Strongman (16 page)

Gingerly, Griff laid his head on Fort’s shoulder, turning his nose into the curve of his neck. He couldn’t be sure how the other man would react when he returned from his post-fuck fugue, so he’d take anything he could get and savor it like a fine wine. His balls singing a happy tune and his ass grumbling a discord, he lay with his cheek pillowed on a firm bed of warm muscle and watched the Shadow chase the Sun in and out of the clouds.

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He definitely wasn’t comfortable. And he felt strange, so restless and light, as if a crushing weight had been lifted from his chest, though he’d been completely unaware of its existence until this moment. How could that be? Only the heavy hand Fort had draped over his hip prevented him from floating away altogether. Peripherally, he was aware of sweat stinging in the scrapes on his shoulder blades, of the ache in his wrists, his fingers going numb. Not to mention his aching ass.

He was filthy, streaked with soot and grass stains and bits of dirt, sticky and sweaty. Both of them were. The air around them reeked of sex. Griff wrinkled his nose.

But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

His lips curved and he nuzzled the strong, brown column of Fort’s neck. The other man mumbled something and his fingers moved on Griff’s hip, describing a slow, wobbly circle.

Fort had been right. Twister, he’d wanted this! Wanted it with every fiber of his being, with a hunger that gnawed at the very core of him. And gods, it had been perfect—brutal, fierce, bruising. He flexed his wrists, thinking of the way the other man had taken him. Fuck! The breath caught in his throat and a reminiscent shiver ran through his balls, making his ass flutter with nervous delight. Those magnificent eyes blazing with power, Fort had simply reached for what he wanted and taken it. Like the conqueror he was. There’d been no concessions made to Griff’s size, to his lack of status as a warrior.

Pride swelled his chest. The night of that first kiss, he’d promised to give Fort a run for his money. And he had. Next time, for sure. Twister, he’d come so close!

Fort’s hand tightened on Griff’s hipbone. The big man let out a gusty breath and cleared his throat. He turned his head and his eyes met Griff’s. A slow tide of pink rose under the rough beard, staining his cheeks, but he said, steadily enough, “You look pleased with yourself.”

Griff grinned. “I am.” He rubbed his cheek on Fort’s shoulder. A chuckle bubbled in his throat. “Twister’s balls, Fort, you’re blushing.”

Immediately, Fort’s brows drew together and his lips thinned. “Don’t be stupid,” he said crushingly.

Griff laughed aloud. “I must be mad, but you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Fort’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. The flush intensified.

Eventually he said, “Vranshit.”

Griff nudged a brawny thigh with his knee. “I can’t feel my fingers,” he said plaintively.

“Lufra! Come here.” With casual strength, Fort hauled the younger man on top of him and reached around to fumble with the bindings.

Humming with delight, Griff licked the soft pit at the base of Fort’s throat. He ran his tongue up the tendon at the side of his neck and lapped the warm, tender spot 87

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behind his ear, wriggling his hips so his wet, slippery cock was pressed against the sticky mess on the big man’s stomach.

“Will you…” Fort released the first strap, “stop that, you little shit? I can’t…hold still, damn you…concentrate.”

The restraints fell away and the blood returned with a rush. “Ah, shit!” Griff rolled aside and tumbled to the grass, flexing his aching fingers.

Warm, strong hands wrapped around his, calloused fingertips rubbed roughly.

“That better?”

Griff squeezed his eyes shut and surrendered himself to the rough ministrations.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Much better.” He rallied. “It’s all your fault anyway,” he said accusingly.

“I know.” Fort frowned down at their joined hands. “I shouldn’t have done it so tight. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Hey.” Griff waited ‘til Fort looked up. He smiled crookedly. “I liked it,” he admitted, feeling the heat creep into his own cheeks. “Being…bound.” He sucked in a breath. “Helpless.”

Fort reached out a long arm and hooked it around Griff’s neck. With his other hand he grasped one thigh and hauled the younger man back on top of him. He sealed their lips together, holding Griff steady with a firm grip in his hair. A long, dizzy time later, he let the tumbler up for air. “I liked it too,” he growled.

“I can tell,” Griff said shakily. He shook his head to clear it. “We stink,” he pointed out. “The pool’s handy. And I’ve got soap in my saddlebag.”

Fort’s grip tightened. “Don’t care.”

