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Because now that hand didn’t leave the thigh.
Because now Luca squeezed the incredible bulk, causing both of them to moan.
Because now his fingers were running up Artair’s leg.
Because now Luca was taking off the guitar, staring deep into the man’s emerald eyes.
Because now Artair was whispering. “I want to fuck you so bad, Luca. But I don’t want you to regret it.”
And in that moment, Luca should have told Artair the stakes.
He should have explained the real reason he was out here.
He should have explained his vow, and all the terrible consequences of breaking it.
He should have told him everything he was risking.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
The words wouldn’t come.
They were drowned out by the glow of the mead and the urge and the moment and the incredible, beautiful, talented man. The one who had no fucking idea how special he really was.
“I could never regret you, Artair,” whispered Luca.
Then, they kissed.
And it was like no kiss that Luca had ever experienced.
Rather than anticipation and butterflies, Artair’s mouth had the laid-back familiarity of two frisky friends in sweatpants on a couch, with no plans for the rest of the day but slowly worshiping each other’s bodies. To lick and press and stroke and fill the evening with groans. Like two guys who’d known each other for years and knew every gooey spot on each other’s body.
Just pleasure.
Relaxed.
Unhurried.
Artair’s lips were soft against Luca’s, a grin fixed as their beards joined. His tongue opened Luca’s mouth, heat combined, wetness merged.
Luca moaned as he savored the moment—savored the man. He tasted of smoke and spice and honey-sweet warmth. He smelled of the woods and the wild.
Artair brought Luca deeper into the comfort of his generous stock, the sheer size of the man’s chest making him melt, small and grateful. Luca ran a hand underneath Artair’s flannel. His belly was perfect, with a thick but soft thatch that reminded Luca of an animal. The kind of belly that made him want to bend over and be slammed hard—feeling tiny and vulnerable and towered-over.
Artair groaned deeply at his tracing touch, his hips swiveling inadvertently—balls heavy and impatient.
Luca reached along the man’s belly and toward his shoulder. He’d only meant to complete the embrace, but an errant thumb brushed against the aching peak of Artair’s nipple, hard and desperate.
At that, his partner jolted as if he’d been tasered, breaking the kiss and letting out a startled little gasp—unexpectedly high pitched.
Luca throbbed hard at that. At the pureness of the pleasure. At the realization that he’d found a point of total control over the larger man.
He loved when guys had sensitive nipples. When you could make someone lose their mind with just a few flicks of the tongue.
He gave Artair a devious little look that said, wouldn’t it be awful if I spent the next few hours slowly doing that again and again and again until you were a shaking, whimpering little puddle, completely at my mercy.
Artair returned the look with a don’t you dare! exhale, his expression shifting with a tiny flicker of deference. It was the beautiful moment when the larger bear—far more used to taking command of their sexual adventures—realized that their smaller cub was happy to swap roles. Happy to wrestle them into submission. Happy to show them what it felt like to be on the other end of the pounding.
