Harry pushes into him.
And looks into Iain’s eyes as his cock is enveloped in Iain’s tight heat, and it’s so tight, right on the border of pain and pleasure, and Iain whispers keep going and Harry braces himself over Iain and pushes all the way in.
They stay there for a moment, both getting used to the overwhelming sensation, and Harry dips down and kisses Iain, because his lips are right there, and because every time they kiss Harry thinks about it afterwards and doubts himself, it couldn’t have felt that good, so he has to do it again to check, and the answer is always yes, it was that good, it is.
Iain runs his fingers up Harry’s sides, and scrapes his short nails down them. ‘Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?’ he whispers, running his thumb over Harry’s cheekbone. ‘And kind. I wasn’t lying, that night when I said nobody has ever been as nice to me as you are. And you were my enemy.’
Something in Harry’s heart cracks then, overflows, and he can’t handle it, so he rolls his hips and Iain arches and moans, yes, yes, move, and Harry plants one arm near Iain’s head and supports Iain’s arse with his other hand, and thrusts. And.
He’s not. This is.
Holy God.
This must be why. It’s a sin.
Because nothing. Should feel this good.
Iain urges Harry on, harder, faster, and Harry is pounding into him, raking his nails down Iain’s hip and over the round, muscular curve of his buttocks, mesmerised by Iain’s cock as it bounces between their stomachs. Iain’s so hard it looks painful, solid and purple-red and smearing precome over both their abs.
And Harry has to get his hand on it again. He lets go of Iain’s hip and wraps his fingers around Iain’s cock and strokes it, twisting at the head and smearing up into the slit with his thumb and snapping his hips up into Iain, and Iain all but shouts as he comes suddenly, his whole body seizing, his cock pumping come, and Harry can feel it under his hand, and feel how Iain’s body clenches down on him as he thrusts and then he can’t hold it any longer, he falls apart too, shooting his load into that hot, tight channel, and he keeps thrusting and keeps coming, and he’s mumbling Iain’s name over and over again and Iain is glowing, there’s no other word for it, he looks like a damn angel, and as Harry slowly drifts downwards from the heights of his orgasm he settles into the pallet next to Iain, still inside him, and pulls the boy into his chest. Iain hums contentedly and wiggles against him, getting comfortable.
Then Iain brings Harry’s hand to his lips. ‘Are you well?’ he murmurs over kisses to Harry’s knuckles.
‘Gluh,’ Harry says. Then, as his brain resumes functioning, ‘I can’t believe I lost my virginity to you. You bit me.’
Harry can feel Iain’s smirk, even in the dark. ‘If you ask me nicely enough, I’ll bite you again.’
Then Iain stills, and his voice grows serious. ‘Bon courage at Windsor, Harry. Don’t … don’t trust anyone there. Especially if they try to be your friend too quickly. There are no friends at court, only advantages.’ He squeezes Harry’s hand. ‘And don’t tell anyone about me.’
Harry squeezes the boy’s hand back. ‘I promise, Iain.’
Six
November 1333: High and Low
Harry slips out of Dartington in the pre-dawn light, leaving Iain still sprawled in sleep. Tiptoeing past the waking forms of his servants in the hall below, he’s reminded of the responsibilities he ignored to an almost criminal extent when he lay with Iain. He saddles up Nomad, consumed by fear at what he and Iain have done, and by horror about how much he wants to do it again. Harry is pathetically grateful for the distractions of the early departure, wrangling Peter and Kit and the Windsor Cart out the gates, Annie with their food, the goodbyes. Cruel daylight has brought with it crushing regret, and Harry wants anything but to be alone with his thoughts.
He becomes lost around Iain. It’s like the boy bewitches him. There are no boundaries; everything is possible, everything is permitted.
Even sin.
He knows boys experiment with each other. Heaven knows he’s stumbled across Peter and the pig-boy Wat with their hands down each other’s breeches often enough; half the county has. But what he and Iain did last night went far beyond harmless boyish fumbles. He lay with Iain as a man lies with a woman.
Harry shuts his eyes as a thrill runs down his spine. As he remembers Iain’s face as he came; the feeling of Iain’s body around him. His—
Harry shudders.
‘Cold, sir?’ says Kit, from the seat of the cart, behind him. ‘Your cloak’s in here if you want—’
‘No need. I’m fine,’ Harry mumbles.
He will go to Windsor.
He will set aside this unnatural infatuation with his … his prisoner.
With prayer, discipline and self-control, he will regain his composure, and refocus on his duty as lord of Dartington Manor.
He will begin the search for a wife.
Before he is condemned to Hell, and his estates fall to ruin as the King’s father, Edward of Carnarvon, almost ruined England.
Because this is the iron rule of their life, especially for a minor nobleman such as Harry: provide an heir. Better yet, provide several heirs, because sickness, accident and death are birth’s constant companions. Harry has no siblings, so Dartington’s future rests completely on his shoulders. If he fails to provide for adequate succession of the manor, he endangers the lives of all his servants and vassals. Everything his family has built over the past century can crumble in one careless, childless generation, and this cold tomorrow is an ever-present spectre haunting his actions. Hurry, it whispers. Hurry.
Harry is not yet late to wife,
