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Damen’s fleet had been ready to decamp the ports at Arles, but like so many times before, he found his plans at the mercy of Laurent’s whims. He was in the banquet hall dining on a lunch of bread and meats when Laurent had interrupted him to discuss tactical strategy regarding the development of an alternative council, since Laurent still had a number of months until his coronation. They were weeding out families with alliances to the regency and their subsequent connections by marriage when Nikandros came in to inform Damen the sails were hoisted in preparation for departure. They would be expecting him in the next half hour for boarding.
“No,” said Laurent, sipping water from a silver goblet.
“I beg your pardon, your highness?” replied Nikandros.
“Shall I reiterate in your native tongue?” He returned to his notes not sparing Nikandros even a glance. “You and your fleet may not depart Arles until we return from Ver-Kindt. King Damianos is required at Skarva.”
Damen was expected to take a small retinue of Akielon representatives for peace treaty negotiations in the Vaskian capital. It was considered a suitable meeting point being that King Torgier of Patras would be in attendance in addition to the Vaskian court. They would rendezvous with Vannes in Ver-Vassel and arrive at Skarva within the fortnight.
“Should I leave you in charge of my appointment diary for the foreseeable future?” Damen quipped. “Perhaps you could tell me what to pack.”
Laurent ignored him in favor of focusing on a particularly interesting portion of his notes, but Damen saw a wry smile on his lips.
***
Their meeting with Vannes had gone smoothly. As Vere’s delegate, she had been on a tour of the clans to lay the initial bedrock for harmony under Laurent’s rule, a reign that promised to be less conditional than that of the Regent. She and Laurent had talked for hours in private. Damen at first considered why he was not present, but soon realized that he hadn’t any right to confidential Veretian policy besides what Laurent offered to him as his confidante. If his opinion was needed, Laurent would surely ask.
He spent the day overlooking his own plans, gathering materials, and sorting proposals. When he got hungry, he ate with his company, who were happily talking with Laurent’s Veretian retinue. On the way back to his quarters, he came across Talik, who was fetching Vannes from Laurent’s tent. She looked well, and was pleased to see him. Before Vannes's departure, he had found a friend in Talik, who taught him important phrases in the dialects of each Vaskian province. Although he was far from fluent, he promised himself he would not return to Vask without being able to converse with the common people.
They said goodbye and Damen arrived back at his tent to find it was already occupied. “You have very poor handwriting,” said Laurent, who was standing, uninvited, behind his table, shifting through his papers. He looked fresh even after many hours of consultation.
Damen stepped through the threshold. “I would often skip my lessons. I was always better at sport.”
Laurent smirked. He had found something interesting, and was scanning it with his finger. After a moment, he gave up, and folded the documents away. “I am bored,” he said.
That was how Damen found himself blindfolded and being led by clanswomen toward the Vaskian camp. Laurent had steered him to a small circle of trees north of their encampment, where the women were waiting for them. Of course Laurent was not merely bored. This had been planned, and was not simply the capriciousness of a princeling’s fancy. Damen wondered if he should have brought his notes.
Like their previous journey, he could easily track their direction by the terrain underneath his feet, and he said as much to Laurent, who he knew was beside him by his soft breath and the brush of his arm. “I told you before,” Laurent said as they slipped over uneven ground, “it is a sign of respect.”
“Your specialty, of course,” Damen said, and Laurent chuckled faintly.
Their point of access made the trip to the camp slightly more grueling than the last, but when they arrived and the blindfolds were removed, they saw the welcoming signs of lit campfires and servants roasting meats. Laurent abandoned Damen to approach Halvik, who sat, severe, on the dais. He sat down beside her, never disowning his controlled air of regality. Damen followed after him, and, recalling the customs, dropped to his knees in front of the dais.
Halvik’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline, and Laurent began to laugh uncontrollably, shoulders shaking, hand reaching up to cover his mouth. He always did find Damen’s disadvantages extremely amusing. “Your Akielon forgets his station,” Halvik observed, face relaxing into a more bemused expression. Of course a King would not kneel.
Laurent collected himself. “He enjoys being on his knees,” he said, looking squarely at Damen. Already embarrassed, Damen grew hot under his gaze. “Perhaps you would like to sit beside me on the ground, as before.” Damen rolled his eyes, stood to his full height, and ascended the dais, sitting squarely beside Laurent and taking every inch of space left.
They did not acknowledge Damen after that, slipping into quiet conversation that he could not hear. He presumed Laurent was concocting a labyrinthian scheme to unfold at Skarva, and frankly, he hadn’t the energy for it at present. He watched the seats beside the fire fill gradually as women emerged from tents around the perimeter of the camp. When Damen heard the thrumming of drums and faint music, the attendants began to serve refreshments.
A young woman with tanned skin and dark hair approached him and offered him a cup. He hadn’t planned for the night to take this direction, but he was suddenly jittery with nerves he couldn’t place. He noticed Laurent was paying him no attention, and accepted the cup gratefully. One sip of the hakesh, and he felt the alcohol course through him. He drank very slowly.
Some time later, Laurent turned to him. “Halvik wishes to know if you will lend your,” he paused, “talents to the coupling fire.” The end was clipped off, dismissed by Laurent’s furrowed brow. Damen was already feeling the stirring effects of the hakesh and found he wanted to accept.
“And you, highness,” Halvik added, nodding admiringly at Laurent. They both turned to her, surprised. “After witnessing your prowess against the Regency at Marlas, you have impressed my girls.” She scanned Laurent’s body clinically. “You have proven size to be inconsequential.” An attendant called her attention and she turned from them, lifting her finger in apology.
At this, Damen tried to choke back his laughter, but failed. Laurent purpled with embarrassment and his back stood stiff as a board. “At least I don’t have to stoop to walk through doors,” he sneered at Damen.
Damen could not calm his laughter. “Watch your tongue, your highness,” he teased, easing his sputtering breaths. “I could have you hanged for treason.”
“How barbaric.” Laurent softened. He looked at Damen, who was in a very good mood, and noticed his cup. “Are you planning to perform?” He asked, gesturing to the hakesh.
Damen shrugged ambivalently. “It is warming. It calms the senses.” He examined the cup in his hand, it was less than half full. “I will not have much.”
Laurent called to a clanswoman for a cup, and demanded she leave the entire jug of hakesh on the dais.
Damen warned him, “I would not recommend—“
“What? Perhaps I mean to participate,” Laurent said, in jarring but skillful Akielon—this was a private conversation— as the attendant poured his glass full of the milky liquid.
