Chapter 32

THIRTY-TWO

Mac had been sneaking glances every so often at Paris in the passenger seat, watching his smile grow wider as he grew more certain of their destination. He was beaming by the time Mac pulled his car into the drive at the cabin in Calera.

Paris climbed out, inhaled deep, then spun, asking him over the car roof, "What are we doing here?"

"I know I've kept you away from your ocean lately. And this isn't right on it either, not like your condo, but it's close. I thought it might help center you before tomorrow. And..." Heat rushed to his cheeks, making him feel hot all over, the romantic sentiment on the tip of his tongue big. And telling. Not that he hadn't told Paris already about his history or how he felt about him, but this seemed different. More. Like putting it all on the line—his heart, his hopes, his forever.

"And what?" Paris said, as he rounded the front of the car and cozied up to his side, hand on his chest.

Mac covered it with his, sliding his fingers between Paris's. "And this is where I fell in love with you. I wanted to spend tonight with you here. Make love to you here." In their own little oasis, away from the rest of the world that was horribly fast and dangerous these days.

Paris shoved him against the side of the car and stole a hard, deep kiss that had Mac seriously considering whether to skip the next surprise of the evening and go straight to the finale, right here against the side of the car. But then Paris drew back, his brown eyes staring up at him. "You're a good man too," he said. "More than you give yourself credit for."

"I hope you continue to think that."

"Oh!" He drummed his fingers on Mac's chest. "You have more surprises for me, don't you?" As fast as he'd spun getting out of the car, he did so again, darting for the cabin door. Only to find it locked.

"Oh!" Mac parroted back. "You need a key, don't you?" He took his time, unloading their bag from the trunk and strolling to the door.

"Now you're just being mean," Paris said with an adorable pout. Which disappeared as soon as he walked through the door into the candlelit cabin. He stood in the center of the space, wide-eyed and rotating to take it all in: the wildflowers on every surface, the spread of cheeses, nuts, and fruits on the table, the jazz music playing softly in the background. "Who did all this?" he asked. "The rest of the cabins were dark when we drove in, and all the witches' cars were gone."

"They've moved on." As the covens did, never too long in one place. "Mom and Dad helped out, with Rena and the kids"—he pointed at the cake under the glass dome on the counter—"pitching in too." He dropped the duffel at the end of the bed, then wandered back to where Paris stood in a stunned daze. Wrapping his arms around him from behind, he pulled him against his chest and nuzzled the crook of his neck, swaying them to the music. "I wanted us to finish that dance that got interrupted."

Paris rested his head on Mac's shoulder, giving him more access to his throat, more skin to pepper with kisses. "And where would it have ended?"

"Right here," Mac said, holding him tight. "Where you're the center of my world."

"And you mine." Paris angled his head, and Mac didn't hesitate to claim his lips, to sweep his tongue into his mouth and taste every bit of sweetness and light Paris had brought into his life, every ounce of love and desire Mac had avoided for so long but couldn't get enough of now.

Especially with Paris twisting in his arms and grinding up against him, his cock hard against the length of Mac's. "Is there any food that won't keep?"

Mac nipped at his lips, along his jaw, the lobe of his ear. "I just need to put the cheese in the fridge," he said, loving the tremors that quaked through Paris, the short breaths panted against the side of his face.

But not for long, Paris drawing out of his arms and holding up a hand when Mac started to reach for him, not willing to let him go. "Do that," he said. "Get a fire going, and I'll meet you back at the bed. I need to get my wits about me or this will be over way too fast."

Mac chuckled as Paris practically ran to the bathroom. He enjoyed turning Paris on, liked having him on the pleasure ropes for a change. He wondered if he could do more of that this evening, if he could try what he'd thought about that day Paris had been waiting for him with the toy. Mac hadn't packed the plug, but he bet Paris would still enjoy the stimulation. Mac sure would, the thought alone—of Paris writhing under his teasing tongue—getting him harder. When he stood from in front of the hearth, there was no hiding his erection. But then Paris wasn't hiding his either, standing naked beside the bed.

"Fuck," Mac cursed as he crossed the room. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?" The blush that rosied his pale cheeks only added to the devastating picture. "If I had any artistic talent at all, I'd paint these eyes," he said as he cupped Paris's cheek and swiped a thumb under the molten brown. He trailed his hand down, fingers barely touching skin, lifting goose bumps. "I'd paint these collarbones too, and the dip of your throat." He leaned forward, tonguing the divot, as he continued to travel south first with his hand, then his lips, kissing a path in its wake. "This valley that cuts between your pecs and your ribs and your abs." He sank to his knees and circled Paris's length with his fist, giving it a long, slow stroke. "This cock."

Paris let his head fall back on a groan. "You do okay with words. And the touch. Fuck, I love to be touched like this. So soft." Mac continued to stroke his cock, in no hurry, while he teased Paris everywhere around it with the soft kisses he seemed to love so much—his pelvis, his thighs, his sac—until Paris begged for more.

