Sage and Sand Page 3

  Inarticulate curses break through the air in Marshall's deep voice, and Bram bobs forward to take more. He's surprised at the salty-slick flavor on his tongue, the pleasant intimacy of touching another person—another man—this way. He steadies himself on his knees before drawing back and sliding forward again, lips gliding along the shaft. He strokes his hand almost idly along the base, an afterthought to the explorations of his mouth. He's heartened to hear Marshall's breathing turn ragged as he finds a rhythm.

  The sensation of Marshall's fingers in his hair, of the firm hand cupping the back of Bram's head, startles but doesn't throw him off his stride. For all Marshall's commanding strength, he doesn't try to alter Bram's pace. His touch is gentle encouragement, and Bram draws him even deeper.

  He chokes when he tries for too much; he thinks he's prepared for the bump at the back of his throat, but he can't stop himself gagging.

  He draws off of Marshall's cock, rocking back on his heels and coughing awkwardly to the side. His embarrassment is small this time, and it does nothing to diminish the way his own cock stands at full attention, eager to be more directly involved.

  Bram intends to try again, but is hauled roughly to his feet instead. Marshall doesn't look displeased. He looks far too intense in the moonlight, dark eyes gone wide with arousal. When he gives Bram a shove toward the bed, Bram doesn't for an instant consider resisting.

  The bed is sturdy, but it still creaks beneath the weight of two grown men when Marshall pushes Bram down onto his back. Marshall's weight doesn't descend atop him immediately as Bram expects. He watches as Marshall instead reaches over the side of the bed for something.

  He doesn't get a chance to ask why before Marshall leans down and kisses him, arm squashing the pillow beside his head. Bram loses himself to this kiss as easily as everything that came before. He buries his fingers in Marshall's hair, keeping him close. He's giddy and anxious and growing more desperate by the second.

  When Marshall draws back, despite Bram's wordless sound of protest, it's to meet his eyes with a hungry look.

  "Are you ready?" Marshall asks. Bram blinks, struggling to catch up through the fog of desire in his head. Marshall adds more softly, "Tell me if you need to stop."

  Then, sudden but unmistakably careful, Bram feels the nudge of something cool and slick between the cheeks of his ass—and an instant later the startling moment of penetration. He chokes down a noise of surprise, and his eyes fly shut. That's not Marshall's cock. It can't be. Unfamiliar as the feeling is, Bram knows he's not accommodating anything half so large. A finger, maybe? Two fingers, he realizes, as Marshall's touch slides deeper inside him, startling a moan from his chest. Bram forces his eyes open and finds Marshall watching him with heated intensity.

  He commands his body to relax, feels the slick digits slide deeper, and reminds himself to breathe.

  Marshall touches him that way for long minutes. Both fingers press in to the final knuckle, stopping only when Marshall's hand is flush with Bram's body, warm between his thighs. The careful touch twists inside him, curls tauntingly against a spot that sets off sparks behind Bram's eyes. Every movement is patient and unhurried, and every touch makes Bram's cock grow harder, draws him to new heights of helpless desperation.

  It's not until both fingers slip out of him completely that Bram realizes Marshall's purpose has not simply been to torment him, but to prepare him for what comes next. He props himself on his elbows and watches, enthralled, as Marshall takes himself in hand and strokes, slicking himself thoroughly. Marshall's cock is flush and curving, gorgeous even in the heavy shadows, but he doesn't simply crush his weight forward and thrust in. Instead he kneels and reaches for Bram, guiding without words.

  He puts Bram on his hands and knees before settling behind him, and then—finally—Bram feels something more blunt nudge between his thighs.

  "Oh God," he breathes, almost inaudible.

  Marshall curls one hand around his hip for leverage and presses in.

