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Ragnar hummed an approving noise, and when he shifted forward, Leif eased the grip on his hair and let him come; let him bring their chests together again, so their stiff cocks could brush together, too, the tease of fabric between them as thrilling as it was frustrating.
Think of what you want to do to me. That was…so much. Leif’s want felt boundless, bottomless, unplumbable. He smoothed both hands down Ragnar’s chest, and around his ribs, behind his back and down to his ass, urging him in even tighter as he rutted against him. Oh, that was good. It could be better – could be everything – but the hot slide of their mouths and the friction of their hard cocks wasgood. Was winding him up tighter and tighter…
Until he flexed his hips the wrong way, and pain sparked bright and sharp along his still-healing ribs, lancing along the closed wounds, tingling in the half-numb scar tissues of his savaged chest.
Leif broke away with a hiss and a curse, body going still, and taut, and no longer flooded with pleasure.
Ragnar whined – and then broke into a low, distressed sound, gaze skipping down Leif’s body, noting the way his spine had curved protectively. “Alpha.”
“It’s fine,” Leif said through his teeth. “Just…give me a moment.”
Ragnar – with the dilated eyes, and the wet mouth, and the heaving chest of someone apprehended in the throes of mounting passion – furrowed his brow, frowned, and said, “You’re hurting. You’ve been hurting.”
“Well, I was eviscerated three days again,” Leif griped. “That tends to hurt.” When Ragnar’s frown deepened, Leif steeled himself, and stood upright, though it was a painful effort that left sweat blooming on his face and down his back. “Here. It’s fine.” He reached for him. “It will pass.”
But Ragnar stepped neatly back out of reach. “No, it won’t.” After a beat, his brow smoothed, and a crooked grin broke across his face. “I have an idea, though.”
~*~
The grass was soft, the moss-covered bit of old stump not the worst pillow he’d ever endured, and it propped his head up at the perfect angle to watch Ragnar overtop of him. With his borrowed, too-small tunic unlaced, and his shirt pushed up to his armpits, Leif looked down the sweat-sheened expanse of his own bare chest, his taut, gently-clenched abdominals, to the spill of loose hair that covered his lap.
Ragnar had dragged him farther down the lane, where the trees were even thicker, and the shadows deeper, well out of sight of the house, and then he’d urged him down, and arranged him just so, and stripped off his own clothes so that he was naked; then he’d unfastened Leif’s clothes and fallen on him, as a wolf fell on a wounded deer, and set about torturing him, from chin to balls, with his mouth, until Leif was hard again, and aching, his pulse thrumming so that its rhythm, and the gentle suckling sound of Ragnar’s mouth on his cock, were all that he could hear. The breeze, the calls of evening birds, the distant clamor of camp – all of it had faded to obscurity. His mind was nothing but pack and sex.
Ragnar pulled off with an obscene, wet slurp, and tossed his hair back as he sat up, hand smoothing saliva up and down the length of Leif’s cock with a squelching sound as he contemplated him through half-lidded eyes. His own cock was standing proud, wet at the tip, ignored for the moment as he worked Leif’s. His other hand went to Leif’s stomach, touch a soothing massage, as though he stroked a spooked animal.
As Leif gazed up at him, Ragnar’s smile took on a teasing glint. “What were you going to promise me?”
It took Leif a moment to gather enough wits for speech. “…What?”
Ragnar chuckled, low and throaty, entirely too pleased with himself as his hand continued to work him up and down with a firm grip. “Before. Just before I kissed you. You said, ‘I promise…’ and then. Well.” As the sun dipped lower, a few last, bold rays found gaps in the branches, and bright globes of light swam over Ragnar’s face, his eyes glowing like gems. “What were you promising me? Fine furs? Jeweled beads for my hair?” He tossed it in demonstration, the bones clacking softly.
He was trying to provoke him, the shit. In his current mood, Leif felt a little like indulging him. He cocked his head. “Would you like fine furs and jeweled beads?”
