A Lesson in Thorns (Thornchapel #1)(94)

Saint lets his head drop back against the wall, his throat a divine arch of bronze skin. The knot of his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and swallows and swallows.

“Let me,” I whisper again, and I finally get a short, agitated nod.

For the first time in my life, I wrap my hand around a bare cock, and marvel at the heat of it. At the velvet of his skin, so soft and yet stretched so thin over the hardness underneath. And when I fist my hand around him, I can feel how the skin moves over that hardness, how he swells and thickens when my fingers massage certain parts of him. I can feel the slick glaze of pre-cum covering his tip.

But for all my fondling and exploration, St. Sebastian isn’t any closer to the edge than he was a few minutes ago. I could blame it on clumsiness or inexperience, but then Saint’s eyes flutter open, and he says, “Please please,” like I should know what he’s asking for, and that’s when I realize I’m missing something, I’m not giving him what he needs.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Auden says and pushes my hand off Saint’s cock. He replaces it with his own at the same moment he steps forward and collars Saint’s throat with his other hand.

The change in Saint is immediate. Staggering. His lips part and his piercing flashes and his belly tightens as Auden jerks him off hard and rough. Wordless cries escape his throat in short, helpless pants, and his fingers scrabble helplessly at the tile behind him, like he can’t even handle the feeling of being in his own body right now, but in the best possible way.

Hurt and maybe even a little indignation roll through me, because I always figured no matter how clumsy I was around a penis, it ultimately wouldn’t matter, since penises usually seem very easy to please. But by the time my mouth pulls into a pout—a real one this time—I understand what’s going on. It has nothing to do with how skilled I am or even how sexy I am, and everything to do with how gently I held him. How softly I touched him. I was giving him a vanilla hand job, and St. Sebastian, my pierced and sullen library boy, needs something else.

I’ve never hurt someone, and I’ve never been hurt. But that doesn’t mean that I haven’t wanted it, you know.

I’d asked him who he’d wanted to be, me or Auden, and he’d said he’d always thought both until he’d seen Auden’s face as Auden spanked me. And then he’d trailed off, refused to answer—but I know the answer now, I see it right in front of me.

All it took was Auden’s hand on his throat, and Saint was transformed. All it took was a cruel touch instead of a kind one.

Saint is as submissive as I am.

But as hypnotic as his face is right now—all open and wondering and vulnerable as Auden strokes him vicious and quick—it’s Auden that I suddenly can’t look away from, Auden with every single emotion moving over his face in waves. One stroke and he looks furious, another stroke and he looks anguished—and then another and he simply looks like he wants to fuck St. Sebastian right through the wall and out the other side. And his breathing is just as ragged and quick as Saint’s, his sides are heaving like he’s running a race, his stomach jerking with each tight, hungry breath. And I can still see the huge head of his cock above his waistband, bigger and fatter than ever. I can see it jumping in time with his pulse, with the rough movements of his hand on Saint, and then when Saint lets out a broken moan and says Auden, you’re making me come, I see when Auden comes too.

Without being touched, without anything but the friction of his waistband and Saint’s milky surrender coating his fist, Auden’s cock pulses in response, white ropes jolting up against his belly and surging over his boxers. Like when he spanked me, he’s getting off on the pure, uncut high of dominating someone, the giddy rush of power that comes from bringing someone pleasure or pain or both, and from the involuntary grunt he gives and the heavy rushes of semen, I don’t have to guess to know that he’s getting off hard.

The muscles in his legs and abs clench and pump as he ejaculates, but he doesn’t stop jerking off Saint, he doesn’t let go of Saint’s throat until Saint is slumped back against the wall, and even then he puts a steadying hand on Saint’s shoulder until he’s certain that Saint can stand under his own steam. He looks him over the same way any good Dominant would, and I don’t think it’s because he knows he should, I think it’s instinct, a natural impulse of his, and it makes my belly flip just watching.

I remember my observation from earlier tonight as I watched him walk toward the ruins.

He’s waking up. He’s becoming himself.

God help me when he’s fully awake. I’ll have no defenses against him.

I won’t want any.

Satisfied that Saint is the good kind of dazed, Auden finally glances down at the mess he made of himself. With an inscrutable sigh, he uses his thumb to pull down his boxers and then he steps into the spray, rinsing off his cock with the detachment of a doctor rinsing off a surgical tool.

Once he’s clean, he glances up at me. “You’re all cleaned off?” he asks, like our orgasmic interlude was an unwelcome intrusion into our real business of washing.

“Yes,” I say.

“Good.”

Auden shuts off the water, helps me onto the bath mat, and then I’m wrapped in a giant towel and folded back up into his arms. I could walk right now, I really could, but I don’t make a peep to that effect. I simply rest my head against his shoulder and enjoy the feeling of being carried by the boy I married when I was ten.