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“I do.”
“I’m all yours—oh, damn, I don’t think I’ve got anything—oil or—”
“We’ll manage,” Alex promised, and kissed him again, lips wandering along Garrett’s collarbone and lower, stealing coherent thought. Alex’s hands were experienced and sure, but also reverent, almost shy: the touch of someone surprised by a gift, not taking it for granted. Garrett told him yes over and over, ended up naked with him, moved with him, under him; begged for more, and got it, and came apart with Alex’s skillful mouth wrapped around the entire length of his prick, wringing out every drop of ecstasy.
Garrett, trembling with aftershocks, reached down and pulled his prince back up atop him, found Alex’s matching need, hard and hot and dripping; managed a clumsy stroke or two, his hand on Alex’s length with Alex’s weight balanced atop him; and Alex came with an arch of muscles and a gasp of Garrett’s name and a rush of sticky heat all across Garrett beneath him.
They held each other, not caring about the stickiness, feeling everything.
Alex said drowsily, lips against Garrett’s ear, “Your stone’s warm.”
“My…”
“Not a sex joke! Not that I wouldn’t. But it’s not. Touch your wall.”
Garrett extricated an arm—carefully, given how inadequate his bed was—and reached over Alex to poke marble. And then made a sound he hadn’t known he could make, someplace between embarrassment and incredulity. “It’shot.”
“I think your magic approves of us having sex.”
“Isn’t that making your back hot?”
“Yes. Extremely. Again, thank you for the compliment.”
“Oh no,” Garrett said, sitting up, or trying to. Alex had an arm around him. “That’s only my room, right? It’s not everywhere. In the school.”
“Probably. It’s your marble. Sorcerer.”
“Oh no. Please.”
It was everywhere. Heated floors. Walls. Benches. Garrett, robe hastily thrown on, buried his face in both hands, leaning on the kitchen table. “I can’t believe I—”
“I can,” Alex said, utterly self-satisfied, bootless, wearing his own trousers and Garrett’s indigo shirt. Night had fallen, while they’d been busy. The apprentices had vanished from the workroom. A note in Lorre’s messy century-old handwriting, in purple berry ink, had explained,I’ve taken them to the Snow Forest to look for unicorns—will return all intact tomorrow unless unicorns demand tribute. Enjoy yourselves.
“Don’t be smug about it.”
“Sorry, I’ve never been anyone’s magical heat source before. I’m thrilled. Is Lorre honestly going to sacrifice one of your students to a unicorn?”
“I hope not,” Garrett sighed. “I’ll work out a bargain to get them back if I have to. I think unicorns like candied violets. If any even still exist. Unicorns, not violets. Lorre turning into one doesn’t count.”
“Someday I’ll get used to that.” Alex, pouring tea—he’d found the kettle, as if needing something to do, to offer—looked around, got honey from its shelf. When he put the cup in front of Garrett, their eyes met. “That is. If I’m…I don’t know. If you want me to stay.”
“I want you to stay,” Garrett answered, and then answered him again, without words, with a kiss, with the shared flavors of rose and cinnamon and honey. “Tonight. Tomorrow. We’ll figure it out.”
“Organization.”
“Planning,” Garrett said. “I’m good at that.”
