Page 13 of Setting the Break

Eskil leans in and kisses the hinge of his jaw, slow, open-mouthed, his breath hot on the skin below Indrie's ear. "You don't want him seeing you begging for my cock?" He says it low, almost conversational, lips brushing the bruise he has already bitten into Indrie's throat. "I'm sure he's heard it through the walls, sweetheart."

Indrie makes a noise that suggests the air has left him all at once. His whole face is burning, forehead to jaw, and his hands fist in the front of Eskil's shirt. He is mortified, completely and thoroughly, and Eskil can feel it in the sudden rigid set of his spine, and yet his hips have not stopped. His hips have, in fact, started again, a small helpless grind he seems to be doing despite himself, the hard line of his own cock pressing against Eskil's stomach through his trousers.

"Eskil," Indrie breathes, and the word is an admonishment and a plea at the same time. "I don't want the entire Keep to know."

"Sweet boy," Eskil says, huffing out a disbelieving laugh. "The entire fucking city knows."

Indrie's laugh breaks free again, mortified and delighted, and Eskil kisses him while the laugh is still shaping his mouth, tasting the joy of it and the want underneath. He pulls back just enough to look at his face. Open and coming apart, dark eyes blown wide and bright with something that is past want and well into need.

Eskil lifts him. Both hands under his thighs, standing out of the chair with Indrie wrapped around him, and Indrie makes an undignified sound and clutches at his neck. Eskil carries him three strides to the door, shifts him onto one arm because Indrie weighs nothing and he could hold him like this all day, and throws the bolt with his free hand. The click of it is very loud in the quiet room.

Then he turns and carries him back to the desk.

He sets him on his feet facing it and steps in close behind him, chest flush against Indrie's back, and Indrie sucks in a breath and his hands go to the edge of the wood. Eskil's mouth finds the side of his throat where the bruise is already darkening and he sets his mouth over it again. Then he pulls back far enough to work Indrie's shirt up and over his head. Indrie lifts his arms without being asked, pliant and willing, and the shirt hits the floor and Eskil runs both palms down the length of his bare back, thumbs tracing his spine, feeling the heat of him and the tremor that runs through his muscles when Eskil's hands reach his waist.

"Eskil," Indrie says, already breathless, already tipping his head to offer more of his throat. "Please."

"Please what?" Eskil asks against his skin. "You've been so sure of yourself all afternoon. Don't get shy on me now."

Indrie's laugh is shaky. "I am not shy."

"You are bright red and I haven't even taken your trousers down." Eskil's hands settle at the laces anyway, not opening them yet, just resting, thumbs stroking the soft skin above the waistband. "I can feel your heart from here. Beating like I chased you." He kisses the back of his neck, open-mouthed. "I am going to have you. Don't worry."

Indrie makes a small, needy sound and presses back into him, seeking the hardness behind him, and Eskil has to close his eyes for a second against the simple, devastating honesty of it. There are no games in the way Indrie wants him. No performance. Just heat and trust and that sweet, open wanting that undoes him every single time.

He bends Indrie forward over the desk, one hand flat between his shoulder blades, pressing him down, and Indrie goes. He goes willingly and beautifully, folding onto the wood with his cheek against a map of the southern territories and his hands finding the far edge and gripping it.

"Stay," Eskil tells him, low and rough, and Indrie nods against the map without lifting his head.

Eskil's cock throbs hard enough that he has to grit his teeth. Indrie's breathing is already ragged and Eskil has not touched him below the waist yet, and knowing that the anticipation alone has put him in this state makes something possessive and adoring twist together in Eskil's chest until he cannot tell them apart.

He reaches past him and pulls open the second drawer. Beneath a sheaf of requisition forms and a bundle of wax seals there is a small glass bottle of oil. He did a decent job of hiding it among the mundane things in that drawer, and Morgan still found it weeks ago and gave him a look of such profound horror that Eskil has considered banning him from the room. If his brother is going to use the king's study to do his work instead of the library, then he is going to have to accept that the king does things other than paperwork and grain treatises on this desk.

He sets the bottle on the wood near Indrie's hand. Then he works the laces open, slow and deliberate, taking his time about it because the unhurried pace makes Indrie squirm. He can feel the small movements of Indrie's hips against the edge of the desk, his body searching for friction, for contact, for anything that will relieve the pressure building in him.

"Eskil," Indrie whimpers, and it is already gorgeous. "You're going so slowly."

"I know." Eskil runs his thumbs down the lines of muscle that bracket Indrie's spine, digging in just enough to feel the tension, and Indrie arches into the touch and makes a sound that is half sigh and half plea. "You walked in here and told me no. You can wait a little."

Indrie's laugh comes apart in the middle. "That is— that is not fair."

"I am not interested in fair." Eskil draws the trousers down over his hips and past his thighs and leaves them caught at the tops of his boots. Indrie shivers. The study is warm from the fire but the contrast with Eskil's hands is enough to raise gooseflesh along his skin, and Eskil watches it chase across the small of his back and down the curve of his ass. He runs one hand over that curve, palm flat, and Indrie's fingers tighten on the far edge of the desk. "I am interested in you, bent over my maps, shaking before I've even put my hands where you want them."

"I do want them," Indrie says, immediate, sweet, no pride in it at all. He pushes back into Eskil's palm, shameless with it. "Please, please touch me."

Eskil's breath leaves him through his teeth. He steps back just enough to look. Indrie bent over the desk in his study, naked from the waist down, dark hair spilling across the map, shoulders rising and falling with deep unsteady breaths, holding himself together and failing at it. The line of his spine. The narrow waist, the swell of his ass, the legs that end where he still has his boots on. He is so fucking beautiful it makes Eskil's bones ache.

"Look at you," Eskil says, and he does not bother to hide how he sounds. "Do you have any idea what you look like right now? Spread out on my desk like you belong here. Like I put you here to be used." He uncaps the oil and the scent of it rises in the warm air, faintly herbal, the blend Indrie makes himself because of course the man cannot put anything on his own body that he has not personally vetted for ingredients and safety. "And you do belong here. You have no idea. I think about this when I am supposed to be reading grain reports. I think about your mouth and your thighs and the sounds you make when I get inside you, and I have to sit here and pretend I am a civilized man."

Indrie makes a helpless little noise and hides his face against his folded arms.

Eskil slicks his cock with a generous palm of oil, hissing through his teeth at the touch of his own hand, because he is so hard already that even that much contact is dangerous. He oils Indrie's inner thighs next, slow and thorough, dragging oiled fingers up the soft skin until Indrie jumps and a startled sound breaks out of him. Eskil does it again, coating him, pressing his thighs together and sliding his oiled palm between them until they gleam. "Keep them tight for me."

Indrie's head lifts a fraction. "What are you⁠—"

Eskil steps in, grips his hips, and feeds his cock between those oiled thighs, pressed tight.

The heat of it is immediate, tight and soft and almost too much. The head of his cock drags along the sensitive skin of Indrie's inner thighs and catches against his balls, against the underside of his cock, against the tight furl of him without pushing in, and Indrie's whole body jolts.