Clevon blinked up at him a moment, pinned in place by the glory of that display, before scrabbling backward like his maiden aunt in search of modesty.
Really he was trying to get his wits under him over the roar of his pulse, heart going like furnace bellows to work even more blood into the iron-hot juncture of his legs. His rescuer was speaking to him, low and pleasant and seasoned with gentle concern, as though trying to steady him.
This must be Caleb; this was Caleb, the words Darius dead and already promised having lanced through the haze of desire that had Clevon staring, riveted.
He licked his lips. Speech was difficult, with such a vision arrayed before him. Caleb had the taller, somewhat narrower, lissome frame of the lowlands, a bowstring kind of strength that must be fearsome, and the features Clevon knew from their letters, from the betrothal drawings.
The sketches were a solid likeness, but, oh, in other ways they'd utterly failed to take the measure of the man.
"Gods," softly. And then he tried it again, louder, definite. "Gods. It really is you." The words were small and hot, gritty with awed desire: "My husband."
He felt heat climbing his skin, wondered if the flush were visible. He was no newcomer to the game of love, but that was before he'd flowered, and only ladies had been his companions. He'd known what to do, sure; how to kiss where it wouldn't show, for a start.
And after he'd presented--well, he knew what his own four knuckles were for, but. This was off limits to him, maiden's parts untouched and only for his husband.
Caleb made a divot in the mattress where he sat, and it sloped them together a little as he slid his hand--oh, up to part his legs and curled two fingers into him.
Clevon pushed to meet him with a short, hard cry of utter want, feeling it shape his mouth, high and round. Stars and sun. He could feel where he was tugging on Caleb's knuckles, trying to draw him further in.
"Please," was the form it took, swaying into his hand, into the roll of Caleb's palm, into the thrust of his fingers, "please, please--"
So that was how it felt, the lightest touch to that sharp, prodding little bud like fire, like golden flame inside him. And his husband was so careful with him, but quick and sure, in firm, steady strokes.
Clevon clenched rigid on a shudder in his thighs and rippled, inside, on his hand with a bright, hard joyous cry.
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Really he was trying to get his wits under him over the roar of his pulse, heart going like furnace bellows to work even more blood into the iron-hot juncture of his legs. His rescuer was speaking to him, low and pleasant and seasoned with gentle concern, as though trying to steady him.
This must be Caleb; this was Caleb, the words Darius dead and already promised having lanced through the haze of desire that had Clevon staring, riveted.
He licked his lips. Speech was difficult, with such a vision arrayed before him. Caleb had the taller, somewhat narrower, lissome frame of the lowlands, a bowstring kind of strength that must be fearsome, and the features Clevon knew from their letters, from the betrothal drawings.
The sketches were a solid likeness, but, oh, in other ways they'd utterly failed to take the measure of the man.
"Gods," softly. And then he tried it again, louder, definite. "Gods. It really is you." The words were small and hot, gritty with awed desire: "My husband."
He felt heat climbing his skin, wondered if the flush were visible. He was no newcomer to the game of love, but that was before he'd flowered, and only ladies had been his companions. He'd known what to do, sure; how to kiss where it wouldn't show, for a start.
And after he'd presented--well, he knew what his own four knuckles were for, but. This was off limits to him, maiden's parts untouched and only for his husband.
Caleb made a divot in the mattress where he sat, and it sloped them together a little as he slid his hand--oh, up to part his legs and curled two fingers into him.
Clevon pushed to meet him with a short, hard cry of utter want, feeling it shape his mouth, high and round. Stars and sun. He could feel where he was tugging on Caleb's knuckles, trying to draw him further in.
"Please," was the form it took, swaying into his hand, into the roll of Caleb's palm, into the thrust of his fingers, "please, please--"
So that was how it felt, the lightest touch to that sharp, prodding little bud like fire, like golden flame inside him. And his husband was so careful with him, but quick and sure, in firm, steady strokes.
Clevon clenched rigid on a shudder in his thighs and rippled, inside, on his hand with a bright, hard joyous cry.