God above, those words.
So much for keeping a cool head. So much for having mapped a route through tricky territory. He’d entered the stable believing he had this situation in hand. Then Morien had dropped to his knees and all but demanded to be shown the way.
Safir didn’t know whether to feel insulted or elated.
Then, voices sounded outside the building, and all he felt was alarm. Morien turned to look at the closed door but didn’t move from his kneel. Grabbing the man’s shirt, Safir pulled him to his feet and into a stall across from those housing the horses. Crouching below the front wall, he tugged on Morien to do the same. He did, just before the main door of the stable opened with a loud creak.
It was Arthur and Bedwyr. They were laughing about something. The horses, it seemed.
“Come, this is nonsense,” Arthur said.
“It’s not,” Bedwyr grumbled. “They’re great dangerous beasts.”
Arthur made a sound of disbelief. “Dangerous!” He clicked his tongue. “Here, lass. Are you dangerous? Are you a beast?”
Nera nickered, and Safir could imagine Arthur stroking her nose.
“See! There. She tried to bite your fingers off.”
Arthur chuckled. “She did no such thing. It’s my own fault for not bringing her an apple, as I did yesterday.”
Morien flinched and scowled at the wall, as if he might scorch the man. Then he turned his frown to Safir—do you believe this?—but Safir could only smile at his outrage.
“There now. Grain’s almost as good, eh?” There followed some crunching and shuffling, and a whuffly snort, probably from Ned. Bedwyr grunted, and Arthur laughed. “Gods, Bed. Calm yourself. They’re stabled. Here.”
“No.”
“Here. Give me—” There was a brief scuffle after which Arthur made a low triumphant noise. “Got you. Hold it out. Palm up. Relax, man. Now here, take some grain—don’t even think it.”
They were silent for a long moment, and Safir could imagine the scene: Arthur holding the wrist of Bedwyr’s only hand, and Bedwyr taut with challenge.
Evidently, Arthur won. “Now. Hold your palm flat. In fact, bow it upward a bit—”
“Why?” Bedwyr demanded, low and tight.
“Just do it.” Arthur clicked his tongue again and said some sweet words to Nera before addressing his man again. “There, look. She’ll take your offering. Just move slowly and let her use her lips.”
Bedwyr must have given in and done it, because the quiet after that was a contented one. A little too quiet, Safir decided, for his arse was growing cold. He’d not had a chance to pull up his breeches. Only his shirt lay between him and the hard, cold dirt of the stall floor. He tried to shift his position, but it did nothing more than draw Morien’s attention to his state. For the first time this morning, the man’s lips curved into a little smile.
That was something, he supposed.
“See?” Arthur said. “They’re nothing to be afraid of.”
“Wasn’t afraid of them,” Bedwyr growled.
Arthur grunted in amusement. “If you want to talk great, dangerous beasts, I did encounter one the last time we were in here.”
Bedwyr snorted. “That so?”
“In this very stable. I wonder if it’s still about.”
“You certain you want to go looking?”
Safir’s hair had come to stand on end. This conversation had an altogether different tone.
“I think I might. Do you suppose that beast is in one of the empty stalls?”
Safir felt Morien’s head snap toward him, but he lifted a hand. Stay calm. Don’t move.
“No need,” Bedwyr said. “It’s hiding in plain sight.”
Arthur chuckled. When his voice came again, it was muffled. As if he were speaking against Bedwyr’s neck. “Gods, I love it when you play along. Oh—look here. I think I’ve found the beast.”
Bedwyr hummed, and heat shot down Safir’s limbs.
He had, for many, many years, happily surrounded himself with the sounds of people taking their pleasure. At the end of the summer campaign season, he would head directly to Caron’s brothel and revel in its raucous proof of life for as long as his coin held out.
Of course, the brothel wasn’t the only place to hear these sounds. They were just as prevalent in Rhys’s hall, in the alleyways of the settlement outside, and on campaign. This was not the first time he’d heard Arthur and Bedwyr enjoy each other.
It was, however, the first time he’d witnessed it alongside a man he wanted badly.
Sounds of kissing. Low groans. Clothing shoved out of the way.
Safir’s cock rose to prod his own shirt. He pushed it back down with a firm hand and a silent command…but then movement beside him caught his eye. Turning, he found Morien in much the same position: one hand over his mouth, the other pressing between his thighs. He turned, and his eyes quickly took in Safir’s state. In the aisle of the stable, Bedwyr groaned precisely the way a man does when someone swallows his cock.
Morien met Safir’s gaze and mouthed, Show me.
Fuck no. They’d give themselves away in two breaths. Morien was a virgin but eager and would probably gag. Meanwhile, Safir would have an eager virgin in his lap. There was no way—
Silently, Morien rolled away from the wall and settled himself on his belly between Safir’s legs. As Safir sat stunned into immobility, he watched Morien realize the futility of trying to remove Safir’s breeches over his boots. Carefully, he set his elbows inside the ring made of Safir’s legs and trousers. Then his long fingers lifted the hem of Safir’s shirt.
Safir cringed, certain that Arthur and Bedwyr could hear how his cock was screaming in anticipation, but it turned out that was only in his head. Then he couldn’t hear anything at all because Morien had leaned down and kissed his shaft.
At the soft, warm touch, Safir’s fingers curled against the floor, scraping at bits of old straw. Biting his lip, he held them rigid. Morien kissed him again. And again. God, he was going to die from the sight of the man’s lips on his prick.
Morien looked up at him. Then kept looking, as if Safir would be capable of giving him a single coherent directive. When he couldn’t, Morien nodded to his cock. Stuck out his tongue. Raised his eyebrows.
