Captive Prince: Volume Two (Captive Prince 2)

It was not what Laurent had expected. He felt the slight shock of Laurent’s surprise, and the way Laurent held himself, as though confused as to why Damen wished to do this, but he felt the moment when surprise turned to something else. Damen allowed himself the minor delight of nuzzling. Laurent’s pulse reached a little crescendo under his lips.

This time when he drew back, neither of them broke fully from the other. He lifted his other hand to brush Laurent’s cheek, slid fingers into his hair—shifting gold under his marvelling fingers. Then he took Laurent’s head gently in his hands and delivered the kiss he’d longed to deliver, long, slow and deep. Laurent’s mouth opened under his. He couldn’t stop the slow, spreading flush of heat he felt at the touch of Laurent’s tongue, the feel of his own, sliding into Laurent’s mouth.

They were kissing. He felt it in his body, like a tremor he couldn’t still. He was shaken by the force of all he wanted, and he closed his eyes against it. He drew his hand down Laurent’s body, felt the raised gathers of the jacket. He himself was naked, while Laurent was fully, untouchably clothed.

Laurent had been careful, since that first momentous disrobing in the palace baths, not to strip fully in front of him. But he remembered, from the baths, how Laurent had looked; the arrogant balance of his proportions, the fall of translucent water over white skin.

He hadn’t appreciated it then. He hadn’t known, in the palace, how rare it was for Laurent to appear in anything less than full, impeccable dress, in front of anyone.

He knew now. He thought of the servant he had seen attending Laurent earlier, how much he had disliked it.

He lifted his fingers to the tie that closed Laurent’s collar. He had been trained to do this, he knew every intricate fastening. A sliver of opening widened, his fingers sliding up the fine line of Laurent’s collarbone, revealing it. Laurent’s skin was so pale that the veins in his neck were blue, stria in marble, and with silks and tents, shaded awnings and high-necked collars, its pristine fineness had been preserved even through a month on the march. Against it, his own skin, sun-darkened, seemed brown as a nut.

They were breathing in tandem. Laurent was holding himself very still. When Damen pushed the jacket open, Laurent’s chest rose and fell under the thin white shirt. Damen’s hands smoothed down the lines of the shirt, and then, parting, opened it.

Exposed, Laurent’s nipples were hard and puckered, the first tangible evidence of desire, and Damen felt a wild surge of gratification. His eyes lifted to Laurent’s.

Laurent said, ‘Did you think I was made of stone?’

He couldn’t stop the rush of pleasure he felt at that, said, ‘Nothing you don’t want.’

‘You think I don’t want it?’

Seeing the look in Laurent’s eyes, Damen deliberately pushed him back onto the sheets.

They were gazing at one another. Laurent was sprawled on his back, slightly mussed, one leg drawn up and pushed out slightly to one side, still wearing its immaculate boot. He wanted to slide his hand up Laurent’s ribcage to his chest, press his wrists down into the mattress, take his mouth. He closed his eyes and called on a heroic effort of restraint. Opened them.

Lifting a hand idly to the exact place above his head where Damen might have pressed it, Laurent gazed back at him through veiled lashes. ‘Like being on top, do you?’

‘Yes.’ Never more so than at this moment. To have Laurent beneath him was heady. He couldn’t help drawing his hand down over Laurent’s taut stomach, over the controlled rise and fall of Laurent’s breath. He reached the faint line of hair, touched it with his fingertips. His fingers were now resting on the place where the line disappeared under symmetrical lacing. He looked back up.

And found himself pushed backwards, sudden, unexpected impetus, and he sat back between Laurent’s legs, a little breathless. Laurent had placed his boot flat against the plane of Damen’s chest, and pushed. And he didn’t remove his boot from its position, he held Damen in place with it, the firm pressure of the ball of Laurent’s foot a warning to stay back.

The flare of arousal he felt at that must have shown in his eyes.

Laurent said, ‘Well?’

It was a directive, not a warning: what Laurent was waiting for suddenly made itself plain. Damen put his hand around Laurent’s calf, the other on the heel of his boot, and pulled it off.

As the boot hit the floor on the side of the bed, Laurent drew back his foot and replaced it with the other. It came off as deliberately as the first.

He could see the rise and fall of Laurent’s breath, near his hipbone. Despite the cool tone, he was aware of the extent to which Laurent was holding himself in place, allowing himself to be touched. Tension still glinted in Laurent’s body, like the shine on a blade edge that would slice you open at the wrong touch.

He was suddenly shaky with everything he wanted. He felt dizzy with competing impulses. He wanted to be gentle. He wanted to tighten his grip. They were kissing again, and Damen couldn’t stop touching him, couldn’t stop the slow slide of his hands over Laurent’s skin. There was an interval of touching, and Damen kissed him softer, sweeter. The edged seams and criss-crossings were distinct beneath his fingers. He pushed a finger between lacing and fabric, felt the slow draw of the lace, growing longer as he reached the vertex.

Needing it suddenly, Damen pushed away and down and Laurent half-followed, hazily pushing up on one arm—uncertain, perhaps, of the purpose of this detour—until the moment Damen curled his fingers and pulled the fabric down to mid-thigh, then further.

He tugged the pants down and off, smoothed his hand up Laurent’s thigh, feeling it flex. Reaching the juncture between leg and hip, he thumbed it, feeling the pulse beat wildly under the very fine skin there. Damen let himself experience dizzily just how much he liked the idea of controlled Laurent betraying himself in salt flavoured need into his mouth. He touched it with his hand and encountered a texture like hot silk.

Laurent had hitched up, his jacket and shirt pushed down to his elbows, holding his arms half-restrained behind him.

‘I am not going to reciprocate.’

Damen looked up. ‘What?’

Laurent said, ‘I am not going to do that to you.’

‘And so?’