9. Theo

Theo

I'm late to Inigo's cottage, mainly because I don't really want to be there. Well. No, that's not fair. I do want to see the cottage reformed back to its former glory, and I do want to be the one to live there when it's all said and done, and I really do want to spend more time around Roan.

But it's been a week now of backbreaking labour, and I'm sore. Maybe it makes me sound like the privileged little rich boy that I am, but I am not built for this kind of work.

Nevertheless, everyday I drag my butt out of my room over to the cottage, like there is some irresistible pull to the place. And maybe, just maybe, there is a tiny little piece of me that likes the work.

Maybe.

It's hot enough today that even I can't justify hiding inside of one of Seldon's sweaters. I really need to get myself to Twin Heads so I can stop running around in his castoffs.

I spent a little too long considering my limited wardrobe, especially since I am spending the day toiling under the hot sun (okay, inside a well-insulated house) getting all gross and sweaty. But Roan's going to be there. And that man is so far under my skin, he is basically embedded in my cells by now.

I'd settled on jeans that had pre-torn holes and a singlet top, with a high neck but slightly larger scoops in the armholes. Like everything else, it is a little too big, so when I move you catch a glimpse of my nipples. It isn't much, but it is wildly different to anything I had ever worn back in my old life back in Loqueaur, where it was all pressed pants, polished shoes, starched collared shirts, and expensive knitwear. It had never been comfortable. I'd never been comfortable.

The door groans slightly when I push it open, still chewing the sandwich Mauvy pressed into my hand. Whenever she sees me she refuses to let me go without feeding me. I'd complain, but her cooking is insanely good, and already it's making me feel better. I have more energy, and I'm already looking a little less, well, starved.

I don't call out as I enter; I can hear Roan moving about upstairs so I make my way up to him. He's muttering and cursing, and I have to stifle a laugh at his frustrations.

He's in the master bedroom, on his hands and knees, pulling back the disgusting old carpet that had been put in there fifty-odd years ago. I watch for a moment, taking full advantage of his ignorance of my presence to take in the view.

Like he has every day, Roan has ditched his shirt and harness combo, something I've mourned greatly. A great consolation, however, is watching his back muscles work in a glorious dance under his worn and thin shirt as he rips the carpet back.

As my pervy gaze moves to his ass, I notice two things instantaneously. The first is that Roan is in shorts, something I'd never seen before, and secondly, his legs are absolutely covered in tattoos.

The pattern dips into the scrunch of his socks above his boots and trails all the way up to his thighs, sneaking into the legs of the shorts hugging his thick thighs. The patterns swirl over his legs, and I desperately want to explore every inch of them.

My mouth hangs open a little, embarrassingly so, and he must've noticed my presence in the room because he turns and catches me ogling him like a starving man. To be fair, it's been a while, and I am pretty starving for a taste of him.

"You right there?" Roan chuckles darkly when he catches me. To stop myself from blurting out something reckless, I stuff the last of my sandwich in my mouth, like that was the point all along. "Right. Well, I figure we can strip this room and get it prepped today. Then it's just the hallway and second bedroom that needs to be stripped, and we can do the floors next week. You've only got me for two hours, then I need to get ready for work."

I have to swallow the too-big mouthful of sandwich around my agreement, and we set to work ripping out the disgusting old carpet and rolling it up. Roan cuts it into sections and makes me drag them downstairs to the pile of rubbish Seff is taking for us when he can. By the time we've got it out and the room and cupboards empty, I'm exhausted, sweating, and covered in a thick layer of dust.

I climb the stairs again, for what feels like the fifty millionth time today, uselessly trying to brush the grime from my body. My arms feel like jelly, and there is a quiver in my thighs as they struggle with a level of exertion I'd never subjected them to before.

Not for the first time, I consider just paying for the renovation to be done, grumbling to myself about how much easier this would have been with the aid of my powers. Not even for all this lifting. Summoning a cool breeze would be amazing right now.

Making my way into the now-bare master bedroom, I spy Roan reclining against the wall, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, head tipped back, eyes closed. A giant streak of dirt is smeared against his cheek above the line of his beard.

