Kings Rising (18 page)

‘All’s quiet,’ reported Nikandros.

One of the inn men came out with a lantern in his hand traversing the courtyard to tell Lamen that his room was prepared, second door to the right.

He followed the lantern. Inside, the inn was dark and quiet. Charls and his party had retired, and only the last of the embers were burning in the spit fire. The stone stairs nestled along the wall were unbannistered, which was typical of Akielon architecture, but trusted a great deal in the sobriety of the patrons.

He ascended the stairs. Without the lantern, there was quite a bit of unlit gloom, but he found the second door to the right and pushed it open.

The room was cosy, simple, its stone walls thickly plastered, its fireplace with a warming fire. It had a bed, a wooden table with a pitcher, two small windows with deep sills, the glass panes black, the inside well-lit. Three candles burning: an extravagance, flaming low, giving the room a warm, welcoming glow.

Laurent was haloed in candlelight, all cream and gold. He was freshly bathed, his hair drying. He had exchanged his Akielon cotton for an oversized Veretian bed shirt, loose and trailing laces. And he had dragged all of the bedding from the small Akielon-style bed and heaped it in front of the fire, even dragging the clean mattress down to join the smaller pallet there.

Damen looked at the bedding, and said, carefully, ‘The innsman sent me here.’

‘At my instruction,’ said Laurent.

He was coming forward. Damen felt his heart begin to pound, even as he held himself still and tried not to make any dangerous assumptions.

Laurent said, ‘It’s our last chance for a real bed before the Kingsmeet.’

Damen didn’t have time to answer that Laurent had dismantled the bed, because Laurent was pressing against him. His hands came up automatically, to grasp Laurent’s sides over the thin fabric of the bed shirt. They were kissing, Laurent’s fingers in his hair, pulling his head down. He could feel the sweat and the dirt of three days’ ride on himself, against Laurent’s clean, fresh skin.

Laurent didn’t seem to care, even seemed to like it. Damen pressed him into the wall, and took his mouth. Laurent smelled of soap and fresh cotton. Damen’s thumbs pushed into his waist.

‘I need to bathe.’ He said it into Laurent’s ear, let his lips find the sensitive skin just behind it.

They were kissing again, deep, heated kisses. ‘So go and bathe.’

He found himself pushed backwards, looking at Laurent across a stretch of space. Leaned against the wall, Laurent indicated to the small wooden door with his chin. His pale brows arched. ‘Or do you expect me to attend you?’

In the adjoining room, he looked around at the soaps and fresh towels, the large wooden tub full of steaming water, and the smaller bucket alongside it. All of it had been arranged in advance, a servant bringing the towels and drawing the hot water. The evidence of planning was in fact very like Laurent, though Damen had never experienced it from him quite in this context before.

Laurent didn’t follow him in, but left him to wash, a utilitarian task. It felt good to slough off the dust and dirt of the road. And there was something tantalising about breaking off to spend an interval washing. They had not before had the luxury of extended lovemaking, deliberate and unhurried as a First Night. His thoughts ribboned with all the things they had yet to do.

He soaped his body thoroughly. He dumped water over his hair, scrubbed it, dried himself all over with the towel, and stepped from the wooden tub.

When he returned to the bedchamber, his skin was flushed from the steam and water, the towel looped around his waist, his bare torso and shoulders damp with scattered droplets from the tips of his hair.

Here, too, was evidence of planning, and he could see it now for what it was: the lit candles, the joint bedding, and Laurent himself, clean and dressed in a bed shirt. He thought of Laurent, waiting for him expectantly. It was charming, because it was clear that Laurent was unsure exactly what to do, yet, typically, had acted to take control of everything.

‘First time to entertain a lover?’ Just saying the word made him flush, and he saw Laurent flush too.

Laurent said, ‘Are you bathed?’

‘Yes,’ said Damen.

Laurent was standing on the other side of the room, near the stripped-down bed. He looked tense in the flame light, a nervy steeling of himself.

Laurent said, ‘Take a step back.’

Damen had to look behind himself briefly, because stepping meant his back hit the wall. The pallet and bedding were on the floor to his left. The wall was a firm presence at his back.

‘Put your hands on the plaster,’ Laurent said.

