An Embrace of Citrus & Snow (Fallen for a Fae #1)

13. Everil

Chapter thirteen

Everil

In keeping with Bo’s promise, the new hotel room included individual beds. Everil did his best to ignore the sinking disappointment in his stomach at the sight. After so nearly losing Bo, he longed for the man’s closeness.

Better to think of other things. The room made a decent distraction. Walls of robin’s egg blue and pale green, brown carpet, and a rather unsettling profusion of palm frond decor. Talia had proclaimed it ‘groovy’ before shutting herself away in her adjoining room. Everil, accustomed to the dark wood and faded colors of Brookhaven, wondered if this was a new human norm.

“I think Talia’s going to riot if we don’t take her to a place with proper room service soon,” Bo said as he set down his things.

Everil, selfish and weak, drank in the sight of unbroken skin through rent fabric. He had so nearly been too late. He’d smelled Bo’s blood. Tasted his fear, all bitter orange and rhododendron honey.

“I believe she’ll forgive us, provided you locate another diner for her to terrorize.”

“Yeah,” Bo said, flashing Everil a smile he didn’t deserve. “Think I can manage that.”

Everil nodded, silent. There was nothing to be said that would make it right. He wanted to touch Bo, feel for himself that the damage was healed. Kiss every place the dryad had cut.

Instead, he crossed to sit on the bed furthest from Bo and the door. He wanted closeness, but he knew how ill his instincts led him. Lowering his eyes, he saw the brush Talia had pressed on him, still held loosely in one hand. Apparently, he looked like he’d lost a fight with a tree.

He had won a fight with a tree .

“We should be safe here. Suire won’t move against you again. Now she’s forsworn, she has no easy path to finding me. Besides, she knows I would kill her.” Head down, he returned his gaze to Bo, unable to resist the gravity of his presence. “I can ward our rooms, but it may be best to abstain from magic. Whatever you wish.”

“I’m good without. What about you? It’s your magic.”

“Ours,” Everil corrected, as he gathered his hair over one shoulder. That was how Nimai had put it. ‘Ours.’ But from Bo, there was a curl of something like distaste. Everil’s hand tightened on the brush, and his gaze fell to his lap. “Yours to call on, as you did today. It helped me find you.”

“Save me,” Bo interjected as he shrugged out of his torn jacket. “Fucking dryads.”

“He will not trouble you again.” Everil focused on the ends of his hair, dragging the brush through with sharp, hard strokes. “I believe we can forgo a ward. Perhaps not if you are alone, but I am present. I … should have been present. I apologize.”

Bo continued to undress, pulling off his hoodie and briefly exposing a stretch of his abdomen in the effort. Everil told himself he stared only for the sake of ensuring Bo bore no cuts or scratches.

He was a bad liar.

The brush caught on a twig, and Everil pulled more sharply. Better to think on that than stew in the guilt and shame that he knew Bo would read from him, only making the circumstance worse.

Eyes down, he didn’t see Bo moving closer. But he could feel it. While it no longer hurt to be out of Bo’s immediate presence, it still felt good when he drew near. The sweetness of his aura filled Everil’s senses, the memory of bitterness replaced by honey and vanilla. And while Everil was sure the man must be angry with him, he couldn’t feel a hint of it. Concern, yes, but not anger.

Bo crouched before him, smiling, the expression as tired as his eyes.

“Can I brush your hair?” he asked, startling Everil to renewed stillness. “I’d like to brush your hair, Everil. If that’s alright with you.”

Everil swallowed, tongue darting out to chase the phantom taste of vanilla. He’d let his hair grow after Lawrence’s death. First, from grief, then pique. It wasn’t a question anyone had ever asked him.

Was this something that was done now, among humans?

“Of course,” he murmured, holding out the brush. “You may consider any twigs you find war trophies. ”

Ridiculous. Everil flinched, nearly apologizing before catching himself. Bo didn’t mind his humor.

“Yeah?” Bo took the brush with a grin. “Deal. If I find enough, maybe we can fashion little crowns of them.”

Everil waited, pretending at calm, as Bo settled himself on the bed. He could hear both their breaths, feel the shift of the mattress.

Close. Bo was close. Bo liked to be close. It was merely a byproduct of the bond. Everil would not project his own tawdry wants on the man. Not even as Bo’s cool fingers brushed over Everil’s neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“This okay?” Bo asked as he picked slowly through the knotted strands by hand. “It’d hurt like a bitch if I went at it with a brush first and hit a future diadem piece.”

It was much more than okay. Everil tilted his head back, sighing as the constant, coiled tension threatened to ease from his shoulders.

“You needn’t worry over my comfort,” he offered. And then, because it was Bo, he added, “But yes. It’s very pleasant.”

“Awesome. Let me know if it stops being pleasant.”

Silence then, close and almost comfortable. Everil’s racing thoughts quieted, going hazy at the edges.

He’d thought he understood what it felt like, being close to a soulbond. But this time, there was no sickening thrum of disappointment below the pleasure, no nagging anxiety as he tried to puzzle out what he’d done wrong. Instead, there was the gentle tug of Bo’s fingers through his hair, more intimate than Everil had expected.