Ragnar’s hand faltered a beat, just as his smile did, before it resumed its lazy pace.
That bit of reaction, the surprise in it, spurred Leif to say, “We should wash your hair, first. Comb it out flat. I have oil in my things. And perhaps, if I showed him the specifications of my own, I could have the smith here fashion you some beads. Silver, like mine. I could braid you with lover’s beads, and put my cloak around your shoulders.”
Ragnar’s eyes blew wide.
Leif had been teasing, and so the weight of the words struck him too late, after they’d left his lips. The possession of them, their suggestion, had nothing to do with wolves or packs or mates; they were wholly human words, from his human life, from his life as a human prince. Words not for a cousin who’d gone from traitor to thrall, but words for a lover. Declarative words.
He didn’t retract them, though, and his belly didn’t fill with nerves, the way he might have expected. If anything, a sort of calmness settled over him like a veil. His body was thrumming and twitching from Ragnar’s attentions – now paused – and the anxiety the declaration should have stirred never came. He was warm, if not perfectly comfortable, Ragnar’s weight pleasant on top of him, grounding; he was surrounded by his scent, and his eyes drank in the battled-hardened, scar-tapestried sight of him. He placed his hands on his thighs, and smoothed them up his muscled thighs, feeling the fine tremors that vibrated just beneath his skin.
“Ragnar,” he prompted.
Ragnar’s gaze dropped a moment, and he sucked in a quick breath through his mouth. “Right,” he murmured, absently. “Yes. Right.” His heartbeat throbbed, visible in his throat, audible in the dappled air between them. “Whatever my alpha wants.”
Though it cost him – speared him through with pain, was hampered by a weakness so great he thought he might go toppling backward – Leif sat up, hands shifting to Ragnar’s hips for balance, and to hold him in place, so that their faces were closer, Ragnar’s hovering shocked above his, as Leif reached up and caught his chin. He was breathing hard from his efforts, his ribs screaming at him, a muscle in his back cramping, but his voice was low, and authoritative when he tipped Ragnar’s head so their gazes could meet – Ragnar’s was all drowning black pupil, his face gone slack with a craving like nothing Leif had ever seen; so keen, and so desperate that Leif knew a flicker of fear, and wondered if he’d broken something inside him with a handful of boastful, proprietary words – and said, “What do you want?”
It looked as though it took a great deal of effort for Ragnar to swallow, and form words. He panted, “To sit on your cock. Alpha.”
Delicious shiver of tension, a want to acute it left his stomach cramping. “Do it, then.”
Ragnar put a hand in the center of his chest, and shoved him back flat to the grass. Leif landed with a surprisedoof, and had a momentary thought ofwait, because they didn’t have…supplies…and he didn’t want to hurt Ragnar, not in this way. But Ragnar was driven, and wouldn’t have listened to anything save a firm, alpha order, Leif thought. He leaned down to spit on him, spread the wetness with his hand, then shuffled forward, lifted up on his knees, and angled Leif as he lowered himself, slowly and inexorably.
Heat, and then resistance, a pressure, and Leif thoughtgods, it won’t work. But then there was a sudden give, and Ragnar let out a deep rush of breath, and he sank down, and down, and down, taking him in.
Leif gripped his thighs, and pressed his head back against the stump, eyes squeezing shut tight. “Shit,” he hissed through his teeth. “Gods…Ragnar…” and then words failed him, because it wasso much. It wastight. Too tight, squeezing him like nothing he’d ever felt, all enclosing soft heat that left him panting and clinging to every last shred of self-control. It was all he could do not to come on the spot. His entire world narrowed down to the unforgiving clutch of Ragnar’s body, and he gritted his teeth, and scored Ragnar’s skin with nails that had turned to claws. He vibrated all over with the tension of holding back, heedless of the pain it ignited in every half-healed wound.
