He grabbed the back of Hagen’s neck and pulled him into a deeper kiss, tongue exploring, wrestling Hagen’s, then, when Hagen teased him, sliding his tongue along John’s, just like he’d caressed John’s dick. John grabbed his jaw and tilted it, fucking his mouth until they were both breathless.
He broke the kiss only to push Hagen slowly backward to the bed. “Let me get the ‘greasy stuff.’” He turned away and rifled through his bag, then placed it in Hagen’s hand. Their eyes met, and in spite of the hunger between them, John couldn’t help pausing just to take in the sight of him. Hagen had changed. During the war, there’d been moments when he’d looked so young, a fresh-faced menace or a flushing boy, too scared to do anything but snarl. John liked the new Hagen—more tanned, and with all the food, his shoulders had filled out; he didn’t look afraid anymore, not tense, not controlled. Much more civilian and grown up.
John smiled at him and climbed on the bed from the other side, then pulled Hagen to him. The friction of skin on skin was delicious in the heavy summer air. The heat pleasant, relaxing, lazy. It couldn’t have been more different from last winter. He pulled Hagen down into another kiss, his hand trailing down to his ass, which made Hagen tense with anticipation and pleasure.
“That’s torture,” Hagen protested, grinning at him with entirely too much glee.
Amazingly, John found himself laughing. “Then you better make sure you won’t suffer too much. Get on top.”
“What?”
“Just do it.” He nudged Hagen to straddle him, and reached over to the tub of Vaseline. He pried the lid off, then coated his fingers with it. “I’ll show you torture,” he muttered, and Hagen laughed. It soothed some of the raw edge between them—the ability to joke about what they’d done, at least some of it, and the fact that Hagen seemed to have forgiven him for it fanned the tenderness in his heart to an all-encompassing warmth. “You told me you behaved. Prove it.”
Hagen laughed, baring all his sharp white teeth. “What now?”
“Now I’ll grease you up.” John trailed his fingers along Hagen’s thigh, brushed Hagen’s balls and his erection, which made Hagen inhale sharply. He found the puckered muscle between Hagen’s cheeks and teased with two fingers, circling until Hagen almost swayed on his knees over him, then pushed inside.
“Oh . . . that’s better than I remembered . . .”
“It always is.” John grinned and pushed deeper, chuckling when Hagen gasped. He rubbed that perfect spot inside, slid his fingers along it, then pushed harder against it. Hagen’s eyes rolled back in his skull, and he fell forward, catching his weight with his arms left and right of John’s head. John teased him for a little while, enjoying way too much how Hagen’s face looked up close, then pulled out and guided himself with one hand and Hagen with the other.
Hagen swore in German. Then English. His body resisted at first, so John didn’t push, just gave him a moment to get used to the idea and—
Hagen came down harder than John anticipated, taking the head of his cock into him. Hagen winced, bit his lip, but before John could suggest slowing down or ask if he was all right, Hagen rose a little, came down again, and moaned with something that was nowhere near pain. Or maybe it did hurt, but Hagen didn’t object at all.
“Damn,” Hagen breathed, tilting his head back as he lowered himself and took more of John inside him. Whatever he said next may have been profanity, but it was so slurred, so breathless, John couldn’t even be sure what language it was.
He put his hands on Hagen’s hips and slowly, carefully, raised his own, finding Hagen’s quickening rhythm and doing his best to complement it.
“Faster,” Hagen murmured. “Gott . . . schneller . . .”
“Don’t rush.” John was out of breath. Completely out of breath. “I don’t . . . I don’t want to hurt—”
Hagen seized John’s wrists, forced them back, pinning them to the pillow on either side of John’s head. John’s left shoulder smarted, reminding him it had been in disrepair not long ago, but he adjusted a little, and the pain went away.
“I don’t care if it hurts.” Hagen’s accent was thicker now. He leaned down, letting his lips brush John’s just before he took every inch of John’s dick in a single downward stroke. “I . . . oh Gott . . . I just . . .”
