27. A Dangerous Gift #2
Nevander’s always so careful with his words.
Heat embraces Seren from toes to knees, then to his chest as he sits on the marble bench. Water spills over the edge, disappearing through metal grates, as Nevander joins him. It’s just shy of too warm, and the fragrant heat makes Seren feel more sensitive.
“This one smells nice,” Seren says, reaching for one of the smaller faucet runes.
Nevander catches his hand and kisses his knuckles, lips cool against the steam. “There are seven different fragrances.”
Seren lifts his chin. “I memorized hot water, cold water, and one that smells nice. Pretty good considering that I’d never seen a magic bathtub before.”
Nevander gets that tilt to his lips that says he’s about to be shameless. “I know you’ve just been using that one. Lilac and vanilla. It smells good on you.”
Gods. Spirits. At least Seren can swear in his head. “The others might smell good, too.”
“We can find out.” Nevander inhales, like he’s savoring the bare, wet skin of Seren’s hand. “May I bathe you?”
Seren’s oddly disappointed by the question. He almost shoves the feeling down. But tonight isn’t about controlling himself. “You could just say so.”
Nevander’s assessment sharpens. “Would you enjoy that?”
“Yes,” Seren admits. “I like not being able to swear properly. Because I have to do what you say.”
“Thank you for sharing that,” Nevander says, all possessive consideration. “Now, sit and let me bathe you, my prince.”
Seren whimpers, his body suddenly heavier on the marble step. The water laps at his waist.
He would have grabbed the plain bar soap and scrubbing brush.
But Nevander touches a rune, and glistening oil spills into his hand.
Some drips through his fingers into the water.
Honey and sandalwood blend with the steam.
The ends of Nevander’s hair swirl across the surface.
His thighs move, obscured by rippling water.
Nevander takes Seren’s left hand again. Each caress is purposeful, working the honeyed oil into every crevice of Seren’s knuckles. Nevander has held his hands before, plenty of times, but this feels different. Nevander is unarmored, close, focused entirely on taking Seren apart.
By the time Nevander reaches his forearm, Seren is dizzy from the steam.
“Breathe,” Nevander says.
Seren gasps, realizing he’d been holding his breath. “That’s a tough order.”
“I believe in your ability,” Nevander says, smoothing out muscles Seren hadn’t known were tense. He moves to Seren’s right arm, his attention just as careful.
Seren relaxes despite the distracting heat. Like he’s spent a day copying manuscripts and finally sets down the pen. The muscles remain tense at first, poised to resume their effort. Then they slowly unknot.
Not just from the slow massage. Seren relaxes into Nevander’s care and control. Nevander said to sit. That’s all Seren has to do.
The scented oil washes away, taking the dirt with it. Nevander reaches Seren’s shoulder and pauses. His gaze lowers to the water’s rippling veil.
“Sit on the edge, and brace yourself,” Nevander says, and barely gives Seren space to obey.
Skin slides against skin, and Seren’s skipped heartbeat reflects in Nevander’s blue-green eyes.
Seren alights on the broad marble edge of the tub, exquisitely aware of his own exposure.
A vestige of modesty tempts him to cross his legs.
Instead, he lets his thighs fall open, only his feet and ankles concealed beneath the water.
“Thank you,” Nevander says, and reaches for another handful of oil. Steam glitters across his cheekbones as he draws nearer. Close enough to touch any part of Seren he wants.
He lifts Seren’s left foot, supporting it above the water as he resumes the cleansing. “It took me three trips to figure out who you were.”
“What?” Seren asks stupidly. His thoughts scatter with each sweep of Nevander’s fingers. His ankle shouldn’t be this sensitive. His cock shouldn’t leak so eagerly when Nevander hasn’t even touched it.
“I thought I would reach Wymond, look for a boy of Tansy’s age and coloring, and find you easily.” Nevander takes extra care behind Seren’s knee. “There were too many people.”
Seren laughs. “In Wymond?”
“At least six youths of the right general appearance,” Nevander says. “Humans have more children than we do.”
Seren still isn’t used to thinking of humans as ‘them’ instead of ‘us.’ He can tell the upriver families from the downriver families, the locals from the passing-through. But the differences must be slight to someone accustomed to horns and wings and every hue of hair imaginable.
“How did you recognize me?” Seren asks, faltering as Nevander lingers on his inner thigh. Scant inches from his flushed, needy cock.
Nevander moves to Seren’s right leg, starting over from his hypersensitive ankle. “I noticed you on my second visit, but I wasn’t sure until my third. It was early autumn, the leaves redder than I’ve ever seen. You flinched as you entered the general store.”
Seren can practically feel a wicker basket hanging from his elbow. The memories are comfortably distant compared to Nevander’s touch. “There was a horseshoe over the door. How did I never realize?”
“Why would you?” Nevander asks, cupping water over Seren’s thigh, washing oil and dirt away.
Seren always felt different. He dreamed of escape. But plenty of people do that, even among their own kind.
“What did you think of me?” Seren asks, greedy for Nevander’s past attention. He remembers only when Nevander hesitates that the truth might not be so comforting.
“I thought you weren’t ready,” Nevander says eventually. “I thought you needed me.”
“Like this?” Seren asks.
Nevander kisses a smile inside Seren’s knee. “My desires hadn’t yet flown so high. Turn around, so I can get your back.”
Seren obeys before the order has a chance to take hold.
Nevander guides him into position, knees on the marble step, hands braced against the edge.
Waves caress his waist. Strong hands work his shoulders.
Seren hangs his head, damp hair clinging to his cheeks.
No more words or memories. There’s only the present, Nevander’s breath weaving between Seren’s floating thoughts.
Nevander’s bare thigh presses close. His cock slides hot against Seren’s ass. Seren’s desperation drifts away with the steam. He needs so much, but he’ll be fine if this is all he gets. Nevander knows what Seren needs better than he does. Firm hands and gentle words and the gift of control.
A kiss consecrates the nape of Seren’s neck. Slick fingers delve beneath the water, between Seren’s cheeks. Seren moans involuntarily and presses into the touch.
“What do you want?” Nevander asks, ragged.
Too many things. Immense and foolish promises. Seren will settle for physical pleasure. “That depends on how well you’ve recovered.”
“I require clarity while you’re this obedient,” Nevander says, with all the control Seren craves. “Tell me truly if you want me to fuck you.”
The order pierces Seren’s soul. “I want you to fuck me.”
Nevander exhales into Seren’s damp hair. “Thank you,” he says, like Seren is a gift.
He stretches away enough to press a rune Seren’s never tried before, and a new oil fills his hand. Sheer and shimmering, smelling of rose and clover and green things Seren doesn’t have the wit to name, because that oil eases Nevander’s finger into Seren’s hole.
Slick, insistent pleasure takes him. It’s already so much. Seren’s new grasp of his magic frays. He senses the mindless contentment of the flowered vines above. But Nevander is steady, safe, a stone wall to lean upon.
Seren’s throat clenches on profanity. “Nevander.”
Nevander presses against him, like they’re already fucking. His free hand explores Seren’s stomach, touch clinging more than the oil, as a second finger slips in.
Easy. Natural. New but not frightening. Silence wraps like a song around them. Any words would be too dangerously true.