Chapter Twenty-Three #4
Ethyr reached out slowly, knowing somehow that Kiaro would shy from his touch even after what had just happened.
And he did, flinching away from Ethyr’s fingers on his cheek.
But Ethyr persisted, stroking over his perfect cheekbone, combing into the black hair pulled back from his face.
It shifted Kiaro’s eyes from Ethyr’s face to his hand, watching it trail down the braid over his shoulder.
Ethyr tugged on the strip of fabric tying it together, slipping it free.
Like a life of its own, his hair unraveled into a loose, gorgeous curtain.
Ethyr dipped his fingers into it, marveling at the soft, ethereal black, like dipping his fingers into the night itself.
Kiaro grabbed his wrist and Ethyr froze, meeting his gaze. It had that look again. Startled sorrow. He wanted to know what had happened to make the god wear his emotions so freely all of a sudden.
“Are you okay?” Ethyr whispered.
Kiaro’s lips parted. Pressed back together.
His eyes drifted down and he turned his cheek into Ethyr’s palm.
His own palm slid from Ethyr’s wrist to mold against the back of his hand, and Kiaro pressed his lips to each of Ethyr’s fingertips, one at a time.
He made slow, deliberate progress, from his pinky to his pointer.
Ethyr watched, fighting for breath, as the god’s perfectly carved lips layered kisses down into the palm of his hand, lingering there with caresses of breath and the barest touch of lips.
It was only kissing, innocent and gentle, and yet Ethyr couldn’t control the sudden hitch in his breath or the line of fire from his heart to his groin.
Kiaro’s mouth drifted, slow, deliberate, to Ethyr’s wrist. Cool breath washed across the fluttering heat of delicate veins and Ethyr felt the words, burning in his heart, at the same time Kiaro murmured them, eyes closed and brow furrowed.
“I ache for you.”
Kiaro continued down his arm, every descending kiss a repetition of the words, pressing into his veins. I ache. I ache. I ache. Ethyr could not move, could not breathe, as Kiaro’s mouth traveled up his shoulder, brushing past the fabric of his tunic, to land on his neck.
The chill of his breath was not a contrast to the sweetness of his lips, or the warm pressure of his tongue applied to Ethyr’s throat. He lifted his chin without thought, closing his eyes, exhaling a shuddering breath and forgetting to inhale another.
There was something about Kiaro’s mouth against his skin, hands on his body, weight above his own, that rid Ethyr of all awareness but them, all thought, all feeling.
Kiaro’s movements were not forceful or pushing, but yielding, giving—like Ethyr was the god and Kiaro’s devotion his sacrifice.
He fought for breath and for words beyond the sensation. He could find none.
Kiaro’s mouth retreated. Ethyr opened his eyes and looked up at the god, his dark form framed golden by the fire.
In its light, the pitch black of his hair looked almost iridescent, the steel of his eyes soft.
Here, in his bedroom, in his bed, Kiaro was somehow both more real and more ethereal than he’d ever been before.
His fingers returned to Ethyr’s temple, brushing curls from it as their eyes searched each other’s. “I’m going to take your clothes off,” Kiaro told him softly. It was so blunt, straightforward, and yet the god’s smooth voice shaped the words into honeyed passion. Ethyr’s stomach clenched.
Slender fingers pushed up the bottom of his tunic, slid up his torso, over his chest. Ethyr helped pull it off.
Kiaro ducked down to apply his mouth to the newly exposed skin, like a moth to flame, like some primal instinct compelled him.
He kissed Ethyr’s shoulders, his collarbone, down over his chest and ribs, taking his time with every motion.
He did not kiss in arousal, but in worship, pressing prayers into Ethyr’s skin, into his blood.
Ethyr arched into the touch and Kiaro slid his arms under his back, squeezing him closer to every soft kiss and tender nuzzle.
“Kiaro,” he sighed, burying his fingers into the soft, long locks, pressing his head back against the mattress.
“Kyarin,” Kiaro corrected, mumbling into Ethyr’s skin as though he didn’t want him to hear.
Ethyr opened his eyes, looking down at the god as he continued his worship. All the darkness, all the coldness, had vanished. He was a figure of love and devotion as much as Varuut ever was—more than Varuut ever was.
“Kyarin,” he whispered. Kiaro paused again, his exhale tickling the soft flesh of Ethyr’s abdomen.
They stayed like that for a long moment, Kiaro’s arms wrapped around Ethyr, lips still against his stomach, Ethyr’s hands lost in the infinite black of Kiaro’s hair.
Then Kiaro pushed himself up, aligning his body to Ethyr’s, and dusted kisses over his face, forcing him to close his eyes. But he could feel the heavy coolness of long, dark hair curtaining their faces.
