Wings (12 page)

When he could take no more, he reluctantly pulled Anyar from his knees and up to stand

against him. With hands shaking with eagerness and anticipation, he worked to remove the

sodden clothing, to reveal the golden skin beneath, so different from his own paleness. He drew

Anyar to him, taking the other man's lips in a passionate kiss, using his tongue to taste every

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nuance within. Anyar put his hands tentatively on the prince's shoulders, then more firmly as

emotion and senses took over, drowning out thoughts and fears.

Vanyae's hand stroked down the leanly muscled back, coming to tease the entrance to

Anyar's body, feeling the coolness of the rain against the heat of that secret place.

He brought the fingers back up, presenting them to his little slave, who took them into his

mouth eagerly, wetting them copiously.

The slick fingers then slid easily within the heat and softness of Anyar's body, and he

arched at the pleasure/pain, a choked cry escaping into his master's mouth.

Vanyae drank in the sound, groaning at the feel of Anyar writhing against him, the

tightness of his portal, and the knowledge that soon he would be within that heat, possessing,

reclaiming what was his.

He broke the kiss reluctantly, smiling a little as he drew his fingers free and Anyar

protested with a whimper of need. Pulling the smaller man after him, he approached a marble

bench surrounded by the softness of grass. Here, he arranged Anyar on his knees, bent over the

coolness of stone, the younger man's fingers gripping the ornate edges in preparation for his

master's force. His black wings spread out over the white marble, and Vanyae stroked them,

leaned down to kiss the feathers.

But here, Vanyae broke with tradition. When he knelt behind Anyar, he took his time

kissing and stroking the wet body before him, bringing his little slave to a fever pitch of need.

Each touch was an affirmation that Anyar was alive, that he was Vanyae's.

“Please,” whimpered the younger man, “please…I need…”

Vanyae laid a kiss on the back of Anyar's neck, then bit there, even as his shaft pressed

against the rosebud guarding the entrance to his slave's body, then stretched it wide with his girth

as he pushed in.

Anyar drew a pained breath, then let it out in a gasp of pleasure as his master's shaft slid

past the pleasure spot in his body. He pushed backward, impaling himself farther, moaning as

Vanyae bit harder, holding him, dominating him in the most sensuous of ways. He felt owned,

possessed, cared for, almost lov—

He cast aside the thought swiftly, not daring to further it.

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Vanyae released his bite, licked soothingly over the deep marks, then leaned back on his

knees and watched his shaft disappear into the stretched entrance until his balls felt the warmness

of Anyar's against them. With torturous slowness, he withdrew his shaft, hot and wet and red

with eagerness as it appeared. He shuddered at the sight and sensations, then pushed back in,

agonizingly slowly, leaning a little forward and setting up a lazy rhythm that would see this last

for as long as possible.

Anyar writhed on his impalement, gasping. The prince would angle his thrusts so that only

one out of three would strike his prostate, which made the shock of it that much greater. The

smaller man's body shook with sensation, with need. His balls were tight and hot, so close to

coming but never quite enough to let go. It was pleasure close to pain in its intensity, and the

knowledge that he had no say in it, that his master would decide when he would come, seemed at

this moment to be incredibly erotic.

All his fears and doubts, all his uncertainties, seemed far-away at this moment; there were

only Vanyae and the things he was doing to him. The incredible, wonderful things he was doing

to him. The falling rain seemed to purify what they were doing, make it special, an experience

more than themselves.

Anyar could feel the moisture running over his skin, cool and soothing, sharply in contrast

to the heat within him and the fire that seemed to radiate from Vanyae's organ as it pushed

deeper and deeper. He arched to gain more penetration, moaning in time with the measured

thrusts, only gradually realized the sounds were Vanyae's name. The vague thought came that he

might be punished for such familiarity, but at that moment he could not truly care.

He tightened upon the spear of flesh within him, and Vanyae grunted at the sensation,

began to speed up, hips snapping his shaft harder and harder into his willing slave.

The scent of the rain was fresh in Vanyae's nostrils, the feel of it coursing down his

steaming body an erotic background to their coupling. He dimly thought that he would never be

able view rain in quite so innocent a manner as before, even as he reached below them to grasp

Anyar's shaft and pump it with firm, harsh strokes.

He saw Anyar's head snap back, a silent scream upon his lips, even as Vanyae felt the hot

body pulse around him. Warm seed flowed over his fingertips; then he let go to grasp slim hips.

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Grunting with need, he thrust deep, letting out forceful puffs of air before his eyes squeezed shut

with the half pain that the powerful orgasm pulsed through him.

They collapsed to the sodden grass, dazed and spent. Anyar turned, and Vanyae gathered

him to his chest, a worried questioning in his eyes.

Anyar managed to nod that he was fine, then laid his head upon his master and wished for

the moment to never end, that they might never have to go back to the way things were before.

He would have been surprised to know that Vanyae's thoughts mirrored his own.

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Chapter Eight

Anyar had never seen snow before. It fascinated him immensely, though the cold seemed

to pierce his heat-trained body. Vanyae pandered to his interest, and on this day he took him

riding, the first time since his chest had healed. Even now he was careful of the younger man's

health, watching for signs of discomfort.

His care and pampering, especially in front of others, would bring a flush to Anyar's face.

