I bemoaned it, even before I truly understood it. The loss of wild boyhood, of striding oceans with a ship propelled by dragons' wings. I mourned it, before I felt it. But I recall it, fondly, very fondly, when I hold my son and my daughter in my arms and tell them stories of a little boy standing on a great deck...
     A little girl, a little boy, a father of two. If I hadn't been there for the birth of both, I shouldn't believe it were true. I barely believe such a thing is possible. I did not believe such love was possible, that such tiny things could inspire such unconditional affection.
     Where have they gone, those Boys of Yore? Sixteen years have come and gone since a prince ran away with a king's son. We cannot run away now -- not for long. But maybe...
     In the hallway of the king's private residence, the grand and private hall that leads to his chambers and those of his brother and the apartments given to his lover, King Iowerth Rhudd Draig strides. It is late. The children are in bed. The last diplomat has been tucked in, and all meetings are done. Such busy days, such crowded nights. Often, sometimes all too often, he and his spouse are merely ships passing in the night, shining their lamps at one another across the water of responsibilities.
     He is hoping this is not one of those nights. That, though it is late, you are not already in bed. Or, if you are, the children are not in there with you as well. It's not stormy; there's half a chance he might get a pillow to himself.
     Iowerth rounds the corner, his clothes of state burning in the low light. He wears a grand coat like his captain's coat, only far grander still and a kind of flame red, a blend of red and orange and yellow to match his hair. It is paired with red leather leggings over red boots. Gold is on his fingers. And his curly hair, burnished bronze, falls past his shoulders.
     He can go nowhere in secret, burning brightly as he does...
     Gloves are in his hand as he moves toward his spouse's chambers, those living quarters long since transformed to workshops and offices. Are you working late? His voice reaches out to you, slipping in secretively between your skin and the rivers of your blood. I am almost to your door... I think we might have a few minutes to ourselves... if our luck holds out...

     There is a wistfulness to his expression as he stares out to sea. His desk is forever turned that way, that he can see his ships returning, watch them going, be mesmerized by the rolling of the ocean forever onwards and back.
     I remember us back then. We were so brave and bold and fearless - well, you were utterly without fear. I was always afraid. Of losing you. Of being or becoming someone evil and without merit. But it was a freer time, nonetheless, because no matter what fear I felt, we had less Duty to chain us.
     Amusing how we are drawn apart by being together, the duties we face, than when we had no responsibilities but thought we might be drawn apart.
     Tiernan glances down, scratching his head vigorously and then rising to his feet. He is dressed in fawn-colored trousers with a white shirt that is open at the neck, his dark hair curling on his forehead and at the nape of his neck. His boots are sea-worthy, as all his clothes tend to be out of habit; you never know. The captain's coat he wears is a dark blue, and hangs from a hook by the door. He does not reach for it now, but instead heads to the balcony.
     I remember...
     His hands brace himself on the balcony's railing, and Tiernan smiles ruefully. There are no real regrets. Who would regret children? Who would regret love, even if at the price of work? But his eyes light up as he feels your thoughts, your approach, even as the cold wet wind hits his face. Come in. Deus ... a few minutes? Might be we so blessed? I'm testing the wind to see if tomorrow will be good sailing weather. I've three ships wanting to go out. But that will only take me a minute, if you can put up with my cold, wet body after.

     Deus, he has taken to using your term, as can happen in long relationships, is it both cold and raining? Do you know how I long to feel actual weather? I miss the wind and the rain, the ache of hands tugging on ropes... You are not alone in your memories. In your wistfulness. As ever, you have him as your companion.
     The door softly opens and far more softly closes. Though the children are in rooms down the hall, the habit is ingrained now. His gloves are set upon your desk and he moves slowly to join you on your balcony. Such a burning thing he is, he shall surely dry up the rain as soon as he stands in it. He doesn't care if the coat gets heavy with it, or if the spots upon the brocade become permanent. He comes up to stand behind you.
     "We might be blessed... at least until it starts to thunder," Iowerth says at your ear. He kisses it and sighs, and his arms settle around you. "How have you been?" As if you were long lost mates, such a question. He does not care that his long hair is going dark with the moisture of the misty sea, or that the curls, let to go long, might become tangled with additional twists that the moisture inspires. To the contrary, he longs to feel the weather. He can close his eyes and imagine you and he are sailing on The Draigamor.
     That you and he are young again and without a care or worry in the world. Not that your youth ever knew such. Funny, how memory moves...
     "I had hoped to be out of the meetings earlier, but... I will not talk of work," he decides. No, not tonight. Time is precious. He does not want to waste it on talk of his day. "I don't want to waste the time. But tell me of yours, of your day, spare nothing, no detail is too small..."

