Finally, he caught Misha’s eye and said, “I’m ready. Give it to me.”
Misha chuckled and said, “It’s all yours.”
He stared, trembling with anticipation, as Misha rose up on his knees, looming over him. They were nearly the same size, but Misha’s confidence and powerful presence sometimes made Paris feel small in the best of ways. His lover bent to him, guiding his cock closer until he pressed at Paris’s entrance.
“Ready?” Misha purred against his neck.
“Yes,” Paris urged. He gasped as Misha pushed into him, slow but steady, and he let himself go. Pleasure swept over him, and he stroked Misha’s shoulder with his left hand, feeling for that sparkling bond between them. It felt like being drunk in the sun, the world slowly spinning around him as he floated on a gentle current.
Misha hiked his legs higher, nearly bending him in half as he bent to claim Paris’s lips in a bruising kiss. “You are mine forever,” he growled.
“And you are mine,” Paris managed between deep, hard strokes. The swelling heat of Misha’s pleasure battered him through their bond, and he could feel his lover’s desperation as he chased his release.
And then, the bastard pulled back, still pinning his legs. Gleaming eyes fixed on his. “Tell me what you want,” Misha purred.
He could have fought him, could have flipped Misha over and turned the tables. But surrender was so sweet. “I want you. I need you,” Paris said. “Please.”
“Say it again,” Misha said, giving one languorous thrust before nearly pulling out of him.
“Please, Misha,” he said, letting out a low groan as Misha drove deep. He held on tight, murmuring, Please yes God yes. Each demand spurred Misha on, until there were only wordless sounds of pleasure and delight.
Then he jolted as Misha bent to sink his teeth into Paris’s shoulder. Euphoria surged through him, and he could barely see as intoxicating pleasure swept over him. Misha gripped him tight, stroking him until his hips surged and his seed spilled over his belly.
“Mine,” Misha growled again against his bloodied shoulder. He let out a deep, rumbling roar, and drove home into Paris, swelling inside him until a hint of pain sparked along his spine. As his hips jerked, Paris embraced him, welcoming him home, where he belonged.
Misha slumped, laying his head next to Paris’s. The heat of his body was divine, the broad frame wrapped around him like a shield. He kissed Paris’s lips gently, then lifted up. “You okay?”
“I have no bones left,” Paris said drunkenly. Misha laughed and withdrew from him, then lay flat on his back, curling Paris into his chest. As he lay on the other man’s shoulder, drinking in his clean scent and tracing those lovely muscles on his chest, he wondered yet again if he was going to wake up to find it was all a cruel, teasing dream.
But Misha didn’t evaporate, nor turn into a shrieking shadow monster. He was solid and warm and real. Paris relished the simple touch, the way Misha caressed his shoulder and kissed the top of his head as they lay in the happy quiet. He savored the comfort and safety, knowing he could fall asleep and they would still be safe. And he could still hardly believe that he would wake up and find this man still by his side, ready to love him again for another day.
Misha let out a soft chuckle that rumbled into Paris’s body.
“What are you laughing at?” he asked.
“I was just thinking I’ve never had a cat,” he said. “We should get a cat.”
Paris shook his head and kissed his shoulder. “One step closer to being a stereotype.”
“Ah, yes, because gay Russian vampires are absolutely the stereotype that comes to mind when one says witch,” Misha said, squeezing him tight.
He erupted in laughter. “We can get a cat if you like.”
Misha laughed, then went quiet. “I love you, Paris,” he murmured. “I did not think I could be loved as you love me, and I barely know what to do with myself. I’m afraid I’ll get it all wrong.”
“I love you,” he echoed. “You won’t get it wrong, but if you did, we would figure it out together. Wouldn’t we?”
He looked up to see Misha smiling brightly. “We would,” he agreed. Then one dark brow arched, indicating Misha was about to do his best to be snarky, which was always charming. “Even if you’re an old man.”
“Uh-huh. Lucky for you, I look absurdly good for my age,” Paris said. “And I won’t point out the obvious issue that you like old men.”
“The older the better,” Misha teased, drawing him in for a kiss. Paris smiled against his lips, granted him a long, lingering kiss, then settled onto the pillow next to him.
“Good night, Misha,” he said.
Misha kissed his shoulder, then reached out to turn off the light. “See you in the evening.”
“Promise?”
