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Cinnabar’s powerful shoulders rose and fell between Briar’s thighs. White, foamy sweat streaked down her neck, lost amongst the chestnut and ivory patches of her coat. Both he and Cinnabar were panting from the exertion of riding so far and so fast, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Not yet.
A meltdown had threatened him ever since he left the clifftop. He had fought his tears for a while, willing them back into his burning eyes as Cinnabar’s hooves pounded against the half-familiar forest path back to the city, but it had been a losing battle.
Battle. He’d had enough of fucking battles. He’d had enough of Shen and her deal with his father, and the fact she’d trapped him in this cold, dark nightmare for the rest of his life.
So, when his tears finally came… gods, did they come. He cried—sobbed—until his head felt as if it was going to split in half. With sweaty, dust-flecked hands, he reached up to wipe away his tears over and over again, feeling the scrape of stubble on his palms. He retched, gagged, howled, and damn near took the forest down with him.
He could not shake the fresh memory of his father’s ships sailing towards Foxwine, of twelve green sails blotting out the early dawn. How many of their people had died? How many had met their end on cold soil instead of familiar, warm sand, all for the sake of a queen they did not know?
It made him so angry he could hardly breathe. Why, why, had his father made a deal with Shen? What could possibly be worth this?
Briar rode for hours. Both he and Cinnabar were filthy with dirt from the road, and dust had long since worked its way beneath Briar’s clothes. The hard seams of his riding leathers bit into his skin, surely leaving welts that would sting for days. Every inch of his body ached. Normally, such discomfort would ruin his day. His week, even. Now… what was a little discomfort, compared to everything else?
He stopped only to allow Cinnabar a drink. The sight of his reflection in the water was harrowing—swollen eyes, tangled hair, and scorched cheeks—and he forced himself to look away, returning to the road before he could think too much on it.
The final time he stopped, riders in red armour caught up to him. They called his name, hollering that they were there on behalf of his godsforsaken wife, and a fresh rage howled in his chest. He ignored their pleas and mounted Cinnabar once more, kicking her into the fastest gait her weary body could muster.
The riders followed him all the same, but he paid them no heed. It wasn’t like they could force him to stop; he was going to be their king, after all.
Dusk approached. He caught the sweet scent of rain in the air, and glanced over his shoulder to see dark clouds gathering in the distance, far behind the stalking riders. The distant torchlit walls of the city laid on the horizon, so he urged Cinnabar onwards to escape the incoming weather. A cruel part of his soul hoped that Shen had gotten caught in a downpour. The thought of her soaking wet and shivering was almost pleasurable.
When he finally reached the city—where red banners and leaping foxes awaited, shrouded in the darkness of midnight—his anger and grief swelled into something rather more ugly. He tied Cinnabar to the gates of the palace, cast his pursuers a cold look, and took himself off for a very sore, angry walk.
He did not know where to go. The palace was out of the question, not with the irritatingly sweet Radish awaiting him and Shen set to return the following day. His family’s chateau had been locked ever since they departed, so he could not retreat there. He wasn’t going to spend the night in a tavern, not when everyone in the city now knew his face. Perish the thought. Where, then?
Oh. Of course.
Briar was filthy, sweaty, exhausted, angry, and utterly fucking miserable. He needed a bath, a good fuck, and the company of someone who didn’t make him want to smash his head against a wall. Fortunately, he knew exactly where to get all three of those things at once.
The young woman manning the front desk of Seventh Star recognised him on sight. She offered him a polite bow, golden curls bobbing around her face, and gladly accepted one of his rings in lieu of proper payment.
On her recommendation, Briar headed for the brothel’s private bathhouse to await Dorian's arrival. The marble walls, flickering candles, and warm, citrus-scented air reminded Briar all too much of home, and tears threatened his eyes again the instant he walked inside. It was a wonder he had any tears left to give.
He abandoned his leathers on a carved marble bench, scattering dry dirt all over the damp, dark flagstones beneath his feet. There were oils, lotions, razors, soaps, and all the things he would need to clean himself, but the water was calling him far too much for any of that.
The heat of the bath pulled a gasp from him. He tipped backwards until the water muffled his hearing, then simply allowed himself to float there, his eyes closed in a mockery of peace. The sweltering water chased away some of his grief, and dulled the rest. Everything was warm, calm, and slow, until…
“Briar?”
At the sound of Dorian’s voice, Briar opened his eyes and righted himself. Water cascaded down his back. Slick strands of hair clung to his face.
“Why are you filthy?” Dorian asked.
Briar swept his hair out of his face. He couldn’t turn around, not yet. Dorian had seen him at his very best—preened and pretty for the wedding, and carrying the joy of his family on his shoulders. He would surely look disgusting in comparison, now.