     It is not that ache alone he is nostalgic for. You join him, and he turns his head, smiling back at you and then looking forward. He closes his eyes to shut out sight and focus on the others; the sound of your breathing, the sound of the wind and the sea. The feel of the wet drops of rainwater, the feel of your warmth and solidity at his back, as always. The faint tang that is tasted as well as smelt, the scent of you near him. It is a sudden contentment...
     "I'm well," Tiernan murmurs to you, letting his weight bump back against you for a moment. "And you? Busy, of course. There's been some suspicion on the convoy of goods being influenced from within the docks. I've sent some reports down to security to figure it out. Things have gotten too big. I am having to delegate."
     It is half a complaint and half humorous, wry with the acknowledgment that he cannot do it all by himself. One hand drops low to pat the side of your thigh, and he sighs in the back of his throat. "I am glad you're done with your meeting. I have been missing you lately. Rhudd Draig..." He laughs softly, colour springing into his cheeks. "...I am thinking lewd thoughts. Do we have a hope of the clouds holding away their thunder?"

     Your king and spouse lifts his head to examine the clouds, the discernible thickness, the danger of thunder that may lurk there. "It's building," he looks back to you and smiles. "You know how that goes." It is the same for men as it is for storms. It builds, and then the thunder comes.
     "I've missed you too," Iowerth remarks. It is quiet, left to stand on its own for a moment. "I was feeling a bit... hmm... wistful earlier. I think you and I are in need of a vacation. A week away. I think the kingdom and the ships can handle that, don't you? We need to get off this island," his hands slip beneath your coat, landing against the silk of your shirt. "Just you and I. I know I need the time with you. These... fifteen minutes in the hallway, behind the cupboard, passing notes between messengers... are just not enough."
     You know it must have reached a head if he's mentioning a vacation.
     "Having to delegate," Iowerth repeats, smiling at your neck as he starts to kiss you. "Sounds awful. Familiar," he chuckles. "Is there anything you need from your king? He is busy, but never too busy to lend a hand to his husband's cause."
     Iowerth gets lost for a moment in the simple pleasure of kissing your neck on the balcony. What things this balcony has witnessed over time. Now, children drag chairs to get a look over its vantage point. Who ever would have thought that? Despite its political necessity, fatherhood has been surprising. On all fronts.
     "I want to go sailing," he says at your ear. "You and me... The Draigamor and nothing more. Do you think we can manage it without a convoy?" He smirks at that thought. The very idea that he might actually be able to go somewhere without a royal retinue.

     Wistful. Yes, that is the word. Tiernan smiles, leaning back again. "We need," he supplies, "to be able to be alone together without the palace full of people always ready to interrupt." Where your hands move, now his hands move back to grasp at you, to hold you near to him. "I do not want interruption. Mmm... remember that time, after we defeated those pirates, in the Azure Sea...?"
     You ask if there is anything he needs, and for a moment his breath hisses away altogether as your mouth moves against his neck. Oh yes, he enjoys that. Deus, he enjoys it. He is getting ideas. I need.. mmm, yes, I would like to let myself need again...
     "We can arrange it," Tiernan murmurs, his lack of breath showing in the sound of the words. He bumps his hips back against you for a moment. "I want to be able to ride the red dragon," and he smirks. "Again. Without any risk of 'papa, what are you doing to him?' I do not want to explain that I want you."

