Page 77 of Ever After

“Charles has a room for us,” he said, indicating the innkeeper.

“Aye,” he said. He was a thickset dark-haired man with a scar running down his face. “It’s not much, but it’s clean and the bedlinen is fresh.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” I started to say, but Bran made a quick gesture for me to shut up and my words died away.

The innkeeper’s eyes sharpened. “Gentry, then?” he said, his eyes alight with interest.

“Enough,” Bran said quietly, and the warmth in his voice which is always present when he speaks to me was entirely missing. It was replaced by an implicit threat and the innkeeper hastily put up his hands.

“I ask no questions,” he said.

Bran smiled coldly. “Good, for I will not like providing any answers, Charles.”

After that, Charles could not wait to get rid of us and led us up a winding staircase and into a small, whitewashed room with a low window that looked out on the moor and the mist.

However, I had no regard for the room. My attention was entirely taken up by the bed. It was fairly small. Two men sharing that would find themselves in close confines, but I knew that would not bother me and Bran.

When I turned around, Bran was watching me.

“We do not have to,” he said.

I made no pretence of not understanding him. We were past that. “How disappointing,” I said and he laughed loudly. I stepped in front of him. From that position his shoulders seemed impossibly wide. “And if I do want?” I asked.

And that was it. His laughter died and he pulled me to him, or I moved of my own volition. Whatever it was, our lips collided and we were kissing. His lips seemed far too soft for such a hard man.

My past encounters with men have been hurried, awkward fumblings with the only aim the culmination. With Bran I found that the journey was just as important as the destination.

I tried to memorise every moment, but it was impossible. Now I sit here wrapped in his cloak and staring at him naked in the bed, and I can only conjure scattered recollections. I remember his tongue in my mouth, the scent of sandalwood that clung to him. His hands were hard on my skin, stripping me with a surety that was attractive all on its own. I remember my own hands parting his shirt and raining kisses on his smooth, wide chest. I buried my nose in his armpit, smelling sweat and the scent of his skin.

It seemed an eternity but eventually we tumbled naked onto the sheets. I remember his hair loose, the silk strands trailing over my skin as he kissed along my ribs and down until my prick reared up in front of him. I recall the rushed sound of my breathing and then my choked moans as he swallowed my prick, his throat working around me. Nobody had ever done that for me, and I bit my hand trying to keep the noises in.

The wound throbs as I write, and it makes heat stir in my groin.

We wrestled each other across the mattress, kissing and touching with an abandon I have never felt. It was the two of us there in that airy bed. No one else, no duties, no expectations beyond pleasure.

Finally, I ended up on my front, the rough sheet abrading my prick. His brawny frame came down over me, settling into the dips and valleys of my body as if we had come into this world soldered together and long been separated. He kissed my neck, his fingers kneading my shoulders, and then he pulled back and trailed them down my back until he reached my arse.

I clenched my buttocks involuntarily for a second, and he murmured, “Have you ever?”

I remember burying my red face in the pillows. “No,” I said.

“Do you want to?”

Words failed me, and in the end, I simply nodded. I had heard tales from men like us of how it hurt and the pleasure lay in the pain. Pain has never excited me, so I’d never done the act before. However, I should have known better with Bran. When I whispered my fear, he did not laugh. Instead, he pulled my face around and kissed me. It was the softest kiss I have ever had.

“I will not hurt you,” he said. “I cannot.”

Even then, I knew this to be a lie. Whether he wants that or not, he will still hurt me in the future in ways that have nothing to do with the act of sex. It is inevitable. And yet I made no move to stop him and turn away from this path I have found myself on. I knew if I said no, he would stop no matter how aroused he was. Instead, I widened my legs, blushing furiously. He took out a small jar from his saddlebag and unscrewed the top. I smelt beeswax and a sweet scent and then he touched my hole. I blush to remember how I jumped like an outraged virgin, but he didn’t tease me.

He was endlessly patient as he opened me up. I remember the first kiss of his prick against my opening, and his groan as he entered me. It was so slow, like honey drizzled from the spoon, and there was only a little pain. He stopped frequently to ask if I was alright, and his care made foolish tears spring up in my eyes. He kissed them away and then he began to move.

I buried my head in the pillow, clutching at the sheets and listening to him pant and groan so quietly it was like a puff of air. We knew we had to be quiet because there were people all around us, but it never diluted the pleasure. It intensified it.

I thought we would finish that way, which is why I was so surprised when he pulled out of me. I remember whining and his low chuckle and the way he kissed my neck.

“I want to see you while I fuck you,” he whispered, biting at the shell of my ear. “You are far too pretty to be face down on a pillow.”

I tumbled over, lying spreadeagled with my arms reaching for him, and he slid back in like a knife into butter. We strained and pulled at each other as his prick made a home inside me. He brushed against a spot that made lightning flare in my blood, and I clenched around him, making him groan as if gut shot. Within a few thrusts we both spent, burying the cries of pleasure in sweat-soaked skin.