Bo laughed, the sound as quiet as the rest of their words, gentle as his touch. The bond was bright with contentment, as if Bo truly wished to be nowhere but where he was, his fingers working through Everil’s hair, careful touch and deliberate tugs that made the world go quiet.
“I’ll accept half credit. Teamwork for the magic bits. Partial credit to me for shooting off at the mouth like an angry gremlin and to you for tearing shit up and looking fierce as fuck while doing so.”
“By fierce, you mean twigs and tangles,” Everil countered, leaning further toward Bo’s touch, which he desperately needed to stop lest he tip into the man’s lap. “If that look appeals…”
Bo’s fingers slid up near Everil’s scalp, his grip tightening, gentle yet unmistakable, while his other hand continued to comb through no longer tangled strands. Everil’s eyes fell closed, his breaths coming in careful sips of air.
“Mm?” Bo prompted.
“If it appeals,” Everil tried again, his voice coming dangerously close to shaking, “you are working against your own interests.”
“I’m making sure the twigs and tangles have somewhere to go.” Bo continued his slow, deliberate strokes. “And that you don’t wake up with an accidental up-do.”
“I see,” Everil murmured, even as he followed the whispered pressure of Bo’s grip, tilting his head back.
There was no lash of disapproval from Bo, yet. No impatience. Only pleasure echoing pleasure, and Everilknewthat it was wrong. Touch-starved and greedy, he was confusing Bo with his own longing.
He would say something. If it continued much longer, crossed beyond Bo’s fingers in his hair, he would.
“A little to the side.” Bo’s words were nearly a whisper. “Easier for me to reach.”
Easy to follow where Bo led. Words and breath and soft tugs against his scalp. Bo’s nearness like orange liqueur poured over vanilla ice cream, and Everil was drunk on it, lips parted and tongue darting to chase the taste. Honey, like the moment they were in. Slow and golden.
Honey and …
Bo’s arm slipped around his chest, the other still gripping his hair.
Honey and fire.
Everil swallowed a whimper. He trembled, then forced himself still, muscles tense with the effort.
“Better?” he breathed.
“Better,” Bo answered, quiet voice gone low. “Doing more than fine.”
Everil didn’t relax at the reassurance. If he did, he’d not be able to hide the trembling. He waited, suspended, bolt-ready caution eased by the tightening of Bo’s grip, an unspoken“I have you.”
And Botouchedhim. His fingers trailed over Everil’s jaw, his chin. Callus-rough. So very human.
His fingertips found Everil’s lower lip, tracing the shape of it. This time, Everil did whimper, a breathy, shaking sound. Orange and honey and flame. And Everil wanted more. Wanted salt and skin. He pressed his hungry tongue to the roof of his mouth, catching it before he could embarrass himself.
The bond remained a soft wash of heat and affection and wanting. No disappointment or acid impatience. It was dizzying as the rest, that lack of a whip to set Everil’s pace. Paralyzing, that absence. The breathless wait for what was right to become wrong, for Bo’s smile to twist cold.
Everil didn’t move, didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. Starving, but knowing he wasn’t permitted to eat. Knowing that any action he took would be the wrong one, then the whip would find him. Punish him for greed or wantonness or inattention.
“Fold your hands together on your stomach, Everil. If it’s comfortable.” Gentle. Bo’s words were so very gentle. His fingers, there against Everil’s lips, were gentle. The hunger of him, that eager burn, wasn’t gentle at all. “Open your mouth a little more for me.”Words low and close, paired with the whisper of pressure, fingers to lips, guiding him. “I won’t make you guess.”
It had been a century since Everil had been touched. A century and never like this. Never with a bond echoing his wanting, amplifying it instead of punishing him for feeling.
Head tilted as it was, Everil could see Bo watching him. The blue of his eyes and the curve of his lips as he waited. His hand stayed in Everil’s hair, guidance and support and surety. Sure, like Bo’s voice, gentle but not cautious, a path laid out. Solid ground to walk on.
Everil whimpered, his lips parting with unseemly eagerness. Warm, rough fingers over his lips, his tongue. Honey and salt. Sugar and skin.
He shouldn’t–
He needed to–
He folded his hands, white-knuckled with tension and desire.