     "Tomorrow, I will clear my schedules," he smiles. And though the clouds roil dangerously in the sky, there is no rushing grasp. Your silk shirt is tugged free from the breaches. You can feel the cool sea wind and the warm hand of your lover in the same instant.
     "I do remember that. The fast ships, the smell of smoke, ears ringing with cannon fire, and our ... horizontal victory dancing," his hand moves warmly against the small of your back. "Sometimes it was vertical, as I recall. That was a good week."
     How long ago was that? I'm afraid to ask out loud. Iowerth chuckles as you lean back against him, as he kisses your neck. "Thank god we have yet to scar Jack." Jack, the nickname. Crown Prince Gruffydd ap Iowerth Rhudd Draig is too long a name for one yet so small. "Though I'm sure there's time enough for that." He laughs quietly, the sound and the breath moving against your ear, as his finger dips at the small of your back, downward just beneath the waistband of your trousers. "Gwi and I eventually learned how to knock. Closed doors hold no allure for me. Poor Gwi, for him, it's a hazard of the job..."
     One arm holds you warmly, securely, as his mouth moves against your neck again. It is slow -- that's where the real enjoyment comes in. It's as if the two of you have all night and not a care in the world. "We will arrange it," Iowerth breathes there. "Clear your books, as soon as you can. Maybe this week? Hmm? Shall we be, dare I say it, impulsive?"
     His hand slides away from your back and joins his other around your waist. In the low sound of the ocean, the soft whisper of the wind, there is the sudden tinkling of a belt coming undone. The first droplets of renewed rain drip on your cheek and on his.

     Your smile is echoed on his lips, even as you tug loose his clothing. He has no objections to the cool night air; your hands are warm indeed, and your warmth and his make conflagration where ice might otherwise form. "You were always very pragmatic. And very good at improvisation," Tiernan recalls. If you were not holding him, he would turn towards you. "Masts, ship bows, wooden deck floors, who has any need for beds? Though beds have their places as well."
     He has always had a fondness for gripping tight the headboard while you grip his other end, after all. And still does...
     Deus - too long. Let us not put years to it. Fifteen? I do not want to think of how long, I feel old enough just doing all this paperwork. Your husband-lover turns his head to try to steal a kiss from your mouth. His hands roam wherever he can reach you; teasing, grasping, groping you shamelessly. They move slowly from one part of you to another. "Let us be impulsive," Tiernan grinds the words out, almost roughly. "I do not want to wait. Let someone else deal with the kingdom for a few days."
     He is feeling suddenly impatient, even as he holds himself in check; holds excitement back a little longer. It is better when it is waited. "You always know what moves me," Tiernan whispers, eyes closed as he turns his face up to the rain. "I remember being in London with you. How many damned beds have we broken over the years, Io? Deus ... your solidity, your reality is so appealing." Working on the docks has had a coarsening effect, on occasion, on his language; but even so, it only comes out when he is the most moved, be it by emotion or arousal. Or, as now, both. He turns his head to look at you, a sudden grin there. "We should hunt pirates," he murmurs. "Put a shock into them, to be staring down the High King himself once more..."

     You turn your head, you feel his hand lifting to touch your chin and guide you to the kiss you sought. You seek; you receive. "My favorite... the crow's nest on The Draigamor. There is nothing more beautiful than peril." As perilous as it has become to steal kisses on the balcony, his hand slipping in loosening trousers, with children sleeping (hopefully) two apartments over. Iowerth kisses you with all the wanton freedom of a boy, his hair rolling forward in bronzed curls to half curtain you both.
     "We will go," he murmurs, his hands returning to your hips, slowly rolling your trousers downward. "It won't take long to prepare, hmm? Perhaps we can leave as early as tomorrow's evening tide." We will steal away, just like we did the first day we met.
     He smiles, your High King, recalling that moment in this one. "I have loved you all my life," he whispers. Gone is the hesitant hand of a new king. Now some six years on the throne, some six years your husband, the dragon has returned, renewed, restored, resplendent.
     In the quiet of your office chamber there is another chiming of metal, another belt loosening. The rain falls lightly but steadily now, yet it does nothing to cool him. "I think we're up to a baker's dozen at least," Iowerth grins. "Including the one we blamed on the cats."
     He sighs as his own fashionable constriction falls loose at his hips. He glances behind him briefly, then to the clouds above. I do not yet hear thunder... I think we may get lucky, darling.

     Your hands on him, his on you. It is the completion he has always sought, the perfection of the closed circuit, without the desperation that once accompanied it. He kisses you with an open-hearted ardor that is free of fear. Yes, he murmurs it without sound, spreading and shifting his thighs so that your hands make light work of his trousers.
     "As soon as possible. But without interrupting this." Tiernan is firm on that topic, the look he gives you hungry in appeal, a wry laugh in his eyes. I want you too much to have to wait. His hands reach for you again, pawing at your coat, the heaviness of his half-erect member undismayed by the rain.
     I have loved you since I first saw you. My heart twisted in my chest then, and I didn't know what it was or what it meant. I only knew that I would follow you anywhere. He turns his head, glancing past you. "We will have to try and be quieter than thunder," he whispers to you, voice conspiratorial. The grin is a slow and spreading thing that is wide and joyous. I am already the luckiest man in your kingdom. But I hope to get even luckier.

