Page 8 of Corin and the Courtier
He wasn’t so sure he could forgive himself for what had gone through his mind the night before.
He’d been as tired and chilled as a dragon could get, his fingers aching from the way he’d wrapped his claws around the crate of supplies, and once he’d put his clothes on (at least he’d done that), he’d gone upstairs, drawn as if by a lodestone to the prospect of a bed.
Or perhaps by the prospect of what wasinhis bed, all pale smooth skin and soft pink lips that looked just like—and he suppressed the thought as vigorously as he’d done the night before.
The bed. He’d wanted his own bed, damn it, and to keep Aster from freezing to death. His intentions, at least, had been pure, and he’d stand by that until his dying breath.
The air in the bedroom had been as icy as he’d expected, with frost forming on the windowpanes and the flagstones nearly numbing even his always-warm bare feet. Aster had curled himself into a shivering ball under the blankets, with only the tumble of his red-gold hair peeking out the top like a spill of treasure from a chest.
With no other option, he’d climbed into bed behind Aster and tugged the blanket around both of them, knowing his furnace of a metabolism would throw off enough heat to keep them cozy for what was left of the night.
And it turned out that there was far too much left of the night for Corin’s peace of mind. Despite his exhaustion he lay awake for hours, forcing himself to neither toss nor turn so as not to wake Aster. That scent of roses intensified from the heat and proximity. If he moved his head only a little, hair brushed his face, soft and silky. If he’d shifted his own hips only an inch, he’d have been pressing his body against Aster’s.
Well, one part of his body, anyway. A part that also refused to settle down and fucking go to sleep.
At last, though, Corin and his most stubborn parts all yielded to weariness, and he slept until Aster stirring around woke him up.
Of course, only Corin knew that he’d spent most of the night rigid and wanting. Aster had woken up shocked to find Corin beside him. How much more shocked would he have been if he knew his host hadn’t only lain beside him—he’d thought, in great detail and for two hours or more, about how it would feel to shove him onto his belly, rip his trousers to shreds with razor-sharp claws, and bury himself in that sweet, round peach of an ass? The sweetness might be only Corin’s imagination, but he knew how round it was by the way he had to angle his hips to keep from brushing up against it.
Fuck it, it’d definitely be sweet. Soft and hot and slick and open once Corin had finished with it.
God, he had to get himself under control. Even revisiting his scattered thoughts from the night before had him breathing harder, with claws pricking at his fingertips and the faint itch of scales gathering under his human skin.
But how could he stop thinking about it when he didn’t only feel guilty for what he wanted, but forwhyhe wanted it?
He didn’t desire Aster because of himself. It was his resemblance to Belinda, the most beautiful woman Corin had ever met; it was Corin’s anger, anger he couldn’t take out on her but that still sought an outlet after all this time; and it was sheer deprivation and frustration. He’d stayed away from the village for the last two years, not wanting to take advantage of any of the young folk who would’ve been only too willing to spread their legs for a famous knight. It’d been longer than that since he’d had anything but his own hand.
In short, Aster himself, as a person, was almost entirely irrelevant.
And that made him feel like the lowest, most despicable bastard to walk the earth. Corin knew how it felt to be wanted for attributes you possessed and not for your own true self. Belinda had treated Corin like a tall, muscular, green and scaled trophy. It still smarted two years later.
Aster would be horrified to find out that the gallant Sir Corin wanted to pin him down and use his body in any case. But if he discovered that Corin only wanted to fuck him out of lingering, festering desire for his sister, and out of boredom…Corin might be angry and hurt, but not wantonly cruel.
The sharp crackle of a damp log catching fire startled him out of his reverie, and he came back to himself to find his fists clenched and his chest heaving as he stared sightlessly down. He blinked the hearth back into focus.
The fire had gotten going well, sending out enough heat that the middle of the hall would be bearable.
Food. He’d put out the food already.
Now to spend a few minutes standing outside in the snow to cool his blood and reduce the chances that he’d have a visible erection when he served it.
But too late. He’d lost the chance to try to school his mind into something a little less brutal and bestial. A soft shuffle of footsteps from above announced that his guest had chosen to accept his not-so-inviting invitation, and a few moments later, just long enough for Corin to belatedly remember something like manners and attempt to straighten the drooping collar of his shirt and rub a hand over the unknightly and unsightly bristle on his jaw, Aster appeared in the doorway.
ChapterFour
“Forgive me, Sir Corin,”Astersaid, his voice nearly as stiff as his shoulders. He’d clearly gone to some effort to make himself presentable, turning his blue tunic inside out to hide the stains of travel, and finger-combing his hair into order with a little water, it looked like. In the firelight, the waves around his face gleamed ruddy gold. “I hope you didn’t go to any trouble on my account.”
Corin glanced down at the fire, warm enough but hissing and shooting sparks everywhere, at the meager spread that resembled a peasant’s daily meal, and at his own shirt, open at the neck and hanging loose and untucked over his trousers. Oh, and with a pink stain where he’d spilled the beet juice. He probably smelled like a pickle.
Fuck his life.
He looked back up to find Aster leaning a hand on the doorjamb as if he couldn’t quite maintain that rigid, formal posture without support.
The support of Corin’s arms, perhaps, or lying down he wouldn’t need it…and no, just no.
A poisonous mixture of pity and guilt and rage and frustration made his voice far raspier and his tone far sharper than he intended as he replied, “I think I told you it’s Corin, plain and simple. And no. I didn’t.”
But he had, of course he had, and although he’d already resolved not to mention it he couldn’t help wishing he could flaunt his efforts.
