Chapter 25 #2
Mal thrust his tongue inside a few times in response to those fingers in his hair, but then—deeming the other man too close already, just from this—he retreated with a parting kiss.
But not going far. He swallowed Griff as deep as he could, letting him nearly into the back of his throat without gagging this time, building up to a rhythm that had Griff watching the stars wheeling overhead in openmouthed wonder.
Mal lightly squeezed Griff’s thigh with his good hand, drawing the leaf-green eyes he loved to watch back to his—and once their stares were locked, Mal managed to tilt his head back enough to take another inch in before he reached a new limit.
Once there, he made a few strokes with his tongue that had Griff making the most delicious, delicate whimpers too soft to wake the undead.
When Mal used some of the spit already slicking the way to push a finger inside him too, soon working in a second, Griff whispered on a ragged breath, “I can’t decide … if this is going to inspire … a poem … or a song.”
Mal hoped all that time spelunking in the back of his throat might inspire a literary masterpiece.
It did, at least, draw a few more words from Griff on the faintest breath. “I’m gonna—Mal—” But then the light in his eyes shifted, a smile tugging at his lips as he asked just as softly, “Can I? Come? I need to come.”
“Oh yeah?” It took only a second for Mal to guess the rules of this new game, grinning around his mouthful as he indulgently stroked the insides of Griff’s thighs, enjoying the sounds of the soft pleas against his ears and all too willing to slip into the role made for him here.
Griff must have to work so hard to always stay in control, watching himself around the bottle, trying his best to be a good worker and neighbor and friend—it must be a relief to leave everything in Mal’s capable hands for a change.
To let him call the shots the way he loved doing in this space that was just for the two of them.
“How bad?” Mal asked lowly, his voice full of understanding.
“So bad, gods, the mouth on you …” Griff whispered, running a hand through Mal’s hair. “But you’re going to have to swallow. So you don’t choke.” Then, more urgently, “Please, Mal, can I—?”
Mal squeezed Griff’s thigh again, signaling his permission. Then Griff did cry out, the tensing of his body giving Mal at least a half second’s warning to press that bandaged hand against his mouth and somewhat muffle the sound.
It was Mal’s name he gasped as he briefly left his body, and Mal’s name he repeated as he seemed to return to himself, using his good arm to draw Mal against his chest and share the warmth that was rolling off their flushed bodies.
He did it so sweetly, if loudly, that Mal decided to overlook the way he had momentarily forgotten the rules of their game.
But they worked out a new way to communicate without another word as Mal pressed his hardness against Griff’s thigh, reminding him of what he wanted next: deeper kisses for more and yes, I want you inside me and lighter kisses for not yet or go slower.
The vial of oil Griff dug from his pack and held between his teeth like some kind of retriever—cooking oil, because no one had planned on getting any on this trip, but it would do—spoke for itself.
So did Mal’s silent laughter as he eyed the glassware and mouthed, “Fancy.” Then he slicked up his fingers and worked them into the man before him with deliberate slowness and care, stretching and stroking all the way up to three before Griff deepened their kisses again to signal what he wanted next.
Mal took his time pushing into him even then, struggling to find angles to move where he didn’t feel the constant pull on his stitches—but once he was all the way inside Griff, kissing him with each slow rock of his hips deeper into him, he at least forgot the pain for a while, other parts of him burning with a fire more urgent than the one in his side.
When they moved together like this, Mal thought he was finally beginning to understand something about what it meant to be gentle.
Gentle was soft kisses to Griff’s cheeks, his neck, the corners of his mouth as he felt the clench of Griff all around him; it was sliding their palms together, learning the shapes of the scars there, feeling every contour of their joining and how right each one was.
Gentle was going slow enough to feel the length of Griff’s hair sliding between his fingers.
Gentle was tracing a careful path along the scar below Griff’s navel for the first time, like he had some right to be here, with this body, with this man. As if fighting so hard to earn Griff’s safety somehow erased the stain of planning that attack.
Gentle was listening to every heated breath, drinking them in, and knowing Griff was taking him in with just as much intention.
Gentle was Griff kissing his nose as Mal hit the right spot to send them both tumbling through the stars all over again.
This night did belong to them, Mal decided once again as they lay tangled together and catching their breath on Griff’s bedroll, Griff’s fingers making a cautious sweep over Mal’s stitches by starlight to make sure they had held.
And this time it was Griff who muttered as the sweat began to dry on their skin, “Stay.”
Mal’s eyes found his, gleaming with alertness, listening.
“Stay right here, with me, tonight.” Griff delivered a hushed plea, draping his good arm again around Mal’s waist with care to avoid his injured side.
“You can sleep here; there’s room for two in this bedroll.
