Perchance to Dream Box Set

A Haunted Love-8

In his room the fire’s low and he builds it up again. He doesn’t look at me now we’re finally alone. I sit in one of the wingback chairs and watch him hunch down on the hearth, feeding scraps of thin parchment to the flames.

There are a million things I want to ask him, a million things I want to know. Who he is and where he’s from and what he does for fun, if he likes me, if he’s been with guys before, if he thinks we have a chance together. But none of the questions sound right in my mind so I keep quiet. The low crackle of flames and the faint wind against the shutters fill the silence around us. When he stands, I slip my arms around his waist and pull him down into my lap.

“Nicholas,” he says with a laugh.

I love the sound. “What?” I ask, grinning. I hold him tight until he relaxes against me, lying back against my chest, one hand on my knee and the other gripping the arm of the chair as if he’s frightened.

I ease my hand beneath his and he twines his fingers with mine, squeezing my knee as he laughs again. My other hand rubs his stomach in slow circles, spreading his shirt against his skin as I bury my nose in the hair that rests on the nape of his neck. “David,” I murmur, kissing him.

He closes his eyes and moans softly. His fingers tighten in mine when I kiss my way around his shoulder, pushing his shirt aside with my chin, licking him, tasting his sweat and his flesh and pulling him closer to me. I let my hand circle lower, brushing over the waistband of his breeches and then lower still, over the bulge at his crotch.

As I kiss his throat, I pluck at the laces on his breeches, nimbly unknotting them, working them open, rubbing my fingers against his thick erection. His hand trails up my leg, cupping my d**k through my breeches, and I’m sure he’s surprised at how hard I am already, how much I want him. I hear his pleasure in his tiny gasps and feel it in my hand.

Gently I encircle his shaft and work it free from his breeches as he kisses me with greedy, damp lips before sighing into my neck. With the smallest move of his hips, he thrusts into my hand. By the glow of the firelight I stroke his hardness, red, stiff, swollen and already beginning to come.

His fingers do delicious things to me, smoothing the fabric of my breeches around my d**k and pressing until I arch into his touch, rubbing against him. I’m close myself. On the arm of the chair our hands are sweaty where they’re clasped together, our fingers white because we’re holding on fiercely and neither of us wants to let go. His breath is ragged and hot on my neck—I imagine my lips leave searing kisses along his throat and jaw.

When he comes, he gasps my name and spasms in my hand, slicking my palm with his juices. He turns in my embrace and stares into my eyes for an eternity. I’m going to come, too, in my breeches, I know it—I’ll come from the way he looks at me alone—but he slides off my lap and onto the floor. Pushing my knees apart, he works at the laces of my breeches until they’re open. I grip the arms of the chair when he takes me into his mouth, and all I need is a few hard thrusts, his hungry tongue, sucking, licking, and damn, I come in an explosive rush, pushing into him as far as I can go. So fast…I could swoon.

When I’m spent he crawls over me, smiling, and whispers my name. “I’m glad you decided to stay the night.”

I taste myself on his lips and he makes me hard again by looking at me the way he does, those blue blue eyes of his staring right through the heart of me. “Me too.”