Chapter Thirteen #3
Maximillian laughed again, settling himself into a comfortable position propped on one elbow.
There was something giddy in that laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d let go and allowed this to happen.
When Cyrus raised his head, Maximillian caught him under his chin and drew him in for another kiss.
It was almost chaste, their lips barely brushing, and yet something in the atmosphere felt heavier, a weight of anticipation hanging over them.
Their lips were still touching, just about, but Cyrus could sense Maximillian looking at him. He let his eyes drift open.
At this proximity he could see every fleck of blue that made up Maximillian’s irises; every dark golden eyelash; every faint
line left behind by laughter and worry and anger. Cyrus wanted to touch them all.
“We need to take this slow,” Maximillian murmured against his mouth. Cyrus did not care for the sound of that, but Maximillian
intercepted him before he could speak. “No, don’t argue. You’re injured.”
As if Cyrus had ever responded well to being told not to do something. “Mm. See, I disagree. I think that I should get to do whatever I want. Because you injured me.”
Maximillian swallowed. Cyrus’s eyes dropped to the movement of his throat, fascinated. He was going to kiss every inch of
that golden skin before this night was through.
“What do you want?”
Cyrus sat up, leaning against the headboard. He let his thighs fall open, then met Maximillian’s gaze, a challenge issued.
“Make it up to me,” Cyrus ordered.
A moment of quiet dragged out, delicious, prickling with tension.
Maximillian’s gaze was dark as it dipped to the space between Cyrus’s thighs.
Cyrus was hard, he’d been hard since the moment he felt Maximillian’s tongue against his.
The champion was in a similar state. Cyrus could see the outline of his erection, straining against the leather.
A slow exhale. Then, a murmur in that rumbling voice that made arousal trickle like liquid fire through Cyrus’s whole body:
“I’ll make it up to you.”
It was Cyrus’s turn to swallow. Maximillian gave him a slow smile. He stayed propped up on his elbow as he reached out. Warm
fingers loosened the laces of his trousers, guided the fabric carefully down. Cyrus shuddered as Maximillian touched him.
The champion’s eyes stayed fixed on his face, cataloguing reactions to every inch of flesh mapped beneath his fingertips.
Then the bed dipped with movement. Maximillian leaned over the side to pick something up: a glass vial, half full of oil.
It glugged quietly, viscous and glistening. Cyrus swallowed at the sound of the stopper coming free as Maximillian thumbed
it loose. Oil trickled over his fingers.
When Maximillian’s warm hand wrapped around his length, Cyrus’s hips jerked of their own accord, a gasp punching its way out.
Maximillian’s touch was firm and sure, his thumb tracing tantilising patterns against sensitive flesh. Cyrus tipped his head
back and inhaled sharply, trying to fill lungs that seemed devoid of air. He was only half aware of one hand clutching tight
at Maximillian’s bedsheets. Everything in him was focused on the heat of Maximillian’s fingers, his torturous caress.
He changed pace, just slightly. A groan escaped, caught between his teeth, followed by Maximillian’s quiet chuckle. Soft,
teasing, just like his touch.
His hand kept moving, a steady rhythm interspersed with moments of unpredictability, whilst Maximillian rearranged himself beside Cyrus, sitting up so that he could lean in and press kisses to his jaw, sucking little bruises against the bone.
Cyrus was too distracted to respond with any finesse, turning his head and catching Maximillian’s mouth with a sloppy estimation of a kiss.
It earned another laugh, half stifled into his mouth.
“I like it when you make those noises,” Maximillian murmured. He did something with his wrist that made Cyrus’s entire body
twitch, a groan catching in his throat. “Mm, like that.”
He sounded like he was in control, just a little ragged, but when Cyrus forced himself to focus he saw the flush sitting high
in Maximillian’s cheeks, painting his chest. He could put on a show of control, but he could not truly hide how affected he
was. Especially when Cyrus’s eyes dropped to the tent in his leather trousers. No, Maximillian could not hide his arousal
at all.
And that was fucking hot. Cyrus kissed him again. It was messy and rough and the angle was off but he didn’t care. Neither did Maximillian, judging
by his swallowed gasp. Cyrus grinned into his mouth, fierce and pleased. Then Maximillian moved his wrist again and Cyrus’s
shoulders jolted, a moan reverberating against Maximillian’s lips.
Pleasure built in his belly, an inescapable crescendo.
Maximillian’s fingers were clever and relentless and Cyrus didn’t know when he had started clutching at him with his free hand but he was, his fingers digging into the muscle of Maximillian’s thigh as his other hand fisted in the bedsheets.
He could feel the intensity of Maximillian’s gaze pinning him in place, hot breath against his neck.
“Maximillian,” Cyrus groaned, or tried to. There were too many syllables, his tongue stumbling over the name. “Fucking hell—fuck—Max—”
Maximillian’s breath shuddered against his ear. “Yeah, call me that. Fuck, call me that, come for me, Cyrus—”
Cyrus’s hips jerked and that was it, a surge of hot pleasure scattering his thoughts until there was nothing but the feel
and the smell and the taste of Maximillian, his name on the champion’s lips.
Through the haze, he was dimly aware of Maximillian turning his attentions to himself. His hand between their bodies, his
breath fast against Cyrus’s ear. He pressed his forehead to Cyrus’s shoulder, a moan escaping from between clenched teeth,
and shuddered through his own pleasure. His panting breaths still sounded far away.
They lay still for a time, wordless. Cyrus’s heart pounded and his ears rang and his wound ached but in a distant, sulky sort
of way, like it knew it didn’t have a chance in competing for his attention.
How could it? Maximillian shifted against him, his body heavy with tiredness. They would need to clean up soon. Reality would
creep in. But for now, if Cyrus opened his eyes, bronze hair and golden skin would fill his vision. Tangled up with Maximillian
like this, he was encased in their own little world. Facing reality could wait.