He knew, of a certainty, that fate had not granted his promised husband the easiest path in life. Bountiful and fine were the orchards of his kingdom, fields and gardens fairly teeming with every kind of life that could sprout, creep, fly, or crawl. It was not want that had shaped Caleb's people, nor Caleb himself, but loss. How he still and always would miss dear, cautious Thomas, and Samuel's bold, brave laughter. That truth had wended its way through their letters, a steady undercurrent in all Caleb had told him--their missives being the best way that he could--just how hard it had been, at first, to shed the long golden afternoon of boyhood for sudden total leadership. How he'd shouldered a kingdom without complaint, and had flourished under that responsibility: but just because he could do it, and indeed excelled at it, that did not make his task an easy one.
It was good, to remember and treasure these men he would now never get the chance to meet. To hold them close because his mate still did.
But they were very far from this bed.
And it was difficult to think at all, with Caleb's vows pressed close and gentle in his ear, hot enough to tickle his brain.
It was not his brain that hitched obligingly into the offered fingers, twitching and lively in the narrowing loop of his hand. Clevon was caught, drawn along faster, faster, coils of hot pleasure chased by his promised husband's fingers. Pleasure that only deepened for that long, low sound half-felt against his back, a hungry thrum too harsh to be a moan, but too low and rich for a growl.
Caleb throbbed against him in turn, almost in tandem, and Clevon found himself unable to keep still, instinct much stronger than sense dragging his hips up and back, and a devilish, contrary impulse pushing him to do it slowly, to rub up tight. To pleasure his mate.
He realized with a start, with a sharp, hungry puff of breath, that if it came down to it he would just as much enjoy getting his back painted--as long as alpha wanted that, too.
But as for feasting--oh--
He could hardly take it.
"Oh? Am I a custard, then?" It came out breathy, uneven. He didn't hold back a sharp, bright purr for being stroked. "Y'wish to devour me, m'lord?"
He bared his throat; he rolled his neck; he tried, valiantly, to roll his hips in that treacherous, perfect grip.
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It was good, to remember and treasure these men he would now never get the chance to meet. To hold them close because his mate still did.
But they were very far from this bed.
And it was difficult to think at all, with Caleb's vows pressed close and gentle in his ear, hot enough to tickle his brain.
It was not his brain that hitched obligingly into the offered fingers, twitching and lively in the narrowing loop of his hand. Clevon was caught, drawn along faster, faster, coils of hot pleasure chased by his promised husband's fingers. Pleasure that only deepened for that long, low sound half-felt against his back, a hungry thrum too harsh to be a moan, but too low and rich for a growl.
Caleb throbbed against him in turn, almost in tandem, and Clevon found himself unable to keep still, instinct much stronger than sense dragging his hips up and back, and a devilish, contrary impulse pushing him to do it slowly, to rub up tight. To pleasure his mate.
He realized with a start, with a sharp, hungry puff of breath, that if it came down to it he would just as much enjoy getting his back painted--as long as alpha wanted that, too.
But as for feasting--oh--
He could hardly take it.
"Oh? Am I a custard, then?" It came out breathy, uneven. He didn't hold back a sharp, bright purr for being stroked. "Y'wish to devour me, m'lord?"
He bared his throat; he rolled his neck; he tried, valiantly, to roll his hips in that treacherous, perfect grip.
"Or simply to take a bite?"