“Surely not,” Damen scoffed.
Laurent froze. “And why is that?” his words were venomous.
“I didn’t—“
“You do not need the height of an elephant and a barrel cock to produce worthy offspring.” He scanned the camp while holding his cup like a weapon, “Who do you recommend? You have had Kashel, have you not?”
“Laurent…”
“Or do you think I won’t be able to control myself? I assure you, cur, I won’t lay my filthy Veretian hands on you.” Realization flooded over Damen and his concern dissipated—the sudden anger, the private language: this was a game. Laurent licked his lips and narrowed his eyes. “Do you dare me?” he goaded.
Damen wouldn’t budge. “Absolutely not.”
“Dare me, you heathen,” he snapped. “you brute, barbarian.”
“Do what you will, your highness,” Damen taunted.
“Coward.”
Laurent’s eyes were alight and Damen could not help but bark a laugh at the lengths Laurent would go to to win a match. He was almost certain the next insult would be prince-killer. Damen noted how the fire played in shadows against the light of his hair, and danced across his white cheek. He decided winning wasn’t worth the effort. Damen bowed his head in mock defeat and dropped his voice down to a whisper. He leaned over Laurent’s ear. “I dare you.”
Laurent’s mouth slunk into a serpentine grin. He brought the cup to his lips and drained it, shivering slightly as the last drop slipped down his throat. He contemplated the drink, as if weighing its flavor profile. He poured another glass. “When does it reach full potency?” he asked.
Damen shrugged. “It lasts a while,” he said.
***
Damen noticed the supple change in Laurent’s body as he became pliant under the stirring effects of the alcohol, and that was the precise moment Laurent decided to ignore him completely. He turned his back to Damen, resuming his discussion with Halvik. Damen looked out over the camp and realized that sitting on the dais was actually quite boring. Women and a handful of men were dancing around the fires, eating roasted meats, and drinking vast amounts of hakesh. Beyond the fires he could see clanswomen oiling themselves and donning sheer fabrics in preparation for the coupling fire.
Damen descended the dais and walked toward the second fire. He could feel Laurent’s eyes on his back, but that only emboldened him. He was stopped before the second fire by a group of women who lavished him with their fingers and soft scarves they draped against the uncovered skin of his neck and hands. He was brought over to a soft pile of furs, where several other women awaited. Before he sat, one of the attendants bolted over, carrying a pillow, which he placed under himself for cushioning.
As the night continued, he told the women stories of his early battles, intriguing them as he relayed the hubris of the youth he once was. They gathered around him intently, stroking his arms and feeding him bits of bread with spiced oil. Every so often he would catch a glimpse of Laurent’s lissome form through the dancing flames. Damen was stunned to see that he too had stepped off the dais, and was conversing loosely with three dark women. Laurent’s ease with the women made something churn inside Damen like a water wheel.
He noticed then that Laurent was looking back at him curiously, pellucid eyes shining at him even from a distance. He tipped his cup, which sat like liquid in his hand, at Damen in salute and returned to his exchange.
While Damen’s mind had wandered, the women in his company had grown restless. One of the women had retrieved heated oils which they began to sensuously rub into his wrists and forearms. He hesitated. Things were progressing more rapidly than he anticipated. He looked across the fire for Laurent and was astonished to find him similarly occupied. He wondered if this was part of the game. Laurent had shown at Nesson that he could play a part. It all seemed to be a dig at Damen—for what, he did not know. As much as he tried to understand him, Damen could never predict Laurent’s next move.
One of the women, Matve, who had fetched the oils, stepped forward. She pressed herself against Damen’s body, whispering soft, sybaritic words to him that he could only half understand. She reached to part his shirt, but he stilled her.
“Not here,” he requested. There was something distasteful to Damen about enjoying another with Laurent only just across the fire. They had not touched, except for handshakes and traditional obeisances, since Ravenel. He searched again for Laurent across the fire, but found he had disappeared. He imagined that Laurent’s companions had ushered him to a tent. He might not see him again until morning. Damen felt a pang in his chest that sent shocks to his nerve endings.
Matve, while Damen was occupied, had banished the other women with nothing more than a fierce word. She was clearly alpha among the group. Perhaps she was of high rank. He meant to ask her if she was a member of Halvik’s court when she practically pounced on him, pushing him down. Damen immediately tensed, hands scrambling to find purchase on the ground below.
The focused expression he’d seen as she massaged him had shifted to something fiercely coquettish. She was on him, using every trick in her arsenal to win Damen’s affection. She pouted and batted her eye lashes. Damen noticed she was attractive, as most of the women he encountered in Vask. She had dark skin and hair, an athletic body, and he could not ignore the pert swell of her chest. The hakesh was incredibly potent.
He should have no trouble bedding her at the coupling fire, but when she slid her hands along his chest, once again making to unlace his shirt, he stopped her with a gentle hand. “I— no,” he said, grasping her shoulder in condolence, “I cannot.”
Her face twisted with displeasure. “But you do not go to him,” she said.
Her rebuttal was sound, and Damen found that he had no negation. “I’m sorry,” he said, moving out from underneath her, “I have been contrary, I know.”
This, for her, was not an adequate response. She stood, body tensed as if ready for combat. She opened her mouth, probably to fling abuse, but a voice came from behind, stopping her dead, mouth snapping shut like a turtle. It was Laurent. “The King has spoken,” he pronounced. Damen reddened fiercely, wondering how much of their conversation Laurent had heard. Laurent was placid, yet his accent vicious and biting. “If he finds himself in need of a toothless back-alley whore, we shall surely call for your services. As the night is yet young, you may crawl back to the hole you sprang from.”
Her jaw clenched and to their surprise, she began to scream at Laurent. Her accent was thick, but Damen recognized enough to know that such words against the prince would warrant certain execution in Vere. It was like watching a feral cat and a disinterested lion fight over the same mouse. He interfered before this woman spurred Laurent into one of his moods. “Stand down,” he said, “and all is forgiven.” She managed to spit out a few more alarming phrases before turning her back on them and storming to the nearest tent.
Damen said, “Her name is Matve, if you would like to press punishment.”
Laurent was laughing. He waved Damen off with a limp wrist. “I thought she was charming,” he chuckled. “She has a talent for insults.”
“You should swap notes,” Damen said.