“Kyarin,” he murmured again. Kiaro kissed his top lip, then his bottom, and it was Ethyr who caught his mouth and opened his own, bringing Kiaro’s tongue into it.
And even still, the god kissed with delicacy, like Ethyr was something too precious to risk ferocity.
Ethyr would have thought he’d hate it, that he’d yearn for fast and rough again, but he melted into it, into Kiaro’s affection, into his touch.
He found the bottom of Kiaro’s tunic and pulled it up.
Kiaro sat back on his heels to take it the rest of the way off, straddling Ethyr’s hips.
His bare torso was pale like the rest of him, slim, lightly toned.
It was not anything Ethyr had ever been attracted to, and yet on Kiaro, the sight lit his soul on fire.
He did not vanish his clothing off the way the other gods did, but let Ethyr’s fingers fumble with the tie of his pants, untie them, peel them down. For all his conservative garb, he wore nudity with casual indifference.
“It is not what you’re used to,” Kiaro said, watching Ethyr’s gaze soak in the angles and curves of him.
“It’s perfect,” Ethyr whispered. He reached out his arms and Kiaro folded into them. “You’re perfect.”
Kiaro kissed his mouth, and kept kissing it. Ethyr tasted salt. He leaned back, holding Kiaro’s face. The god was crying. Could gods cry? He brushed his thumb over the pale cheek, and it became soaked.
Kiaro gripped his hand. “Do not pay it any mind,” he said softly, and returned their mouths together.
Kiaro dipped lower, trailing his lips down Ethyr’s neck, over his collarbone, down his torso, his hands gliding over the dips and ridges of Ethyr’s sides to reach his hips.
He untied Ethyr’s pants far more deftly than Ethyr had untied his, and slid them off. He did not eagerly set upon him, instead returning to his mouth, hands returning to Ethyr’s waist, and pried sweet kisses from him.
Ethyr leaned into him, wrapping his arms around Kiaro’s shoulders and heels around his back. He loved the taste of his mouth, the feel of his body, the friction of his skin against his own. There was a slight chill covering Kiaro’s body that bloomed to warmth as Ethyr held tight to him.
He could have lay like that forever, tangled with Kiaro, molded to him, feeling his breath and his tongue and his hands. But he had no protest when a hand moved from his waist, caressing down his side, over his ass.
“I ache for you,” Ethyr breathed Kiaro’s own words back into his mouth. And it was true. It was not pelvic-driven lust or a desperate search for distraction, but a horrible pain in his chest that wanted release. Kiaro broke their lips apart and rested his forehead to Ethyr’s, eyes closed tight.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. Before Ethyr could ask, Kiaro returned his mouth to Ethyr’s throat and pressed his tongue against the soft skin below his ear.
The sensation tingled heat over his scalp and down his spine, meeting arousal at the base of his pelvis.
When Kiaro’s oiled fingers pressed to his entrance, they met no resistance, and Ethyr sighed moans into Kiaro’s hair as he worked at a deliciously slow pace to soften and slicken him.
Satisfied, Kiaro’s hand ran up Ethyr’s back, then down again, palm pressing hard against his muscles in almost a massage, even as it forced Ethyr’s torso to arch, pressing his naked body flush to Kiaro’s.
Ethyr yielded to him, letting Kiaro mold his body as he saw fit. Mouth on his throat, one hand on his back, the other at his chest, grazing pressure over nipples already too sensitive to bear it. But he bore it, he bore it and the shocks of carnal heat it sent to his hips.
When Kiaro’s tongue and touch had almost dissolved him, they moved, sucking kisses down his neck, down his body.
Kiaro’s hands drifted with him, the pressure of fingers staining Ethyr’s flushed skin as they brushed down his chest, his ribs, his sides, his thighs.
Then, as slow and reverential, lips and hands worshipped their way back up.
When they were face to face, Kiaro nuzzled his nose against Ethyr’s, breath brushing across his mouth.
Ethyr wrapped himself around Kiaro again, closing the space between their lips, kissing him with the fervent desire that Kiaro had stirred up deep in his hips and heart and soul.
Kiaro met his vigor with tenderness and, like a tamed beast, Ethyr gentled to him.
The world was only Kiaro’s solid frame between his thighs, within his arms, the press of their bare flesh together, the exchange of sweetly offered tongues and lips.
Kiaro shifted, tucking a hand behind Ethyr and guiding him again into a curve.
Ethyr felt the rigidity press against his soaked entrance and he surrendered completely to it, opening his legs, relaxing his shoulders into the mattress as Kiaro’s hand kept their lower torsos together.
He pushed in, and for the first time Kiaro gave something of an uncontrolled huff, dropping his head down against Ethyr’s shoulder.