Chapter 24 #2
Eskil grabs his ass with both hands, fingers sinking into the firm muscle of it, spreading him slightly, and grinds his clothed erection up into him and Indrie gasps, loud, broken, his hands flying to Eskil's shoulders again for balance.
The drag of rough fabric against bare skin makes Indrie jolt, and the sound and the feeling and the sight of Indrie arching in his lap, naked and hard and desperate with his thighs splayed wide over Eskil's — all of it lands at once and it's all he can do to get his own pants off.
He lifts Indrie, shifts him, wrestles the fabric down with one hand while the other holds the younger man steady.
The trousers join the growing pile on the floor and then Eskil pulls Indrie back into his lap and the feeling of Indrie directly against him, skin to skin, nothing between them, the heat and the pressure and the slick of sweat is perfect.
His cock slides into the crease of Indrie's ass and Indrie's cock drags hot and wet against his stomach.
Indrie's eyes go wide. His breath hitches.
His hands tighten on Eskil's shoulders and his hips stutter, an involuntary jerk forward that slides his cock against Eskil's stomach, smearing wetness, and then an involuntary jerk back that grinds Eskil's length along the cleft of his ass, and both motions pull a sound out of Indrie that's almost a sob.
"Oh — that's —" Indrie's head drops forward onto Eskil's shoulder. His hips twitch again, helpless, seeking, like his body is trying to find the position that gives him the most of both sensations and can't choose. "You're so — you feel so good."
The words dissolve into a whimper. He grinds forward again, then back again, working himself between Eskil's stomach and Eskil's cock in tight, frantic little rolls, and the wet drag of him is obscene and gorgeous and Eskil wants to watch him do this for hours.
"The — the salve," Indrie says against his skin. His voice is wrecked, barely audible, shaking. "In my satchel. The clay pot. It's — it's safe for —"
He doesn't say what for. He doesn't need to.
The flush on his face says it for him, and the fact that he's thought ahead, that even in the midst of this he's still a healer, still practical, still thinking about how to keep them both safe, it makes something fierce and tender expand in Eskil's chest.
Eskil reaches for the satchel on the table. His arm is long enough to grab it without dislodging Indrie from his lap, and he finds the clay pot by touch, small, smooth, sealed with a wooden stopper. He pulls it open and the salve inside is thick and slick and smells faintly of herbs.
He's burning up. His head is pounding. His veins are searing.
The fever hasn't abated. If anything, the closeness of Indrie, the contact, the arousal, has intensified it, the fruit recognizing its cure and demanding more, faster, harder, now.
But Eskil forces the urgency down. Buries it.
Locks it behind his teeth and his jaw and his willpower and does not let it touch his hands.
He takes his time working Indrie open.
One finger first. Slicked, careful, pressed inside with a patience that costs Eskil a year of his life for every second it takes.
The tight ring of muscle resists and then yields, and the heat inside is staggering — slick, clenching, impossibly intimate.
Indrie's breath catches, not in pain, or not entirely in pain, a sharp inhale that contains surprise and adjustment and the faintest edge of something that sounds very much to Eskil's ears like oh.
His hands tighten on Eskil's shoulders. His forehead presses against Eskil's temple.
His body resists and then, gradually, doesn't.
"That's it," Eskil murmurs against his ear. "Just relax, sweetheart. I've got you."
The endearment slips out before he can catch it, but he doesn't take it back. Indrie's breath shudders at the sound of it and some of the tension in his body loosens, the word itself unknotting something that Eskil's hands couldn't reach.
"Oh," Indrie manages, his voice barely above a whisper, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. Eskil curls his finger, slow and deliberate, and whatever Indrie was going to say disintegrates. His whole body shudders. His nails dig into Eskil's skin.
Eskil does it again. And again, crooking his finger against the hot inner wall, feeling for the spot that will take the strange and turn it into something Indrie has no name for.
He watches Indrie's face like a hawk, reads every micro-expression, and when his fingertip drags over a slight swell of tissue and Indrie's mouth drops open and his eyes go glassy, Eskil catalogs the angle and the pressure.
