The Embodiment Of Beauty And Grace

The Embodiment Of Beauty And Grace

Posted: December 1, 2006
Title: The Embodiment of Beauty and Grace
Author: Ariel Tachna
Type: RPS
Characters: Orlando/Viggo, Karl/Orlando (implied)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't know them. I make no claims about them. I just want to have fun.
Betas: Tularia, sirkayem
Author’s Note: I know how much namarie120 loves this story. We’ve talked about it countless times, so it seemed like the perfect thing to write for her birthday. namarie120, sweetheart, I hope it lives up to your imaginings.

Special thanks to okinay, uinendolothen, elvishlady09, Sileya, and Connie. Yes, it takes seven people to replace namarie120 when she can’t beta for me.

Summary: Will a case of mistaken identity keep two star-crossed lovers from finding each other before it’s too late?

*****

“Viggo.”

The sound of the beloved voice speaking my name, not the name I gave to the world but the name I kept for myself, stole my breath from me. The rest of the world knew me as Cyrano. Only those from my youth called me Viggo. Only those I loved. Lifting my head, I met the glittering eyes of the man who had held my heart from our first acquaintance. We had not been aware, then, of the differences in our station. I had seen only an engaging child. I had been only a green youth. It had not mattered to either of us that I was the son of an aristocrat, no matter how minor, while he was an orphan. We called each other brother and played freely over the hills of my father’s estate in Bergerac, caring only for one another and the pleasure we could find in that company.

“Yes, Orlando?” I asked, not sure what to make of the bemused expression on the beautiful face or the confusion in the glistening brown eyes. He had changed so much since then. He was just as engaging, but with a polish he had not then possessed. His experience with la préciosité had given him a certain style and particular preferences that he had not evinced when first I set eyes on him. The love and pursuit of beauty in all its forms, particularly in poetry, had honed his mind. He had never needed anything to hone his body.

“Did you…” he paused, gulping down his words.

I rose from my seat, setting aside the poem I was composing. I did not expect to finish it, not when the Spaniards were poised to attack at any moment, John Noble’s revenge on me for foiling his plans to despoil Orlando’s innocence. I had killed to keep him safe from one man. Dying now seemed a small price to pay to keep Orlando safe from yet another lecher. “What is it?”

Orlando did not speak still, but he withdrew a letter from his pocket. “Why did you never tell me?” he asked finally.

It took me a moment to recognize what he held, but when I did, my breath seized in my chest. He held the billet-doux I had written the night before with Karl’s name at the bottom and Karl’s seal in the wax. The letter Karl had taken from me in a snit earlier when he found out I had continued to write Orlando in his name all these months. “What do you mean?” I asked in return, clinging to the pretense that had allowed me to say to Orlando words I would never have dared otherwise.

“This letter… all the letters… the gentle, loving, passionate words… why did you not tell me you wrote them?”

He knew. Despite my best efforts, despite all my work with Karl, Orlando had discovered our secret. “You wanted him,” I reminded Orlando, remembering all too clearly his words in David’s garden. I had finally, finally worked up the courage to tell him how I felt after he had asked me to meet him. “He has things to say to you,” William, his valet, had whispered in my ear, asking for a meeting. Caught off guard, I said the first place that came to mind: the pastry shop owned by my good friend and fellow poet, David Wenham. “You told me you would die on the spot if his poetry was not equal to his beauty. You praised him so highly, desired him so greatly. And look at me. Look at me, Orlando. You who love beauty and grace above all things… how could I hope to compete with him for your favor?”

Orlando stared at me for a long time. He knew my face, had known it from his childhood and my youth, but I wondered when he last looked, really looked at me as an adult, and saw the moustache I used to hide the scar that bisected my lip, the nose that dominated my face and had made me the object of ridicule until I was old enough to silence all comers with my sword. As an adult, I feared only one thing: Orlando’s mockery. Any other threat, any other’s mocking words, I could dismiss or refute, but I had only dared speak to him under the cover of night, in a voice not truly my own, for a single hard word from his lips would destroy me. I had known it for years and had taken great care never to give him that opportunity.

