Page 52 of Heir of Autumn
I growled as I pulled him closer, desperate, hungry. “Shut up and fuck me, Sylvain.”
“As you wish.” He chuckled from deep within his throat, his chest rumbling against mine. “I live to serve.”
He buried his face in the crook of my neck, kissing, biting, suckling. I didn’t know exactly when he’d decided to add this new phrase to his arsenal, but it did the trick for me each and every time.
Was it the reversal of power, this tug of war that was so fundamental to our bond? Summoner and eidolon. Master and servant. Human and fae.
Peasant and prince, said Queen Aurelia’s voice in my memory. She’d never spoken those words aloud herself, but the suggestion was more than enough.
“Fuck that,” I breathed, pawing at Sylvain’s hair, pulling him in for a kiss.
“Fuck what?” he asked, confused, immediately losing the thread as soon as our lips met.
Never breaking the seal between our mouths, Sylvain pushed one hand against the bed, drew just far enough back from me to gesture with the other. From the corner of my eyes I saw him conjuring, fingers beckoning. One of the flowers responded, petals and leaves rustling as it came toward him, like a pet looking for a scratch on the chin, a comforting pat from its master.
And so Sylvain patted. Tugged, rather, on an alarmingly phallic-looking flower. I grinned, laughed against Sylvain’s kiss, recognizing the flower from our trysts in his private grotto. Thick nectar dripped from its tip, dribbling onto his fingers, into the palm of his hand. My favorite of the blossoms in all the Verdance.
Sylvain reached down, smearing some of the slick liquid around, against, inside my hole, removing his hand to use the rest of it on his cock. I shuddered at his touch, and again at his absence, that tense, delectable moment of anticipation.
He licked his lips, pushed closer, his head, his shaft entering me. So thick, so hard, and yet so perfect. Just right. I threw my head back and moaned.
Maybe it was the intoxicating loveliness of absolutely everything in Sylvain’s garden. The pale glow of bioluminescence, the soft rush of an evening breeze, the warm, wet roughness of his touch. I thought I could be forgiven for thinking that this was the most romantic thing in the world.
It might have been the first time since we’d started performing horrible, beautiful acts on each other’s bodies that I could truly define this as making love. The smell of flowers, the softness of petals on my back, in my hair, even the gentle, slow thrust of Sylvain into, against my body?
Gods, he’d never felt closer, like someone more precious, especially now that I knew of our different yet oddly similar roots. Imperious parents, a father and mother each, their specters and shadows looming, but ultimately unimportant.
“Fuck me,” I groaned. “Fill me.”
And so he did, ever one to rise to the challenge, ever the pleaser, his breath hitching as the cadence of his thrusts built in speed and severity. The roughness of his fingers on my nipples, the very depth of his strokes, the wet and sharp of his teeth against my throat — all too much.
This had all been too much from the beginning. I deserved credit for holding on as long as I could. The taste of his mouth, that vague sweetness of it, the heat of his breath — so much. Too much. Almost too much.
His hand on my cock, his mouth shifting from my lips to my nipple to my neck, and him — all of him, plunging relentlessly deep inside me. Nowhere to run, no way to resist. No escape from the pure fucking ecstasy of it all.
Petals on my skin, underneath, around me, Sylvain’s sweat dripping onto my body, mingling with mine, dripping down my torso. The fragrance of flowers, the scent of his sweat, the taste of his tongue. All of my senses engaged, and just on the border of overload. Too much. Too perfect. Far too much.
I threw my head back and clenched my teeth, biting back a scream as I came harder than ever before. No one could see us here, in this most private of places, but they could certainly hear. But Sylvain, perfect and wise, came to the rescue by sealing his lips against mine, tongue searching hungrily. His muffled moan entered my mouth as he came himself, thrusting and rutting and shuddering.
And I wrapped myself all about him, pulled his shaking body close with arms and legs and lips. My brilliant, perfect beast, my noble high fae, my faerie tale prince.
“Exquisite,” he whispered, stroking a lock of hair away from my face. “Lovely.”
“Love you,” I breathed, unexpected, overwhelmed, my very being filled with so much of the Verdance, so much of him. “I love you,” I sputtered, like a fool, knowing that the realm of the fae made everything from food to fucking all the sweeter, but knowing in my heart that it was the truth, too.
Sylvain grinned, cupping my chin in one hand, drawing me in for the softest, sweetest kiss. “I love you, too, apparently. I can’t help it.”
“It’s this place,” I said, my insides bursting with brightness. I strained to sit up, then flopped uselessly against the bed, helpless under his weight. I laughed, drunk and delirious and madly in love, exhilarated despite the exhaustion. “And yet it isn’t. It’s you. Gods, you’re ridiculous, Sylvain. We’re ridiculous. All of it. Everything we’ve been through.”
“And everything else that’s to come,” he said, still smiling hugely, like the two of us were sharing some private joke, the same unnameable source of infinite joy.
“Thank you,” I said, exhaling as I stretched out on the flowerbed. “For taking me here. For being with me. For everything.”
My mind wrestled with a whirlwind of memories, thoughts zigzagging like bolts of lightning through my brain. How we met, all the trials we’d faced, all our battles, great and small. How we fought for each other, fought to protect each other.
“All of it,” I said to the canopy of flowers and fronds above us. My chest heaved from exertion, from the sheer ache of holding him and all that I felt for him in my heart, not knowing what else I could say to express it all.
Sylvain rolled onto his side, still grinning, his head resting in his hand, elbow on the bed. He ran his finger down the dip in my chest. “The feeling is decidedly mutual, Lochlann Wilde. I’m glad I met you, out in the forests surrounding your Wispwood. I’m thrilled that you captured me, body and soul.”
