The pressure crested, twisting tight in his balls as Gage’s cock throbbed on top of his.
“I need you so badly,” Gage panted, dropping his forehead to his shoulder.
He traced Gage’s parted lips with his thumb before he eased his thumb inside. Gage sucked it eagerly, circling his tongue around the pad, wet and hot.
Surrounded by blackness, his world narrowed to touch alone, just like his lovers.
Every sensation was amplified. The velvet slide of Gage’s tongue, the warmth enveloping his finger, the subtle tremors in Gage’s jaw as he sucked.
It made everything rawer, more intimate, forcing him to savor the textures and rhythms in his mind’s eye.
He slid his finger free, slick with saliva, reached around, and pressed it against Gage’s hole. The tight ring clenched instinctively, then yielded as Gage pushed back with a low, keening sound—the sexiest fucking noise he’d ever heard.
“Yes,” Gage cried, voice breaking. “More.”
Scar breached him slowly, the warmth inside gripping him like a vice. Gage’s thighs shook around his hips as vibrations, rippling through his body.
Gage eased his shaking hand between them, wrapped both their cocks in his palm, and stroked them in a ragged rhythm.
Scar groaned, toes curling as he imagined his cock buried there instead of his finger, imagined Gage’s virgin heat clenching around him so tight but willing…just for him.
He pushed his finger deeper, and Gage shattered, his back bowing as his cock pulsed in their joined grip, coming in hot ropes between their stomachs.
It was so intense it triggered Scar’s own release seconds later.
His spine locked as he jerked his hips up and came hard, his forehead pressed against Gage’s.
Panting, Scar flipped Gage onto his back, straddling him now. He rubbed his cum over Gage’s chest and abs as a low growl rumbled in his throat.
Gage was his, body and soul.
And in three days, he would make a vow to him that only death could break.
White Ravens
Gage
3 days later…
Gage couldn’t stop sweating through his fancy clothes.
In the last three days, nothing had helped calm the nervous energy buzzing under his skin.
Not swimming countless laps, weightlifting, reading, church, sparring with the Greens, meditating…nothing.
His two assistants stood close to him, both holding small fans angled at his face as if it were a hundred degrees in his quarters.
“Saint, please calm down. I don’t have another shirt if you sweat through this one,” Elias said. “And stop fidgeting.”
“I’m trying,” he muttered, still bouncing his right leg.
The room was busy with his wardrobe staff and stylists tugging at him: hands brushing over his shoulders, checking his seams, smoothing lines, working more product through his hair and recombing.
“Just about done, hold still.” Elias beamed. “This is some of my best work yet. You look gorgeous.”
He heard the snip of a thread before a lint roller glided along his back and shoulders for the hundredth time.
Someone pulled on his jacket lapel and pinned a flower on it that had a mildly sweet scent.
