Time dragged the next day. It had a way of doing that when one couldn’t wait for the sun to set. Safir gave the hazy ball of light a narrow eye. “Well, go on.”
Whatever they were waiting for at this farm hadn’t arrived yet, and most of the usual trappings of a place had been packed away for the winter, stored securely here or carted to Rhys’s. When they might have passed the days mending items that had broken over the summer, they all were left simply to pass the time however they saw fit.
Which, in the case of Arthur and Bedwyr and Palahmed and Gawain, was to slip away in their respective pairs and take advantage of beds more comfortable than the thin rolled mats they used on campaign. Safir had lain in his own bed, alone, until he’d heard a growl from Palahmed’s chamber next door, upon which he’d risen, thrown his clothes on, and fled to the hall and its firepit.
He could still hear the occasional sound from the direction of the bedchambers—a chuckle here, a groan there. Too soft to discern but loud enough to point out his own solitary state.
His half-hard state, which had plagued him most of the night.
He didn’t spend much time with chaste people. Almost none, in fact. He much preferred the company of folks who enjoyed physical pleasure with abandon, knew what they liked, and had a few skills to offer in giving Safir what he wanted. And a man wasn’t likely to find an authentic virgin in a brothel, after all. But he tended toward the more experienced whores. It was just easier. Most of them knew him, which made the transactions that much simpler.
He was reminded, though, that simple wasn’t always interesting.
Honestly, he’d thought he’d have to cajole Morien into bed the night before, despite their little pact. But when the time came, Morien had risen from the fire and declared his fatigue. It had been sweet in its abruptness, and he’d given the man a few minutes alone before joining him. But he hadn’t been able to wait much longer than that, not when he knew what lay ahead.
Ah, and there was the snarl in the line. He had experience to spare, and so he’d thought they’d get much further along in Morien’s tutelage than they had done. Touching? Kissing? If Palahmed had predicted the night before that that would be the extent of Safir’s evening, he’d have scoffed. (And also wondered how Palahmed knew because Safir wasn’t sharing this with anyone. Though he wasn’t certain why. Didn’t want to examine that too closely, thanks.)
Now he felt ashamed that he might have scorned an hour of merely touching and kissing. Because there’d been nothing mere about it.
For one thing, just having Morien in the same bed was intoxicating. He occupied a fair amount of the thing, which Safir of course took as an excuse to lie close to him. But even if he hadn’t, the man’s scent would have found him. It had a spice to it that plucked at a very old memory as one might pick at a loose thread in a blanket. It made him think of dry places that shimmered in the midday heat, and it seemed to radiate from Morien’s skin as if drawn by the noon sun.
But if he’d thought he would taste it on the man’s mouth, too, he was mistaken—in the best way. No, while Morien smelled as tantalizing as a wayward scent on a breeze, his flavor was as bold as a roasted chestnut. Or something. Safir hadn’t been able to identify it last night, but it was nutty and burnt and had dared him to back down. He’d done no such thing but mostly because it had held him in thrall, as helpless as if he’d been tied to Morien with rope.
Ideas abounded this morning, didn’t they?
But some of those ideas might never come to fruition if Morien remained shy. Safir would be lying if he said he’d not been disappointed when Morien stopped his roving hand the night before. Their kissing had had the effect Safir hoped for, that effect having prodded him mightily in the belly. He’d followed his usual instinct and reached for the man’s shaft. But he’d scarcely brushed a knuckle against it, barely formed the twin notions of hard and thick, before Morien had stopped him.
Which he should have expected. Just as he shouldn’t have seen kissing as something to leap over, he should have put together what he knew of Morien to guess he might be timid.
It was only that…sometimes he wasn’t timid. Sometimes, he was so forward it bordered on aggressive. Usually because he thought he knew better than other men. Frankly, Safir had hoped to see that side of him last night, and only partly so that he could prove Morien wrong.
He also just found it awfully attractive.
Which would probably be the end of him, because there was the matter of the peach pit. An entire orchard, Morien wanted. Only that wasn’t the part that was lodged under Safir’s skin. Morien wanted a man capable of gifting him that orchard, and he was willing to wait years for that person.
Who was not, nor ever would be, Safir.
He arched his back, intent on throwing off the leaden thought. He’d never wanted to plan for such a future, so why ruminate now? Where was his virgin pupil? Enough with this sitting around and thinking. It wasn’t keeping him from hearing the two couples currently holed up in their bedchambers; their grunts were about to bring down the roof beams in the hall, as if it were some sort of fucking competition. Or fucking competition. At any rate, he might never have left the brothel for all the racket.
And there was his clue. If the noises were annoying him, they likely would’ve spooked Morien entirely. Safir’s last coin said that the man wasn’t in this building at all.
With a smile, and a new scheme to take it slowly and read his quarry, he set out to discover which of the farm’s structures Morien was hiding in.
The bundle was still in the stable where Morien had left it. He’d checked as soon as he’d entered, but then the horses had drawn him, as they always did.
Lovely, gentle animals. Stroking the long, soft length of Nera’s nose, he couldn’t imagine why some folk were frightened of horses. One only had to understand their temperaments, just as one would another person. Also how they were built—it didn’t do to sneak up on them from behind, where they couldn’t see. Of course that would make them jumpy and likely to kick. One only needed a modicum of sense to see that.
“Isn’t it so?” he murmured. Nera nudged her nose further into his hand, and then Ned pushed at his arm from the next stall. Morien chuckled at the way the gelding craned his neck for attention. “What say you, Ned? Are you difficult to understand?”