“I was glad you took me up on the offer to rest back at the parking lot.” Bo’s voice was warm. Approving. “You were fucking badass. And hey, guess we both can claim to have accidentally snacked on each other’s energy. Thanks for not being upset about the magic thing. I forgot it was even a possibility until it happened.”

Everil huffed, wordless, and shook his head. The faint pull of Bo’s fingers was comfortable, oddly secure. Like being held. It had been a long time since Everil had been held.

“Barely more than runoff.” The words came lazy, without the careful precision Everil usually managed when speaking.

“I flash-fried part of a dryad with your barely more than runoff, not even knowing that I could,” Bo murmured back. “And you scoff at being called a fucking badass. You tore through those branches like they were nothing. Fucking incredible. ”

Bo’s fingers brushed over Everil’s neck and shoulder again, paired with a gentle tug that set his scalp tingling. It was unforgivably enjoyable. He should–

He would think about ‘should’ in a moment. Just one more moment.

“You may as well get some benefit from this arrangement.”

“I get plenty from this, I think,” Bo answered. “An ugly hat. Badass kelpie bond who’s secretly hilarious and has freckles. I think he thinks I’m funny too. Wise-cracking kid. Presumptuous as fuck of me to say, ‘knowing you’ll come find me if shit goes down,’ but I’m saying it anyway.”

“I will.” Everil hoped that Bo could feel the promise in the word. “Magic is merely where power meets desire. You bolster the former and provide the latter. If I acted the ‘badass,’ the credit is at your feet.”

Bo laughed, the sound as quiet as the rest of their words, gentle as his touch. The bond was bright with contentment, as if Bo truly wished to be nowhere but where he was, his fingers working through Everil’s hair, careful touch and deliberate tugs that made the world go quiet.

“I’ll accept half credit. Teamwork for the magic bits. Partial credit to me for shooting off at the mouth like an angry gremlin and to you for tearing shit up and looking fierce as fuck while doing so.”

“By fierce, you mean twigs and tangles,” Everil countered, leaning further toward Bo’s touch, which he desperately needed to stop lest he tip into the man’s lap. “If that look appeals…”

Bo’s fingers slid up near Everil’s scalp, his grip tightening, gentle yet unmistakable, while his other hand continued to comb through no longer tangled strands. Everil’s eyes fell closed, his breaths coming in careful sips of air.

“Mm?” Bo prompted.

“If it appeals,” Everil tried again, his voice coming dangerously close to shaking, “you are working against your own interests.”

“I’m making sure the twigs and tangles have somewhere to go.” Bo continued his slow, deliberate strokes. “And that you don’t wake up with an accidental up-do.”

“I see,” Everil murmured, even as he followed the whispered pressure of Bo’s grip, tilting his head back.

There was no lash of disapproval from Bo, yet. No impatience. Only pleasure echoing pleasure, and Everil knew that it was wrong. Touch-starved and greedy, he was confusing Bo with his own longing .

He would say something. If it continued much longer, crossed beyond Bo’s fingers in his hair, he would.

“A little to the side.” Bo’s words were nearly a whisper. “Easier for me to reach.”

Easy to follow where Bo led. Words and breath and soft tugs against his scalp. Bo’s nearness like orange liqueur poured over vanilla ice cream, and Everil was drunk on it, lips parted and tongue darting to chase the taste. Honey, like the moment they were in. Slow and golden.

Honey and …

Bo’s arm slipped around his chest, the other still gripping his hair.

Honey and fire.

Everil swallowed a whimper. He trembled, then forced himself still, muscles tense with the effort.

“Better?” he breathed.

“Better,” Bo answered, quiet voice gone low. “Doing more than fine.”

Everil didn’t relax at the reassurance. If he did, he’d not be able to hide the trembling. He waited, suspended, bolt-ready caution eased by the tightening of Bo’s grip, an unspoken “I have you.”

And Bo touched him. His fingers trailed over Everil’s jaw, his chin. Callus-rough. So very human.

His fingertips found Everil’s lower lip, tracing the shape of it. This time, Everil did whimper, a breathy, shaking sound. Orange and honey and flame. And Everil wanted more. Wanted salt and skin. He pressed his hungry tongue to the roof of his mouth, catching it before he could embarrass himself.

The bond remained a soft wash of heat and affection and wanting. No disappointment or acid impatience. It was dizzying as the rest, that lack of a whip to set Everil’s pace. Paralyzing, that absence. The breathless wait for what was right to become wrong, for Bo’s smile to twist cold.

Everil didn’t move, didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. Starving, but knowing he wasn’t permitted to eat. Knowing that any action he took would be the wrong one, then the whip would find him. Punish him for greed or wantonness or inattention.

“Fold your hands together on your stomach, Everil. If it’s comfortable.” Gentle. Bo’s words were so very gentle. His fingers, there against Everil’s lips, were gentle. The hunger of him, that eager burn, wasn’t gentle at all. “Open your mouth a little more for me.” Words low and close, paired with the whisper of pressure, fingers to lips, guiding him. “I won’t make you guess.”

It had been a century since Everil had been touched. A century and never like this. Never with a bond echoing his wanting, amplifying it instead of punishing him for feeling.

