Six Sunday is on its last few weeks and that is a very sad thing, but Skye Warren is interested in setting up an alternative, depending on levels of interest. I’ve signed up, how about you? [I’m sort of making the assumption that it’s only other authors who read these posts, but I think it’s quite a fair one.]
Anyhow – to business. Last weeks post ended with Cynfal finally finagling his way into Gwion’s bed. Gwion appeared to be calmly going back to sleep. Yeah right.
I’m putting this week’s six behind a cut because sixth century Dark Ages warriors had never heard the term “euphemism” and I don’t want to upset the easily upsettable.
Cynfal doubted that Gwion was that inclined for sleep and he – well, he had never felt more awake. Even through their shirts he could feel the steady thump of Gwion’s heart and the warmth of his arse cradled in Cynfal’s lap was waking his cock up with a vengeance. He leaned forward a little, his nose almost in Gwion’s hair and took a breath. Gwion smelled good – male – of clean sweat, good food, smoke, horses and leather with a tang of honey, probably from the mead that Gwion seemed to live on. He moved his head again until his nose just brushed the skin at the back of Gwion’s neck.
“Jesu,” Gwion whispered, his body tensing again.
Come back next week for some more unpurple prose – I think I can squeeze another six out of this section before it gets too saucy.