A Boy and His Dragon (27 page)

was normal. Uncircumcised, but big like he thought before, thick and flushed darkly. It was also hard—hard for Arthur. Just thinking about it made Arthur feel hungry. He swallowed as he bent down.

When he slid back he breathed in to catch the scent, trying to think of how it might make Bertie feel. He knew how it made him feel. He wet his mouth.

Bertie whined again, then let out a small, unsatisfied roar.

“What I want?” he asked in disbelief. His eyes were riveted to Arthur’s face. “I want to take you and keep you.” Arthur met his stare for one moment, feeling the heat spread through him, and then he ducked his head. He couldn’t do what Bertie had done, but he could spread his fingers over Bertie’s stomach and press down as he used his tongue to explore Bertie’s foreskin.

Bertie’s breath hissed out of him. “Arthur.” He didn’t push up, not much. From the corner of his eye Arthur saw one of Bertie’s hands stretch over velvet, and then Bertie drew in another long, long breath. “Arthur,” he started again, but Arthur shook his head mutely and adjusted his position to get more comfortable. His hair fell forward, but only for a moment and then Bertie was sweeping it back for him. It was like being petted, but Arthur didn’t care. It was embarrassing how much he liked it, how much he’d like to be Bertie’s pet, his boy, how much he wanted to be kept.

He moved his head forward until there was weight on his tongue and then tightened his lips. Bertie wasn’t a fairy. There was no laughter, not like that anyway, though when Arthur stopped moving there was a strangled sound from Bertie that could have been a laugh. But it wasn’t breezy and it wasn’t light and it wasn’t followed by teasing instructions or the kiss of glitter at his back.

Arthur took his hand away from Bertie’s stomach and raised his gaze up to Bertie’s face. Of course he was watching, but his eyes were dark and he wasn’t moving, as if anything that Arthur wanted to do was fine by him. Arthur used his tongue, letting his spit and the satiny taste he lapped up mingle on his taste buds before he swallowed.

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“Darling,” Bertie purred with his head back, and the word shouldn’t have been as dirty as it was. Arthur’s hips pushed forward as he hummed over the taste difference between fairy and dragon.

He wasn’t hard, but the bitter taste on his tongue made him want to slide his body forward until he was on top of Bertie. He lifted his head and felt stinging hot at the sound of Bertie’s cock popping free of his mouth.

Bertie made a noise too, low with loss and frustration until Arthur moved closer, shifting up to fit in his lap. Arthur ducked his head because he had no grace, not like Bertie, but when he rocked and settled himself over Bertie’s legs and Bertie’s cock slid against his ass, Bertie choked out his name.

Arthur couldn’t resist moving again at that, shifting his hips experimentally after Bertie’s groan and then one more time when Bertie panted at his ear. His hand pushed down between them and went to Arthur’s dick, which was throbbing but not stiff, and then crept over to Arthur’s thigh. Arthur opened his mouth wide, gasping over Bertie’s throat. He felt muscles move when Bertie swallowed and almost, but not quite, scraped his teeth over Bertie’s jugular and the path of those hidden scales. He felt Bertie’s voice too; it trembled under his lips.

“Arthur.” Bertie’s other hand fell weakly through Arthur’s hair, curving over his ear and then his jaw. Arthur turned his head without thought and sucked Bertie’s thumb into his mouth. He just needed
something
inside him.

Bertie’s hips left the couch. Arthur pushed him down by rocking against him. He didn’t stop because Bertie begged him not to and because it felt right, the sticky pulse, the heat, the freedom to run his hands over the skin of Bertie’s stomach, taut as a drum. He rolled his hips and grunted when Bertie rose up to meet him.

Bertie’s fingers dug into Arthur’s lower back. It was only for a moment, and then his hand fell away and Arthur realized Bertie was biting back a growl.

He couldn’t look up—he couldn’t. He wasn’t hot or very experienced but he could do this. He could make Bertie come, and right now that was all he wanted.

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“Don’t stop, Arthur.” Bertie’s praise was rough but intimate against Arthur’s ear; it worked its way down Arthur’s back and made him grind down, harder than Clematis had done to him. He wanted Bertie to come, wanted to ride him and please him, and he couldn’t rain down glitter, but he could nip at Bertie’s skin and twist against his cock. But he gasped when Bertie pulled his hand from Arthur’s mouth.

