Chapter 21 #2
He kissed his way down Fergal’s chest. Slow, thorough, every response cataloged and noted—the sharp intake of breath when his mouth found a nipple, the way Fergal’s stomach muscles clenched when Gregor’s lips traced the line of his ribs, the low moan when Gregor’s tongue dipped into his navel.
He hooked his fingers into Fergal’s waistband and pulled the pants down, pressing kisses to each inch of revealed skin—hip bone, upper thigh, the sensitive crease where thigh met groin. Fergal lifted his hips to help, and Gregor drew the pants free and dropped them to the floor.
Fergal was fully hard, his cock flushed and curving toward his stomach, and the sight of him—exposed, wanting, trusting Gregor with this vulnerability—sent a wave of tenderness through Gregor so intense it bordered on reverence.
He stripped his own pants off with considerably less ceremony, and Fergal’s eyes tracked down his body with an expression of such naked hunger that Gregor’s cock twitched under the scrutiny.
“You’re unfairly attractive for someone your age,” Fergal informed him.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It’s meant as an observation. A frustrated one. You have no business looking like that after three hundred and fifty years. It’s offensive.”
Gregor settled between Fergal’s legs, and the contact of their bare bodies—nothing between them now, no fabric, no barriers, just skin and heat and the electric friction of two dragons whose internal fires were responding to each other—drew a sharp gasp from Fergal.
Gregor reached over and found the small bottle of lubricant he’d noticed three days ago during his standard security sweep of the cabin. Fergal planned ahead. It was one of his many remarkable qualities.
He slicked his fingers, then paused, resting his clean hand on Fergal’s thigh. “Tell me if anything—”
“Gregor.” Fergal’s voice was soft now, the bravado gentled into something tender. “I trust you. Completely. You’re not going to hurt me.”
The words settled over Gregor like a warm cloth, easing tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying. He pressed a kiss to the inside of Fergal’s knee, then lowered his hand between Fergal’s legs.
His first finger circled slowly against Fergal’s entrance, spreading the lubricant, feeling the muscle tense and then gradually relax under his touch.
Fergal’s breath came in little puffs, like a man who was consciously willing his body to open.
Gregor gave him time. He had infinite patience for this, for Fergal, for the process of earning access to the most private part of someone’s body.
He slid the first finger in slowly, and Fergal exhaled long and shaky, his head pressing back into the pillow. “Oh.”
“Okay?”
“More than okay. Don’t stop.”
Gregor worked him open with unhurried thoroughness.
One finger became two, and Fergal’s hips shifted, pressing down, seeking more.
The tight heat around Gregor’s fingers was extraordinary and almost unbearable in its promise of what was to come, and he had to close his eyes for a moment and breathe through the surge of want that threatened to shatter his careful pace.
“Gregor, I swear to every god,” Fergal panted, his hands fisting the sheets, “if you don’t—”
“Patience.”
“I’ve been patient for years. Years. I’m done with patience. I want you inside me right now, or I will—”
“You’ll what?” Gregor curled his fingers, finding the spot he was looking for, and Fergal’s threat dissolved into a strangled cry, his back arching off the mattress.
“That,” Fergal gasped when he could breathe again. “More of that. And also you. All of you. Now. Please.”
The “please” again. Gregor’s weakness, his undoing, the one word Fergal could wield like a master key to every lock Gregor had ever built.
He withdrew his fingers gently, wiped them on the sheet, and reached for the lubricant again, slicking himself with hands that trembled—barely, but enough that he noticed, and Fergal, watching him with dark, heavy eyes, noticed too.
“Come here,” Fergal murmured, reaching for him, and Gregor went.
He settled between Fergal’s thighs, one hand braced beside his head, the other guiding himself into position. The blunt press of his cock against Fergal’s entrance made them both hold their breath, suspended in the fraction of a second before everything changed.
“Look at me, baby boy,” Gregor said.
Fergal’s eyes found his. Dark, wide, brilliant with want and trust and something deeper that Gregor couldn’t name without his voice breaking.
He pushed in slowly, oh, so slowly. Feeling Fergal’s body resist and then yield, the tight ring of muscle stretching around him, the heat engulfed him inch by glorious inch. The sensation was…
There were no adequate words. Three and a half centuries of experience, and nothing, nothing had prepared him for the feeling of Fergal’s body opening for him, accepting him, drawing him in with a trust so absolute it was almost sacred.
Fergal’s hands gripped Gregor’s shoulders, his fingers digging into muscle.
His breathing had gone ragged, his jaw clenched, his brow furrowed with the effort of accommodating the intrusion.
It had to be uncomfortable—Gregor was not a small man, and while he knew Fergal had had sex while at university, it had clearly been a while— but Fergal didn’t tell him to stop.
His body gradually relaxed around Gregor, the tension easing degree by degree, until Gregor was fully seated inside him and they were pressed together so completely that he couldn’t tell where he ended and Fergal began.
He held still. The discipline required not to move, to give Fergal time to adjust, was the hardest thing Gregor had ever done.
Every cell in his body was screaming at him to move, to thrust, to chase the exquisite friction that was right there, but he didn’t.
Fergal’s comfort mattered more than his pleasure, and it always would.
“Okay,” Fergal breathed. His grip on Gregor’s shoulders loosened slightly, his body settling, adjusting, accepting. “Okay, I’m good. Move. Please move.”
The first stroke was slow, a careful withdrawal and return that tested the angle, the depth, the response. Fergal’s eyes fluttered shut, and the low, guttural groan that resonated through his entire body was the most intoxicating thing Gregor had ever heard.
He found a rhythm. Slow, deep, controlled, building their pleasure with every thrust. Fergal moved with him, his hips rising to meet each stroke, his body learning the pattern and matching it with that quick adaptability of his.
“Faster,” Fergal demanded because, of course, he did. Fergal had never met a pace he didn’t want to accelerate.
“No.”
“Gregor—”
“I said no.” Gregor lowered his mouth to Fergal’s ear, his voice dropping into the register that always made Fergal shiver. “We’re doing this my way, baby boy.”
Fergal made a sound that was half protest, half surrender, but his body went pliant beneath Gregor’s, the last traces of resistance dissolving.
He stopped trying to control the pace and gave himself over to it.
To Gregor. The trust of it—the complete, conscious surrender of a man who ran kingdoms and argued law and fought battles with his mind, choosing to hand all of it to Gregor—was humbling in a way that transcended the physical.
Gregor rewarded the surrender by angling his hips differently on the next thrust, finding the spot he’d discovered with his fingers, and Fergal cried out so loudly that Gregor’s hand came up to cover his mouth reflexively.
“These walls are thinner than the compound’s,” Gregor murmured against his ear.
Fergal bit Gregor’s palm enough to sting, and the flash of defiance even in the middle of submission made Gregor’s chest flood with a love so vast it obliterated every shadow, every secret, every ghost he carried.
He increased the pace, but only slightly.
Enough to push Fergal higher, enough to draw those incredible sounds from him on every stroke, enough that the pleasure building at the base of his own spine was becoming harder to hold back.
The friction was extraordinary. Fergal’s body gripped him with a heat and pressure that seemed designed by some higher power to destroy his self-control.
He released Fergal’s mouth and found his hand instead, lacing their fingers together, pressing their joined hands into the pillow beside Fergal’s head. He could feel Fergal’s pulse through their linked fingers, racing in time with his own.
“Gregor.” Fergal’s voice was wrecked, reduced to syllables. “I’m close. I’m—”
“I know.” He could feel the tightening of Fergal’s body around him, the quickening of his breath, the trembling in his thighs. “Let go. I’ve got you.”