Desperation burns through Ronan’s veins. He takes the offered kiss and delves into Karis’s mouth. Karis moans and holds him closer, tighter, heedless of his injury. Ronan touches his side lightly. Seizes his hips with bruising force. The sound Karis makes is low and pleased, and Ronan bites his lip, chasing more of it.
He should be careful, but he can’t let go. He needs every touch to prove they’re alive.
As he peels off Karis’s shirt, the young man’s wandering hands are more hindrance than help. The bandages are still white, stained only with sweat along the edges. Karis reaches for Ronan’s shirt too, but he’s clumsy with the laces, and Ronan isn’t interested in helping him. He gnaws a kiss into Karis’s collarbone, licks the forming bruise, tastes the living salt of his skin. Spins them both around until Karis’s back hits the wall—
He freezes at Karis’s sharp, pained gasp.
Karis covers his own mouth. Mumbles through his fingers, “I’m fine.” His eyes are red, but his voice lowers, adamant. “Don’t you dare stop.”
Ronan’s restraint fractures. He surges forward, kissing the next pleased moan from Karis’s lips, then makes his way down the lean body stretched before him. Karis grabs his hair again when he teases a pink nipple with his tongue. The grip tightens, sweetly painful, when he kneels and kisses beneath Karis’s navel. Bites tender flesh as his hands fall to Karis’s trousers.
“Don’t move,” Ronan says, glancing up. Karis looks as ravenous as Ronan feels. “You’ll worsen the injury.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” Karis gasps, as Ronan draws his hard, pink length from his trousers. He jerks forward, and the head of his cock brushes Ronan’s cheek.
Ronan’s too driven by lust and adrenaline for foreplay. He pins Karis’s hips to the wall with one hand, braces the other on Karis’s slim thigh, and leans forward to mouth a hot, wet stripe from the base of Karis’s cock to the very tip. The musky scent is almost as addictive as the little noises Karis makes.
His own cock strains in his clothes, aching for release, but he doesn’t touch himself. Not yet. Right now, all he cares about is the taste of Karis, hot and hard on his tongue, soft skin getting wetter and wetter with spit and precome. He releases Karis’s thigh to roll his balls in the palm of his hand. Feels them tighten, feels Karis’s knees buckle around him. Taking the slick head of Karis’s cock into his mouth, his lips seal around the shaft. He sucks down, tasting another salty burst of precome on his tongue.
Without even touching himself, Ronan is dazed with pleasure, heat, need. He sinks down onto Karis’s cock and breathes hard through his nose—but before he can swallow all the way to the root, Karis shudders in his mouth. His shaft jerks, and seed spills on Ronan’s tongue.
Ronan savors each pulse of come, and when he has all of it, he rocks back on his heels and swallows.
Karis is finally silent, his gaze nailed to Ronan’s mouth. His own lips are slightly open, and the pallor of blood loss has flushed away. His hands fall from Ronan’s hair to his shoulders. Stay there, clasping loosely, as Ronan rises to his feet.
Ronan braces himself with one arm beside Karis’s shoulder, afraid to crush him in the heat of his kiss. Karis kisses back without hesitation, sharing the taste of his seed between them.
As they kiss, Ronan cups himself through his trousers. Ruts against his hand just a few times before groaning into Karis’s mouth. His own orgasm is a distant afterthought.
They separate, scant breaths between their lips. Karis whispers, “I used to be afraid of you.”
Trembling, Ronan touches the edge of the bandages. The cotton is rougher than the warm, sweat-slick skin he craves. Skin without scars—until Karis methim. In his heart, he wants to answer:
You should still be afraid.
?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
KARIS
“I’ll scry for them,” Karis says, the third time Ronan’s fire-call fails.
The morning after the Bower operation, they haven’t been able to reach Melanne or Coira. Karis recognizes the stoic expression Ronan gets when he’s trying to hide how concerned he is. The more Ronan tries to hide it, the more anxious Karis gets as well.
Ronan blows out the candle and returns it to the pouch with the flint. “I’ll try one more time in a few hours, then you can scry.”
Karis frowns. That’s more than the curtnohe’s been getting all morning, but he still doesn’t like the answer. “Are you worried other mages will sense the spell?” he asks, trying to be patient. A tall order for him, but he’s trying. “They definitely won’t. Nobody’s ever been able to sense my tracking magic.Youcertainly couldn’t.”
All right, maybe he’s not trying very well.
Ronan fastens the knapsack and stands up with it. The barn is completely packed up, with no trace of their presence. Only one warding array remains, and they’ll break it on departure. They don’t want to leave any evidence that could get the farmer in trouble, should authorities find their way here.
“I know, you’re the strongest.” A slight smile finally crosses Ronan’s face. He ruffles Karis’s hair. “But you’re still recovering.”
Karis leans into the touch, warm with pleasure—then wonders uncharitably if Ronan is praising him on purpose. Trying to manipulate him out of his insistence on scrying. Scowling, he pulls away.
“I know my magic,” he says, sitting right down on the dusty floor. The movement painfully jars his waist, and his wince probably doesn’t help his argument. His hand snaps up, blocking Ronan’s move towards him. “Don’t interrupt me. I’ll do it here, or I’ll try while we’re hiking and probably fall off a cliff.”
