by Lyra Evans
Oliver’s cock throbbed, thick and erect and bobbing against his stomach as he twitched with the effort to use his other senses. It leaked little droplets onto his skin—which he could feel with frustrating clarity. He needed relief, needed the game to be over. But if he made a sound he’d lose. Losing was not an option. Neither was giving in.
He shivered, a wind more like a breath passing over his chest and face. Oliver inhaled silently; the smell was powerful now. There was a presence above Oliver, heat radiating down to Oliver’s flushed skin. The floor was cold against Oliver’s back, pressing hard into him, and Oliver tried to arch up into the presence. His cock twitched again, and Oliver bit back a whimper. He was so hard, so desperate for contact, but the magic binding his hands and feet made it impossible to lift more than an inch off the ground.
True, Oli was the one who’d cast the spell to begin with. He could’ve undone it with a thought, but that wasn’t part of the game either. There was a keyword that would unlock the magic bindings, and Oliver wasn’t going to say it. Not unless he had to, but he was hardly at his limit yet.
The presence above him moved, hovered lower. Oliver breathed in slowly, tilting his head back, his mouth falling open. It was an invitation, a welcoming, but Oliver caught nothing in his open mouth. The strand of hair tickling his nose moved in a soft brush of air.
The heat radiating over him grew more intense, more insistent. The smell of wood and sunlight and lightning filled Oliver’s nose, blotting out anything else. It was the smell of lust and yearning and wanting deep in the belly. It was the smell of what mattered. The presence was closer than ever, shifting and swinging slowly over Oliver. Every so often, a breath of hot, humid air ghosted over Oliver’s skin in different places—his face, his chest, his leaking cock, and back up again.
Oliver was close to pleading, close to breaking the lock on the magic binding him in place. He was desperate, his erection throbbing painfully and completely untouched. The muscles of his legs and arms flexed, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. Why had he agreed to this torturous game?
There was a flutter of something soft against Oliver’s thigh, so close to his cock he nearly screamed. The flutter caused a reflexive twitch, his body jerking, and his cock bobbed so hard it brushed against the presence above him for the barest moment.
“Fuck,” Oliver whispered, unable to stop himself.
“You lose,” Connor said, the smirk evident in his voice. Oliver gritted his teeth, fighting fruitlessly at the bonds at his hands and feet. He didn’t even care about losing, about the terms of their game, or about the endless amusement Connor got from torturing him. All Oli cared about was getting Connor to touch him, to stroke his cock and fuck him so hard he wouldn’t need the blindfold. “Now what shall I do with you?”
Oli’s hands balled into fists, clenching around invisible ropes, and he pulled at the bonds urgently. “Connor, please,” he said, his tone wanton, desperate. But he didn’t care. “I need you, Connor. Fuck me.”
“We’ll see,” Connor said, and damn him, Oliver could hear the smugness already. Oli moaned something closer to a whimper, and Connor laughed. “First, I think I should torture you a bit more.”
“You’re not a very gracious winner, are you?” Oliver asked, his every word breathy. “Shouldn’t you just put me out of my mi—ohh—” Connor ran his tongue flat against the shaft of Oliver’s cock, cutting his words off with a moan. Oli’s whole body tensed, the spiraling pleasure like white-hot silver coiling through him.
“I thought you’d like that,” Connor hummed, then a gorgeous, wet heat covered his cock as Connor took Oli into his mouth. Oli threw his head back, his mouth wide and panting. Hips rising off the ground, Oliver fought to thrust into Connor’s accommodating mouth, but the bindings stopped him. Connor only hummed a laugh against Oliver’s erection, the vibrations travelling straight to his balls and settling there. Oliver wasn’t sure how long he’d last like this.
His skin felt like fire everywhere Connor touched as he sucked Oli’s cock, licking wide ribbons up the shaft and swirling his tongue around the head. With every motion came a maddening sound that drove Oli further and further toward the edge. He bucked uselessly against the bonds, and Connor caught Oliver’s hips in a bruising grip and held him up off the ground. Oli’s cock slid deeper into Connor’s mouth and throat until he felt Connor’s nose nestled in the thicket of hair at the base of his stomach. Oliver nearly came then, moaning loudly and freely as Connor sucked harder.
