SEVEN
Joran had enjoyed the hardness and strength of other male bodies, even if he had always been the one in control of the situation— the dominant, the one commanding pace and rhythm. Then again, being their King, those men had gladly offered themselves, rejoicing the touch of their ruler.
What Orrin had done and was doing to his body not only opened Joran’s eyes but inflamed every inch of him in new and unfathomable ways. Orrin was taking (possessively and masterfully) but with such a giving method it was impossible to hold anything back; the only option was to capitulate to his disarming skills.
Every part of Joran had been caressed, nibbled, licked and kneaded, leaving him breathless and intoxicated. He couldn’t grasp how Orrin’s tongue tasting the back of his knees had sent jolts of abandon and pleasure; how those pearly teeth biting his inner thigh could make his eyes roll back in his head; how the artful pressure of a thumb between ball-sac and hole could make him yearn to be destroyed in the most abject manner; how the annoyingly perfect bliss of Orrin mischievously blowing over his hole before lapping on it had been surprise and curse.
Sweet Apheilon, Blessed Erin, thank you for letting this young man know about pleasure so thoroughly, so deeply.
Now Joran had his back against a wall, Orrin handling Joran’s weight as if he were nothing but an idea of a grown man. The ecstasy of the brutal penetration sent his eager hole ablaze as Orrin slammed against it mercilessly, his honeyed eyes bright and intent, stealing kisses and biting Joran’s neck.
A war cry (something that should have started a ruthless battle) rose from Joran before his body shook, broken and free. He spurted with such force jets and jets of sweet completion spattered their chests, leaving them drenched but never breaking Orrin’s intention.
Some drops landed on Joran’s lips. Orrin swept in, mastering Joran’s mouth, tasting his reward. Perhaps that was the trigger because he groaned (their mouths still attached) and lost his rhythm, the spasms of completion seizing him, flooding Joran, taking both to a blinding summit where climax could only be measured in the stutters of their screaming hearts.
Frozen in time, amid faltering heartbeats that seemed millennia, breath slowly returned. Orrin slowly lowered them, still connected, still hard, until Joran’s feet touched the floor— his body wedged between the wall and his lover, perfectly seated on Orrin’s lap, impaled, sated.
Orrin let his head fall onto Joran’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“Whatever for?”
“For letting me have you like this. For giving me a gift I wasn’t expecting.”
Joran moved Orrin’s head, taking his face with both hands, making the Prince of Zigag look into his eyes. “You’re the unexpected gift.”
“Why do you call me Golden Prince?”
“Because that’s what I saw when I met you this afternoon. The sun firing your hair, wrapping you in its golden light, perfect and mesmerizing,” Joran explained with a catch in his voice.
A soft smile emerged on that handsome face. Orrin’s eyes lowered, and Joran released his face. Honeyed eyes moved downward, perhaps studying the outcome of his efforts. Joran was sweaty and sticky and stupidly happy.
The searching eyes stopped on Joran’s cock. Orrin wrapped a hand around it, stroking it languidly. It hadn’t truly softened, and in no time it was fully erected again. “Would you make me yours, my Diamond King,” he whispered.
Orrin had melted, forged and reshaped Joran’s body in the last hours. If their minds could bond as their bodies had, this could be the greatest adventure for both.
“With heart and soul, my Golden Prince.”
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