Head tilted as it was, Everil could see Bo watching him. The blue of his eyes and the curve of his lips as he waited. His hand stayed in Everil’s hair, guidance and support and surety. Sure, like Bo’s voice, gentle but not cautious, a path laid out. Solid ground to walk on.

Everil whimpered, his lips parting with unseemly eagerness. Warm, rough fingers over his lips, his tongue. Honey and salt. Sugar and skin.

He shouldn’t–

He needed to–

He folded his hands, white-knuckled with tension and desire.

“I fucking love how much you want this.” Bo’s rough voice was so close. “Doing perfect, Everil. Don’t use your tongue or try to suck, alright?”

Too generous, too kind, and his fingers rocking deeper, while urgent, pleading noises tore themselves from Everil’s throat. Wrong, to allow himself this. To give in to base urges, take what he didn’t deserve to have.

But Winter take him, he burned for it. And he didn’t know how to stop.

“Just relax your throat and focus on my hands. I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Don’t think. Focus on Bo’s hands. The gentle grip in his hair. The rock of fingers over his now wet lips. Don’t think, only want , like he’d never been permitted to. That buried, unwelcome part of himself, the river’s wild, unchecked desire. And each deeper press into his mouth, two fingers, then three, threatening the dams Everil had built.

“Doing good,” Bo rasped, his fingers pressing deeper, so that Everil couldn’t help but swallow around them. Greedy, too greedy. But he needed this. He needed it. “Fucking beautiful.”

Everil shook with it. With the attention. With the praise. With the sugar-sweet taste of him. He leaned up, taking all Bo gave him and yearning toward more, only to be held where he was by Bo’s grip on his hair. And that was better. That he couldn’t take. He could only accept what was given.

Bo wouldn’t let him fall. Bo, his bond, who smiled as he held him, as he pushed deeper, his eyes lust-dark and pleased .

No one had ever looked at Everil like that before. Like he was something good. Something right .

“It’s fucking hot, you trying to get more.” And now, each deep press lingered while Everil shuddered and swallowed and whined. “I think I got your number, Everil.” Swallow, lean up, feel the pull keeping him where he belonged. Against Bo. “Kind of guy who likes to get fucked after he’s finished,” coarse words, rough touch, eyes Everil couldn’t look away from, “over-sensitive and wrung out,” swallowing, eager, unable to stop himself, “where it’s almost too much but doesn’t hurt. I close?”

Bo’s fingers slid away with the question, and Everil (greedy, ill-behaved kelpie) chased them with his tongue. Only Bo’s words checked him; raw wanting turned to blunt possibilities. Bo’s words and his darkened eyes, watching.

Everil hadn’t the first idea how to answer.

He wanted this. For all that he shouldn’t, mustn’t, he was struggling to do anything but plead. The taste of Bo lingered on his tongue like his fingertips against Everil’s lips. And the man had a magnetism beyond the bond, striking features and a fierce intensity, made all the more alluring by his lack of polish.

Bo’s kiss wouldn’t be a careful, considered thing, gifted to Everil for good behavior. It would be lust wild and honey sweet. It would taste of summer.

Everil thought he might do anything, just for that, just to kiss him, and Bo was offering so much more.

All Everil had to do was answer, to say yes. Surely, yes was what Bo wanted to hear. But what if it wasn’t? What if Everil got it wrong?

Inevitable, perhaps, that he would ruin this.

“Bo, I–” He had ceded too much control, lost hold of his reins, and it was proving very difficult to keep his voice steady. “I don’t…. I can’t say I’ve ever….” His words kept trailing off to whispers, like maybe if he was quiet enough, he wouldn’t chase Bo away. “It’s been a century, since someone last touched me. And he was not so … confident as you.”

Lawrence had been a man of his time, ashamed of his desires even as he pursued them. That reticence had married well with Everil’s own guilt and confusion, so soon after leaving Nimai.

“Confident’s a word for it.” Bo’s lips quirked slightly at that, concern and amusement both in his smile. His fingers still lingered, and there was comfort in his not, yet, having pulled away. “So, it’s been a while. You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about. ”

“I think I may. I don’t even know how to answer you. I cannot conceive of what I might want, beyond that I wish this to continue.” Everil licked his lips, stealing a fresh taste of Bo’s skin. “I realize that’s a poor answer. That I’m not as you might hope. I apologize for disappointing.”

“You haven’t.” And Bo’s words were so fierce, paired with a gentle tug at Everil’s hair, that it was difficult to doubt him. “I like you. Funny and sharp and quiet and all. I ask, and you don’t know, or it’s been a while? Cool. Doesn’t make me like you less.”

“It feels as if it should.”

“Fuck that. Let me kiss you?” Bo asked the question with a fresh press to the seam of Everil’s lips, which he parted all too readily. “I want to kiss you.”

“Please. I want,” he looked away, as much as he could while held in Bo’s grip, “more of you. As much as you’ll allow me. Only, I fear you might find me … selfish.”

“Really, Everil,” snapped the whip-crack of Nimai’s voice in his mind, “I know you’re a kelpie, but you could at least pretend at some modicum of control.”

“How about you tell me about this selfishness,” Bo murmured, as his thumb played over Everil’s parted lips, close enough to taste but not to take. “Though you’ll have to put up with me being confused if it’s something like, ‘I’m noisy.’ Then I can kiss you, and we can see about getting us more of each other.”

