by Lynn Lorenz
“Afraid of you, I suppose. Sat and listened for information, but again, none to be had.” Peter sighed. “I’ll have to stay longer. I need that information, Arvel, for the duke. Much depends on it.”
Arvel sighed, turned, and snuggled deeper into the corner of the chair back.
Peter smiled. Arvel’s hair shone in the firelight, shooting off sparks of gold and amber. Quite lovely.
“The duke and Drake sent me on this mission. Do you know Drake? He’s master of arms at Marden. The duke’s right-hand man. I’m his second. I could have been the master, if I’d pressed for it, but I haven’t got the experience, not like Drake has.”
∙•∙
Arvel sighed, stretched, and opened his eyes. He looked around, saw Peter, and smiled.
Peter had returned to him.
Again, the little bird’s wings danced in his belly and sent a warm rush of happiness through Arvel.
He hushed them and told himself to not be a fool.
Of course Peter came back. He had to come back, but not for Arvel. He’d returned to sleep in the bed, to keep his horse, to eat his meals.
Time to get to work and stop his wild thoughts.
“Ho, Arvel.”
Arvel brought his hand to his mouth, head tilted.
“Aye, I’m hungry.”
Nodding, he hurried to the sideboard and began pulling vegetables and dried meat from the larder. He swept down a knife from the shelf and began chopping. Once done, he came back to the hearth, pushed the logs around with the poker, arranging the fire to cook over, then swung out the iron cook pot and took it to the table.
∙•∙
Peter sat mesmerized by the dance, the lithe form swaying and gliding, moving to some unseen rhythm.
All the pieces were added to the pot, and then brought back to the fire, hung on the hook, and pushed over the flames.
Arvel went back to the table, brought out flour, and started making bread.
Peter relaxed, watching the younger man prepare the evening meal. Lost himself in the push and pull of Arvel’s hands on the dough, working it into the right consistency, twisting it and then kneading again. Peter lost track of the time—the lodge had no windows, only the front door and a side door that led to the stables.
Arvel finished kneading the bread, formed it into a loaf, and placed it on a wide, flat wooden paddle with a handle. Then he carried it to the side of the hearth. An oven had been built just to the side. He opened the door with the metal poker, slid the bread in, and jerked the paddle out. After shutting the door, he returned to the table to finish cleaning.
In no time, the bread’s smell and the aroma of the stew blended to fill the lodge and make Peter’s mouth water.
Arvel could cook, no doubt about that. And bake. And keep the lodge tidy, the stables clean and ready. Was there nothing the young caretaker couldn’t do?
Peter laughed. Arvel turned and caught him. His brow furrowed and head tilted.
“Pardon.” Peter stood and clapped Arvel on the shoulder. “You’re a right treat, Arvel.”
Arvel smiled, staring at Peter’s mouth.
Peter sobered and leaned in closer. “Is that how you do it? Do you see the words on my lips?” He reached out and touched Arvel’s mouth.
Arvel placed his hand over Peter’s, trapping it against Arvel’s lips, and nodded.
“So in a way, you can hear me.” Peter’s lips moved against Arvel’s fingers as he spoke. Arvel chuckled soundlessly and dropped his hand.
Peter let his hand linger for just a moment on those soft, pink lips, then removed it.
They stared at each other.
∙•∙
Little birds danced every time he looked into Peter’s eyes, just as with his Heart.
Arvel waited. It was best to wait—less painful also.
Peter leaned forward as Arvel’s lips parted. The birds took to the sky, rising up from his belly, through his throat.
Arvel swayed toward Peter, his lips parting, ready for the kiss.
Peter pulled back.
“My wife died.”
Arvel frowned and motioned at his mouth, making a circle that landed on his lips. Perhaps this was the signal for repeat the words.
Slower, he said, “My wife died.”
Dead? Ah, there’s the source of his pain. So much pain in his bark-colored eyes. They matched his bark-colored hair. Peter reminded Arvel of a tree, strong limbs that would hold him safe and secure.
Arvel wanted to help Peter by taking away the pain. Wanted to make him feel happy and see him smile again. He liked when Peter smiled.
No doubt about it, Peter needed Arvel.