He looks peaceful, driving that devilish little imp inside me to seek out his attention, to stir him up a little.

My footsteps are heavy on the floorboards, but he doesn't acknowledge me when I drop next to him. My eyes trail over him, eagerly taking in every detail I can, from the way his tee shirt pulls against his shoulders, to the imprint of his nipples against the worn material, to the sliver of skin over his hip bone where his shirt has ridden up and then down further to the tattoos trailing down both legs.

We'd been working so hard I hadn't had a proper chance to take a good look, and I wasn't about to miss the opportunity. I shift forward as much as I can without touching his leg, leaning in, examining the swirls, lines and patterns that make up the design.

There are large blocks of patterns, some geometric shapes, others filled with line work, others with floral motifs, some with sigils, all interconnected with broad swoops of black. It's beautiful. I wonder how far it goes up his legs?

This close, the smell of him is damn near intoxicating, which is probably why I do the stupid thing and let one mischievous finger reach out and trail delicately over the patterns on the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh. Like an out-of-body experience I can see the blazing line I leave along his hairless skin, closer and closer to the hem of his shorts, nestled dangerously close to the juncture of his thighs.

I can feel the radiant heat from him there , and I lick my lips, desperate to continue doing something stupid. It is so brazen, so unthinking.

So unlike me .

The old Theo, the timid man-child who got on his knees for an uncaring asshole after tutoring sessions desperate for a smidgen of affection or acceptance. No, this is different.

Drunk on need, my hand skims the line where the edge of the fabric bites into his skin, along a line of identical repeating tiny roses. My hand trembles, matching the tremble in my breath. My heartbeat flutters erratically under my skin.

The firm clasp of a warm hand around my fingers, enveloping them, pinning them where they had been seeking, jerks me from my reverie. What in the actual fuck was I doing? Panic floods my system, completely overriding my lust. I still beneath Roan's firm grasp.

"Theo." There is a dangerous timbre to his voice; I can feel it vibrate through him, and I can't suppress the shiver that runs up my spine. Despite being caught basically molesting him sleeping like a hideous lecher, my cock is still hard as a rock. In fact, I flick my eyes up to his tense face, his half-open eyes deceptively calm, I think it's making me harder.

"Roan." I am extremely proud of myself for keeping my voice even. I even manage to thread a little sass into the single word. His hand tightens around mine, squeezing just once. Not enough to be painful. A warning. I swallow hard, not missing how his eyes follow the bob of my throat.

"What are you doing?" The tone of his voice, firm, strong, is much unneeded fuel to the fire in my veins.

"I didn't know you had tattoos." I can't help but notice that he hasn't removed my hand. Interesting.

"Not what I asked, Theo." As much as it provokes my temper when he goes all bossy and serious, it is hotter than lava, turning me into a weak and needy mess. Which only makes me want to provoke him more.

"I just wanted to see how far they go." I try to keep the needy thread of desperation from my voice but fail miserably.

Roan's hand tightens around mine again, and I can see the battle raging within him. He wants me, I can see it. Gods, it would be nearly impossible to miss the monster slowly filling, thickening in his impossibly tight shorts.

He just doesn't want to want me.

I squash down the spike of insecurity and hurt. I will not let anything get in the way of this moment. I shift closer, shuffling on my knees until they are pressed against his thigh and he just… watches. When I am as close as I can be without straddling him, his eyes find mine again, and the feral greed in them steals the last of my erratic breath.

" Please ." The whispered plea barely passes my lips before an anguished growl tears from Roan, and his free hand snaps out to wrap around the back of my neck, hauling me to him.

With little choice and zero complaints, I throw myself into the embrace, swinging my leg over those solid thighs. His hand releases mine, moving to instead tangle themselves in my hair, tugging tightly. It stings, and I wince but don't pull out of the hold or drop his stare. Below me, his chest heaves, the last of his control fraying and withered until it breaks, and he crushes me to him, his mouth on mine, and I am drowning in him.

His beard is soft against my face, contrasting against the rough pull of my hair and the heat of his mouth as he ravishes me. I am utterly helpless to do anything but gleefully accept the onslaught.