The three flames on their candlewicks made the light move, heightening Damen’s sense of the room. Laurent was coming forward, his blue eyes dark. As he did so, Damen placed his palms flat on the plaster behind him.

Laurent’s eyes were on him. The room was quiet, the thick walls meaning that the only sound was from the fire, even the outside was no more than a reflection of candlelight in the black glass panes of the window.

‘Take off the towel,’ said Laurent.

Damen lifted one hand from the wall, tugging the towel loose. It unwound, and slid from his waist to the floor.

He watched Laurent react to his body. Virgins and the inexperienced tended to get nervous, which he enjoyed as a challenge to be overcome, hesitancy turned into eagerness
and pleasure. It pleased some deep part of him to see in Laurent the flickering of a similar reaction. Laurent eventually lifted his gaze from the place where it had, instinctively, dropped.

He let Laurent see him, see his nakedness was on display, the strident fact of his arousal. The flames in the stone hearth were too loud as they consumed the young cut wood.

‘Don’t touch me,’ said Laurent.

And dropped to his knees on the floor of the inn.

The simple sight of it outstripped words or thought. Damen’s pulse escalated wildly, even as he tried rather desperately not to presume that any other action would necessarily follow from this one.

Laurent wasn’t looking back up at him, he was looking at Damen’s nakedness. Laurent’s lips were parted, the strain in him greater now that he was closer to its source. Damen felt the first flutter of Laurent’s breath against him.

Laurent was going to do it.
When you see a panther opening its jaws you don’t get your dick out
. Damen didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Laurent had a hand on him, and all Damen could do was stand, palms and back flat against the wall behind him. The idea of the frigid Prince of Vere sucking his cock was impossible. Laurent put his own palm to the wall.

He could see the planes of Laurent’s face from this different angle. The pale sweep of his lashes hid the blue eyes beneath. The quiet room around them was a surreal
backdrop of simple furniture and a stripped bed. Laurent put his mouth to the tip.

Damen’s head hit the plaster. His whole body fired, and he made a sound, rough and low with need, a moment of pure sensation, closing his eyes.

His eyes opened in time to see Laurent’s lowered head draw back, so that the whole thing might have been maginary, except that the tip was wet.

Confined against the wall, Damen felt the rough plaster under his palms. Laurent’s eyes were very dark, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, clearly struggling with something, as he leant in again.

‘Laurent,’ he said, a groan. Laurent’s lips were on him again, parting. Damen was panting. He wanted to move, to thrust, and couldn’t. It was too much and not enough, trying to control his body, holding himself still against every instinct of his nature.

His fingers dug into the plaster. Whatever battle was taking place in Laurent’s head didn’t impede his slow skill, the sensual attention that ignored any rhythm or desire for climax, but was unbearably exquisite. Laurent must be able to taste him, the salty beading of his desire, his need. That thought was almost too much, he was too close to the brink.

He hadn’t imagined it like this. He knew Laurent’s mouth, knew its vicious capability. He knew it as Laurent’s primary weapon. In his daily life, Laurent held his lips taut,
repressing their lush shape into a hard line, his mouth cruel curves. Damen had seen Laurent eviscerate people with that mouth.

Now Laurent’s lips were given over to pleasure, his words traded for Damen’s cock.

He was going to come in Laurent’s mouth. That single, stunning realisation arrived a moment before Laurent went down in earnest, a long, practised slide. Heat hit, a burst of it, and Damen came in a rush before he could stop himself, too soon, overwhelmed, flooded. His body convulsed, even as he fought not to move, his stomach clenched, his fingers gripping the plaster.

Eventually, his eyes came open. His head was leaned back against the wall, and he watched as, dark-eyed, Laurent backed off. He half expected Laurent to go to the fire and, fastidiously, spit, but he didn’t. He had swallowed. He was pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, and he stood all the way over by the window, watching Damen a little warily.

Damen pushed himself away from the wall.

When he reached Laurent, he put his palm on the plaster again, this time beside Laurent’s head. He could see the rise and fall of Laurent’s breath in the space between them, Laurent’s body unmistakably aroused by what he had just done.

It was clear that Laurent didn’t know how to process the fact that he was turned on, and that part of his wariness was that he was uncertain what was next, one of the strange gaps in his experience that Damen couldn’t predict.

