Page 44 of Prince of Flowers
“You’re so hard,” I breathed. Too hard, almost, or had it just been a while since I’d touched somebody? And so thick, too.
“Thank you kindly.”
Sylvain’s voice was alarmingly polite, nonchalant as he began to thrust between my fingers, the muscles on his torso rippling with every obscene movement. I pulled up, swirled the bead of fluid on the tip of his head, felt myself throbbing under the water when he hissed and threw his head back.
“Use both hands. You’ll need both hands, anyway.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” But he was telling the truth. There was — gods, there was so much of him.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t be the one issuing commands here, oh great summoner.”
I let that one slide, instead focusing on — well, on sliding my hands up and down his cock, working his shaft, ensuring that my palm made contact with his pink, wet head. Gods, this was awful and gorgeous and terrifying, all at once. I was mesmerized. Did fae cocks come with their own magic?
“You keep licking your lips, Locke. Like you’re thirsty. Or hungry.”
Guilty as charged, but like hell was I going to admit that. Bad enough that I was giving my eidolon — my fucking eidolon a hand job on our very first mission together. Sucking dick was out of the question.
Maybe on our second date. Mission. I meant mission.
The guilt was still there, building like a heavy stone in my stomach. This felt good. Amazing. But it was wrong, too.
“Sylvain,” I whispered. “I’m not supposed to do this. Summoners and eidolons — we’re not supposed to do this.”
“Oh?” he muttered back. “Is there some great, dusty tome in some crumbling library in the Wispwood that says I’m not allowed to play with your cock?”
I froze. Did I just hear him right? I licked my lips, gulping for what must have been the hundredth time. “I thought you wanted me to — ”
He grinned, a hungry tiger, a trickster holding back his laughter, the very exemplar of his people. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t return the favor?”
Would Grand Summoner Celestina engage in physical intimacy with the angels she famously conjured in battle? Gods, would Father have done something like this? I shook my head, clearing the thought from my mind, even though it was useful for numbing some of my arousal.
But wasn’t that why Aphrodite appeared to us in the first place? Maybe I was supposed to allow this to happen, something to strengthen the bond between eidolon and summoner. Trust was an important aspect of summoning, and in some ways, so was love.
Festive, he said. All the flowers, their wet petals caressing my skin — more romantic than anything. But this wasn’t love, anyway. This was lust, raw and filthy. It felt dirty, sitting in that pool of pristine water, knowing we were doing this. Despite the scrubbing, the feel of clean on my skin, I’d never felt dirtier. I’d never felt better.
Sylvain reached under my arms, hoisting me easily up onto the edge of the pool. Water dripped from my torso, the air cooling my skin where it met the damp, but the chill didn’t linger. It was just too hot.
He ran the rough pad of one finger down the center of my chest, through the ridges of my stomach muscles, down all the way through the hair at my crotch. My breath misted with every exhalation, the anticipation almost enough to make me come on its own. Fingers closed around the base of my cock.
I didn’t come. I wanted to, and yet I didn’t want to, biting the inside of my cheeks, fingers curling into grass and dirt as Sylvain ran his strong, huge hand up and down the length of my cock.
“Beautiful. You’re enjoying this. I can tell. The way you’re throbbing, and that slickness — that isn’t pond water. We’re not really all that different, you and I. Human or fae, we all love our cocks being stroked just the same.”
I gritted my teeth, holding myself back, the pleasure tearing through my body with every last one of his torturous strokes. Were we the same, though? I’d always been pretty pleased about my size, but I never once thought I’d touch a cock as perfect as Sylvain’s. How thick was too thick? How long was too long?
And the roughness of his hands — gods above and below. Call me a spoiled urban brat, never mind that I basically lived in a castle in the middle of the woods. My hands were my hands, and my cock recognized their touch, the skin of my palms and fingers fairly smooth — again, especially for someone who technically lived in the woods.
But Sylvain, dearest Prince Sylvain had the rough palms and powerful fingers of someone who worked with their hands. A builder, a woodcutter, a sculptor. The way he grazed the slit of my cock with the length of his thumb, the other fingers gliding in excruciating rhythm against my shaft, the faint scratch of his palm?
These weren’t my hands, my body screamed. These weren’t my hands, and these were better. The best.
And the whole time his eyes, pale and gold, burned as they stared into mine. No malice in them, for once, nor mischief, only an intense, almost feral curiosity. A wildcat studying its prey. He was assessing me, examining my features for every last tremor and twitch, taking pleasure in my pleasure, wanting to know how much I liked it.
I liked it a lot, in short. I fucking loved it.
“Very different,” I finally answered. “We’re very — fuck. Sylvain, slow down.”
He didn’t, only made things better, or worse, resting his cock against mine, stroking the both of us off with two hands, a maddening tangle of fingers.
