A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

  The most tender place, the one that tightened and flexed whenever he imagined this moment, slowly yielded to Jules. And then greater entry was gained—an inch? Less? He couldn’t say, didn’t care, only knew that his entire being was opening to his lover.

  “Why are you afraid, Arend?” Jules asked again, working that searing pressure until Arend grunted and barked at the scalding sensation.

  “I cannot possibly say, or I would. But . . . ” Arend’s teeth chattered and his whole body quaked. “Terrified. Utter . . . utterly so.”

  Jules gave a nod, bending to claim a deep, lasting kiss; as their tongues twined and surged, Arend felt the man sink even deeper, harder, surging in with a sudden slide. As if a heft of rock had suddenly tumbled down, allowing a cleared path, Jules’s turgid, hard length stretched Arend to his very limit.

  Arend tensed, clamping. He squirmed and tried to cease the whole affair. With a cry, he shoved at Jules’s shoulders. “No. Stop.”

  “I shall not, my love.”

  Arend’s hips rose off the mattress, seeking more, fevered in their need—yet with Arend’s hands, he pushed at Jules. “Desist, Julian,” he whimpered, but Julian managed another inch, perhaps two. He kept surging inward, harder, until Arend would’ve sworn that his very ass pried in half, pierced fully asunder.

  “Please,” he moaned helplessly. “Jules, just . . . ”

  “No. I will not stop. You must take all of me or this wedding night will end in misery and heartache, precisely as your other one did years ago.”

  “I . . . it . . . ”

  “It is hurting, I know. I am hurting you. I understand.”

  “It”—Arend gasped and tightened his clefts, aching as if set ablaze—“should not hurt.”

  “It does, at first. But only for a moment. You’re virginal about this but relax beneath me. You’re too bloody tense.”

  “I can’t do it.” He ground the words out, gripping the headboard behind him punishingly. “Too much, too much. I thought I could,” he whispered raggedly. “But I cannot do this.”

  Julian gave him a sweet kiss in the center of his forehead, smoothing his hair. “You’ve said that before. Yet here we are.” Jules nudged forward slightly. “Now, take me in a little with each breath you draw.”

  Arend blew out a hot breath, sucked in another. He was stretched so bloody wide, as if he’d split. Yet the intimacy of it, feeling Jules within him, was pure heaven. Despite the temporary pain. “Why must you be quite this damned well-endowed?”

  Jules began to laugh, brushing a lock of Arend’s disheveled, sweaty hair back from his cheek. The gesture was tender, worshipful. Jules pressed his mouth against Arend’s ear. “Males like me? Have been breeching males like you for thousands of years,” he whispered. “Now give yourself over, darling.” The command, the dominance aroused Arend even more, brought him neatly into submission. Maddening him, tantalizing him.

  He blew out a shaky breath. “Yes, Your Highness.” Arend laughed, not even recalling Cordelia’s long-ago taunt. Perhaps I should be king and you my queen.

  Jules gave him a delighted grin. “I’m at most two inches from owning you totally. And then you’ll never complain again. Darling, you will beg for this, for me.”

  Beg. Yes, Arend knew what it was to beg. To need. To crave.

  And he started, right then. Begging and downright pleading with Jules—to take him wholly. To spear him, bollocks deep, because, by God, Arend needed more.

  “I need all of you,” he panted hotly, writhing from the intense pressure building inside him, in his groin, his arse. “I need all of it!” He cried out, arching into the pillow, then, “Fucking take me, Jules.”

  And then, like that, Jules was all the way inside Arend. “Oh, oh, oh,” he gasped, over and over, as Julian’s cock brushed up against that erotic place, deep inside him.

  Julian smiled, showering kisses along his sweaty brow. “We gentlemen have our own special pleasures.”

  “This is what you’ve felt, with me?” Arend asked, still gasping and moaning softly.

  Jules nodded, sinking back deep inside Arend. A wild look filled his king’s dark gaze. Arend tossed his head back into the pillow, howling his delight. The man was quivering beneath Julian, clutching at his shoulders helplessly. His breathing had gone ragged and uneven, but he finally met Julian’s gaze.

  Arend smiled at him, unsteadily, flushed with need and exertion.

