Warrior, Renewed: Book Two of the Comhairle Chronicles

Chapter Ten: Restless

“Eallair...”

The trainees name left Tanc’s lips as a moan, part panting breath and part rough growl, waking him from his dream to find himself alone in his room, twisted in sheets that clung too tightly to his body.

He lay alone in his bed.

Alone, when just moments earlier his mind had made him believe the auburn haired prospective-ghaisgeach had joined him.

Dammit. Fantasising about his new intake hadn’t been on his agenda, especially not when Eallair had grown sombre after he’d revealed his history. Though that didn’t surprise him. Few warrior-types could respect a slave who’d been too weak to rebel.

Fuck. Why had he told the boy all the gory details?

He wasn’t sure, except that he’d wanted to earn his trust. Only the idea that he might have undermined that instead left a hollow pit in his stomach. An icy cold pit which seemed so at odds with the heat flowing through his body in response to his dream.

That fucking dream.

He’d never brought anyone back to his room. So, why had his mind persuaded him that it would be oh so easy to lead the purple-eyed warrior-to-be back there? To push him onto the bed and tangle his fingers in his auburn hair as he kissed him hungrily, nipping his lower lip, fangs scraping soft flesh until blood taunted hungry tongues? He was the chief! Eallair was a trainee! It would be a breach of trust to even attempt such a thing. Yet that didn’t stop his mind whirring, imaging what Eallair would look like as he peeled off his clothes and tossed them to the floor.

Gods, Tanc wanted to taste his skin. To hear him inhale sharply as his tongue teased his pulse point, his chest, his abs, or lower still. He wanted to hear Eallair moan, to have the trainee straddle him, taking his length into his hot body, clenching around him with each roll of his hips. Even thinking about burying himself in Eallair’s tight bud had his cock throbbing, twitching in need as his back bowed instinctively, seeking a connection that wasn’t there.

Almost without thought, Tanc’s hand skimmed down his chest, over the slave brand that marked his skin and then lower, over ridges of muscle to grip his own cock. He stroked himself, trying to ignore the flicker of shame that always came from sex (and anything close to it), because of what he’d been before. In spite of that shame, his trained self-loathing, he still gasped, hips rocking as each stroke of his length sent a pulsing flood of heat through him.

What would Eallair look like as he ground his ass against him? As he rode him, sweat beading on flushed skin as they built the pace, bodies meeting and withdrawing over and over as their pleasure climbed higher, chasing that peak where bliss and rapture waited. Would Eallair moan his name? Whisper it, breathless as his sack tightened and his body tensed on the cusp of a release? Would he scream it as he came apart, the clenching and pulsing of his tight walls tugging Tanc’s seed from him even as Eallair spilled against his own abs or into Tanc’s hand?

He wanted to lick the trainees seed from his skin, to taste him, to taste the salt of his sweat and the sweetness of his blood. He wanted everything. Rough frantic sex that came from desperation; desperation to touch and be touched, to sate and be sated, and slower, more gentle sex that came from the desire to learn a lover’s body; to learn what made them moan, or beg, or fly apart in an earth shattering moment of ecstasy.

His hand moved faster, pumping his throbbing length as he imagined how perfectly tight Eallair would feel. How hot. The wetness of pre glossed his smooth head, he felt it as he stroked himself, as his thumb brushed over his aching, engorged tip that begged for Eallair’s tongue, or his tight entrance, or his hand in place of Tancred’s own grip. He felt his heavy sack tighten with each ever more erratic rock of his hips, and craved the feel of Eallair’s body stretching for him, gripping him so perfectly that awareness of anything else drifted away.