracked. “I am afraid, every second, that you will decide none of this is worth it, and I’m afraid I’ll get you killed. And I don’t know what todo.”

The tightness in Oliver’s throat became an ache, one that spread down into his chest, tight like fingers squeezing his lungs. He took another step, and another. “You’re afraid that I’ll decide none of this is worth what?” he asked, softly.

Erik let his hands fall to his sides, leaving his hair a mess, but didn’t lift his face. In the smallest voice that Oliver had ever heard from him, he whispered, “Me.”

It was so easy to think, because he was physically big, and imposing, strong and stern and proud, that Erik didn’t doubt or worry or fear. That he didn’t feel things as deeply as other men.

But, Oliver thought, it was very likely that he feltmore.

He closed the last distance between them, rested his hands on Erik’s chest, and ducked his face to bring their mouths together.

Erik sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. After a moment, he gripped Oliver’s arms, gently.

Oliver drew back far enough to see the wonder shining in his eyes – eyes that were a littletooshiny, a fact that Oliver would never betray to anyone outside this room, not ever. He said, “If I get killed, it won’t ever be because of something you did or didn’t do. And I’m not leaving, not even for a dragon” – he smiled – “because I love you. Even when you’re a pompous ass. Even when you worry too much. Even,” he added, gently, “when you’re afraid.”

Erik’s eyes widened an impossible fraction. He drew in a ragged breath.

And then he gripped Oliver’s hair and kissed him savagely.

Oliver fisted his tunic, and strained up on his toes, just as eager, flooded with warm relief. Every time Erik trusted him like this – with his truth, with his doubt, with his private self-recrimination – it stunned him all over again. Left him wanting to reel Erik in close, put arms around him, shelter him – even if, given their respective sizes, that wasn’t too feasible.

He knew whatwasfeasible, though.

He broke the kiss – with effort.

“Wait, wait,” Erik murmured against his cheek, chasing after his mouth.

“No.” Oliver pressed at his sternum, firmly. “Stay right there,” he said, and though he couldn’t have held Erik in place for anything, Erik stayed, chest heaving beneath Oliver’s palm, his heart already galloping.

Oliver caught his gaze, wet his lips deliberately – Erik’s eyes flicking down to track the movement – and said, “Stay,” again, a clear command. Then he sank to his knees.

Erik moaned.

In his previous life of sneaking, and stealing moments, of clandestine encounters in empty salons during summer house parties, Oliver had become quite good at this. He’d learned to enjoy it; for all of his failings, this was something he could do and do well; every time his partner – usually some nobleman’s son destined for the altar, who would never have spoken to a lowly bastard in front of witnesses – shook, and shattered, and came, cursing and out of control, he relished the idea that, at least in this one thing, he wielded power. That he was valuable.

But here now, with Erik – he was glad he’d had plenty of practice, that he could offer pleasure. It wasn’t so much about value, though, but about the way Erik threaded his fingers through Oliver’s hair the moment he got his mouth on his cock.

“Gods,” he murmured, hands cupping Oliver’s skull, but he didn’t grab, and he didn’t force. “Gods, your mouth.”

Oliver had long ago learned to suppress his gag reflex, and thank the gods for that, because he’d never had anyone as big as Erik. He didn’t tease him – though he vowed to do so at a later occasion – but took him deep straight away, as far as he could, light suction, and then harder. Hands braced on Erik’s thighs, fingers gripping tight at the waxed wool of his trousers, he set up a rhythm, head bobbing, lips pursed tight. Erik petted his curls, restless and unsteady, fingers threading through them again and again, flexing occasionally, and his hips would kick involuntarily when Oliver gave a hard suck, or flexed his tongue, or pulled back to catch his breath, and mouth delicately at the head.

The sounds Erik made – bitten-off moans, and low hums, little gasps of effort, of restraint – were doing things to Oliver. The murmured praise in between, the half-coherent assertions that he was beautiful, and wonderful, and so good at this did even more. Erik was thick, and heavy, and hot in his mouth, at the back of his throat, trying so hard not to thrust, not to choke him, and he was tugging at Oliver’s hair, and this wasn’t some coat closet tryst; Erik wanted him, Erik needed him, was afraid for him, and wanted to protect him, and he thought Oliver wasgorgeous…and Oliver had never been so hard in his life. His breath came sharp and quick through his nose, not enough, not nearly enough, but he didn’t want to stop, not now, not ever. Who needed air when there wasthis?

Erik was getting close – Oliver could feel it in the tension of his thighs; hear it in the sharp increase of his breath.

But then Erik gripped his hair tight in both hands, and in a voice full of gravel said, “Wait. Ollie,wait.” Not the desperate, quiet plea of before, when Oliver had first gone down to his knees. This was a command, meant to be obeyed, and Oliver shuddered hard, cock twitching painfully behind his flies.

He pulled off, but slowly, tongue lingering at the end, and managed to lift heavy lids to peer up at Erik.

In the play of candlelight, one side of his face bathed orange by the fire, he looked a wild thing, all glittering eyes and clenched jaw and disordered hair. He took Oliver’s breath.

And then there were strong hands beneath his arms, and he was being hauled up – all the way up, until the tips of his toes barely brushed the floor, and Erik was kissing him again, tongue in his mouth, making him dizzy, his hard, damp cock rubbing against Oliver’s stomach.

Oliver thought he could come, just like this.

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