This conversation felt like walking a highwire in stallion form, all while lust-drunk and blindfolded.

“I’m not so quiet as I might wish. But that isn’t what I meant.” There was no right way to answer. Either he explained successfully, and Bo would see him through Nimai’s eyes. Or he failed, and Bo would think this a fit of dramatics, nothing more. “Rivers are hungry. Grasping. You saw a glimpse of that at Brookhaven, before I shifted. And now, again. You asked to brush my hair, and I sought you for my bed. I could hardly think beyond wanting your touch.” He studied Bo’s mouth, lest he see disdain in those eyes. “And my use of the past tense is disingenuous.”

Everil tensed, waiting for Bo’s emotions, heady as a midsummer day, to twist into disdain. And there was a flare of sharp emotion, anger or something like it. There and gone, replaced with a wash of heat and affection.

“I fucking love how much you want this,” Bo said, words he’d offered once before. “I asked to brush your hair because I’ve wanted to since before we bonded, and we sought each other for our bed. It’s sexy as fuck, the sounds you make, how you lean in. The way you open your mouth for me. Fucking pretty. Same goes when you let me pull you about some.”

“I–” He didn’t know what Bo wished him to say. He didn’t know how to be wanted in the way Bo was willing to want him.

Bo tugged at his hair, gently insistent. A pull at Everil’s scalp that settled that knife-sharp need to freeze or run.

“If this is you selfish, sign me the fuck up. Especially if you’ll let me see how much more I can get you to not think.”

What could he possibly do to deserve such generosity? What was he meant to say? In his place, Bo would have the words. It would likely involve multiple creative invocations of the word ‘fuck.’

“You’re very patient,” Everil said, meeting Bo’s gaze at last. “I’m not accustomed to that. Nor to someone being so clear.” He managed a smile, hesitant but real. “It’s … appealing. But I’m not skilled at speaking with the same candor.”

“You’re doing pretty well on the candor front right now.”

Again, Everil found himself smiling. “You may consider yourself a role model. I would very much like not to ruin this.” He would give anything not to ruin this. “But questions about what I want or what I like are … difficult. I want you. This. More. Is that acceptable?”

“Yeah, Everil. It’s more than acceptable.” Bo’s reassurance, fond and raw-edged and patient, stole Everil’s breath even as it allowed him his next inhale. “Just, you tell me if I say or do something you’re not a fan of. Okay? ‘Wait’ or ‘stop’ or what-the-fuck-ever. Push my arm if you can’t talk. Fuck knows I’m not going to get upset at you for it. Feelings aren’t mind reading. All that shit.”

Strange words, stranger for their sincerity. Bo meant it. He would have Everil stop him. Would interrupt his own pleasure for the sake of Everil’s comfort.

“As you wish. I’ll tell you,” he said, openly confused. It wouldn’t be easy. Everil wasn’t in the habit of objection. “My word on it.”

His oath, because otherwise, he didn’t know how he’d dare to voice dissent.

“Good.” The word came with a rush of satisfaction and anticipation, a current of heat and honey.

Bo leaned in, his grip shifting, his other hand light on Everil’s jaw. Painfully close, and still, not quite a kiss. Everil could feel a shiver go through him. He swallowed.

“I– Bo, I fear I don’t know what to do. ”

“Put one of your hands on the back of my neck,” Bo said. “Like on the porch. I like it when you do that.”

Too generous, too kind, and Everil did as Bo permitted. Warm skin under burning fingers. So very tempting. Delicious . And there was Bo’s pulse, racing under the stroke of his thumb.

“I can feel your heartbeat like this,” he murmured, drunk on touch and possibility. On Bo’s equal want, as sweet and heady as mead. “Arteries are like rivers. All desire.”

“I still say the river’s missing out.”

Laughter, and then Bo’s smiling mouth, pressed to his. Soft but bold, that was how Bo kissed. Not like a reward or a punishment. Like he was exactly where he wished to be.

“The river’s here, Bo.” Everil’s tongue traced his own lips, honey-sweet from Bo’s aura. Warm with the heat of his kiss. “You’re holding it.”

“Fucking dangerous. Hungry and grasping.” Bo kissed the words into the corner of Everil’s mouth. “Told you. Most beautiful fucking thing I’ve seen. You and you and you.”

Hungry and grasping. Somehow, in Bo’s cadence, the words were a caress instead of a lash. His callus-rough fingers brushed Everil’s lips, coaxing them to part for wanting, eager noises.

“It’s unseemly, my love,” Nimai’s voice mocked. “Look at you. How you pant for it. Disgusting.”

“Unseemly,” Everil murmured the words against Bo’s fingers. “That’s what would be said of it. The way I behave, the way I wish to behave, with you.”

He needed to get Nimai’s voice out of his head. He needed Bo to say it, to take away the bitter sting.

“Unseemly,” Bo echoed as his fingers pressed between Everil’s already parted lips. Slow, and as sure as the hand still in Everil’s hair. “Unseemly, ’cause you’re enjoying yourself, giving me exactly what I want, and a fantastic fucking sight?” Back, and in and in, while Everil shook. “Their loss. You’re behaving how you want, and it’s hot as hell. I want as much of your unseemly as you’ll give me.”