Arvel’s mouth formed a large circle, and his brows shot up. Then he frowned and stepped forward, encircling Peter’s waist. He leaned into Peter and squeezed, resting his head on Peter’s shoulder.
∙•∙
Peter’s breath caught, and he wrapped his arms around Arvel, holding the smaller man tight to him.
“I miss her so much,” Peter whispered. “So, so much.” His voice trembled, and he shook with the effort to keep the pain inside.
Arvel leaned back, looked up at him with tear-filled eyes as if he felt the same pain Peter felt, then nodded and buried his face against Peter again. He moved his arm up to Peter’s neck and clung to him.
Peter broke, coughing up great sobs, tremors shaking his body, as he held tight to the caretaker.
Arvel kneaded Peter’s shoulders, his neck, easing him, bringing him down from the tension-filled shudders, until Peter inhaled, exhaled, and steadied. He stepped back, releasing Peter, giving a shy smile, and wiping away his own tears.
Peter cupped Arvel’s face, ran his thumb over that plump bottom lip, and then let him go.
“Shall we eat?” Peter gave the same signal he’d seen Arvel make before, fingers to his mouth.
Arvel grinned and nodded, then rushed to the table.
Peter pulled out the bench and sat, drying his face on his sleeve. He poured a goblet of water, drank it down, and poured another. Arvel placed the simmering pot of stew on the table and went back for the bread.
The hot loaf danced in his hands as he juggled it to the table, then speared it with the knife. Peter sliced it for them and took one piece as Arvel dished out the meal.
∙•∙
They ate with only a few glances at each other. Peter watched Arvel, taken with his talents and looks, and Arvel stole looks at Peter, perhaps fearing Peter would break again.
After they’d finished dinner, cleaned up the crockery, and put it all away, they sat in the chairs by the fire. Peter dreaded the night, the bed, and what had passed between them that morning.
How could he ask Arvel to leave the bed? No, he should be the one to go—after all, it was his problem.
He leaned over and tapped Arvel on the hand. He looked up into Peter’s face, brows up.
“I shall sleep on the floor tonight.”
Arvel frowned, glanced to the bed and back to Peter. Shook his head and pointed to Peter then the bed, then himself and down to the floor.
“No.” Peter shook his head. He pointed to himself and then the floor. “I’ll take the floor.”
Arvel stood, mouth in a hard, straight line, eyes darkening. He jabbed his finger at Peter’s chest, then pointed to the bed. To himself, then the floor. Arvel’s anger, his declaration, came through to Peter louder than any words.
Peter sighed and closed his eyes. This silent battle of wills, this war of hands, would get him nowhere. That much he knew. Arvel rushed to the bed, pulled off a quilt, and laid it out on the floor near the fire, his jaw jutting out, his eyes daring Peter as he sat with a great huff.
“I concede.” Peter sat on the chair and pulled off his boots, placing them next to the chair. He tapped Arvel on the shoulder and jerked his head to the bed.
Arvel didn’t move.
Peter stood and held out his hand. “Come to bed, Arvel.”
The caretaker glanced from
his hand to the bed, back to the offered hand. With a nod, he slipped his hand in Peter’s and let himself be pulled to his feet. Peter let his hand go, and went to one side of the bed, where he sat and began undressing.
The bed shifted as Arvel sat, undressing as well.
Peter slipped under the covers first and Arvel followed. Each man lay on the edge of the bed, a gulf between them. He sighed. Better to get used to it. He had a mission to fulfill and it might take a month or more. Perhaps several, and with only one bed and two men, concessions had to be made.
That’s what this was, a concession. Nothing more.
They’d share the bed, just as they shared the lodge.
Peter rolled over, faced the door, and listened for Arvel’s breathing to change, signaling sleep. He lay for a long time waiting. Thinking of her. Of the mission. Of that night in Drake’s room. The night Logan and Drake took him. He’d let them do it, let them pleasure him with their mouths, hands, and cocks.
And it had been pleasure, no denying that. His cock couldn’t have denied them, and it didn’t. He’d spilled and shuddered and whimpered as if he were some untried virgin. As if he didn’t have a wife waiting for him.
