Chapter Seventeen #3
Max rolled himself back on top of Cyrus in a fluid movement. Pinned, Cyrus groaned at the weight of him, but it felt good, solid and inescapable. He fidgeted, just a little, unable to resist.
But Max knew him. A strong hand cupped his jaw, tilting his head up. He drew Cyrus’s bottom lip into his mouth and sucked
gently.
Just when Cyrus felt as though he couldn’t bear the light touches any longer, he needed more, Max began to move down his body.
Kisses mapped the curve of his throat, his collarbone.
He moved his lips over the healed scar at Cyrus’s side, apologetic.
Cyrus couldn’t hide his quickened breathing, the rise and fall of his chest giving him away, but the look Max cast him from beneath his lashes was fondly amused.
“Easy,” he murmured. “Don’t be nervous. We won’t do anything you don’t want.”
An abdominal muscle twitched at the brush of his beard. “Tickles. And I’m not nervous,” Cyrus mumbled.
Max’s smile spread. He settled his palm low on Cyrus’s stomach so they could both watch the rapid rise and fall. The warmth
of his palm felt like a brand. “No?”
“No. Just—” Cyrus blew out a breath, letting his head thump back against the pillow. He needed to get ahold of himself. He
summoned his best scowl, then jerked his head back up. It wasn’t very good, considering the circumstances; it was more of
a pout than anything. But it would do. “Fuck off, you know I’m just turned on.”
Max grinned. He kissed Cyrus’s skin again, watching the muscles contract, until Cyrus reached down and grabbed a handful of
thick coppery hair, squeezing tight. Max groaned at that but acquiesced, sliding further down. He kissed at the jut of a hip
bone, then paused and looked, checking for a reaction.
Whatever he saw reassured him. Max gave a pleased little smile. His bronze head lowered and a slow exhale sent another shiver
ricocheting through Cyrus’s body, every nerve lighting up in anticipation.
He let his head flop back, telling himself that he was ready, but a groan still punched its way out of him when Max took his length into his mouth.
His hips jerked automatically but Max’s hands were there in an instant, pressing him back down.
He drew back, just for a second, and Cyrus growled his displeasure.
Max tutted. “Like I said. Greedy.”
“Like you don’t know it,” Cyrus mumbled. This, they had done before.
There was that grin again, only this time it was heavy-lidded and underlined by an intent focus. Max leaned over him, his
hands still splayed out over Cyrus’s hips. The touch of his tongue made Cyrus swear under his breath, his hands fisting in
the sheets, and then Max was taking all of him and wet heat was everywhere, it was everything, all consuming, the languid
slide of that tongue coupled with pressure so good it almost hurt.
When Max pulled back again, his lips were swollen and his cheeks flushed. He was beautiful, so beautiful, and he was Cyrus’s.
He was looking at Cyrus, checking his reaction again. The flood of affection was strong enough to push past everything else,
anchoring him in the moment despite the dazed pleasure still dragging his mind in every direction.
“Good?” Max asked.
A fervent nod. “Good.” And so fucking what if his voice shook as he said it.
Max’s smile was soft this time. He sat back, uncorking the bottle and letting oil trickle over his fingers. Cyrus watched
his expression, the rapt concentration in the furrowed brow. He set the oil aside, lowering himself down and pressing a kiss
to a trembling thigh. His hand ghosted between Cyrus’s legs, and then—
Strange but pleasurable, the sensation of Max touching him there, even as he made the lightest of circles with his forefinger. Cyrus twitched, his teeth digging into his lip. Then Max pushed gently.
Cyrus’s head dropped to the pillow, breathing unsteadily as he adjusted. Max was careful with him, so careful. Slow movements,
more oil. Like he was something precious. He exhaled as he relaxed, his world centring around Max, around his touch.
“Good,” Max murmured, and why exactly did that send his stomach somersaulting again, helpless pleasure attached to the words?
He wasn’t good, he was—
Max crooked his fingers. Pleasure bolted up Cyrus’s spine, dragging out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a groan, and
making his legs fall boneless around Max.
Max gave a pleased little hum. “That’s it, you’re so good for me.”
He would be good for Max. He would be anything Max asked, so long as he kept doing that.
