Chapter 24 #2
The stretch is slow and aching and perfect.
He takes the prince in by inches, his hands braced on Ithyris's chest, his thighs trembling, and the sensation of the prince filling him from this angle is different, deeper, gravity pulling Ithyris into him with a completeness that makes his eyes close and his breath stutter and his body clench.
The prince grips his hips and his fingers are shaking and his jaw is locked and he is holding back, holding still, letting Bryn set the pace, letting him take what he needs.
Bryn takes all of him.
He sinks down until the prince is buried to the hilt and their bodies are flush and the bond between them detonates.
Not the slow build of previous encounters.
A detonation. The prince's pleasure and Bryn's pleasure colliding in the connection with a force that blanks his vision and he feels everything, Ithyris's body inside his and his body around the prince's and the electric, overwhelming rightness of being connected to this man in every way a person can be connected.
He moves.
Slowly at first. Rising and sinking with long, rolling movements that drag the prince against that spot inside him on every stroke and the pleasure builds in deep, resonant waves.
Ithyris's hands are on his hips, guiding, steadying, and his eyes are locked on Bryn's face and Bryn is the one in control.
He is the one setting the rhythm. He is the one taking the prince apart and the power of it is intoxicating and intimate and nothing he has experienced before.
"You came for me," he says, and his voice is rough and broken and the words are punctuated by the rhythm of his body rising and falling. "You burned a kingdom and punched through a wall and flew three hours slow because I was sleeping on your back."
The prince's hands tighten on his hips. "I would do it again."
"I know." He leans forward, changing the angle, and the shift drives Ithyris deeper and they both groan and his hands are on the prince's chest and the prince's heartbeat is hammering beneath his palms. "I know you would.
That's why I love you. Not because you're a dragon.
Because you're a man who would tear apart the world and then fly home slowly. "
Ithyris's eyes fill. His hips thrust up, hard, involuntary, and the force lifts Bryn off his knees and drives the prince into the center of him and Bryn cries out, sharp and bright, the sound ringing off the stone walls and carrying into the night, and he doesn't care who hears.
Let the mountain hear. Let the kingdom hear.
Let every star in the sky hear the sound of him loving his husband.
The pace builds. He is riding the prince now, the slow tenderness giving way to urgency.
Ithyris's hips meet his on every downstroke and the sound of their bodies connecting is wet and rhythmic and the prince's hands slide from his hips to his waist to his ribs, pulling him down harder, and his touch is everywhere, hot and claiming and reverent.
"Mine," the prince says. Torn from him. "Mine. My husband. My mate. My... Bryn..."
"Yours." Bryn is shaking. The pleasure is cresting. The bond is screaming between them, the feedback loop spiraling. "Yours. Always. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to be afraid. I'm yours."
Ithyris sits up. The motion drives him impossibly deeper and his arms wrap around Bryn and they are chest to chest, Bryn's legs locked around the prince's waist, and Ithyris is holding him the way he held him in the cell, completely, desperately, and he buries his face in Bryn's neck and thrusts up into him with a rhythm that is losing its shape, becoming ragged.
Bryn comes with the prince's arms around him and the prince's cock inside him and the prince's breath hot against his neck and the stars above them and the word yours still on his lips.
The orgasm hits with the force of a held breath finally released, his body clenching around Ithyris in waves, his cock pulsing between them untouched, and through the bond he feels the moment his pleasure shatters the prince's last restraint.
Ithyris follows with a broken sound, his hips driving deep, his arms crushing Bryn against him, and Bryn feels the prince come inside him in hot, flooding pulses and Ithyris's whole body shakes and his mouth is open against Bryn's throat and he is saying Bryn's name, just his name, the way he says it when there are no other words left.
They stay.
Upright, tangled, the prince still inside him, Bryn's legs around his waist, Ithyris's arms around his body.
The night air cools the sweat on their skin.
The stars turn above them. The bond hums between them, spent and warm and whole, and the prince's breath slows against Bryn's neck and Bryn's hands are in his hair and they are two people on a balcony at the top of the world and they are alive.
Ithyris lowers them down. Slowly. Onto the warm stone of the balcony floor, his body curling around Bryn's, chest against back, arm across stomach.
The familiar position. The position they have slept in every night since the pool.
His scales shimmer across his skin, not the raised, defensive scales of anger or the dark, war-blackened scales of the dragon, but the soft, luminous shimmer that appears when the prince is content, when the dragon is at rest, and the scales are warm and smooth against Bryn's back and they catch the starlight and glow.
Possessive and gentle. Both. Always both.
The prince's mouth finds the nape of Bryn's neck. A kiss. Soft. Lingering. His arm tightens across Bryn's stomach and his fingers spread wide over Bryn's ribs and he holds him the way he holds him every night, the way he will hold him tomorrow and the day after and the day after that.
Bryn closes his eyes.
The stone is warm. The sky is open. The kingdom is below them and the stars are above them and the man behind him is breathing slowly against his hair and his heartbeat is steady against Bryn's spine.
"Stay," the prince says. Quiet. Into Bryn's hair.
As if there is anywhere else Bryn would go.