Kings Rising (Captive Prince 3)

Damen’s head hit the plaster. His whole body fired, and he made a sound, rough and low with need, a moment of pure sensation, closing his eyes.

His eyes opened in time to see Laurent’s lowered head draw back, so that the whole thing might have been maginary, except that the tip was wet.

Confined against the wall, Damen felt the rough plaster under his palms. Laurent’s eyes were very dark, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, clearly struggling with something, as he leant in again.

‘Laurent,’ he said, a groan. Laurent’s lips were on him again, parting. Damen was panting. He wanted to move, to thrust, and couldn’t. It was too much and not enough, trying to control his body, holding himself still against every instinct of his nature.

His fingers dug into the plaster. Whatever battle was taking place in Laurent’s head didn’t impede his slow skill, the sensual attention that ignored any rhythm or desire for climax, but was unbearably exquisite. Laurent must be able to taste him, the salty beading of his d

esire, his need. That thought was almost too much, he was too close to the brink.

He hadn’t imagined it like this. He knew Laurent’s mouth, knew its vicious capability. He knew it as Laurent’s primary weapon. In his daily life, Laurent held his lips taut, repressing their lush shape into a hard line, his mouth cruel curves. Damen had seen Laurent eviscerate people with that mouth.

Now Laurent’s lips were given over to pleasure, his words traded for Damen’s cock.

He was going to come in Laurent’s mouth. That single, stunning realisation arrived a moment before Laurent went down in earnest, a long, practised slide. Heat hit, a burst of it, and Damen came in a rush before he could stop himself, too soon, overwhelmed, flooded. His body convulsed, even as he fought not to move, his stomach clenched, his fingers gripping the plaster.

Eventually, his eyes came open. His head was leaned back against the wall, and he watched as, dark-eyed, Laurent backed off. He half expected Laurent to go to the fire and, fastidiously, spit, but he didn’t. He had swallowed. He was pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, and he stood all the way over by the window, watching Damen a little warily.

Damen pushed himself away from the wall.

When he reached Laurent, he put his palm on the plaster again, this time beside Laurent’s head. He could see the rise and fall of Laurent’s breath in the space between them, Laurent’s body unmistakably aroused by what he had just done.

It was clear that Laurent didn’t know how to process the fact that he was turned on, and that part of his wariness was that he was uncertain what was next, one of the strange gaps in his experience that Damen couldn’t predict.

In the dim light, Laurent said, ‘A fair exchange, is it?’

‘I don’t know. What do you want?’

Laurent’s eyes were very dark. Damen could almost see the struggle, Laurent’s tension rising visibly. For a moment Damen didn’t think Laurent was going to answer, the truth of his desire too painfully vulnerable.

‘Show me,’ said Laurent, ‘how it could be.’

He flushed after he said it, the words leaving him exposed, a young, inexperienced man against the plaster wall of the inn.

Outside was the hostile expanse of Akielos, full of enemies and people who wanted them dead, a dangerous landscape that must be traversed before either of them was safe.

In here, they were alone. The candlelight turned Laurent’s hair to gold, flamed in the dip of his lashes, the line of his throat. Damen imagined that he was paying court to him in some foreign land, where all of this had never happened, making love to him in words on a balcony, perhaps, with perfumed flowers from some night garden drifting upwards, the glow of a party behind them. A suitor daring the limits of attention.

‘I would court you,’ said Damen, ‘with all the grace and courtesy that you deserve.’

He undid the first lace on Laurent’s shirt, and the fabric began to open, a glimpse of the hollow of his throat. Laurent’s lips were parted, his breath hardly stirring.

Damen said, ‘There’d be no lies between us.’

He opened the second lace, felt the low throb of his own pulse, the warmth of Laurent’s skin as his fingers moved to the third.

‘We’d have time,’ Damen said, ‘to be together.’

And in the warm flame light, he lifted his hand and cupped Laurent’s cheek, and then leaned in, and kissed him on the lips, gently.

He felt Laurent’s shock, as though he had not expected to be kissed after what he had just done. After a moment, Laurent kissed back. The way Laurent kissed was nothing like the way he did anything else. It was simple and without artifice, as if kissing were serious. And there was an expectant feel to it, as if he was waiting for Damen to take control of the kiss.

When he didn’t, Laurent angled his head differently, and his fingers curled into Damen’s hair, still damp from the baths. The kiss deepened at Laurent’s bidding. Damen could feel Laurent’s body against him, and he slid his hand inside Laurent’s open shirt, liking how it felt to spread his palm there, the sort of proprietary touch he wouldn’t have dreamed of before tonight, and still half expected Laurent to kill him for. Laurent made a small sound of encouragement, breaking off the kiss for a moment and closing his eyes, all his attention on Damen’s touch.

‘You like it slow.’ He dipped his head near Laurent’s ear.

‘Yes.’