Mag-log inAlexei
Kieran is on his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, hair a dark, damp mess. One leg sprawls across my thigh, toes hooked against my calf like he anchored himself in his sleep and forgot to let go.
The sheet has slipped low on his hips, pooled just at the swell of his delectable ass. His back is a map. My map.
I take inventory in the dim morning light. The marks are spectacular. A deep, blooming purple across his left shoulder blade where my hand gripped him, my fingerprints a perfect, possessive stamp.
KieranThe howl comes while I’m arguing with an invoice.It cuts through the keep like a blade, high and sharp and wrong. Not a hunting call. Not a greeting. An alert.My quill drops, splattering ink across the ledger and a second later, Marcus is at my door.“Eastern ridge,” he says, already half-shifted. “Patrol caught a scent that doesn’t belong.”
AlexeiThree days after he said enough, Kieran asks me to run away with him.Not permanently. Just for the evening.He appears in my doorway at dusk, hair damp from a hurried wash, cloak slung over one shoulder. “Come with me,” he says, without preamble.“That’s ominous.”
KieranHe doesn't give me time to think. He starts to fuck, his rhythm deep and punishing. He’s not making love right now, he’s erasing. He’s pounding the day out of me. Every thrust is a declaration, pushing the air from my lungs, driving the ghosts from my head.“Yes,” he pants, his hips slamming down. “Take my cock. Take all of it. You’re so fucking good, Kieran. So tight for me. Whose are you?”“Yours!” I shout, my voice breaking. “
KieranA knock interrupts us, which I’m mostly grateful for.Marcus steps in, armor half-buckled, hair still damp from his morning ablutions.“Apologies for the intrusion,” he says. His eyes flick between the two of us, the tray, the state of disarray. His expression doesn’t change. Much. “We have a situation on the western slope.”
AlexeiKieran is on his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, hair a dark, damp mess. One leg sprawls across my thigh, toes hooked against my calf like he anchored himself in his sleep and forgot to let go.The sheet has slipped low on his hips, pooled just at the swell of his delectable ass. His back is a map. My map.I take inventory in the dim morning light. The marks are spectacular. A deep, blooming purple across his left shoulder blade where my hand gripped him, my fingerprints a perfect, possessive stamp.
KieranI find him on the ramparts. He’s leaning against the battlement, looking out over the slopes. The wind worries his hair, tugging it loose from the tie at the nape of his neck.I fight the urge to push my hands into the tangled waves. I don’t deserve that kind of intimacy right now.He doesn’t turn when I approach, which is a very clear indication of how much I hurt him. “Alexei.”&ldq