The fire had flourished as the sun fully set, shooting up in a celestial blaze. Some of the attendants had abandoned their duties and were now dancing around the fires, the music getting louder with each drum beat. For a moment Damen basked in this. He dreamed he was a common soldier in Laurent’s troupe, the barracks in Arles his ultimate destination. It was easy to momentarily forget his duties in Akielos, to imagine himself as one of Laurent’s company, meant to follow his commander ceaselessly, and with pride. But he and Laurent would both feel the heavy weight of a King’s mantle soon enough.
Laurent looked dazed. His fierce, spitting nature from moments before seemed to expressly be an act of strong will, and he was now glassy eyed and staring blissfully at the fire. If Damen tracked his body, and noticed a slight side to side sway in time with the beating drums. He was only slightly worried Laurent would fall down. “How do you feel?” he asked, placing a hand on Laurent’s shoulder to steady him.
“Fine. Warm,” he replied, smoothly.
Laurent’s eyes dropped down to his hands. The women had rolled up Damen’s sleeves to just below his elbows and Laurent was consumed with the glint of the fire against the gleaming gold on his left wrist. Damen had almost forgot it was there. Moments like these with Laurent seemed increasingly improbable. They were too often fighting, too busy playing games to ever speak honestly. The look in Laurent’s eyes made Damen feel perversely sentimental.
“What are you thinking of?” he asked, gently.
“Splitting myself open on your cock.”
Damen froze. Laurent seemed unaffected by Damen’s shock, simply raising his eyebrows and beckoning an attendant over. Damen couldn’t speak. He was absolutely searing.
“We shall not be participating in the coupling fire this evening,” Laurent said evenly to the attendant, who looked dispirited at the news. “Bathe and dress him,” he ordered, “Then deliver him to my tent.”
***
Damen’s heart thrummed nervously. The suspense sent implacable tingling sensations across the surface of his skin. He had been bathed, the attendants seamlessly working around his burgeoning arousal. They had dressed him in a thin tunic that fastened down the front and fell just below his knees. He wore nothing underneath. The places where the fabric touched his skin were alight, partly due to the dizzying effects of the hakesh and partly the recollection of Laurent’s prurient proposition.
He was led to a large tent with height enough to stand in. It was different than the long low tents he had gotten used to. Damen wondered whether there were different types of lodging for various occasions, or perhaps it depended on rank, or even what happened to be available at the time. He found that it didn’t matter and he was simply searching for excuses not to think about what was to happen when he stepped inside.
As the flap swung open, he was greeted with warmth from a small pit of hot coals that sat to his right. The tent was luxurious, piled with woven carpets and an elaborate bed nested with furs. There was a table in the back with refreshments, and, Damen could see, assorted phials of perfumed oils. At this he crimsoned, prickling with anticipation. And in the center, most spectacularly, was Laurent, surrounded by two attendants who rubbed oil into his hands and forearms. He was wearing a tunic in the same style as Damen’s, except in an austere black, which intensified his pale skin. Damen was staring.
“Well?” said Laurent to Damen’s handlers, “Prepare him.” There was something in his eyes Damen could not place. Something very unlike himself. The characteristic tension was present but there was a fiery darkness in his eyes.
Damen remembered the motions, the preparation of the women around the fire and his heart started to beat rapidly. He desperately tried to keep his eyes away from Laurent but found himself weak. Laurent on the other hand was frozen, staring willfully in front of him, forcibly ignoring the hands tracing over him, delicately, smoothing the scented oil into his skin. The attendants were more clinical this time around, now that there was no promise of enjoying either of them.
There is only so long you can feel eyes on you and avoid acknowledgement. Damen knew Laurent felt his eyes on him and was forcing himself not to look back, but eventually the strain overwhelmed Laurent and his eyes darted over.
There is something to be said for a private moment between two people who lock eyes across a room, whether it is a shared secret, a joke, boredom, or even commiseration. In this case it was a complicated history, rife with betrayal and conflicting sentiment. Damen could rarely read what was in Laurent’s eyes. Knowing the way his mind worked, Damen doubted he would ever have answers. As he peered into them, they were dark like liquid cobalt, and the air instantly hung heavy. Laurent swallowed thickly and turned his head away.
Damen was growing warm. The oils smelled musky and deep with traces of cinnamon and frankincense. Once the women were finished with his legs, they unfastened the front of his tunic, baring his chest, stomach, thighs, and cock, which was showing signs of interest. Nudity did not humiliate or stir him; it was common in Akielos. But when Laurent turned his head back on him and looked, he shivered. To have Laurent’s crystalline eyes rake his body was heady. He felt vulnerable, and powerful.
Laurent became suddenly, almost comically aware of the women at his feet. He peered down at them seriously, as if he was forming a detailed critique of their performance to be submitted at the end of the night. Damen could see the nerves pulsing through him, and suddenly became worried. One of the women had just finished massing the skin of his knees and calves, and slowly lifted the edge of the tunic to pay her attentions to his thigh.
As if in slow motion, Damen saw Laurent flinch. “Do not touch me,” he spat. The attendants were in shock and hesitantly ceased their duties. The young woman who had been focusing on Laurent’s legs and feet spoke to him softly, that Damen did not hear, and reached to finish her task. He yanked his body away, balefully. “Get out,” he snarled, “Get out now.”
Laurent fled to the back of the tent where he caved over and gripped the edge of the table that had been stocked with oils for their coupling. Damen was quick to action. He closed his tunic and ushered all of the attendants, who looked both confused and guilt-ridden, out of the tent with apologies. “Quickly,” Laurent ordered, still bent over the table.
He quickly shut the tent flap and faced Laurent. “What is going on?” he demanded. He could hear Laurent’s irregular breathing.
“Oh, you do ask ceaseless questions.”
“Laurent—“
“Shut up!”
Laurent turned and charged as if to fight. He lunged at Damen, but instead of a blow, there were his hands gripping Damen’s shoulders, and his face twisted with desperation. “I want you,” he said, and he pushed Damen to the floor. Damen fell badly on his hip and moved to soothe it, but Laurent was on him, straddling him, plying him with bruising touches on his chest and arms.
Damen’s breathing came in addled spurts, too overcome by Laurent’s relentless ministrations. He placed vicious kisses to Damen’s neck, nipping the flesh there. Damen felt Laurent’s teeth scrape along his jaw as his hands roamed and dug into the flesh of Damen’s back. He felt himself growing hard under Laurent’s body, the slim line of him aligning their cocks and rutting them together. Damen let a groan escape his lips.
“Laurent,” he said.
Laurent sat up and looked at him wildly, lips red and swollen from kissing. “That woman,” he said, “at the fire.” He reached his hand from behind Damen and began palming himself through his tunic, slowly, arousal thickening. “She wanted to fuck you, but you’re mine.”
