Page 59 of The Sorcerer's Alpha

In Seoni, they sold some of their furs and traded their coats for Chedoy-style shirts and tunics in cotton for the warmer weather. The secondhand merchant hemmed and hawed over the stained and torn outer fabric of their coats, but when Marut turned back the tail of his coat to show her the thick lining of raw wool, she immediately abandoned all attempts at haggling and said they had a deal.

“I liked this coat,” Marut said as they undressed in the narrow space between the back of the merchant’s stall and the building behind it. “It’s hard to say goodbye.”

“Think of how much less sweaty we’ll be, though,” Sycamore said, and Marut smiled.

They camped just outside Seoni that night, in a clearing not far from the road, and in the morning continued on the main road to Banuri, wider and paved with stone. Sycamore used some of the money from selling their furs to buy flatbread from a roadside hawker and shared it with Marut as they rode, his mouth tingling with the familiar spices. What a pleasure after months of meat, cheese, and mare’s milk. It was good to be back in Chedi, to see people who looked like him and hear his native tongue spoken by someone other than Marut. But strange, too, after so long away.

The journey passed without incident. They bought some food in the small towns they passed through, but they mostly ate birds Marut trapped or fish they caught together. They didn’t speak of what would happen in Banuri, and Sycamore clung fast to the sweet peacefulness of these final days together.

The day before they would arrive in the capital, Marut called a halt earlier in the afternoon than Sycamore expected, and they made camp near a rushing stream, sheltered by oak trees. Warm spring sunlight filtered down through the new leaves as they tended to the horses and set up the tent. Sycamore’s limbs felt heavy and numb as he led the horses down to the creek to drink. In the morning, they would climb the road to the low pass and then down again into the valley where Banuri lay. Then they would be parted.

“Come lie down with me,” Marut said when Sycamore came back from the stream, and of course that was the only thing Sycamore wanted.

Marut left the tent flap drawn back to let in the warm air and the light. Sycamore pressed him down into the blankets and kissed him, his mouth and cheek and forehead, and then his mouth again. Marut lay with his eyes open and his hands resting on Sycamore’s hips as Sycamore kissed him over and over with careful, dry presses of his lips. Only at the first cautious touch of Sycamore’s tongue did Marut finally close his eyes.

They kissed until Sycamore’s mouth was tingling and his blood pulsed hot through his body and between his legs. He sat up then and began to unfasten Marut’s tunic.

Marut watched without speaking as Sycamore opened the long panels of his tunic. Underneath, his thin cotton shirt was damp with sweat at the underarms, and the smell of his body and his growing arousal filled Sycamore’s nose and clung to the back of his mouth. Sycamore’s fingers were clumsy with excitement as he slipped the button through the loop at Marut’s shoulder and pulled his shirt open to bare his neck. His scent wafted upward, enhanced by the warmth of his skin, and Sycamore bent to press his face to the tender hollow of Marut’s neck and open his mouth to pull in as much of that smell as he could.

He sat up to strip off his own tunic and shirt and help Marut out of his, greedily watching the gradual reveal of Marut’s body. His abdominal muscles flexed as he lifted his head and shoulders to let Sycamore pull the shirt over his head, and there was his broad, hairy chest with its dark nipples, and his strong brown shoulders. There was his face, smiling up at Sycamore, and his black hair all disheveled from the shirt.

“The way you look at me,” Marut said, and trailed off without finishing his sentence.

“You’re a delectable specimen of a man,” Sycamore said, but Marut didn’t laugh, only kept gazing up at him with a soft, somber mouth, and Sycamore bent again to kiss him in an attempt to hold back the wave of grief he felt swelling through the bond.

He kissed Marut’s shoulders and collarbones, his nipples, the crest of his ribs, the dip of his navel. With each touch of his mouth and his hands, he spread protective magic across Marut’s skin. Keep him safe from arrows, he prayed, and from swords and knives. Safe from infection and disease. Safe from sorrow.

Marut’s hands slid up Sycamore’s back. “Heart of mine,” he whispered.

There was the wave; there was the grief. Sycamore pushed it away from him as hard as he could. He kissed Marut’s throat and breathed in his wonderful, familiar scent. Arousal bubbled through him, his body responding to Marut as it always did, to his smell and the width of him between Sycamore’s thighs, the press of his thick cock, half hard, against Sycamore’s ass. If this was the last time, Sycamore wasn’t going to waste it on sorrow.

