Page 48 of Sword Dance

“Show me what else you like,” Damiskos gasped when they finally drew apart.

Varazda reached up and pulled out one of the ivory combs that held his hair up. Damiskos caught his other hand and moved it away so he could release the second comb himself. Varazda’s hair tumbled down, and he shook it out. Damiskos sifted it through his hands and stroked it back from Varazda’s face. It was soft and thick, slightly wavy even when it hadn’t been braided, and absolutely black. Varazda closed his eyes under the slow caress. He made a little noise like a sigh.

Damiskos wanted to go to the king’s palace in Gudul, wherever that was, and seek out the godsforsaken fuckers who had given Varazda such a distaste for sex that he had spent years avoiding something he obviously enjoyed. He’d throw them out a window.

He brushed his thumb over the gold flower stud in Varazda’s nose. He remembered thinking that Varazda’s master must have made him wear it, not knowing what it signified except an exotic decadence. But Varazda was free and had chosen how to decorate himself.

Varazda opened his eyes and put up a hand to touch Damiskos’s face. He ran his fingers through the short curls of Damiskos’s hair and down the back of his neck. Damiskos turned his face into Varazda’s palm with its delicate tracery of henna flowers, and something about the gesture must have amused Varazda, because he laughed softly as he drew his thumb over Damiskos’s lips and lightly along the stubble on his jaw.

“What do you like?” Varazda asked.

“Oh, well … ” He slid his hands down to Varazda’s waist. “All the usual stuff.”

“That covers a lot of territory.”

“It does, yes. Can I undress you?”

Varazda looked down at his clothes. “Mm. Can you?”

“Yeah, I can.”

He reached up to the buttons that held Varazda’s coat closed at the shoulder, flicked them out of their button-loops with his thumb. Varazda shrugged out of his coat. Damiskos reached around to unwind Varazda’s sash, then moved his hands to the ties fastening Varazda’s trousers.

“You’ve done this before.”

“Not like you’re thinking. I’ve worn Zashian clothes before.”

“Really?” Damiskos thought Varazda was talking because he was nervous, trying to be arch and not quite succeeding.

“When I was on leave in Rataxa. Grew my beard too, for a while, but I wasn’t convinced it suited me.”

“No.” He traced the line of Damiskos’s jaw again. “I like you with the stubble.”

He leaned in and kissed Damiskos, just as the ties came undone. The loose fabric slipped down, and Damiskos ran his hands over firm, smooth thighs. Varazda was bracing himself on the wall again, his face hidden against Damiskos’s neck. Damiskos explored slowly, still with that feeling of ease and familiarity, although nothing about this was truly familiar. He’d never needed to take quite so much care with anyone he’d taken to bed—and maybe he didn’t precisely need to now, but it felt good to do it.

He kept one hand on Varazda’s thigh and moved the other one up under the hem of the long, Zashian-style shirt. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to find, but it seemed important not to betray surprise. His thumb brushed against wiry curls of hair, which he hadn’t expected, but he rubbed into it as if he had. Varazda made a slight, appreciative noise. Damiskos curled his hand around Varazda’s half-awake little cock. That was met with a different noise, a wary intake of breath.

He looked into Varazda’s face—what he could see of it from this angle—and loosened his grip.

“Still a yes,” Varazda murmured. “Just a—a—yes, very much a yes.”

Damiskos moved his hand coaxingly. He was careful not to let his fingers explore too far, not wanting to touch the place where there would presumably be a scar. Slowly, gratifyingly, he felt Varazda’s body respond. His prick plumped in Damiskos’s hand and grew properly stiff as they kissed again, slowly. He moved his hips, muscles trembling. Damiskos abandoned caution and stroked faster and harder. Varazda moaned in earnest. Damiskos wanted to give him something more; this was very basic, schoolboy stuff, and he knew he was capable of better.

He took Varazda’s trim waist between his hands, palms stroking up over the curve of his hips. He paused.

Varazda’s eyes popped open. “Still saying yes.” He sounded a little breathless.

“You don’t even know what I was about to do.”

“I have a general idea. And I’m saying yes. To whatever it is.”

“You’ll have to tell me its proper name afterward.”

Damiskos scooted him back a little, preparatory to laying him down. This time there was no awkward tangling and bumping. Varazda swung his leg back over Damiskos and slid down sinuously onto the bed, shedding his trousers fully somewhere in the process. When Damiskos moved over him, in the moment before his bad leg gave out and tipped him forward, he found himself effortlessly caught, Varazda’s hand against his shoulder, bracing him with a strength like steel.

Damiskos looked into Varazda’s eyes, and the smile that momentarily lit Varazda’s face—soft, intimate, just a little wry—had nothing to do with sex. Except that it made Damiskos want him with the heat of a building on fire.

Varazda’s shirt had ridden up, exposing his small, neat erection, flushed against his pale skin. His legs were magnificent: long and lean and white. Damiskos stroked down his right calf and ran his fingers under an anklet of red glass beads. He spread Varazda’s thighs wider and slid down, moving onto his side to take the weight off his right knee.