At last, a soft snore, a shift, and Arvel slipped into slumber.
Now he could let himself go. Relax and fall asleep. Perhaps the dreams wouldn’t come, same as last night. Perhaps tonight he’d sleep deep enough not to wake with Arvel clutched to his body, warm, and soft, and not Mary.
Chapter Six
Even before Peter opened his eyes, he knew the body pressed against his wasn’t hers but Arvel’s. The young man’s scent filled his nose, and for a moment, Peter inhaled, treasured it, and then exhaled.
He should move away, back to his side of the bed.
∙•∙
Arvel knew he should move away. Peter would wake soon and push him away again. His ass hurt enough already—he didn’t need his pride injured also.
He should move away, to the far side of the bed.
But he needs me. His cock tells me so. My cock tells me I want him. I need him.
Wings beat in Arvel’s belly and his stones ached mightily. Perhaps this time Peter wouldn’t push him away. Perhaps this time Peter would take his pleasure with him.
Perhaps Peter just needed some encouragement.
Arvel sighed and pressed his bottom against Peter’s groin. Peter’s body responded with a gentle flush of heat, the slow hardening of his cock, a small shifting of hips.
∙•∙
Arvel ground into Peter’s length. Peter groaned.
His body had betrayed him these long months since she’d died, had refused to work robbed of her presence in his life. Why had it chosen now to reawaken? Peter closed his eyes and thought.
Why couldn’t this happen when he looked at the women at Marden Castle? At the ladies, the servants, even the town’s wenches? No, it had to begin here, at the lodge, with a man’s body exciting him. If Peter didn’t see the dark humor in this, he knew Drake and Logan would laugh at it.
Peter pushed forward, rubbing his cock against that sweet bottom, soft and yet firm. Arvel pushed back. Peter’s rod stiffened as the need took him. The long-dead embers of his desire caught, burned, then with the gentle coaxing of Arvel’s ass against his rod, burst into flame.
Peter wrapped his arms around the younger man, pushed his leg between those slender thighs, and wedged himself against Arvel’s body. Arvel trembled in Peter’s arms. Did the caretaker want this, or had Peter taken advantage of the morning’s evidence of a healthy male? Only one way to know for certain.
Peter rolled Arvel over onto his back and stared down into his face. Sank into those lavender eyes. Open. Willing. Ready.
Arvel reached up and touched Peter’s mouth with his fingertips, rubbing Peter’s bottom lip, then brought them to his mouth to taste. He smiled, looked back up into Peter’s gaze, and took Peter’s hand in his and pulled it to his thickness.
What more invitation did Peter need? Arvel wanted it. Wanted him. But did he want this and Arvel?
For the first time since his wife had died, Peter felt his heart beating, felt his need and hunger rise, and had an appetite. He wanted.
He closed his hand around the slender shaft, and he stroked the soft-skinned length. At the head, he pushed back the foreskin and swirled his thumb over, dragging wetness with it, bathing the tip and then the shaft as he pushed down.
∙•∙
Arvel shuddered silently against Peter. So good. So good. So good.
Peter’s rough, hard hand, a hand that knew how to bring him pleasure.
Arvel needed more. More touches, more strokes, harder and faster.
Peter smelled just as a man who wants should smell. Arvel knew that smell well—his Heart smelled the same when he desired Arvel.
Did Arvel smell like that to Peter?
∙•∙
Peter leaned down, burying his face in the space between Arvel’s shoulder and neck. Inhaling in the scent of man. Musk, sweat, smoke from the fire, and the tang of what leaked from his rod.
Peter pumped up and down, over the tip with a quick swirl, then back down, taking his time as if he had nothing else to do all night but handle Arvel’s cock.
Arvel’s body arched upward as he threw his head back, mouth open with what must have been an escaping moan of pleasure. His gaze met Peter’s, hot and intense and needing. So needing what Peter had to give him.
And Peter needed to give it. Needed to feel alive. Not dead. Not torn and shredded and ripped into a thousand strands as if he’d been a scrap of fabric rent in a storm. A pennant flying from some abandoned castle’s towers. A sad and lonely sign of what had once been. A whole man.
No more.
