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I couldn’t be Razak, I couldn’t hurt Lark and love him at the same time. I could only be me. I straightened, still on my knees, and looked into his eyes. “I’ll do it. But we do it my way. Will you trust me with that?”
He bit his lip. “Always.”
How could one man be so strong and so vulnerable, in a single glance. I loved him, admired him. He was the bravest person I’d ever met. And, impossibly, he was mine.
“You have the oddest look on your face,” he said, making light, because that was what he did—made light in the dark, made music in the quiet, made magic in the midst of hopelessness.
I captured his face in my hands and kissed him slowly, as though he were the most precious thing I’d ever held. His mouth opened, giving me permission, inviting me to take more. I savored him, loved him, kissed him with more than my lips, with my heart and my soul too.
He eased me back and knelt on the bed too, face-to-face, body to body, with the scented desert air sweeping in through the window and the quiet moon casting cool light over us. I stroked his shoulders, then kissed him on the neck, loving him with every touch. His fingers buried in my hair, and when I glanced up, he’d tilted his head back, surrendering in a way he never had before.
This was different. Something powerful was happening here, something important, a moment so simple but so profound. I loved him, and it wasn’t just a word, or a feeling, it waseverything. In every breath, every heartbeat, under my every touch of his warm, firm body, every fluttering kiss and quick sweep of my tongue.
He pulled me down with him, spreading his knees so his thighs bracketed my hips, and our breaths quickened together, our bodies so close the lines between us blurred. Lark eased the bottle of oil into my hand, producing it from thin air, like magic.
I looked at it, then up at him. He nodded and spread his knees wider, trusting me to do this right. He’d said it wasn’t difficult, and I ached to feel him on me, under me, however that would feel. I knelt back and stilled. He lay on his back, one arm flung overhead, the other at his side, his whole body a broadcast of gleaming skin and sculpted muscle. His beauty stole my breath and my wits.
“Arin?”
“Yes, yes…”
He chuckled, and so did I, and the tension disappeared, like his sleight of hand had magicked it away. I tried not to overthink it. It wasn’t hard, he’d said, although I was. And so was he. He clutched a pillow and tucked it under his hips.
“Look at me.”
“I am.” His veined length twitched.
“My eyes are up here, prince.”
I flicked my gaze up.
“Trust me,” he said, dark eyes rich with cunning and delight. “You can do this.”
I nodded, afraid my voice wouldn’t hold, and clutched his thighs with oiled fingers, then stroked downward, seeking that part of him I knew would feel good, if I did this right.
I raised myself up on my knees, angled my cock, clutched his leg, and adjusted my position and his. The fact he stared at me, apparently not needing to blink, was both the most arousing and most terrifying part of all this. Tremors rippled through me, nerves and adrenaline conspiring to make me shake.
I eased my oiled cock to his hole. His gaze broke away when he dropped his head back, surrendering for a second time to my hands, my will, my cock. Gods, he was tight, but the oil saw to it he widened, taking me in. It seemed like a lot, like too much, and I withdrew, earning his challenging glare.
“Tease me and I’ll soon switch this back around,” he warned. “Stop worrying and fuck me, Arin. You won’t—can’t—hurt me.”
I wanted to, but what if I did hurt him?
“You recall the time you struck me? A backhand to the face? You remember how I looked at you, how I smiled? I want the pain, I want it. So fucking give it to me, like I know you want to, like you’ve always wanted to. You have it in you to brutally fuck me, Arin.”
I remembered that slap well. Remembered it like it was moments ago. I’d struck him to prove I hated him, and he’d liked it.
I hooked his thighs over my forearms and thrust my hips forward, sinking my cock deep into his tight grip. A bolt of pleasure snapped down my back, stuttering my breath and emptying my head of all thought. Lark threw his head back, mouth open, as though in a silent cry. He clutched the sheets, and his flushed, straining cock leaked. I thrust again, driving into him, fighting the friction and slick tightness to stay buried.
“Yes,” he gasped, then threw me the most devastating smirk. “Fuck me harder, Prince of Flowers.”
I lost all reason then, and thrust balls-deep, burying myself in firm, muscular heat. Gods, he was so hard, I wanted to clutch his dick, pump him, but I had both his legs high, my cock so damned deep, pumping in perfect rhythm. He was right, it was easy, natural even.
A shudder ran through him, so perfect I had to capture it. I dropped his legs and fell forward, shifting the angle dangerously low, but somehow stayed buried inside. Then I scooped him up, sat him astride my lap, and clutched his ass, lifting him up and down my dick with his erection slick and rubbing between us.
He slumped close, hands on my shoulders, and let me set the pace. It was beautiful,hewas beautiful. I bowed my head and bit his shoulder. He hissed; his fingers dug in. I tipped him back and lowered his shoulders to the bed, with his ass still on my thighs, my cock buried at the perfect angle, and I had him. He gasped aloud. I knew that electric sensation racing up his spine because he’d done the same to me.
I rocked my hips, pumping between tight muscle, then pulled him upright again and kissed his mouth, his neck. He gasped and nipped at my mouth, my chin, wherever he could reach, mad with lust. And when I looked up, he was watching, always watching, peering into my eyes and riding my dick. Something wild passed between us in those glances, some brilliant part of us scorched together to form a connection. He loved me. I didn’t need to hear it, I saw it in his eyes, felt it in his quivering touch and trembling body.
