Whyborne
Shortly thereafter, I shut the door behind Christine and Iskander. I turned to find Griffin in the hall behind me, one shoulder leaning against the wall, his emerald gaze on me. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?” I asked, puzzled.
Griffin pushed away from the wall as I approached. He tilted his head back to look me in the face. “For accompanying us to the Arctic. I know you hate travel, and we’re likely to live even rougher there than in Egypt.”
“Do you think so?” I asked in alarm. “I thought there were towns and such near the gold mines. The papers called Dawson the Paris of the North!”
“Somehow I suspect they exaggerated its charms, just a bit.” His amused grin told me he thought I was being naïve yet again. “Besides, Dawson and the places like it were boomtowns. Most of them are deserted now the Klondike rush is over.”
“Oh.” Curse it. “Still, sorcery is involved. What other choice do I have but to grit my teeth and go?”
“That’s just it.” Griffin caught my lapels and tugged me closer, until we stood pressed together. “You do have a choice. You aren’t obligated to travel to the farthest reaches of civilization to save a handful of people you don’t even know.”
“One of them is your brother,” I reminded him. My hands settled at his waist, shaping the line of his hip. “Christine is a brilliant archaeologist, and Iskander’s family trained him to fight ghūls, but neither of them are sorcerers.” I leaned closer, lips hovering just above his. “And you are my husband. Where you go, I go.”
His warm mouth tasted of wine and spice. The kiss began leisurely, then turned more urgent as he nipped lightly at my lower lip with his teeth. When at last we broke apart, he said, “Take me upstairs and make love to me.”
I certainly had no desire to refuse such a request. I took his hand and led him to my bedroom on the second floor. We kept two bedchambers, so as to present two sets of used linen to the laundress each week, but never slept apart.
I turned off the lights and lit the night candle with a whisper of power. We kissed, tongues exploring each other’s mouths, lips caressing. I pushed his coat from his shoulders and unknotted his tie. We attacked buttons and cuff links, slowly stripping away layers of cloth to reveal skin. My fingers trailed over his body, shaping the familiar planes, finding all the small scars and imperfections.
And a larger one. An ugly scar, left by the caustic touch of the horror beneath Chicago, wrapped about his right thigh. After so long together, I seldom noticed it; it was a part of him, as beloved as the rest.
Of course, I had scars of my own now, tracing the path of lightning from the tips of my fingers to my shoulder. Griffin traced them sometimes, with hands or tongue. Tonight he merely ran his fingers up both arms, the marred and unmarred. His member pushed against my thigh, hard and hot. The pupils of his green eyes went wide with lust, and his breathing turned ragged and eager as he said, “Take me, Ival. Make me feel it.”
I shoved him onto the bed, climbing in over him. He stretched his hands above his head, wrists loosely crossed in invitation. I pinned them with one hand, and he writhed beneath me. A moan escaped me at the friction of skin on skin. His hard length pressed hot against my belly as I straddled him. I kissed him hungrily, before trailing my lips to his throat. He arched his neck to give me access.
A whimper escaped him when I bit the juncture of neck and shoulder. His hips worked, sliding his cock against my skin, his thigh against my own member. I released his wrists so I could move lower, worrying his nipples with teeth and tongue, then licking down the flat planes of his torso. The scent of bergamot rose from his skin, mingled with sweat and musk.
His cock bobbed against my cheek, as if asking for attention. I licked down to the base, then farther. Shifting my weight, I said, “Spread your legs.”
I nuzzled his sac, before dipping lower, drawing a groan from him. In the years since we’d met, I’d learned every inch of his body with an intimacy I’d never imagined having with anyone. And learned a great deal about myself in the process.
We faced months living in God-knew-what conditions in the far north. Would we have our own tent, as we had in Egypt? Or live in a cabin with other men? We always maintained an acceptable fiction as to our relationship in public, but at least we passed our nights in each other’s arms. Pretending to have no deeper commitment, with no reprieve day or night, would be agonizing.
Jack could never find out. Griffin’s adoptive family had already deserted him because of me. I couldn’t bear to cause him even more pain by driving away his blood kin as well.
Anticipating long days of nothing but covert looks, I set myself to pleasuring him with more intent than usual. I traced his puckered ring, teasing and jabbing with my tongue, until he wriggled helplessly.
“I want you,” he panted.
I sat back on the bed to look at him. God, I loved seeing him like this: face flushed and breath short, his gaze wild with need. And all for me, because of me. “How?” I asked.
He turned, grasped the headboard, and spread himself wide. “Like this. I want you to hold me while you fuck me.”
“Yes,” I managed to say through a haze of lust. I pulled open the nightstand drawer and retrieved the petroleum jelly.
I took my time preparing him, working his body slowly with my fingers, until he growled, “Damn it, Ival, do you wish me to beg?”
Some nights the answer would be yes, absolutely. But I knew his moods, and this wasn’t one of them. “We can’t have that, can we?” I asked.
I finally touched my aching member, slicking myself thoroughly. His back arched when I pressed the tip against his fundament, hands tightening on the headboard until his knuckles showed white.
He let out a small cry of pleasure as I worked in, careful not to go too quick. He pushed back against me, asking for more.
I gave it to him, everything I had. Recalling his earlier request, I wrapped my arms around him. The sole advantage of my height was it let me cover him with my body, draping myself protectively over him, while he supported us with his grip on the headboard.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Tighter.”
I held him close, arms across his chest, hips moving slow and steady. His body gripped my cock, hot and tight, every movement a sweet thrill of pleasure. I slid one hand down to find his erection, wanting him to feel it, too.
He arched his back against me in response. Encouraged, I stroked him in time to my thrusts. “Yes, Ival,” he gasped and shuddered. “Faster. Please.”
I did as he asked, giving myself over to the blind rhythm of desire. I pressed my face against his neck, inhaling deeply, smelling his sweat and musk. Every shift of skin on skin sent sparks of ecstasy crackling along my nerves. The flame of the candle burned higher, and a breeze born from nowhere ruffled my hair.
Griffin encouraged me with wordless grunts, and I closed my eyes, pleasure cresting like a wave. I cried out against his neck, a night bird echoing me just outside the window. The great vortex of magic turned widdershins beneath us.
Griffin shouted, bucking in my grasp. A moment later, his hot seed slicked my fingers.
I slowed my pace, wringing a last sigh from him before letting go. I remained for a long moment, still wrapped around him, our breathing gradually returning to normal. When I felt steady on my feet again, I pulled free and padded to the washbasin, attending first to myself, then to him.
When I returned to bed, he’d collapsed onto his side. I slid between the sheets, touching his face gently with my hand.
“Do you feel better?” I asked. “And do you want to talk about it?”