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Zykriel tried not to show it, but his anxiety refused to go away. It was no easy thing to bind one’s self to a stranger no matter how advantageous the match. He found himself wondering how Deira whose marriages had been arranged coped.
At least, his relationship with Qristan was headed in a positive direction, he thought with cautious optimism. When they spent time together, it was not only to talk politics or thresh out matters of disagreement, but also to get to know each other better. Even if Qristan seemed afflicted with a mercurial temperament, what Zykriel had learned improved his opinion of his betrothed.
Well, apart from the deception Qristan had participated in. But since it had been to help him decide which Calanthe twin to espouse, Zykriel forgave him his role in that ruse. Better to begin their marriage without grudges or cause for distrust.
He should have known it would not be that simple.
On the eve of their handfasting, Qristan came to his quarters accompanied by his sire and a bespectacled Deir Zykriel recognized as Medav’s most distinguished lawyer. The latter bore two crisp sheets of parchment. Obviously a legal document of sorts.
Zykriel eyed the document warily as he bade them to make themselves comfortable around the table in the sitting room. When they declined an offer of wine or some other libation, his suspicions grew. He waited tensely while Qristan motioned to the lawyer to hand the parchment sheets to him.
“This is the handfasting contract you will sign tomorrow during the rites, my lord,” Master Alveth said. “It’s advisable that you read it beforehand.”
Zykriel frowned. It was not the contract written just a fortnight ago which had been based on the formal agreement drawn up before their betrothal. It was a newly prepared document. The ink was so fresh he could still smell it. Had anything been altered?
He carefully read the document. Since he had assisted in the drafting of the agreement and the wording of the original handfasting contract, he quickly spotted an unfamiliar passage.
“This clause isn’t part of the agreement,” he said indicating the paragraph.
“It isn’t,” Alveth agreed. “But it is required of all handfast unions in Medav.”
“Why wasn’t I advised of this beforehand?”
“It wasn’t intentional.” Qristan looked apologetic. “We took for granted that our marriage laws aren’t much different from most other lands. An oversight on our part and for that we beg pardon.”
Zykriel fought not to glare at the Shidaras. “Why ten years?” he asked at length. “That can be an excruciatingly long wait for those suffering intolerable marriages.”
“It’s so easy to end a handfast union,” Eulan explained. “One tiff and there's an end of it instead of staying the course and perhaps repairing whatever's gone wrong.”
“Not to be contrary, Your Grace,” Zykriel countered. “But neither divorce nor annulment is as easy to attain as you make it. A grace period is required before the courts grant dissolution of a union.”
“A piffling two years in most lands and even less in others,” Eulan pointed out. “Most couples don't trouble to use the time to mend matters, but simply separate and wait it out. Here in Medav, we make it doubly difficult so folk don't rush into wedlock or out of it.”
Zykriel rolled his eyes. “As if we aren’t rushing into wedlock. Considering the circumstances, can’t this be waived?”
Qristan shook his head. “Would you have us hold ourselves above the law?”
“Of course not. But surely this doesn’t apply to non-citizens of Medav.”
“Aye, if the marriage is between non-citizens. That isn’t the case here.”
Zykriel drew a deep breath to steady his suddenly frayed nerves. He stared at the contract, but the words seemed to bleed into each other as he pondered his options.
Ten years? Could he endure that long if his marriage soured? True, he’d have agreed to marry Qristan in fane rites had Rohyr not intervened. He’d been willing to bind himself in a lifelong union for the sake of his country and fief. Yet he would not deny being given a means of escape had raised his spirits. It was not that he thought the marriage would fail. But knowing he could leave if it did had gone a long way in bolstering his resolve.
Still, this was not a prohibition, merely a delaying tactic. Not worth foregoing the benefits a marital alliance would bring.
He sighed and handed the document to Qristan. “I will abide your laws.”
“My thanks,” Qristan softly replied. “Again, I apologize for foisting this on you at the last minute.”
“Qristan, there's no need to abase yourself repeatedly,” Eulan protested.
“We are at fault, Aba. I am at fault. Zyk doesn’t deserve such cavalier treatment.”
With a start, Zykriel realized one cause of his unease. The Shidaras appeared to believe he would fall in line with whatever they decided. Qristan had told him he was his choice because he thought him the more virtuous, scrupulous twin. But were those the only qualities that had gained him his intended’s favor? Was it also because the family perceived him as weaker of will and therefore biddable?