  Bram's legs hold beneath him, but his arms give out and his shoulders fall forward against the pillow. When he cries out, the sound is muffled by fabric, and his hands fist in the sheets as Marshall presses deeper. Marshall is obviously moving with care, but even so the broad length hurts. Bram draws a shaky breath, trembling now, aching somewhere so deep and intimate he couldn't describe it if he wanted to. He barely registers when Marshall has no farther to go, except insofar as their bodies fall still together. Marshall's length is seated warmly—distractingly—inside him.

  "Easy," Marshall murmurs, leaning forward and bracing one palm on the bedspread near Bram's face. "I've got you. Just relax. Just try and feel it. Loosen up, I promise you'll enjoy this."

  Bram nods, exhales unsteadily, and relaxes his muscles as best he can. He gasps when, without moving inside him, Marshall reaches his free hand around to take Bram in a firm grip. Bram rocks instinctively into that touch, greedy for friction, but groans at the way his own movements shift the length seated inside him. It's not a painful feeling, but it's strange and unfamiliar. Overwhelming to think that Marshall isn't just braced above him, isn't just pressed close behind, but that the man is inside him. Large and impossible to ignore.

  "All right?" Marshall's lips brush Bram's ear.

  "Yes," Bram answers breathlessly.

  "Good." Then Marshall's stillness falls away. He moves, gently at first, fisting Bram's cock in time with his own measured thrusts. Bram's body protests at the start, but each thrust is easier.

  Any hint of pain soon settles into a dull ache, easily ignored in favor of the warmer sensations twining through him. Marshall's hand strokes him to maddening heights, bringing him closer and closer, never quite taking him over the edge. It's as though he can tell when Bram is close, and deliberately holds him back from release. Bram hears his own voice echo with rough-edged curses. He's twisting the sheets beneath him all out of place, and he doesn't for an instant care.

  Marshall picks up his pace as Bram's body more easily accommodates him. Gentle movements turn faster. Marshall's hips snap forward almost harshly now, and there's the slapping rhythm of skin against skin. He fills Bram with every thrust, and Bram arches back to meet him.

  He's so close he can taste it, and he doesn't know how much longer he can last.

  Bram comes long before Marshall spends inside him. Marshall's hand strokes him through the storm, carrying him over the edge. The firm touch softens after, gentling Bram down again. Bram is far past thought. He groans at the renewed pace Marshall takes. He can tell the man is desperately close, as his movements become more animal rutting than measured thrusts.

  Bram, exhausted, moans aloud when Marshall stills inside him. The heat that spills with Marshall's release is an odd sensation, slick and intimate and deep.

  *

  In the quiet after, Bram senses Marshall's reluctance to let him leave. There's a basin of water near the window, and after they've both cleaned up Bram knows he has no excuse to stay.

  "I should go back downstairs." To his own room, he means, empty though it will seem after his time in Marshall's bed.

  Marshall, barefoot and bare-chested, is dressed only in his unlaced trousers. He rescues Bram's shirt from the corner by the door, and for several seconds he doesn't say a word.

  "I suppose you're right." Marshall hands back the shirt. Bram stares, trying to decipher the cryptic shadows in his eyes.

  Bram is right. They both know it. He can't be seen emerging through that door at sunrise, not when he's rented a room of his own. Not when any inferences that might be drawn would be dangerous for both of them.

  "Maybe I'll see you in the morning?" Bram offers, trying to keep his voice light.

  "Maybe," Marshall agrees, but something in his tone makes Bram suspect he won't catch even a glimpse of Marshall Maddox come morning.

  By dawn he's convinced himself he'll never see the man again. He's shocked when, just after sunup, Marshall joins him in the tiny common room. Bram has the small
er table to himself and a bowl of porridge at hand, courtesy of their host. His spoon freezes halfway to his mouth when Marshall sits directly across from him.

  "G'morning," Bram says blandly, for lack of anything more intelligent to offer.

  Marshall just grunts in reply and waves down Francis, who—without a word—brings coffee in a tin mug and a second bowl of porridge. Marshall, cloaked in the surly posture of a man who is not fond of mornings, downs his coffee and finishes half the bowl of porridge without looking up. When he finally raises his eyes, he looks decidedly more human than when he first sat down.

