Ronan takes advantage of his movement to kiss a tingling bruise into the side of his neck. Karis’s skin comes alive with the wet press of lips and teeth, the scratch of his beard. He doesn’t feel cold when Ronan lets go of him and backs away—Ronan’s gaze is still burning hot, sweeping him from head to toe.
Karis lifts his chin. “Am I pretty now too?”
“Gorgeous,” Ronan says, his voice nearly a growl. His gaze lingers on Karis’s throat. “Take your boots off.”
Karis has always liked compliments. He likes being admired, instead of despised or ignored. But there’s something entirely different about the way Ronan talks to him. Karis could easily become addicted to Ronan’s praise—if he isn’t already.
Crouching to unlace his boots feels like it takes an hour. By the time he’s done, his hands are slightly steadier, his head less dizzy. The packed dirt floor is cool against his bare feet, grounding him. He’s finally able to take in some of his surroundings—an old, disused horse barn, with wide stalls and a few trunks with rusted locks lining the aisle. A wooden ladder leads up to a hay loft.
Ronan has one trunk propped open, pulling out something Karis doesn’t care enough to identify, because Ronan’s stupid belts are gone, along with his shirt. Karis can’t think about anything except the mouth-watering expanse of muscle before him.
Speaking of gorgeous.
He abandons his own belt, knife, and boots. His body moves without conscious input from his head, and when he’s near enough, it isn’t clear who reaches out first. All that matters are the strong arms wrapping around him, the teeth against his lips, the heat of bare skin surrounding him.
Ronan’s hands fall to his trousers, and Karis’s hands drop too. “I can get—”
“Let me,” Ronan says. “I want to.”
Helpless against the rasp in Ronan’s voice, Karis stares spellbound as Ronan’s strong, scarred hands unlace his trousers. Push them down, with his underwear, to his knees. Karis’s cock bobs pink and hard in front of him, desperate to be touched, but Ronan only strokes his palm down the outside of his thigh, drawing a shiver from him.
Karis kicks his trousers away, then lunges forward into a kiss. They’re still kissing when Ronan drags him to the ground.
An old blanket spreads beneath them. Ronan sits against a tack trunk and pulls Karis down until his thighs spread across Ronan’s lap. His cock rubs against Ronan’s stomach, and his toes curl into the blanket. Ronan’s still wearing trousers, and Karis is still wearing his shirt, but it feels like there’s nothing between them at all.
He’s never felt this close to anyone before. Not even Vara.
The kiss breaks. Ronan hitches his trousers down enough to free his own cock. The length of it is hot and hard between them, large enough to send a nervous flutter through Karis’s stomach.
He’s not about to back down from the challenge, though.
Ronan picks up something from the ground next to them. A glass bottle. Once Karis’s gaze falls on it, he’s transfixed. He can’t look away as Ronan uncorks it in a quick movement of his gorgeous hands.
Karis catches Ronan’s hand just before he tips the bottle out into his palm. “I want to, um.” He attempts an air of confidence even as heat rises in his cheeks. “Use the oil.”
Ronan’s gaze darkens, and his cock jumps against Karis’s thigh. “That works for me.”
He pours the denseed oil over Karis’s outstretched palm and fingers. Excess droplets splash cold onto his thighs. Karis rubs his fingers together, intending to let the oil warm. But he’s too impatient, or too afraid of chickening out, and he can’t wait any longer before wrapping his slick hand around Ronan’s cock.
The shaft is smooth but hard, and feels even larger than it looks. The heat is exhilarating. Entirely different from touching himself. Karis is familiar with the logistics of sex—in theory. Practice is far more intense than he’d imagined.
He thinks he’s doing all right, judging by the raggedness of Ronan’s breath and the way his thighs tighten under Karis. Just a few strokes later, Ronan yanks his wrist away.
“That’s enough,” he growls, his voice alone nearly driving Karis over the edge. He swipes the rest of the oil from Karis’s palm and reaches between them.
When thick fingers first press past his rim, Karis’s mind empties. There’s only slight discomfort—less and less as the oil slicks him up—but intimate pressure scatters his thoughts completely.
He must make some kind of noise, though he’s too dazed to hear himself, because Ronan huffs a laugh and rubs his thumb over his lip. “Shh. Relax.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to relax,” Karis gasps, burying his face in Ronan’s shoulder. He stays there, heating up inside and out, while Ronan’s first two fingers pump into his body, sometimes twisting, sometimes sliding deeper. He feels distinctly whenever Ronan’s knuckles pop past his rim. Ronan only occasionally brushes his prostate, teasing him with random, unpredictable pleasure that makes Karis shiver every time.
“It might be easier from behind,” Ronan says roughly.
But Karis is still stuck on those words from earlier.You’d look even prettier sitting on my cock. He bites Ronan’s shoulder. “I don’t want easy. I wantyou.”
Ronan’s fingers pause inside him. Then withdraw.
All right. So it probably would have been easier from behind. But as Karis sinks down on Ronan’s massive cock, even the strain in his thighs and trembling in his hands, the deep unfamiliar ache of being filled, can’t take away from the sheer stunned joy of it all. He moves more from pride than anything else, rocking scant inches up and down.
