Chapter 16 #2
“Next time,” Vitaliy said, voice low and rough, “the apron and nothing else.”
Everard hastily paused. “God.” He groaned. “You want this to end, then, as soon as may be. What happened to all night?”
Vitaliy lifted an eyebrow. “It wouldn’t be a bad thing.”
“Says the man with nothing urgent in his hand.”
“I want to look.” Vitaliy blinked, slow. “Looking is fine?”
“Mmm.” It was, Everard thought, quite obviously more than fine. “Yes.” But…
You could.
“If I have further plans for you, Vitya?”
Vitya inhaled. Leaned there, staring and wanting.
“Fine, too,” he whispered, at last.
Lead on.
Everard backed until his bare thighs knocked against the iron ribs of the Stanhope.
Vitaliy pushed off the doorway and followed him, step for step.
The carriage touched Everard’s back like a shock; he groped blindly behind him, and pulled.
The wheel spun, and the carriage slid forward with a loud, firm thunk—precisely where Everard needed it to be.
He hauled himself up, weight on his palms, and settled his arse down upon the flat—holy God, cold—surface.
He thanked brand-new bearings, three-quarter-inch bolts, cast iron brackets wider than his arm.
Also that his bollocks were still high and close from taut, unresolved arousal; the rest of him could absolutely bide.
He watched Vitaliy’s expression morph through realisation, disbelief, and then steady contemplation.
“Well, Vitya?” he demanded. He resumed his stroking, up and down. “Will you fuck me?”
Vitya swallowed. He crowded in closer, until he and his ropes-climber body stood near enough to warm him.
“These plans of yours sound like blasphemy,” he murmured.
Everard laughed. “So sayeth the ex-Quaker, atheist pirate.”
Vitaliy bent closer, put his hands on Everard’s chest, trailed fingers down, and clutched tight round his waist. He smelled like iron, sweat, honey-on-toast sweetness. “You want to screw on an altar,” he whispered.
Everard shivered. “Yes.”
“You want me inside you. Seventeen hundred pounds of cast iron beneath you?” Vitya splayed his hands over Everard’s thighs, stroked down, lifting and spreading as they went.
“Yes.”
Vitaliy still had breeches on. He nudged him wider. “A very expensive fuck if it fails.” He pushed Everard lightly on the chest.
Everard lay back as if liquid, as if compelled. He put both hands up behind him, gripped hard to the shoulders of the press. Thanked God he was tall, and put up his feet. The height was nearly perfect; Vitya had only to bend his knees a little—Sant Jesús, cast iron was cold on his back.
“We built her,” he gasped. “She won’t fail.”
Vitya let go one leg. He unbuttoned and, in a flash, pulled out his already-wet cock.
He laid it down in heavy promise, a perfect, blazing-hot fit in the crease of Everard’s thigh and hip, just beside Everard’s cock.
Then he leaned and put hands to either side of Everard’s waist, and gripped the flat iron carriage.
He pulled forward, pushed back, testing; skin slid and stuttered on skin.
“It yet rolls,” he said, revelatory.
Everard was breathing very hard. “That was the idea.”
Vitaliy smiled down. “You have good ideas.”
“Thank you.”
“But you remember the trestle table?”
“In York? How not?” In the cabin—the second night—Vitya had splayed himself over the little table, a display of broad chest, tapering waist, tawny, inviting fur, a bright and erect cock.
Everard had fucked him so hard, the trestle support beneath them had cracked and split, forcing an abrupt, giggling redirect to the hearth-warmed plank floor.
“You will have your recompense for it?” Everard asked.
The sliding movement seemed to enrapture Vitya; he stared down. “No. Only that it will have to be gentler than that, I think.”
“By all means,” Everard said, panting now. “As long as there are means.”
“Mmm,” Vitya said, promisingly. “One moment.” He twisted round, one way, then the other, searching. His eyes lit upon the tin of beeswax, with which they’d greased the iron.
“Absolutely not.” Everard laughed, nudged him away with a foot. “Look among the crates.”
Vitaliy gave him a curious glance but went; Everard was treated to the glorious sight of his arse in buckskin as he bent and rummaged.
“Further plans,” Vitya said, amused, finding his quarry. He returned in a moment, the bottle of sweet almond oil in hand. “When did you— No. I will not ask.”
Slick, so slick between their pricks now; Vitya slid him on creaking wheels until they groaned, and Everard was arching up, his fingers painful on the iron.
“Now, Vitya. Now.”
Vitya was all black-eyed, focused intent. With one hand he held the carriage still. The other helped with his insistent breach.
“Only just,” Everard began— “God.”
The man’s prick, God help him, was as thick as the rest of him.