My hands dance over his chest, hungry for every inch of him they can reach. I climb higher in his lap, grasping at his shoulders to drag my hips up his thighs, to pull him down closer to me, until my ass settles on his lap.

I have to stretch to meet him halfway but when his tongue swoops inside my mouth—fierce, claiming, dominating; the strain is lost in the pleasure. Underneath me, I can feel the hot, hard length of his erection straining. I give into the impulse to grind myself down, and I'm rewarded with a warning growl from Roan. I feel powerful, wanton, when I do it again, and he pulls at my hair, the sharp tug radiating molten lust down my spine to my balls.

Even in the haze of lust currently clouding my brain, the irony doesn't escape me that despite his roughness and the intensity of the moment, I feel safe. Safe enough to keep provoking him especially.

My hips begin to roll, my ass dancing over his straining cock, teasing us both. I am achingly hard in my jeans, the zipper sweet torture against me, but I don't want to spook him into ending this between us before I sate the hunger I have for him.

My dumb horny mind is completely convinced that we can do this right now and have it affect nothing, mean nothing after this moment. I don't care that I'm lying to myself, instead I focus on dragging my hands up his neck, past his beard, to tightly grasp his horns, using them to better angle his head.

A vicious snarl erupts from him, tearing his lips from mine and for a heartbeat I don't know if I should be terrified or turned on. But with quick movements that belie his size, he flips me off his lap and onto my back on the rough, unfinished floorboards.

It doesn't hurt though, because even with the feral gleam in his eye taking over, he protects me, cushioning my head and my back before settling his weight on top of me. The pressure is divine, pulling me back into my body, awareness overriding my senses, driving me to the edge of sanity.

My legs wrap around his hips and I arch up into him, needing more. Needing everything. Roan hovers over me, his breath coming in short, hard pants from his wet kiss-stung lips. I am desperate to taste them again.

Roan is definitely getting in his head again, the forceful change in our position obviously startling him back to some level of sanity. But I'm not going to let him overthink himself out of this. My hands are currently kneading his shoulders, but touching his horns seemed to do something wild for him before, so maybe it'll work again.

Daring him with a wink, I reach up to the very tip of his right horn. It's smooth and hard under my hand, with bumpy rings circling the curved length. I slowly stroke until I reach the base. A deep shudder racks through Roan's body when I grasp the wide juncture where the horn meets his scalp. I twist my hand there, then stroke my hand back up.

I continue to jerk his horn like a dick and I don't think Roan realises he's begun to move, his hips undulating against me. A snorty huff fans over my skin as Roan leans heavily into my touch, eyes closed in apparent bliss. Who knew horns were a hot spot? I sure as fuck didn't, but I'm going to take full advantage.

My left hand encloses on the other horn, but before I can even tease him further, Roan's hips punch into mine with enough intensity to slide me along the floor. A cry rips from my throat as liquid fire fans through me.

Playtime is apparently over, judging by the way Roan drops his body, rolling slightly to the side so as not to crush me, his mouth reclaiming mine, hard and insistent, swallowing the breathy whimpers I am helpless against. The feeling of him rutting against me, on top of me, surrounding me, is glorious, more than anything I have ever felt before, but still I want to demand more. I am greedy for him.

I grope my way down his body, rucking up his tee shirt until I can finally get my hands on his fevered skin, digging my fingers into his back, nails scraping at the skin. The animalistic sounds coming from him are dizzying, his hips never stopping their onslaught.

My cock is leaking in my jeans, throbbing, in need of release, relief. Roan's hand on my hip, fingers teasing over the sensitive nerves there in the dip of my hip bone, trailing under the band of my jeans, seals the deal for me.

Unable to take any more, my hands are shaking as they reach for the button on his shorts, hesitant in case he calls a halt to this thing between us. But he doesn't; instead his groan drowns out the sound of the zipper in the otherwise empty house, his forehead dropping to the floor above my head.

I stretch to bite high on his chest through his shirt, the only part I can reach without him bending to accommodate my tiny size as I liberate his cock from the straining confines of his boxers.

