2. Rurik
TWO
RURIK
Iwant him.
I know that much by the time we reveal ourselves.
I’d been watching him all night as he worked his way to the clearing.
It’s evident he’s an expert tracker, but with the grace and poise of an assassin.
I can also tell he fights just by the way he walks.
It’s nearly impossible to hide that kind of training.
He waltzed in like he owns the ground. He can’t be new to this, but no one knows who he is so he’s not a birthright.
And that makes me want him more.
I don’t know why. But I’m used to my brain working like that. New toys pique my interest for all types of reasons and I’ve learned to just go with it rather than question my instincts.
I love an enigma.
It’s not often a person draws that attention without doing a single thing. Maybe my psychopathy can smell him.
I’m so focused on the guy I miss the rest of what my brother says.
I want to play with him. Or fuck him. Actually both. It’s both.
And lucky for me, the first of the challenges is a sparring match. Before we can get the fighting started, my brother, Nik, steps forward, about to throw his sword at the guy to challenge him.
How could he? We’re twins he should be able to read my mind or something. But lamely I have to throw my arm out to block his advance.
“He’s mine.” I need to see what he can do.
And more specifically, I want to be rolling around in the dirt fighting him.
Nik shoots me a questioning look but doesn’t stop me. He’s the more reserved of the two of us, and he lets me get away with way more than he should.
I toss the rapier at the enigma before shedding my cloak and drawing my own.
He snatches it from the air like he was born to hold a sword.
“A fucking lefty.” I advance on him, blade raised.
“Is that a problem?” His voice is sophisticated and deep, with an accent I can’t place. He sounds unlike any other eighteen-year-old I’ve ever met.
“Only if you don’t know how to use that thing.” I’m already imagining him moaning in that accent and I like it.
“I’ve experimented with a sword or two.” He’s all seriousness. Buttoned up and prim. Like he was transported here out of some noble’s countryside manner, making him even more unusual. Which will only make toying with him more fun.
“I have a sword you can experiment with,” I tease.
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” he asks, my innuendo seeming to go right over his head as we circle each other.
What a precious little angel.
“We haven’t even crossed them yet.” My dick is into the banter. Swordplay is just foreplay when you do it right.
“Then get on with it.” His perfect vernacular rolls off his tongue and I already want to hear him pant my name.
I need to stop thinking with my cock and see what this guy actually can do. I give him half a second before I charge, assaulting him with blows. He blocks easily, as well trained as I suspected.
Renaissance weapons aren’t the typical high school curriculum anywhere. And in America, you’re more likely to find square dancing and dodgeball than fencing. Governments love to keep the populace weak, dumb, and ignorant, as it makes them easier to control.
So I’m already impressed.
But I have to play it cool. If I’m too excited about him, Locke will want to ban him because if my older brother is anything, he’s a stick in the mud.
“So you can use a sword.”
“Did you not believe me?” He darts in and I’m almost too slow blocking the advance. He’s got me distracted and I love it.
“Not everyone is as good with the equipment as they claim to be!” I don’t give him time to recover, wanting to get him on the ground under me.
But he’s good, defending my raining blows, and returning them.
“Who taught you to fight, Mr. Private School?” I’m actually breaking a sweat fighting this guy. No one’s made me work this hard with a sword in ages. Which just gives me more of a hard on.
“Who said anyone taught me?” He deflects my blade and returns a charge of his own, putting me on the defensive.
I should not be this turned on by a guy trying to hack my head off, but I’ve never claimed to be normal. His shirt pulls tight, showing off his lean muscles and I’m not mad.
We go back and forth and he just might beat me which means he might have a shot at getting into Legacy. He’s going to get me in trouble. Dicking down the prospects is strictly against the rules.
So he’s off limits until he’s either offered membership or out. Which kind of puts a damper on my plans for the rest of the night.
I parry his blows and attack, returning him to the defensive. He grunts, eyes glinting in the full moon, looking like he’ll tear my head off. I love a feisty guy.
He’s fucking good, but I get off on a fight, and I’m bigger than he is. I’ve got four or five inches on him, and at least forty pounds of muscle. He’s lean with a runner’s build.
We’re both straining as our blades lock hilts. Sweat creases his brow, and his strong jaw sets, determination in his cold gaze.
I have the sudden desire to rip his mask off to see what he fucking looks like.
