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“I imagine it’s like suddenly gaining all of these new senses. Wolves have a way of communicating with each other that humans could never understand. That’s given Leif new insight into Ragnar. If he thinks he can bring him up safely, and especially if he can be fitted with a proper torq, then I think that’s reasonable. Leif might be different in many ways, but I don’t think this transformation has made him rash.”
Rune’s frown twisted, but he nodded. “It’s only that I worry,” he said, voice going smaller. “He’s my big brother, and now…”
“I know.” Oliver patted his arm. “He’s still your big brother. It’s just going to be an adjustment, yeah?”
Another nod.
“Off you go, then, to bed. Don’t you have a tunic fitting tomorrow?”
“Aye.” A smile flickered into existence, albeit small. And then, to Oliver’s shock, Rune took him by the shoulders and leaned down to kiss the top of his head. “Goodnight, Uncle.”
“Goodnight.”
Oliver watched him move down the hall, then closed the door and leaned back against it. Uncle. He supposed he was, now, in the most technical and formal sense, but neither boy had been required to accept him as such. Oliver’s insides felt gooey and warm as melted jam.
But Erik still stood gripping the mantelpiece with white knuckles, and there would be no melted-jam-Uncle-Oliver if not for the man brooding over the fire.
He stopped by the sideboard to pour a fresh, generous cup of wine, and went to prop his shoulder against the warm stone of the wall just beside the fireplace. He waited a beat, one in which Erik didn’t move, save the faint swaying of his hanging braids thanks to the heat rolling off the fire. Then he said, “I know it isn’t the right time, seeing as you’re lost in deep reflection, but I think it’s important to tell you how dashing you look like this. All brooding and stern. It gets me a little worked up, if I’m honest.”
Slowly, the near corner of Erik’s mouth twitched up into a reluctant, though charmed smile. His gaze slid over, eyes blue-gone-gold in the firelight. Oliver liked to think that a little of the flicker in their depths was amusement, and not just a trick of the flames.
“My Lord Oliver,” he said, deep and formal. “You are quite impertinent, just as you have always been since the day of your arrival.”
Oliver grinned and offered the wine. “I’ve been told by some very important people that it’s one of my more charming traits.”
Erik turned toward him, took the wine, and a long sip. Then set the cup aside and reached for Oliver instead, who went gladly. His kiss tasted of sweet, late-season berry wine, and his hands were instantly familiar and possessive on Oliver’s waist, and hips, and ass, drawing him in close.
Oh, Oliver thought, before the rest of his thoughts melted into pure, heated want. Erik needed this even more than he’d anticipated.
Erik gripped the back of each thigh, fingers flexing, and Oliver hopped up at his urging, hoisted up so he could wrap his legs right around Erik’s hips, just as he’d imagined earlier, out in the hall. But the real thing was better than imagination.
Erik broke away from his mouth to nibble at his jaw. “Get the wine,” he murmured, and Oliver managed to pluck it off the mantel before he was whisked away – and deposited on the edge of the desk.
“Gods, you’re strong,” Oliver breathed. “I–” And then Erik was kissing him again, tongue bold and hot in his mouth.
Erik tilted his head, deepening the angle, one hand cupping the nape of his neck to shift him the way he liked, the other pushing up the hem of Oliver’s tunic so he could grip and knead at the top of his thigh. He was so eager, tonight, nearly desperate.
Oliver could only grip at his jerkin and let himself be nudged into a somehow deeper kiss, slick and messy and punctuated by panted, sucked-in breaths between the wet sounds of lips meeting.
Then he realized, even weak in the neck and with a campfire rapidly building in the pit of his belly, that he could do one thing, and fumbled at the fastenings of Erik’s jerkin. They were little metal hooks and loops, hidden on the inner seams, and difficult to manage with his lover’s tongue halfway down his throat.
He pulled away from him, finally, gasping. “Let me–”
Erik fastened his mouth to the side of his throat and bit.
“Gods, Erik.” The first fastening gave, finally, and Oliver managed to focus long enough to undo the rest – only to run into an obstacle when he hit Erik’s belt. “Ugh,” he whined, overheated, head spinning, and wanting skin.
“You brat,” Erik said against his throat, licked over the place he’d bitten, beard tickling at the fresh bruise, and stepped back. Just far enough to tear off his belt and jerkin, and pull his tunic and shirt off over his head in one go.
At another time, Oliver would have laughed at the way it rumpled his hair and left his braids hanging crooked. But now he could only stare, all his blood rushing south, as Erik stood before him bare to the waist, dark hair over heavy muscles and old scars. A familiar sight, at this point, but no less stirring. It took his breath every time.
Oliver reached for him, and Erik, gaze hot as coals, stepped in close so Oliver could stroke his chest and tweak at his nipples. Spread Oliver’s thighs with firm hands and stepped in even closer, so their still-clothed cocks were pressed together. This, surely, was why they made desks so high.
A belated thought occurred, even as Oliver raked his nails through dark chest hair. “What about the maps? Your ledgers?”
“Fuck them,” Erik growled, and grappled with Oliver’s belt. His fingers didn’t fumble the way Oliver’s had. This kind of sharply-piqued arousal left Oliver clumsy, but Erik even more dexterous, somehow; he came at sex the way he came at everything: with a warrior’s determination. It unraveled Oliver every time, that confidence and competency.
His clothes were all but ripped off over his head, and goosebumps broke out across his bare chest and arms, despite the heat of the fire; his nipples pebbled up tight and aching. Erik tossed his fine tunic to the floor without a care, pinning Oliver with a gaze gone black-dark in the dimness of this half of the room. The firelight limned him in gold, and Oliver had the dizzy thought that he sat half-naked and vulnerable before a god…ready and willing to be devoured as an offering.
