A Warm Heart in Winter(41)

With a sloppy shuffle, Qhuinn planted himself behind the empty desk—and did a piss-poor impression of a professor. Instead of looking like he was in charge, he linked his fingers together, put his hands primly in front of himself, and sat, spine rigid, like a good little boy praying he got a cookie for behaving nicely.

Splaying out his arms, Blay slowly turned in front of his mate. He was not an exhibitionist by any sense of the word, but he liked how the sight of his body made his lover feel.

For example, the groaning? Coming from behind that desk?

Best sound in the world.

Approaching Qhuinn, he put his left boot on the desk lip, angling his hips so that across the wood top, the bulge behind his fly was very obvious. He took his time with the de-lacing, and enjoyed the way Qhuinn’s eyes roamed around his bare shoulders and chest, his abs and his erection. And then it was the other side, again with the de-looping, the pulling free, the shucking out.

The tile floor was cold underneath his feet as he backed away. Then turned away.

Putting his hands to his fly, he made quick work of the button and the zipper. He hadn’t bothered with a belt because of the sweater—and because they’d been delayed in the shower—and he was glad he didn’t need to fuss around with buckles right now.

Although, actually, the anticipation was working for them both: Qhuinn’s bonding scent was flaring all kinds of dark spices—which made Blay wonder what people passing by out in the tunnel might think.

Then again, everybody had returned to the mansion after Doc Jane had sounded the all-clear on Balz’s recovery. And with the storm, who was going out into the parking lot anyway?

Blay’s fine wool pants were loose enough so that he could have just let them drop, but where was the fun in that? He went the inch-by-inch route, slowly letting Qhuinn see what he wanted. And it was clear that things were going exactly the way Blay was hoping because a pumping growl percolated through the classroom.

And then there was a gasping inhale.

Followed by panting.

Moving slowly, Blay stepped out of the slacks and glanced over his shoulder. Qhuinn had lost the linked-hands routine. Now he’d planted his palms and was leaning forward, his blue and green eyes fixated and hot, his fangs descended, his lips peeled back. He looked bloodthirsty—in a good way. In the best way.

Blay stretched himself, undulating his body from ass to nape, and then he turned around.

His own arousal stuck straight out from his pelvis, and he decided that it needed a little attention. Sweeping his hand down his pecs, he paused to play with one of his nipples and then continued down over the ridges of his abs.

“Touch it for me,” Qhuinn said in a guttural voice. “That’s right . . . stroke it—oh, fuck.”

“You like this?” Blay moved his palm up and down on his thick shaft. “You want this?”

“Yes . . .” Qhuinn started to get up, the chair squeaking. “I need—”

Blay turned back around and ran his free hand down his ass. “Or do you want this?”

“I want everything. All of it,” came the growled response.

With another arch, Blay bent over one of the tables. “Then why don’t you come and get it.”



Fuck the desk.

Qhuinn wasn’t going to waste time going around it; he went over the bitch, jumping up and pushing off into the air. He covered the five feet between where he had been and where he needed to be in one stride, and he managed to out his arousal on the way.

Blay was arched and looking over his shoulder, and he knew what was going to hit him: He grabbed on to the corners of the table and braced himself, his shoulder muscles flexing up, the ones that fanned out along his spine rippling under his smooth skin.

Spitting into his hand, Qhuinn did a pass on his erection, and then he went in, going deep. Beneath him, Blay’s head rose up and he called out, the desperate sound making every inch of Qhuinn’s skin prickle with awareness—except then his hearing was lost as the sensation of constriction and heat overrode everything.

The movement was instinctual and compulsive, the pumping rhythm stronger than he wanted it to be. There was no stopping it, though—

“Harder,” Blay groaned. “Hard-er . . .”

Qhuinn gripped the tight waist over Blay’s hip bones and sank his fingers into the taut flesh. “How much harder,” he grunted.

Blay’s arms butterflied as he held himself against the onslaught, the front of Qhuinn’s pelvis slapping into the back of that spectacular ass, the climax coming so soon—not that there was a reason to fight it—

The orgasm tackled Qhuinn from behind, shoving his torso over Blay’s back, his hips jerking and locking into place. The ejaculations were sharp points of pleasure, so acute they were sweetly painful.

And he didn’t stop. Reaching around, he pushed Blay’s hand out of the way and took over the stroking as he kept pumping, countering the forward penetration with the pull down on the shaft, the retraction of his cock with the palm moving out to the head. It required coordination.

But he’d had so much practice, hadn’t he.

Blay came next, hot jets covering Qhuinn’s hand and palm, everything slicking up. In both places. There was no stopping either of them, and Qhuinn loved being on this erotic plane with his male, the two of them riding the waves of pleasure, the intensity of the experience uniting them.