“Bertie,” Arthur protested in shock as the thick weight of Bertie’s thumb slid out of his mouth. He raised his head, leaving his mouth open and empty and his chest heaving. He would have died of humiliation if Bertie hadn’t been staring at him like Arthur was a dream come true.

“May I?” he asked as if Arthur knew what he meant, but when he ran his wet thumb along Arthur’s lower lip, Arthur parted both lips wide to take in his fingers. He knew Bertie was watching and blushed hot but curled his tongue around Bertie’s two fingers and drew them in to the last knuckle. He sucked until Bertie was groaning, his voice getting rough and strange. “You make me want everything.” He was breathing heavily, his body thrusting up as Arthur worked his fingers. Then he inhaled sharply, cutting himself off as he pulled his fingers away.

Before Arthur could react, he moved that hand to Arthur’s hip and then around to his ass. His eyes were steady on Arthur’s face as he slid those wet fingers even lower.

Arthur exhaled shakily and arched back into the stroking touch. He glanced away, then back when Bertie whispered, “Arthur you don’t know what you do.” Arthur moved mutely against Bertie in reply, because if Bertie pressed in, Arthur
would
be hard again.

“Bertie.” Saying the name was just like he’d thought it would be, longing and soft against Bertie’s skin, along his neck.

Bertie pulled him close and held him there, pushing up to meet Arthur’s every wild move and gasping out Arthur’s name over and over, as if he was weak and wasn’t digging marks into Arthur’s hip or teasing him with two wet, hot fingertips.

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Arthur bent his head to put his mouth over shining shades of black, untouchable unless he sucked them to the surface, like a bruise.

Bertie’s hand scrabbled at his side and he moaned. Arthur used his tongue, his teeth, until Bertie was arching up and coming, coming hot and fast on Arthur’s thighs, under his ass, possibly all over the velvet couch. Arthur rocked into him until Bertie fell back.

It took him longer to pull his mouth from Bertie’s skin, to realize that he’d marked Bertie while rubbing himself all over his lap, but when he started to sit back Bertie threw one arm loosely around him to keep him still.

“Arthur, won’t you stay just a little longer?” he spoke in a sleepy, warm voice and sighed. Arthur looked up. Bertie’s eyes were closed, though there was a slight grin at his mouth. Arthur glanced away from him and around the room, but there was no reason to get up. After a second he wiggled a little to try to get more comfortable, then gave up when Bertie put a hand between them without opening his eyes. He gave Arthur’s dick one lazy stroke as if gauging Arthur’s state and then smacked his lips.

“Just give me a few minutes, dear boy,” he murmured and seemed oblivious to Arthur’s wide-eyed stare as he shut his eyes. In seconds his breathing evened out, and Arthur realized that despite his words, Bertie had fallen asleep.

THE breathing in Arthur’s ear woke him up and he turned toward it with only a partial awareness of feeling sticky and oddly contorted.

There was soft velvet at his back and then something like hot silk, like
moving
hot silk, under his palms and against his chest.

It was heavy too, and he opened his eyes. Surprise almost stopped his heart. For one second as he realized that a dragon was asleep on top of him, he wasn’t sure his heart
didn’t
stop. Then he became aware of things like the unpleasant, gross feeling around his ass and how he was perilously close to the edge of the cushions.

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The fire was dying but Arthur was itchy with sweat. Bertie must have gotten him onto his back at some point and fallen asleep half on top of him. Arthur couldn’t say whether Bertie had been a dragon then or not; he couldn’t recall.

He blinked and looked over at a peacefully sleeping Bertie, at the side of his neck, which was now covered in black scales. There wasn’t even a hint of the hickey Arthur had given him earlier.

Carefully, Arthur lifted one hand and felt over the spot. It was almost like running his hand over an abalone shell and yet it was softer, alive and warm. Bertie snuffled in his sleep but didn’t wake up. Arthur considered that, then traced a line down one of Bertie’s arms to the end of the long claws that were curled over his chest.

He touched Bertie’s feathery mane next and then his beard, though he couldn’t reach the small spot in the middle of Bertie’s back where there was a strange dull patch that seemed new. So he returned to Bertie’s neck, to the point where the softer skin became hard and the scales got bigger. Bertie’s head came up so fast that Arthur jumped and flailed and fell back onto nothing but air and then the floor.