He was fully hard now, lifting the fabric up around his waist, baring himself to Damen, who had forgotten how to breathe. Laurent stroked himself once, twice, and then bent over Damen, whispering hotly in his ear. “I want her to hear you lose control under my hand, to hear me scream when you’re deep inside me.” Laurent thrust against him, making low sounds in the back of his throat. “I want your mouth,” he said. “I want your fingers fucking me raw while you tongue my cock. I want—“
In that moment, it was as if Damen had been snatched at the root. He was jerked back to reality with the swiftness of an oncoming stampede. “Laurent!” He gripped Laurent’s upper arms, holding him off. “Stop this, you are not in your right mind.”
Laurent looked stricken. It was true that Laurent never did anything without motive, but for whatever Laurent had planned, he had not expected this. He immediately stiffened and clenched his jaw. He eased off of Damen and covered himself. His face was cold, mouth pinched into a thin line.
“Laurent, I did not mean…“ He broke off, Laurent turned his back on Damen. “Tomorrow—“
“I understood your meaning,” Laurent said. He poured himself a cup of wine from the table and drank. “Am I no longer pleasing, now that you have risen above the rank of fuck-starved bed slave? I suppose you would blame me for that as well. Only once every ten years, as they say.”
Damen took a deep breath. “Let us speak tomorrow.”
“Fuck off.”
Damen spurred at this. “You are drunk off your mind and behaving like a child,” he backfired.
“Oh, that’s right, I almost forgot,” said Laurent feigning ignorance. “You don’t fuck boys.” He tossed his empty cup on the floor. He hit each consonant hard enough to chink armor. “What a noble savage you are.”
“I know what your next move is, so I suggest you save your interruptions. My only question is, why are you doing this? I am not your adversary. I will not stand in the ring and fight you until we are both bloody to the hilt.” Damen scrubbed his hands across his face. “Say what you will, and I will stand here and take it. But remember, Laurent, I am not your enemy.”
Laurent’s cold expression changed shape into something mournful, like a pebble dropped into still water.
“Why do you not just leave?”
The words washed over Damen and pierced him cleanly. He did not mean the tent. There were things Damen understood— Laurent’s pain, his anger, the tip of his sword pressed against Damen’s throat. And then there were moments like this that were more terrifying than hate. Hate was simple. Laurent stood in front of him, so beautifully irreconcilable, with pleading eyes and rejection on his lips. Words hung in the air, unsaid, words that begged Please. I cannot ask you to stay.
Laurent looked feeble, and actually a little green. He swayed back and forth minutely, the way he had at the fire, except this time there were no drums to direct his beat. Damen saw that he was falling, faint. He reached out to catch him. He held Laurent only for a moment, before he went taut in Damen’s arms. He pushed himself away, forcefully, stumbling towards the bed.
“I am sick of talk,” he said, finally. He flung himself down loosely, face turned away and pressed into the pelts. Damen wondered if he should help him, arrange him in the covers. The coals steaming behind him made his skin sticky hot. “If you value your life and your kingdom at all,” Laurent said, “You will not be here when I wake up.”
***
Damen stirred in the early grey of morning, just before the sun. Unfortunately, a night of fitful sleep had done nothing to ease the nervous knots in his stomach.
He had removed himself from Laurent’s quarters as quickly as possible. Despite Laurent’s threats, he was worried, and wanted to stay, but he would not deprive Laurent of privacy when he inevitably woke, most likely in a stupor. After making sure he was asleep, Damen had left him. The air outside had cooled dramatically as the wind picked up, whistling through the mountains, stinging his body with its lashes. He felt stripped bare.
Damen had wandered the camp until he came across Halvik and two attendants he recognized from Laurent’s tent. They chatted briefly and she ordered one of the girls to show him where he may rest for the night. The girl led him to a tent, similar in size to Laurent’s, positioned directly opposite from his, across the expanse of the camp.
Once inside, he immediately walked to a low table to pour himself a cup of water from a jug there, and noticed this tent, like Laurent’s, was also equipped for men’s pleasure. He studied the small bottles of oil and realized the attendant had followed him into the tent. She hovered, awkwardly, asking if there was anything else he needed. He glanced at the phial in his hand and understood her meaning.
He felt suddenly exhausted. He brought his hands to his face and massaged the space between his eyes. “No,” he said. “Nothing else.”
Some time after, Damen had settled on the furs, his mind grasping for anchor. Sleep had not come easily.
This morning he took pleasure burrowing in the furs, thankful for the luxury after last night’s trials. When Damen had first entered the tent the night before, he was surprised at the lavishness of the furs and linens—no longer a slave’s bed, but a King’s. He thought on the days to come, the endless negotiations. How could he envisage a peaceful coexistence between Vere and Akielos when he and Laurent were at constant odds? It all seemed far away and out of reach.
Lost in thought, Damen didn’t notice the flap of his tent swing open, that is, until he heard Laurent’s soft breath. Damen felt confusion and pleasure and a painful twisting sensation in his stomach that he couldn’t name. There he was, standing in the doorway of the tent. He had removed his tunic and was now back in constricting Veretian clothing. He was wearing a blue jacket, tightly laced except at the collar, where a thin white shirt poked out. He seemed essentially restored, unless you closely examined his face, which was drawn and even paler than normal. He looked very young. “It’s early,” Damen said, barely lifting his head up from his pile of furs.
Laurent grimaced in agreement. “I feel…” he trailed off. “Last night I was not myself.”
“Are you ill?” Damen asked, sitting up.
“I am better off than I expected to be.” Laurent briefly looked behind him, still holding the tent flap, and scanned the camp. None but them had yet risen. Damen couldn’t see his face, but he expected it was twisted in thought, when he noticed Laurent’s shoulders tense. Damen saw him abandon his natural impulse to flee and he stepped in slowly, slipping out of his shoes. He dropped the tent flap, and shut them both inside. Damen’s heart jerked momentarily as Laurent crawled over and settled on the furs, with carefully calculated space between them. He laid down on his back and closed his eyes.
“Even after all those sleepless nights discussing military tactics, I think this is the first time I’ve seen you look anything less than immaculate,” Damen remarked.
