Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Laurel
Laurel has never been aggressive like this, not once in his entire life.
The few lovers he’s taken—very few, especially after his accident—have considered dominance a given, assuming that Laurel’s small stature and delicate nature marked him as inherently submissive.
Before Beacon, Laurel had no evidence to the contrary.
Now, though…
The hitch of breath that causes Beacon’s muscular chest to swell pleases Laurel greatly. Catching Beacon off-guard is its own reward, but getting an outward reaction is a victory.
Not to mention the swell of his phenomenal pectorals.
Laurel takes a moment to squeeze them, mouth watering at how firm and shapely they are.
He risks a kiss under Beacon’s jaw, pushing up onto his toes to reach, then mouths downward so he can deliver an experimental nip to his areola.
Beacon jumps again, but he doesn’t disengage.
Laurel makes note of that as he takes his mouth again.
Pupils blown, Beacon keeps his gaze riveted on Laurel in anticipation of his next actions. He’s panting, which almost triggers Laurel to soothe him, but he doesn’t think that’s what Beacon needs right now; in fact, bringing attention to the vulnerability might cause him to shut down even further.
He loosens his tail’s grasp on Beacon’s ankle, concentrating on sliding it up his leg until the length can caress his thigh.
With a trembling hand, Beacon touches Laurel’s tail.
The texture is different from the rest of his skin—buttery smooth, since it was suede he dyed and enchanted to create the appearance of skin after fitting it around the skeleton, hand-crafted from wire and cotton.
It took years of studying all sorts of creative innovations from across Everend before Laurel managed permanent installations, and they’re the accomplishment Laurel is most proud of—especially once he figured out how to simulate sensations.
And it works. Laurel feels every contour in Beacon’s leg, the way his hard, sculpted muscles weave together, and the ginger hair that covers him nearly everywhere.
Laurel wouldn’t have expected to find body hair this attractive—considering he removed all of his own ages ago—but Beacon’s masculine stature is hardly compromised by lacking a cock. Laurel just needs to prove it.
“Turn with me,” Laurel murmurs, cupping Beacon’s jaw. “I have an idea.”
Laurel navigates them into position, amazed at how pliant Beacon has become in whatever trance Laurel has put him in by stripping his tightly wound, nearly debilitating self-control. He faces the tile, slippery and shiny as hot water continues to rain down, guiding Beacon to fit against his back.
Again, Laurel has to fight the urge to soften because Beacon slumps his weight over him, wrapping big arms around him like he’s a lifeline.
One simple fact nearly knocks Laurel over the head: this man is his husband. They’re married now, meaning this is more than an experimental fuck in a strange box of rain.
This is going to be the beginning of everything.
The rest of Laurel’s life.
He yanks Beacon by the hair, twisting so they can meet in a sloppy mess of a kiss. While they all-but-fight the space between them, Laurel notes the flex of Beacon’s hips, as if he wants more contact but can’t make himself ask for it. That open need fits perfectly into Laurel’s plan.
Laurel breaks the kiss, gasping in the steamy air. His head feels light, filled with fluff and honey. Taking care not to startle his partner, Laurel slithers his tail between Beacon’s calves, allowing him to feel each inch it travels until it’s between his upper thighs.
Beacon holds his breath.
Tenderly, full of anxiety and arousal so powerful his stomach hurts with it, Laurel arches his back so his tail can rise to meet the slick heat at Beacon’s apex.
He rubs back and forth in tiny increments, allowing Beacon to adjust. He’s gone stock-still, frozen in a trap of desire and, Laurel suspects, fear of that desire more than anything else.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, stroking the backs of Beacon’s hands, protruding tendons and thick veins. “Let it happen; relax into it.”
Slowly, Beacon begins to cant his hips, natural wetness slicking his way back and forth on Laurel’s tail.
Laurel adjusts to give him a better angle, keeping him seated on the girthier part of his tail, the lower half wrapped around his hips, where he can make sure to avoid any appearance of an attempt at penetration.
He doesn’t need to be told that would go too far.
As instructed, Beacon gives in to Laurel’s encouragement, burying his face in the saturated locks of Laurel’s raven hair as he rides the base of his tail.
Laurel isn’t expecting Beacon to release his embrace with one arm, only to run his callused palm down the front of his body.
Beacon continues until he finds Laurel’s ignored erection, which he encloses in his big hand.
Laurel gasps and bucks, driving his cock into Beacon’s grip and increasing the pressure between Beacon’s legs, making them both moan.
“Fuck,” Beacon whispers.