     "The griffins are known for their sharp hearing," he whispers back. Your son has inherited his uncanny sense of timing. "I will do my best," the wry smile follows on the heels of your own, his fingers sliding over his own member and then between the rounds of your rear.
     "Tomorrow then," Iowerth breathes at your ear, leaning against you to keep his sounds close, his body closer. You can feel his own arousal, his heartbeat whispering against your skin. "You and I...will go pirate hunting... I'll even let you fire the cannons. I know how you like it."
     His mouth moves against your neck again, parting, suckling, attempting to remain quiet as his fingers, oiled from his own excitement, begin easing within you. "We will ride the sea, and you will ride me."
     Two fingers find their way, pressing against your opening in a slow, wide circle before disappearing within you. I could not even have imagined this, then... you, me... here on this balcony...about to make love in the rain. Our children tucked into beds, and us conspiring to slip away. Iowerth closes his eyes, his mouth brushing at your ear.
     The storms are approaching. There is electricity in the air. And it moves between you, pricking the hair on your bodies, filling each grasp, each stroke with static. I hate to think how long it's been, his voice throbs against your skin on the upbeat and downbeat of your own pulse, as his mouth traces the line of your neck from your ear to your shoulder.

     His breathing is thicker, a hand bracing himself at the edge of the balcony. His teeth tear at his lower lip as he bites at his own grin. As you spread him, he opens for you, eyes closing in exquisite enjoyment. I want you, Io. Deus... it does not matter that we have had years together. I want you. I need you every minute of every day, knowing that you and I are in the same world.
     He rides back against your fingers, suppressing a groan as best he can. It is not easy. Tiernan reaches back for you blindly, twisting his torso and dragging his hand down against your chest before he leans himself forward with hips thrust back to bounce against you. Is it raining? I hadn't noticed.
     The electricity pulls at him; this excitement, once rare, now so much a part of the joy he takes in you. Love without fear, need without stinginess. Too long, Tiernan breathes out as your mouth moves against his neck, his jaw hanging a little heavier. He reaches back, grasping at you, squeezing you, thumb rubbing teasingly against the head of you. I want all of you. I love our children, Io, but deus, it has been too long. Hurry. I do not want to wait.

     Stolen moments. You and he shall have to become master thieves, plucking moments in spontaneous silence. As your thumb rubs, your fingers squeezing, you feel him respond. Quickly, as if he can hear the pattering of tiny feet marching toward you to interrupt this moment, leathered thighs encourage yours wider and you feel him, the pressure and the stroke of his length against your anus. He guides himself in the darkness, in the rain, inside you. And he turns to something like marble, hardening and straining as he fills you.
     Without the added oils of a thousand and one potions that, in more measured moments when you might have hours rather than seconds, he would employ, he fills you slowly, one hand holding the root of his member, guiding still, while his other hand clasps your bare hips, pulling you to him, lightly on and off him as he starts to sink into your flesh.
     The King's coat gleams gold, orange, crimson, flickering like firelight in the beginning of rhythm. His breaths are not quiet, but they are as quiet as they can be. He gasps, swallows, sighs. As a roll of his hips and a bounce sends him within you completely, his groin brushing against your rear end, he grunts at your ear. "We need to be better," he whispers, his mouth suckling at your ear, his tongue following the shell-like patterns of it, "... about making time...time so easily slips away. And you feel... too good... to miss."
     His left hand holds you by the hip, moving you forward and back to meet him. Iowerth bends, his hips popping forward and curling back. His hand slides against your own erection, the momentum of his thrusts guiding his strokes.
     "We mourn our boyhood like old men," he whispers, groaning between his syllables. "But... have we ever been this free?"

     Your thievery is answered by muffled groan, and he presses his palm against his mouth, against his teeth. He sways, his hand coming back down to the balcony's edge roughly. "Deus," Tiernan breathes out, groaning again. "You feel so good, Io. You ... only you make me feel this way. You..."
     Words are hard to get past the thickness in his throat, the raspiness of his voice betraying just how much he has missed this; how much he has missed you. He is fighting to control himself, fighting to keep the volume down, that your son and his will not pad from his own bed to find two of his parents on a balcony with dropped trou. We must make time. Time takes away too easily from us.
     He agrees with you readily, leaning forward against the balcony, opening himself to you with a greedy sound in the back of his throat. "Never," Tiernan whispers hoarsely. "We had fear ... and duty ... and the future grabbing at us. The unknown ... and the known ... conspired against us." He gasps, tightening around you, squeezing you inside of himself as he bites at his lip again. "Now ... we only have duty ... and parenthood. Our hearts are not afraid."