Laurent didn’t respond. He didn’t even open his eyes, only sighed vexedly. Damen laid back beside Laurent, shifting to his side to look at him. He could see the slight twitching of Laurent’s eyes under the opaque skin of his lid. He thought about the icy blue that would be underneath. Even at rest Laurent was never relaxed. It felt freeing to gaze at him like this, to drink in his cunning beauty in this private way. His pale skin gleamed in the twilight of the tent, adding contour to the shadow of his cheekbone, the dip of his under-eye. He looked terrible.
“I can feel you staring.” Laurent said, breaking Damen’s focused train of thought. “I am not made of porcelain. Do you worry that I am so easily broken?” Damen imagined he saw the slight upward curl of a smile on Laurent’s lips.
“Halvik was very disappointed you could not perform,” he said.
“She will forgive me, but I predict Matve and I shall be life-long enemies.”
Damen tried to suppress a laugh, but found himself failing spectacularly. “She practically ripped your hair from your scalp,” he sputtered. He then noticed the light shaking of Laurent’s torso. Laurent always laughed quietly, but passionately, with his entire body.
“An acceptable sanctioning,” he said, opening his eyes, blue and bright and full of mischief, as he turned his head toward Damen. “I suppose it would make me less recognizable if I again found myself jumping rooftops at Nesson-Eloy.” The chase flooded back to Damen in warm waves, the impossibility of that night: Laurent straddling a bench and eating from his fingers, Laurent sleeping soundly while his Akielon enemy tended the fire, Laurent wearing a drunk’s dirty old hat.
“Unnecessary, perhaps, if you were better at cards.”
“I am good at everything,” Laurent said with mock offense, dispelling the final reedy remnants of laughter. He inclined his head back to gaze at the ceiling, each motion carried out with characteristic regality, although surprising given his condition. A sudden silence fell over them. Damen remembered his first weeks on their journey to the border and how they had bathed in charged silences. He felt it even now, though Laurent was not the snake he had cast him as. He tried to silence the hot tightening in his chest. As he gazed at him, Damen could see the wheels turning in Laurent’s head and the pain it caused him, tension rippling through his body. It was endlessly frustrating. I… find it difficult to let go of control.
Laurent was very good at making himself miserable. He opened and closed his mouth several times over, letting the unspoken words weigh heavy and sink between them. “Auguste taught me to play chess, when I was quite young,” he finally said. “I practiced every day relentlessly. It was the only thing I ever bested him in.” He let out a plaintive laugh. “He had a great deal more fun playing than I did.” Laurent turned toward him and stiffened willfully. Damen wished he could soothe the words out with his hands. “Thank you, for…” Laurent gestured between them.
“I provoked you.” he replied, culpably.
Laurent curiously searched his face. “You know firsthand that I too often let my pride get the better of me.” There was something akin to an apology in his voice. His shrewd gaze really was overwhelming. “You’ve always had a talent for talking me off of ledges.”
“You were very close to jumping last night.”
“I shall be sure to push you first, to use as a landing cushion,” he smiled, “Barbarian.”
“Barbarian King,” Damen corrected, recklessly. He braced himself for a blow but when it did not come, he seized this impossible chance. He reached for Laurent’s hand and smoothed his fingers around it, through it, stroked his palm and the sensitive skin of his inner wrist. Laurent’s breath hitched. Damen dropped his voice down. “You are still technically a Prince. Does this make me your better?”
“Absolutely not.” Laurent studied the way Damen’s hands moved in slow circles across his skin, tickling him with feather light contact. He looked at Damen’s fingers the way he looked at everything, like a problem to be solved. “Your hands are very rough, for a King.”
“I am sorry.”
“I like it.”
Damen remembered Laurent’s uninhibited accusations from the previous night. He had been angry but it was unlike the cold, calculating anger Damen had seen in the baths at Arles, or in Aimeric’s cell at Ravenel. There was something wounded about it, like a frightened animal who bites the hand of its owner meanwhile dying of hunger. It was true Damen had not touched him. He had wanted to, but couldn’t.
“I never stopped—” Damen was conscious of the space between them, how they had drifted so close. In mere inches their lips would touch, and he could not bring himself to finish the sentence. He stilled his fingers. Laurent took back his hand.
Damen wanted to kiss him, had wanted to, every day since Ravenel, and long before. He felt his own breaths come shallow and quiet with want. Laurent pressed his hand tentatively, so slowly, to Damen’s chest.
“Unfortunately, not much remains of my liquid courage, as it were.”
Damen cautioned, “Do you still—“
“Want you? Yes,” Laurent’s hand dipped under Damen’s tunic and found skin. “Very much.” He noted Damen’s baffled expression, “You are surprised?”
Of course. Damen can’t help a breathless laugh. “Kiss me,” he said. Laurent did.
It was uncertain, like the kiss on the battlements, dry and chaste, with the inconceivable promise of more. Damen felt Laurent’s lips under his, and parted them. He kissed him again and again, bringing his hand to cup Laurent’s jaw. He was dizzy on the soft swell of Laurent’s bottom lip, now wet from his mouth, the cupids bow, and his vicious smile. He could just have this, it could just be this, just lips touching, careful space between their bodies, keeping them from crossing a bridge that was too quick to burn.
Even in his plussed responses, Laurent was austere with tension. Damen smoothed the hair out of Laurent’s face, stroking the soft tendrils down to the nape of his neck, kneading his fingers in, massaging there. When Laurent made a soft moan in the back of his throat, Damen knew it could never be just this. He had to have Laurent, to feel his body underneath his own, to know him in every way he could.
He kissed softly down his jaw to the sensitive skin of his neck, quickly unlacing the high collar of his jacket to expose his throat. He otherwise moved slowly, knowing that was how Laurent liked it. Their breaths were becoming more labored. Laurent removed the fastenings of Damen’s tunic and slipped it off his shoulders. He twined his hand around Damen’s neck as Damen lavished attention to the hollow of his throat. The other hand traced down Damen’s chest, brushing a nipple on the way to his taut stomach. Damen sucked in a breath and seized Laurent’s wandering hand.
“No,” he commanded. He kissed the soft flesh under Laurent’s thumb and down his palm. He lavished it with kisses, darting his tongue out over the creases of his inner wrist, lingering on the pulse point. Laurent propped himself on one elbow, with a look of dismay, as if it were mortifying to be the focus of such attentions. Damen sucked wetly on the pads of his fingers and stroked the thin skin between them. He kissed the groove between Laurent’s thumb and forefinger and then sucked the thumb gently in his mouth. Laurent fell back, brows furrowed and breath jagged. Damen slowed.
“Are you alright? Are you going to be sick?”
Laurent let out a sharp breath, that Damen surmised was a laugh at his concern, and closed his eyes. “No,” he said, “I am not ill.”
