The Red King (50 page)

Rory drew back onto his knees, gripping
Andrew’s thighs and pulling them away from his hips to press them
up to Andrew’s chest. He thrust, mimicking the act, using as much
force as he would if they were truly fucking. There, again!
Andrew’s voice found a measure of resonance but cracked and was
lost in the next moment.

“I will have you, now, Andrew,” Rory
panted.

“Yes, please, now,” Andrew rasped, oblivious
to the odd, atonal quality his voice had acquired.

There was a flurry of movement with shirts,
belts and breeches shucked and tossed aside. Rory shoved Andrew on
his back once more. He pressed Andrew’s knees out and up and bent
to swipe his tongue over the tender, exposed hole. Holding him
thus, Rory licked and stabbed there until Andrew was trembling
beneath him. His eyes stayed open, watching Andrew’s face as he
panted, bit his lip, flushed and sweat so that his hair stuck to
his forehead. He continued despite the burn in his jaw and the ache
in his own cock, hot and heavy and leaking where it twitched on his
thigh. It took time, but his ears were keyed sharp for the proper
sign.

“Rory!“ Andrew cried. The broken beginning of
his name, spoken hoarse and hungry, pitched Rory’s need high enough
to join the sun. “Rory, please.”

The whisper was back but it was thick with
passion, wavering on the edge of something more. Rory groaned,
rising to put his weight on Andrew’s trembling legs. He paused,
staring down at the pink, crinkled flesh, admiring the slick
shimmer of his spit. It was joined by a drop of clear fluid that
fell from the head of his cock and the sight of it was almost his
undoing. With a twitch, another fat tear welled up to join the
first. He groaned. “Andrew…are you…”

Andrew did not speak to answer. Instead, he
reached for and took hold of Rory’s cock with one hand, gripped the
back of Rory’s neck with the other. Without waiting, he pressed
entry, forcing the wide, round knob-head inside. Rory’s hips
jerked, involuntarily, forcing another inch past the ring of
muscle. “Do it,” Andrew growled, lacing his fingers together at
Rory’s neck.

Rory thrust, a cry tearing from his own lips
as he was seated, firmly and to the hilt. Andrew did not make a
sound. He arched up off of the grassy earth with his head thrown
back, shuddering as his body adjusted to the invasion. Rory took
the advantage, lowering to set his teeth to the pale flesh so
exposed, and waited. He felt the clench soften, felt the hold on
his cock relax before he withdrew with a long, slow pull. He pushed
back in, just as slowly.

Rory battened down his lust and kept the pace
just so, ignoring Andrew’s urgings to go faster, harder. He kissed
away the curses, murmured encouragement when Andrew left
fingerprint bruises on his shoulders and arms. His control nearly
slipped when Andrew looked up at him wide eyes, teary and dazed,
but still he waited.

“Tell me, Andrew. Let me hear your voice,”
Rory ordered, grunting against the moist heat of Andrew’s mouth. He
swiped his tongue across the wet and trembling lower lip, then bit
there as if he meant to tear the flesh away.

Andrew’s cock jumped, let loose with a stream
of its own. The sound he made was so deep as to be almost guttural,
an animalistic moan more suited to his sobriquet. “Oh,” he groaned,
long and loud, as Rory withdrew, slow and scraping, maddening. The
following thrust proved the break. “Rory! Oh, Rory, more!”

It was his voice, not true and smooth as
before, but it was Andrew’s voice and it was beautiful. Rory
quickened his pace but kept the thrusts deep, the motion
controlled.

“Harder, please! My lion! My king!” Andrew
was panting, begging, lost in prolonged pleasure. His hands fell to
the grass beside his head, grasping, grounding his body to the
earth. “I love you!”

Releasing Andrew’s legs to grip those pale
wrists tight, Rory let the hunger rule. He loosened his battens and
did has he was asked, fucking hard and fast and echoing Andrew’s
cries with his own. It was forever and an instant when Andrew
tensed, shouted, and spilled his seed. Rory rode through it, his
pleasure bordering on delirious, the tight grasp of Andrew’s body
on his cock milking him empty.

Rory fell forward, covering Andrew, still
holding his wrists. He was panting, but he still moved his lips and
let his breath carry the words.

“I love you, Andrew. I will always love you.”
Rory found he could not stop saying it, even as he kissed Andrew’s
lips and brushed the hair from his face. Andrew was whispering
responses, answering with his own declarations. He drew up, just a
bit, to look into Andrew’s face.

Andrew smiled, and it was the most beautiful
thing Rory had ever seen.

Rosemary O’Malley resides bodily in north
Florida with her husband, two children, and four cats. Her
genealogy includes Irish Anglican priests, Muscogee-Creek women,
Welsh traders, and authentic Florida Crackers. She was reared on
Kathleen Woodiwiss and Fern Michaels novels, Errol Flynn and
Douglas Fairbanks movies, frequent trips to Walt Disney World and
long car rides all over the United States and Canada. Those long
car rides, paired with romance novels, adventure films, and Disney
fantasy may have had something to do with her becoming a
writer.

Currently, she is enjoying the works of
Rachel Haimowitz and Cat Grant, Kirby Crow, Carole Cummings, and
Jill Knowles. She is revisiting the romance and adventure of her
childhood favorites, as well, with
The Three Musketeers
,
The Count of Monte Cristo
,
Captain Blood
, and
The
Scarlet Pimpernel
in the mix.

With S.A. Reid, Rosemary O’Malley coauthored
the novella
Manhandled
.
The Red King
is her first
novel.