Unseemly, the helpless, hungry noise he made as Bo’s thumb stroked his skin. The way he leaned in, taking all Bo would give him and begging for more. Unseemly, the word sugared with desire; poison turned to candy.

“See? Like that. Looks so fucking good.” Bo’s voice was a caress, and Everil’s fingers curled with it, stealing the heat of his skin. “It’s fucking tempting to do this all night, watch you come apart little by little, just from this. ”

Everil answered with helpless, desperate whimpers. And Bo, sweet Bo, met need with generosity, filling Everil’s mouth and overwhelming his senses. Rough fingers against his tongue and further, leaving Everil swallowing against them.

The first bite into a ripe orange, juice dripping over his lips and down his ravenous throat.

He would take this, only this, if that was what Bo was willing to give him. Would take and take and take it, the slide of Bo’s fingers and the low close rasp of his words. The beat of his pulse and the brightness of his want, reflecting Everil’s need.

“Tempting, but I want to touch more of you. Gonna move soon so I can. I’ll tell you when. Won’t have to guess. We’re going to get on my bed,” Bo said as Everil begged wordlessly around his fingers. “I think I’m gonna strip us down and work you over, take you high as fucking possible until you come with me between your knees.”

The last time Bo’d made such a suggestion, it’d sent Everil back to himself. There’d been a question, and Everil’s mouth free to answer. To ruin all of it with an ill-chosen word.

This time, Bo asked nothing, and Everil’s mouth was busy; the only noises he could manage were wordless expressions of gratitude and desire. No maze of doors, just Bo, still holding the section of hair he’d brushed his fingers through so very gently, guiding them forward even as he pulled his fingers away.

“Hands to the bed, Everil. We’re going to start sitting up.”

Arteries. Rivers. Blood and water. Honey and citrus. Desire. A beast to be tamed, to be broken to the rein.

Selfish to want as he wanted, as a river wanted, with the whole of himself. But he did. He wanted. Eyes open, storm-dark, and palms on the bed, Bo’s heartbeat gone, but his own still racing.

“Please,” Everil spoke in a desperate whisper. “Please.”

“Gonna let go of your hair so I can move,” Bo said. Only that, the warning before the action, kept Everil from panicking as Bo let go.

Everil went still with the absence, not frozen but tense, biting his lip to muffle his own shaking breaths. Bo’s hold had been a wall to set his shoulder against, a steady path to follow. Without it, he–

Bo slid closer, the solidity of him pressed to Everil’s back, his fingers gripping Everil’s sweater, while Everil’s fingers dug into the duvet. Warm lips found Everil’s neck, and Everil let his head fall forward, inviting more. (And more. And more.)

“Fucking love how you taste. Like yourself,” Bo murmured, each breath making Everil shiver anew. “Like the river. ”

“Dampness and rot,” came the memory of Nimai’s voice, and with it, the dry burn of cinnamon.

“Not everyone is so fond of rivers.”

“They can fuck right off, then.” Bo’s fingertips slid under Everil’s sweater, burning against his skin. “You’re dark shadows and old wood. Like snowmelt straight from the bank. Loam and petrichor.” Lips and breath and playful tongue, on Everil’s neck, the curve of his shoulder, his throat. “Fucking delicious.”

Everil floated. Dizzy with Bo’s lips, the low murmur of words from a man who wished to drink the river from his skin. Bo had a way of turning him into poetry. Exceptionally profane poetry.

“I fear my observation that someone is ‘delicious’ isn’t generally welcome.” The shaky, breathless words left his tongue before he could catch them. “But I confess to being fond of sweets.”

Bo snickered. “You’ve already called me a confection and nibbled my jacket. Your sweet tooth is an open secret.”

For once, Everil didn’t think to apologize. Bo was laughing, nuzzling his neck, and desire was a river between them, if rivers could be said to flow in both directions.

“I shall trust you not to share it further.” Everil could hardly match Bo’s easy confidence, but he could, at least, meet his laughter with a smile.

“Think I can manage.” Bo’s hand slid from under Everil’s shirt, his fingers leaving a shivering trail of heated skin. “C’mon, we gotta get up. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Your bed?” Everil asked. It wasn’t, really, a question. Bo had indicated, rather explicitly, where he wished Everil to be. The memory of those heated words provided lure enough for him to peel himself away from Bo.

“Yeah,” Bo answered, quiet but intense. Need burning through the bond like honey wine. “My bed.”

A few steps, no more. Everil sat and wrapped his fingers tightly around his own wrist, watching Bo through lowered eyes.

The waiting hurt, threatening to shatter the moment. It would be a proper sort of punishment, setting Everil alight and then leaving him to burn.

He could ask. Reach for him. But faced with possibility, Everil froze. A broken horse, invited to run, shying from the possibility of open spaces.

He didn’t –

Bo stepped in, tracing the line of Everil’s cheek, fingers catching in his hair. Everil’s thoughts stuttered, settled, as he leaned in with a breathless sigh. Everything felt tenuous, fragile. Everything but Bo’s hands, in Everil’s hair, on his jaw. That, and the way the bond burned like summer days and lemons straight from the tree.