Peter needed. Wanted. Desired.
Arvel closed his eyes and thrust up into Peter’s grip. Peter tightened the circle of his hand, letting Arvel fuck himself on it. Watching the younger man writhe on the bed, Peter felt his own erection grow thick and strong, pulsing with each thrust as his stones ached for their own release.
Gods, it had been so long since he’d felt that sweet explosion.
He needed to feel it now, to tell him, assure him he still lived. Was still a man.
Arvel pushed Peter’s hand off, then straddled him, pushing his ass down on Peter’s cock, signaling his own need. Bending over Peter, his long hair falling all around his face, Arvel rose up, trapped Peter’s cock beneath his sac, and pressed down.
“Arvel!” Peter arched up, hands flying to Arvel’s hips to guide him. Pulling him back and forth over his cock, the pressure intense and sweet and so close. So damn close.
Arvel took Peter’s nipple in his mouth and bit down.
Peter’s cry and his release exploded at the same time, painting his belly and chest with his cream as it spurted in never-ending ribbons. Shuddering, he gasped, then dragged Arvel down into a hard kiss.
His body felt. He felt.
And now he felt Arvel’s mouth open to him. Just as he knew Arvel’s body would open to him. Peter’s cock stayed hard as the floodgate to his desire remained open, demanding more.
Peter grabbed Arvel’s arms, wrapped a leg around him, and threw him over, onto his back. He plundered Arvel’s mouth, pushing past his lips and teeth to take possession of his tongue.
Arvel clawed at his back. Not to push away, but to pull closer, to bring Peter tighter into him. He wiggled beneath Peter, rubbing their cocks together.
Peter rose to his knees, took Arvel’s legs, pushed them wide and up and ran his hand over the man’s entry. Arvel arched up, nipples hard and tight, head nodding consent.
Shoving two fingers in his mouth, Peter wet them thoroughly, then ran them over the soft skin behind Arvel’s sac, up to the hole. He’d never touched a man this way, only women. Their openings were wet, warm, inviting.
Arvel’s opening was tight, hot, locked to him. If he wanted in, he’d have to breach the fortress. Force his way past the outer defenses. Burst through th
e doorway and take possession.
He shoved his finger in, sinking into impossible heat and pressure and tightness.
“You’re so tight. So hot inside.” Peter gasped as he worked another finger inside the caretaker.
Arvel grabbed Peter’s arm, pushing it, guiding it, asking for more, deeper, harder. He’d never taken a man before. Been taken, aye, by Drake, and God that had been heaven. Logan’s mouth on his cock, Drake’s cock in his ass.
He wanted to fuck Arvel. Now.
Peter’s cock strained. His stones pulled tight to his body, ready to empty. If he wanted Arvel’s ass, he needed to do this now. Now.
He removed his fingers and positioned his cock at the tight entry. Arvel grabbed his hips and dragged him forward, his eyes begging for it. Begging to be taken, and oh damn, didn’t that just make Peter want it even more, if that was possible.
Peter speared Arvel, sinking deep into that glorious heat.
His chest heaved as he froze. He was in a man. Fully in. Buried to the hilt, his spear surrounded by the body of a man, Arvel’s warm sac flush against his body.
Oh God, it was glorious.
Peter pulled back and thrust home. Arvel arched. Peter sank in and pulled out. Arvel thrashed. Peter’s pace quickened as he lost himself in the fucking.
Slamming into the body beneath him, Peter growled. “This is mine!” Arvel stared up at him, bottom lip caught between his teeth, and nodded.
Had he known what Peter had said? Could he read Peter’s tortured cry?
∙•∙
Peter’s body rubbed against Arvel’s, and he felt his desire climb, like a soaring falcon, ever higher. And like the falcon, Arvel yearned for the impending dive, the final fall that would bring him to his release.
Only one other man had given him such pleasure, had pleased him among all the others who’d taken what they’d wanted with no care for Arvel’s needs or wants.
Gareth had been that man, and now, as Arvel had known all along, Peter would join Gareth in Arvel’s heart.
Arvel touched his chest, over his heart, and then placed his hand on Peter’s chest, just as he did for his Heart. Now Peter was his Heart also.