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

19. Everil

Chapter nineteen

Everil

Respite. A warm, pleasant space. As much as Everil might be tempted to worry over the coming trials, it wasn’t the time. Veroni and Kesk would be a problem soon enough. If Everil allowed them to be a distraction now, he risked upsetting Leana. The woman was a brownie, ancient and well respected. Ignoring her hospitality would not endear them to her.

Best to eat. Rest. Just the thought was enough for a table to press up from the ground, with plates of sugar glazed pastries and cups of hot tea. The air warmed with the scent of vanilla and honey, a rather too blatant nod to the direction of Everil’s affections. Never before had peeled orange segments felt so presumptuous.

“You can eat,” he said into the quiet. “That is, it’s safe to do so. I should have asked if you were hungry.”

“I’d make a joke, but it’s Faerie. You’re good, Ever. I’m not about to get bristly about food. Or get stuck here forever if I eat, from what you said?”

“Talia is your ward. Even if someone were to attempt to chain you through hospitality, you’d have very little trouble leaving.” Everil eased his grip, giving Bo enough room to turn and face the table. It felt good to hold him, all the more so because of Bo’s own pleasure in that closeness. “But you’re correct; there’s no entrapment here.”

“Good.” Bo reached out, picking up a segment of orange. “Does the peeled fruit mean you’re thinking about me naked?”

How could he not? The scent of oranges in the air, and Bo’s hip under his hand. He could too clearly remember the roughness of Bo’s fingers. In his hair. On his tongue. The heat of his breath and the way their bodies had moved together .

But he didn’t know, now, what Bo wanted of him. Where the lines existed. Closeness, touch, that was clearly acceptable. There were many ways to touch.

“You’re very much on my mind,” he confessed. He could feel Bo’s amusement, with no anger behind it. “I’m not usually so demanding.”

“Demanding? What makes this you being demanding?”

And Bo, sweet Bo, tempting Bo, selected another orange segment and held it for Everil to take. Rough fingers so close, and they would taste of the fruit Everil took between his teeth. Cautious, not letting his lips brush skin.

Bright on his tongue and down his throat, tasting of desire and flame, of Bo , and Everil swallowed, then swallowed again.

Bo had asked a question. Everil had promised not to prevaricate. He should have known clarity would be uncomfortable.

“The figment I spoke to on the path accused me of cleaving to you out of obligation. But I’m familiar with obligation, and this is its opposite.” Everil’s voice shook as he leaned in closer, breathing Bo in. “I don’t wish to be a distraction or an irritant. But when you’re close, I find it very difficult to check my desires.”

“I think we both qualify as distractions. Not saying I mind. You’re not a fucking irritant. I mean, yeah, I’ve been irritated and shit. Frustrated. Tired. But not because of you or your,” Bo offered up another orange segment, gem-like and glistening, “desires.”

Breathless, Everil leaned in, took what was offered with careful lips and hungry tongue, still not allowing himself to touch Bo’s skin.

“I–” But the words wouldn’t come. He didn’t know how to ask.

Bo’s voice was soft, when he spoke again. “Whatever it said, I never thought last night was from obligation.”

No? Perhaps not. And still, Everil needed him to understand.

“None of this has been obligation.” Everil kept his voice quiet but couldn’t hide the insistence in the words. “My obligation is to break what binds us. That’s my duty as the head of a House, as the guardian of a Gate, and as Nimai’s oath-tied. Even to you. You’re ill-served, being bonded to me. My inadequacies are too myriad to list. But we remain bonded because you’ve not asked to be released. And I am too selfish not to take all of you that you’ll allow me.”

Bo leaned back against Everil, taking an orange slice of his own, and Everil watched his mouth close around it, the juice wetting his lips.

“You aren’t inadequate. Not to me. If you mean to the fae, fuck ’em. They think I am, too. I don’t want to break our bond. Not because of magic or me being swept away by it, either. I want to be with you , however served you think I am.”

Another segment of glistening orange, lifted toward Everil’s lips, this one held fast in half-curled fingers. There’d be no taking it without tasting Bo’s skin.

And he wanted to. Winter curse him, but he wanted to.

“They’re wrong about you. About us.” Everil wanted to sound calm. As sure as he felt. But the words were ragged at the edges. “My soul is yours. I will it so.”

Unseemly, to give in, but he did. Leaned in, his lips closing over cool sweetness and the warmth of skin, tasting as much of honey as of citrus.

“Use your tongue, Ever.” Bo’s voice was rough. And now, yes, it wasn’t only the soulbond. There was honey on Bo’s fingertips, richly sweet, enticing. “Your mouth. Taste me while I tell you my soul’s yours.”

Bo’s kelpie, eating from his hand, coaxed by gentle words and sugar. Given permission to hunger. To taste. Nothing in this that felt as it usually did, the confusion of wordless expectation as he tried so hard to be good. To be tame.

Bo didn’t need him to be tame.

Around them, the wooded walls were threaded with new growth, orchids opening in the drowsy heat, yellow and purple and white. Everil’s free hand settled on Bo’s chest, grounding himself with his heartbeat.

Wildflower honey, tasting of summer flowers in open fields. Everil shivered with tense, reined want. Carefully, he closed blunted teeth around Bo’s knuckles, gentle pressure to hold him there, where Everil could suck the sweetness from his fingers. Pleading, the noise in his throat. Eager.