Is he as hot as his accent?
I need to know.
But Locke would lose it if I broke Legacy rules so flagrantly. He mostly lets me do what I want outside of official business, but I know he hates my antics.
Mother fucker has no whimsy.
Neither I nor Mr. Golden Tongue are giving an inch in our deadlocked blades, so I have to manufacture an opening.
I give a little, making him think he’s gaining the advantage. His green irises spark when he thinks he’s winning.
Adorable.
I revel in his hope, savoring every second of dashing it, because I only gave a bit of ground to set him off balance while I hook my ankle behind his and sweep.
His legs give, sending him sprawling out on his ass, and I’m on him, falling with him.
Our blades remain locked, but now he’s on his back, and I’m straddling him.
His body is as hard and fit as he looks.
I’ve got one knee shoved between his thighs, and the other nearly in his armpit while our swords are inches away from his face.
I squeeze my thighs to keep him from wriggling free to try anything.
“Good thing I like being on top.” I press in closer, feeling all of his hard body under mine.
“What?” He’s scowling, still fighting, eyes ablaze, looking for any weakness or opportunity to turn this on me.
He’s got no idea I’m flirting with him. I squeeze my knees around his ribs, trapping him under me and I like the sight.
If I had less self-control, I’d fuck his mouth just like this.
Fuck.
What is he doing to me?
Who knew all it takes to get to me is an accent and a good spar.
If I didn’t already know I have a personality disorder, I would be worried.
“You look good under me. Just how I pictured it.” I force the blades closer to his face.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he says through his teeth, straining against my weight.
“Quite a lot, but I wouldn’t say wanting to be on top of you is one of the things…”
He hisses out his anger and it only turns me on more. “I’m not into that.”
“But you could be,” I say playfully.
“There is seriously something wrong with you.”
“We aren’t talking about me. Unless you want to get to know me better…”
“Fuck off.” He kicks and struggles, trying to get out from under me but it’s useless. I’m way bigger than he is.
“Do you yield? We can always pick it up later from here.” In bed.
“No.”
I don’t even have time to be disappointed because he somehow gets a knee between us, using the leverage to throw me. I blame it on being distracted by wanting to fuck him, and roll with it, fighting him for the upper hand again.
I should probably be annoyed at myself, but rolling around in the dirt, causing our bodies to rub against each other, adds another layer to my arousal and he’s clearly not put off by doing this with another man so…I’m gonna call it potential.
We tumble through the underbrush, and he keeps shoving his knee between my thighs which might just be how he’s trying to pin me, or might be flirting. I’m gonna call it both.
I know I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much, but I am, and I’m not sorry.
And I’m not ready for it to end.
“Get off of me.” He’s still trying to get his sword free as we come to a stop with me on top again.
“Not a chance.” At this point, I’m deciding if we’ll spar again before or after our first date.
“I’m going to end you.” He’s so angry, and it just makes scuffling with him hotter.
“That’s right. Fight me.” Give me every single reason to give in to what I already want to do to him. I fucking love a difficult conquest.
He reaches for something in his boot, and I catch a glint of moonlight off his knife before he’s thrusting it in my direction. I block his wrist, sending it skidding across the forest floor.
“That wasn’t very nice.” I press my free hand to the flat of my blade, shoving it closer to his throat.
The swords aren’t sharp enough to open his veins, but it won’t feel good. “I should teach you a lesson for bringing a knife to a sword fight, but since knives turn me on, I’m going to let this one go.”
“You’re enjoying this?” He forces the words out in a growl, his fingers searching along my belt. He’s subtle. Almost pickpocket good, but I come from a long line of assassins and know all the tricks. I’ve been playing these games for as long as I could walk.
“Every fucking second.” My body heats at the aggressive frisk, knowing I’ll have bruises. I rock into him, rubbing our hips together while he fights my weight. “But you’re the one trying to feel me up.”
“I’m not—what is wrong with you?” He grunts in frustration when his search turns up no additional weapons on my person.
“Quite a lot, actually. But you’re still the one fondling me!”
“It’s not fondling!” Rage flashes through him. “And I’m not the one getting turned on.”
“You say it like it’s a bad thing.” I jam both blades right under his chin. One movement will make him cut himself on his own sword.
Even if he isn’t into it, who doesn’t get a little hard fighting the homies?