The thought pained his heart as much as his pride. Yet Qristan had acknowledged his part in wronging him, asked for forgiveness and openly disagreed with his sire. That suggested respect and perhaps even personal liking for him.
Zykriel hoped that was the case.
––––––––
The ceremony took place a half hour before midday. In this land of severe winters and mild summers, it was more practical to hold outdoor celebrations during the warmest, most comfortable time of the day.
The Medavi took full advantage of summer given how short the sunniest season was in these parts. The rites were conducted in the castle’s expansive garden. The attendants had laid down a low wooden dais at one side of the garden. Over it they erected a ceremonial canopy created for the occasion, the couple’s heraldic bearings embroidered onto the cloth of gold—the Calanthe black hawk against a silver field and the gold warsteed on maroon of the Shidaras.
Zykriel took an early morning stroll accompanied by his twin and Lioval Shidara. He asked to view the arrangements and was surprised to see that he and Qristan had been provided with velvet covered hassocks to kneel on. They were not necessary since a handfast union was not sanctified by the Church. But Lioval explained the Prelate of Elana would confer general blessings on them and pray for a harmonious union and heirs. Gilmael had snorted derisively, but said nothing.
Hours later, clad in nuptial cream and gold and wearing the braided gold and silver circlet of his station, he joined Qristan under the canopy. The simplicity of a handfasting required no formal entrance of the couple or officiator. That would be made up for later through the lavishness of the reception.
The Herun and Heris took their places at Zykriel’s side while the Prime stood opposite them. Gilmael and Qristan’s brothers arranged themselves in front of the dais behind Elana’s chief magistrate and prelate.
The ceremony felt interminable. The magistrate was an aged Deir who if he was not stuttering his way through the more convoluted legalese, droned on in a feeble monotone that threatened to put everyone to sleep. Zykriel was saved from nodding off by the sight of Diarmin repeatedly rolling his eyes and Lioval aiming glower after exasperated glower at the magistrate’s back. Gilmael however maintained a somber mien throughout. There was no mistaking his unhappiness with the proceedings.
A narrow table was placed before them, the marriage contract, a quill, a pot of ink and a small bowl of fine sand atop its polished surface. Stifling a sigh, Zykriel reached for the quill, dipped it in the ink and affixed his signature to the document. Qristan followed suit, his slight hesitation discernible only if one was looking closely. The sand was sprinkled onto their signatures to absorb excess ink and then poured back into the bowl.
Zykriel came awake completely when the table was taken away and the Prelate came forward followed by a young page. The child carried a ceremonial pillow bearing their binding rings and a pair of gold earrings inlaid with waterstone and inscribed with their respective insignas.
As a fief-lord’s heir, Zykriel held a subsidiary title and was a thein in his own right. But since Qristan’s sire was the Nazcan head of state, that technically made princes of his sons even if they did not bear the title. Furthermore, Qristan was a Viarl which ranked higher than a baron. While Eulan Shidara lived and ruled as Prime, Qristan would remain a notch above Zykriel on the social and political ladder. Only when Eulan passed away and Zykriel succeeded his sire as Herun of Losshen would he gain ascendancy over Qristan.
Given the Prime’s good health and relative youth, Zykriel could very well be Qristan’s consort and bear the title of Vierl for a good many decades. If their union lasted that long.
When they each slid a ring onto the other’s right hand, he did not feel much beyond the misgivings he’d borne since agreeing to this union. But upon donning the waterstone earring, he almost immediately felt a sharp pang of longing. It was odd bearing a gem other than the emblematic emerald he’d worn virtually all his life. He was not yet fully reconciled to taking a secondary position to his spouse.
The prelate bade them to kneel and bow their heads for the blessing. He was quicker and more concise than the magistrate much to Zykriel’s relief. Before he knew it, he and his new mate were rising to their feet and turning to acknowledge the cheers and applause of their wedding guests. He managed a genuine smile while Qristan waved his appreciation.
In all this time, they had not spoken to each other, their vows recited for the benefit of the magistrate and their respective families. But now Qristan reached for his hand and said, “I hope you’re as pleased as I am with our union despite the circumstances.”
