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He only went as the sideboard, though – relief bloomed like hope in Reggie’s chest – and poured himself a generous cup of wine. He turned to lean back against the table as he sipped, watching Reggie over the rim of his cup. From a distance like that, he couldn’t help but see how tense Reggie was, from the clenched, jaw, to the fists, to the restless way he shifted his weight from foot to foot.
It was obvious what Reggie was after, what he was doing here, and though his face burned scarlet, there was no sense pretending otherwise. No sense retreating, either: for one, he hadn’t gotten what he wanted. Secondly, he didn’t relish the idea of proving himself weak yet again. So he kicked his chin up to defiant angle and said, “You didn’t answer the question.”
Connor had gotten control back, wiped his face of every emotion save wry amusement. “That’s because I think you’re looking for a specific answer.” He slouched down, shoulders curling, shirt slipping to show a little more clavicle, the shadow between his pectorals. “And I’m not sure it’s an answer you’ve earned.” A smile played across his lips, before he raised the cup to them again.
He was teasing him, now. He was always teasing.
Reggie had had enough of that. And besides: Connor wasn’t the only one with that power.
He forced a laugh and thought it came out halfway convincing. Then he reached for his sword belt, gratified by the way Connor’s gaze snapped right to the motion. “Earned? I’ve notearned it? What about you? What haveyouearned?”
“I saved your life tonight.” Tone dry, but pupils expanding, gaze getting a little lost.
The sword belt hit the rug with a muffled thump, and Reggie hauled his thick, wool tunic over his head to drop beside it. Started in on the laces of his shirt.
Connor swallowed audibly. “What are you doing?”
“Proving a point.” His fingers felt numb at the tips, and he fumbled the laces; yanked them when they wouldn’t give, and heard threads snap, but his shirt loosened, gapped open.
Connor’s throat jerked as he swallowed again. His voice had grown rough when he said, “And that is…?”
Cool air kissed the rope scar on his throat, and he felt its phantom weight, now, felt his airway constrict. He clawed the shirt off over his head and said, “That you don’t give a single damn about your book right now.” He bent forward at the waist and tugged his boots off, one by one. Rolled down his stockings and stuffed them down inside the tops. He was cold, now, shaking, teeth threatening to chatter – though that was partly nerves. When he straightened, he reached for his flies and managed to keep his voice from shaking too much when he said, “My next question is: why were you reading when we both know what you really want to be doing?”
Connor’s pupils had gone wide, eyes dark and glazed over. He set his cup down without looking. “Dunno,” he murmured absently, gaze pinned on Reggie’s hands as he finally got the knot loose and then shoved his trousers down in one fast go, before he could think better of it.
The air in the tent was chilled – he shivered, and his nipples popped to heard points – but he was rock-hard, now, and the coolness felt good against his too-hot, throbbing cock. He took himself loosely in hand to watch Connor swallow again, to watch his eyes go black in the candlelight. Any questions he’d had about Connor’s attraction to men were vanquished by the dazed look on his face. He was attracted all right.
And Reggie was burning up, in too far to back out now without being utterly crushed. He swayed a few awkward steps forward, still holding his cock in a loose fist. He petted across his chest with his other hand, played with his nipples and tried to soothe the jumping muscles of his stomach.
Connor bent forward at the waist, and his hands gripped the table edge until his knuckles turned white, like he was clinging to resistance. “Reg,” he said, tight, panting a little, “you can put your clothes back on and leave, and we can pretend this never happened.”
The thought struck him like a blow. “Is that what you want?”
“No.” More panting. “What doyouwant?”
In the end, he was surprised by how easy it was to say. “I want you to fuck me.”
Connor’s breath left him all at once, with a low, punched-out sound.
Reggie let his hands fall, and closed the distance between them, too caught up in Connor’s hungry stare to care about the way his cock bobbed obscenely; he didn’t think of covering himself. Let the man look: he was beautiful; he’d been wanted by men and women from all walks, from eager stable boys, to matrons smiling coyly behind their fans. If he thought of it that way, Connor was no different.
(Except he was different in every way. This was giving, this was letting someone in, an invitation he’d never offered anyone before, and he was offering it to this man, this lord gone wild, this rough woodsman who teased and mocked and stared at him now in a consuming way.)
When he stood within reach, Reggie braced his feet on the rug, threw his shoulders back, and sent him a challenging gaze.Here I am. I’m ready. Do your worst. The surge and ebb of adrenaline in his veins was the same as it had been outside the crumbling tower, just before the charge. Fitting: this felt every inch the battle as well, only without a drake to save the day. This was all down to him.
Up close, he could see the ring of brown encircling Connor’s blown pupils, and the flicker of his pulse at the base of his throat; the beading sweat there, and on his temples, shiny in the glow of candles and brazier. He looked like a man who’d been running, exerting himself. Reggie felt a swell of pride at thinking it took an effort not to pounce on him. A swell of panic, too, because oh, gods, this was about to happen, wasn’t it? He stood naked before him, on offer, and he couldn’t believe he was finally going to attempt intimacy again, and that it had begun with anger. A thrown gauntlet. What was he thinking? Why was he–
He was dizzy. He was…
A warm touch landed on his bare chest, right over his galloping heart. The familiar, callused brushed of Connor’s fingers. He stood straight from the table, to his full height, so that he had to angle his head down to maintain Reggie’s gaze. His eyes had cleared, and the sad tenderness there was worse than the hunger. Worse than anything. He couldn’t stand to be pitied. Couldn’t stand for fucking to be a favor, some means of soothing him. He couldn’t…couldn’tbreathe, he…
Connor leaned forward and brushed their mouths together. Quick and fleeting as the touch of a butterfly, not even a kiss; a shared sip of breath. But it drew Reggie up tall and rigid; stopped his lungs from working. Panic flared, sharp as a knife through the ribs.No, no, no–
Connor’s other hand came to his throat, circling it loosely, and Reggie let out a pitiful, frightened sound. Connor’s thumb traced the scar that bisected Reggie’s pulse point, a soothing back and forth sweep, a delicate touch in contrast to the roughness of his skin.
“Can I be the one to talk now?” Connor murmured, low, close,intimate.
Reggie felt run-through, completely vulnerable and exposed andhurtable. “Yes,” he whispered.
