“Thank you,” Safir whispered. Closing the small space between them, he kissed Morien. “I like it when you say my name.”
“You do?” Though he wasn’t surprised, really. He liked his own name on Safir’s tongue too.
Safir nodded. “I think it’s because you don’t say it very often.”
“Safir.”
“Yes?”
“Only trying it out.”
Safir smiled. “If you want to try it out, tell me what you want.”
“I already have.”
Safir growled. “Play along, Morien. Use my name.”
He drew a halting breath. “Touch my cock, Safir.”
The man swore under his breath. And leaned in very close. “You could make me do a lot of things, just tacking my name on the end like that.”
“Oh yeah?”
Safir hummed. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that. Now you have power over me.” His hand slid down Morien’s chest, then down his belly.
As it neared the top of Morien’s trousers, his prick strained toward it. “There are laces.”
Safir chuckled, a soft sound in the dark, as if he’d run his fingers through a sheaf of grain. “Oh, I know. Here’s another secret: I’ve already worked out how to gain entry into every bit of clothing you wear.”
“Have not.”
“Have too.” As if to illustrate, his fingers performed some quick maneuver that required scarcely half a heartbeat, and suddenly the pressure of Morien’s trousers gave way. His cock practically sighed.
“Well, so have I.” He hadn’t, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from talking, not with Safir’s hand so low on his belly, almost at his hair. If his cock hadn’t been trapped sidewise still in his clothing, the man would’ve encountered it. Now he was in Morien’s hair, his fingers brushing lightly over it.
“Is that right?”
Was what right? Oh, yes. Safir’s clothing. “It is.” His mind scrambled for proof. “Your cloak is simple enough. One flick of the fingers, and I’d have it off you.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Morien could hear the smile in the man’s voice, and it made him smile too. “Your shirts are no challenge either. You only wear too many of them.”
“Says the African who wears shirt, vest, another vest, and a heavy cloak.”
For some reason it pleased him that Safir had counted his layers. “I’m from the mountains beyond the old empire—I know how to dress for snow. You’re a Saracen. Isn’t your blood meant to run hot? What do you need so many shirts for?”
“For a man who wants his cock stroked, you’re awfully belligerent.”
“I said touch, not stroke.”
Safir’s hand smoothed down the wool of his trousers, straight across his hard prick, and Morien sucked a breath. Safir figured out the orientation of the thing and grazed it with his knuckles through the fabric. “So…you don’t want me to stroke it?”
“Didn’t say that either.”
Safir laughed, a low, hot sound. “Oh, you are delicious, Morien.”
He was delicious.
He was ridiculous, because that made his heart skip. Rubbing his own knuckles down the man’s ribs. “Stroke my cock, Safir.”
And he did. Only outside Morien’s trousers. He reached down to slide them off, but Safir caught his hands.
“Let me. Lift your hips.”
He did, and the wool scraped down his skin, much more slowly than he’d have done it himself. The fibers left a thousand tiny trails of heat behind them by the time his trousers were down to his thighs. He settled back onto the bed. His cock felt heavy, and if they’d been lying closer, it would be prodding Safir’s belly.
But Safir seemed to have forgotten about it. His hand was smoothing over Morien’s arse. Up, down, up down. The sensation made him clench the muscle there, and Safir swore again.
“What?”
“Your arse is a wonder. Oh, damn, I’ve just given away another secret.”
“You like it?”
“Like doesn’t do justice to my feelings about your arse.”
“You have feelings about my arse.”
“Quite a number of feelings. But don’t ask me to describe them. It’d be too humiliating.”
Well, how could he not? Gods’ blood. “Describe these feelings you have about my backside.”
“First off, it’s too exquisite to be called a backside. Doors have backsides. You, my good fellow, have one of the most glorious arses I’ve ever seen.”
One of. He didn’t really want to hear about the other ones. Instead he asked, “What’s so unique about it?”
“It’s almost perfectly round, for a start. And, as I’d suspected—as I’d hoped—it fits my hand as if they were made for each other.” To illustrate, Safir’s fingers spread over his arse cheek and took hold. But gently, as if he were cupping something more precious than the ordinary flesh a man sat on. “How does that feel?”
Not very ordinary. “It feels nice.”
“Good.” His fingers explored a little, up and down again, then skimmed forward over Morien’s hip. “But I believe you gave me an order a moment ago.”
He’d have been happy to hear more about these arse-feelings, but then Safir’s light touch brushed through his hair again and found his cock.
He jerked at the contact, then closed his eyes, embarrassed. Safir didn’t seem to notice, though. He was busy rubbing his thumb up the underside of Morien’s aching shaft. As Morien was still trying to calm his breath, Safir leaned in and caught his lips.
“Thank you.”
“Why do you keep thanking me?”
“Because it’s a gift to be allowed to touch someone.”
This man had touched a lot of people. Surely he didn’t thank every one of them. Did he?
“How would you like me to stroke you?”
All right, he was certain the man had handled more than his share of cocks. “Just stroke it.”
Safir’s hand halted at once. “There’s no just. Every person is different. Some like a light touch, while some prefer a tight grip. Some want hard, fast strokes, and others want—”
“I don’t want to know about others.”
Safir went silent, and Morien tried to fend off the mortification again. He’d sounded petulant. And jealous. Foolish to such a worldly man, probably. When Safir leaned close again, Morien braced to be told off.