“But—”

“Just shut the fuck up and lie still, all right?”

“All right.” Griff lowered his head and let himself be held.

Fort’s heart thudded steadily under his ear. One big hand gripped his buttock, the other lay in the small of his back, heavy arms wrapping him up. The sun was warm and gentle on his shoulders, a light breeze sighed in the trees. Griff glanced up. Those absurdly extravagant lashes lay on Fort’s hard cheek, a delicate, ink-black fan. The other man’s face was calm, though his brows were slightly drawn together. Griff suppressed the urge to smooth away the crinkles at the corners of his eyes with his thumbs.

He let himself drift, his limbs like melted wax, his mind an empty hollow where stray thoughts floated by like disconnected clouds. Fort smiling down at Fledge, holding her hand as if it was made of spun glass. The terrible scar on the back of his thigh, the marks of battle all over him. His level gray gaze as he’d stood at the door of Griff’s wagon, the harp lost in his hands. The way his quiet, competent presence filled every room he entered.

Yes, Fort would probably have to sell the little wagon. No way they’d both fit in there. Lucky he had enough space. Fort could—

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The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

What the hell—?

He’d had lovers aplenty, a couple of them had even lasted months, but never,
ever
had he contemplated giving up his privacy. Somehow, he’d always known from the beginning that the end would be inevitable. His heart slamming, Griff frowned, looking down the passage of years. All he could see was Fort and him. Him and Fort.

Fortitude McLaren. Warrior. Thinker. Walking wounded. The most magnificent lover he’d ever had, ever wanted. And the most difficult, the most complicated.

Ah Twister, he was so totally fucked! Shit, shit, shit! What was he going to do?

Griff’s eyes flashed open. Fort lay beneath him, so relaxed he could have been asleep, but his frown had deepened and his lips were tight. Griff brushed his thumb over a small puckered scar on Fort’s pectoral, wondering if the other man even recalled precisely how it had happened. So many scars…within and without.

But oh gods, he couldn’t bear to think of being anywhere else but here, with this man, in this moment. Suppose Fort clapped him on the shoulder, thanked him with a comradely grin? Shit, he’d kill him with his bare hands!

His fingers dug into Fort’s shoulders and the big man made a crooning noise in his throat, the one stable hands used to gentle fractious vranee. Hard palms stroked slowly up and down the tumbler’s spine, circled over his buttocks. A trail of tingles followed in their wake.

The tears caught Griff completely unawares, spilling over before he could blink them back. Fuck! His throat burning, he reared up, ripping himself out of Fort’s embrace and turning his back.

Grass rustled behind him. Hard hands brushed briskly over his shoulders, his ribs, dusting him off. “You’re right,” rumbled Fort. “We should wash up.”

Griff cleared his throat. “Yes.” Surreptitiously, he scrubbed the tears away, let Fort hoist him to his feet.

They stood in silence.

Fort ran a hand through his hair, blew out a breath. “Fuck, Griff, I don’t know what to say.”

The younger man tilted his chin, pinned on a cocky grin. “Then don’t say

anything.” He strode toward his tent. “Go ahead. I’ll be there in a minute,” he called over his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he saw Fort’s tall figure stand motionless for a moment before he turned to the pool.

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Fellwolves
:

Predators of the plains and forests
,
fellwolves hunt in packs
.
The beasts are hunted for their
magnificent pelts
,
particularly the so
-
called
“
twilight
”
furs
,
a dark gray with blue undertones
,

shading to silver on the belly
.
A common motif in folk tales is the character who is cursed to live
as a fellwolf until released by the power of true love
.
(See Ballads
—
Traditional) Fellwolves mate
for life
.

Excerpt from the Great Encyclopedia
,
compiled by Miriliel the Burnished
.

Never in his life had Fort been more glad of a breathing space. As soon as Griff disappeared into his tent, he dropped his hands to his knees, breathing like a blown vran. Shit, what was wrong with him?

He’d had those precious minutes of peace, lying with his face turned up to the Sun, Griff sprawled over him like a heavy, living blanket, all muscled beauty and trust. He should have put himself back together by now. So why couldn’t he catch his breath?