He repositioned to more purposefully straddle Marut’s cock and rolled his hips to rub himself against that fat length. Marut gripped the back of Sycamore’s neck and kissed him, hard and deep, no longer patiently letting Sycamore take his time but claiming Sycamore’s mouth with demanding, hungry kisses. His other hand took hold of Sycamore’s thigh to help him move, his fingers digging into the flesh in a way that made Sycamore’s spine tingle from that edge of not-quite-pain.

Sycamore rubbed himself against Marut until his cock was heavy and throbbing and any friction between them had been eased by the slick dripping from his hole. Marut held him pinned close with his hand on Sycamore’s neck and flexed his hips upward in time with Sycamore’s movements, again and again, the bond filled now with the heat of his desire, orange as sunrise.

Sycamore thought he could easily come just like that, their bodies crushed together and their mouths touching and parting again as they moved. But as their rhythm settled into a hard, steady grind, Marut’s hand crept from Sycamore’s thigh to his ass, and his fingers stroked over Sycamore’s hole, so sensitive from arousal that Sycamore gasped at the first touch. Marut circled his fingers there, a deceptively gentle touch that had Sycamore squirming on top of him, panting and wanting more, thwarted in his attempts to take Marut’s fingers inside himself as Marut pulled his hand away every time Sycamore pressed back.

At last, Sycamore sat up, his hands pressed to Marut’s shoulders. “You’re tormenting me.”

Marut’s mouth slid to the side, his eyes creasing with the smile he was trying to hold back. “I would never do such a thing.”

“Horrible man,” Sycamore said, hardly paying attention to what he was saying as he reached back to take Marut’s cock in his hand and raise it into position. Marut was rigid in his grasp, flexing at Sycamore’s touch, and Sycamore’s hole clenched to think of how the flared crown would feel sliding into him. He was weak for this, the pressure as Marut breached him, the thick, searing slide, the toe-curling fullness. He went up onto his knees and sank down on Marut’s perfect cock, moaning as he did, making no effort to silence himself, wanting Marut to hear how much he loved everything they did together.

Marut swore softly as he bottomed out, clutching hard at Sycamore’s hips. “Don’t,” he said, “move, or I’ll—ancestors!”

Sycamore tightened around him involuntarily, thrilled by the thought of Marut losing control so quickly, going soft inside him as Sycamore touched himself. Marut squeezed his eyes shut as he swore again, and Sycamore froze there, holding his breath as Marut visibly hauled himself back from the edge.

“All right,” Marut said after a minute. “Wind Below, you feel so good.”

Sycamore relaxed, letting himself clench and release as he adjusted to the fat length of Marut inside him. He liked the stretch and slight burn when Marut didn’t use his fingers first, but it was always somewhat overwhelming, his body overloaded with sensation. When he felt less like his spine was going to melt out of his body, he leaned forward, braced his hands on Marut’s shoulders, and began to move.

As good as their lovemaking had been before they bonded, the bond had elevated it to a new level. Every roll of Sycamore’s hips was reflected back to him; every touch of Marut’s hands was magnified by his pleasure in Sycamore’s body that poured through the bond. Sycamore moved as slowly as he could, trying to prolong the experience, but there was only so much he could do. The molten drag of the head of Marut’s cock had him breathing in unsteady, shallow sips, and when Marut raised his hands to scrape his thumbnails over Sycamore’s nipples, Sycamore gave up and gave in. The sensations built in him until he felt that every touch, every movement threatened to force his orgasm from him.

“Sycamore,” Marut groaned suddenly, abandoning his torture of Sycamore’s nipples to seize his hips and hold him in place as he thrust up hard, driving his cock deep in a quick and uneven rhythm. Sycamore could do nothing but cling to his shoulders as Marut groaned again, sheathed himself fully, and spilled into the eager clutch of Sycamore’s body.

Marut relaxed into the blankets with a sigh and a rueful smile. “Sorry.”

“Give me your hand,” Sycamore said, not waiting for Marut to obey but instead dragging his unresisting hands where he wanted them, one to his cock and the other to his chest. A few strokes of Marut’s hand, a few ungentle tweaks of his fingers, and Sycamore reached his peak with Marut still softening inside him, just as he had envisioned.