It’s not enough.
Harry presses his lips to Iain’s neck, kissing up into his hair, down to his shoulder. Anything he can reach. Iain just holds him tighter and strokes his hair, as hungry for the touch of Harry’s skin as Harry is for his.
Iain is naked, gorgeously so, and still damp from his swim. Harry slips out of his clothes quickly – he hadn’t even put on his sword belt that morning, just a shirt and an old, loose pair of breeches – and honest-to-God trembles as his body is finally against Iain’s with no more barriers between them.
Iain shivers too, and Harry feels his hips twitch in a small thrust. A ball of warmth and wonder expands within him, that he can do this, that such a beautiful man reacts like this to him. He slides a hand down Iain’s back to the swell of his rear, and strokes his fingers lightly down the cleft. ‘I need—’ is all he manages to say, before Iain is arching into him, trying to push his arse back against Harry’s hand while also trying to rut his erection against the soft crease of Harry’s hip.
‘Yes,’ Iain gasps. ‘Yes.’ He fists a hand in the back of Harry’s hair and pulls Harry’s mouth to his, kissing him slow and filthy. ‘There has been no one else,’ Iain breathes. ‘Beyond the afternoon I used Rolly. Which,’ he sighs, ‘wasn’t my finest moment.’
‘Do not ever mention his name again,’ Harry growls, digging his fingers into the firm flesh of Iain’s backside. ‘Don’t ever go near him again.’
Iain whimpers, shuddering, and Harry can feel the scratch of stubble on his cheek as the man nods. Then he’s readjusting himself in Harry’s lap, so both their hard cocks are pressed between their stomachs, and he starts grinding.
Harry kisses him again, gripping his arse to pull him even closer, to get more pressure. He hasn’t touched himself in months, not since Iain left, just hasn’t felt like it. But now his libido is uncoiling within him in waves of lust so dizzying he can barely decide what he wants to do next with this gorgeous, muscular body in his lap.
He knows what he needs, though. He shoves two fingers into Iain’s mouth, grinding harder against his lover as Iain runs his tongue over those fingers, getting them wet. Watching Iain suck on his fingers, eyes lidded in bliss, is enough to push Harry even closer to the edge he’s already on, making his hips judder forwards in abortive thrusts.
Harry gently pulls out of Iain’s mouth, taking a moment to appreciate the red of his lips, shiny with saliva, before moving his wet fingers down to Iain’s hole. He kisses Iain then, invading his mouth with his tongue as he pushes both fingers relentlessly into his lover. Iain is beyond words, arching, pushing down on Harry’s fingers, gripping Harry’s waist with his strong thighs. Harry sinks his fingers in all the way and then begins to fuck Iain with them, in and out, curling and dragging them along the place inside Iain that makes him shake and moan.
He adds a third finger, and a fourth, slowly, relentlessly opening his lover up and filling him. Iain is clawing at his back, trying to grind forwards and push back at the same time, kissing and biting at any part of Harry his mouth can reach. ‘Ssh, be still, Iain, or you won’t get my cock,’ he whispers, and Iain looks at him then, wild and desperate.
‘Ssh,’ Harry says again, leaning in to kiss him.
Then he pulls his fingers out and spits on his palm, wetting himself before moving his hands back around to Iain’s arse to lift him up, position him.
‘I love you,’ Iain breathes, as the head of Harry’s cock pushes into him. ‘Even though I have to be away from you, to finish this, the thought of coming back to you when it’s over …’ Iain makes a sound that’s half-moan, half-sigh as Harry feels himself bottom out. ‘It keeps me alive. Otherwise … I don’t know what I’d become. Something terrible,’ he says, and Harry realises Iain’s eyes are wet.
He wants to ask Iain so many questions. What do you have to finish? Did you kill Waldegrave? Why do you need guards? They tickle at the back of his mind, messy, like feathers escaped from a pillow.
And then Iain pushes Harry down and rolls his hips, and Harry forgets everything that isn’t the feeling of Iain riding him, the almost painful sight of his beauty in the soft, dappled morning light. Iain’s thick cock bobs as the man slowly thrusts himself down on Harry, trails of precome stringing from the hard purple tip to his abdomen.
Harry reaches up and wraps a hand around it. Not to bring him off, more of a hello, I’ve missed you. Neither of them are rushing through this. Iain rides him slow and filthy, while Harry returns the favour by fisting his cock alternatively loose and hard, and removing his hand entirely when Iain looks too close. If Harry could expand this moment to all of eternity, have this and nothing more, he would. Iain is so beautiful, and his, still his, impossibly. He tangles the fingers of his free hand through Iain’s and sits up, pulling him in for a kiss. In their world of blood and betrayal and struggle, they have this, this sweetness and passion, and Harry feels the luckiest man alive for it.
They rock together, cradled in each other’s arms in the slow sunshine of the morning, golden pleasure pouring like honey through their veins, sweetening everything around them.
Harry increases the speed of his hand on Iain’s cock, marvelling to himself how good it feels in his hand. How right. How perfect Iain feels around him, as if they were made to fit only each other, two outcasts who have fought their way back from the edge of darkness together. Iain begins to stutter and moan against