A second finger. Slower. More salve. The stretch is visible on Indrie's face and Eskil holds still, buried to the second knuckle, and waits.
Then Indrie exhales and his body softens and Eskil scissors his fingers apart, gently, opening him, and Indrie makes a sound that Eskil wants to hear for the rest of his life.
A trembling, vulnerable moan that starts in his chest and spills from his lips without his permission, and his hole clenches and then releases around Eskil's fingers in a rhythm that mimics the racing of his heart.
His hips shift, tentatively, testing, and the motion drives Eskil's fingers deeper and Indrie gasps and his whole body jerks and Eskil's cock throbs with a sympathy so acute it borders on pain.
"Eskil—" Indrie's voice breaks. His thighs are shaking on either side of Eskil's hips. "It's — it's so much — I feel so — I don't —" He rocks his hips again, harder this time, chasing it. "I need more, please, I need —"
"Good," Eskil breathes into his throat. "So good, Indrie. You're taking me so well."
The younger man takes his fingers beautifully.
His body opens for Eskil by degrees, adjusting, accepting, the tight clutch of his inner walls softening from resistance to welcome, and his face, gods, his face, is the most exquisite thing Eskil has ever seen.
Eyes half-closed, lips parted and bitten red, the flush running from his cheeks to his chest, utterly undone and helpless against the sensation.
Eskil watches him and is already so close just from watching, just from the feel of Indrie's body gripping his fingers, hot and slick and pulsing, the sounds falling from his lips and the way he's started to move, to fuck himself on Eskil's hand, rocking back onto his fingers with an instinct that requires no instruction.
His cock bobs between them with each roll of his hips, drooling a continuous thread of wetness against Eskil's stomach, and the sight of it — Indrie impaling himself, open-mouthed and glassy-eyed, too far gone to even be embarrassed about the sounds he's making — nearly makes Eskil finish untouched.
"You're perfect," Eskil whispers against the pulse point beneath Indrie's ear.
"Fucking perfect." His lips move to the unmarked skin beneath his jaw.
He presses his mouth into the hollow of Indrie's collarbone and groans against it, low and guttural and completely involuntary.
"You feel incredible. Your ass is so tight, so hot — I can feel you squeezing around me, feel you pulling me deeper.
" Lower. Rougher. His lips brushing the shell of Indrie's ear with each word.
“I can't stop thinking about what you're going to feel like around my cock.
How tight you're going to be when I push inside you.
How you're going to sound when I fill you up. "
Indrie whimpers, high and desperate, his hips stuttering.
He doesn't know how much Indrie understands.
Maybe half. Maybe less. But the younger man's breath has gone ragged and shallow and his hips are rocking faster and his fingers are digging into Eskil's shoulders hard enough to bruise, and whatever the words are doing to him, it's working.
Indrie is riding his hand shamelessly now, three fingers deep, his cock smearing wetness between their bodies with every thrust, making sounds that are barely human — broken, keening, needful sounds that belong in a bedroom and nowhere else.
Eskil holds him close, curling his fingers against that spot inside, relentless now, and Indrie is gasping and so close, Eskil can feel it, the tension building in the younger man's body, the trembling in his thighs, the way his movements have become frantic and graceless and desperate, his hole fluttering and clenching around Eskil's fingers in rapid, uncontrollable spasms.
Eskil shifts their position. He withdraws his fingers — Indrie makes a sound of protest, a bereft, choked no that goes straight to Eskil's cock — and takes them both in hand.
The slide of their cocks together, slick with salve and precome, the silken heat of Indrie's length pressed flush against the thick weight of his own, makes Eskil's vision white out for a moment and Indrie's entire body convulses.
Indrie looks down. Stares. His cock looks obscene next to Eskil's, slender and flushed dark and weeping, pressed against the thick, veined length of Eskil's shaft in Eskil's fist, and the visual seems to short-circuit something in his brain because he makes a sound like the air has been punched out of him.
“Gods,” Indrie says, thrusting into his fist.
"Put your hands on us," Eskil tells him. The words are spoken against the shell of Indrie's ear, low and rough and stripped of everything but want. "Both hands, sweetheart. I want to feel you."