12. Fever Dream
FEVER DREAM
ASHER
S moldering embers were all that remained of the fire. Asher checked the antique clock on his bedside table. Two-sixteen.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and huffed a quiet growl. He was no stranger to the vicious cycle of anxiety causing insomnia and insomnia worsening his anxiety. It was exhausting. Literally.
Before undressing, he’d searched his entire room until he found a secret door hidden beneath a tapestry, reigniting his concern about the silhouette behind the locked door.
Was there a secret entrance to the locked door in the east wing? Was that why there’d only been one pair of footprints?
Tomorrow, he would block his secret door with the hulking wardrobe on the other side of his room. Maybe then he’d be able to sleep.
Groaning, he rolled onto his back. He’d never forget the pressure of Lev’s chest against his, or how the hands he’d studied for hours roved over his skin, the touch of his silken tongue against his lips .
The confirmation that Leviathan Marks, his hero, his crush, wanted him—at least in the physical sense—still simmered in his blood. His cock hardened at the mere memory of what they’d done, and nearly done, the sensitive head pushing up against the sheets.
Jacking off to the memory of the man he could never have was wrong. It was pathetic. He bit into his bottom lip, debating.
Fuck it.
He’d have to be quiet. For all he knew, Lev slept a few feet away on the other side of the wall. The threat of discovery turned him on more, proving his dire need for post-nut clarity.
Asher traced the lines of Lev’s art on his bare skin, traveling to the self-portrait of Lev tattooed over his heart, to Icarus falling down his flank, the sea serpent ouroboros circling his navel.
The Leviathan ouroboros was his favorite tattoo; it felt like a mark of ownership, a brand that claimed him. God, he wanted to be claimed by him.
His head fell back against his pillow. With needy urgency, he widened his legs, and took his dick in hand. He focused on the tattoo of Lev’s eye on his forearm, wishing the iris was steel blue instead of his skin tone.
Lev was an alchemist with color. No tattoo artist could compare, let alone capture the way Lev’s eyes had darkened with desire in the tower.
He rolled his nipple between his fingers and pinched, imagining how Lev would lick and suck until it peaked, then trap it between his teeth, tugging and teasing, thrashing his head side to side once or twice. Not hard. Just enough to show Asher what he was capable of.
“Fuck,” Asher groaned, forgetting himself, so intoxicated by the idea of Lev leaving bite marks. Still, he needed to keep quiet, and he had just the idea.
Rolling onto his side, he plucked his boxer briefs from the floor and balled them up.
Then in a filthy act he would be ashamed of in the morning, he spat into his hand, slicked up his dick with a few hurried strokes, and stuffed his boxer briefs into his mouth, wishing he’d gagged himself with Lev’s undergarments instead.
There. That would help.
Gripping his dick, he closed his eyes and imagined Lev forcing him to his knees in the hallway of the east wing, castigating him for venturing out of bounds, lecturing him for risking his own safety, punishing him by face-fucking the breath from his lungs.
But that wasn’t enough.
Asher’s hips lifted from the bed almost automatically, fucking his cock up into his fist as if beckoned by a primal urge to seat himself inside Lev’s tight heat.
Bliss coiled at the base of his spine. His pace quickened. He should savor it, edge himself, but he’d lost all self-control and self-respect. His toes curled. He bit into the fabric, but not fast enough to contain the moan that followed.
Shit.
His orgasm receded like the crest of a wave collapsing on itself. Hours had passed since he’d last heard the bed frame creak or the protest of floorboards under Lev’s heavy feet. He had to be asleep. Right?
Asher held his breath, ears straining to listen past the downpour and whistling wind. But there was nothing else. Thank fuck.
Paranoia mollified, Asher began anew, thrusting upward in synchrony with the glide of his wrist. The filthy sound of slick friction grew louder as he milked more precum from his cock and slid his hand up and over his crown.
He imagined Lev in the tower again, gripping both their dicks in his fist. “Spit,” Lev would have said, holding out his hand, and Asher would have obeyed. He totally fucking would have.
Saliva filled his mouth on cue. He pushed out the boxer briefs with his tongue and spat into his hand, gathering his sloppy drool, scooping it onto his fingers.
Then he rubbed it around his hole, teasing himself as if he were Lev.
The cocky bastard would eat him for hours and ignore him when he begged for more stimulation.
Wood creaked. Asher froze. He held his breath and listened.
Asher . The voice whispered like the wind. The lack of sleep was fucking with his head, but he’d roll with it. The idea of Lev saying his name, of telling him when he could come, summoned a fresh drop of precum from his cock.
He lifted his knees toward his shoulders, reached between his splayed legs, and gradually pushed two fingers past his ring, mimicking the stretch of Lev’s much larger finger.
“That’s it, Blakely,” he imagined Lev saying. “I’m going to fill you so full with my cum, your arse will weep for me.”
A whimper escaped his lips. The wind quieted for a beat, and Asher heard something that sounded very much like how he’d imagined Lev’s moan would sound—gravelly, low, arresting.
Instead of driving fear into his heart, the thought of Lev working his thick dick in his fist to the sound of Asher doing the same thing filled him with a mix of exhibitionistic and voyeuristic satisfaction that pushed him over the edge.
He released a long, guttural moan, impossible to contain, and exploded in ribbons and ribbons, painting his sheets.
A few seconds later, Lev joined him with another moan, one that lifted all the hair on his body and had his balls refilling. It was the sound of Leviathan Marks, the Leviathan Marks, his hero, his obsession, his god, coming on the other side of the wall.
But that wasn’t enough. Asher wanted more. He wanted to pound on the secret door adjoining their rooms and demand Lev let him in so he could lick the come from his skin.