  "Sleep well?" Marshall asks, a hint of smirk twitching at his mouth.

  "Well enough." Bram arches one eyebrow at him, and the hint of smirk stretches wide.

  "Good." Marshall goes back to his porridge and finishes it in three bites. Then, catching Bram off guard for what feels like the hundredth time in two days, he asks, "You got a gunman lined up for your return trip?"

  Bram is taken so aback that he needs an extra moment to muster an answer. "Not yet. Got anyone to recommend?"

  "Might be I'm available." Marshall pushes his bowl aside. "When do you leave?"

  "Today." Bram can't stop staring, but at least his voice is working. "Probably around nine. I got in late; they'll need time to finish reloading."

  "That's settled, then." There's a spark in Marshall's eye that makes Bram's face heat. Suddenly he's awash in memories of the night before, of strong hands and that smirking mouth, of Marshall's body in the moonlight. He stares, helpless and winded, and can't even convince himself to harbor annoyance at the smug look Marshall gives him in return.

  Bram steps outside, into sunlight, after collecting Marshall's promise to meet him at the freight office in two hours.

  He wonders what he's gotten himself into.

  # # # THE END # # #

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Yolande Kleinn may be a shameless dreamer and a stubborn optimist, but she is also a proud purveyor of erotic romance. Excitable, fastidious and a little eclectic, she spends every spare moment writing the stories she wants to read. If she can drag other people into the pool along with her, then so much the better.

  You can find Yolande via her website:

  yolandekleinn.com

  Or connect with her @

  Twitter / Facebook / Tumblr / Goodreads

  COVER DESIGN

  Cover design by Yolande Kleinn

  Photo courtesy of Textures.com

  West Test font by Graham Meade / GemFonts

  OTHER TITLES BY YOLANDE

  COVET

  When Jack Mason—graphic designer and unrepentant player—decides to pursue college professor Colin Sloan, he's not looking for anything serious. Colin is newly single and definitely interested in Jack's offer of a physical relationship with no strings attached. When the two become friends as well, that's just a bonus.

  Peter Mason is Jack's identical twin. A smart and savvy lawyer with monogamous instincts, Peter is surprised to find himself making friends with his brother's new bed partner. Friendship turns quickly to one-sided attraction for Peter. Though he tells no one he's falling for Colin, the secret puts new strain on Peter's relationship with his longtime girlfriend.

  When Peter's relationship falls apart, he seduces Colin, fully expecting Jack to forgive the transgression. But Jack is keeping secrets, too. Peter understands only too late that Jack has fallen in love. Suddenly the twins are feuding, with Colin caught in the middle. Colin's own feelings are a complicated mess as he realizes he's in too deep.

  Now all three men must find a way to share, before they tear each other apart.

  ASHES ON A DISTANT WIND

  Before the Vrete came to Earth, Donovan Riggs was a man of faith. By the time they were gone, he'd left that part of himself behind for good. In the aftermath of a war nobody won, humans live in a world they destroyed in order to keep it for themselves.

  Riggs is simply trying to survive. With Beau Greer, a young medic who stumbled into his life and then refused to leave, Riggs travels dangerous roads between long-dead cities. Scavenging doesn't offer much of a future. It barely provides for the present. But Riggs will do anything to protect what's his.

  When thieves threaten to massacre a nearby town, Riggs and Beau must make a difficult choice, even if it means putting themselves directly in the line of fire.

  WONDERLY WROTH

  Arthur knows he is destined to die at Camlann. But when the Lady Merlin enlists a powerful enchantment to save him—an enchantment to tether Arthur's life to Lancelot's—the magic carries unintended consequences. Lancelot's strength could be Arthur's salvation, but what of the deeper connection that now binds the king to his most loyal knight? The connection is only temporary, but when Arthur learns the truth of Lancelot's feelings for him, their friendship could change forever