"You said chambers," the prince manages against his lips. His hands are under Bryn's shirt, palms flat against his ribs.
"I lied." He fists the prince's hair and pulls his head back and puts his mouth on Ithyris's throat and feels the scales there, smooth and warm beneath his lips. "I want you here. Now. I don't want to wait."
Bryn reaches between them. His hands work Ithyris's laces and his fingers find the prince, hot and hard, and he wraps his hand around him and strokes once and the prince's whole body shudders and his forehead drops to Bryn's shoulder.
Ithyris pulls his hand away. Pins his wrist to the wall above his head.
"If you touch me again," the prince says against his ear, "this will be over before I've gotten inside you. And I have been thinking about being inside you for forever."
The words alone nearly finish Bryn. His body clenches, empty and aching, and the strength of the prince's grip, effortless, one-handed, the certainty that he could hold Bryn here as long as he wanted, sends a rush of heat through him that makes his thighs tighten around the prince's waist.
Ithyris carries him. One arm under his thighs, the other hand still pinning his wrist, walking down the corridor with Bryn wrapped around him, Bryn's cock grinding against his stomach with every step, and the prince's pace is controlled and unhurried.
His chambers. The door kicked shut. The latch catches and the prince releases his wrist and lowers him onto the bed and Bryn drags him down, both hands in his shirt, pulling, and the fabric tears. He shoves the ruined shirt off Ithyris's shoulders andruns his hands over the scaled skin beneath, the hard ridges of his collarbones, the smooth planes of his chest, the place where scale meets skin at his ribs where the prince's breath hitches.
Ithyris strips him with efficient, devastating hands. Everything gone, and Bryn is naked on the prince's bed and Ithyris is kneeling over him, still half-clothed, and his eyes travel the length of Bryn's body and Bryn should feel exposed.
He feels wanted. The difference is everything.
"You watched me for forty-five minutes," the prince says, his voice a low rasp. His hand finds Bryn's thigh and pushes it open and his thumb traces the crease where his leg meets his hip. "From the gallery. I could smell you from the courtyard, Bryn. Your arousal. Through the stone and the distance and the morning air."
"Oh gods." Bryn's head tips back against the pillow. The prince's thumb is tracing that crease, maddening, slow, close to where he needs him and deliberately not there.
"I almost came up to get you." Ithyris lowers his head and presses his mouth to Bryn's stomach, just below his navel, and speaks against his skin. "Almost left the ring and climbed the stairs and carried you to the nearest flat surface. I finished the bout with my hands shaking."
His mouth moves lower. Skirting Bryn's cock, pressing to the inside of his thigh, open-mouthed, his tongue tasting, and the proximity to where Bryn needs him is exquisite torture.
"Ithyris. Please."
"Please what?"
"Your mouth. I need your mouth on me."
The prince takes him in. No teasing. He swallows Bryn down and the wet heat engulfs his cock and Bryn's hips jerk off the bed and his hands fly to the prince's hair and the sound he makes is the sound of three days of sustained need meeting the reality of that mouth.
Ithyris works him with devastating thoroughness. Tongue tracing the underside, pressing the sensitive spot below the head, taking him deeper with each stroke. Bryn feels the orgasm building at the base of his spine and yanks at the prince's hair.
"Stop. Or I'm going to..."
The prince pulls off, mouth red and slick, and looks up at him and the expression on his face is feral and patient and possessive.
"Turn over," he says.
Bryn turns over.
The sheets are cool against his flushed skin and his cock presses into the mattress and the prince's hands are on his hips, lifting, angling, and then Ithyris's mouth is on the small of his back, kissing down his spine, and lower, and lower, and his hands spread Bryn open and his mouth finds him and every coherent thought Bryn has ever had leaves his body.
The prince's tongue is thorough and relentless and Bryn presses his face into the pillow and grips the sheets and his hips push back into Ithyris's mouth. The prince works him open with his tongue, then adds a finger alongside it, the quiet click of retracted claws, and the stretch dissolves into pleasure so fast it makes Bryn's head spin. Two fingers. Scissoring, curling, finding that spot and pressing until Bryn is grinding back onto his hand and begging in a voice he doesn't recognize.
"Please. I need you, I need..."
The prince withdraws his fingers. The rustle of fabric, the shift of weight on the bed, and then the blunt, hot press of Ithyris against him, and the prince pauses. He always pauses. Even now, with his body shaking with restraint and the bond between them a white-hot wire, he pauses. He presses his mouth to Bryn's shoulder blade and his hand finds Bryn's on the sheets and he laces their fingers together and gives him one breath, two, three.
Bryn pushes back onto him.
The stretch is immediate and consuming and perfect. Ithyris slides into him in one slow, devastating thrust and the pleasure registers in Bryn's bones and the prince bottoms out and holds there, buried to the hilt, and the sound he makes is low and broken and reverent.
He moves. Slow at first. Long, rolling thrusts that drag almost out of Bryn and then push back in deep, grinding against that spot on every stroke, and the pleasure builds in waves. The prince's hand is laced with Bryn's on the sheets. His mouth is on Bryn's shoulder, his neck, the soft place behind his ear.