“Fucking delicious,” Bo murmured, then closed what little distance remained between them.

Soft, begging noises dragged from his throat and caught by Bo’s tongue. Unseemly, and it was, but Everil did it anyway, stole the honey from Bo’s lips, and whimpered, leaning up, pleading for more.

And Bo, sweet Bo, generous Bo, swallowed the noises from his lips, giving him more. And more. And more.

“Went just where I wanted you to.” Impossibly, Bo’s voice was soft with approval. “Almost there. Taste you first, then I’m gonna tell you exactly how to sit and where I want your hands.”

“Thank you,” Everil whispered.

There was an unfamiliar thread in the bond, an emotion Everil didn’t recognize. It felt the way Bo’s hand did, as it tightened again in Everil’s hair, guiding his head back further. It felt like not needing to run.

“Already so fucking eager.” Words that should have hurt but felt like a caress.

Guided. Sheltered. Bo left no room for questions, held his head and kissed him like he, too, was eager. Everil met demand with ready acquiescence, let himself dive into the burning rush of desire, vanilla scented and honey sweet, bright as the bite of citrus.

“More,” he breathed, when he could speak. Then flinched, trying to lower his eyes, grip tightening around his wrist. He forced his next words steady, if only just. “Too eager. Selfish. Forgive me.”

“No such thing as too eager,” Bo answered, close and warm. “Want you eager. Told you, sign me the fuck up for selfish. Just because I’m not going to make you ask doesn’t mean you can’t.”

Before Everil could answer, Bo’s hand dropped from Everil’s face to his wrist. He tugged, just lightly, until Everil forced his fingers to uncurl.

“If you need more than the bond to remind you, I’m happy to keep saying it.” Bo kissed the words against Everil’s cheek, onto the corner of his parted lips. “I can do physical, too.”

And Summer save him, but Bo followed through with that intention. Pressed Everil’s palm to the hard, waiting length of him, only a few bare layers of fabric between them. Permitted to touch, and he took what license he was given, palm sliding up and back, the careful evenness of his breath lost to a shaking exhale.

“Mind, soul, and body are all really fucking into you being selfish and hungry and eager.” There was a catch in Bo’s voice and fresh heat in the bond.

Eager. Everil ached he was so eager. Ached for Bo’s mouth and his touch and his skin. He’d wanted him at the river. Before that. When he’d seen him standing in the sunset, painted gold, lacking only a crown of oak leaves. He’d wanted to take him in a field, his pleasure a solstice sacrifice. Had wanted to press him down against the riverbed, kiss air into his lungs.

Feral .

Wild.

Cinnamon and clove.

Orange and vanilla.

“Please.” A whispering thread of sound, hesitant but not unsure. Trusting Bo in this. That he’d be offered sugar instead of the crack of a whip. “Please, Bo. More of this. Of you.” He traced Bo’s length again, staring up through strands of dark hair. “Help me be selfish. Please?”

“Fuck yeah, Everil. Anything.” Bo rocked against Everil’s hand as he spoke, answering need with undeserved generosity. “Undo my pants. Button and zipper. Use both of your hands and take your time. I can’t feel you enough through my jeans.”

There was a hint of laughter in the man’s voice, and the start of a crooked smile on his lips.

“You’re amused?” Everil asked.

“I don’t usually give a play by play.” Bo’s hand found his jaw, thumb resting below Everil’s lip.

It hadn’t occurred to Everil that this was as new to Bo as it was to him. Bo surely had lovers but not fae. Not one bound to his soul.

Everil lifted a shaking hand from his knee, letting his fingers trail up the inside of Bo’s thigh. Taking his time.

“I would be lost, otherwise,” he murmured, leaning into Bo’s caress. “You’re very kind, Bo.” His fingers brushed metal, and he drew in a shaking breath. “Very sweet.”

Fresh heat flared in Bo’s gaze, and a rush of what Everil could only call affection poured through the bond .

“Won’t make you guess,” he said, a promise Everil knew he could trust. “Open your mouth for me again. Just a little, like before.”

Eager, the way Everil met that heated look. The way he let his gaze trail down from there, over Bo’s chest. Lower.

Selfish. The way his fingers stole up to brush over Bo’s stomach as he worked the button loose. The ready way he parted his lips at Bo’s invitation.

Unseemly. All of it. His own aching arousal, and his awareness of it. The way he kept returning to Bo’s words: Think I got your number, Everil. The way he didn’t stop. Wouldn’t, unless Bo changed his mind.

“That’s the way,” Bo said, rough voiced, his thumb on Everil’s tongue. “Going to fucking indulge. That’s just what I want. It’s fucking hot.”

More.

More, and Bo didn’t deny him. Didn’t despise him for his unsteady breathing or shaking touch. Everil still tense, as much from eagerness as caution, hyper-aware of the bond, waiting for any sour shift in Bo’s emotions.

Desire didn’t always equate to pleasure.

“Zipper next. You’re doing fucking beautifully, Everil.” The slide of Bo’s zipper, down. The press of his thumb, in. The rough drag of his words, everywhere. “I can’t wait to have you bent over and spent.”

