Rowan rose to that encouragement. His next thrust rang out in the quiet bedroom with the slap of his hips against Briar’s arse. He didn’t draw back immediately. He sidled his hips from side to side, let Briar feel him deeply before he withdrew and pounded in again. Again.
Lights winked in Briar’s vision. Even as the pace became relentless, it was unlike any of the clumsy fumbles of Briar’s years in college. Rowan’s demeanor was considerate. Intent. Rowan took the time to figure him out and coax pleasure from him with an almost tender aggression. Only then did Briar realize, it wasn’t competence, but a keener sort of communication than he was used to. Rowan touched and listened for the sorts of responses that meant Briar liked it, and he seemed to revel in each clue, each new discovery.
Moaning, Briar told him what he wanted. And Rowan gave it. Until finally Briar caved and pleaded for release, which Rowan gave also. He snuck a hand under him, and it was the softest touch before Briar was coming into his fist. Bright bursts of pleasure set his limbs trembling. He smothered sounds he’d never made before in the quilt. Rowan hooked his chin over Briar’s shoulder, moving still, drawing out the rush of climax until he could no longer hold back his own. He made a sound like the ghost of him was being drawn out through his mouth, the breath of his groan hot on Briar’s neck. A few more shuddering thrusts, and he was spent.
He rolled to the side and crashed into the covers, panting. Briar languished in the feeling of tingling skin and his pulse returning to normal. It took a long time. Long enough for him to wonder if that was that, and he should prepare to steal away into the night. It would be difficult. He doubted his legs would carry him, and he dreaded the notion of putting his drenched clothes back on.
But these things did not comprise the whole reason.
He turned his head to watch Rowan, whose chest still heaved. He’d closed his eyes, lips parted with each ragged breath, a sheen of sweat allover him. Briar wanted to lean in and nip the sharp edge of his jaw where beard softened it.
Rowan turned half-lidded eyes on him. A smile quirked the corner of his mouth. “What?”
Briar said, “You are egregiously sexy.”
A gust of laughter. He covered his eyes with an arm.“Egregiously.”
“Too much? I’ve been told I can be a bit much.” Now could be his cue to leave.
Rowan lifted an arm to usher Briar over. “Not too much. C’mere to me.”
Briar went gratefully, curling against Rowan’s ribs with a hand against his rising diaphragm. He soaked in the comfort of Rowan’s aura. Sleep crept in.
With his heart still racing more than it should, Briar thought he might have made a mistake.
He woke to a bright morning and a divot in the bed that once held Rowan.
He’d slept well. Better than he had in ages. He wanted to luxuriate in that feeling a little longer, but with consciousness came thoughts, many of them unwelcome. He’d missed a dose of his elixir while gallivanting last night. His hands trembled fiercely as a result. Vatii would have his hide.
Walking home in last night’s clothes was not his favorite part of one-night stands either.
His clothes were downstairs, probably soaking still. He could hear clattering from the kitchen, so Rowan wasn’t out, which meant skulking around nude or in something borrowed.
The floorboards were freezing underfoot, and it took a moment to practice walking normally. He tottered like a foal over to a discarded throw blanket. Picking it up, he found it was actually a check shirt in red, which fit him with all the grace of a rain mac. The neck was so large it slipped off one shoulder, the hem reaching near his knees. It smelled faintly of Rowan. It would do.
Descending the ladder, the first thing Briar spotted sent a shot of gratitude through him: his clothes, hung on the radiator. He touched them to find them slightly damp.
Footsteps behind him, then, “I made eggs.”
Briar turned. Rowan stood in the door to the kitchen holding a fry pan.
Briar said, “Eggs?”
Rowan said, “Scrambled, but I could—” He stopped. “Is that my shirt?”
“Sorry, I was cold. I’ll change now.”
“No! You can keep it. On, that is.” Rowan suddenly had to clear something very stubborn from his throat.
Briar dropped the hem. He looked at Rowan’s flushed cheeks and the amount of eggs in the pan. “You made enough for two?”
Rowan inclined his head toward the kitchen and led the way there.
A sense of confusion and mild panic took root in Briar then. This—a cooked breakfast, wearing one another’s clothes—this felt… domestic. All Briar’s past relationships had been the casual variety. They involved sneaking in and out of places, making sure he no longer smelled like someone else’s cologne, and stolidly avoiding the topic of relationships when it used to come up with his mother. In witch’s circles, relationships were either for mutual stress relief or they were for more. Marriage more. It wasn’t even about keeping magic within families or any of that tosh. It had to do with the relative smallness of the witch community and the drama that would arise from having serious relationships with so-and-so’s brother, so-and-so’s ex.
When you were gay, that became doubly true, with the dating pool shrunk by an even greater proportion.
Not that witches didn’t also date non-magical people, or that these measures didn’t still result in drama. But the tradition of keeping it casual unless there was serious commitment in the cards held true.