Slowly, he lifted his hand to cup my cheek. My eyes closed of their own volition, fighting the desire to pull him into my embrace, not as the brothers we had pretended to be when he came to Bergerac as a child, an orphaned ward of my father, but as lovers.

“Beauty and grace are more than just physical,” he reminded me. “I was fascinated by a pretty face when I saw him from a distance, and I imagined what he might say to me so I asked to meet with you, hoping you would agree to keep him safe. You met me in David’s garden and for the first time since I have known you, I saw you angry with me. I understand now, but at the time, I remember only how much that hurt. The first letter came that evening, and it was more than I could have hoped for. Only your poetry had ever compared. Did you know that you were the standard by which I judged every poem I ever heard or read? I began to imagine a life with him, but I needed more before I made my decision. I wanted him to speak to me. Was it you, that night, a few weeks later, who whispered to me in the darkness? Was it your voice that moved me to tears? It was not grace or beauty of the physical kind that won the kiss I bestowed that night. On the wrong man, Viggo. Yes, I wanted him, but you would have condemned me to a life with a man I could not love rather than offering me what my heart truly desired.”

My mind recorded his words, but all I truly felt was his hand touching my cheek. It was not the first time we had touched, not the first time we had stood this close, but the masks were gone now, the barriers destroyed. My heart stood exposed, naked before him, his to cherish or destroy. And yet, I knew that Karl’s heart was likewise engaged. My friend did not have my gift for words, but that did not mean he felt less deeply. “He loves you,” I protested. “Every word in every letter expressed his devotion. He would have said it if he knew how. He is not sot, Orlando, only shy. With your love and my help, he could learn what to say to make you happy.”

Orlando shook his head. “They were your words. His beauty caught my eye, and then I fell in love with his soul, until his soul so outshone his face that I saw only that. And now I learn that the soul is not his, but yours. Do not tell me you invented those words on a whim, Viggo. Do not lie to me. ‘Twas your own heart you poured out, though you signed his name.”

I would not speak. To tell Orlando the truth was to condemn my friend – for Karl had become my friend as we worked together to woo Orlando – to a life alone. To lie would be to destroy my friendship with Orlando forever. While I had long ago resigned myself to living without his love, I did not think I could live without his regard.

“Your eyes say what your lips will not,” he observed, saving me from answering. His other hand rose to my face so that my cheeks were cupped between his palms, giving me no choice but to meet his gaze.

“How did you know?” I asked finally.

“The voice that whispered to me, as I stood on my balcony and fell forever in love, was familiar, though I did not place it then,” Orlando admitted. “I did not think anything of it, though, for I had only heard Karl speak once before, and then only haltingly. When I heard it again, I had no way of knowing for sure the voice was not his. But he said things to me, though I realized it not at the time, that he could not have known. He… you spoke of my hair, of the day I changed it. He was not even in Paris then. He could not have remembered it, yet you commented on it at the time, teasing me as is your wont. I might have let that pass except that it happened again, more than once. I resolved to ask Karl about it when he returned to Paris, but the siege dragged on and on. Three months, you have been parted from me, yet the letters – his letters, I thought – never failed to reach me. I was alone in Paris despite the crowd, missing my lover and my best friend. So I came here. I had to come. When I asked, he had no explanation. I pressed for one and he finally told me that the lover and the friend were, in truth, one and the same. Would you never have spoken?”

I shook my head. “No. You deserve so much better than me, Orlando. What will your précieuses friends say when they see us together? Beauty and the Beast, they will call us, or any other manner of names. Not to my face certainly, but you do not have my facility with a sword. They will destroy you.”

“I care nothing for them,” Orlando insisted, “not when my other option is having your love. Tell me you love me, Viggo.”

I wanted to deny it, to send him back to Karl who could stand by his side without fear of ridicule, but his eyes were so luminous, begging me to acknowledge my feelings, to acknowledge him.

“I love you, Orlando,” I murmured, finally giving voice to my heartfelt emotions, the ones I had poured out in Karl’s name for months, braving enemy fire to slip through to Vimy where I could send the missives to the one who held my heart, the one who embodied beauty and grace.