Everil trembled, eyes wide as they met Bo’s. No words, his mouth busy, only a helpless noise, as raw and open as the way he shook.

What did it mean to break? Was one broken, if the desire remained, no matter how many times the whip fell? If one learned to obey, but could never quell the need for swift water and heated blood?

Everil had held so tightly for so long. Kept himself in check, first in fear, then in penance.

“Push my jeans down, off my hips.” Bo’s thumb, almost out. In, again. “Did fucking good with the zipper.”

Everil couldn’t stop trembling. Not as he caught Bo’s waistband, tugging his jeans down with more speed than grace. Not as he swallowed around Bo’s thumb, tasting him. Not as he followed after it at the next slide back, wanting more, teeth scraping blunt over skin.

Greedy.

“Fuck, but you’d look pretty with your mouth around my cock.” Bo’s words came on a low, shivering groan, as Everil caressed him through his boxers. “I want to see you. Need to get your shirt off. Sweater. Both. Fuck .”

Everil nodded, desperate to please, then pulled back, hands and mouth both. He favored loose clothing. Light materials in gray or black, simple and comfortable. Easy to slip out of.

“You’re making a habit of interrupting your intentions,” he murmured, as he reached for his collar. His gaze darted up, searching Bo’s reaction to the cautious teasing. No anger there, so Everil continued, making good on Bo’s request. “There’s still my hair, your pants, and your….” His gaze fell to where his attentions had so recently focused. “You had thoughts regarding how….” The attempt at a jest a sudden stumbling block. He was not so adept as Bo at pretty obscenities. He licked his lips and swallowed hard. “Regarding my … mouth.”

Unsure, he let his gaze drop to his shirt and sweater, tugging them apart so he might fold them properly. The attempt was interrupted by Bo’s hand on his chin, tilting his head back up.

“I get distracted by looking at you,” Bo said, catching Everil’s lips with a quick, firm kiss. “Touching you. And you sucking my cock would probably mean me not being in any sort of shape to fuck you.”

Everil swallowed, tasting the words. He needed, desperately, not to lose this. The curl of Bo’s pleasure. His affection. One night. One night where it was only good. Where Everil wouldn’t be made to loathe himself, after.

“Bo, don’t deny yourself what you might wish for the sake of my satisfaction.” Everil spoke carefully. Wanting to make it clear to Bo that he meant it. That his selfishness needn’t be read as an ask. “If you’d have me see to your wants, I would very much enjoy that. I don’t require you to … reciprocate.”

“See to my wants.” Bo stepped out of his jeans as he spoke, sounding puzzled. But, at least, not angry. The man’s shirt followed his pants, dropping to the floor, and Everil lost the thread of his thoughts.

Bo wasn’t pretty or soft, as Lawrence had been. Nor was he beautiful, in the manner of a fae. Nimai was stunning.

Bo was, well, the word Bo would likely use was hot. Solid and muscled, though not aggressively so the way the Hollow had been. Lean with it, not bulky. A scar ran down his side; Everil wanted to trace it with fingers and tongue. Fae almost never scarred; they simply healed themselves.

The urge to touch was one Everil knew how to control. Control, yes. But not stop feeling. The desire catching fast, a fresh burn, only to be interrupted by the warmth of Bo’s hands on his shoulders. Pressing him back, and Everil made no effort to stop him, followed the unspoken guidance until he was lying on the bed and Bo…

Bo was on top of him.

“Everil,” Bo murmured, grinning. “Ever. Ev. Put your hands on my ass. Over the boxers. Make sure to have a decent grip, so I don’t fall.”

Ever . Bo made his name new. Unweighted by old pain.

“Ever. Please?” Everil murmured. Sweet Bo. Letting Everil touch. Feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of his boxers. “I like it.”

“Ever. It suits you.” Pleased words and Bo’s kiss, the rough brush of his fingers, leaving shivering trails over Everil’s skin. “I like it, too.”

Warm and close and real and Bo kissed like he spoke, with unrepentant desire. Everil, dizzy with pleasure, kissed nothing like he spoke. Insatiable and leaning up, quiet sounds of pleasure every bit as obscene as Bo’s explicit commentary.

Teeth and tongues and hunger reflecting hunger, building like a river in a summer thunderstorm. Broken only when Bo’s drifting fingers–

He–

It had been a century since–

Gentle fingers. Soft fabric. The promise of friction.

“I also like the idea of getting you off, Ever. Fucking love it.”

Honey on his tongue. Sweet orange trickling down his throat.

And through the bond, Bo’s unmistakable approval.

Pleased. Lust, yes. Amusement. But more. Bo was pleased. With him. With this. Everil hard under Bo’s hand. And Bo was pleased.

Pleased. And touching him.

Everil keened, sinking his teeth into his own shoulder to muffle the sound.

“Let me hear you.” Bo’s voice shook, low and shredded at the edges. “I want to hear you, Ever. Already seeing to my wants. Fucking perfect.”

Unseemly. Embarrassing. Everil’s teeth dug hard into the meat of his own shoulder, panting exhales and desperate gasps kept contained, and Bo tugged at his hair, an invitation to let go.

Pathetic.

Bo’s hand slipped under Everil’s waistband, skin on skin, rough callused fingers sliding over aching heat.