“Fuck, Connor, please,” Oliver begged, past the point of caring. He hated begging, but Connor was worth it. Every time. “I need—you inside—me.” Oliver could barely speak for the moaning.
A soft pop and the heat of Connor’s mouth was gone. The cool air against Oli’s wet, hard cock sent a wave of tingles over him that did nothing to help his predicament. Then the heat of Connor’s body moved, and Oliver heard him adjusting his position. Urgency demanded he buck at the air, nearly lost to coherent thought, but when something finally did press at Oliver’s hole, it wasn’t the thick, round head of Connor’s cock. It was thinner and considerably more wet.
“Fucking hell, fuck, yes, fuck, Connor!” Oliver babbled as Connor pressed his tongue into Oliver, probing at his ass with slow, deliberate strokes. Oliver trembled and strained against the bonds, turning his feet out to bend his knees and make more room for Connor and his endlessly talented tongue. But the bonds wouldn’t give, and Connor’s tongue seemed to be otherwise occupied.
A shower of sparks travelled through Oliver, his cock leaking a steady stream of sticky pre-come and throbbing so hard it was almost painful. He gasped and cried out as Connor thrust his tongue in, stabbing at Oliver’s hole with the wet muscle. He needed more, needed filling, and though Connor’s tongue was amazing, perfect, so mind-numbingly good—it wasn’t enough. Oliver needed to be filled, complete, stretched until he couldn’t stretch anymore.
Connor slipped a finger in with his tongue, crooking the finger to hit all the right spots inside Oliver. Then he added another finger, both slick and stretching Oliver with relish.
“Need more,” Oliver said, “Need you. Your hard cock. Fuck me, Connor. Please! Fuck me now!”
“Yes,” Connor breathed, his tone raspy, and Oliver felt him move again, heard the adjustments and the slick, wet sound of Connor’s hand on his own cock. “You’re mine,” he said and pressed the head of his cock to Oliver’s spasming hole. “Say it.”
Oliver moaned. “Yes.”
“Say the words,” Connor said, pulling his cock away. Oliver whimpered at the loss. He was a mess of need now.
“I’m yours,” he said. “Yours, completely. Now fucking take me.”
And Connor slammed into him, drawing an echoing cry from Oliver. Connor moaned too, his voice strangled, and began thrusting in and out. Harder and harder, Connor pounded into him, lifting his hips off the ground. Oliver’s hands and feet were still pinned, still motionless, and Oliver was finally glad of it. He was sure he couldn’t move if he wanted to for the ecstasy of Connor fucking him into the floor. His cock set a punishing pace, filling Oliver as he’d never been filled before. Oli’s mind was blank but for the need of Connor and his cock.
A hand wrapped around Oliver’s cock, stroking it once, twice, and finally Oliver went tumbling over the edge of pleasure. He came hard and long, spraying a jet of hot, sticky liquid all over himself, and still his cock throbbed.
Connor pounded still harder, Oliver’s mind swirling with black stars. He thrust in again and again, his hands digging into Oliver’s thighs and hips. Then he groaned with one last brutal thrust and came violently into Oliver. He felt himself filled and overfilled, his body near to bursting with the pleasure.
With a moan and a sigh, Connor pulled out of Oliver and collapsed half-on top of him on the floor. Oliver fought off sleep and took in long, heavy breaths to ease his pounding heart.
“Release,” Connor said after a moment, his voice triggering the keyword
to the bonds. Oliver groaned and brought a hand to his wrist, wondering at the bruising that might follow. He pulled off the blindfold and looked up at the starry ceiling of the Black Moon club. Connor heaved next to him, his weight and heat nearly crushing but still welcome. Oliver smiled and shoved Connor over, then rolled to press a kiss to his mouth. Connor held him there for a long moment before releasing him.
“How far was I when you heard me?” Connor asked, his expression trying for pointed but missing slightly.
“About six feet to my right above my shoulder.” Oliver forced himself to sit up, struggling as though his limbs were filled with iron.
Connor made a noise. “Better,” he said, “but you still need work. I made a deliberate noise at ten feet.”