“My soul’s yours,” Bo murmured. So soft. Gentle. His hand, covering Everil’s at his hip, tightened. “I fucking want it to be. Not anyone else. Just you.”

His. Everil’s. Sweetness and summer nights threading through to the heart of him, awash with lust and affection. Dark blue eyes, watching as Everil sucked and licked at his fingers. Tasting Bo, as much as the honey. Wanting to.

Moss carpeted the ground beneath them, thick roots breaking through to press at Everil’s ankles, urging him forward.

But–

Everil sent power hunting through the room, checking for subtle magics. Their presence in this space was enough to demand the Protocols of hospitality. The room wouldn’t hurt them. But its ready responsiveness to their twinned desires wasn’t harm. And they’d been promised a test.

No triggers or traps. Faerie answered solely to their shared need. Strange, as Everil had never before seen it cross the line from helpful to coaxing. But not dangerous.

Sure of Bo’s safety, he drew him closer, held him flush. Fresh heat, a bonfire burning on a riverbank, lit between them. Bo’s fingers still caught between Everil’s teeth, the hard evidence of Everil’s desire trapped between them.

Bo shuddering, rocking back against him, allowing Everil more than he deserved. Everil swallowing greedily around Bo’s fingers with parted lips and unsteady breaths.

Behave. Control yourself. Don’t be selfish.

The air thick with the scent of fresh growth and vanilla, and all Everil could taste, all he could feel, was Bo.

Bo, whose jeans gave way to faerie-weave, obscener in its gossamer softness than bare skin.

“Fuck, you’re amazing.” Bo rocked back again, and Summer help him, Everil pressed forward. “I love your fucking mouth. And your cock– Fuck , you’re gonna feel so good inside me.”

The room dimmed with his words, the glowing orchids painting Bo’s skin in sunset colors. Purple and gold.

And…

Oh.

A crown of oak leaves and small, white flowers rested in Bo’s dark hair, and Everil drew his lips back at last to stare with open lust.

“I pictured you like this at Brookhaven,” he murmured, voice low with desire. “On the porch. Summer’s Lord. An offering to the solstice. Taken and spent.” His grip remained on Bo’s hip, holding him there, so Everil might feel the sinful give of gossamer with each desperate forward press. “I want to be the one who worships you. Who ensures your pleasure, making the summer kind.”

“It’s you or no one.” Bo’s breath hitched, the sound deliciously tempting. “Yeah. Yes, fuck, Ever. My fierce fucking kelpie. My Ever. Your Bo. Don’t stop touching me.”

Too generous and too tempting, Bo leaning into him, hand caressing his hair, legs shifting apart so Everil might better feel him.

“My Bo.” Wonder in his words and in his touch. Fingers tracing from the circlet of oak leaves to Bo’s cheek, following the line of his jaw, then down his neck, pausing at his collar. He wanted. Was unaccustomed to being permitted to ask. “May I undress you?”

“I might go fucking insane if you don’t, though this place might beat you to it.” Bo grinned up at him, leaning into his touch. “Yeah, fuck, Ever. Undress me. I want you to touch me.” He tugged, gentle but firm, on Everil’s hair. “Doing fucking great.”

“I think Faerie and I are in accord on the subject of your attire. Namely, that you should be wearing less,” he squeezed Bo’s hip, rocked forward and remained there, pressed hard against him, “so I might better feel you.”

“Faerie’s fucking brilliant.” Bo squirmed, deliberate, fresh friction making Everil hiss. “Keep going, pretty kelpie.”

And Everil–

Winter–

How could he help but continue? Summer’s Lord in his arms, permitting him this. Allowing him the trespass of desire, careful fingers working the buttons of Bo’s shirt open. And perhaps it was his impatience or Faerie’s sense of humor, but the buttons only seemed to multiply as he worked his way down, pale skin revealed in centimeters.

“You’re exquisite,” he murmured as the last button at last gave way. “Intoxicating. I fear I find myself insatiable. The more you give, the more eager I grow to take.”

“I’m fucking down with insatiable,” Bo’s words came with sharp, soft gasps. With the roll of Faerie beneath their feet, pressing Bo up, coaxing his legs apart with the tug of flowered vines around his ankles.

Like an offering.

Ivy and epimedium. A crown of oak leaves. Summer heat and Bo’s pale, sweet skin, just there, waiting for the praise of Everil’s lips.

He leaned in, mouth just above Bo’s shoulder. Breath unsteady. “Will you allow me this?”

“Yes, fuck, please.” The words tumbled out as Bo shuddered against him. “Fuck, Ever. Take. Take me. Fuck me. I fucking allow it.”

Indecent. Obscene.

Everil kissed Bo’s shoulder, as Bo shook and moaned and pressed back with unchecked desire.

Sublime.

Salt and honey. The slide of Bo’s shirt, down his shoulders and off. Everil set it aside on a near, ready surface, without raising his lips from Bo’s skin. Each shift brought them closer, more and more , fresh waves of friction and heat. Ivy climbing up Bo’s calves. The moss thickened, pressed up by stone, offering a place to lie that bloomed with yarrow and bedstraw, ringed in the bright yellow of hypericum.

A bed. No. An altar .

“My Bo. My Summer Lord.” Everil ran his fingers over Bo’s bare chest, trailing kisses down the line of his shoulder. Reverent. “Lie down for me? Let me worship you.”