Chapter Twelve
John
Dinner is quiet, with Sonny and Marcus continuing their work in the barn and the rest of us occupied with our own thoughts. I want to get Rob alone, to ask him about Fritz. He slips away before I can, and we both know he’s avoiding me.
I fight the urge to wander out to the barn. I could pretend to be inquiring as to their progress, though it would be a lie. I remind myself that the last time I’d visited Marcus in the barn, I’d almost given into my desires.
Hell, there was no almost about it. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the softness of his lips against mine.
I want Marcus. It’s that simple. His youth calls to me, his intelligence intrigues me, and his taste is imprinted on my tongue.
I want him and I want to return to the Greenwood.
My loyalty to Rob hems me in even more than my vow to the Lady, and while Marcus would have a wolf’s long life, he would still go before I do.
I haven’t always lived as a monk. I’ve loved well, over my long life, and as a result, I’ve buried many lovers. Each one took a piece of my soul with him. When my last lover died, only years in the Greenwood restored me to myself. I will not take that risk again.
For now, at least, I’m trapped between things I do not want and what I cannot have.
In the end, though, a glass of water undoes me.
I retire to my room to take up my crochet, quickly becoming bored.
I need to move, to lose some of this troublesome energy.
My room is too small for me to go through a set of patterns with the longsword.
Instead, I do some simple squats and lunges, repeat the set, and do it again.
Sweat runs along my spine and drips down my hairline.
My efforts do little to quell the desire burning in my belly, so I run in place until Will pounds on my door and tells me to be quiet.
Sore, sweating, and thirsty, I strip to the waist and go down to the kitchen.
The countertops are clean, the sink is empty, and the only light comes from what moonlight shines through the windows.
Water from the tap is neither as cold nor as fresh as the water from the stream in the Greenwood, but it does quench my thirst. I’m filling a second glass when Marcus enters.
“Ho-ly shit.”
The words are said on a gasp, startling me so the glass nearly slides out of my grasp. I turn and find I’m frozen in place. The young man in the doorway, with his eye patch and his tousled curls, pins me with his gaze. His wolf is near the surface, a shadow rising round him that calls to mine.
Yes. I am yours.
There’s a bit of countertop jutting out between us, for which I’m grateful. Setting the glass down, I manage to sputter, “You’re . . .um, I apologize, I . . .uh . . .”
He stalks toward me until he reaches the counter. Despite the two feet between us, his scent fills the space and then some. Warm. Rich. Wolf and man.
His lips. His taste. His heat. Mine.
“Do you know how hard it is to keep from going HAM when you’re around?”
My mouth is dryer than before I drank the water. “Ham?”
“Hard. As. A. Motherfucker.” He spits out the words, like he’s angry at something. Me? Probably.
Unexpectedly, I laugh. “You’re not alone in that.”
“Oh, yeah?” He raises his chin, the gaze from his one eye a direct challenge. “What are we going to do about that?”
I have to clear my throat before I can answer. “Nothing.”
“Of course not.”
The blend of bitterness and sorrow in that short phrase catches me off guard. “You don’t understand. You’re young and gifted. You don’t want—”
He smacks the countertop. “Stop telling me what I want. I know I’m damaged goods, but—”
“You’re not.” I cut him off and reach for him, my hands taking on a life of their own. In that moment, my need to touch him is far greater than my fear. “I’m the one who’s damaged.”
He catches hold of my hand. “Nah, you’re amazing.” With a sharp yank, he drags me around the counter so we’re face-to-face. This. This is what I want. I rest my fingertips against his chin and his breath brushes warm against my knuckles. His wolf calls to mine.
“Lord help me,” I whisper, running my thumb along his full lower lip. He tilts his head to catch the tip of my thumb between his teeth.
I close my eyes.
He draws my thumb deeper into his mouth and begins to suck. My cock swells, a response that no amount of mental discipline could prevent.
Not that I try.
The top of his head only reaches my shoulder, so I bend over him and murmur, “I want to kiss you.”
In one motion, he releases my thumb and gets a hand around the back of my neck, jerking me closer to him. “No shit.”