“Liar,” Oliver said and planted another kiss on Connor’s mouth. Connor shook his head.
“I did,” he said. “I brushed a finger over the floor as I moved.”
Oliver made a face. “That does not count.”
Connor shrugged. “Either way, you still lost.” And the smug smirk was back. “I told you you weren’t ready for this game.”
Oliver hovered over Connor, pinning him with hands on his shoulders. Connor grasped Oliver’s wrists gently, holding him in place.
“I would have won if you hadn’t cheated!” he said. “You let your hair brush against my leg.”
With a face of false innocence, Connor said, “Completely accidental.”
Oliver rolled his eyes and pressed another kiss to Connor’s mouth, taking the time to deepen it, to suck on Connor’s lower lip and draw out the taste of him. A chime sounded nearby, and Oliver pulled away with a groan.
“I guess it’s time,” he said, and Connor’s grip tightened on his hands.
“Don’t go,” he said, but Oliver shook his head.
“If I want to change before I go in to work, I have to leave now.” He considered Connor’s half-pouting expression and bit his lip. “How would it look if I showed up to work smelling of sex and dressed like I work the street on my time off?”
Connor grinned mischievously. “Sounds delicious to me.” Olive rolled his eyes again, extricating himself from Connor’s grasp. He got to his feet, and Connor’s expression shifted slightly. “But about that…”
“Hmm?” Oliver asked, gathering his clothes and dragging them on. He needed to start bringing a change with him, really, but carrying a go-bag in to work with him to throw in his locker wasn’t something he felt comfortable doing. Not with all the nosy assholes at the precinct wanting into everyone’s business.
“Well, I was thinking it doesn’t make sense for you to keep dashing away in the early hours to get back home before work,” he said, unusually indirect. Oliver zipped up his pants, one eyebrow raised. “It’s impractical.”
“Yeah,” Oliver said, “but it works. I mean, I could leave clothes at your place to make it easier, I guess. If that’s what you’re suggesting.” The thought made his stomach flip, but he ignored it, glad that the lighting in Black Moon was too dark to see the flush on his cheeks.
“Yes, of course,” Connor agreed, “but I was thinking of something even easier.”
A shard of cold flashed through Oliver’s back. “Oh?” he said, turning to pull on his shirt.
“It’s just it’s clear we’re Fated, and we’ve been dancing around it for a while now, but I just don’t understand why we don’t—” he hesitated, and Oliver tensed. “Make it official?”
Panic flooded Oliver. He swallowed hard against a sudden dry lump in his throat, focused on the buttons of his mesh shirt. He couldn’t turn around, couldn’t move at all. His heart began to thrum against his sternum, and he worked very hard to calm himself. Connor could sense these things without trying.
“What do you mean?” Oliver hoped the wavering wasn’t audible in his voice.
There was a rustle of movement behind him, and Connor wrapped his arms around Oliver’s waist. He pressed a kiss to Oli’s neck, and Oliver relaxed slightly.
“I mean begin the courting process. Publicly. Tell people,” he said, and Oliver’s pulse jumped again.
Oliver began to root around for his phone, trying to play off his panic as something else. “Who’s there to tell? Your pack already know.”
“Yes, though they haven’t all met you,” Connor said slowly. “And Logan is anxious to get to know you, as I apparently talk about you so much.”
Another flip in his stomach, and Oliver’s thoughts snagged on a tangent. “You’re that close with Logan that you talk about me?”
Connor made a slightly impatient sound. “Of course we’re that close. He is my cousin. His father was my mother’s brother. But that’s not the point.”
“Right,” Oliver said, locating his phone and pretending to check his messages. “You want me to meet your pack.”
“Yes, but it’s not my people I was talking about,” Connor said, his tone shifting. He sounded caught between frustration and caution. “I meant tell your people. You haven’t told anyone. I don’t mean to rush you, but I just don’t see any point in waiting since we agreed we are Fated,” he added quickly. “And I know I’m not going anywhere.”
The silent question knocked the wind out of Oliver. But his mind was flashing with images of his coworkers, his fellow cops, and their scathing, disgusting remarks. He thought of the inevitable headline in the Daily Spell and the inevitable onslaught of reporters dogging his footsteps. He saw the constant stalking, the watching they’d do, waiting for news, for the moment when it would all go wrong. When the bond between him and Connor would snap. When everything would fall apart.
