Page 34 of The Scouts

“Nah. It won’t be anything urgent.” I made a show of putting the container aside and feigned a lack of interest, rocking backwards in my chair.

Seeing that I didn’t exhibit the slightest inclination to satisfy his nosiness, Sabre gave me the stink eye. “You’re no fun.”

I ignored this blatant untruth. “Say, Sabre, have you seen Lochan around, by chance?” The question wasn’t a complete stab in the dark, given that now and then, they sparred together.

Sabre’s wide mouth creased into a smile. “I have, as a matter of fact. Heinnés just yelled at him, threatening to break his legs if he lingered on the practice field past sunset. So Féyes headed for the bathhouse in a strop.” He chuckled.

“Oh, thank fuck,” I murmured, relieved at the commander’s timely intervention. The prospect of stuffing my face with succulent loin in the not-too-distant future had taken a firmer shape. “Why don’t you go and find your Marbles?” My quip—and a damn good one, too—seemed to have gone above the swordmaster’s head. “The garrison is crawling with Dark Elves and he’s pretty. Sure you want him roaming about the place on his own? He’s bound to pick up an admirer.”

Sabre’s eyes bulged. Without a word, he strutted for the exit, quick like an arrow.

The instant the door clicked shut behind him, I picked up the scroll box. The top came off with a soft puff sound when pulled. I shook out the contents. Apart from a large, rolled canvas, a verbena-scented note slipped from inside. I read the message first.

I made him imagine you were watching him, Archer. Touching him. Kissing him. It’s only fair you get to keep it.

My heart stammered. In a hurry to unfold the sheet, I almost dislocated my thumb.

Holy gods everlasting.

I wobbled in my chair, nearly flipping backwards and biting my tongue off in the process. Instantly alert, as though a firecracker went off inside me, I gulped shallow breaths. My heart throbbed against my ribcage and my cock hardened to steel.

Regardless of my low opinion of the baroness’ personality, I couldn’t dispute her talent as an artist. Because—bloody hell—the painting in front of me set my cheeks on fire and my nerves atingle.

In it, Lochan half-lay, half-sat on a low recliner upholstered in crimson—naked. His hair, strewn in a mess, gleamed around him like a dark halo. One of his arms rested underneath his head. The other curled along his body with his fingers touching his hip, lingering in close proximity to his straining shaft—its tip tinged pink—as if they were about to wrap around it at any moment. A blush warmed his porcelain skin like sunlight cast over snowy hills at dawn. Covered with smooth muscle, his body seemed wound tightly in anticipation. He bit his lower lip, looking directly at me and not without a healthy dose of coquetry, either.

His blue eyes adorned his high-cheeked face like crystals. Untamed want lurked there, its strength sending me dizzy. The same wicked shadow manifested in Lochan’s gaze every time he yearned for me to satisfy the darker urges within his nature.

The more I contemplated the lustful pose and drawing style, the more a vague sense of familiarity pestered me. At last, I got a handle on it, remembering the folk stories of immortals from the ancient realm of glaciers and waterfalls. Ones I’d stored under my bed as a youth. Back then, those old scrolls filled with erotic renderings of legendary heroes had helped me relieve tension. Their sensual and otherworldly appearance also shaped my standards of male attractiveness.

But here, the artist hadn’t showcased her flair solely through delivering an accurate depiction of Lochan’s physical beauty, however exquisite the execution. The way she captured the pure honesty of his need—the way he bared himself—moved me far more. It had little to do with exposing his flesh and everything to do with revealing his inner desires. They were all there to behold, plain and unveiled. His longing to relinquish control. His readiness to be taken. His craving to please. Seeing Lochan frozen in that moment, spread out in offering with a wealth of emotion etched on his usually austere face, staggered me.

While undoubtedly debauched, the painting wasn’t merely a tease, but a testimony. It reminded me I had something priceless—Lochan’s trust. He opened up to me. Only I could give him what he truly wanted. Only I could sate him. And—gods above—I aimed to deliver on that challenge.

I couldn’t tell how long I spent admiring the art, spellbound. By the time Lochan entered the room, I’d worked myself up to a degree that made the stiffness in my leathers border on sore. I could almost smell my impending climax.

Despite having expected Lochan’s return, he still caught me off guard. Lost in my sinful daydreaming, I came to my senses only after spotting him standing in the entrance.

I dropped the canvas like a hot coal. It hit the table, its edges rolling back on itself and covering the image. I put my tongue back into my mouth, scrambled to stand and focused on the real thing before me.

He appeared even finer in person, sporting a light pair of low-slung training trousers flared at the bottom. A white linen towel hung around his shoulders, showing his bare torso, black tourmaline sparkling in his right nipple. His hair had been fixed up in a loose topknot. A few damp strands that escaped the leather tie were already going wavy at the ends.

The sudden reminder of how much I loved him brought about a poignant sting to my sternum.

On meeting my no-doubt well-crazed stare, Lochan tensed. A pang of worry drifted through his expression. He made to move towards me.

My hand shot up to stop him. “No,” I growled. “Don’t move. Stay right where you are.”

He arched an eyebrow—which appeared more poignant since he’d had it pierced—but did as I asked, freezing with his back affixed to the door. Which happened to be the perfect location for what I had in mind.

Wrong or not, it always stirred me up to have him yield to my demands without knowing the reason for them, but only because I said so.

Lochan’s gaze lowered and his eyes widened. He couldn’t miss my hard-on, currently hell-bent on bursting free from the constraints of my garb, the hem of my crotch be damned.

The corners of his lips twitched, but when he spoke, his husky voice bore no trace of amusement. “It’s like that, is it?”

Instead of answering, I pounced on him. Close up, I could smell the herbal soap on his skin and feel beads of moisture still lingering under my touch there. I wanted to kiss them off the column of his throat.

So I did. And as I worked on him, I used my teeth just the way he liked.