Page 30 of The Sorcerer's Alpha

“Be still,” Marut said, rolling his hips in a long, slow grind, and Sycamore made a choked noise and subsided.

They moved together, slow but urgent. Marut could pretend he was only serving the wizard’s needs, but in truth he was largely serving his own pleasure. In the darkness, where no one could see him, he lavished kisses on Sycamore’s neck and shoulders. His hot blood pulsed through his veins. He lost himself in the slick yielding of Sycamore’s body and the quiet moans Sycamore let loose into his ear.

Sycamore began to tense beneath him. “Would you,” he said, “your fingers—”

“Of course,” Marut said. He rolled onto his side, pulling Sycamore with him, so that he could get a hand around to work three fingers into Sycamore’s dripping hole. Sycamore groaned and clenched around him, locking tight around his fingers and squirming in his arms. Marut was overheated and sweating and could hardly think, feeling his own arousal spike dangerously as Sycamore frantically rubbed his cock against Marut’s belly and spilled in wet pulses across his skin.

“Sycamore,” Marut choked out. “You have to—stop,” as Sycamore kept moving, grinding himself against Marut even as his cock softened. “I’m going to,” and he dumped Sycamore ungently onto his back and reared up onto his knees, mortified and alarmed as his knot began to swell.

“Oh, you’re,” Sycamore said, reaching for him, taking Marut’s cock in his hand and carefully feeling out the tender shape of his knot. It was so sensitive. Marut dropped his head and moaned brokenly as his knot filled Sycamore’s fist and he came in long, bone-shaking waves.

He had never knotted anywhere except inside Purya and wasn’t prepared for how much of a mess it made. “My goodness,” Sycamore said, after a few moments, when Marut’s cock continued to spurt. Marut heard him only dimly through the roaring in his ears, but his face flushed hot nonetheless. There was so much. He gave up and lowered his rubbery limbs to rest on top of Sycamore, both of them coated in their combined spend. They would bathe again someday.

“Ah, Marut,” Sycamore said quietly, trailing his fingertips down the length of Marut’s spine. He said nothing further. Marut breathed in and out and closed his eyes.

Some amount of time passed. Sycamore held Marut and traced patterns over his sweat-soaked lower back. Marut couldn’t think of what to say, and so he said nothing. He had never been less certain of what he was feeling or more certain that examining it too closely would lead only to misery.

“I’ll barter with the Sarnoy for hot baths for both of us,” Sycamore said after a long while.

Marut laughed a little at this tidy reflection of his own thoughts. “I would appreciate it.”

Sycamore turned his head to tuck his face into the crook of Marut’s neck. “Do you truly think I’m brave?” he asked in a small voice.

For a moment, Marut wasn’t sure what he was talking about. Then he remembered the conversation they’d had after Marut killed the reindeer, and his heart cracked heart open. Was Sycamore still thinking of that?

“Fear is normal,” he said. “But you don’t let your fear stop you from acting. I think that’s what bravery is.”

“I’ve been so afraid,” Sycamore said into Marut’s throat.

Marut lifted a hand to touch Sycamore’s hair. He didn’t think Sycamore would have ever said such a thing to him except during the vulnerability of heat. “I’ll keep you safe you,” he said. “I’ll do everything I can.” Foolish words to say to such a powerful creature, who hardly needed Marut’s aid; but Marut was vulnerable now as well, all of his instincts pricked into witless protectiveness by Sycamore’s trust and need.

Sycamore sighed instead of replying. He rubbed his bristly face against Marut’s neck and relaxed in Marut’s arms. Marut held him and waited for sleep to come.

CHAPTER12

Sycamore woke once more that night with Marut sleeping quietly beside him, stretched out on his stomach. His heat had subsided enough that he managed to resist waking Marut, although it required a great exertion of will when he knew Marut would tend to him gladly and with expert hands. But he did well enough with his own hands and the memory of Marut’s knot swelling at his touch. He muffled his moans in the blankets, and Marut didn’t stir.

When he woke again, it was morning, and his heat was finished. He felt shaky and weak as he often did after heat. Marut was awake but still curled naked around him, and he smiled at Sycamore as he stretched and yawned, and said, “Again?”

“It’s finished now,” Sycamore said, and regretted his words as he watched Marut withdraw, his smile dropping away and his hand retreating from Sycamore’s hip. “Marut—”

“I’ll start a fire,” Marut said, and pushed the blankets aside.

Sycamore lay where he was as Marut dressed and went outside. Well, that was what he had expected, more or less. They had come together during his heat out of necessity, not desire. Marut had done him a favor, nothing more.

He had taken many lovers outside of heat. Most of them were afraid of him to some degree, or—worse—aroused by his power. He rarely bedded the same person more than once. His encounters were always satisfactory, even enjoyable, but no one had ever touched him with as much care as Marut had, or as much wonder.

Stop it, he told himself fiercely. It was over now. No use in thinking about it ever again.

With some distaste, he rose and dressed himself in his filthy clothing. He would have to go around reeking of his own heat until he could wash his clothes, or preferably replace and burn them. Outside, the snow had stopped, leaving calf-deep drifts of wind-blown powder to wade through. The clouds had lifted, and the sun was rising above the horizon to the east. The horses, grazing nearby, raised their heads to look at him, and Sycamore went over to pat their heads and ask them politely how they had slept.

“Oh, very well, thank you,” he said in a high voice, pretending to speak for Rhododendron, and then whirled at a soft laugh from behind him. Marut considered him with raised eyebrows and a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Embarrassing, but Sycamore was glad to see him smile. He sniffed and drew himself straight with full sorcerous dignity and said, “Do I amuse you?”

Marut nodded his head at his black stallion. “I told you his name’s Jackrabbit. That’s true, but when I’m alone with him, I call him Bunny.”

Bunny. Sycamore stared at him helplessly, awash with painful affection.

“It’s good to be fond of horses,” Marut went on as if Sycamore weren’t experiencing an agonizing emotional upheaval. “They can tell when you like them.”