“Spread your legs for me,” Fergal said softly.
Surprise flickered across Gregor’s face, followed by a vulnerability so profound it made Fergal’s breath catch. They both knew what Fergal was asking. In all the months of their physical relationship, Gregor had always topped. Always led. Always been the one who held and directed and controlled. It was their dynamic—organic, natural, born from who they were and what they needed from each other.
But tonight was different. Tonight, every wall was down, and Fergal wanted to give Gregor something he’d never received—the experience of being held. Of being cared for. Of putting himself in someone else’s hands and trusting completely.
“Fergal—”
“Trust me.” The same words Fergal had used a lifetime ago in a library in Canada, leaning close with his heart hammering. “Stay with me. Don’t go behind the wall.”
“There’s no wall left,” Gregor whispered.
“I know. So spread your legs for me.”
Gregor did. “I’ve never…”
Fergal shut him up with another kiss. “Neither have I, but I’m pretty sure we can figure this out together.”
With slicked-up fingers, he prepared Gregor with the same patience Gregor had always shown him—slow, thorough, attentive to every response. Gregor’s body was tense at first, the instinct to control fighting against the unfamiliar vulnerability of receiving. But Fergal had learned patience from the very man beneath him, and gradually, incrementally, Gregor opened.
“Okay?” Fergal asked, his voice husky.
“Don’t stop,” Gregor managed. “Gods, Fergal, don’t stop.”
As if. He added a second finger, then a third, working Gregor open with a tenderness that was deliberate and reverent. Through the bond, he could feel everything Gregor was experiencing—the physical sensation amplified by the emotional, the vulnerability layered with trust, the slow,building pleasure that was unlike anything in the Dominant-submissive dynamic they usually inhabited. This was true surrender—chosen, conscious, given freely by a man who had never given it before.
It was the greatest gift Fergal had ever received.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Gregor had been a warrior for three hundred and fifty years, and in all that time, he had never been as defenseless as he was right now.
Fergal’s fingers were inside him—three of them, slick and gentle—and every instinct Gregor possessed was at war with itself. The fighter wanted to take control, to flip their positions, to reassert the dominance that had defined every intimate encounter he’d ever had. The commander wanted to assess the tactical situation, map the variables, and maintain situational awareness. The man who had just heard the words “I love you” returned with a certainty that had rewritten the architecture of his soul wanted to surrender.
The man won.
He let go. Decades of control didn’t evaporate in a single breath, but he managed in stages, like a fist slowly uncurling. Fergal’s free hand rested on his thigh, warm and steady, and through the bond, a constant stream of love and reassurance and desire poured into Gregor like sunlight through an open window.
“There you are,” Fergal murmured, and the echo of the words made something behind Gregor’s sternum dissolve.
His body opened. The tension that had been fighting the intrusion eased, muscles relaxing around Fergal’s fingers, and the sensation shifted from uncomfortable to something warmer, deeper, a pleasure that built from the inside out. When Fergal curled his fingers and found the spot Gregor had only ever touched in others, the sound that tore from his throat was something he would’ve been embarrassed about under any other circumstances.
“Oh god,” Fergal breathed, and through the bond, Gregor felt a bolt of pure want so intense it nearly bucked his hips off the bed. “The sound you just made. Make it again.”
“I don’t… I can’t just…” Fergal’s fingers curled again, and Gregor made the sound again, louder, his back arching, his hands twisting in the sheets. “Fuck.”
“There it is.” The smile in Fergal’s voice was audible.
HisFergal. Sharp-tongued and brilliant and impossibly brave, and he was smiling while taking Gregor apart with three fingers.
Fergal withdrew his fingers slowly, and the absence left Gregor feeling hollow in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He heard the slick sound of more lubricant being applied, felt the mattress shift as Fergal positioned himself, and then the blunt, warm pressure of Fergal’s cock against him, and every thought in his head went quiet.
“Look at me,” Fergal said.
Gregor opened eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed. Fergal was above him, braced on one arm, his dark hair falling around his face, his brown eyes holding an expression that was equal parts love and concentration and a wonder so naked it made Gregor’s chest ache. He looked young and ancient simultaneously—the twenty-six-year-old king and the boy who’d cited the Code to his father and the man who’d walked into a trapto save Gregor’s life, all of them present in this single, suspended moment.
“I love you,” Fergal said. “And I’ve got you.”
He pushed in.
