AllFreeNovel
Share Us
They stroked each other at first with a shared rhythm until they had driven each other so wild with passion that rhythm fell by the wayside and was replaced by senseless need. Sorin gave in to it, drowned in it, and pushed the depths of what he was feeling through the mate bond to let Bertram feel it, too, wanting him to know how good he felt and how good a lover Bertram was, to make Sorin come undone like this.
And what Sorin gave, he got in return.
Bertram pushed the depths of his own pleasure through their bond and straight into him in what could only be described as unending ecstasy. Pleasure not just in the body, but in the soul. Every inch of Sorin was burning with it, growing hotter and hotter until it really did feel like he was on fire. Smoldering for his dragon—for Bertram—yet still wanting more.
It was a relief when Bertram shoved off Sorin’s pants and underwear. Sorin tore off his own shirt, then fumbled with the buttons on Bertram’s until Bertram caught him by the wrists and guided Sorin’s arms up and around his neck.
Sorin did not question him.
He tightened his grip, and as he did, Bertram took him by the hips and pulled him forward, bringing Sorin to the very edge of the counter at an angle where his ass could be put to use. Pulse pounding in his ears, Sorin spread his thighs.
It felt like if he didn’t get Bertram’s cock inside of him right that second, he would die.
“Please.” The word came out paper-thin, but it served its purpose. Bertram’s thick cock slotted into the space between his legs and rubbed teasingly against his entrance, but didn’t yet push inside. Sorin groaned, wanting it badly, but in their current position with him up on the counter, there wasn’t anything he could do but wait for Bertram to take the lead.
“Why did you stop?” he asked, and looked up to find that Bertram’s face had been stripped of all emotion. The only hint remaining was the dark desire in his eyes. “Bertram?” Sorin asked cautiously. “What’s wrong?”
Bertram swallowed, then flicked his gaze up to meet Sorin’s eyes.
“You’re wet,” he said in quiet astonishment, and flexed his hips to demonstrate, running his cock through the slick between Sorin’s legs. “Sorin… you’re going into heat.”
22
Sorin
Five hundred years ago, a young Sorin had woken in a dragon’s lair and discovered slick between his thighs. It had been early—the sun had just barely crested the horizon, turning the black night sky a stormy gray—and the dragon beside him had yet to stir. He wasn’t the heaviest sleeper, but the way he was breathing slow and deep had given Sorin hope he wouldn’t wake when the mattress shifted as he inched out of bed.
Still, he moved carefully.
Slowly.
By the time his feet hit the floor, minutes had passed, and it had started to rain. What started as a gentle pattering gained force as Sorin crept across the room, and when he arrived at his intended destination—the window—it was raining so hard, it sounded as though they were under siege. Thunder rolled in the distance, and Sorin felt a flash of fear.
Would the dragon wake?
He glanced nervously over his shoulder at the bed, but the dragon in it only stirred, grumbling and rolling over, dragging the bedsheets with him.
Sorin let out the breath he’d been holding, then turned back to face the window. Before him stretched the village, its peasants already out working, their routines unaffected by the rain. They were no bigger than ants from up this high, and may as well have been for how different their lives were from Sorin’s. What he wouldn’t give to be out there with them, drenched from the storm and angry about it, furious over some new condition of his peonage, and yet at the end of the day, free to retire to his own bed where he could keep the company he wanted, and then sleep, escaping into dreams where he might one day escape his provincial life.
He was not foolish enough to dream such things now.
Numbly, he redirected his gaze from the village to his immediate surroundings. Below him there was nothing—no other roof to jump to, no conveniently placed rampart walkway—just a straight drop to the castle grounds a dizzying distance below.
Thunder crashed.
Sorin did not stop staring. His hands tightened on the stone windowsill.
Heat pulsed between his legs and began to gain strength inside of him, tendrils of it teasing the back of his mind with notions of things he didn’t want. Would never want.
It made him want to be sick.
Why wouldn’t they listen to him?
The screaming was real, and it would not leave him be.
He didn’t have the strength to go through it again.
Mouth dry, pulse pounding in his ears, he’d gripped the sill until his knuckles went white and the world had gone blurry from unshed tears. It would be quick, he told himself as he set his knee on the window ledge, and it would be so much better than staying here and having a clutch taken from him again.
