From Chapter 21
They danced. And after a moment, Sascha didn’t care one bit that everyone watched, that they were wondering about him and Lysander and how he could be manipulated or used.
He couldn’t quite forget about the threat to Lysander, but it faded slightly with the feel of Lysander’s strong arms around him, the steady pressure of his hand guiding him through the steps.
The warmth of the touch burned through layers of clothing as if nothing separated Lysander’s broad palm from Sascha’s skin.
Sascha hoped everyone attributed the flush of his cheeks to the exertions of the dance.
Lysander knew though—Sascha could see the knowledge in his eyes.
The heat that followed in them lit fires in Sascha’s body.
He vividly remembered Lysander’s promise of what would happen when they returned to his rooms. Lysander was thinking of it too, or planning what he would do with Sascha when they were alone, his gaze hot and intense on Sascha as they circled each other in the pattern of the dance.
Sascha felt almost…hunted. But in the best possible way, a way that left a delicious warmth flooding through him, that he never could have imagined only a few months ago.
Lysander might have been the hunter in this scenario, but Sascha didn’t mind being prey.
He felt powerful with the certainty that Lysander wanted him and no one else, that Lysander felt for him as he felt for no one else.
The exhilaration of it was almost as great as the desire, and they filled him, twining inside him, making him giddy, as Lysander pursued and guided him through the dance, as Sascha cast teasing glances at him from under his lashes while keeping just a little bit out of reach.
And Lysander… Lysander loved what he was doing; Sascha could tell.
Every move Sascha made, every flick of his eyelashes, Lysander noticed, and his attention only sharpened as a smile flirted with the corners of his mouth.
And though this dance they were doing—both literal and otherwise—was exhilarating, when Lysander chuckled low in his throat as the steps brought Sascha close in to Lysander’s body, Sascha very much wanted them to be alone somewhere.
Unfortunately, they were unable to be alone for some time as Lysander’s obligation would keep them at the party.
Then Sascha saw the gleam in Lysander’s eyes.
He narrowed his own in as much of a glare as he could give the king in full view of his court.
Lysander only laughed, and the sound was so delighted Sascha had a difficult time holding on to his annoyance.
A lifetime seemed to pass before they were alone. Sascha preceded Lysander into the royal apartments, their guards left behind outside. He could feel Lysander’s gaze on him, burning into him. They went directly to Lysander’s bedchamber in unspoken agreement.
As soon as they were through the door, Lysander’s hands clasped Sascha’s shoulders.
Sascha’s breath caught in his throat at the press of those large hands.
At the heat of Lysander’s body along back.
Lysander squeezed slightly, then ran his palms down Sascha’s arms, trailing warmth in his wake.
As Lysander’s fingers tangled briefly with his own, Sascha let out a long shuddering breath.
Lysander’s chuckle was soft, closer to a rumble of sensation than a sound but Sascha heard it, felt it.
Lysander brushed Sascha’s hair aside and pressed a soft kiss to his neck, just above his collar, just behind the glittering fall of jewels at his ear.
Jewels Sascha still couldn’t believe Lysander had given him. “Lysander,” he whispered.
“Sascha.” Lysander’s hands were back on his shoulders, shockingly warm.
His voice was a whisper too, one that spread heat through Sascha’s body.
Another brush of a kiss against his neck, and another as Lysander swept his hands down again, this time along Sascha’s sides until they came to rest at his waist. Kisses turned to nibbles and, without thought, Sascha tilted his head to give Lysander better access.
Another chuckle rumbled low in Lysander’s throat and a nibble turned into a sharper nip.
Sascha jumped slightly, and Lysander squeezed his waist.
“If you don’t want your clothes ruined, you should take them off right now.”
“What?” Sascha gasped, a laugh nearly breaking free, and twisted to look at Lysander.
All thought of laughter died when he saw the burning desire in Lysander’s eyes.
If he didn’t strip immediately, Lysander was going to rip these clothes right off him.
And wasn’t that a thrilling thought? He was tempted to not move, to let Lysander do as he would…
but the clothes were new and beautiful. Ruining them would be an awful waste, even if the experience would surely be delightful.
