Page 9 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons
When we finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, the air in the small room felt charged, sacred.
“Better,” he murmured, his voice thick.
“Much better,” I agreed, my own voice rough with an emotion I couldn't name. I wanted to stay like this forever, suspended in the quiet warmth of the afternoon, with his hand in my hair and the taste of him still on my lips.
Tarshi made a sound deep in his throat, a low groan of surrender and need, his good hand coming up to grip the front of my tunic, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us, and kissing me again, this time less gently.
His mouth was demanding, hungry, and I met his need with my own, the careful tenderness of moments before consumed by a fire that had been banked for too long. My hand slid from his neck down his chest, careful of his bandaged ribs, tracing the hard lines of muscle I knew so well. He winced, a sharp intake of breath, and I pulled back instantly, my own desire turning to ash in my mouth. "Did I hurt you?"
"Don't stop," he rasped, his eyes dark with a pain that had nothing to do with his injuries. "Gods, Septimus, don't stop."
The plea undid me. I kissed him again, gentler this time, a slow, deliberate claiming. My fingers fumbled with the ties of his tunic, needing to feel his skin against mine, to erase the memory of finding him broken and bleeding in the square. The rough fabric parted, baring his chest. The faint shimmer of blue-black scales caught the light, a landscape I was desperate to explore.
My mouth followed the path my hand had taken, tasting the salt on his skin, feeling the frantic thrum of his heart beneath my lips. He arched against me, a low groan vibrating through his body, his good hand fisting in my hair, holding me to him. This was more than lust. This was worship. This was a man finding his religion in the flesh of another, a prayer answered in a small, quiet room while the world outside prepared for war.
The world outside this room, with its looming wars and ghosts of grief, ceased to exist. There was only the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth, and the fierce, undeniable truth that this man, this warrior, this beautiful, broken soul, was mine. And I, finally, was his.
He wore nothing beneath his tunic, and I finally managed to let the laces untied, pulling the two sides apart so I could look at him. His cock stood up hard, only inches from my mouth.
I looked down, my gaze held by the sight of him, so beautifully, painfully alive. It was a defiant declaration against the death that had so nearly claimed us both. There was no hesitation, no thought, only a need so profound it felt like a prayer. I lowered my head and took him into my mouth.
He tasted of salt and musk, the flavour of life itself. A choked sound tore from his throat, his hand tightening in my hair, not to guide me, but to anchor himself. I moved slowly, learning the shape and weight of him, my tongue tracing every vein.
I took more of him, my tongue tracing the sensitive ridge, then flicking against the tip. A bead of pre-come pearled there, and I licked it away, savouring the taste of his arousal.
This was an act of devotion, an attempt to erase the memory of his broken body with the worship of my mouth. I wanted to swallow his pain, to take his grief into myself and leave him with only this.
I moved with a slow, steady rhythm, my cheek brushing against the soft skin of his inner thigh. He was so hot, so alive.I could feel the thrumming of his pulse against my tongue, a frantic beat that matched the hammering of my own heart.
"Septimus," he gasped, the name a broken prayer. It was all the encouragement I needed. I quickened my pace, drawing him deeper, my only thought to drive him over the edge.
He cried out, a strangled sound that was half-pain, half-ecstasy, his hips lifting from the bed in a weak, involuntary motion. I took him deeper, my own need roaring to life at his surrender.
His breathing became a series of ragged pants, his good arm trembling with the strain of holding himself up. I could feel the tension coiling in his body, the frantic pulse at the base of his cock thrumming against my tongue. He was close, so close. I quickened my pace, my focus narrowing to this single, sacred purpose. His release came with a hoarse shout of my name, his body arching as he spilled himself into me, a hot, life-affirming flood that felt like absolution, and I swallowed it down.
Slowly, I raised my head, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, to find him watching me, flecks of gold in those normally ink black eyes.
“Come here,” he ordered.
“You can’t-”
“I said, come here.” He motioned to the side of the bed, and I obeyed. Even injured, his command over me was absolute, the sheer joy I had found in giving myself up to him completely was unlike anything I’d ever known before. I stood beside the bed, fingers tracing the bones of his face as he reached out with his good hand and dragged my trousers low enough to allow my rock hard cock to spring out. His hand wrapped around it, making me groan.
I watched as he fisted me gently, then leaned forward to swirl his tongue over the end.
“Fuck, Tarshi,” I gasped. He groaned in pain and settled back against the pillows.
“You’re not well enough…” I protested weakly as he pulled my hips forward.
“My body is," he replied. “But my mouth works just fine, so I’m going to sit here while you fuck it.”
My mouth fell open.
“Now Septimus,” he commanded.
I moved without thought, a puppet on the string of his command. My hips pushed forward, my cock pressing against his lips. He opened for me without hesitation, his gaze locked on mine, dark and possessive. The first touch of his mouth sent a jolt through my system so powerful my knees nearly buckled. It was wet and hot, a perfect, velvet sheath. I pushed deeper, slowly, a gasp tearing from my own throat as he took me in.
It was an act of profound trust, of utter surrender on both our parts. He, injured and vulnerable, was giving me this intimate part of himself. I, in turn, was giving him complete control. I began to move, a slow, tentative rhythm at first, my hips rocking gently. His mouth was a wet, searing heat, and the slide of his tongue sent jolts of lightning through my nerves. The world narrowed to this single point of connection, to the sight of his face below mine, his expression a mask of fierce concentration.
