20. Please, Your Grace #3
Connor stopped thrusting between the mattress and Jonathan’s face, but he couldn’t be still, of course he couldn’t. His foot twitched in the bedding.
The roller-coaster drop from butt to spine to shoulders beckoned, but Jonathan couldn’t be everywhere he wanted, couldn’t eat him out and also kiss his way to Connor’s shoulders and get his cock inside. He had to choose.
“This isn’t what a country servant wants from a duke, is it? You want me to fuck you.”
“Please, Your Grace.” Connor only needed three words to get what he wanted.
“Turn over.” He wanted—no, needed—to see Connor’s face.
He guided Connor farther up the mattress, until his head nestled on one pillow and his pelvis tilted up from another. His feet pushed into the mattress, lifting his bent knees to beckon at Jonathan, one short command shy of a bridge pose.
Connor had often called Jonathan pretty, but this was the truest beauty Jonathan could imagine in front of him.
It was trust.
Jonathan found the lube on the bedside table. Its cold plastic grounded him.
“You want a cock stuffing your ass, but you’ll start with this.” This person inside himself that came out for Connor almost scared him, but the play flowed so naturally when he saw the flush on Connor’s thighs, the look of his needy cock, the way he shuddered and gasped.
Words poured out, and Connor absorbed them and absolutely writhed with pleasure.
His lubed finger circled Connor’s fluttery hole and slipped easily inside. In and out. So easy.
Connor’s cock stretched up his stomach, pointing at his belly button, dripping precum in the hair there while his thick, heavy thighs quivered against the outside of Jonathan’s hips.
“Shall I fuck you fast and hard, like we’re at a ball and we’re going to get caught in the study? Or is that only for two lords?” The amount Connor’s cock leaked was truly extraordinary, visible from space levels of liquid. And his hole already wanted a second finger, he was so ready.
More lube, another finger, pushing in and out, while Connor watched, his gaze bouncing between their cocks.
Jonathan knew his own was full and weeping too, demanding a piece of Connor. Not yet, but soon.
In and out.
Soon.
“Where do dukes bugger their servants?”
“I…serve…you.” Each word came out when Connor exhaled, timed to the motions of Jonathan’s fingers. He was barely louder than the noisy air wheezing in and out of his lungs, inflating his diaphragm until those stomach muscles jumped.
Plenty of practice meant he easily found the spot inside Connor. As Jonathan hit it again and again, mercilessly more, the long sound Connor made might have been half of the word please.
Three fingers, and he needed to be in Connor as much as Connor needed him. Neither of them would last much longer.
Connor stared at him, blush-red everywhere, lips parted and his eyes fixed on Jonathan’s face.
Jonathan walked up the mattress on his knees, spreading the vee of Connor’s thighs wider, looking at all that solid cock and glistening hole and beckoning cum puddle and wanting to say words he couldn’t, shouldn’t.
He knew he wasn’t smiling, suspected his expression was as wild and trapped and needy as he felt, but he didn’t look away from Connor. He let Connor see.
“My gorgeous little farmer.”
Connor jerked, almost sitting, and more precum joined the liquid at his belly button, messing the hair. Jonathan swiped it with his thumb and held up his hand. “Were you hungry?”
Connor opened his mouth. His pink tongue flicked at his lips.
“This cum is mine.”
Connor’s gaze dropped to Jonathan’s fist, to the thumb he brought to his mouth and licked. He watched Jonathan’s mouth. Watched Jonathan’s hand. Watched Jonathan drizzle more lube on his hole. Watched as if nothing existed apart from them.
Jonathan nudged the head of his cock closer. “This hole is mine too.”
You are mine.
Tonight it was only one push, a quick pass through the muscle and he was in and Connor clenched around him. He eased deeper into Connor’s heat, his tightness, familiar already but also new like this, bare and squeezing around him.
“Stop. Moving.” His big bottom was trying to set the pace, and he needed Connor to be still to have any hope that tonight wouldn’t end right now. He let his nails score Connor’s thigh. “Your position in my household depends on listening to me.”
Gasping, Connor froze.
Looking into his eyes and not pounding into him was the challenge, but Jonathan could go slow.
“Shall I do it like we have all night?” He reached around Connor’s hips and dug his fingers into those generous buttocks while he matched an easy rhythm to his flowing words.
“Just a lord and his valet at a hunting lodge, alone, fucking on the table and fucking in front of the fire and fucking in the quilts and fucking in the woods?”
He wanted that. A cabin, with Connor and his blushes spread below him, gilded with firelight in a nest of soft blankets. He wanted the fantasy he’d built for Connor to be a real space.
“Which do you want? Slow like this?” Quarter-speed pained him. Easing halfway out of Connor was torture. Pausing on the precipice of all the way out could have been the rack.
“Any. You.” Connor’s breathing fit in the spaces left between Jonathan’s easy gliding thrusts. “Just you.”
He closed his eyes, because if he looked at the curls flopping across Connor’s eyebrows, if he looked at the glistening need he saw in his eyes, he would slam forward. To give Connor a fantasy as long and thorough as he deserved, he had to look away, and that created a beautiful pain in his chest.
Nothing existed outside this room, nothing but their bodies, the flexing muscles under his hands, the grip of Connor’s thighs on his hips, their skin. Their sighs. Their voices. Nothing existed but their two beings, becoming this.
“Please, Your Grace.”