Humming in reply, Laurel grabs the fragrant bar of soap and rubs it against Beacon’s palm until there’s enough lather to ensure a smooth glide when Beacon takes him in hand again.
The most effective rhythm almost eludes them—Laurel’s brow furrows as he tries to rock his hips in a way that allows Beacon to stroke him without losing the correct angle for Beacon’s thrusts.
For all Laurel’s creativity and skill at modifying bodies, Beacon is the expert in operating them. He takes enough control to show Laurel how to move, starting slow until Laurel catches on and takes Beacon’s other hand, tightly entwining their fingers while bracing himself against the tile.
And.
It.
Works.
Beacon keeps them grounded while Laurel keeps them on their toes, cries escalating into an outpouring of primal need.
Laurel’s never been so in sync with another person.
Never found pleasure like this in someone else’s arms. He had resigned himself to solitary thoughts, his own hand, and an ever-empty embrace.
Now, Beacon refuses to let him go.
Laurel has never been with a man who couldn’t ejaculate before, so he forces his useless hole of a mouth to form the words, “Tell me when you’re close. Teach me how to finish you. I want to.” Beacon nods, no protest or hesitation.
Sooner than expected, Beacon grunts something that might be I’m, then a sound that tries to be close but ends with an open cry. Laurel gets the message.
He doesn’t mind when Beacon’s hand stops moving, when he grips Laurel’s hip instead, holding him in place. The outline of his fingers will bruise, dark purple under Laurel’s fuchsia skin; he can’t wait to see it bloom.
“Fuck!”
Beacon’s thrusts become frantic, a hard grind that steals Laurel’s breath alongside Beacon’s own choked gasps, until Beacon throws his head back and frees a guttural, broken call.
Laurel strokes himself through it, almost brought to his own climax purely from the swell of arousal at hearing, feeling Beacon fall apart. He doesn’t mind having to take himself in hand; it’s nothing he hasn’t done before.
Except then Beacon clumsily untangles himself from Laurel’s tail and falls heavily to his knees. Laurel ends up wedged against the wall, a surprised groan taking over his body as Beacon sweeps his tongue between the spread globes of his ass.
Beacon licks into Laurel’s core with carnal enthusiasm, holding him open with one big hand so he can return the other to Laurel’s straining cock.
The sensations are wild and overwhelming.
Maybe it’s exhausting, in its own way, to be starstruck by having never felt this before, but Laurel hasn’t.
And it is. Heavens above, it’s claiming him, Beacon’s tongue forcing the ring of his ass soft and puffy, hand cradling his bollocks so Laurel can work his cockhead.
A growl resonates in Beacon’s throat, the feral sound reverberating through Laurel’s flesh.
He’s so close, begging without words, pushing up onto his toes to chase his way to the peak.
Suddenly, there’s the sharp, exquisite burst of Beacon digging his teeth into Laurel’s ass cheek.
The pain is otherworldly, a celestial vision flickering before him, lighting the way to a soul-rending climax.
Beacon milks him of every drop, prolonging the fraying thread of pleasure until Laurel has to beg for mercy before he snaps. Even then, the comedown is slow, Beacon not immediately releasing his cock as it softens. He licks the bite mark on Laurel’s ass, as if in apology.
“I didn’t ask before doing any of that,” he says a few moments later.
A single caw of laughter forces its way up Laurel’s throat, already sore from making so much noise. “Don’t worry. I liked it.”
“But what if you hadn’t?” Beacon presses.
Laurel pulls Beacon—his husband, gods!—to his feet and kisses him gently. “Then we’d have dealt with it. But I did, so no more fretting.” He taps Beacon on the nose, chuckling when the other elf mouths ‘fretting?’ like it’s an insult.
The magic box of rain has gone cold, making Laurel shiver. He takes it as a sign that their washing is complete and fiddles with the handle until the water turns off.
“That counts as consummating the marriage, right?” Laurel asks suddenly, brow furrowing. “I mean, we don’t have to…” Is penetration mandatory for the union to be completed? Laurel doesn’t know.
Beacon stares at him for a number of seconds, as if contemplating the same thing.
That or worrying he just married a mad elf.
Then, quite improbably, he bursts into laughter.
“Come on, sweet one,” he says, shoving the curtain aside so he can help Laurel off the slippery floor and into the rest of their lives.
Laurel has never been one for sports. He’s never had a reason to sit on a bench in the stands facing a massive athletic field. If he had, he’d surely have been in the back where no one could see him or step on his tail.