Damen let his eyes wander the tight line of Laurent’s body and discovered, no, he was indeed not ill. He could see, even through the thick, close-fitting clothing that Laurent was painfully aroused. Laurent flushed fiercely, pink with embarrassment. Damen only cupped his cheek and placed a merciful kiss to his lips.
“Who did your laces?” Damen urged.
Laurent rolled his eyes. “I am capable of dressing myself.”
Damen stilled him and said seriously, hovering over his mouth, “Never do it again.”
Laurent hesitated, and then nodded stiffly. Damen began to unlace the rest of his jacket and the sheer white shirt underneath. He wanted to trace every part of Laurent’s body with his tongue, drink in every inch of pale skin with his mouth, but found himself paralyzed. He hovered his lips over Laurent’s sternum and breathed feverishly, guiding him out of the clothing and into his arms.
He then unlaced Laurent’s trousers, pulling them off and tossing them across the tent.
Damen let his lips ghost over Laurent’s hard length which was pressed hotly to his clenching abdomen. When Damen finally took him in his mouth, he hissed, covering his eyes with his forearm. Damen was out of his mind at the soft jerks Laurent made under him and the quiet whimpers that issued with every labored breath. He wanted nothing more than to give Laurent pleasure, and for him to feel Damen’s desire through his touch.
Damen licked the full length of him from root to tip. He lapped around the head, took him deeper and deeper. Laurent gasped when he hit the back of Damen’s throat. Damen only swallowed around him. He could feel Laurent clench with worry and removed him from his mouth with a soft pop. Damen’s own breathing came sharply, as if he’d been running for a long time. Perhaps he had.
Damen nosed in the thatch of hair around Laurent’s cock, how it traveled down his inner thigh, to his most intimate place. He left his nose follow the trail of golden hair, and his tongue shortly after. He suckled the sac and pushed Laurent’s legs up and over his shoulders so that his knees framed Damen’s face and his feet found purchase on Damen’s back.
“What are you doing?” asked Laurent, voice thick and distant. Damen ignored him and trailed his tongue along the perineum to his hole, where he lapped in soft wet circles.
Laurent cried out. His feet dug into Damen’s back and his hands turned white where they clung to the furs underneath him. Damen didn’t dare cease his attentions. He probed the tight pucker of Laurent’s hole until he was inside, tongue-fucking him ceaselessly.
Laurent’s cries were like pained whimpers. The tension coursed through him, cresting in his shoulders as he arched his spine desperately. Damen felt him clench around his mouth. “Stop,” he pleaded.
Damen was yanked out of time, too caught up in the feeling of Laurent and the meaning of this shared experience. He sat up between Laurent’s legs, and saw that Laurent was again hiding his eyes behind his left forearm. Damen examined the ribbons of tension that pulsed within Laurent’s veins with every beat of his heart, in direct contrast to the steady leak of Laurent’s cock and the pool of arousal on his stomach.
“Laurent,” he said, kissing the damp skin of his inner thigh. “You are allowed to feel pleasure.”
Laurent trusted him, Damen knew. But he understood. This was dangerous.
Laurent removed his arm and gazed at him, uncertain. His eyes narrowed, and he became willful, steadfast in his resolve. He inclined his head in acquiescence. Damen continued slowly, like you would approach a wounded animal. He kissed lightly up Laurent’s thigh until he reached the crease of his hip. He just laid there and breathed. He wanted to say yes, to say feel this, and let go, but like Laurent, his impulses were contradictory.
He stirred. He closed his lips over the head of Laurent’s cock. He let Laurent lead, in steady, sinuous motions underneath him, guiding his own pleasure. He took him in as deep and as lazily as he could. Damen moved slowly, so slowly. He let his hands caress Laurent’s legs, moving up his stomach, and across his flushed, heaving chest, Damen’s own arousal pressing furtively into the bed. He was careful not to move. He pulled off momentarily to use the flat of his tongue to caress the base, and travel to the tip, where he tongued the slit. I remember what you like, Laurent had said.
Laurent was close. He moved under Damen, hips seeking contact. Damen consoled him then, and closed fully around him a final time, sucking unrelentingly. He felt his own eyes close as Laurent teetered on the edge of surrender. In that moment Laurent’s hands eased their tenuous grip on the bedclothes. Shaking, he lifted them up, threaded them through Damen’s hair, cupping his head gently. The emotion that pulsed through Damen as Laurent gave up control ached deep and burned behind his eyes. Laurent was releasing in hot spurts in Damen’s mouth. Damen swallowed.
He would give him anything. He felt huge and alive and tremendously dangerous.
As Laurent came down, Damen laid his cheek on the smooth jut of his hip, breathing wetly. His own arousal thrummed steadily as he placed kisses on any scrap of skin his mouth could reach. He looked up at Laurent, dying to see his face, and he pushed up over him, saw that his head was turned, mouth almost biting the mattress. Laurent returned his gaze. He looked sheepish, as if surprised by himself.
There was a comfortable quiet between them. Damen kissed back up Laurent’s body, sternum, neck, then jaw, until he was at his mouth. Damen bent down to take his lips but Laurent evaded the kiss, jerking his face away.
“How could—“ the end was bitten off. “Do you enjoy that?”
Damen stilled. “Of course,” he replied, cautiously. “Feel.”
Damen rolled himself against Laurent’s hip; it sparked a fire, hot in his belly. He buried his face in Laurent’s neck and moaned. Laurent, with newfound conviction, reached around his back and held him there. Soon, Damen was rocking into him, dangerously close to his own release. He slowed, not wanting to this to end so swiftly, and kissed Laurent who, this time, surrendered his mouth readily. He couldn’t stop kissing him, slowly and deeply, whispering his name over and over. Laurent reached down and palmed him with light, aching teases.
“Take me,” he sighed.
Damen’s eyes shuttered closed at the thought. “Ssh, there is time,” he said. It was not like before, he could have this, draw out their pleasure, spend hours on the edge of release.
Laurent was impatient with him. “I don’t ask for much.” Teasing.
He kissed a smile into each of Laurent’s eyelids, his temples, his pressure points. You ask for everything, he wanted to say. He brought their foreheads together, feeling alive in the warm breath between them.
“Please,” Laurent said, “Give me this.”
Damen felt himself flayed open. For all his winding manner, convoluted talk, and hurtful insults, Laurent’s honesty was wounding. With a single breath he could conquer a nation, reduce a soldier to tears, and spoil Damen for anyone else. They were not equals, not really. Damen closed his eyes, imagining how it would feel to be inside him, living in his tight heat.