Expensive though it was, the rug didn’t soften anything.

Arthur grunted in surprise and pain and looked up. For one moment a dragon as black as the night sky stared down at him and then the air shimmered and blurred, turning the dragon into something indistinct and then into Bertie, who slid to his feet to help Arthur up.

“So sorry, pet. I take up a lot of space as me and I didn’t realize you were….” He paused once Arthur was standing and rubbing his back. “Petting me?” It was almost a question and Arthur wasn’t quite ready to answer it.

“I thought it best to confront the beast head on,” Arthur remarked smartly instead. He
had
been petting Bertie, but maybe that wasn’t done. In any case, he had to look up eventually, so he took a breath and raised his head.

Bertie’s expression made him warm to his toes. His very naked toes, Arthur realized abruptly, though Bertie’s stare would have made him feel exposed even if he’d been fully dressed. It saw too A Boy and His Dragon

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much. He quickly lowered his head again as he fought the urge to cover up. Bertie was naked too, after all, he told himself. He just looked better that way than Arthur did.

Arthur could see a red circle on Bertie’s neck now, already fading from the purple hickey it had been. Arthur couldn’t think of a way to ask how long a hickey could be expected to last on Bertie without admitting that he wanted to give him another one, so he swallowed. Bertie licked the edge of his mouth.

“I could keep you like this for days,” he growled only to quickly glance away when Arthur raised his head to stare at him.

Bertie clenched his hands and then relaxed them. When he spoke again the dark, desperate note in his voice was gone.

“A wash up might be in order I think,” he commented too lightly. Arthur glanced down again and saw the dried come on his thighs. He should agree, but he couldn’t move, not with the memory of that comment, of Bertie’s voice as he had said it making him feel slow and faint. Bertie took his hand. “Let’s get you squared away.” They were at the staircase before Arthur realized he was being led upstairs. He didn’t balk, but he looked back at the mess on the couch and shivered. It was one thing to read a story and want to take the place of a dragon’s boy, to admit to wanting it in the heat of the moment, but it was another to live it afterward. He wasn’t that boy.

He had responsibilities: his sister, work, school. He
couldn’t
be that boy. But Bertie would want it. He would want
everything
, he had said so. Everything, including keeping Arthur covered in his spunk for days.

Arthur couldn’t breathe.

“Here we are.” Bertie either didn’t notice his silence or was nervously avoiding it. Arthur squinted as the bedroom lights came on and bounced off all the treasure but Bertie gave him no time to focus on it. “If I could trust myself….” He cleared his throat as if he knew how fierce his voice was getting. “Bathroom, my little human.”

Arthur wasn’t his, but Arthur didn’t say a word about it as Bertie left him alone in his bathroom and closed the door. His R. Cooper

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reflection in the giant mirror over the sink startled him, and Arthur frowned back at the wiry muscles of his body, the flushed swell of his mouth, the deep, fierce blue of his eyes.

He was bruised too, marked with fingerprints and the soft imprints of Bertie’s stubble along his chest, his stomach, even his thighs. He reached down to touch the hot, chafed skin and watched his pupils dilate at the memory of Bertie’s mouth near his cock. He exhaled. Despite Bertie’s doubts about Arthur’s feelings, Arthur had never really been afraid, not of Bertie.

He jerked into sudden motion at the thought and looked through drawers and cabinets until he found a towel and then he let the water run as he cleaned himself up. The water was cool but he barely noticed it until he was done. Then he shivered and looked at himself again. He looked the same. Not beautiful, not exactly, not like Bertie, but like someone worth looking at.

“Are you all right in there, Arthur?” Bertie called through the door, and Arthur froze. “I haven’t frightened you, have I? I didn’t mean to this time. But you kissed me, you see.” Arthur dropped his gaze to the sink and then to elsewhere until something in an open drawer caught his eye. He identified it with a tiny laugh of disbelief even as he noted that the drawer was a mess and his mind replayed Bertie’s words. Arthur
had
kissed him. And Bertie reacted like he’d been waiting for it for a long, long time.

Arthur took a shaky breath.

“Yes. Yes, I did,” he called back at last and reached into the drawer. When the lubricant was warmed and slick on his fingers, he leaned over the sink and thought of Bertie as he slid his fingers over his hole and then pushed in.