“As I love you.”

I could no longer deny myself what I had desired so long, not with him offering it, offering himself to me freely. He knew the truth. The whole truth. And still he said he loved me. I yet feared he would change his mind when faced with society and the rejection and ridicule of his friends, but I also knew there was every chance I would not live long enough to stand at his side before God and men.

The hands cradling my cheeks still rested there, our gazes locked as we stood frozen in place, overwhelmed by the strength of the declaration we had just made. I never doubted that Orlando meant what he said. He had always been so careful not to say those words, even when he was first talking about Karl to me. He spoke of his interest, his attraction, but not love, not until he knew Karl was worthy. And when the words of love had finally come in the garden, they had come as a result of my words, not Karl’s beauty. I had not dared hope again after that, spending my energy on wooing my love for another man, but it seemed fate had other plans for us, plans I would not fight.

Lowering my head, I dared with him what I had never dared before, neither with man nor woman. Our lips brushed tenderly, the thrill of that gentle contact more powerful than any physical sensation I had ever felt. No injury, no intimacy had ever moved me as profoundly as that simple touching of mouths. Then Orlando’s head tipped back, his mouth opening beneath mine and I rediscovered what it meant to feel. My heart had been frozen in my chest for so long, only now thawing as I felt the warmth of my beloved’s body against mine. I took the offered bounty, for to do less would have been to insult his gift.

His lips were soft and pliant beneath mine, giving so sweetly. My heart ached to think I had nearly let him escape me, had in fact all but handed him to another man. Not anymore. He was mine now, and I would never let him go. My arms tightened, pulling him closer, our bodies locked tightly together. My desire, my desperation must have carried over to him, for his fingers threaded into my hair, urging me to deepen the kiss, to take all he had to offer.

With a groan, I plundered his mouth, my tongue exploring his lips, his teeth, his palate. He tasted sweet. I had known he would, but I had not imagined him to be this sweet, this… fulfilling. When his tongue tangled with mine, I was lost, all sense of time and space gone. The world outside the hovel I had claimed when we set up our siege ceased to exist. The upcoming battle was forgotten. I knew only his lips, his hands, his body.

My hands moved over his shoulders, his back, downward to the swell of his buttocks, stopping there hesitantly. Despite the evidence to the contrary, despite the eager way he molded himself to me, I could not quite believe I had the right to touch him that way, to truly claim him beyond the kiss we already shared.

My musings were interrupted by the whining of a cannonball and its explosion as it hit the ground nearby, shaking the thin walls of my shelter. Called back to the reality of our situation, I pulled Orlando against me as if to shelter him with my body. “You must flee,” I told him urgently. “It is not safe to stay here.”

“No!” he protested. “Give me a sword. I want to stay at your side.”

I could not stop myself. I kissed him again, but swiftly. “I would like nothing more than to have you forever with me,” I swore, “but you have no training, no experience. You would not survive this battle if you stayed, and I would not survive losing you.”

“Then come with me,” he pleaded. “For I would not survive losing you either.”

I was tempted. For the first time in my life, something drew me more powerfully than the lure of battle, but this was not a duel, not simply a question of honor. “If I do that, I will be labeled a deserter,” I warned him. “And I will be tried and executed. You have seen me fight. You know I can defend myself, even against impossible odds, but I would have no defense against such a charge.”

Tears welled in his eyes as he nodded his understanding.

“Go with David and William,” I urged. “They will keep you safe until the battle is over and I can join you. I will resign my commission and we will never be parted again if that is your wish. Just be strong for me today.”

“Stay safe,” he ordered, leaning up to kiss me again. “You have never broken a promise to me. Do not start now.”

“I will find you,” I promised. “And nothing will separate us again.”

He blinked back tears. “I love you,” he told me firmly, starting toward the door. I caught his hand and pulled him into one last desperate embrace. Despite my bravado, despite my promise, I knew there was every chance I would not survive the upcoming fight. If I had to die, I wanted my last memory to be of my Orlando in my arms.

