“Oh God,” Aster gasped, as his back slammed into the wall and Corin slammed into his front. “God—mmm—” The kiss cut off his words, his ability to breathe, and his capacity for rational thought, and Corin had ravaged every crevice of his mouth before Aster tore himself away long enough to suck in a lungful of air.
Corin bit at his throat, tugged at Aster’s trousers, shoved a hand down the back of them, fingers teasing the crease of his ass.
If Aster got any harder he might rip through the trousers himself.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t want…well…something else. They’d been separated to prepare for the wedding: Aster to be reunited with his mother, who’d been sent for from the Cezanne townhouse, and Corin to be provided with pants and a few other garments to accompany them. Aster’s mother had embraced him and petted him just as he’d hoped, but they’d only had a few minutes before they had to return to the throne room.
And then—he and Corin had been married. They’d sworn to be faithful and true, to honor one another in body and soul, to bear all of life’s troubles and share their joys together. There had been a lot of protocol and people being shuffled about to stand in the right places, the priest had given an endless lecture, and it had all felt so bizarre and unreal that Aster hadn’t quite been able to believe that it’d happened.
Finally they’d been released to come here, to this room, where Corin hadn’t even said a single word before locking the door and shoving Aster against the nearest wall.
“I thought,” Aster said, panting. He tipped his head back so Corin had more room to press his face into Aster’s throat and growl. They’d been given one of the palace’s best guest bedchambers, and the ceiling, Aster now saw at this new angle, had a fresco of several minor deities enjoying a flagon of wine. He hoped they weren’t prudish. “I thought wedding nights were supposed to be—oh,” because Corin had slid two fingers between his cheeks now, and Aster’s hole had started to clench around nothing, desperate to be filled.
Corin stopped.
“What?” he asked, mouth still against Aster’s throat. “Wedding nights—what?”
At least Corin sounded as wrecked as Aster felt. That might have to do with flying hundreds of miles in…when had he left his mountain hideaway? And he hadn’t brought anything with him, it seemed like, not even his hoard? Aster’s head throbbed, not painfully, but with the pressure of too many questions and too much uncertainty, and his own desperate exhaustion.
He had Corin to husband. The man he loved. And on the crest of relief and happiness, earlier, it’d seemed like that would solve everything. But now he felt so young and tired and pathetic, and he wanted to be fucked more than almost anything, but that “almost” encompassed a place to lie down and a few moments of silence, and comforting arms around him, ideally.
But Aster had no idea how to say that, or if he even could.
After several awkward seconds, Corin lifted his head and peered into Aster’s face.
His own softened at whatever he saw there, and the pressure of his hands on Aster’s body eased.
“Fuck,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“N-no,” Aster stammered, “there’s nothing to be sorry for, you haven’t done anything, I mean, Corin, please—”
Corin cut him off with a kiss, this time a gentle press of the lips, with no demand to it at all.
“You’re worn out,” Corin murmured against his mouth, and kissed the corner of it lightly. “I wasn’t thinking. Sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
He ought to apologize again, oughtn’t he? Even though the endearment nearly melted him into incoherency. And he tried, but every time he made a sound, Corin kissed him again, now pulling him away from the wall, across the room, over to the bed.
Corin gentled him down onto perhaps the softest mattress he’d ever felt, coming to rest beside and half on top of him, arms cradling him to Corin’s chest. He tucked Aster’s head under his chin and held him close.
And then he didn’t say or do anything at all.
It was bliss. Pure, heavenly delight. Nothing rocked, creaked, or swayed—Aster didn’t like boats. The only sound was the call of a mourning dove outside the window, quiet and sweet. Aster had always loved their song. They didn’t sound mournful at all to him, merely contemplative.
“I missed the doves,” Corin said quietly. “None of those up on the mountain.” And then he laughed. “I need to tell you about the crow that little bastard herald sent. Fucking impertinent asshole.”
For the first time that day, Corin felt familiar and safe again, the same man who’d taken Aster to bed and protected him and laughed with him. Not Sir Corin, who had to speak formally—well, relatively—to the king, or make oaths in front of priests, or terrorize a whole palace full of people.
But his lover Corin, with a filthy mouth and an absurd sense of humor.
Aster relaxed at last with a mighty sigh and nuzzled into Corin’s chest. “Which one’s the impertinent asshole? Jules, or the crow? And he sent a crow? Wait.” Aster pulled back and stared up into Corin’s face. “Hesent you a message? That’s why you’re here?”
Corin’s jaw set and his arms tightened. “He told me you might—he said you wouldn’t promise not to.”
It took him a moment to understand. When he did, his blood chilled. “Jules had no right,” he said, voice shaking with his anger. He pulled away, trying to extricate himself from Corin’s arms, his belly curdling with misery. “He had no—that’s why you’re here, fuck, that’s why, you wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t thought you couldn’t have that on your conscience, damn it—”
“No! Bloody—Aster, stop—enough!” Corin landed on top of him, hands around his wrists and the rest of his body pinning him down. His eyes blazed. “I mean, yes, but not like—stop fighting me! Not like that!”
“How, then?” Aster demanded, forcing himself not to buck and struggle, because it wouldn’t get him anywhere. And even if it did…where would he go? Even if Corin had only married him out of pity, they were married.
