“I want you. Right up against the window.”
HE’D ALREADY FALLEN victim to the stray kisses that his prince had generously been pressing into his neck, bypassing a high collar and daring to whisper dangerous praise in the lowest voice he could manage. He was, in fact, aroused before Xander had ever touched him, muttering suggestive comments all before he lay hands on his retainer ( after a small invitation, of course ). Busied by pushing aside the blue of his tunic, doing what he must to coax it off of him is what Xander does best, in Laslow’s own opinion. He’s careful, he’s precise, and he seems to know exactly where to skirt across to raise the goosebumps and to send the unsubtle chill down his spine.
He can accept how his liege goes about things, letting him run his hands over skin he’s already conquered time and time before. Letting him ravage over and plan out just how to do this without the incessant teasing and the coy nature that is usually present from his flirtatious lover, make a mark, or perhaps five if he wanted – so long as he wanted.
Yet, he remains caught off guard the moment his feet leave the ground. The prince’s hands grasping onto his thighs to hold the minuscule weight of him around his waist. While one of Laslow’s arms hook around the other’s neck, the other moves to single handedly undo the top three buttons of his dress shirt, finding satisfaction in the glint of fair skin that only reddens with crass movement. Grinding against him with precision to ensure that he’s pushing right into his retainer’s growing erection, earning a rhythmic gasp and the flourish of pink rising to Laslow’s cheeks.
— ‘ I WANT YOU, ’ he says, and oh gods, he could say it a million more times. Laslow adores hearing those words, especially clothed in a lustful, husky growl to further paint the picture of just how badly, ‘ RIGHT UP AGAINST THE WINDOW. ’ Laslow knows that Xander loves to show off what’s his, leaving no room for question on just what – or who – belongs to him. So far as to take what’s his in the publicity of the glass, chilled panes with drawn curtains only inviting any passerby to view the show. While the mercenary had many reservations about being made a public display, he couldn’t deny his request, nor could he deny himself the expectant pleasure he would no doubt receive for agreeing.
And as if to further persuade him, hard kisses are given as incentive – pulling on his bottom lip all the while Xander carries him over to touch his back to the glass. Rubbing against him and one hand working to give his leggings a firm tug.
❝ Take me then, ❞ his voice cuts through as more demanding than suggestive, but at this point he’s desperate after the build up. He wants to be touched, to be kissed, to be fucked until the window behind him inevitably fogs up. He doesn’t want to have to beg for it, either, but his pathetic attempts at tightening his legs about Xander’s waist and circling his hips were seeming to get him nowhere.
❝ Please, Xander – I need you. ❞
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