Page 28 of Add To Hoard

“Show me yours first.”

I pull my coat off and drop it on the sand. Then I take the hem of my linen shirt and pull it over my head. The firelight is warm on my skin. I point to my forearm. “You’ve seen this one.”

He takes my wrist and raises it and presses his lips to the scar there, the way I pressed mine to his throat.

“I also have this one.” I point to the left of my navel, an old scar, white and faded, a docking hook that caught me wrong in the second year on the wharves.

He holds my eyes and bends and kisses that one too.

He reaches for the waistband of my canvas trousers.

“I don’t have any scars down there,” I say.

A small smile creases his face. It is the first full smile I have seen on him and it does considerable damage to my composure.

He stands and pulls the top of his own trousers down to reveal a small scar just below the left hip — old, clean-edged, precise rather than accidental. I look at it, then look up at him, then kneel and kiss it. My hands find the waistband and I pull the trousers down and he steps out of them.

“You are very capable, aren’t you?” he says.

His cock has stiffened and arched upward in the firelight and I look at it with wide eyes, then lean forward and press my lips gently against the shaft.

“No scars there,” he says.

“I know.” I look up at him. “It just looks like it hasn’t been kissed in a while.”

I reach out and cup his balls in my palm — large and full and smooth, and slide my tongue up the shaft to the head in one slow movement.

He pulls back and sits down in the sand beside me. He looks into my eyes and something in his face has the quality I now recognize as a decision being made at considerable cost to his control, the hesitation of six centuries of discipline meeting something it does not have a protocol for.

“I’m sorry —”

He kisses me. Hard and immediate, his lips dry and warm with a few grains of sand in them from the beach, pressing into mine with the conviction of something that has stopped apologizing for itself mid-sentence and decided to be certain instead. I close my eyes and kiss him back.

His hand moves to the waistband of my canvas trousers and removes them. I find his cock with my hand and stroke it slowly, feeling it stiffen further against my palm. He wraps his arms around me and draws me forward until I am straddling his waist, his cock pressed against me, and I am aware of the heat of him and the warmth and the way soft skin against skin feels after days of cold and salt and nothing gentle anywhere.

He shifts and rises to his knees, taking me up with him. His cock is pressed against the front of my pussy, the heat of it, the moisture, the blend of soft skin against soft skin. I reach between us and guide him inside me.

“Fuck,” I moan. “It hurts. Go slow.”

He pulls back and kisses my lips again, then tries again slowly. With each rock he penetrates a little deeper.

“Oh shit, that feels so good,” I breathe.

“You feel amazing,” he says. His voice has gone somewhere I have never heard it.

My lips press tight against his skin. He pushes me down gently, going deeper, and he spits and lets it sit on the shaft of his cock, pulls out and works it up and down over the head and re-enters me.

“Fuck yes,” I moan. “Fuck yes.”

He starts to fuck me faster, not deeper, faster. My pussy loosens around him and soon his balls are slapping against me.

“I’m going to c—” I moan, and explode onto his cock.

He keeps rocking. “Stop,” I manage. “I can’t.”

He withdraws. I get to my knees and take him in my mouth, working his shaft with one hand and his balls with the other. I take it all, twisting my hand up and down faster and faster. I feel his balls tighten and then the roar from his throat and I pull back and he comes on my tits, the base of my throat, the side of my cheek, and the fire catches all of it in amber.

His chest is heaving. I meet his eyes, my cheeks flushed. The old scarring at his throat is flushed darker against the bronze, and he looks, finally, completely undone.