     "Our hearts are not afraid," Iowerth repeats at your ear. "And our duties, though great, should not consume us. I speak as We, but I mean me." He grins, choking a groan in his throat as you squeeze around him. He straightens, both hands on your hips and he pulls you to him, his groin slapping your rear -- lighter than thunder, yes, but still audible -- and with him fully ensconced, rolling his hips, pressing the flat of his groin against you.
     We do not need to mourn our past. We have our present and our future to revel in. We will take time to enjoy it... thoroughly. Like this... Christ... The High King takes his enjoyment and gives it freely. His hips roll forward to meet you each time he pulls you back. His coat swings with the activity, and his long, layered hair lifts in the tugging of the wind.
     "When I saw you... yesterday... in the hall when we passed... I wanted to press you... to the marble... it was all I could do... not to grab you and pull you onto my lap and onto the throne..." You and he have been there before, late at night after banquets receded into memory, wiggling on that marble seat and one another.
     The memories of that night wash over and through him, and you feel him jerk within you, a lightning bolt of excitement striking at him, echoing in the sharpness, in the quickness of his following thrusts. Wrestling free of his coat, he holds you tightly, mounting you lewdly. Stallions copulate with more discretion.
     In the distance, thunder begins to softly roll, the first flashes of lighting faint as the storms gather over the ocean. His silk shirt is wet and clinging to his body, that solid, muscular form. "The future may grab at us," he grunts softly at your ear, "...but we also grab at one another, oes?" His hand reaches around, finding you again, stroking your erection, tugging and toying with you, clasps both firm and light. "We will swim naked in the sea again... oh, I have missed that... the best part of our youth -- sunning on the rocks, then making love... our bodies warm and smelling of sunlight..."

     Without fear, we have grown. We have blossomed. You pull him onto you, and he laughs breathlessly, the sound becoming a tightening groan. "Yes," Tiernan murmurs, the sound almost a growl, his voice is so hoarse. "Like that. My king... More..."
     More, in the sense of giving him more of what you give. In the sense, too, that you are more than king; more than lover, more than husband. You are All, as he is to you. I have become almost as bad as you. Duty. Responsibility. Paperwork. Here and now, I eschew them to enjoy you... until they collapse in on us again, anyway. He laughs, sound low, husky, and his hands grasp at the balcony as if to fight your pulling him back. It gives him the leverage to tease you, torment you a little, to coax you into him again. Again, and again, and again, yes, deus.
     Each time you pull him, he tugs in return, an echo, the sea meeting the shore in vivid copulation. He makes a sound of his enjoyment, the images you paint with your words, the feeling of you in and out of him - and especially in. "I enjoy being at my king's service," Tiernan hisses out to you. "Your throne suits you. Your lap suits me."
     Already, his words are shortening. He has less and less to say, more and more wanting of you. Fill me... take me... Io... Tiernan growls wordlessly, eyes squeezing closed even as he tightens around you again in deliberate taunt and tease, deliberate defiance that becomes less deliberate as you find his erection. "Deus!" The word explodes from him, his hips rocking a little, thrusting himself against your hand. "Sea and sun or stone and rain, I don't bloody care, just as long as it is you. I," he presses back shortly, sharply, then thrusts forward with a half whine in his throat, "need you more than poetry, my king. The storm is coming."