Oliver couldn’t do that, not again. He couldn’t—memories filled his mind of a laughing face and dark red hair. He saw the warmth turn to cold, and he couldn’t bear to watch that happen with Connor. Not—not again. Not in front of people.
But keeping his relationship with Connor secret made it a dream, not real. If it wasn’t real, it couldn’t break. It couldn’t hurt him.
“Oli?” Connor asked, his voice drawing Oliver back to reality and the weight of Connor’s arms on his hips, of Connor’s chin on his shoulder. Oliver gathered himself up and turned in Connor’s grasp. Blond hair mussed and falling into his face, Oliver forgot his concerns for a fraction of a second. But his worries were reality, and they pressed in with much more force than Connor’s quietly spoken questions.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Oli said, ignoring the other question. “At least, not in terms of us. But I really do have to go.” He kissed Connor quickly, then removed Connor’s arms from his waist and ran off down the hall. “I’ll call you later!”
He escaped into the early spring morning with a gasp and a dry sob. Glaring at the slowly lightening sky, Oli made his way toward the border and all the problems that threatened to break up the best thing in his life.
Chapter 2
The trip back to Nimueh’s Court went by in a haze of guilt and anxiety. Oliver found himself walking up the three flights to his apartment door without really knowing how he got there. The conversation with Connor replayed again and again in his mind, and no matter how he looked at it, it hadn’t gone well. He’d been an ass; anyone could see that. But he wasn’t ready to come out to the police department, to the whole world, and be the focus of more media attention. Speculation about how Connor Pierce had come to be a “consultant” for the NCPD during the Carmichael case had been rampant following the death of Daniel Brown. Connor had ended up in the hospital, and Oliver had spent nearly every waking moment with him until he regained consciousness. And the press had noticed.
At the time, he played it off as concern, a cop taking personal responsibility for the injury a civilian consultant incurred while working. With everyone walking on glass to solidify peace between Nimueh’s and Logan’s Courts, it made sense for the NCPD to have a constant presence with Connor. He was an Alpha of Logan’s kin, after all. So the press let it drop after a while.
But Oliver knew that the slight
est suggestion of a more-than-friendly relationship between himself and Connor would mean reporters hounding him constantly. He wouldn’t be able to work cases or look anyone in the face ever again.
Connor would just have to understand that. If he really did think they were Fated—meant to be—then what did it matter if anyone else knew? Why did they need to court publicly? His pack already believed they were consorts, why did they have to make a big issue about it?
A niggling thought frayed at the back of Oliver’s mind as he pushed his key into the lock and opened the door. A breath of hot air welcomed him home, which meant that Rory was back from Maeve’s Court for a while. Oliver dropped his keys into the bowl on the table by the doorway, kicked off his shoes, and closed the door behind him. His eyelids drooping, he blinked at the clock on the wall. He didn’t have enough time to sleep, so he decided maybe he could eat something after his shower instead.
Padding through the cramped living room, Oliver peeled off his mesh shirt and dropped it on the back of the worn, grey couch. Snapping open the button of his pants, he stepped into the short hallway between rooms and slipped into the bathroom. The bathtub was small and a strange shade of chartreuse that didn’t quite match the old tiles lining the walls and floor. A remnant of another era, Oliver hadn’t cared much about the colour when he moved in; it was the rent price that really appealed to him about this apartment. But when Rory took up his spare room as a part-time roommate, she made it abundantly clear that something would have to be done about the colour scheme eventually. Said it did harm to her delicate aesthetic sensibilities. That only made Oliver laugh, and Rory threw half a cheese sandwich at his head.
Turning on the shower, Oliver pulled the duck-printed shower curtain over the rim of the tub and took off his jeans. He took a minute to brush his teeth while the water got to temperature, then shrugged into the shower. The steady stream of steaming hot water coated his body, and Oliver sighed. Every one of his muscles ached. His weekends with Connor were fantastic, but they always left him sore and worn. None of his usual workout routines ever compared to spending two days with Connor Pierce.