Zykriel thought he detected some uncertainty in Qristan’s voice. He smiled with more warmth. “I am. It appears divine providence took the guise of politics to bring us together.”
Qristan chuckled. Squeezing Zykriel’s hand, he moved to step off the dais saying, “Let us celebrate then.”
The Medavi’s way of celebrating tended toward the informal and liquid. Zykriel wondered if he'd ever seen so much alcohol flow during a reception even to the honeyberry punch offered to the children. He suspected that of the five traditional ingredients in the punch, the liquor comprised the greatest percentage.
He cautioned his kin regarding the consumption of firewater. The spirit’s innocuous appearance belied its potency. Most partook of it nonetheless and soon discovered how powerful the liquor could be.
Zykriel shook his head when he espied Rysander in a loud and bawdy exchange with an even more tipsy Shino. Across the garden, Vaeren and his sibling-by-law Tobyr Mesare plied the latter’s priest brother Osrin with glass after glass of cold water to help him clear his head.
“I take it Avan Mesare didn’t heed your warning,” Qristan remarked.
“Unfortunately for him. And Rysander and Shino should have known better than to indulge when the others practiced prudence.”
“If prudence means more cups than is ordinarily drank by Medavi and still be able to walk without stumbling over their own feet, then I salute your kin. It isn’t often an outlander can drink a Medavin under the table.”
He indicated a noble who had apparently challenged Dylen to a drinking match and was now on the verge of losing spectacularly. After the last cup, he suddenly clapped a hand over his mouth, lurched to his feet and half dashed, half stumbled out of the garden presumably to empty his stomach in some remote section of the grounds.
The newlyweds guffawed. Dylen looked their way and raised his cup to them with a smug grin.
Zykriel grinned back, grateful all over again for his kinsfolk’s presence. Now if only Gilmael would pretend at cheerfulness as their parents were doing their best to feign. Were it not for his festive attire, one would think he was at a funeral. He turned his attention elsewhere lest his twin’s glum mood affected him overmuch.
Probably to ensure no one succumbed to debilitating intoxication, the three banquet tables had been figuratively piled with an abundance of the region’s hearty fare—rich roehart stew, slices of spit-roasted swylboar, freshwater fish steamed whole on a bed of juniper sprigs, grilled tomquail basted with a sweet spicy marinade and assorted tubers cut into chunks and simmered in herbed water until just tender. There were slabs of bread fresh from the oven and barley grain slow-cooked in a flavorsome broth to the consistency of porridge. And to finish the sumptuous meal, baked cranapples stuffed with candied haronuts and sweetened soft cheese, rich cakelets studded with chopped dried fruit and crisp pastry cones filled with thickened cream and roseberries.
The Shidara cooks had certainly outdone themselves, Zykriel thought as he bit into a crunchy sliver of swylboar skin. And so had the castle staff.
They had festooned the garden with garlands of aromatic blossoms and foliage as well as strings of pennants in the colors of the two Houses. They’d also swathed the long tables with crimson damask and decked them with silver platters of fresh fruits and whole nuts and long low pewter vases filled with flowering ivy whose tendrils charmingly spilled out onto the tablecloth. Fine crystal finger bowls of herb-scented water sat alongside the gold plates and dinnerware and blown glass goblets.
It was as much a show of wealth as it was a display of aesthetics.
Thankfully, the wedding jig was not much different from the dance performed in Ylandre. Zykriel had quickly learned the few unfamiliar steps.
When the sun began to ride low in the sky, Qristan pulled him to his feet and led him to the wide space cleared for the jig. Many of the couples who assembled around them were childless and hoped participating in what had originally been a fertility dance would increase their chances of begetting children.
The music started and he slipped easily into the pattern of steps and gestures, skipping or turning to the strains of flute and gittern. Midway into the dance, he clasped hands with Qristan and rarely let go afterward in symbolic mirroring of their vows of fidelity and solidarity.
The dance signaled the end of the afternoon-long festivities. Zykriel could not help reddening a bit when in keeping with Medavian custom, he was led back to the castle by Yovan and Mered ahead of everyone else and conducted to the conjugal apartment. He would ready himself for the consummation of his marriage in the company of selected kith and kin and await Qristan who would be escorted thence by his family and close friends.
