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.At last Tristan took pity on him, and lifted his head.His lips were redas strawberries and swollen.Rogan caught him, kissed him, and held himwith hands that shook.Tristan s voice was a hoarse murmur. Do you havesomething to use? You re big, and I.I don t want her to know.Brandel was the last creature in the world Rogan wanted to wastethoughts upon.As Tristan waited, he opened the chest at the right side ofthe bed, and searched blindly for the porcelain jar with the jade stopper.This, he placed into Tristan s palm, and watched him open it.A fragrancelike flowers rose from the unguent. For your face, on a winter s night when you ll ride into the wind tillit strips your skin, he told him. I can be vain about my looks. It ll do, Tristan whispered. And yes, safeguard your skin.I ll cher-ish your beauty until we ve grown old. He rested on his heels, surveyingRogan with slitted eyes, and the tip of his tongue moistened his lips. Iwant to know every inch of you, learn your body, what you need, what youwant, but. Not now. Rogan palmed his chest. No time.One day we ll be freeto take a week over this, but for now  With a soft curse, Tristan scooped up a palmful of the unguent andreached down between the slender, almost boyish thighs.Rogan could notsee what he was doing, and did not need to.Tristan caught his lip betweenhis teeth in a moment of intense self absorption, and Rogan teased ahandful of soft ragging from the basket by the bed.Tristan dried hisfingers, and color flushed his cheeks. How? His voice caught. Don t be afraid, Rogan chided. Would I hurt you? Come to me.He kissed Tristan s face, sucked the lobe of his ear, and his hands wereeverywhere, hard yet light, raising goose flesh along Tristan s sides.At last,he held the young scholar by the sharp hipbones, keenly aware of theviolence of his own heartbeat, the throb of each pulse point, temples,throat, groin.The dark amber eyes looked drunk on the blend of pleasureand anguish when Rogan asked,  What do you want? This. Tristan could barely speak.His hands on Rogan s shoulderspressed him back into the mattress, and he mounted, as if he were swing-ing astride a warhorse.Perhaps he was.The image tantalized Rogan as he held his breath,waiting for it.He saw in himself something of Taracas, the big ebonystallion Damiel had ridden to war since her first battle.The horse wasmagnificent, arrogant, feather-hooved and gleaming, armored and stream-ing the plumes of the Thered in ricon as he plunged through enemy ranks,wreaking chaos.Few men could ride him; he was gentle for Damiel onlyout of love.Holding himself reined back was a sublime torture, but Rogan wouldnot move.He saw healthy fear in Tristan s face as he mounted, and it wasnot the first time Rogan had seen such fear.The Zhenanders were alwaystaller, broader, more powerful than their northern cousins.Their men werelegend.Tristan might never have seen an islander, naked as the godscreated him, and eager.He had certainly never bedded with one.Rogan s hands cradled the soft-hard buttocks, took his weight to easehim, let him down slowly.Still, Tristan moaned, a sound Rogan echoed ashe denied himself the right to move.He was like hot silk, butter-soft inside,with the fierce grip of young muscles, like a fist about Rogan.The breathwas ripped out of his lungs, and Tristan whimpered like a kitten as hesettled on the javelin haft.His own hands clenched about his root, he tossedhis head while the muscles of his thighs stretched taut, and began to workhard.Rogan s nostrils flared on the scents of musk and fresh sweat, moreintoxicating than liquor.Coherent thought scattered like autumn leaves.Rogan had to move orlose his mind, and as Tristan eased and began to ride him, he bucked likethe stallion.Tristan cried out, high and sharp, but it was not a sound of painor fear.Rogan caught his shoulders and pulled him down.The smallerbody was engulfed in big warrior s arms, and Rogan lifted his knees,braced his feet for effort.Tristan s hands and knees clasped tight abouthim, urging him.Was this how men made love in the east? Was this why bondsmenfrom the long vales of the Gunstrup River were so prized, and traded fromhand to hand in the camps of war? Rogan had always known young menof Sheld and Ferrush, Delus and Alscod were prized like jewels, but he hadnever known why, nor thought to ask.Were they all like Tristan, and couldsteal the wits out of a man s head?He opened his eyes, groaning soundlessly.Tristan was working hard,and it could not last long.They were both wild, at one moment wanting tomake it go on forever, yet hunting urgently for the coming that woulddestroy them.Rogan surged up, and Tristan s hands bruised him as hetook the blood-hot seed of royal Harbendane, royal Zhenand.Rogan s thoughts blurred into a millrace of sound and color [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]