My Man Godric by R. Cooper Page B

Godric’s
fingers were at his back, then at his ass, before withdrawing.
Godric was wise and knew better than Bertie what should not be
attempted in a feverish rush on a cold floor with nothing to aid
them. But the idea of it was enough to make Bertie writhe and beg
against Godric’s mouth, to extract a promise from him that they
might someday be this close again. In the meantime, Godric was his
to touch and touch he did. Godric gave a tired groan when Bertie
ran one hand over his chest, over that rose red dragon, but held
tight to Bertie’s hips when Bertie used his other hand to give
himself release, sliding his cock between his fingers and against
Godric’s skin, with their mouths open and dragging together. It did
not take him long, not after waiting for so long, or with Godric’s
fingers pressing into him with such promise.
    He spilled onto himself with a cry and left
a smaller mess across the red dragon but he fell back against
Godric’s chest without much thought to cleaning either of them up.
Godric’s heartbeat roared under his ear before Bertie stretched
out, easing part of his body to the side and leaving his mouth open
beneath Godric’s ear. Throughout it all, Godric’s hand stayed a
steady weight on his hip. Their feet touched, mingled hot skin with
traces of the outside cold in Godric’s toes. Bertie could not hide
his smile.
    “We must do that again,” he remarked quietly
when he could speak again, pleasing Godric so much that Godric gave
another short laugh that was joy, hot and pure, before he
answered.
    “Yes, my lord.” The man did not need an
epic’s worth of words to make Bertie happy, though Bertie knew
Godric did not see this as he did and that Godric was not dreaming
of finding him at court and dragging him to his rooms to possess
him, or of the looks of promise they would exchange at feasts, or
of what Bertie would do to him with enough time in a proper bed.
Godric was already thinking of the morning and a future where none
of that would happen.
    When their breathing evened and then
Godric’s slowed with the need for sleep, Bertie thought of moving,
or speaking. Surely there had to be at least one story that would
convince Godric of what they could be, if there was no war, if they
were back at Camlann. But then he thought of the few hours left to
them and of what burdens were now on Godric’s shoulders and bit his
lip to stay quiet and remain where he was.
     
    ~~~
     
    Bertie’s memories of the rest of the night and the early hours of
morning were a blur of movement and a whisper of breath at his ear
until the moment full awareness hit him and he sat up and scrambled
to his feet amid the pile of furs that had been laid on top of
him.
    Godric must have gotten dressed elsewhere,
for both he and his noisy armor were gone from the tent. He had
left behind a large basin of clean, if painfully cold, water, which
was useful for the unpleasant task of cleaning up the dried
remnants of the night before.
    Bertie had no new clothing to change into,
but he pulled on the finer pair of his brother’s breeches under the
Count’s heavy skirts to better stay warm. He shaved as well,
shivering as he used the equally cold glass of water that had been
left with his breakfast offering. The food itself he snatched up
and devoured, cold, tough venison tasting as rich as pheasant with
roasted apples.
    He had no possessions of his own here, save
the cat, so he scooped little Godric up and held him close after
the cat immediately climbed into his bodice of its own accord. It
also sought out a warm embrace and a steadily beating heart, poor
thing.
    There was still no Godric, but the sun was
rising outside, turning dark gray to purple and silver, so Bertie
swallowed and left the tent.
    It was no good wishing for more, for even a
short farewell, but of course he did wish it. Godric could
already be on his way somewhere, letting his tent and things follow
after him as he helped save a nation, and Bertie might