It was not a tradition Zykriel particularly liked given that of old, the Deir who waited for his spouse to join him was the designated child bearer of the two. It no longer held fast now that most Medavian couples shared the role to increase the chances of numerous progeny while limiting the risks involved in bearing more than two babes. But among the highest of the highborn, the custom was still observed even if the spouses did not adhere to their designations.
In having Zykriel await Qristan, it was public reconfirmation of the role he was to play in the marriage.
He had visited the apartment beforehand when the Prime gave him leave to take part in its refurbishing. The result was a cozy, tastefully furnished haven. He waited in the sitting room as one servant filled up the large tub in the bathing room adjacent to the bedchamber, another tended the fire in the corner hearth and a third turned down the covers on the huge four-poster bed. The rest served wine and savory biscuits to his cousins as they arrived.
“They appear to think we still have space in our bellies after that gargantuan feast,” Rysander commented upon declining the biscuits.
“Why ever not since you didn't turn down the wine?” Mered called from the bedchamber. “And after proving to all and sundry just how deep into the gutter your mind can descend.”
Rysander reddened at his father’s mild rebuke while the others snickered at his discomfiture. “It's that confounded firewater!”
“Zyk did warn us,” Jareth said. “Where’s your partner in folly by the way?”
Aeldan chuckled and said, “Returned to his room to sleep off said folly.”
“Osrin too,” Rohyr added. “Vaeren and Tobyr had to carry him to his bed.”
“Ah, so that's why your guardian is absent,” Yovan said as he stepped into the sitting room. “Zyk? Your bath is ready.”
Zykriel stood and headed for the bathing chamber.
His parents had elected to forego the bedding ceremony. Thus he had requested his Uncles Yovan and Mered to take their places.
The Seydons’ marriage had also been arranged. Zykriel had felt they would understand his feelings about the matter better than most. Gilmael wanted to back out as well, but at the last minute decided his twin’s need for his presence was more important than his distaste for the proceedings.
Following custom, Yovan and Mered stripped him of his finery before he slipped into the tub of herb-strewn water. They moved aside when Gilmael entered the chamber, a small rueful smile curving his lips.
He knelt by the tub and clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Neither spoke. They knew each other so well there was no need to vocalize an apology and offer of support or the acceptance of both.
Eventually Zykriel indicated he was done and Yovan held out a thick towel to him. To his surprise, Gilmael left the room as he rose up out of the water. Zykriel shook his head, a bit frustrated wth his twin’s behavior.
As he dried himself, Yovan turned to leave the bathing room with Mered. Zykriel softly called to him to come back.
“There's something you should know,” he murmured as he wrapped the towel around his waist. “About the marriage contract. Please tell no one else.”
“What is it?”
Zykriel quickly told him about the clause added only the night before. Yovan frowned disapprovingly.
“Why didn't you inform Rohyr? He would have called off the wedding.”
“Precisely. I didn't want to risk it.”
“And I suppose you didn't tell your parents or Gilmael either.”
“For the same reason. This is too good an opportunity to forego on account of my personal feelings.”
Yovan peered at him. “Is that really the reason you desire this marriage to push through? The truth, Zyk-min. Are you enamored of Qristan?”
“I—” Zykriel paused, unsure what to say. “I don't know for certes. I do know I'm attracted to him despite his moods.”
“Moods?”
“They're unpredictable. One moment, he's warm and sweet and eminently likable. In the next, he's distant and given to thoughtless comments and the like. It almost feels like dealing with two different people.”
“And when is he likable?”
“When we’re long by ourselves it seems.”
“So he’s most changeable when he's newly come from meeting with his sire?”
Zykriel stared at Yovan and then nodded.
Yovan looked speculative. “Mayhap his fickleness isn't innate to him, but stems from a conflict between desire and duty.”
“I don't understand.”
“I imagine not all his sire’s commands sit well with him. To cope he puts on a mask to hide his true self. That way none will see what he really thinks or feels about the demands made on him.”
“Self-preservation?”
“That’s my guess. Have a care, nephew. He liked you well enough to choose you, but it was out of duty that he had to make a choice in the first place.”
Mered appeared in the doorway and beckoned to them. “Come, Zyk-min, get dressed. They’ll soon be here.”
Zykriel followed Yovan into the bedchamber. He donned the satiny light purple sleeping shirt and drawstring trousers his uncles had laid out on the commodious four-poster bed.