  Jules smiled back and, ever-so-sweetly—with more gentleness than he remotely felt—withdrew. To the very edge, which sent Arend slapping at his hips, urging him back deep inside.

  “Don’t . . . yes, move. Damn you. Jules. Don’t pull—oh, God.” And then, loudly, “That! That, oh fuck’s bollocks, yes.”

  Julian was enchanted by how nonsensical Arend’s murmurings were, so lost in the throes of their coupling.

  “Buggering. You’re buggering me.” Arend groaned, wrapping his legs even tighter about Julian’s waist. The king shivered every time he murmured the word. Laughing, crying, too. “Bugger me, my love. Buggerbuggerbugger me.”

  “You’re drunk,” Julian teased, thrusting harder, speeding the rolling rhythm because he felt his orgasm building, and sensed Arend’s body changing beneath his own.

  “I’m not . . . drunk . . . just . . . in love.” Arend’s body shifted more, his arousal heightening. Beneath him, Arend moved, thrusting with Julian. Punching his hips up with every surge of Julian’s hips.

  Flexing, tightening, the king’s coiled need was about to find its release. Jules felt that cock, twitching against his own belly, pressed right between them. Felt it’s pulsing hardness, the way it throbbed against Julian’s stomach.

  Arend’s cock kicked again, and Jules knew his beloved was close, so very close to the edge. They would go over together. He brushed Arend’s damp hair back from his cheeks, watching him. It was a breathtaking scene to behold, Arend Tollemach on his back, abandoned to his lusts. Claimed and spread for the prince above him. Oh, yes, Arend was close all right: Jules saw it in his lust-darkened eyes.

  Julian said, “You’re going to spill your seed for me—right now. I expect you to orgasm at my command.”

  “Oh, bloody fucking . . . oh dear God,” Arend cried, his arse tightening about Julian’s cock. It spasmed, even tighter as Arend moaned through tight jaws.

  “As I command, orgasm. Now.”

  Arend’s cock gave an obedient spasm against Jules’s belly. Thick, erotic pulses sluiced between their abdomens. The king barked a series of delighted obscenities, as he came off like a canon, his hips bucking upward. His whole body riding up and into Julian’s own, curling up into him.

  Later, much later, they walked out onto the balustrade, beneath the full moon. They stood, wrapped in little more than the counterpane which Arend had dragged along with them, their skin chilled by the ocean breeze.

  “Sam would be pleased,” Jules said, staring up at the bright sky. “There’s a pregnant moon, and here we lads stand, naked and blushing beneath it. It’s the bacchanal he always dreamed you’d have with me.”

  “I think, Julian,” Arend said, turning until they faced each other. “What he really dreamed of for me is the most important gift of all, the one you’ve given me so freely from the first.”

  “And which is that?” Julian asked, draping the counterpane more wholly about Arend’s shivering shoulders.

  “That I be happy. And with you? I am the happiest I’ve ever known in my life.”

  Julian wrapped both arms about Arend’s shoulders, holding him close, and Arend lifted the counterpane so they both folded in together. He didn’t wish Julian to be chilled, not any more than Jules had wished it for Arend.

  “Let’s share,” Arend said, wrapping them in tight. This way, we can report to Sam that we spent time beneath the pregnant moon on our wedding night.

  “With naked male flesh on display, just as he hoped,” Jules agreed.

  Arend nodded vigorously, staring up at the moon briefly. “
We won’t tell him we weren’t naked the whole time—or that we were wrapped tight in our wedding night linens.”

  “No, as he’d likely ask to inspect them,” Jules agreed, his nose crinkling adorably as he laughed. “Seek some proof of consummation or other twaddle.”

  “Or, we can just put the whole situation to rest,” Julian offered slyly. Arend nuzzled him, “You’ve something in mind?”

  “Dragging you right back to our marriage bed. Again.” Julian gave him a truly dangerous smile.

  That didn’t stop Arend from chiming in with, “And again. Because, my prince, you do realize your days as my bedroom tutor have only truly just begun.”

  Arend bounded toward the apartment, letting the counterpane fall to the ground, and on his heels, he heard his new husband chasing him.

  Loudly.

