Hal’s jaw tightened. “I’m not?—”
But Alaric’s hand shot out, fingers closing around his wrist, and Hal was being pulled forward into the tent’s dim interior. The canvas fell shut behind them, cutting off the night and the grounds and any possibility of retreat.
The space was smaller than Hal remembered from his earlier visit. Or maybe it just felt that way with Alaric standing so close, still gripping his wrist, his thumb pressedagainst Hal’s pulse. Which was racing. Which Alaric now knew.
The single candle on the small camp table cast more shadow than light, turning Alaric into some hero carved from marble.
Hal was. . .a brute next to him. What was he doing here?
Alaric came close, and Hal pulled his face away.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” Hal grunted. He needed to establish that now, before things went further. Needed Alaric to understand that whatever happened in this tent stayed in this tent. “Tomorrow, I’m still going to beat you. Still going to take that championship and prove yesterday was a fucking fluke.”
Alaric’s smile widened. “Of course you are.”
Hal scowled. The bastard was underestimating him again. Had he learned nothing?
Hal tried to pull his wrist free, but the other knight’s grip held firm.
“I mean it,” Hal insisted. It was a difficult thing, looking at Alaric this close up. “This changes nothing. You’re still my opponent. Still the bastard who ended my streak.”
“Mm.” Alaric’s free hand came up, fingers trailing along Hal’s jaw with a lightness that made his skin prickle. “How admirable. Such fierce determination. Tell me, do you always need to convince yourself this thoroughly before you take what you want?”
“I don’t—” But the denial died as Alaric’s thumb brushed across his lower lip. He swallowed. Heat shot through him, pooling low in his belly, and his breathing went shallow without his permission.
“You don’t what?” Alaric’s voice dropped lower, intimate in a way that made the tent feel smothering. His eyeswere large and bold with his intentions; Alaric was not pretending the way Hal was. “Want this? Want me? Because your body’s telling a different story, Ser Hal.”
The bastard was right. Hal felt his cock hard against the rough linen of his breeches, his body coiling with a hunger. This damn stranger with his bright smile had him on edge, and Alaric was staring at him with a knowing smile set to drive Hal mad.
But Alaric was beautiful because he was bred that way. Hal wasn’t blind; it wasn’t his fault his body was attracted to someone so perfect. Hal didn’t have to like Alaric to admit that.
Hal didn’t have to like him to use his body that night.
“Shut up,” he growled and slammed into Alaric. Their mouths collided harshly. Alaric’s mouth opened under his, breath catching in a sharp exhale.
He shoved until Alaric’s shoulders hit the tent pole with a muffled thud.
Alaric laughed low, hands clamping Hal’s broad shoulders and hauling him closer—hard muscle against muscle, the scratch of stubble against his jaw igniting him like spark to tinder. A gleeful, excited shiver shot up Hal’s spine. Alaric lacked a woman’s warmth, but he was all firm muscle and edge and infuriating smile, and he was a brilliant jouster, and that was somehow better than him being some pretty girl. Hal, who enjoyed most anyone’s company, loved this particular heat: this man had thrown him on his back, but Hal could have him with his legs in the air now, if he wanted it. And wanted it, he did. Suddenly, Hal was rutting against Alaric without a care, their cocks rubbing against one another through their breeches.
When they parted to gasp, Alaric’s lips were wet and swollen. “Was that so hard?”
He didn’t like it when Alaric talked to him like that. Hated the condescension, the pity-filled looks. Alaric wanted this as much as he did—more, since he’d been the one to so eagerly summon Hal here tonight. Yes, that was it—that was the edge Hal needed to winthisbout. Alaric might have been quick-witted and good with his words, but Hal had always been good with his hands.
So he shut the other knight up. Hal lunged again, teeth grazing Alaric’s lower lip, slamming their mouths together with more force, more need. Alaric answered blow for blow, one hand threading into Hal’s hair and yanking so hard the tension bit into his scalp. Pain grounded him. He growled low, and they stumbled back toward Alaric’s cot.
Hal’s fingers found the ties of Alaric’s shirt, tugging until fabric fell away in ragged strips. The knight laughed, breath coming fast, eyes glinting in the lamplight as they fell onto the cot, limbs knotting together.
“Eager,” Alaric teased, though he himself was already working at Hal’s breeches. “That little squire of yours must not be serving his knight in?—”
“I said shut up.” Hal bit down on that pouty lower lip, hard enough to draw a sharp gasp from the highborn slut. Alaric went still, swallowed, and for the first time, it was him losing control.
But Alaric recovered too quickly, and he rolled them both deftly. Hal’s back hit the cot and Alaric settled between his thighs. The reversal happened so fast that Hal barely registered it before those clever hands were pulling his shirt over his head, baring his chest to the tent’s cool air.
“How’d you manage that?” Hal grunted. “You’re half my size.”
But Alaric hadn’t heard him. His eyes were heavy, hismouth opened, and he breathed hard as his eyes dragged up Hal’s chest.
“Fuck,” Alaric breathed. Hal had never heard the nobleman swear, and the raw appreciation in his voice made Hal’s cock throb. Long fingers traced the scars scattered across his torso—souvenirs from years of training, from before Hal had learned to protect himself properly. “You’re magnificent.”