Everil knew he shouldn’t–

Shouldn’t groan Bo’s name with animal want. Shouldn’t press up into Bo’s hand. Shouldn’t grip him more tightly.

But he did. And he did. And he did.

“Bo. Please. Please. “ Selfish to ask, to take, but the reins had slipped Everil’s grip entirely. Words fell, unchecked, from his traitorous lips. “More? I– Forgive me. I shouldn’t–. Bo . Don’t go. I need you. Please?”

“You’re doing fucking beautifully. Nothing to forgive. Just how I want you.” Bo’s fingers found his mouth again, pressed in and deep, like the man knew how he needed the taste of him. “Look at your pretty fucking mouth, ready for me. Keep it open, so I can hear you. I’m not gonna leave you, Ever. Gonna give you as much as I can.

“Want your hands on me.” Words paired with quickening strokes, a sure touch that dragged shameless moans from Everil’s parted lips. “Fuck the boxers. I want to feel you on my skin.”

Shaking, keening, and allowed yet further license. Everil tugged Bo’s boxers down, caressing warm skin. And Bo, still there. Still pleased.

“This is how I want you, Ever.” Bo’s words were sweets shared on a summer night, ice cream at the riverbank. “ Fuck, but I need you, too. You’re already giving me so fucking much.”

Two days. Two days, and Bo had Everil panting beneath him, swallowing against his fingers and thrusting up into his hand.

Centuries he’d spent carving away the unwanted pieces of himself. Learning to be what Nimai wanted. Tame enough. Broken enough.

Bo wanted him like this . Not brought to heel, controlled and well spoken. Not effortlessly answering unvoiced expectations.

Wild .

Everil lost himself to want. To Bo. Bo, who didn’t leave him. Didn’t loathe him. Who gave and gave and gave, fed him on honey and lust.

Too much, too high, begging with each breath and whimper, and he would break like this. Shatter under Bo’s attentions, give way entirely to base want. Everil wanted to catch Bo’s fingers in his teeth, hold them to lick and suck and taste while he came .

He turned his head away, instead, just enough to speak. He needed to check himself. To keep Bo from pushing him past the point where he could lock it down.

But what he said was “Bo” and “need you” and, finally, in a desperate whisper, “may I?”

“ Ever . Fuck. Yeah, yes.” Bo caught Everil’s lips in a kiss, took his mouth with his tongue as he had with his fingers. “Want you to finish. Beautiful fucking kelpie, Ever, fuck. Done everything perfectly. Give me this, too. Want to fucking see you. Want to fucking feel it.”

Kelpie. Not a curse, but a caress. Beautiful fucking kelpie.

Wanted to see him. Wanted to feel it. Liked him grasping and eager and open-mouthed with desire.

Would let him break.

No.

Wanted to see him break.

Touched and kissed and stroked and stayed.

And more.

More.

Everil was sly undercurrents, water that ran slow until it didn’t. He’d spent a lifetime practicing control. Learning quiet and cautious reserve.

Everil shattered and shattered and shattered. Head back and eyes closed, mouth caressing the shape of Bo’s name. Shuddering apart.

His aspect, reined and neglected, surged forward, glamour falling away.

The sound of a river. The scent of new growth. The shadow of a stallion, rearing on the wall.

He knew what Bo would see. Silver-blue filigree on his skin, like scales or rivers, and eyes that shone like moonlight on water. Features sharper, mouth open to show serrated, vicious teeth.

“Bo.”

All he could think. All he could say.

Bo laughed. Didn’t startle back, didn’t gasp. He laughed, the sound wonder-bright, and traced his fingers over Everil’s lips.

“You are a beautiful fucking kelpie, shit. You gave me everything. Let me see. Fucking perfect. So fucking hot. Ever, look at you. Like a goddamn painting.”

Everything. All of him. The rush of water. The thunder of hooves. The heat of blood (and sex).

Everil, utterly untethered. And Bo, there, above him. The bond bright, bright, laughter and desire and fondness and pleasure.

No fear. No disgust.

Everil slid his hands up Bo’s back, dragging him closer, careful of nails gone sharp. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to Bo’s neck and shoulder, breathed in the scent of citrus and skin. His breath, like his hands, still shook.

His memories of the river, of the stallion’s play, were clearer now than they had been, his nature no longer suppressed.

“You’re real,” Bo had said, with old pain and new wonder.

“I’m real,” he murmured against Bo’s skin. “A kelpie in your bed.”

“Fuck yeah, you’re real.” Bo nuzzled against him, tugging at his hair and nipping at his skin. “So’s this.”

“It is.” It was. Real and more than real, Everil more himself than he’d been outside a river in much too long. Even so, his voice softened before he spoke again. But he did speak, echoing the words that had made him shiver. “You can put me on my knees if you wish. Fuck me. As I am. No glamour. No artifice.”

“Here I was, trying to think of romantic ways to say, ‘let’s turn you over so I can screw you senseless and limp into the mattress,’ ” Bo murmured, and Everil could feel the smiling curve of the man’s lips against his neck. “Beat me to the punch. No glamour, no artifice. I want you, Ever. Let’s get you on your knees so I can show you how much.”