In the dim light, Laurent said, ‘A fair exchange, is it?’

‘I don’t know. What do you want?’

Laurent’s eyes were very dark. Damen could almost see the struggle, Laurent’s tension rising visibly. For a moment Damen didn’t think Laurent was going to answer, the truth of his desire too painfully vulnerable.

‘Show me,’ said Laurent, ‘how it could be.’

He flushed after he said it, the words leaving him exposed, a young, inexperienced man against the plaster wall of the inn.

Outside was the hostile expanse of Akielos, full of enemies and people who wanted them dead, a dangerous landscape that must be traversed before either of them was safe.

In here, they were alone. The candlelight turned Laurent’s hair to gold, flamed in the dip of his lashes, the line of his throat. Damen imagined that he was paying court to him in some foreign land, where all of this had never happened, making love to him in words on a balcony, perhaps, with perfumed flowers from some night garden drifting upwards, the glow of a party behind them. A suitor daring the limits of attention.

‘I would court you,’ said Damen, ‘with all the grace and courtesy that you deserve.’

He undid the first lace on Laurent’s shirt, and the fabric began to open, a glimpse of the hollow of his throat. Laurent’s lips were parted, his breath hardly stirring.

Damen said, ‘There’d be no lies between us.’

He opened the second lace, felt the low throb of his own
pulse, the warmth of Laurent’s skin as his fingers moved to the third.

‘We’d have time,’ Damen said, ‘to be together.’

And in the warm flame light, he lifted his hand and cupped Laurent’s cheek, and then leaned in, and kissed him on the lips, gently.

He felt Laurent’s shock, as though he had not expected to be kissed after what he had just done. After a moment, Laurent kissed back. The way Laurent kissed was nothing like the way he did anything else. It was simple and without artifice, as if kissing were serious. And there was an expectant feel to it, as if he was waiting for Damen to take control of the kiss.

When he didn’t, Laurent angled his head differently, and his fingers curled into Damen’s hair, still damp from the baths. The kiss deepened at Laurent’s bidding. Damen could feel Laurent’s body against him, and he slid his hand inside Laurent’s open shirt, liking how it felt to spread his palm there, the sort of proprietary touch he wouldn’t have dreamed of before tonight, and still half expected Laurent to kill him for. Laurent made a small sound of encouragement, breaking off the kiss for a moment and closing his eyes, all his attention on Damen’s touch.

‘You like it slow.’ He dipped his head near Laurent’s ear.

‘Yes.’

He kissed Laurent’s neck very softly, even as his palm smoothed slowly over skin inside Laurent’s shirt. Laurent’s
overfine skin was more sensitive than his own, though during the day Laurent ruthlessly strapped himself into the most severe clothing possible. He wondered if Laurent repressed sensation for the same reason that he struggled to admit it now, his jaw taut.

His own body was rousing again, as he thought of sliding into Laurent slowly, taking him as slowly as he liked, for a long, drawn out interval of time, until they didn’t know where one of them ended and the other began.

When Laurent lifted his shirt up and off, and stood naked before him as he had once, long ago, in the baths, Damen couldn’t help stepping forward, brushing Laurent’s skin with his fingertips, his eyes following his touch, from chest to hip. Laurent’s body was golden cream in the flame light.

Laurent was looking at him in turn, as though Damen’s physicality was more pronounced now that they were both naked. It was Laurent who pushed him down onto the bedding. Laurent’s hands were on him. Laurent touched him as if to learn the shape and feel of his body, as if to catalogue every part of him and commit it to memory.

Damen felt the heat of the fire against his skin as they kissed. Laurent broke off, and appeared to have come to a decision, his breathing quickened but controlled.

‘Make me come,’ he said, and placed Damen’s hand between his legs.

Damen closed his hand. The breathing perhaps got a little more difficult to control.

‘Like that?’

No. Slower.

There was no noticeable change in Laurent, other than his lips parting, his lashes lowering a fraction. Laurent’s reactions had always been subtle, his preferences never obvious. He hadn’t been able to come in Ravenel with Damen’s mouth on his cock. He didn’t know whether he could come now, Damen realised.