It was wide enough to fit four full-grown Deira. More than enough space to cavort with abandon if they wished. Or sedately rut if the mood so took them. Made up with the finest linens and luxurious down-filled pillows, it was a bed intended for sexual play and by extension the breeding of children. And if its purpose was not clear enough, aphrodisiacal foods and fertility symbols had been carved into the burnished headboard.
Zykriel noticed the bottle of oil atop one of the side tables. He hoped he would be able to play the mare without flinching. He knew his reluctance would inflict more discomfort than his body’s breaching. Mere flesh could be aroused and feel pleasure even under unfavorable conditions. But the mind was a different matter. He'd known shame and discontent following orgasms that had left his wits scattered to the four winds.
He bit his lower lip nervously. He was not expecting to enjoy himself though he would welcome it if he did. He prayed he would not learn to dislike coupling just because he was on the receiving end. For one thing, he was too much an Essendri to go without tending to his body’s needs. For another, if he was going to bear his children, he wanted to engage in the act willingly and derive some pleasure from it. He did not wish to do so purely out of obligation and thereby promote his reluctant warming of the conjugal bed.
The sounds of loud voices and raucous laughter heralded the arrival of Qristan and his escort. Zykriel rejoined his family in the sitting room just as the Shidara entourage ushered in Qristan who appeared a tad nervous himself. But perhaps it was cause for anxiety to run the gauntlet of his protective kin.
Zykriel knew how nerve-wracking it could be to face an unsmiling Rohyr alone. What more Rohyr backed up by a number of scions of his House?
Drawing a deep breath to calm himself, he stood before his spouse. Whereupon a servant stepped forward with a salver bearing a gold and red blown-glass goblet filled with honeyed wine laced with oil of spicy capsium, a well-known aphrodisiac. It was customary in some lands to present newlyweds with the marriage cup.
The Prime took the goblet and smilingly handed it to Zykriel. He took a cautious sip. His eyes widened when he felt a burning sensation on his tongue that contrasted pleasantly with the sweet wine. Diarmin and Lioval egged him to down at least half of the goblet’s contents before passing it to their brother.
Qristan winked at him over the rim of the goblet as he consumed the remaining wine. Zykriel felt his cheeks heat up in what was undoubtedly a blush. He realized he was probably reacting to the capsium. As he had never needed a love philter to get him into an amourous mood or rouse him sufficiently for coupling, he had no idea what the effects of one felt like. He noticed Qristan had likewise flushed slightly and his eyes now gleamed with what could only be lust.
Whether it had been induced by the philter or a real physical attraction to him Zykriel could not begin to guess. But he did know it was the latter he preferred.
They finally entered the bedchamber with Yovan and Mered barring the way should any of the Shidara party get it into his head to follow. Yovan shot his nephew a smile of encouragement before he left the room. As he pulled the door closed behind him, Zykriel caught a glimpse of his twin amidst the throng outside looking pale and unhappy once more. He sighed and turned to speak to Qristan.
He started though when Lioval’s voice came through the door urging Qristan to ride Zykriel as long and hard as he could. A cacophony of replies followed, some in fervent agreement and others expressing indignation.
Qristan grinned a little apologetically. “I'm afraid Lioval isn't known for subtlety.”
Zykriel snorted. “That was obvious from the moment he propositioned Gilmael within minutes of introducing himself to us.” He gestured toward the door. “Shall we wait for them to leave or...”
“I'd rather wait and so would you I warrant.”
“I’d prefer it. By the by, why didn't you offer me mirash? Are you willing to risk begetting children so soon?”
Qristan shook his head. “I thought we should defer that act until you've accustomed yourself to playing the mare. You did say you weren't raised to submit.”
Zykriel gazed at him in renewed appreciation though moments like this also made it difficult for him to guard his heart. Not that he'd been as shielded as his brother, but he was still wary and more selective than most bluebloods.
Verily, it was hard to reconcile the considerate Deir before him with the sometimes callous and aloof noble who made thoughtless sallies without batting an eyelash. It really felt like treating with two different Deira. Nonetheless Zykriel knew he was in danger of falling in love if he was not already sliding down the slippery slope toward it.
