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Overcome by lust, he dragged Bertram forward by the ass, forcing him into a sharp thrust that made their bodies crash together. Panting and only half aware of what he was doing, Sorin grinded desperately on the cock stuffing him, clenching harder, milking faster, begging to be bred.
It didn’t take long until his hard work paid off.
Bertram, who had been moving his hips in short, sharp bursts, made a ragged noise and grabbed Sorin by the waist. His movements became erratic. Purposeful. And then with a groan, he pushed as deeply inside of Sorin as he could and held himself there as his cock twitched and throbbed. A rush of hot cum shot out of it.
Out of it, and into Sorin.
So much, Sorin could feel it inside of him.
But still, he wanted more.
Crying out, he clamped his thighs around Bertram’s hips and fucked himself on Bertram’s cock as it emptied into him. How had he lived without this? Not just the sex, but the way it made him feel.
Like he was wanted and desired.
Like he was safe.
“Knot me,” he breathed, feeling his own pleasure begin to pulsate inside of him. “Knot me and make me come.”
Bertram gasped and kissed him hard and, with a final thrust, pushed himself deep and let his knot swell, locking them in place.
“I love you,” Bertram told him breathlessly, nipping Sorin’s lip, then kissing along Sorin’s jawline as his cock kept pulsing, emptying his balls into Sorin. “I love you and I will protect you always, my perfect lover. My wytad. My mate.”
It was everything Sorin wanted to hear, and what he’d feared he would never hear again—that despite everything, he was still loved and wanted. That he had not been written off as the villain he’d pretended to be.
“I will never let them take you,” Bertram vowed. His knot limited his movement, but he thrust steadily into Sorin as best he could, rubbing his knot so it bumped repeatedly against the spot inside of Sorin that made him see stars. Whimpering, Sorin came hard, and Bertram caught his mouth in a sloppy kiss that brought their tongues back together.
Sorin, out of his mind with pleasure, kissed back.
He never wanted this to end.
“You are mine,” Bertram told him through breaks in the kiss, “and mine alone. Not theirs. Never theirs. All mine. I will find a way to keep you with me. To give you everything. You will never have to be without me again.”
“What about the council?” Sorin asked as the kiss finally broke. Bertram continued to work his knot in slow, predictable patterns, but the pleasure was starting to fade now, and Sorin was quickly regaining his senses. “Sebastian will tell your father you helped me and that you have me in your custody. They’ll know you’re a traitor who turned his back on his kind.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Bertram said simply. He did not seem overly concerned.
“Bertram.”
“What?” Bertram chuckled and kissed the tip of Sorin’s nose. “I’ll take care of it, love. It shan’t be the first disaster I’ve talked my way out of.”
“Is that so?” Sorin’s expression hardened. “You seem awfully confident, so I take it you must already have a plan in mind. Do you mind sharing what, exactly, you plan on doing to talk your way out of having committed treason?”
“I will talk to my father,” Bertram said, “and I will tell him I caught you and did what I had to do to keep you alive so you could be tried before the council, but unfortunately, before I could bring you to them, you escaped.”
“And do you think he’ll believe you?”
“Yes,” Bertram said, but although he spoke confidently, the years had made him soft—he was no longer as talented as he had been at spinning a lie into a truth, and Sorin saw right through him. But some lies were better left unchallenged.
Sorin said nothing.
He would simply enjoy the happiness he had while he still had it, and cling to the hope that maybe—somehow—everything really would be all right.
19
Bertram
Grimbold was seated in a wingback chair, facing away from the door, when Bertram let himself into the elder Drake’s study later that night. The room was dark, lit solely by a crackling fire in its hearth, and smelled of tobacco. A cigar butt was the culprit. It had been snuffed and discarded into an ashtray by Grimbold’s side.
