Emboldened, Wren wrapped his fingers around it. He kept his hold loose as he ran his thumb along the grain of bone.
Shrike’s breath hitched. He leaned in and took Wren in his mouth again. Took him to the hilt, his throat opening to swallow Wren down.
Wren gasped. His fists clenched upon instinct.
Around Shrike’s antlers.
Shrike’s responsive moan reverberated through Wren’s cock in the soft wet heat of his throat.
Wren choked out an oath.
Shrike’s eyes smiled up at him as he withdrew until just the head of Wren’s prick lay between his lips. He raised his own hand to cover Wren’s fist and close it tighter. Gently, he pushed towards Wren.
Wren hardly needed more prompting to pull Shrike’s face down onto his cock by the antlers. He felt Shrike’s groan of satisfaction in his prick, in his thighs, in his chest, echoing down to the very core of him. He released him and drew him down again—and again—and again—
Fucking his throat.
“Oh,” Wren gasped, sheer sensation driving all thought from him. “Shrike!”
What would have burst from Shrike’s lips as an ecstatic cry thrummed through Wren’s whole being as if he were a plucked bow-string. With his own wild exultation, Wren spent, his seed pouring down Shrike’s throat. Shrike swallowed it all, clenching around Wren’s cock as he did so until pleasure peaked and verged upon pain. Wren choked it back.
Shrike let his softening prick fall from lips glistening with drops like pearls. Wren dragged him up by his antlers until he could kiss him as ravenously as he desired, tasting himself on Shrike’s tongue, drinking it like ambrosia. All too soon, his need for breath demanded he break off.
“Shall I…?” Wren began, as hoarse as if he’d already done the thing.
Shrike’s laugh sounded as breathless as Wren felt. “Not for a while yet.”
Intrigue broke through Wren’s blissful fog. “Did you really…?”
“Aye,” Shrike replied, and kissed him again before he could question it further.
“My lord?”
Wren’s heart ceased beating.
Shrike broke off the kiss. Wren opened his eyes to find his features twisted in vexation and his gaze fixed on the bower’s veil. The voice had come from beyond it, and the speaker remained without, much to Wren’s relief.
Wren tucked himself back into his trousers. Shrike turned to put himself between Wren and the bower entrance. When Wren had restored his decency, Shrike threw back the veil.
There, blinking up at them both, stood a diminutive page in a cobalt blue tabard with a silver wheel embroidered on its front.
“What,” barked Shrike.
The page flinched. “My lady requests the presence of her king in her bower.”
Shrike glowered down at the page, then across the field toward the hemlock tower, then back to the page again. “You’ve delivered your charge. Now be off.”
The page scampered.
Wren watched the page go all the way to the roots of the hemlock tower. When he returned his attention to Shrike, he found him glaring in the same direction.
“Shall we have done with it?” Wren enquired in a low tone.
“Aye,” Shrike muttered, and strode off.
Wren hastened to catch him up. But mere paces passed before Shrike halted and glanced down at Wren in apparent bewilderment.
“I’m coming with you,” said Wren.