He noticed the noise outside was dying down. Soon after, he heard the sitting door close indicating their guests’ departure. Only the Deira chosen to stand as witnesses to their first nuptial coupling remained, another tradition no longer observed in Ylandre. The witnesses would leave only when they were certain the newlyweds had consummated their marriage. Zykriel hoped Lioval would not manage to goad Dylen into bloodshed, an inevitability if he’d appointed Gilmael instead.
“Finally,” Qristan said with a suggestive grin.
They were both seasoned lovers with enough partners between them to remove any hesitance or nervousness. There was no coyness from either. No need for the usual words of assurance to soothe away inhibitions or awkwardness. Instead they dropped all restraint and came together in a kiss that was equal parts passionate and combative.
It could not be expected either would easily submit. Both ruled others and were not accustomed to being ruled. But Zykriel quickly recalled the role assigned him. With an effort, he tamped down the desire to lead and yielded to Qristan’s plundering kiss, allowing himself to melt against his Medavian spouse in a show of capitulation. This further stoked Qristan’s lust.
He briskly stripped Zykriel, plying lips and tongue and teeth on his flesh as it was bared, marking smooth skin as he followed the path of discarded clothing. Discerning what Qristan desired of him, Zykriel held as still as he could. For one who had been born and raised to lead, surrender was unthinkable. It took conscious effort to play the part.
Yet he did not expect what came next. In one fluid motion of twist and shove, Qristan had him flat on his back on the bed. Startled, he stared at Qristan. His mate’s gaze pinned him down as if he’d bound him to the bed. His eyes never leaving Zykriel’s body, he shed his own clothing. And then he stood there, daring Zykriel to brazenly look him over.
Zykriel raked Qristan’s frame with his gaze. He would not feign indifference to his spouse’s abundant graces just because he was not comfortable with his role in the marriage bed.
Qristan smirked when his gaze lingered on the column of flesh rising proudly from its nest of brown curls. Trepidation struck Zykriel that he would be taking that formidable shaft into his body. Before he could control his expression, his eyes widened. In visible apprehension he realized when Qristan’s smirk deepened to a predatory smile.
He slid onto the bed and crept up Zykriel’s body as a wildcat would the prey it had run to ground. Suppressing the instinct to set the pace and biting back any protests, Zykriel lay still while Qristan leisurely partook of his favors. Only through his eyes did he let his spouse know what he thought of playing the passive partner.
He would not act the meek captive, but a soldier prince proud in the face of defeat even as he bent his knee to his conqueror.
When his shaft was engulfed however almost to the root, Zykriel could not help a loud groan. His spouse’s skill thwarted his efforts to withstand the sensual onslaught. He lifted his hips in a reflexive attempt to thrust into Qristan’s talented mouth. But Qristan grabbed his hips and forced them down. Zykriel glared at him though he obeyed the unspoken command. He was not used to someone else dictating how he was to respond to pleasure.
Qristan met his gaze and held it as he all but swallowed him down. Zykriel threw his head back and shuddered as completion overtook him. He barely bit back a cry when he felt himself virtually milked dry.
He started when his legs were parted. Raising his head slightly, he saw Qristan had slipped between his thighs. Instinct urged him to shift to a less vulnerable position. Discipline kept him in place.
Qristan grinned wolfishly. “You’re proving your reputation well deserved. I almost wonder if I'll enjoy sheathing your sword.”
Zykriel tightly smiled. “Rest assured, you will.”
One elegant eyebrow rose. “Perhaps, but not too soon,” Qristan retorted before picking up the oil. “Best you get used to being ridden and often.”
He eased his hand under one of Zykriel’s knees and nudged it upward. Zykriel warily watched his mate anoint his fingers with the unguent. He must have revealed something in his expression for Qristan cocked his head and gazed at him curiously.
“Have you truly yielded to no one?”
Zykriel shrugged. “Does that displease you?”
“Of course not. It's just that I’d heard you Essendris aren't as conventional as others if you get my meaning.”
“Not if it entails breaking with tradition.”
Qristan pursed his lips as if contemplating what to say. “Perhaps in Ylandre,” he said at length. “Not so here.”
“Even amongst bluebloods?” Zykriel asked a little disbelievingly.
Qristan seemed to hesitate before saying, “We aren’t bound by all traditions.”