Stepping back from Lysander almost regretfully, he kicked off his shoes and unfastening his cape, brought his hands to the fastenings of his jacket and began undoing them as quickly as the sudden clumsiness of fingers allowed.
For an instant, he wasn’t certain what to do with his clothing—it was the finest he’d ever worn and it seemed as wrong to drop it on the floor as to let Lysander ruin it.
But looking at Lysander, at the smoldering heat in his eyes, he couldn’t imagine why his mind was contemplating such ultimately unimportant things.
Sascha tossed each article of clothing over the back of a nearby chair.
When he was only left in the brief bit of silk and lace hanging low on his hips, he stopped and let his arms fall to his sides.
Lysander always did like him in lace, and if he ripped this garment…
Well, the destruction would be worth it.
Sascha watched Lysander through the curtain of hair that had fallen across his face while he’d undressed—something he should’ve tried to do seductively instead of frantically.
He kicked himself, but Lysander didn’t seem upset.
Quite the opposite, in fact. Lysander still stared at him heatedly, still appeared as if he wanted to devour Sascha, as if he absolutely would.
Sascha wanted him to. So he stopped, standing before Lysander in nothing but a bit of lace and a pair of sparkling earrings, and waited.
Lysander crossed the two steps to him in a heartbeat and jerked him into his arms. His large hands were everywhere, just rough enough to thrill Sascha with the urgency Lysander felt but still cherishing, always with that underlying care.
The combination of urgent passion and aching tenderness was enough to melt Sascha.
Lysander pulled Sascha against him and into a kiss.
It was a little rough too, forceful, that feeling of being devoured Sascha had craved just moments ago.
He went up on tiptoe to press himself closer, even as his knees went wobbly at the depth of the kiss.
He clutched the velvet of Lysander’s jacket to steady himself.
Lysander hadn’t undressed yet. Sascha wanted Lysander’s skin against his, but the feel of the velvet against his bare skin, the thought of himself nearly naked while Lysander remained clothed, was somehow wicked and delicious.
He shivered delightfully at the sensation.
Lysander tore his mouth from Sascha’s and began laying a line of nipping little kisses along his jaw back to his ear.
He nibbled and sucked at Sascha’s earlobe, and Sascha gasped, clutching tighter to Lysander’s jacket at the unexpected burst of pleasure.
After a few moments, Lysander whispered in his ear, “Do you remember what I told you earlier? What I planned to do to you?”
Sascha had to think a moment longer than he should have to remember, the pleasure slowing his mind.
But he did. And then I’m going take my time with you.
The noise he made was somewhere between a gasp and a moan.
Lysander’s chuckle vibrated in his chest. Something shivered through Sascha in its wake—nerves, anticipation, all-consuming and almost overwhelming.
Then Lysander kissed him, deep and thorough as his hands, so large and strong, wandered over Sascha again, exploring, grasping greedily at every part of Sascha he could reach.
All the while, the kisses didn’t stop. Drugging kisses that drove every remaining thought from Sascha’s head.
He tried to think, needed to do something other than cling to Lysander.
He was past the point of believing it his duty to serve Lysander in bed, but he always wanted to give him pleasure.
But under Lysander’s determined onslaught, he could only hold on and feel.
Lysander swept Sascha up and carried him to the bed.
Sascha’s world tilted before he could even gasp at the sudden change, and he was deposited in the center of the plush coverlet.
He’d barely registered the feel of the velvet beneath him, barely felt the world stop spinning, when Lysander was over him, lowering himself to Sascha’s body, taking his lips in another intoxicating kiss.
Time lost all meaning then. Sascha drowned in sensation, swept under by the tide of it Lysander created with lips and teeth and hands.
He could do nothing but let it happen, give himself over to Lysander’s whims, knowing it would be both their pleasure.
And if he had Sascha shaking and sobbing by the time he filled him, if he left him shattered by long awaited release, he also cleaned him up and tucked his limp body under the covers and into Lysander’s arms, holding him close as sleep claimed him.
To Love the Dragon King
Antonia Aquilante