Vitya halted, his breaths coming harsh through his nose, his lips pressed tight. They bloomed red as he let them go and exhaled, slow. He stretched to kiss Everard’s grimace, a question as careful as his fingertips were, tentative over Everard’s thigh, his bollocks, his prick, stroking him softly.
“Good?”
Everard breathed. “Yes.” He hooked one leg round Vitya’s hip. Pushed off the press’s shoulder with his palms. With a steady, insistent slide forward and one rather loud groan, he brought Vitya further into him—all the way.
Vitya jerked against him, his eyes wide.
“You,” he gasped. “I meant to…”
“I know what you meant,” Everard said. “You meant it slow and decent.” He laughed. “This enough lead for you?”
Vitya pulled Everard up, cradling his shoulders in spread palms, wrapping him close; this time, his kiss was more like himself, startling and sweet. Devouring.
A contented quiet settled in: shuddering breaths, soft noises.
Everard accustomed himself to the intrusion of hot, pulsing warmth, and pulled close every bit of Vitya he could touch.
His muscles slowly became liquid again. Vitya sensed it, and let him go; gooseflesh pricked up all over Everard’s skin in the absence of proximity, at the renewed touch of cold iron on the small of his back, on his hands.
Then Vitya gripped the carriage again, wrists tucked in tight to Everard’s waist.
“It will have to be gentler,” he repeated, almost apologetic. “But I will do what you want.”
“I want you however, Vitya.”
Vitya began to move, sliding Everard forth and back in tiny increments upon his prick.
Beneath him, the wheels squeaked and groaned.
It was both erotic and unnerving; Vitya’s rapt vigilance betrayed his own fascination.
His pace quickened, slides lengthening; Everard felt increasingly less like he was being fucked, being entered, and more as though he were an object: one of Vitya’s self-infliction, of Vitya’s pleasure.
He liked it. Perhaps a little too much.
“Déu meu,” he gasped. “Wait, I’m too close, I’ll—”
Vitya stopped, buried halfway. He hardly seemed to breathe. Everard breathed for him, and then some.
Slowly, Vitya resumed, hips twitching the barest amount. The carriage moved by inches.
It had an effect opposite to what Everard expected.
“Oh, Jesus, God,” he groaned.
The height of the press; the angle of approach; the persistent thick presence of Vitya’s prick, or perhaps its curve; whatever combination of circumstance this made sent shocks of pleasure driving into Everard with every small thrust.
Vitya didn’t stop. Neither buried himself, nor withdrew.
It was maddening.
It was driving Everard to climax with surprising speed.
“Why are you— Vitya, fuck me—else I’ll not be able to hold back—”
Vitya looked intent. He smiled a tiny smile. He did not let up.
So much for leading.
“For god’s sake, thrust, else I will…”
Vitya wrapped fingers round the head of Everard’s cock, and stroked: gently, lightly, not nearly enough.
Or so he thought. “Oh, no.” Everard cursed as his thighs shook, and climax came upon him. “Oh, god.”
That was him with his head thrown back; him panting, pleading, writhing. Through it all, Vitya kept up his subtle thrusts, kept Everard close and restrained as he trembled, kept him atop the carriage as he arched.
“What—in—hell,” Everard panted, at last. He looked down, and saw no spend but a slick wetness. He was still hard beneath Vitya’s fingers. “How in hell—”
Vitya put his thumb to his mouth, looking pleased with himself. He withdrew carefully, hauled Everard up, brought him close, kissed him again.
Head spinning, Everard attempted to snatch back flailing lines, to seize control into his grasp once more.
“Take me to bed,” he said against perfect lips.
Vitya hummed, wrapped Everard’s legs and arms around himself, and lifted.
Carried him with heavy, thudding steps into the greatcabin, dropped him down into the cot.
Undressed totally, and then laid himself over Everard, dense and warm, and kissed him and kissed him until Everard’s legs spread and his cock ached.
“Vitya,” he begged. “Please.”
“Now,” Vitya whispered, “I will do what I want.”
“What… ever,” Everard muttered, mad with lust. The rag-stuffed mattress was bliss beneath them. “However you want it.”
Vitya shifted, set down Everard’s legs that swayed like reeds, and straddled his waist.
Everard’s focus wavered, addled with desperation, confused by lust. He stared down.
“Dear God. Like this?”
“Yes,” Vitya confirmed, nonetheless a question.
“However you like,” Everard replied dazedly. He reached down, fumbling to assist, pushed himself upright. He was wet all over from the strange, pseudo-release. It would more than do. “I should warn you, I’m not sure that— It might not—”
“Fuck,” Vitya said softly, and sank down.
“Might not take much,” Everard finished, wheezing. Yes; despite his misgivings, he was absolutely going to be capable of further release. Currently, it was held back through force of will alone.
Vitya kissed him. Even his breaths were quiet.
But he had his recompense. Everard held on for dear life.