Page 362 of Eight of Swords, Part Two

‘Want you to be my first,’ he whispers.

Lachlan makes a vaguely wounded noise, dropping his forehead against Kade’s. ‘You do?’

‘Yes. I know I did it before, but I don’t remember it. Want it to be you.’

It’s a tremulous thing to admit, leaves him feeling vulnerable.

‘I want that too.’

He brightens impossibly. ‘Yeah?’

‘More than anything.’

‘Want you inside me.’

‘Fuck, baby.’

‘Want all of you, please.’

‘Say it then.’

‘I want you to fuck me, Bodyguard.’

Lachlan’s smile can be felt in the kiss.

And it happens here, in the woods, beneath the shelter of an old oak where the rain hasn’t quite reached. Lachlan clears fallen twigs from a hollow between the roots and lays his shirt over the dark, mostly dry earth, absurdly careful even now.

No nettles.

Fewer thorns.

Only damp moss, crushed leaves and the Tower keeping its distant vigil through the trees. Here, outside every prison that ever held them, Lachlan lowers Kade onto his shirt and follows him down, both naked.

The darkness hides an outrageous blush when Lachlan gathers his own come and uses it to push a wet finger inside, kissing Kade’s neck, lapping over the bite. It feels so different to Kade’s own fingers under the covers. The gentle stretch makes him squirm with a deep need for more.

‘Want more,’ he pants, both arms around Lachlan. Skin to skin like this is such bliss, oh God, he wants everything, all of it, he wants days and weeks and months of being like this in all different ways. ‘More.’

Lachlan gives what he can, a second finger and a deeper kiss and whispered love as he eases Kade’s legs further apart, rubbing over the inner skin that trembles a little, thumb swirling across the scar.

‘This is OK?’

Kade nods.

Loves it.

Owns it.

All for him.

‘Mine,’ he mutters, and Lachlan doesn’t question it.

‘I am,’ he promises, fingers flexing inside. They’re inside him, it’s so gorgeous, so fucking sexy, arousal burning within. Sweat beads on his skin, pulse jack-rabbiting. ‘That’s it, good boy, relax for me.’

Kade makes an embarrassingly needy noise, nails digging into his back.

‘Fuck, please.’

Clever fingers make fireworks with knowing precision and Kade’s plea turns into meaningless babble, desperately rolling his hips into each rhythmic intrusion as he’s stretched and opened and ruined and loved in masterfully equal measure.