Chapter 11 #5
The speed with which Nic answered seemed to act as a final goad, and gripping his shoulder, Dashiell turned him to the window. Nose inches from the glass, Nic had a moment to breathe, to anticipate, the thrill of expected touch making his skin tingle.
Before he could ask the next question, Dashiell’s hands were on him, already slick with oil.
But Nic’s surprise that he was so prepared lasted only a moment, because everything Dashiell had said and done all night had been leading to this.
Now his gentle but expert ministrations were enough to spark a flare of jealousy toward everyone else the man had ever touched—a foolish thought soon chased away by the glorious sensation of Dashiell easing into him.
Nic wished he didn’t have to stifle the cry that tore up his throat, wished he could give voice to the mingling pleasure and pain as Dashiell pushed deeper, but some small part of him was just aware enough to remember they weren’t alone in the house.
To remember how dangerous it would be if they were caught.
And so he pressed his open mouth against his forearm and cried out against his own skin, letting the world shrink to the rain outside and the rhythmic huff of Dashiell’s breath.
Revelling in every thrust, Nic dropped a hand to his own straining cock and gave himself over entirely to the sensations, the pair of them moving together as though they had melted into a single gasping body.
Nic lasted longer than he thought he would in such circumstances, but it could never be long enough and all too soon he spent onto his own hand as Dashiell’s final cry was bitten back into his throat.
And there they collapsed together against the window, a sweaty pair of bodies shuddering the last of their passion against the cold glass.
Dashiell groaned, and levered himself off Nic’s back. “God, I needed that.”
“You needed that?”
The groan became a laugh. “All right, we needed that. Needed to get that out so we could stop thinking about it every waking second. Although I think we both would have been happier if we’d had this closure years ago.”
Nic ought to be glad that Dashiell’s mind had been veering toward this as much as his, but something about the word closure chilled his skin faster than the cold glass against which he leaned.
They had not begun with a promise of more, yet nor were they strangers, able to fuck and escape because it all meant nothing.
Nic turned to find Dashiell drawing on his breeches in the pale, stormy moonlight.
And as he pulled on his own, he watched for any sign of discomposure, any sign he wasn’t the only one whose heart ached in the aftermath.
But Dashiell just gathered his clothes as though nothing momentous had happened.
With his shirt back in place, he turned to use the dark window over Nic’s head as a poor mirror, those fingers that had touched every part of Nic’s body now perfecting the folds of his neckcloth. Perhaps he sensed he was being watched, for once he had finished, he glanced down.
“Your song was amazing, Nic,” he said, meeting Nic’s gaze with a guarded look.
“I knew you were talented, but…” His smile became a wry, lopsided thing.
And with the incomplete compliment hanging between them, Dashiell bent to press a soft kiss to Nic’s lips.
It lasted only a heartbeat before the vowsmith pulled away, his smile there and gone as fast—everything about him so achingly tender yet restrained like he feared to let go of something held tight beneath his skin.
Nic couldn’t but think of a younger Dashiell, creeping into Nic’s room the day before he’d left.
They’d kissed until their lips were raw, and half-clothed had ground out inexpert pleasure against one another in the failing candlelight.
Yet in the aftermath something had been wrong.
It was the same now, Dashiell moving to escape with equal speed, pulling on his coat and folding himself back in behind a faint impersonal smile.
“I’m glad we got our closure,” he added once he looked again like the professional vowsmith he’d come there to be. “Even if we had to wait nine years for it.”
There was something final about the words what happens next, not a conversation but a conclusion Dashiell had already decided upon—a conclusion so obvious it merited no discussion.
When Nic didn’t answer, a wary light crept into Dashiell’s gaze, yet he didn’t linger. He made for the last candle they’d left burning, still awaiting him on the table.
“Would you like me to light another for you?” he said, picking it up.
“No.”
“Right. Well. Then I guess I shall bid you good night, Lord Monterris.”
“Good night, Master sa Vare.”
Nic wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it hadn’t been this easy stride toward the door, all hint of hesitance left behind.
Dashiell didn’t even glance back. He just stepped out into the dark hallway carrying his candle, his departure slamming shut a door they had only just opened.
Because whatever Dashiell wanted to call it, after nine years such a moment was no closure. It was a resurrection.