He was not used to such things, and they warmed his heart far more than material expressions

could have.

Wrapped up snugly against the chill, Anyar wanted to sing with happiness, his eyes

shining with all he felt. The day was crisp, their breath floated on the air, and frost coated

everything in sight, lending a magical air to their surroundings.

The mare he rode was a joy, with a soft black winter coat, white blaze, and four white

socks. Her mouth was tender and responsive, and he treated her as the princess she was. She

danced beneath him as though picking up on his mood, and he looked over at Vanyae on his

larger chestnut stallion, unable to restrain his grin.

The prince grinned back, then let his stallion have his head. With a whoop, Anyar

followed, and the sun shone off the snow the horses' hooves threw up in glittering arcs.

They raced for the thrill of it, and the mare gave the stallion quite a challenge with her

nimble feet and lighter body. It was head and head when they finally drew to a stop, not wanting

to heat the horses too much in the cold.

Vanyae leaned over and captured a kiss from Anyar, his gloved fingers gentle upon his

chin. He drew back reluctantly, his thumb tracing lightly over the kiss-swollen lips.

Anyar smiled at him, a little flushed from the cold and his master's attentions.

Vanyae felt something within him warm at that smile, and he realized that he could no

longer see Anyar as slave. He was a person, a man—a lover.

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He could not ever let him go, but if Anyar were slave no longer, how could Vanyae ensure

that the younger man would stay with him?

The slight frown that had creased his brow disappeared.

They had time. He would show Anyar that there was no place to be other than at his side.

* * * * *

had stormed for three days now, and they had been confined to the palace, which was making

people restless and irritable. He had made sure to stay out of their way, unsure of his position

here.

Others also seemed to have that problem. Vanyae's actions seemed to indicate Anyar was

more than a slave, but…

The uncertainty left everyone unsure how to treat him, and Vanyae seemed to remain

oblivious of the tenuous position into which this put his younger love.

Anyar was not Nazarian, was not one of them—and he had done what no other had ever

managed—hold the prince's heart.

Not that Anyar realized that. On the contrary, he believed that Vanyae would still come to

his senses, and things would return to the way they were before.

* * * * *

respective stalls, grooming them into shining contentment. Anyar crooned to the mare, flattering

her and telling her of her great beauty. She preened like the royalty she was, and Vanyae laughed

as he watched. His own stallion leaned into the grooming with little grunts of enjoyment, head

lowered. It was warm here, the sound of the continuing storm muffled.

Anyar cleaned off the brushes carefully, then gasped as he was suddenly pulled off

balance, out of the stall, and into a convenient pile of hay.

He glared up at Vanyae for a moment, then could not help but laugh at the mischievous

expression on the prince's face.

“I think this is a perfect place on a cold day,” Vanyae rumbled as he bent down and

captured Anyar's lips in a long, passionate kiss, holding the younger man's hands over his head.

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Then he delighted in slowly removing each piece of clothing, kissing every inch of

exposed skin. Anyar wriggled, ticklish on his belly and sides, but the prince held him firmly, not

allowing escape.

Vanyae paused to remove his own clothing in haste, then slid lower, engulfing Anyar's

shaft with eager lips.

The younger man arched, moaning, eyes tightly shut, breaking free of Vanyae's loosened

grip so he could sink his fingers into his master's long, soft hair. He stroked it, loving the

sensation of it on his skin. His toes curled, his balls tightened—then the prince stopped, and

Anyar shuddered with the need to come.

Wet fingers slid into him, and he pushed onto them while begging hoarsely for relief and

whimpering with pleasure when something larger made its presence known.

He wrapped his arms around Vanyae, kissing his throat, whispering his name as he

writhed. The prince lifted Anyar's legs, put them over his arms to change the angle, and the

smaller man cried out, pleading, almost sobbing with the sensations that overwhelmed him.

“Please, please…” His voice was choked and high.

Vanyae leaned in close to kiss him, stole his very breath.

“Come, my little love. Come for me.”

Anyar could do nothing else, even as the significance of that one word struck him hard.

* * * * *

exercises, but he had a long way to go to build up his stamina again.

He kept his eyes on the prince and admired his smooth, flowing way of fighting. They had

sparred together earlier, but Anyar could not keep pace and had to sit out to rest, much to his

chagrin.

He frowned, gnawing his lip nervously. Vanyae had not repeated that terrifying word,

thank the gods, and Anyar could try to pretend it had never happened.

The prince could not love him. He was a prisoner, the enemy—

Vanyae had to be joking, cruelly—and yet he seemed sincere, his actions, his every word,

his touch.

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Anyar drew a shuddering breath and looked down at his clenched fists.

He had to leave—before the feelings in his heart imprisoned him here more surely than

chains ever would.

* * * * *

had tried several times to get Vanyae to take him to see his fellow countryman, but the prince

refused, and the possessiveness in his eyes pointed to the reason.

So Anyar gathered all the information he could from casual questions of the staff and

overhearing conversations. It sounded as though Tanyan was given free rein of the palace but not

allowed to leave unless under guard. Anyar could only wonder why he had never seen him

during his own excursions. Were they being kept apart?

He thought of Vanyae's responses and could only answer
yes.

That night, he lay awake after he and Vanyae had coupled, his thoughts running wild. The