  The End

  ***Be sure to read on, for an excerpt from Cooper Davis’s next male/male historical romance, A GENTLEMAN REVEALED.

  Excerpt from A Gentleman Revealed

  Alistair Finley spent a great deal of time staring into glasses of champagne. Lord Marcus Avenleigh was keenly aware of that fact, as he’d been given ample leave to study the gentleman throughout several social seasons—and ample motivation. For despite Finley’s stout size, there was something profoundly beautiful about the man. Perhaps it was his naturally dusky complexion, offset by obsidian, almond-shaped eyes; or the way that, despite his generous proportions, the gentleman’s fine clothes fit him damned near flawlessly.

  Finley cut a striking figure, one that was difficult for anyone—especially Marcus—to ignore, even as the shy fellow took great pains to conceal himself in the wings of every social gala he attended. At tonight’s ball, in fact, Finley had positioned himself vaguely behind the fronds of two giant palms.

  Oh, the absurdity of Alistair Finley attempting to vanish amidst hundreds of society denizens, looking like that. All tempting devil and dark eyes and stormy sensuality.

  How a positively gorgeous male of at least six foot three, and possessing such broad dimensions, imagined himself likely to become invisible, Marcus could not fathom. Nor how the man remained unmarried at almost seven and thirty, not happily settled with a husband of his own.

  Marcus might have inferred that Finley didn’t favor gentlemen, save one fact: the barely caged heat he’d glimpsed in the fellow’s eyes whenever he darted a fiery look in Marcus’s direction. Those rare, telling glances were all the proof Marcus needed of Finley’s inclinations—as well as his reciprocating interest. Yet so far this evening, Finley hadn’t even sniffed in Marcus’s direction, despite the expensive new frockcoat he’d donned expressly for the occasion.

  Disheartening, yes, but Marcus wasn’t about to be deterred. As he would soon be nine and twenty, it was agreed by all his brothers—and most certainly his papa—that he must now earnestly seek for himself a husband. Only last week his father had cautioned, “Marcus, if ye canna soon press a suit with Mr. Finley then ’tis time we considered other prospects. Otherwise, next season we’ll be forced to look to the mart for yer husband.”

  The last bloody thing Marcus wanted was to wind up on the marriage mart next season, tossed about—yet again—by the tides of scandal sheets and scheming mamas galore. He’d already weathered two minor scandals . . . well, one had bordered on significant. He absolutely refused to find himself at the whims of the mart—nor to miss his chance to pursue Alistair Finley, after deciding on him nearly two years previous.

  Unfortunately, given his papa’s determination to see him married and soonest, Marcus was running out of time to make his move.

  And so it was that Marcus had arrived at Lady Elsevier’s ball tonight determined, indeed. The dowager countess was renowned for encouraging waltzes between gentlemen—which was ordinarily looked upon somewhat askance at such society events. Under her guiding hand, this annual gala had served up many a morning-after betrothal between peers, often some of the best matches of the season. Marcus had spent weeks imagining that he’d finally find similar success with the shy, sultry-eyed Alistair Finley.

  Tonight was his night; it was their night.

  At last, he would make bold and formally introduce himself. This very moment, in fact, he would see the deed done.

  Marcus had downed—not sipped—at least four glasses of champagne, hoping to ease his own reticence. Reaching for yet another flute as a footman passed, Marcus sailed through over-coiffed females and stodgy lords until he reached Finley’s side at the ballroom’s edge.

  The gentleman gave him a curt nod, then seemed to busy himself with examining a large fern. Marcus fought the urge to laugh ridiculously, and staring across the throng, realized he was more foxed than he’d intended. Thank God that wouldn’t prove an issue for the stalwart gentleman he hoped to woo, who had already drained several glasses before Marcus’s approach, and was presently pretending Marcus wasn’t positioned beside him. Marcus cleared his throat, turning toward Finley with a small smile.

  The gentleman tipped his head at Marcus, one brief nod of acknowledgement. “Good evening,” he said, voice even huskier than Marcus had dared imagine. Or chanced to overhear at previous social events.

  “Good evening, fine sir.” Marcus made a crisp bow, then grinned up at Finley. He prayed that grin didn’t look half-cocked thanks to all the champagne, nor reveal the near-instantaneous arousal he experienced at the sensual vibration of that voice.