“Whatever happens, remember that I love you, too.”

“You promised!” he reminded me.

When I first believed I might have Orlando’s interest, the night William arranged our meeting in the garden behind David’s pastry shop, it took a fight against a hundred men to calm me. Now that I knew he loved me in truth, I could surely face down a thousand.

“And I will keep it.”

*****

We did not go far when Viggo sent me from the battle, David and William dragging me as far as the nearest town, where I flatly refused to go any further. That was this morning. Now, dusk has come and I sit here listening to the silence that has settled finally. All day, I could hear the sound of cannons and muskets being fired. I cannot decide if I prefer that or this deathly stillness. At least with the noise, I knew the battle still raged. I feared for Viggo’s safety then as I do now, but the silence scares me in a way the sound of battle could not.

My lover – how strange to think of him that way! – has always relished the battle. A hundred against one, and he was victorious. He fought, he said, not for his ugly nose, but for my beautiful eyes. He has always defended me, against Noble who would have used his position to force me into an affair I did not want, against Valvert, the vicomte who importuned me and whom Viggo killed, against Montfleury, the actor whose insinuations left me feeling dirty each time we met. Why it never occurred to me that he might love me, I do not know, except that all the hidden signs of his love have been part of my life as long as I have known him. He has always been a gallant man, flattering me with pretty words, even before I was old enough to understand them, much less desire them. Or perhaps that is why I desire them.

His tastes have always influenced mine. His wit drove me to seek it in my circle of friends, just as his prowess with a sword taught me to appreciate that in a man. The only strike against him was his nose. He ordered me to look at him today, as if I had forgotten what he looked like. What he did not understand, perhaps still does not understand, is that I have never deemed him ugly. His is admittedly not a classical beauty. His nose is indeed too prominent for that, but unlike many of my peers, I have never considered it an abomination or a perversion. Grace and beauty come in many forms as I told him this morning. He taught me that, though he still does not understand it. How could I not know it with him as my example?

And so when I arrived in Paris, I sought others who appreciated grace and beauty. The précieuses matched him in wit, but while they recognized the brilliance of his mind, they did not ever look past his nose to the depth of his azure gaze or the breadth of his shoulders, the strength of his limbs. He cared nothing for their regard, though, so I did not waste my breath trying to convince them. I was so sure he knew the strength of my regard. And he did know that I valued his friendship. He visited me occasionally, twitting me gently for my association with the précieuses. He considered them shallow, seeing only surface beauty, and to some extent, he was right. He did not seem to lump me in with them, though, so again, I did not spend my breath trying to change his mind. I simply valued the time we spent together. He never tried to charm me. His wit was always caustic, teasing with me, scathing when directed at those whom he deemed beneath him: the falsely devout, the pretend nobles, those who put on airs of any kind. I knew him capable of fine poetry, but I did not know my heart would be so susceptible.

Then I saw Karl at l’Hôtel de Bourgogne and all other thoughts flew from my mind. Younger than Viggo, though older than me, he had the same regal, powerful air that I had always admired in my friend. His dark hair and pale skin were such an elegant contrast, and he moved with the same harnessed grace that was Viggo’s hallmark. My heart raced and my body pulsed wildly as I imagined that power focused on me. Despite what society thinks, I am not a strumpet, up for auction to the highest bidder. I have had many suitors, many protectors, but their attentions have always been chaste. I would have it no other way. Only the comte Noble has ever dared to push for more, but even that I resisted to the best of my ability, putting him off with words and vague promises of times to come.

Now the game I played may well have cost me my love. I tricked him into keeping Karl and Viggo in Paris when this war started, by weaving a web of misdirection with careful words and allusions, so that his amour propre believed I spoke of him, instead of Karl. Viggo spoke to me in Karl’s name beneath the balcony that same night, convincing me to love him as I had none other. Noble interrupted us before I could share more than a kiss with Karl, but seeing that embrace was enough to drive him to seek revenge, ordering them to battle immediately. Given the revelations of this morn, perhaps I should thank the man, for I would have bound myself to Karl body and soul that night, had Noble not interfered. Karl’s words – nay, Viggo’s words – had moved me to the point of surrendering myself in love.

