Chapter One #3
Andre gave himself over to the ride. It tantalized him, pleasuring him without taking him over the edge, just a constant stream of stimulation that had him sweating and leaking.
When they came upon a particularly rocky stretch, things changed. The plug punished him with a long series of knocks to his prostate, prodding him over and over until nothing existed but the relentless attack on his gland.
An orc would take him like this, hard and unconcerned, violently claiming him until Andre couldn’t stop himself from spilling.
Only that an orc would be girthier, plunder him deeper, all while pinning him down, taking what he wanted.
An orc like Farigoth would show no mercy. He’d mount Andre and vanquish him.
George groaned, and Andre glanced up, finding the young man jerking and twisting in Resh’s arms. Resh had buried his face in George’s hair, his lips moving as he whispered words Andre couldn’t hear.
George reared up, helplessly spasming as his climax hit.
He went boneless in Resh’s embrace, who pulled his hand from George’s breeches, his long digits covered in milky-white fluid.
His gaze caught Andre’s, who froze when the imp proceeded to lick his fingers clean one by one before dragging his tongue across his palm, lips twitching upward.
Andre went hot and cold. He was stiff and proper and sometimes found himself on the receiving end of friendly ribbing because of it.
Was that what this was? Or did Resh suspect Andre’s arousal and was teasing him?
Then again, he was a mischievous imp. More likely, Resh had thought nothing at all, acting on a whim. It was in his nature.
Soon, he and George drifted off, snuggling, the carriage rolling on.
Hours passed, the afternoon fading to evening. Andre watched the landscape pass outside the windows. He was familiar with this area, but another day, and he’d be in unknown territory. He’d spent his whole life in Vale’s south, never traveling farther than a few miles from Castlehill.
The plug toyed with him, the assault easing off on smoother stretches of road only to pick back up with increased ferocity.
Every foot they traveled hammered Andre in the most delicious, private way.
He hadn’t been taken by a male in what felt like forever and was craving that strong embrace, the masculine scent, the fierce, deep grunts.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, there was a damp spot blooming at the front of his breeches, no helping it.
He was grateful for the encroaching darkness.
He’d thought time would desensitize him to the constant thumping, but the opposite was true.
The longer it went on, the more his body responded.
He contracted around the toy, and when the road turned rough, giving him pleasure, his groin tensed, clutching the wood.
As the attack continued, Andre found himself straining around the plug, inner muscles locked.
Release was building inside him, the gentle up and down of the coach carrying him toward the inevitable.
His jaw slackened, body stiffening. The wheels hit a bump and—
The carriage stopped, the coachman reining in the horses. The sudden, jarring halt woke the other occupants, Master George yawning and stretching, Lord Dalton kissing the top of Lilian’s head.
“We’re stopping for the night,” the driver announced.
Andre suppressed his disappointment, reminding himself to be glad he was spared embarrassment. He climbed out of the carriage, carefully keeping his crotch covered. To the east, a wide, open field stretched, perfect for pitching tents.
Andre would share accommodation with others, giving him no opportunity to take care of the throbbing ache in his loins.
Knights would be guarding the periphery, the nearest forest too far away for Andre to sneak off to.
He would, under the cover of darkness, be able to remove the plug, but true relief was out of his reach.
“The orcs are in pursuit,” Lord Aranin’s voice rang out behind him.
Andre bowed to his lord as he approached in the flickering light of the torches, the flames casting a warm glow onto his pale-blond head.
“My Lord.”
“Cordelia said you were feeling unwell?” Lord Aranin stopped in front of Andre, his assessing gaze flicking over him.
Andre forced himself to show no signs of unease. Little escaped Lord Aranin’s attention. Andre kept his feet from shuffling nervously and his hands from clutching the jacket he used as a shield. “I’ll be fine in the morning.” It was a truthful statement. Andre knew better than to make something up.
“Good. Ride in the carriage again if you’re not.”
Andre bowed. “Thank you, My Lord.”
Lord Aranin’s eyes searched him. He knew something was up.
Then his features softened, his youthfulness shining through—at twenty-two, he was younger than Andre. Lord Aranin might have suspicions, but Andre saw the moment he let them go. He wasn’t going to pry, and Andre was overcome with gratitude.
He was loyal to House Aranin for many reasons.
When he’d been a boy, bandits raided Stagfield.
His aunt died defending her children, begging for mercy at the end.
The horror of the scene had burned itself into Andre’s memory.
Help for his aunt came too late, but the lord’s late mother, Lady Aranin, sent troops that rescued Andre and his family and arrested the perpetrators.
After the lady’s passing, Andre’s loyalty shifted to her son.
“You’re always so formal,” Lord Aranin said, a smile playing on his lips as he patted Andre’s shoulder. “I hope you know you’re like a brother to me.”
Warmth blossomed in Andre’s heart. “Thank you, My Lord.” He knew no other way to respond, always erring on the side of caution, on the side of being polite and respectful, hoping the same courtesy would be extended to him. “You mentioned the orcs…”
“Yes. They’re closing in. A scout reported that they have split their forces. A smaller division has captured Castlehill; the rest are following us. My army is camped between them and us, so there will be no nighttime surprises. I thought you should know.”
“Thank you, My Lord. I’m sorry they took Castlehill.”
Lord Aranin chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he said with a spark in his eye, “I’ll have it back before the month is out.” So Lord Dalton was right. He did have a plan. “But we have a lot of distance to cover tomorrow. It’s Farigoth the Ravager who’s chasing us.”