It was over. He’d done it. Finally. He’d fucked a man, fucked Griff, brutally hard if truth be told. And Ruler God, he’d reveled in the Crookedness, loved it. In fact, if Griff would let him, he’d do it again as soon as he could get it up. He wouldn’t be able to resist. Fort pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing he’d changed in some fundamental, life-altering way, trying to center, to ground.

It was unbelievable, what he’d just done. Impossible. And yet it had happened and his body had adored it. He couldn’t get his thoughts in order. They jerked and spun, but all on the surface, like waterstriders skimming a pond. Somewhere beneath was a dark swirling pit, where emotions tangled together like snakes, waiting to pull him down, to smother him with justifications, with guilts, with memories.

Shit, he couldn’t…deal with it. Not now.

Tomorrow. He’d give himself this one day with Griff and think about it tomorrow.

Slowly, he straightened, walked over to the pool and kept walking until he stood in the deepest part, up to his waist. The water chilled his flesh, his genitals drawing up hard and tight. He plunged forward in a shallow dive, coming up in a burst of spray, flinging his head back. The cold stung, invigorating his flesh like a swarm of tiny needles under the skin.

“Freezing, huh?” Griff stood on a rock, his legs spread, arms folded over his chest.

Fort’s eyes dropped the length of the other man’s body, he couldn’t help it. The tumbler’s cock hung gently, cradled in sparse gold-brown curls. His balls dangled 90

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below, a warm joggling handful. Fort tore his gaze away, up to Griff’s grinning face.

The tumbler winked and his shaft stirred like a sleepy animal.

That’s right. He’d already surrendered, driven by his lusts. He didn’t need to avert his gaze. He could look his fill and no one would punish him. He could touch, lick, nibble. Fill his hands, his head, with Griff. After what they’d done this past hour…

Gods.

Deliberately, he pushed the darkness, the confusion, aside. Set himself free by filling his mind to the brim with physical sensation. One day. He had this one day. And Holy Lufra, it had been good. His lips curved as his cock twitched. He had so much to explore…

Fort shook the water out of his ears, watching the tumbler flinch as stray drops hit his sun-warmed flesh. He waded forward, held out a hand. “Soap?”

But when Griff handed it over, he tossed it aside. Then he gripped the other man’s wrist and yanked hard. With a startled yell, the tumbler hit the water with an almighty splash, Fort bracing him from beneath to keep him from striking the bottom.

Griff came up spluttering and cursing and Fort dunked him again, chuckling. Then he had second thoughts. Slipping an arm around the tumbler’s chest, he hauled him upright. “Can you swim?” he asked.

“No, you stupid shit!” His hair plastered flat to his skull, Griff fixed him with furious dark eyes. “I’m an acrobat, not a fucking fish!”

“Uh, sorry.” He had to fight to keep his face straight. “Never mind, I’ll teach you.”

As soon as he’d said them, the words echoed, taking on a ridiculous significance.

Slowly, Griff wiped the water off his face and his sloe eyes heated. “Truly?”

Fort had to swallow, but he nodded. “If you want.” Then he temporized. “Won’t take long.”

The tumbler tilted his head. His lips twitched. “You were laughing. Actually laughing. I’ve never seen you laugh, Fort.”

“I am capable of it.”

Griff’s mouth was clean-cut, masculine, palest pink in the chill of the water. His lower lip was full and satiny-looking, the upper firm and beautifully shaped. His crooked tooth flashed as he smiled. “Do it again.”

Fort shook his head, unable to drag his gaze away from the other man’s mouth.

“Can’t.”

So softly the words were almost lost in the burbling of the water, Griff said, “You won, remember?”

All the breath rushed out of Fort’s lungs. The tumbler’s skin had risen in gooseflesh, his nipples as tightly peaked as Fort’s own. And under the transparent golden-brown of the water—

Fort sucked in a huge breath, gripped Griff’s waist with one hand and sank down to crouch at his feet. Opening his eyes, he watched the other man’s genitals sway in the 91

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water, his cock extending out from his belly, bobbling in the gentle current. Leaning forward, he engulfed it in a single swallow, pinching his nose shut, feeling Griff jerk and tremble under his hand. It was the oddest sensation, the combination of chilled flesh and the heated hardness beneath. Closing his mouth, he sucked hard, blowing a stream of bubbles into Griff’s groin, watching them hang for an instant in his pubic hair before they streamed upward over his stomach and chest. The flesh in his mouth expanded against his palate, pulsing with delight.