And what a magnificent cock it is. Fat and heavy in my hand, impossibly thick and… are those ridges threading over his dick? I trace my hand over the lines wrapping around the girth and length of his cock to the flared bulbous head. Swiping up the pre-cum leaking there, I continue my exploration. I am desperate for a peek, but I'm pinned and can't see past Roan's hulking mass above me.

Roan groans again, swearing and muttering incoherently under his breath as he pumps his dick into my hand.

I manage to wriggle around enough to have a peek and whimper when I see the ridges are indeed raised red veins roping themselves around his cock. I wonder what they would feel like inside of me? I squirm again, my dick sobbing, neglected in my jeans.

He shifts his angle again, bending awkwardly, but he makes it work and his mouth is back on mine, devouring me like a starving man. Then finally, finally his hand finds its way to my cock, straining against my pants. He unbuttons my jeans with unsteady fingers, fumbling over the zip.

Freedom, combined with the brushes of his fingers, almost has me coming without warning. Thankfully, I manage to pull myself off the ledge, shimmying out of the jeans as best I can. And then Roan's hand is touching me, his fingers grasping me firmly, and I cry out, loud enough to startle him.

"You-" I cut him off with another fevered kiss, using the hand not currently jerking his cock to cup his jaw and tug his beard. He hisses again and bites my lip. The sting filters through my veins, and I love it.

"Together." How I manage to summon the brain power to utter the words while Roan uses those magic lips to kiss and bite and suck at my neck, I'll never know, but I do.

And he listens—thank the Gods—he listens, because he moves again, lining up our dicks, and I manage to see them, together, a sight burned into my memory for all time.

His wide cock pressed hard against my longer, thinner dick. The patch of hair over his tight sac next to my hairless body. Both cocks glistening with dripping pre-cum that he scoops up with his fingers and smears over us both.

I have always wanted to try this, fantasised about it. But I never knew anything could feel like this. As Roan strokes us together, the ridges on his cock massage the underside of my overly sensitive dick.

The sensation is too much, and I writhe restlessly beneath him, unable to bear the contact but unable to stop him or pull away. Out of my mind and body with lust, I am vaguely aware that his eyes are on me, watching as my head tips back, eyes clenched in pleasure, biting my lip to try to contain my whimpering sobs.

"That's it, baby, give it to me." Fuck. It's the baby that does it to me, sending me over the edge. My legs tighten around his hips, my fingers gouging into his shoulders, the only thing grounding me as I fly from my body in ecstasy.

Behind my clenched eyes, constellations explode, white noise filling my ears. In his hand, my cock jerks against his, my cum flooding his dick as he strokes faster. I feel him swell, the throb at the base of his cock, and then his own release joining mine, as he growls my name.

It's almost enough to make me cum again, but I don't have it in me, my body buzzing as I slowly come back to reality, Roan peppering my face with snuffly kisses, nuzzling at my neck affectionately. It's too much, foolish butterflies fluttering in my stomach. But I'm too sated, too happy to do anything but run my hands over his back, feeling the connection to him.

Only when I stretch, relishing in the pleasant, heavy ache in my body under his do I realise that we never got undressed, and my singlet is now streaked with our joint release.

Shit.

Reality seems to be hitting Roan too, if the way he's just stiffened under my touch is any indication. I breathe a deep sigh as he slowly moves back, his shuttered eyes downcast, avoiding mine like a curse. The change in him is visceral. I mentally slam the cage on those stupid butterflies as I feel him withdraw, bracing myself for the inevitable rejection.

Because there is always rejection.

My parents. Darius. Roan.

It always comes eventually.

The hazy afterglow clears rapidly when I see the look coming over Roan's face. Solemn, concerned , tinged with regret. I flush hot and cold all at once as I try to not cry. I know that I'll break if he tries to tell me we shouldn't have done what we just did. Not when I just came so hard I think I saw the faces of the Gods. Not when it was so beautiful. So right. I don't want to have that conversation.

So, I do the only other thing I know to do, and plaster what I hope is a sassy smile on my face. "All that to get out of showing me your tattoos, Roan. Really not complaining, but it seems a bit much don't you think?"