I should have known when Karl could not speak in the courtyard of Clomire’s townhouse that something was strange. I sent him away to gather his eloquence and he did, or so I believed. The words in the night bore no resemblance to the hesitant fumblings in the courtyard. Instead, they washed over me in heated waves. I started the night mistrustful, bandying words with all my wit, but he tamed me, until I trembled with the force of the emotions evoked by his words. He could have asked almost anything and I would have granted it. Yet he did not ask. He spoke only of what it meant to him to know that he had moved me so, to trembling and tears “Oui,” I admitted. “Je tremble et je pleure et je t’aime et suis tien. Et tu m’as enivré.”

I said those words to the right man, but it was not the right man who climbed the trestle to claim the kiss Viggo persuaded me to bestow. It tears at my heart now to realize that the first kiss I ever offered a lover was given to a man I did not love. I do not hate Karl, but knowing that he truly is the man I met in the courtyard, his sentiments, his desires physical, with none of the spiritual aspect that is so central to my being, leaves me cold, unmoved now by his beauty, except to appreciate it objectively. The thrill I once felt, the spark of desire is gone when I look at him, evoked now by my Viggo’s familiar face.

I should have known when he kissed me, truthfully, though I did not understand at the time. Viggo had said such beautiful words when he described what a kiss could be, words engraved forever now upon my heart. “Un baiser, mais à tout prendre, qu’est-ce?” he asked before answering his own question. “Un serment fait d’un peu près, une promesese plus precise, un aveu qui veut se confirmer, un point rose qu’on met sure l’i du verbe aimer; un secret qui prend la bouche pour oreille, un instant d’infini qui fait un bruit d’abeille, une communion ayant un goût de fleur, une façon d’un peu se respirer le cœur, et d’un peu se goûter au bord des lèvres, l’âme!” And then Karl climbed my balcony and claimed the kiss I had agreed upon. I did not know what to expect of a kiss, having never allowed that liberty before, but Viggo’s words had made me hopeful. Surely an experience that led to such poetry could only be… perfect. My disappointment, then, when I did not feel the vow confirmed, the promise realized, when I did not taste his soul on my lips should be perfectly understandable.

My surprise this morning when Viggo finally took me in his arms was complete, yet infinitely welcome. There can be no denying the physicality of the kiss we shared, not when his hard body demanded my pliancy, not when his mouth claimed mine completely. The difference was in what else I felt as we meshed our lips and our lives in that moment. When Karl kissed me, I felt kissed. When Viggo kissed me, I felt loved, cherished, protected, adored. I felt the secret that passed from his lips to mine. I breathed his heart in and breathed mine out into his care. His kiss was everything his words had promised and more.

My only desire now is to see my lover again, to know he is safe and well. And then to have him fulfill the promise his lips and hands made as they claimed me. I will never be less his than I am in this moment, even if fate steals him from me today, but instinct tells me that I still have so much to learn, to experience, a fullness of love and joy that only he can bring. The minutes drag on as the silence deepens with the encroaching darkness. I can only wait now, holding faithful vigil until he is once again at my side.

*****

The jarring of the wagon over the rutted path that passed for a road only added to the burning ache in Viggo’s shoulder. He muttered a foul curse under his breath as he panted through the pain. Soon, he promised himself. Soon, the wagon would arrive in the nearby town and he would be able to get out of this bedamned wagon and into a bed. He was not rich, but he had enough to pay for a room in a comfortable inn for the night. Then tomorrow, when he was not in so much pain, he would find out where Orlando went. He would have preferred not to wait to be reunited with his newfound love, but he knew he was in no state to search now.

Seeing they were approaching the inn, he directed the soldier driving the wagon to pull into the stable yard. He levered himself to sitting and slid off the back of the cart, steadying himself with his uninjured arm before taking a deep breath and walking toward the inn. He had taken no more than five steps when the door to the inn opened and the most beautiful sight in the world, at least to his eyes, came flying out.