John raised his head and kissed Hagen hard. He dug his heels into the bed and thrust upward, forcing himself as deep as Hagen could take him. Hagen looked wanton, feverish with pleasure that had to be laced with pain, but John trusted that it was exactly how he wanted it. Hagen would surely fight back otherwise.
Whenever Hagen pushed, John gave him more, but Hagen also slowed down to grind against him and kiss him again, deeply, passionately, his grip on John’s wrists gentler but still firm, which John didn’t mind at all. It was like fucking and being fucked at the same time, and he was eager to swap this particular position.
“Just you wait,” he groused breathlessly, blowing a strand of hair off his forehead, or trying to, but the sweat kept it in place.
Hagen grinned. “It’ll be . . . my pleasure,” he teased and began moving faster again, until they were both dripping with sweat and the tension proved unbearable. John found more strength, or maybe Hagen let his grip slip, but when John came, he clutched Hagen tightly to himself, only dimly aware that Hagen’s semen was spurting over his belly and chest.
With one last gasp, Hagen shuddered, then slumped over John. His head fell beside John’s, and his shoulders rose and fell as he panted against the side of John’s neck.
John closed his eyes and stroked Hagen’s sweaty hair and hot skin. As the dust settled, and he slowly became aware that the world still existed beyond the edges of this bed, he held Hagen tighter. Kissed the top of his shoulder. How many times had he been terrified this moment would never, for any number of reasons, happen?
But it had. And they were here. And Hagen was still here.
Hagen pushed himself up on shaking arms. His face was flushed just like John remembered it in the château, his stunning blue eyes simultaneously on fire and ready to close for the rest of the night. Even three-quarters of a year in a POW camp hadn’t chiseled away the innocence that had been so, so endearing, and time—and likely more than a few epiphanies—had softened the sharp edges he’d had in the beginning. He was both the same man and a different one entirely than the one John had cornered in that snow-covered base.
Hagen dipped his head and kissed him. Wordlessly, they separated. Got up on shaking, rubbery legs. Cleaned themselves up. And then they sank back into that bed together under a blanket that was still warm. John pulled Hagen against him, and Hagen lay on his shoulder, one arm slung across his stomach. John gently rubbed his head against Hagen’s brow. “What am I going to do with you?”
Hagen didn’t respond immediately, but a huff of amusement betrayed he was still awake. “As long as you don’t handcuff me in the morning like last time, I don’t care.”
John almost choked on a breath, and they lay together sniggering for minutes, until John was convinced he’d end up with hiccups. “They still haven’t removed that sense of humor. Not even in the camp.”
“Couldn’t find it.” Hagen grinned up at him, and they both laughed.
Hagen had written him that he’d asked not to be repatriated, and told him that the American authorities had looked kindly on him—the story of how he’d saved an American officer had cast a halo over his file and separated him from the others. Seemingly, he was more than welcome to stay in the country. John had thought at first that meant that Hagen planned to move to Pennsylvania, where he had family. They hadn’t talked about any of this in their letters, though. Still careful. Always careful.
Stroking Hagen’s hair, John asked, “So what are you going to do now that you’re free?”
Hagen shrugged. “I’ve been thinking . . .” He yawned. “What you said . . . about lawful and unlawful . . . and then in the camp, there was—” He stifled another yawn. “I did a lot of reading, an
d one thing stuck with me. It said that the rule of law is the basis of every civilized society.” It sounded like a well-worn sentence, one Hagen had repeated to himself over and over until it became smooth and easy.
“And?”
“I’m thinking law. I’m going to university. Just have to work out the details.”
Well, a man who plotted an attack on a superior force and had the courage to follow through with it should have no big problems with the admission process or with law, for that matter. He could see Hagen as a lawyer quite easily, a hardheaded man with sometimes too much courage and brains for his own good. And John could see him in a tailored suit, groomed for the courtroom, and—
He shivered, and drew Hagen closer. He kissed the top of his head and murmured, “I think that profession will suit you nicely.” Literally, he thought, grinning into Hagen’s hair.