He kissed Laurent deeply, letting their tongues fold together. He pressed Laurent’s hands into the pallet, gently, as a signal to wait, and went to retrieve the phials. He could feel Laurent scanning his backside.
“Adequate,” he assessed.
Damen laughed. “Be kind, or I shall not come back.”
“Perhaps you would like if I ordered you.” Damen felt all the air leave the tent, suddenly. Only deafening silence remained.
“I would,” he said. There was an interminable pause.
“Come here, slave.”
Damen daren’t move. His back remained to Laurent, droplets of sweat beginning to form on his lower back as Laurent’s eyes bore into him. Damen was struck with the need to prolongate this moment, to bask in this fevered anticipation for as long as he could.
Damen turned and walked slowly back to the pallet. Laurent had pushed up onto his elbows. He looked debauched, his hair still pristine but eyes wild and lips red and kiss-swollen. Down his body there was the promise of arousal, and the characteristic ribbon of tension that traveled through him as Damen spanned across him, not touching, placing a knee on either side. They were both breathing unsteadily, and Laurent looked at him the same way as he did the night before, open and exposed. It was as if this would always be a perilous thing between them.
Damen placed the phial beside him, ignored, and put his hands on Laurent shoulders, gently pressing him to the bed. He smoothed his hands over Laurent’s neck and touched his cheek, softly. Laurent let out a shaky breath, forcing himself to ease under Damen’s touch. Damen touched him like that, slowly, and with the back of his hands too. He touched him on his sternum down to his ribcage, then he eased off of Laurent to lie beside him.
He trailed his hand down Laurent’s arm. He remembered how his kisses on the skin of his wrist had affected Laurent, had caused that sharp intake of breath, caused him to almost lose control. That would be his, no one else would have it.
Laurent urged him onward, leaned forward and kissed him long and deep. Breathing was impossible. He felt Laurent’s hands between them, moving to grasp his hip. He pulled Damen forward. Laurent wound his leg around him, pressing his foot into Damen’s flank. Damen could have him here, just like this, rutting against him to his completion. But Laurent had a plan, as always.
Damen in a swift motion, now poised over Laurent, grabbed the forgotten phial. At the first touch of his fingers, Laurent’s mouth slid open. Damen felt the cool huffs of breath on his neck as he plunged his finger inside, as Laurent opened to him. He moved in slow circles, gradually stretching him, until Laurent was moving slowly against his finger.
Laurent’s muscles were cords wound tight. His hands were clenched into fists, as if holding himself down, controlling his responses to Damen’s careful touch. Damen slowed his pace further, finger slowing to a dull ache. Laurent’s hand flew up and grabbed Damen’s arm, hard. Damen looked down at him and the sight knocked the wind out of him.
Laurent’s eyes were squeezed shut. “More,” he ground out.
“Yes,” said Damen, and inserted another finger.
Where Laurent was timid, his hands were confident, traveling up and down Damen’s back as Damen slid his fingers in and out. Even with two fingers he was tight, and the heat was overwhelming. Damen smoothed sweat damp hair out of Laurent’s face. His own body was trembling, screaming to be pressed against Laurent’s, to be inside him.
Laurent was moving more intently, clenching around his fingers, pulling them deeper inside of him. Damen crooked his fingers and Laurent spasmed. Damen circled the edge of his prostate lightly before adding a third finger. He saw the involuntary quiver of Laurent’s lashes and slowed his movements, soothing the burning stretch. He kept his fingers shallow, focusing on the spread of legs and the rise and fall of Laurent’s chest.
Only when Laurent’s fingers dug frantically into the skin of his back did Damen let his fingers slide fully inside of him, relentlessly stroking his deepest place. Laurent was blossoming, hips canted upward, searching for proximity, for contact. Damen quickly pulled his fingers out, leaving him empty. Laurent let out a quiet noise of dissent.
Damen was kissing him now. Commanding, purposeful kisses. Laurent was so impossibly pliant underneath him, his knees falling to the side, open. Damen lavished attention on his bottom lip.
They were pressed together fully now. In the space between their mouths Laurent whispered, “I need—“ but cut himself off. He shut his eyes, tension returning, suddenly pulsing through him until he became lost to Damen.
Damen stilled. He kissed Laurent’s temple. “Take your pleasure,” he said, barely above a whisper, his voice a stranger to himself. Laurent’s eyes flew open. He was uncertain, but Damen would guide him. Damen pushed himself up to sitting, and Laurent looked at him with dismay. He held his hand out and Laurent took it.
He weaved their fingers together and pulled Laurent up, so that they were facing each other. The air in the tent had grown dense, that in this silence it pulsed in their ears. Damen ran his hands along Laurent’s waist, stomach twitching under them. Despite Laurent’s tension, he was fully hard again, matching Damen’s leaking arousal. Laurent rose to his knees.
Time moved slowly as Laurent placed himself carefully over Damen. Damen nodded in earnest assent and placed Laurent’s hand to his shoulder. Laurent gripped him tightly, then eased down on his cock, back arching at the sensation. Damen’s head immediately dropped against Laurent’s chest, which heaved as he bottomed out. They stayed there like that, breathing roughly, not moving.
Damen’s arms entwined around him as he pulled them closer, as close as he could, Laurent planted firmly in his lap. Laurent began to move, slowly at first. He was so tight, even with Damen’s fingers. The way Laurent closed around him sent him reeling. He tipped his head up, kissing the tender exposed flesh of Laurent’s neck.
Damen let him set the pace. With each soft kiss placed to his skin Laurent would slide down, grinding them together. Damen hands dropped and held onto Laurent’s hips tightly, encouraging him to quicken. Laurent’s eyes fluttered open and stared at him, exposed. He loved this. He loved seeing Laurent’s nerves alight with something other than tension. He wanted to coax pleasure from him in every way imaginable.
He kissed Laurent’s lips and thrust upward, matching his descent. Laurent let out a soft cry, falling forward, burrowing his head in Damen’s neck. Damen moved with him then, and Laurent’s pace became more erratic. Instead of smooth strokes, he moved in small jerks, hips pacing out of his own control. He was thrusting forcefully now, coming down on Damen hard, hands snatching desperately at the meat of Damen’s waist.
