Chapter 3 #3
March fucked him deep and slowly on the fur rug before the fireplace, moving with a determined purpose to make Hawk feel every inch of him.
And it was working; he could see how Hawk’s black eyes rolled back at the feeling; could feel his thighs squeezing tight around March’s waist; could hear the tone in his voice that he was nearing the edge.
“See, sweet boy?” March was nearly out of breath.
Notable, considering his usual stamina. He chuckled, the sound vibrating deep in his chest, and he didn’t miss the way Hawk shivered in pleasure at it.
He drilled down harder, his thick dark cock sliding into Hawk’s impossibly tight heat.
The oils they used spilled from him, dripping out of the place where their bodies met, wet and wanting.
The moisture slid into the body hair Hawk had been so ashamed to have, and March’s mouth watered—literally watered—at the sight.
He’d had plenty of sex in his life, but this was a sight he’d carry with him for the rest of time. “See?”
Hawk gasped out a sound of confusion.
“Seeing you like this. All of you—” his ribs and bony knees and his beautiful silken bush of hair between his legs. “Do you see how hard I am for you?”
Hawk bit his lip, trembling as he grew even more close.
Elys, March was grateful Hawk had left Sutaire. The idea of someone else having him in such a way—
March had never felt possessive like this before, and it would frighten him if not for Hawk’s reply. He reached both hands up, and pulled March to his lips again. Like he had to have a kiss. Like he needed to be wanted. March wanted to possess Hawk, but Hawk wanted to be possessed.
They kissed, tongues glancing, teeth clattering, and then March began to fuck him in earnest; worked to fuck him so that he would come.
He could see it written in Hawk’s eyes; he was nearly there.
He could probably come untouched; it was a lesson March would gratefully give.
Soon. This time, he closed a hand around Hawk’s cock and stroked.
“My sweet boy,” March whispered. “Will you come for me?”
Hawk did so, gasping.
March redoubled his efforts then; the white hot pressure building inside himself. He gripped one of Hawk’s thighs, pulling his legs farther apart, and Hawk moaned shamelessly at that and said, “Please, yes. Please. Please—”
March came, and the bliss of Hawk’s touch, of his sweet, pleading voice, left him awash for a minute or more. He returned to himself already open-mouth kissing Hawk, still buried inside.
Hawk blinked, sleepy and pleased, and asked again, “Good?”
March exhaled a laugh and took to stroking back Hawk’s tawny, delicate hair. “Good enough that I may ask that we do it again, and again, and again, until I’ve no choice but to pay my patron to replace this rug.” He probably already had to; it was no doubt saturated with oil.
Hawk’s replying laugh chased after him pleasantly while he cleaned up.
When he returned with a blanket and pillow a few minutes later, Hawk had already dozed off, curled into a ball before the fire.
March settled behind him, spooning against Hawk’s back, and tucked the blanket around them both.
As he fell asleep, March found himself certain:
He’d never again sleep with any other.
Hawk was forty-five years old, and he was on a mission to repay his debts.
He made a bouquet of flowers, thought about it, and ventured back out into Sutaire’s garden to harvest another batch of flowers for a second.
He tied a penny with a ribbon onto one and left the other with a gleaming blue bow.
The collection of pink and purple alstroemeria set in place with some baby’s breath, all perfectly pristine after a season of Hawk’s dedicated attention.
He felt a little silly strolling through the warm spring cobblestone lanes of Abblesbet with two big flower bunches in either hand, but he’d felt a little silly the first day he arrived and wasted his every coin getting drunk at a bar.
He pushed open the door—it was early for service, but he hoped the barkeep would be there prepping for the night. And he was right.
“Not open,” said the man. Hawk had been right, even if he’d been drunk at the time: the barkeep was a fine specimen. Not as fine as Hawk’s paramour, but he understood his drunken, wanting thoughts from half a year ago.
“I’ve come with a gift. And a penny.” Hawk said, approaching the bar. “One of these is for you. The other, for your copper friend. The, ah, city guard.”
The barkeeper looked bewildered. He said, “I’m married.”
Hawk laughed and said, “It’s not a proposition. Do you not remember me?” That wasn’t a problem he often encountered. Purple skin and all.
The barkeeper looked him over, snapped his fingers, and said, “Ah, the sad one! With the divorce!”
Hawk tried not to melt into the creaky wood floor. “Yes, right, that was me. Not me now, though.” He handed over the bouquet. The barkeep smiled at it and placed it into a clean pitcher already upon the bar. “Are you still friends with that one guard?” He held out the second bouquet.
“I am, yes. I’ll make sure she gets this.” He fished out another pitcher and placed the second bouquet inside. “Wow. You really did repay your debt. And then some. I suppose this means you found work as a gardener after all.”
“It took a little bit of time, but yes. I found my way there.” Hawk tucked his hair behind his ear and said, “Thank you for helping me when I was lost.” He gestured to the ribbon on the first bouquet. “Your penny is in there.”
“Good lad.” The barkeep gestured to a stool. “Care for a drink?”
Hawk fished out his pocket watch and shook his head at the hour—he’d spent far too long making those flower arrangements. “I’ve got to get home for dinner.”
The barkeep’s big dark eyes widened in surprise. “Home? You’ve even got yourself a home now. Another few months, and you’ll be remarried, too, I bet.”
Hawk waved as he made his departure and couldn’t keep the grin from his face. “That’s the plan.”
“That first night you were here—” the barkeep said, smiling at his bouquet. “You said you were forty-four and divorced. Now look at you. Forty-four and happy,” said the barkeep.
“I’m forty-five, now,” said Hawk as he stood in the threshold of the bar. He looked out to the street, to the pink sky, and the bustling lane of family and springtime ivy that grew lush over the cityscape. “Forty-five and I’m happy.”