“Are you any good at shaving?” Briar asked.
“Yes?”
“Shave my face, then. There’s a razor and some… lotion, or something, near the door.”
Dorian obeyed Briar’s request without a word. Briar took himself to the edge of the bath, where there was a series of shallow steps. He sat on one and realised it was far too deep; he sank beneath the surface, water sloshing over his shoulders, and took himself to a higher step instead. There, he buried his head in his hands and just… waited.
Dorian returned after a moment. He slipped his smooth, delicate fingers beneath Briar’s chin and turned his face upwards, encouraging him to open his eyes. There was a look on Dorian’s face that Briar couldn’t have identified even if his life depended on it.
“Are you—” Dorian started.
“Shave me,” Briar said. “I can’t do it without a mirror.”
That was a lie. He could—he just didn’t want Dorian to ask him any questions. Shaving his face would keep him distracted, surely. It would stop him from prying, from plucking out the source of Briar’s unending misery and poking it with a stick.
Dorian straddled his thighs. His weight was almost comforting—and almost arousing—but not quite. Briar had come to Dorian for sex, sure enough, but it wasn’t just that. He needed to be treated like a normal person, just for a while. So, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, allowing himself to enjoy the feeling of a man in his lap.
“Does this please you, darling?” Dorian asked.
“Don't call me that,” Briar snapped, annoyance prickling his brow. “I want you to treat me like a real person.”
“I am treat—”
“No. I said I wanted the real Dorian this time, and I meant it,” Briar said. “Don't play games with me.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Dorian surrendered. He washed Briar’s face first, touching him with the tenderness of a lover far beyond his tenure, then massaged the agony out of his features with firm, deliberate strokes of his thumbs. Citrusy steam enveloped Briar’s senses, along with the subtle scent of whatever lotion Dorian was rubbing into his skin. Water rippled against his chest. It was almost peaceful.
“Have you been riding?” Dorian asked, after a while.
“For ten hours, give or take,” Briar said. The give or take could have been two hours or eight. He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t care. “I just got back.”
“From where?”
“Nowhere.”
“And you came here?”
Briar tried his best not to snap. He chose his words quickly but carefully, not wanting to ruin the first chance at peace he’d had since leaving for Salthollow. “Should I expect to be interrogated all night?”
Thankfully, Dorian didn’t push it. He finished massaging lotion into Briar’s skin, then began shaving him. The straight, sharp edge of the blade swept across his skin, scraping along stubble in smooth, practiced motions. It was dizzying. Even on Ambermark, he had never allowed anyone to shave him. It was something he kept for himself—a ritual, almost. Something utterly and completely private.
And yet… he had asked Dorian to shave him without a second thought.
For all of his pondering, Briar could not deny the eroticism of what they were doing. He could feel every inch of Dorian’s bare body, from his powerful thighs astride Briar’s own to the delicate stroking of his fingers across his cheeks. It did not take long, then, for his body to react as it often did when he found himself in such a situation.
Distracted by arousal, Briar reached out and touched Dorian’s thigh, squeezing the soft, warm skin between his leg and hip. A soft gasp split the air between them. Gods.
Dorian leant forward, his weight shifting with a soft rush of water, and Briar felt a very, very hard cock brush against his own.
Their eyes met. Candlelight flickered in Dorian’s eyes, half-amber and half-sea-green, and Briar’s breath hitched. A memory swept over him: the last Liminal Festival on Ambermark, when a thousand glowing jellyfish had drifted towards the sandy shore, heralding the start of summer. Dorian held that in his eyes, but for a moment. Home, family, and a life of utter joy, untainted by Shen or her bloody kingdom.
After everything that had happened over the past few days, Briar needed that. He needed Dorian.
It seemed that Dorian knew what to do. He laid down the razor, laced his hands through Briar’s sopping wet hair, and kissed him.
Oh.
Briar lost himself instantly. He pulled Dorian closer until their cocks rubbed together between them, warm flesh enveloping even warmer flesh, and Briar found himself rutting up against Dorian like he had never known pleasure before.
“Can I touch you?” Dorian murmured against Briar’s lips.
Briar knew he didn’t need to justify that with an answer. Some animalistic groan burst from his mouth when Dorian wrapped his hand around both of their cocks, stroking them in urgent, desperate unison. Through lidded eyes, he snuck glances of their cockheads flashing in Dorian’s fist, wavered by the rippled surface of the water.
Dorian leaned forward and kissed Briar’s neck, his lips and tongue caressing the most sensitive stretches of his skin. Briar lost his ability to sneak glances, then. He disappeared into the alluring depths of arousal, of physical touch, of Dorian.