"You want me to kiss you here?" Mac teased, dropping one on the sticky head of his cock. He caught a bead of precome with his tongue and spread it around the head, pulling off after a flick to the underside.

Paris righted his gaze and his pupils were blown so wide that only a thin ring of brown remained, the dark black reflecting the violet of Mac's own eyes. "I want you to suck me off," Paris said as he plowed a hand into his hair, possessively clenching his fingers and urging Mac forward. "Make me come."

He swallowed Paris as far as his throat would allow, until he gagged, then did it over and over again, sucking and licking, teasing the tip each time he came close to drawing off, before plunging back down, using his hand to lengthen the strokes, especially as Paris increased the pace of his thrusting hips, putting more speed and power behind the movement, fucking Mac's mouth with abandon.

It was a sight to behold, the most beautiful man Mac had ever seen panting above him, at the mercy of his mouth, trusting Mac enough to let it all go with him. It was the biggest fucking turn-on, and Mac had to spread his own knees wider, had to make room for his own aching cock inside his trousers.

Paris's needy "I'm gonna come" didn't help his situation.

Mac grunted around his cock, and that was all it took, Paris coming in his mouth, filling it with come faster than he could swallow, some of it leaking out the corners of his mouth, because he would be damned if he didn't milk every last ounce of pleasure from Paris. When he was finally, completely spent, Mac drew off his cock with a parting kiss and stood.

"You made a mess," Paris said, sounding almost drunk as he wiped the come from Mac's chin. "And I'm not sure how much longer I can stand on these orgasm-jellied legs."

"Let's go, then," Mac said, his voice rough as he shuffled them the rest of the way to the bed, the two of them side by side on the edge.

Paris rested his chin on his shoulder and slid a hand over his thigh, sliding it higher until he was cupping him through his slacks. "We need to get this inside me."

Mac rocked up into his hand, the friction tempting, but his earlier thought still lingered, a fantasy he wanted to live. He rotated his face toward Paris's, whispering against his lips. "I want to taste you there first."

"Fuck," Paris cursed on a long, tortured groan. "You're gonna make me come again."

"Would that be a problem?"

Paris kissed the upturned corner of his mouth. "I love that smirk. I don't know if I want to paint it or your smile."

"Not the raven?" Mac asked as Paris began undressing him, his shirt the first piece of clothing to go.

"I thought about that too. I want you to see all the colors in your feathers. Like they are in your aura."

"What's it look like right now?" He lifted his hips so Paris could push his pants and boxers off, freeing his cock.

"Rivers of pink and red in a sea of flowing blue, violet, and green." He trailed a hand back up his leg, inside his thigh, cradling his balls. "It's beautiful, Mac. It's the peace you're supposed to have, that you deserve." Then fisted his cock, mimicking the long, slow strokes Mac had given him.

"Need you, Paris."

"You still want?—"

"Yes," Mac said, wanting it more than ever, wanting all of Paris.

He waited for Paris to arrange himself on his stomach, his ass lifted by a pillow under his hips, then crawled between his spread legs, hands sliding up the backs of his thighs and palming his ass. Paris rolled his hips. "You gonna make me fuck this pillow?"

Mac answered by pulling his cheeks apart, exposing his hole, and lashing across it with his tongue.

Paris curled his hands in the sheets. "Again."

Mac was more than happy to oblige, happy to feast, happy to learn he was right—that his tongue teasing Paris's rim, dipping inside his hole, drove them both wild. Mac rutted against the mattress while Paris lolled his head with his groans, grabbed more of the sheets with each flick of Mac's tongue, and fucked the pillow with as much abandon as he'd fucked his mouth. And when Mac pushed one, then a second finger into him, opening him wider, getting him ready, he rode those with abandon too.

Trust and love, desire and hope pulsing along their bond the entire time.

A third finger and Paris cried mercy, thank fuck. "Get inside me, please."

"I've got you," he said, drawing those soft words over Paris's back again with one hand, while with the other he lined his cock up at Paris's hole and pushed inside him. They sighed in relief together, Mac stretching the rest of the way over him, lips against Paris's nape. "I could stay here forever."

"That's fine with me," Paris said, then thrust his hips. "Less so my cock."

Mac chuckled, Paris's torso under his rumbling with laughter too, until he started to move and their amusement became a series of grunts and moans, pleas for harder and faster.

As his orgasm approached, Mac stretched out his arms, hands seeking Paris's, his fingers sliding into the spaces between his spread ones. A perfect fit. Like their bodies, like their souls, which would get what they deserve. They'd get a choice, and Mac knew his. "I choose you, Paris. Forever."

Paris turned his head, his brown eyes swirling with love and a violet hue. "And I choose you. Forever."

He rested their foreheads together, lips brushing. "I love you. My soul is yours."

"And mine yours," Paris said on a gasp, body quaking and clenching around his. "I love you too."

"What we deserve," Mac promised as he rode the wave of pleasure with forever in his arms.