Hagen pulled back a little and looked up at him again. “What about . . .” He swallowed. “This?”
John ran his fingers through Hagen’s hair, brushing a few strands out of his face. “No one needs to know.” Apprehension tightened Hagen’s features, but John smiled. “No one’s going to shoot us now. It’s not a deadly secret anymore. Just something we’ll need to keep discreet.”
Hagen searched his eyes for a moment, brow knitting tightly together. “And you’re not opposed to it?”
John blinked. “I didn’t back away when it could have gotten me a court-martial or a bullet. Why would I be any more concerned now than I was then?”
“I mean, not the secrecy.” Hagen moistened his lips. “But this . . .”
“If I was opposed to this, I wouldn’t be here now.” John touched Hagen’s face, caressing his cheek. “I’ve waited since December for this. I’m not letting it go.” Leaning in, he added, “I’m not letting you go.”
Hagen relaxed. Even more when John kissed him. The gentle embrace turned into a tighter one, both of them pulling each other as close as they could. The heat and friction would have its effect soon enough, and they’d be tangled up and out of breath again before long, but at least for now, for just this moment, John savored the closeness. The touch. The reality that everything that had kept them apart was gone now, and the distance between them had been reduced to the few places where skin didn’t touch skin.
The war had ended.
The nightmare was over.
And John and Hagen could finally begin.
Scorpion: Memory of Scorpions, #1
Lying with Scorpions: Memory of Scorpions, #2 (Coming soon)
Skybound
Incursion
Gold Digger
Dark Soul Vols. 1–5
Break and Enter, with Rachel Haimowitz
Dark Edge of Honor, with Rhi Etzweiler
The Lion of Kent, with Kate Cotoner
Market Garden Tales, with L.A. Witt:
Quid Pro Quo
Take It Off
If It Flies
If It Fornicates
Capture and Surrender (Coming soon)
For a full list, go to www.aleksandrvoinov.com/bookshelf.html.
Finding Master Right
The Closer You Get
Conduct Unbecoming
Where There’s Smoke
Covet Thy Neighbor (A Tucker Springs Novel)
The Left Hand of Calvus
From Out in the Cold
Candy Caning, O Come All Ye Kinky anthology
Market Garden Tales, with Aleksandr Voinov
Quid Pro Quo
If It Flies
Take It Off
If It Fornicates
Capture & Surrender (Coming soon)
Coming soon
After the Fall (A Tucker Springs Novel)
For a complete list, please see http://www.loriawitt.com.
Aleksandr Voinov is an emigrant German author living near London, where he is one of the unsung heroes in the financial services sector. His genres range from horror, science fiction, cyberpunk, and fantasy to contemporary, thriller, and historical erotic gay novels.
In his spare time, he goes weightlifting, explores historical sites, and meets other writers. He singlehandedly sustains three London bookstores with his ever-changing research projects. His current interests include special forces operations during World War II, pre-industrial warfare, European magical traditions, and how to destroy the world and plunge it into a nuclear winter without having the benefit of nuclear weapons.
Visit Aleksandr’s website at www.aleksandrvoinov.com, his blog at www.aleksandrvoinov.blogspot.com, and follow him on Twitter, where he tweets as @aleksandrvoinov.
L.A. Witt is an abnormal M/M romance writer currently living in the glamorous and ultra-futuristic metropolis of Omaha, Nebraska, with her husband, two cats, and a disembodied penguin brain that communicates with her telepathically. In addition to writing smut and disturbing the locals, L.A. is said to be working with the U.S. government to perfect a genetic modification that will allow humans to survive indefinitely on Corn Pops and beef jerky. This is all a cover, though, as her primary leisure activity is hunting down her arch nemesis, erotica author Lauren Gallagher, who is also said to be lurking somewhere in Omaha. L.A. can be found at www.loriawitt.com, as well as exchanging irreverent tweets with Aleks as @GallagherWitt.
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Aleksandr Voinov, Unhinge the Universe
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