In the aisle, Arthur seemed in no hurry to bring Bedwyr off. The sounds of sucking were slow and steady, punctuated by low, approving hums from both men.
Morien was waiting, tongue extended. A student at the ready.
Well, blast.
Teaching was a noble vocation, was it not?
Safir nodded.
As soon as he’d done so, Morien licked his cockhead. The initial touch was as electric as his kiss, even with no finesse.
But, with no finesse, there was ample room for improvement. Experimentation. Exploration.
Safir nodded again, and Morien licked again. And then a third time without being directed, and then—
Then he dragged his tongue up the underside of Safir’s cock, root to tip.
Safir just about bit his own tongue off.
Get a handle on yourself. What was the matter with him? He probably couldn’t count the number of suckings he’d enjoyed in his life, not if he’d had a month to figure the sum. So what was different this time? He’d had secret assignations. He’d been with folks of all shapes and shades. He’d been with some very talented whores, for God’s sake. So what was undoing him in this chilly horse stall?
Morien looked up at him again. No trace of the usual scowl he wore around Safir. None of the tension he normally held in his shoulders in Safir’s company.
No, he was sprawled out—quite far out—along the dusty floor, propped on his elbows but relaxed, his neck a strong but vulnerable curve under his jaw.
And his eyes. Those curling lashes blinked, revealing something Safir had never thought to wring from the man, even after their pact.
Trust.
Responsibility settled like an unfamiliar cloak on Safir’s shoulders. This was definitely not what Rhys had had in mind when he’d tasked Safir with keeping Morien close. But just this moment his loyalty wasn’t to the river lord. This moment, no one mattered more than this man gazing up at him as if he were trustworthy.
He set a shaky hand to the side of Morien’s head, brushing his fingers over the soft coils of his hair. Yes.
Morien looked down, considering Safir’s cock, moving it this way and that. Studying it. Then, holding his gaze, Morien gave him another toe-curling lick up its length, scraping his tongue slowly over the most sensitive bit—
Bedwyr growled loudly, and Safir nearly jumped out of his skin. Morien flinched too, his hand momentarily tightening around Safir’s shaft. Immediately, he loosened his fingers, but pleasure had spiked hot in Safir’s core. Wrapping his hand around Morien’s, he firmed up his grip, then led him through a few strokes. Quick study that he was, Morien picked it up, and just as Safir withdrew his hand, enclosed his cockhead in his mouth.
Christ, who was the virgin here? Because if he’d had to guess, at this very moment, Safir would’ve pinned himself as the apprentice and Morien the master. While Safir struggled to keep his breathing quiet and his boots still, Morien was a wonder of artful silence. Sucking was usually a noisy affair, in Safir’s experience—a wet, sloppy, boisterous business—and Arthur and Bedwyr were certainly proving his point.
But in the midst of their noise and Safir’s internal racket, Morien lay calmly in his lap, giving him long, forceful, utterly silent strokes of his lips and tongue, and it was taking Safir apart. Praying he wouldn’t betray their presence, he smoothed both hands over Morien’s head and pressed his own against the stall wall behind him. Relying on his fingers to convey encouragement, he closed his eyes.
Only to have them shocked open when Morien slapped him lightly on the cheek.
He hadn’t interrupted his sucking or stroking. But he was frowning now, as if very put out that Safir would look away.
And something about that was delightful. Whether it was Morien’s disapproval, which was generally delightful, or the way the frown made his smooth brow so stern, Safir found himself charmed.
A little too charmed, perhaps, because Morien’s frown deepened. So did his efforts on Safir’s cock. Luckily, Bedwyr was now growling almost continuously in the stable’s aisle, saying tight, filthy things to Arthur, who was bringing him to a slapping climax. It was raucous enough to hide the gasps Safir couldn’t hold back as Morien unleashed a quiet revenge on him for his lapse in attention. All Safir could manage was to hold the man’s gaze and nod and nod and nod, before his hands clutched helplessly at Morien’s ears and he spilled in his glorious mouth.
Morien jerked back, looking surprised, and one more small spurt landed on his cheek, pearly in the dim light. He swallowed, looking abashed, and it tugged at new strings in Safir’s chest. The tender ones he often felt after sharing himself with someone, but which he hadn’t expected to feel with this prickly, aloof man. Gently, he wiped his seed from Morien’s cheek.
Behind him, Bedwyr was panting through his own aftermath. He cursed softly, drawing a chuckle from Arthur, and then there was a shuffle and a groan as Arthur rose to his feet.
“What do you want?” Bedwyr said. “Anything.”
“I want to see you ride one of these horses.”
“Except that.”
Arthur laughed again. “Then I want a bed, ddraig. This floor’s fucking cold.”
With that, they left the stable.
And then Safir was staring down at the man in his lap, thinking he’d never noticed how soft his eyes looked. He put his hands under Morien’s arms and tugged at him. Morien rose on his hands and knees and shuffled closer. Those soft eyes watched Safir expectantly. Maybe needfully.
Safir reached up and held the man’s face. “That was…very good. Are you certain you’re—”
Morien leaned in and cut him off with a kiss. Safir opened to him, tasting himself, tasting Morien. Gripping the man’s head, he wondered at this kissing thing. Morien had a way of making him feel like he’d never done it fully before. Such a simple thing. People did it every day, and Safir had kissed his share of them.
But it hadn’t been like this. Not this melding of lips and tongue and breath and everything building behind them.
Because Safir wasn’t a builder. He occupied, merely. Used things, happily. Played as long as he could before he had to work again.
And yet, without his noticing, something was beginning to take shape between Morien and him, and both their fingerprints were pressed into the clay of it.