Max did. There could hardly be any oil left in the vial but Cyrus wasn’t complaining, because it felt good. His clever fingers moved until Cyrus was sweating and squirming beneath him. Then Max cast the oil aside and reached back
up for a kiss, settling himself between Cyrus’s spread thighs. His free hand stroked the side of Cyrus’s face, tender, until
their eyes met.
The shadows made Max’s eyes look darker than they were. They still managed to be soft in the flickering lamplight.
“Ready?”
A somersault turned to free fall in the pit of Cyrus’s stomach. He didn’t have anything left in him but a nod.
Max dipped his head to kiss the corner of Cyrus’s mouth, his neck, exactly where he was sensitive. Teeth grazed the spot that
always made him shudder; a bruise was sucked into the crook of his throat. And all the while Max was pushing into him, slowly,
gently, until they were pressed flush together, breath shuddering between them. Max’s mouth found his again, swallowing his
moan. His legs shook, muscles twitching. A hand rubbed soothingly at Cyrus’s hip.
“I’ve got you,” Max murmured. Pure instinct, how that voice cut through everything. The calloused fingers that had wielded
a weapon against Cyrus so many times were impossibly gentle as Max stroked hair from his forehead. He was flushed above Cyrus,
muscles bunched with the strain of not moving. There was a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. He was fighting to stay
still, until Cyrus was ready.
The sudden rush of emotion was startling in its ferocity, as though the past few months had hit him all at once. Cyrus did
not have a name for it, not in that moment. He only knew that it made him feel utterly helpless and invincible all at once.
“You can move,” he rasped. It came out more like a plea than a command.
They groaned in unison when Max rocked into him. Cyrus hooked a leg around him, bringing him closer still, and Max swore, his hips delivering a short, sharp thrust as he sought a tempo that worked for both. He tried for something deeper and slower and Cyrus’s hands scrabbled at the sheets.
Max’s head dropped so they were forehead to forehead, his panting breaths hot against Cyrus’s cheek.
“Fuck, Cy, you feel so good . . .”
Cyrus shuddered beneath him, then jolted as Max hit that spot again, the one that made him feel like magic had just crackled down the length of his spine and into the tips of his
toes. He was hardly aware of the noise he made, but it made Max swear again, a shaky gasp.
“So good,” he panted against Cyrus’s lips, “so good for me. You’re so good, Cy—”
“I’m a fucking wrongdoer,” Cyrus gasped out, and then they were stifling laughter with messy kisses, half wild.
Max’s hips snapped up again. Cyrus dug his nails into his back, marking him with red crescent moons before he snaked a hand
between their bodies to take himself in hand. Max batted his hand away, wrapping his own fingers around Cyrus’s length instead.
The pleasure that had been building seemed to flow to every bit of him, dazing in its intensity. Cyrus’s back arched, bringing
Max deeper. He was aware of his surroundings and yet he was not. Max’s hips still moved, but he’d followed Cyrus over the
edge, his rhythm uneven, his breath stuttering. Through it all, he groaned Cyrus’s name, breathless and strained and reverent.
It took a while for Cyrus’s vision to stop spinning.
Max’s shoulder came into focus first, the familiar dusting of freckles.
Beyond, the tangled vines across the ceiling painted their sky a rich dark green.
Every part of Cyrus felt sated, like he could sink into the bed below and keep on going, right into the earth.
Max clearly felt the same. He sprawled atop Cyrus, half asleep already, heedless of his weight on Cyrus’s body or the mess
they’d made. He’d need to take a hurried bath again tomorrow morning, before he left for Durov.
Durov. Against his will, Cyrus’s thoughts surfaced from the hazy pool of pleasure trying to tug him down to sleep, and turned
back towards the election.
Would Max really win? Cyrus looked at the tousled head at his shoulder, listened to the deep breathing. It meant so much to
him. By the four old gods and all the powers of the seasons, Cyrus hoped he would.
He wished too that he could be there. That he didn’t have to wave Max away tomorrow to handle this on his own, forced to part
ways because of outside dangers.
A particularly unwelcome intrusion into their little world, Balthazar’s voice drifted across his mind.
I wouldn’t have thought you’d let that stop you.
Cyrus’s hand came up. He stroked Max’s back, feeling warm muscles twitch beneath his fingertips. Max sighed into Cyrus’s neck.
For the first (and perhaps only) time, he thought Balthazar might, potentially, have a point.