The first bite into a ripe orange, juice dripping over his lips and down his ravenous throat.
He would take this, only this, if that was what Bo was willing to give him. Would take and take and take it, the slide of Bo’s fingers and the low close rasp of his words. The beat of his pulse and the brightness of his want, reflecting Everil’s need.
“Tempting, but I want to touch more of you. Gonna move soon so I can. I’ll tell you when. Won’t have to guess. We’re going to get on my bed,” Bo said as Everil begged wordlessly around his fingers. “I think I’m gonna strip us down and work you over, take you high as fucking possible until you come with me between your knees.”
The last time Bo’d made such a suggestion, it’d sent Everil back to himself. There’d been a question, and Everil’s mouth free to answer. To ruin all of it with an ill-chosen word.
This time, Bo asked nothing, and Everil’s mouth was busy; the only noises he could manage were wordless expressions of gratitude and desire. No maze of doors, just Bo, still holding the section of hair he’d brushed his fingers through so very gently, guiding them forward even as he pulled his fingers away.
“Hands to the bed, Everil. We’re going to start sitting up.”
Arteries. Rivers. Blood and water. Honey and citrus. Desire. A beast to be tamed, to be broken to the rein.
Selfish to want as he wanted, as a river wanted, with the whole of himself. But he did. He wanted. Eyes open, storm-dark, and palms on the bed, Bo’s heartbeat gone, but his own still racing.
“Please,” Everil spoke in a desperate whisper. “Please.”
“Gonna let go of your hair so I can move,” Bo said. Only that, the warning before the action, kept Everil from panicking as Bo let go.
Everil went still with the absence, not frozen but tense, biting his lip to muffle his own shaking breaths. Bo’s hold had been a wall to set his shoulder against, a steady path to follow. Without it, he–
Bo slid closer, the solidity of him pressed to Everil’s back, his fingers gripping Everil’s sweater, while Everil’s fingers dug into the duvet. Warm lips found Everil’s neck, and Everil let his head fall forward, inviting more. (And more. And more.)
“Fucking love how you taste. Like yourself,” Bo murmured, each breath making Everil shiver anew. “Like the river.”
“Dampness and rot,” came the memory of Nimai’s voice, and with it, the dry burn of cinnamon.
“Not everyone is so fond of rivers.”
“They can fuck right off, then.” Bo’s fingertips slid under Everil’s sweater, burning against his skin. “You’re dark shadows and old wood. Like snowmelt straight from the bank. Loam and petrichor.” Lips and breath and playful tongue, on Everil’s neck, the curve of his shoulder, his throat. “Fucking delicious.”
Everil floated. Dizzy with Bo’s lips, the low murmur of words from a man who wished to drink the river from his skin. Bo had a way of turning him into poetry. Exceptionally profane poetry.
“I fear my observation that someone is ‘delicious’ isn’t generally welcome.” The shaky, breathless words left his tongue before he could catch them. “But I confess to being fond of sweets.”
Bo snickered. “You’ve already called me a confection and nibbled my jacket. Your sweet tooth is an open secret.”
For once, Everil didn’t think to apologize. Bo was laughing, nuzzling his neck, and desire was a river between them, if rivers could be said to flow in both directions.
“I shall trust you not to share it further.” Everil could hardly match Bo’s easy confidence, but he could, at least, meet his laughter with a smile.
“Think I can manage.” Bo’s hand slid from under Everil’s shirt, his fingers leaving a shivering trail of heated skin. “C’mon, we gotta get up. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Your bed?” Everil asked. It wasn’t, really, a question. Bo had indicated, rather explicitly, where he wished Everil to be. The memory of those heated words provided lure enough for him to peel himself away from Bo.
“Yeah,” Bo answered, quiet but intense. Need burning through the bond like honey wine. “My bed.”
A few steps, no more. Everil sat and wrapped his fingers tightly around his own wrist, watching Bo through lowered eyes.
The waiting hurt, threatening to shatter the moment. It would be a proper sort of punishment, setting Everil alight and then leaving him to burn.
He could ask. Reach for him. But faced with possibility, Everil froze. A broken horse, invited to run, shying from the possibility of open spaces.
He didn’t–
Bo stepped in, tracing the line of Everil’s cheek, fingers catching in his hair. Everil’s thoughts stuttered, settled, as he leaned in with a breathless sigh. Everything felt tenuous, fragile. Everything but Bo’s hands, in Everil’s hair, on his jaw. That, and the way the bond burned like summer days and lemons straight from the tree.
“Fucking delicious,” Bo murmured, then closed what little distance remained between them.
