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When one lived the majority of their years in a hole looking up to where the mortals walked, flying seemed out of the realm of possibility.
But fly he did.
And before he truly returned to earth, Malcolm was above him, positioning his legs then, with gentle, probing thrusts, he was inside, sliding torturously deep until he nestled against the curve of Sean’s arse. His fingers reached beneath Sean’s head, and threaded into the hair at his scalp until his rested in a large palm, secured and immobile.
“Look at me while I love ye,” he said, and began to move.
For all of his easy confidence, Malcolm de Moray fucked like a doomed man, desperate for a safe harbor against the storms that loomed on the horizon. He fucked like he knew tomorrow was not guaranteed and he needed the pleasure to fill whatever hollow pain lurked in his eyes.
Sean could only see the wounds now that they were this close, nose to nose, sharing each other’s breath. And flesh.
It was like everything slipped away. The void. The witches. Malcolm’s Magick. Sean’s lies. While his cock slid inside him, fitting as if he’d always done, it was as though he had truly melded together, somehow. With each thrust, he felt branded. Each moan and gasp was a wordless promise.
And the ecstasy, unparalleled.
Sean was too entranced to fight his second climax. It began at the base of his spine, ripping through him with all the power and inevitability of a tempest. He saw it on the horizon, flashing with lightning and threatening with thunder, but he was just as helpless to stop it as he was any storm. When the glorious gale hit, it locked him in its verdant clutches with arching tremors and pleas for mercy.
Malcom gave none, but followed after with thick, hot pulses of bliss and a roar of pleasure sent to the Gods.
Their Gods. Who used the powerful act of pleasure in their magick. Who expected their peoples to do the same.
Sean felt that magic spill inside of him, shimmer around him, pour from Malcolm de Moray’s mouth with the perfect, treacle sweetness.
A sweet king. A gentle ruler. A hard man with a soft heart.
True hell would be knowing such a man existed, and having to return back to his lonely void.
Sean stared at the fire for what seemed like an eternity after.
He’d failed his charge. He’d not said the curse.
Malcolm dropped to his side between Sean and the wall, turning them both to face the flames. Tucking Sean’s bottom against his hips, he wrapped strong arms around him and allowed them both to catch their breath.
His breath felt warm and strong, tickling Sean’s hair and brushing skin with the purest of sensations. For the second time that night, Sean’s eyes filled with tears.
“Ye’re going to think I’m daft,” Malcolm said against his hair. “But I like it here, with ye.”
“In my lonely hovel?”
A soft chuckle brushed his face. “I truly didn’t mean to offend ye,” he rumbled, nuzzling through his hair and reaching the tender arch of his neck. “The earth in this forest is fragrant and soft. The night isna bitter, but chilly enough to enjoy the fire and yer warm body so close to mine.” He pulled Sean deeper into the hollow he’d made with his frame. “It’s different where I live, so much responsibility. So much always at stake. I oversee it all, and yet feel as though I control nothing. Here, the forest does my bidding and is simply happy at my presence.”
“How can a forest be happy?” Sean wondered aloud.
Goosebumps flared on his skin as Malcolm’s fingers idly ran over his shoulder and down the veins in his arm before dipping into his waist and flowing over the indent of his hip. Sean’s tears overflowed his lids and slid down in a continuous hot path of pain.
“It’s hard to explain,” the king continued, unable to see the effect his touch had on Sean. “But I am a protector, a vanguard of the earth and her forests. They welcome me, because I bring good Magick and nurture life. Here, I am not but a Druid man and a creature of the earth.”
Sean’s breath caught on a sob, and his body jerked.
Instantly, Malcolm lifted to his elbow and leaned to peek over.
Sean hid his face, but not in time.
“Why the tears? Are ye hurting?” Malcolm asked, his voice full of concern.
Damn him. Damn him for being a good man. “Nay,” he croaked. “I just…just…” He tensed with a hiccup, and then sobbed again. “Please don’t think I’m touched in the head, I can’t tell you why I’m like this.” In truth, he couldn’t. It had been maybe a quarter century since he’d even had the energy to cry. His despair had dipped below such displays of emotion.
Was Malcolm making him feel? Was he making him care?