I want to hold you for as long as I can, just to be sure you’re real, that this is all real.
And then …” He took a breath, licked his lips, and added more softly, “Stop drinking yourself to death, and stay with me for as long as fate allows. You didn’t like watching me bleed out—well, that would have at least been a quick death. I don’t like watching you die slowly.”
Mal stiffened for a moment. Then, rather than turning to rest his back against the hollow of Griff’s chest, he rolled onto his good side so that they were face-to-face, his hands rising to cup Griff’s cheeks, as available as he’d ever made himself to anyone.
As if he needed to answer further, he brushed his lips over Griff’s in a long, deep kiss. Yes, I want more of this.
Then he let his head slump against the bedroll while he tangled his fingers comfortably in that dark hair, as if this could keep them anchored to each other even when they later passed into the dream world.
“I meant every word,” Griff whispered, and Mal didn’t have to search for the book in the dark to know exactly what he meant.
Mal kissed him gently again, and lapsed into a few minutes of thoughtful silence before he whispered to those emerald eyes still alert in the dark, “Listen, the part about a place for us—where do you live now?”
Griff hesitated. “Well, I was living with Liam. Before. But … I was planning to rent a room at the Wyvern eating together in the old armchair with Whiskey dozing at their feet; racing each other through the Wood on a sunlit afternoon until they were as tired as a couple of pups themselves, then sprawling in the meadow grass to read Mal’s old book together.
The pale light washing over them as they lay on the bedroll was silver, but in his mind it was golden, warm and rich and so real that they might as well have been there.
“I’d like that,” he murmured, frowning at a cry from some beast that soared over the treetops. “But I’d like to travel some too. Linden is boring. Or rather, I get bored. Restless, sometimes.”
“Where will we go?” Griff asked, his own eyes alight with interest as another beast, then a third, called back in answer to the first from another direction.
Mal tried to focus on the question at hand rather than the natural sounds of night.
There was Cardraine, where Rhun was born, a kingdom of knowledge, good wine, and high culture; there were the southlands with their coffee too.
The northern gnomish kingdoms, meanwhile, had never been of interest to Mal, as their flowers and cheeses paled in comparison to treasure hunts and lands where the castles had banners that seemed to scrape the sky.
“Anywhere,” he said with a small grin. “I want to hunt for treasure where there aren’t any mires.
Who knows? Maybe we’ll stumble onto a castle waiting for a new owner somewhere out there and you won’t have to chop quite so much wood after all.
” His smile grew. “I’d like to travel far to the east and finally see the ocean.
Swim with you in the salt water, mess up your hair.
” He paused, thinking some more. “I’d like to go south and see some of the more remote kingdoms—find out what they like to trade and come back richer than a dwarf.
Richer than all the dusty old kings in your library books.
” His eyes glinted with visions of the precious metals and carved crystal statues he had admired in Mayfair’s markets since he was small.
“Maybe I could even show you Thrallkeld one day. It’s not all just liars and thieves—or it won’t be, once Wynnie cuts off Renaud’s head for me. ”
Griff’s fingers, which had been running up and down Mal’s back, stilled between his shoulder blades. “That’s how you asked her to do it? Why now, after all this time?”
“Guts—I guess she’s … sort of a friend—heard that Renaud murdered my old friend Ella a few months back,” he explained, the scar over his chest aching dully. “So I asked Wynnie to take care of him before everyone who ever helped me down there is dead.”
Griff’s eyes narrowed over the grisly scar on Mal’s chest, the way the skin puckered and had never healed right, as he said, “Bet Wynnie will have a field day with that one.”
“That’s the idea,” Mal murmured darkly. “As for cutting off his head, I thought we could have a party with it, with cake and confetti. Guess then old Leo will have some company …” Despite his burning desire for revenge, he yawned, finally spent.
Ready to drift down into a deep sleep in Griff’s arms, into a world where there were no mysterious shadows and no locksmiths who looked a little like him in the right light.
One where Griff stayed long enough for Mal to show him how he felt by laying the promise of safety at his feet that only treasure could buy.
Instead, he sat bolt upright as his tattoo burned stronger than what he had grown used to out here, flames licking up his arm, the pain intense enough to dampen the discomfort in his side.
Another creature barked a question to the night—not a coyote; this came from a bigger, deeper chest—and when four or five more yowls answered, sounding much closer this time, Griff shot up beside him and reached for his maul.
Grabbing his knife, Mal turned to warn Alys and found that she was already awake, clutching Leo protectively to her chest and readying her sword.
“Wargs,” she mouthed, her face in the starlight just as feral as their yelps and snarls as their hulking shadows appeared all around the edges of the camp.