We meet in a fierce clash of lips and tongues. He growls against me and I cant his head so I can go deeper. He has one hand tangled in my hair, the other a warm press against my throat. I want him closer. I need him closer.
I take him.
Though not as fully as I want to.
I slide down his body to my knees and land with my hands on his thighs, forehead resting on his belly.
“What are you—”
“Shh.” I tug on his trousers, dragging them down.
For a moment I simply look. His belly is firm and a trail of dark hair travels from his navel, disappearing under the white band of his undershorts.
His prick bulges under the soft cotton. I want to take him in my mouth, yet there’s still a soft voice whispering unwelcome thoughts, reminding me how bad the pain will be.
He shifts his hips, a little impatient, and his cock bumps against my chin. Desire swamps any possible reluctance, and I mouth the bulge. His groan gives me even more encouragement.
Catching the band of his shorts with my thumbs, I pull slowly, teasing myself. The trail of dark hair broadens to a neat patch around the base of his prick. He thrusts his hips again, and I chuckle. “I’ll get there, sweeting. Be patient.”
His gasp makes me smile.
I tug his shorts low enough to expose him completely. His musk intoxicates me, his prick is thick and hard, ruddy and beautiful, and his balls hang low and full.
You could still back away.
“No.” My whisper starts harsh and turns into a sigh, blowing on his sensitive skin. He murmurs something soft, and I give in to what I really want to do.
I grasp the base of his shaft and mouth the head. He’s already leaking, salty and bitter on my tongue. It might have been years, decades, even, since I allowed myself to be in this position, but my body remembers what my mind would deny.
Swallowing him fully, I set a leisurely pace at odds with the grinding desire building in my belly. Though my own prick is painfully hard, I stifle the urge to stroke myself so I can fondle his balls. Soft. Dense. His small noises encourage me, but I keep the pace easy.
“More,” he gasps, and I smile around him. “Faster. Please.”
He thrusts as he says it and I slow further.
“Fuck. Please.”
There. Begging. Somehow that’s what I needed to hear. I give in to what we both want, sucking him harder and faster. His thrusts take on more urgency, and I follow his rhythm.
Only then do I take myself in hand, though mostly to pinch the base of my prick to keep from coming too soon.
“Oh shit.” His hips lose their rhythm and his flavor blooms on my tongue. “I’m gonna . . . I’m gonna . . .” His words fade into a groan and he fills my mouth with come.
I swallow him down and with two strokes, maybe three, I join him, warm release rolling over the back of my hand.
For a moment, there is stillness. His softening prick slides from my mouth and I press a soft kiss to his thigh.
And then I remember we’re in a public place and that someday he will die.
I sit back on my heels. I have to. I must. “There’s truly nothing wrong with you,” I say, even as I scramble to my feet.
“What?” His brows draw together, his gaze unfocussed.
“You are so beautiful, but I can’t . . .” I back away, extraordinarily grateful no one walked in during our encounter.
“Can’t what?”
“This.”
He shakes his head and his one-eyed gaze sharpens. “Oh, I get it, it’s not you, it’s me?” His sarcasm cuts deep.
I can still taste him on my lips. “We’re still in the kitchen,” I say, as if that will explain my overwhelming panic.
“Jesus, John, I’m not stupid.” He pulls up his trousers with a disgusted snort. “You’ve got stuff. I get it.”
He’s got his hand on the doorknob before I can collect myself.
“Wait,” I manage, debating how much to say.
It strikes me that this is one of those times where the choice between the truth and a lie will determine my fate for a long while.
Either I value Marcus or I don’t, and if I do value him, he deserves to know what’s in my heart.
The tension in his body and his gaze on the floor tells me he’s about to leave. “Please,” I say, “Hear me out.”
A slow nod is his only response.
“I took my first lover in the days of Richard the Second.” I say it slowly and pause, giving him time to take that in.
“I’ve never been the promiscuous sort, but that’s well over six hundred years ago.
I’ve loved many men, and I’ve buried every one of them.
” I have to close my eyes again to shut out the pain in his expression. “Please, Marcus. Please understand.”
I open my eyes, and he’s gone. “Please understand why I can’t do that with you.”
Except it’s already too late.