Laurent was keening with every crash against his prostate, in throaty resonance or trembling movements. He muffled the sound of his voice in Damen’s neck. Damen was merciful, then. He tightened his arms around Laurent and lifted them both up, tucking his legs under himself and sitting on his heels. Laurent’s legs wrapped around his back tightly. On his knees, Damen had more leverage, and more power.
“Laurent,” he said. He couldn’t let go of this intimacy, couldn’t touch Laurent all over. He could only hold him tightly to his chest as he drove them together. He was drowning, was coming undone.
Laurent answered in frenetic cries. “Yes, yes,” he said, planting his feet firmly on the ground behind Damen and wildly thrusting downward.
Damen couldn’t look away. He watched him raptly, amazed at the way the pale blue veins in Laurent’s neck flexed with every movement, the way his eyebrows creased together in unforgiving pleasure as he rode Damen’s cock, until he was clenching around him, spasming in release. Damen held on as long as he could, taking in every perfect breath, Laurent’s flushed cheeks, the fall of his hair, until he was coming, spilling inside Laurent, calling his name.
***
Damen had been shut in his chambers pacing, willing his mind to come up with a new course of action, when he heard the door creak open and a familiar voice address him. “It is common knowledge,” said Laurent, “that Akielos is well known for its contribution to the dramatic arts, but I must say, that was quite the spectacle.”
Damen did not often let his temper get the better of him. In this case, he had been provoked, most surprisingly not by Laurent, but Torgeir of Patras. Negotiations were well under way. They had been at Skarva six days and King Torgeir had spent all of them being difficult. He was rigid and old fashioned, lacking the generosity and easy manner of his younger brother. He had negated every one of Damen’s arguments to the point of utter dismissal. Had he ever heard of discourse? Of compromise? Damen was exhausted.
“We hold play festivals at Ios every summer.” Flatly. He leaned back, resting against a large wooden desk, which was haphazardly scattered with papers. Damen let Laurent’s presence wash over him. It was habitual but agitating. Laurent took so much air out of the room. Damen let out a sigh. “Am I in trouble?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” said Laurent. He did not seem vexed by Damen’s display in the throne room. In fact, he seemed to find it rather funny. “I have met with Torveld. He has offered to speak to Torgeir in your favor.”
Damen chuckled. So often had he mediated Laurent’s disputes that he never considered to imagine Laurent as a peacemaker. “Our favor,” he said. “I was defending your proposal.” Laurent only hummed a noise in mild agreement as he pretended to examine his nails. Damen noticed that with his other hand he was holding something behind his back. “What is that?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Laurent said dismissively. “A gift from the Empress.” Damen raised one eyebrow. Laurent diverted. “Did you know that I am rather fond of the theatre?”
“Really,” said Damen skeptically. Again Laurent hummed. “What do you have behind your back?”
Laurent pulled out from behind him a small, pale blue jug. “My father used to develop farces to be performed at our banquets. They were not very funny.” Damen stared at him, at sea. He popped the top off the jug but did not carry any glasses. “The Empress was rather embarrassed and disheartened by Torgeir’s platform,” Laurent explained. “She thought this might lift your spirits, or rather,” he paused, mischief in his eyes, “She thought I could.” Laurent smiled salaciously.
He sauntered over to Damen and held the carafe under his nose. He breathed in the familiar scent. It was filled with hakesh. Damen’s eyes narrowed. Laurent lifted the jug to his own lips and took a long sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, and shrugged. Damen was momentarily uneasy. “Under controlled circumstances,” Laurent ensured, eyes darkening on cue, as if Damen required a physical reassurance. He was crowding into Damen’s space now, holding the jug out so it caught on the swell of Damen’s bottom lip.
Damen was, once again, at the mercy of Laurent’s whim.
He swallowed the sweet liquid that poured down his throat. Laurent looked pleased. “It gets very hot in Akielos, you know, in the summer,” Damen said, eyes dropping to the laces of Laurent’s jacket, where they were beginning to pull open, taut, at the hollow of his neck. “If you—“
“Hmm, sounds like a thinly veiled excuse to run around bare and spread eagled. What a truly vulgar country.” Laurent took another draw from the jug, gulping down almost half its contents. Damen felt his hands come up and he began to pull the laces deftly from the thick blue of Laurent’s collar. Laurent stopped his hands and held out the hakesh. “Finish it,” he commanded.
They locked eyes and Damen chugged it down, suddenly craving the relaxation the alcohol would bring. His nerve endings always strained under Laurent’s gaze. He put the empty jug on the desk behind him. “The plays are shown out of doors, and they last all day,” he continued, pointedly, “You would get a sunburn.”
Laurent huffed at this and brought Damen’s hands back to the laces of his jacket, where they would be most useful. His own hands found purchase on the jut of Damen’s hip. “Nonsense,” he said, pressing his thumbs there, “You are quite large enough to shade me and half my retinue.”
At this, Damen growled lowly in the back of his throat, gripped Laurent tightly in his arms and hauled him across the room where he pushed him firmly onto his bed. “Ah,” Laurent said, falling on his back, “It seems the effect is immediate.” Laurent really did talk too much.
Damen kissed him deeply, holding him there, just under him. He reveled in this, in the easy touches. He wove their hands together. When he broke them apart to breathe, a flood of worry washed over him. This distraction, intoxicating as it was, would not resolve his feud, and there would be many more to come as he ascended the throne at Ios. His people were ecstatic at his homecoming—the weeks upon his initial reappearance, before he had again left for Vere, were an endless celebration. But Damen had no doubt of the tumult Kastor had surely caused, the potential dissent he was yet to face. Things would not be so golden once he returned.
His face must have betrayed his trepidation because Laurent blinked up at him soberly and, unexpectedly, threaded his fingers through Damen’s hair. His touch was gentle, soothing. Damen leaned into his hand and felt so, so much. Laurent didn’t stop, just let Damen lay his head down in the crook of his neck and stroked him calm. They stayed there, like that, for a long time.
“Will you—“ A pause. “Are you coming to Ios?” Damen let himself ask, quiet, in the heat of Laurent’s skin. Laurent stiffened, as if this were an interrogation. He turned his head to Damen with furrowed brows. He let Damen kiss him once, twice, three times, softly, with the promise of more. Then in an abrupt motion, pushed Damen off of him and onto his back. Laurent plunged down and kissed him thoroughly, deep and punishing.
“Do you know,” he said, peeking out of the corner of his eye and trailing his hands downward and downward, “We are only missing a fire.” Damen’s breath quickened. “Are you going to build one, or shall I call a servant?”
He smiled while Laurent laughed above him. Damen surged upward and silenced him with his mouth.