‘I lost all interest, for years,’ Harry mumbles. ‘Barely did that, until I got stupidly hard the morning after a narrow escape from the Black Knight.’
Iain snorts. ‘Oh, Harry, you’re giving me all sorts of ideas—’
Then Harry presses two oiled fingers against Iain’s hole and his eyes flutter shut, a breathless moan escaping his lips. And God, it’s so easy with Iain, laughing and fighting and fucking and somehow doing all three at once, here in a queen’s bedchamber in France, after they’ve both lived more lives than any one person has a right to hope for.
Iain is so tight, tighter than Harry remembers, and Harry is reduced to babbling nonsense at him, how gorgeous he is, how much he loves him, as he fingers Iain open and kisses every scar that’s been laid on him. Iain’s face is transformed by ecstasy, beautiful in the way angels are, perfect and terrible. Harry decides he’s waited too long already, years too long, and throws Iain’s legs over his shoulders as he presses his oiled cock against Iain’s hole.
‘Are you ready?’ he says, breathless with the need to be inside Iain.
Iain just nods, licking his lips.
And Harry presses inside him, achingly slowly, gazing into his eyes the entire time. Iain starts to shake, little involuntary shivers, as Harry pushes deep inside. Harry shuts his eyes for a moment and just lets himself be. He feels like he’s cracking apart inside, the already overwhelming stimulation of Iain under him, around him, stripping him of all his dead years.
Then Iain grabs Harry’s backside, digging his hands in so hard it hurts, and he snarls. In his ruined voice it’s a truly otherworldly sound, and Harry pulls out and punches back into his lover.
Iain tries to yell, but nothing comes out. ‘Again,’ he mouths.
And Harry leans down to bite at Iain’s lips, at the cleft in his chin, as he fucks into him as hard as he can. He’d thought so much of what it would be like to find him again, what they would do, and in his head it was slow and gentle but it’s not; now that Iain is really there all he wants is to take him as hard and fast as possible, mark him, reclaim him.
Harry reaches a hand down between them and grabs Iain’s cock, not so much stroking him as holding steady as he ploughs into him, rocking him so hard that the motion caused by his thrusts makes Iain’s cock slide forwards in his palm. Iain’s hands have fallen away from his arse and are fisting the bedsheets now, halfway to tearing them, as he bites his bottom lip and thrusts back against Harry. Harry can feel Iain’s orgasm building in him, the way his cock jerks, the stream of precome flowing from it, and Harry urges him on, moving his hand at last, stroking Iain relentlessly in time to the snapping of his hips.
Iain clenches around him and comes with a soundless shout, and Harry follows a few thrusts later, flooding Iain’s hole, shuddering with an ecstasy so sharp and overwhelming it’s almost like pain.
They slump onto the bed afterwards, entwined, still breathing each other in. And though the sex was amazing, and even more so when they wake up in the middle of the night and do it all again, slower, Harry lying on his side and rocking into Iain from behind, the greatest gift of all is waking up with Iain in his arms. Iain with his squinty sleep face and messy hair and stubble, still as grumbly as ever about mornings, for Harry to kiss awake slowly but surely. The scar on his neck. The cleft on his chin. The little divot where his shoulder muscle meets his collarbone. His nipples, perking into erectness under Harry’s tongue. His broad, scarred chest, the flat, solid muscle of his abdomen, and the dark trail of hair that leads lower from there. His arse. Harry wants to get Iain on his knees and eat his arse for days.
There is a knock at the door and the sound of a tray being left in the antechamber outside. Iain whistles his thanks to the servant as he rolls out of bed. He stretches, flexing his muscles like a big cat, and then puts his hand on his lower back. He smirks at Harry. ‘Going to be feeling you all day,’ he rasps.
And doesn’t that make Harry’s cock twitch with interest.
Harry bites his lip. ‘Stop it, or we’ll never leave this room.’
Iain laughs, mostly silently, then begins washing himself in the basin. He changes the water from the pitcher and then pulls Harry towards him, dipping the cloth in cool water and wiping the come and sweat off Harry’s stomach. The cloth travels lower, and Iain gently and lovingly cleans Harry’s cock and balls, and between his legs. Harry has to lean in and kiss Iain, his heart swelling at the tender expression on his love’s face.
‘Will you come with us back to Paris?’ Harry asks. ‘Geoffrey Scrope and the Bishop of Lincoln want to meet you.’
Iain nods. ‘Go out once you’re dressed,’ he says. ‘Find an aide. Make it seem as if I’ve had a tumble with you then discarded you. I’ll meet you in my own clothes on the Paris road in an hour.’
Harry’s brow furrows, but Iain places his thumb on the little line and rubs it until Harry relaxes. ‘I spent a long time building up the Comte de Marche,’ Iain explains softly. ‘I don’t think it’s wise to discard him just yet.’
Harry acquiesces, and kisses Iain one last time before pulling on his clothes and leaving.
He manages to blush when stopped by a servant. It’s easy enough; the man is aghast at finding an Englishman so far into the royal quarters. He manages to blush again when he is taken