But all Safir said was, “Then tell me what you want. Because what you want is the only thing I care about right now.”
Morien swallowed, chastened. Heartened, too, only… “I don’t know what to ask for.”
To his intense relief, Safir didn’t scoff. “Do you stroke yourself, ever?”
“Yes.” He was facing away from the fire, but his cheeks still heated. He was glad the man couldn’t see them.
“Good. I happen to think that’s very healthy. So when you stroke yourself, how do you do it?”
Like it’s a cock, he almost blurted, but caught himself. Safir hadn’t accepted that reaction the first time. So he tried to think. “With my whole hand. Up and down.” He groaned. “I sound stupid.”
“You don’t. Like this?” Safir’s hand encircled him and then pulled, stroking his skin up his shaft.
“Gods. Yes.”
Safir didn’t say anything, only stroked down and back up, and then again, and Morien could feel his cockhead weeping onto the bedding, crying for touch.
“Rub the head.”
On his next upstroke, the curve of Safir’s thumb cradled him as it slid, and he gasped as it swept up over the wet crown.
“Don’t lick them.”
“Don’t lick them,” Safir repeated, like a pupil at his master’s knee. Instead of sliding his grip down again immediately, he cupped his palm over Morien’s crown, then circled it with finger and thumb, as if taking its measure or learning its shape.
Remembering the men from his father’s bath house, he said, “How does it feel?”
“Like a cock.”
He reared back, pushing at Safir’s chest. “Funny. You can do better than that.”
“Oh, can I?” The rogue was smiling again. “Let’s see. It’s a good solid length. Smooth where is should be, sticky where it should be. You’ve got a terrifically aggressive helmet here—”
“Is it the biggest?”
Safir stopped stroking him. “The biggest?”
“That you’ve had. Or seen.” Oh, damn. The way Safir was looking at him. “Only, I’ve been told it’s large.”
“It is. You are very much in proportion.”
“Yes, but…” Spit it out, he chastised himself. “Is that good? Is it attractive?”
“Proportionality is quite attractive. I knew a sculptor once who said—”
“Do you like it, Safir?”
Safir’s serious tone broke at once, and he laughed. Taking up his stroking again, he nuzzled Morien’s ear. “I like it very much. And I would like it if it were half this size.” He kissed Morien’s neck, his lips. “I like it because it’s yours, man, not because it’s the biggest I’ve held in my hand.”
Morien grinned. “So it is.”
Safir bit his neck. “A man’s got to keep some secrets, lordling. I think you should touch me too.”
He considered making some retort, but his hand wasn’t interested in debate. It sought out Safir’s cock and gripped it. Recalling how he’d been directed in the stable, he began to give it slow, almost lazy tugs.
And Safir had been right. This was better, touching each other at the same time. It was almost as if he could feel Safir’s pleasure in his own body. What began as a low sort of heat soon drew to a tight knot of want, a blazing little core with a hunger all its own, like a live coal somewhere deep behind his cock. His hips began to thrust into Safir’s fist, and he struggled to keep up his own hand’s rhythm. “Harder,” he panted. “Faster.”
“And you,” Safir said, and then they were both stroking with quick, slapping pulls, and Morien was seeking Safir’s mouth and claiming it, and Safir was breathing into him, then groaning, then moaning, or maybe that was his own voice, and then he choked.
“Ah! Ah, gods!”
“My name,” Safir panted. “Say it.”
“Safir.” He choked again. “Feels so good, Safir, don’t stop.”
“I won’t.” The man’s voice sounded as if he were pushing it past clenched teeth. “It’s just you and me, you beautiful man. Come, Morien. Spill all over my hand.”
Morien groaned and did just that, and it felt as if he’d never come before. Pushing his face into Safir’s neck, he thrust and thrust into his fist, tasting the sweat on his skin. With the last of his wits, he gripped Safir’s cock and tugged, quick and tight. “You now, Safir. Give me—”
“I’ll give you everything. Everything.”
Safir’s body went rigid, and hot, sticky seed hit Morien’s wrist and arm. His belly, too, though that might have been his own. He kept up his stroking until his own cock jerked, over-sensitive. He let go. Safir let go. They lay against each other, lungs working as if they’d run a footrace through the forest. He found he wanted to put his arms around Safir, but for some reason making them do that was proving impossible. They lay immobile, shy suddenly.
Safir’s weren’t shy and wriggled around his ribs. With surprising strength, Safir drew him against his body, and Morien’s arms found their courage. He did the same, and Safir rested his forehead against Morien’s.
He’d been right. Lying down like this, on their sides, they almost seemed like equals.
Almost, they seemed like lovers.
The thought made his heart trip again.
“You called me beautiful,” he said. Because he needed to hear it, he asked, “Did you mean it?”
Safir was still for a moment. Then he pulled back, though not far. Just enough so Morien could see his eyes in the firelight. “I meant it, Morien.”
No flippant of course I meant it. No evasive don’t you think I did?
No wedge between the words and what felt very much like the truth.
“And before you ask, you curious, clever man…” Safir kissed him. “Beauty isn’t everything. I would like you even if you were hideous. As it turns out, you have beauty to spare, and I like it, and I like you. Very much.”
“I like you too.”
“Very much?”
“A man’s got to keep some secrets.”
Safir grinned. “You just try, then.”