     The thunder rumbles as it approaches. Or is that your lover's groan, a sound of pleasure? Bending over you, his body sliding against your own with every pop of his hips, every slap of his groin against your rear, Iowerth rumbles with his own noises, his own storm. So much for quiet, for enjoying you in silence. It was simply not to be.
     His hand around you squeezes, pressing around the head to give you the sensation of you being inside him. You press into his clasp with every rough meeting of his body against yours. You can feel him thicken. You can feel the twinge of electricity in every thrust.
     And when the lightning starts to crackle nearby, you know he will not be far behind it. I hate it when it is so quick... When I am in you... I want to be in you for hours... hmm...like in London... when we could barely eat before we needed to be on and in one another...
     His mouth finds your neck, finds your ear. Panting, he murmurs I'm coming... His teeth scrape the tender flesh of your earlobe, squeezing it as he breathes roughly, loudly. His body begins to buckle as the rain begins to pour. His hand has to leave your member to maintain his balance, both hands going to your hips. Iowerth lifts you, curling his hips wildly forward and back as a long sound issues from his throat.
     His thrusts lose all rhythm, his body jerking within you, around you, against you as he empties himself. It is simple, living... there is always magic with it and between you... but gone are the days and nights of the choking sea. What is left behind is the swimming of clouds, the shooting of stars, and genuine pleasure.
     Trembling, his hips still jerking, Iowerth holds himself within you, feeling you inside and out, feeling... and letting you feel... the thudding of his heartbeat in the still swollen length.
     You and he and your joining is illuminated in the flashing of lightning overhead.

     He is aching with this need, the need that is more than magical. The sea does not threaten to drown him as it once did, no. But the sea is still within him, with the loosening of cruel bonds of darkest magic - your destiny and his, overlapped. There is no way he can enjoy you in silence. Who do you think he is - your brother?
     Tiernan groans again, the sound caught in his chest with the poorly caught breath. I love it when it is slow. And I love it when it is quick. You thrust into him, and he widens, spreads himself to take you, grunting and gritting his teeth. When it is quick, there is still room for more later. If we can pull it off, I intend to have you for dessert. A midnight snack, you can hear, feel his grin growing, spreading, and you are very filling.
     He is growing so sensitive, too sensitive, his hips jarring against your hand. He knows the moment you reach your crescendo by the sudden jerk of your swollen member inside him. And despite all the warning, it still somehow catches him by surprise.
     "Deus!" The word is almost buried in the rolling of the ocean, in the rumble from the clouds. Almost - but audible nonetheless on earth, in the balcony's confines. His hips jerk, leaping, and he almost crashes forward against the stone ledge as he spasms wildly. For long moments, he is lost to sensibility.
     When he can speak, he does, but his voice is low and his words tremble more than he had any intention of. "My arms don't want to work now," Tiernan murmurs to you. He is trembling almost as much as he words, his weight heavy and sluggish. "Don't move. Don't pull from me yet. I want to enjoy this while it lasts."

     His arms slide around you. Should he have to explain it, he can say he is doing ...simply what he is doing. Hugging you. Soft, the kisses return to your neck. Though he remains inside you, he is anything but still; tiny motions of his hips rock him inside you where he lingers, deeply. "I think we will have all night, and the morning too," he murmurs against your neck. "You can have me for breakfast, too."
     Iowerth smiles against your skin, the pull of his mouth a caress.
     He straightens and guides you to straighten with him, your arms able to relax. Still held within you, trapped there, he turns. "Is there still a bed here?" he whispers, his soft mouth kissing your ear. It is a tender touch, sweet after so much rough motion. His fingers run lightly over the head of your cock, tracing over the sensitive skin.
     I want to spend the night with you. Iowerth grins, nuzzling you as his hands brace against your hips, holding you to him -- and he still inside you, unflagging. He says it as though you do not sleep together every night. But tonight it seems that it may just be the two of you. Will you allow me that pleasure?
     Slowly, his motions a gentle thrust, Iowerth moves, walking with you carefully from the balcony to the main room. His steps are slow. They knock against you, him within you.

     I want to tangle with you until I do not know where I begin and you end.
     Tiernan smiles, eyes still closed. He groans quietly, the sensitivity so immense. Every little touch has him shivering now, suddenly all too acutely aware of the wind and the rain. You could ask anything of me right now, Iowerth, and I would grant it to you willingly, freely, my heart in chains and suborned to your reign. But that the chains are of my choosing, and they weigh nothing, not even as much as the lofty air...
     You recognize this stage of things, don't you? Where he becomes more talkative, more the poet, whereas he ordinarily says less and little. Tiernan smiles lazily, and he brushes his hands weakly back against you, glancing to you with each slow step. "Bed," he murmurs, "now. I want to kiss you properly. Welcome home, my husband. It is a little less gilded than your throne, but my bed and my arms are prepared to accept you."
     He closes his eyes again, sighing in contentment, even as his flesh continues to be tormented by the passage of pleasure through him. The storm is not over yet, but he is full of you, dripping with rain water and sweat and essence of you and him both. My adored...

Posted by rowan at August 26, 2007 01:13 AM