A sense of foreboding crept up on Zykriel. But before he could give voice to it, Qristan slid his hand between his legs. A moment later, he flinched when a slippery finger slid between his buttocks and dipped into him. He tried to ignore the pangs of apprehension. To no avail. The sensation was too unfamiliar and far from expected. He winced as another finger joined the first. Not from pain though. Truth be told, for all his avowed openness to penetration by his duly wedded mate, the knowledge that he could not be compelled to do so had always been a source of comfort.
Qristan withdrew his fingers and proceeded to smear his length generously with oil.
“Up with your legs,” he softly commanded. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”
Faint consternation washed over Zykriel but he obeyed, snaking his legs around Qristan’s waist until his backside was pressed against his groin. Qristan gripped his hips and without further ado, entered him.
Zykriel hissed at the burning sensation. He’d expected there would be some discomfort, but expectation and actual experience could not compare. Mercifully, Qristan paused and gave him time to adjust to being breached.
As soon as the discomfort subsided to a tolerable degree, Zykriel opened his eyes and gazed at his spouse. With an effort, he forced a small smile and managed to quip, “You’re a veritable bullock. I didn't expect it of one as delicate looking as you.”
Qristan snorted. “Delicate? I've been called many things but never that.”
“I said you look delicate, not that you are,” Zykriel clarified with a grin. “And you’ve certainly proved you aren't.” He relaxed against the sheets in a bid to ease his tension. “Have me, Medavin,” he challenged. “Let's see what you’re made of.”
Qristan’s eyes gleamed dangerously. “Aye, let us.”
He leaned down and closed his lips upon Zykriel’s mouth. In the same moment, he shifted his hips, eliciting a surprised gasp followed by a stifled groan. He moved again and Zykriel felt his shaft stir, lengthen and jab against Qristan’s belly.
Qristan began to thrust steadily into him. Slow, deep, driving thrusts meant to deliver purest bliss. Now fully aroused, Zykriel pushed back in active pursuit of pleasure, meeting each inward stroke of the latter’s shaft and drawing him as deeply as possible with every plunge.
His mate knew what he was doing, he conceded. Apart from his rather abrupt entry which Zykriel suspected was to make a point, he was angling his every thrust nigh perfectly, wringing a litany of rapturous moans and gasps from him.
At length, their movements quickened and became more erratic, Qristan’s lunges no longer smooth or rythmic and the lifting of Zykriel’s arse now distinctly frantic. As they approached completion, their breathing turned ragged and a fine film of sweat turned their skin slick enough that they slid against each other with ease.
With visible effort, Qristan reached between them to stroke Zykriel’s shaft thereby wrenching soft cries from him. Saints above, he'd never been this voluble before!
He broke first, harshly sobbing as his climax crashed through him. His semen splashed over Qristan’s fist and dappled their bellies in pearlescent streaks. Determined to gain Qristan’s release as well, he contracted his muscles, clenching hard around his mate’s embedded length. With a hoarse cry, Qristan spent, spilling gush after gush of warm seed into him.
They collapsed together, Qristan having just enough presence of mind to pull out and shift his full weight off Zykriel. He lazily rolled on his side and rested his head on Zykriel’s shoulder. For several heartbeats neither spoke.
Qristan broke the comfortable silence first. “Do you still oppose playing the sheath?” he murmured.
Zykriel chuckled softly. “I was never opposed, only wary. You would be too if it was your arse up for a pounding. And by one as admirably endowed as you.”
Qristan huffed in amusement. “Have you looked at yourself?” he teased. “Small wonder tales of your prowess are never doubted.” He smiled when Zykriel looked at him questioningly. “I told you I learned what I could before you arrived. Gossip can be a good source of information provided one separates the wheat from the chaff. I’m quite impressed that with regard to the praise of your bed manners, there’s very little chaff to discard.”
Zykriel was nonplussed. He was used to being lauded for everything from his beauty and intelligence to his prowess in just about every field he ventured onto. Yet here he was reduced to blushes by Qristan’s complimentary observations. Perhaps Uncle Yovan was right that he was falling under his Medavian mate’s spell.
Unable to come up with a witty response, he settled for a simple, “My thanks. I'm glad I please you.”
Qristan eyed him curiously, no doubt surprised at the lack of a smart rejoinder. He too appeared at a loss for words which soothed Zykriel’s ruffled pride. He did not relish the feeling of teetering on the edge of a precipice that his mate evoked in him.
It was comforting to know he could also throw Qristan a little off balance.