Page 29 of The Sorcerer's Alpha

Marut’s ears rang with the sound of Sycamore finding pleasure at his touch. He slid his fingers out and wiped them on Sycamore’s trousers. “I need to check on the horses,” he said and sat up, ignoring the way Sycamore reached for him. Shameful to abandon an omega in need, but he had reached his limit. He felt more out of control than he ever had with Purya, and he deliberately didn’t think about what that meant.

The wind outside immediately blew every heated longing from his body. He shivered his way over to the horses, who were warm enough beneath their blankets although shifting around at their tethers, impatient for food. Marut couldn’t help them; he didn’t want to risk them getting lost in the storm. They would have to wait until the weather lifted. He stroked their noses and spoke to them for a few moments in the dim blue pre-dawn light, until his urgent erection subsided. Then he went back to the tent.

Sycamore had turned onto his back but was otherwise just as Marut had left him, splayed loosely in the bedding. He blinked at Marut as he crawled inside and fastened the tent flap behind him again. “The horses are well?”

“Yes.” Marut pulled off his coat and, after a moment’s thought, his tunic. Sycamore’s heat had turned the space beneath the blankets stifling. “And you?”

“Well enough.” Sycamore’s mouth pulled wryly to one side. “My bed could be warmer, though.”

“Forgive me,” Marut said, and lay down to do his duty.

Sycamore sighed and stared up at the tent’s peak. “Will you ever be at ease with me?”

“I’m mostly at ease with horses.”

Sycamore laughed. “Yes. I’ve noticed.” He turned onto his side and scrutinized Marut’s face from inches away. Marut didn’t know what he was looking for and had trouble meeting his gaze. Even in the depths of heat, Sycamore’s eyes were bright and searching. The mouth Marut had struggled not to notice looked full and soft. His hair clung to his damp forehead, and Marut’s fingers twitched with the suppressed urge to move it aside.

“What is it,” he said finally, unable to bear any further inspection.

“Nothing,” Sycamore said. “Let’s sleep for a while.” He drew the blankets up around his face, closed his eyes, and to all appearances did in fact fall asleep at once.

Marut drifted for a while, listening to the wind. He only realized he had fallen asleep when Sycamore woke him again, needing him, and the light had changed.

Sycamore wanted his fingers again. Without letting himself think about what he was doing, Marut knelt between Sycamore’s parted thighs, the blankets tented over his shoulders, so that he could use both hands on Sycamore: one inside him and the other indulgently stroking his perfect cock, well-formed and dark with blood. And he could watch Sycamore’s face as his eyelids fluttered and he chewed on his lip as he neared his peak. Marut had never imagined the wizard could look so loose and warm and—welcoming, as if he would gladly reach up and take Marut into his arms and give him anything he wanted.

“There, oh,” Sycamore said, head thrown back, throat bared, and Marut grimly set himself to his task.

Sycamore slept more afterward. Marut tried, but he had simply slept as much as he was able. He lay there for a time, throbbing with desire as Sycamore slept beside him, an unbearable temptation. Finally, he got up and dressed and went outside again.

Although the wind still blew, the snow had stopped. Marut let the horses loose to poke around in the powdery snow for forage. The leftover venison he had cooked yesterday was frozen in his saddlebags; he placed it inside the tent flap to hopefully thaw, although eating frozen meat would do neither of them any harm. Only to their teeth, maybe. He pissed at the foot of a tree, peeled and frayed a twig to clean his teeth, and scrubbed at his face and neck with a handful of snow.

Inside the tent, Sycamore was warm and naked, and would shift in his sleep to make room for Marut’s body. Still, Marut lingered outside for as long as he could, inventing pointless tasks for himself, until the wind drove him back inside at last.

The day passed. Sycamore slept more than Purya had, but he was still healing, so Marut supposed that was normal. He wouldn’t eat, which was also normal. He wanted Marut to tell him a story, but Marut didn’t know any by heart. “Well, what good are you,” Sycamore said crossly, and Marut thought but didn’t say that he was of very little use for anything.

Marut fell asleep at last and woke in absolute lightless blackness, not sure what had woken him. Beside him, Sycamore breathed steadily. The wind had stilled outside. He had been dreaming, maybe.

Sycamore stirred, and Marut set a hand on his shoulder, meaning to calm him, but instead Sycamore stretched beneath the blankets, his feet knocking against Marut’s, and said, “Did I wake you?”

“No. The opposite, I think.” Marut traced the line of Sycamore’s collarbone to the base of his neck and stroked the tender hollow there, thrilling at the way Sycamore’s scent bloomed in response. He couldn’t help himself. He had wanted Sycamore since the first moment he saw him, and to have him in this way now was an exquisite torment, so close to what Marut had longed for without truly satisfying him in any way.

“Marut,” Sycamore breathed, and Marut finally lost his battle with his conscience. He shifted over in the dark and pressed his mouth to Sycamore’s throat.

Sycamore drew in a sharp breath, but before Marut could apologize, he lifted his hand to Marut’s shoulder and slid his palm across the span of Marut’s back. “Will you undress?”

“All right,” Marut said, like the fool that he was.

He crawled out of the bedding to remove his clothes, his movements awkward and constrained in the confines of the tent. Although the air inside, heated by their bodies, was warmer than the air outside, it still bit painfully at Marut’s bare skin until he joined Sycamore beneath the blankets once more.

Sycamore was warm: warm everywhere, and smooth and soft, his arms opening and legs parting to hold Marut against him. His stubble prickled against Marut’s neck as Sycamore rubbed his face there. Marut felt that he could hardly breathe, as if Sycamore’s scent had filled his lungs so fully that there was no room left for air.

“Marut,” Sycamore said again, his good arm draped over Marut’s shoulders, his bad arm tucked against Marut’s side, that hand pressed to Marut’s hip. His cock was hard against Marut’s belly. He drew his knees up and suddenly there was so much slick flesh for Marut to rub himself against, Sycamore’s tight balls and taint and the impossible tender divot of his hole, giving way slightly when the head of Marut’s cock slid across it and caught.

“Do it,” Sycamore pleaded, clutching at him.

Marut shook his head blindly. Sycamore had told him not to; he remembered that much. He rocked his hips just there, grinding against all of Sycamore’s most sensitive places, his head filled with thoughts of how easy it would be to lift Sycamore’s knee toward his shoulder and press inside him, and how Sycamore would make soft, hurt noises and come with Marut buried in him. He couldn’t.

“Just a little bit,” Sycamore went on, and Marut reached down to press the wizard’s hip to the blanket, holding him in place to keep him from taking matters into his own hands.