Ned nickered in response, aghast. Or possibly only agreeing in exchange for another handful of grain. Fair enough. Morien held some out to him…only to have the fellow turn up his nose with a snort.
“What? No grain?”
“He’d probably rather have this.”
Morien spun at Safir’s voice to find him walking toward him. Only, not walking. More like sauntering. When he reached the stalls, he held out his palm to Ned. A chunk of apple lay on top.
But not for long. The gelding gobbled it off Safir’s hand, crunching it quickly and then nosing for more. Hearing the sound of a treat, Nera joined in the begging, pushing Morien aside in her eagerness.
“You’ll spoil them.”
Safir grinned as he held another chunk of fruit for Ned. “You phrase that as if it hasn’t already happened. And anyway”—he winked at Morien—“spoiling beauties is what I do best.”
Morien’s face flushed hotly. The man was impossible. “If you keep at it, they won’t obey without apples.”
“Everyone needs an incentive now and then.” Safir held a piece of apple toward Nera, then pulled it just out of her reach. He looked at Morien. “But I’ll desist if you want me to.”
Morien sighed. “That’s cruel. Don’t tease her.”
Safir fed the apple to the mare, murmuring apologies. He showed both horses his empty hands before turning to Morien. “Better?”
“It would have been better if you hadn’t done it in the first place.”
“You believe they’d be better off not having tasted something sweet?”
“They’d still be biddable.”
Safir took a step toward him, and Morien retreated a step. Safir another, himself another. Then Safir was chasing him backward until his back hit the wall of the stable. Safir stepped very close. “You got a taste, and you’re still biddable.”
Morien swallowed hard and ordered his pulse to calm itself. It ignored him. “I do my father’s bidding, not yours.”
“No?”
“No,” he said, though it was a pitiful excuse for a protest. Breathy in a way that might give Safir the wrong idea.
The man’s lips curled on a smile.
Definitely give him the wrong idea.
“I’m not so sure about that, Morien.”
Gods, the way Safir said his name. Teasing, certainly, but also…like a song. One he wanted to keep hearing.
“I think, if I were gentle and fair and gave you the proper incentive, I might be able to bid you to do something quite out of your experience.” Leaning close, he brushed his lips lightly over Morien’s. “What do you think?”
What was the original question? All he could feel was the heat coming off Safir’s body and the dampness of his breath as it cooled on Morien’s lips. Safir’s hand rose, his fingers warm on the side of Morien’s face. But when he thought the man might kiss him, Safir’s hand slid down his neck to his throat and the pendant there.
Morien wanted to snatch it away from him, but he couldn’t move.
“This man you’re waiting for…this future man with no face…”
“He has a face.”
“Oh?”
Morien blinked. “I assume so.”
Safir’s mouth twisted, as if he was holding back a very large grin. “We never know. I do think it likely he has a cock. Don’t you?”
“Have a cock?”
“Think that he will.”
“Probably.”
“In that case, there’s something I can show you. Something I think this future man will enjoy very much.”
“What?”
Safir’s eyes flashed up to his. They were like dark fire in the dim of the stable. “Something we can look forward to. Tonight.”
Morien’s hands curled into fists, though he wasn’t sure why. Aside from the horses’ shuffling, there were no other sounds about. They were alone. “Why wait?”
Safir huffed, as though surprised, and studied Morien’s face. “Pardon?”
Taking a chance, Morien laid a hand on Safir’s chest. He wore two shirts and a cloak, but Morien could still feel his heat through them. “Show me here.”
“In the stable?”
“Why not?”
Safir stared at him, and then he did grin. “You’re awfully game for a man who’s saving himself.”
“Is it this?” Not letting himself over-think it, Morien knelt on the hard-packed ground. He smoothed his hand down Safir’s chest and belly to the top edge of his breeches. Then down the front of those too. Safir’s cock pushed at Morien’s palm from behind the laces. When he looked up at Safir, the man was staring at him, still as stone. “Is it?”
“Maybe,” Safir said, barely loud enough to hear. “What did you have in mind?”
Morien looked at the laces again and pulled at the ends. The knot came loose, and he might have checked in with Safir again, but he hadn’t moved to stop him and it would have meant meeting his gaze, so he went on.
Plucking at the leather strings, he loosened the laces until Safir’s breeches gaped in front. With trembling hands, Morien slid them down the man’s narrow hips until the hair on his thighs tickled his fingertips. Safir’s shirts stood out away from his body, held there by his prick. Morien lifted the fabric, and the hard shaft bobbed up to meet him. It looked…
Well, it sort of looked like Ned when he begged a treat. Morien wanted to chuckle at that, but his curiosity stepped in. “It’s different from mine.”
Safir snorted. “I imagine it is.”
Morien frowned up at him. Yes, it was somewhat smaller and a different color, but, “You’ve been cut.”
“Oh. Right, well. I didn’t have a choice in the matter. Male babes in my family were trimmed.”
It wasn’t the first cut cock he’d seen but certainly the first he’d had a chance to examine this close. Wrapping his fingers around the shaft, he tested the skin. It was tighter than his own. “Is it strange not to have a hood?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember having one.”
It must be strange, though. Morien tried to imagine how Safir’s clothing must chafe his cockhead—all the time!—and he shuddered.
Or shivered. He wasn’t entirely sure which.
What he was sure about was the weight of Safir in his hand. Morien had knelt as if he knew what he was about, but he didn’t. Not truly. He’d come across folks now and again, in a corner or against a wall, doing what he was about to do. Here, in the stable, he was only mirroring the position he’d seen Arthur in, kneeling between Bedwyr’s boots.
But seeing someone fire an arrow didn’t make one an archer.
“Teach me,” he said.