  The other man’s full mouth twitched slightly, as if he might smile in return, but wasn’t quite sure the effort was worth investing in. Then Finley’s grasp on his empty champagne flute visibly tightened, and he glanced about as if for a passing footman. Marcus brushed gloved fingers across Finley’s frockcoat sleeve. “Allow me, by all means,” he murmured reassuringly.

  “Allow you . . . ?” The midnight gaze swung back to Marcus, flecks of warm brown in the irises surprising him. Finley peered down at him without blinking, and Marcus realized he wasn’t the only one who’d become a bit foxed. And further realized that his own six feet of height felt diminutive when staring up into Alistair Finley’s eyes.

  “Allow me the pleasure of procuring you another drink, Mr. Finley.” Marcus caught the eye of a footman and without missing a breath, grasped a flute and pressed it into Finley’s gloved hand. He saw relief in the man’s dark eyes as Finley took several sips, his gaze traveling distantly across the ballroom.

  Marcus sipped from his own glass. “That is a beautiful waistcoat, if I may be so bold as to remark upon it. Burgundy is a fine color on you. Makes your eyes smolder a bit more than they usually do. Although”—Marcus stared up into the selfsame eyes, bolstering his nerve—“they smolder quite beautifully without benefit of the burgundy. In truth, I daresay your natural merits require no enhancement whatsoever, sir.” Marcus groaned inwardly; it was difficult not to prattle in the presence of such a stunning gentleman.

  Finley took a slight step backward, one gloved hand moving self-consciously to his midriff. “That’s a bit of cheek. I do not even know you.”

  “Ah, but I am well acquainted with you, Mr. Finley, although unfortunately—most unfortunately for me—only from across the proverbial crowded ballroom. Surely you are familiar with me, as well? Surely you’ve likewise owned an . . . awareness?” Marcus lowered his voice to an intimate timbre. “Please don’t disappoint me too painfully, I pray.”

  The older man gave an aloof sniff, gaze drifting to the dance floor again. “I may have seen you before; I could not say for certain.” Then Finley resumed his examination of the fern, a flush heightening upon his cheeks.

  “Yes, well, that makes it quite fortuitous that I’ve resolved to rectify things between us.”

  “We have never met prior to this moment,” Finley returned, “so nothing can be awry between us.”

  Finley’s eyes had been downcast, but suddenly he met Marcus’s gaze without wavering. The moment those midnight eyes locked upon him, Marcus’s belly filled with an unfamiliar, fluttering sens
ation. As if he were on the game field in school, knocked flat upon his back, the other lads shoving him down into dewy grass.

  “Nothing’s been awry, true.” Marcus gave his head a clearing shake, after an eternal moment of nearly drowning in the darkest, moodiest eyes he’d ever seen. “And yet nothing has been right, either, which is why it was imperative that I do this very thing.”

  “What exactly are you doing?” Finley asked huskily.

  “I’m making myself known to you. Here, now, with less glancing and averting of eyes, and much more in the way of this.” Marcus waved between them, smiling openly. “The proper introduction we’ve been sorely lacking between ourselves.” Marcus extended a gloved hand, inclining his head politely, knowing that a royal secretary would place great value upon decorum. “I am Lord Marcus Avenleigh.”

  Finley accepted Marcus’s proffered hand, enveloping it in his own larger one. His grip was firm, confident as he inclined his dark head. “I know who you are, Lord Marcus.”

  “And yet a moment ago, you implied that you did not,” Marcus observed wryly, gazing up into the long-lashed eyes anew.

  Finley glanced toward the dance floor again, his gaze fixated on one particular pair of gentlemen who were clenched dangerously close. Marcus followed his gaze. He would wager that those peers were already lovers, brazenly parading their attachment tonight, when they had the social leeway to do so.

  “You can understand why I’d be guarded,” Finley said quietly, “given your reputation.”

  “But this ball is such a progressive one. No one looks askance at anything here. Lady Elsevier likes it that way.” Marcus waved a hand at the ballroom floor. “Surely my so-called reputation wouldn’t matter to you here, of all places.”

  “A risqué ball? An invitation I nearly declined?” Finley sniffed, his expression disdaining. “This is the last place I would engage with the likes of you, Lord Marcus.”