But, it wasn’t enough. He needed more, and he needed it now.
He picked Dorian up by his waist and switched their positions, pushing Dorian to his knees against the edge of the bath. The sight of his perfect arse made something burn in Briar’s chest. He pushed his cock between Dorian’s buttocks and rubbed himself along the damp line of him.
“Give me the oil,” he managed to say. It was in his hand in an instant.
Dorian’s knees were spread so wide that Briar did not even have to part his buttocks. Every inch of him was on display, flushed and ready for him.
Briar slipped an oiled finger into him, then another, and another, fucking Dorian open until he was a whimpering mess against the side of the bath. Every sound that came from his mouth was more breathless and desperate than the last.
“Touch yourself for me,” Briar groaned. Dorian’s hand blurred beneath the water, and it was all too easy for Briar to imagine the sight of his cock in his fist. He wanted to see it, but he wanted to fuck Dorian over the edge of the bath far, far more.
Gods. He couldn’t wait any longer.
Briar knew he was large. He knew the considerate thing was to take it slow, to allow Dorian a moment to adjust to his size before he moved, but the instant he pressed his cockhead inside Dorian’s arse, all notion of consideration faded. Briar bottomed out in one thrust, and Dorian took him like he was born to do it. The half of his face that Briar could see split into a silent cry, his pretty lips parting around a ragged breath.
Lingering fury took Briar, then. It swelled with him like a tide, hot and urgent, manifesting in an almost unbearable urge to move.
Briar wrapped his hands around Dorian’s hips, using his steam-soft edges as leverage. He fucked him hard and fast, sending erratic ripples across the surface of the bath. Water splashed up between them, soaking Dorian’s back and Briar’s chest, covering both of them with slick heat. His pleasure built quickly, heightening with the rhythmic pounding of his hips.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” Briar moaned, delivering a particularly hard thrust.
Dorian gasped out, “I don’t—ah—get fucked that often.”
Briar didn’t know if he believed that, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was fucking Dorian in that moment, that he was pounding gasps and moans from his perfect mouth, that he was the one claiming Dorian as his own.
Wild sea-green eyes suddenly found his, and the heat in their depths damn near sent Briar over the edge. He grabbed a fistful of Dorian’s sodden locks and pulled him backwards, arching his back so far that he came out of the water, one hand clinging to the slippery edge of the bath while the other worked the hidden length of his cock. Fuck.
As Briar’s pleasure swelled, he managed to forget. He forgot he was married. He forgot he was the future king of Foxwine. He forgot that he had lost the only life he had ever known. And most of all, he forgot that Dorian was only in the bathhouse because he’d been paid to be there. For just one shining moment, Briar truly believed that this—this perfect moment—was the life he had chosen for himself, and that it was all he would ever know for the rest of his days.
Dorian swung in his hold, quivering, panting, and Briar knew he was close. He was, too. The thought of them coming together made him feel utterly delirious.
“Fucking come for me,” Briar growled.
Dorian did as he was told. His moan split the air in the bathhouse like a crack of lightning. In the corner of Briar’s eye, he caught sight of Dorian’s cum splattering against the side of the bath, creamy-white against the damp flagstones, and then he, too, was lost.
Briar came in three heavy thrusts, cum spurting deep inside Dorian. The fading waves of Dorian’s climax milked every last drop of his pleasure, dragging him through an orgasm so powerful, so needed, that he could hardly hold himself upright.
And as soon as it was over, it was truly over.
Tears burned in Briar’s eyes. He pulled out of Dorian’s arse, cock offering him an obscene pop, and retreated, backing away from Dorian’s shining figure. His lower lip trembled, and he fought to keep it steady as retreated into the warm safety of the bath. He did not cry after sex. He was not that sort of man. And yet, as his arousal faded, so too did the illusion that had formed in his mind.
This was not his life, as much as he might wish otherwise. Like the sailors on the shore at Salthollow, he too was giving his life for a cause he did not believe in. No longer was he a man who could fuck and feast and frolic, following the careless whims of his heart. The remainder of his days were going to be filled with whatever activities Shen deemed fit. It would be only war and suffering and banal responsibilities until the day he died.
“Are you well?”
Briar felt a hand on his shoulder. Dorian was standing beside him, face distorted with concern. His olive chest rose and fell with lingering exertion. Pale steam wafted from his skin. Candlelight glimmered in his eyes, as if the ocean itself was ablaze. He was the single most attractive man that Briar had ever seen.
And if this was going to be Briar’s life—if he was going to suffer so greatly at the hand of his bride and her fucking kingdom—then he was going to make damn sure that Dorian was there to soothe his pain, even if he had to go to him in secret.
Dorian was worth the risk. Of that, he was absolutely certain.