“Viggo!” Orlando cried in distress, having seen from his window the way the older man cradled his arm. “Que vous a-t-on fait?”

Viggo reached out with his good arm, catching Orlando to him and burying his head in the delicate curve of the young man’s neck. He inhaled deeply, letting the scent of sandalwood fill his nostrils, replacing the fading stench of gunpowder and blood. This was what he had fought to protect. This was what made his life worth living. “It’s nothing,” he assured his lover. “Just a scratch.”

That had always been his answer when Orlando asked about his injuries, whether he had scraped his hands and knees climbing a tree in Bergerac, or nicked himself in a duel, or found himself injured more gravely. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

He could read the incredulity on Orlando’s face as he pulled back to look at the blood-soaked jerkin. “Mon œil !” the younger man retorted, remembering clearly the countless times before when he had heard those same words. While at times it had indeed been just a scratch, he did not believe that was the case this time. “Come inside. I have a room already where I can see to this properly. I will decide if it is just a scratch or not.”

Viggo almost told Orlando not to fuss, but his wound needed cleaning and bandaging. He could do it himself if he had to, but having to use his left arm would make it difficult. Why not let Orlando take care of him, when he so obviously wanted to? Why not let Orlando take care of him when that was Viggo’s fondest wish as well? “As you wish, mon cher.”

Orlando wrapped his arm around Viggo’s waist, supporting him as they walked toward the inn. His heart pounded still in his chest, the fear and tension of the day only partially relieved. Viggo was returned to him alive, but not well. Not yet, and so a portion of his fear lingered. Fate could yet steal Viggo away. He peered up at the poet from beneath lowered lashes, fighting the desire to pull his lover’s mouth to his. When they reached the privacy of their room, he decided. Then he would indulge himself.

Viggo leaned heavily on the slighter figure as they made their way inside and up the stairs. He was in too much pain, despite his earlier bravado, to appreciate the physical sensations of having Orlando close, but knowing his lover was safe helped calm his racing heart. Never in even his deepest fantasies had he dared to picture this closeness, this tenderness between them. At the most, he had allowed himself to imagine a scene much like the night he spoke to Orlando beneath his lover’s balcony, his emotions poured out and accepted, but on a purely spiritual plane. He had told the truth that night when he said that all that remained was for him to die, since his fondest wish had been granted. “Alors que la mort vienne,” he had requested after Orlando spoke his love aloud. “Cette ivresse, c’est moi, moi qui l’ai su causer!” Death had not come and he had stood back and watched Karl climb the balcony to claim the kiss Viggo’s words had won. Looking at Orlando now, though, he knew that despair was in the past. “You are well?” he asked as they paused on a landing to let him catch his breath.

“Now that you are returned to me,” Orlando replied. Viggo was moving and conscious so he was not worried that his lover would die of his wounds… if they could stave off any infection. He had ordered hot water and clean linens brought to his room as he raced outside earlier. Now he just had to get Viggo upstairs and comfortable so he could tend to the injury. It never occurred to him to do otherwise. Even before he realized the depth of his feelings for Viggo, he had tended him this way. In David’s garden, the day he had told Viggo of his interest in Karl, he had done this very thing, though on a much smaller injury. He reached down and folded his fingers around Viggo’s right hand, lifting it to his lips and kissing the small scar that remained from the wound.

Not releasing it, he led Viggo on to the room where he had kept vigil since morning. He steered the injured man toward the bed, stopping at its side to gently peel the leather jerkin and cotton chemise from his torso. Even as he flinched seeing the deep gash just below the right collarbone, he could not help but notice the rest of Viggo’s chest as well. Broad and strongly muscled, it beckoned to his hands, tempting him to explore the sleek contours. He resisted, but only because he knew that he would soon be able to touch at his leisure under the guise of tending the wound.

“Your boots and breeches as well,” he informed his patient. “I’ll not have you making a mess of the only bed we have to sleep in.”

Viggo blushed despite himself as he lifted one foot, then the other for his beloved to remove his boots. He worked the laces on his trousers, opening them and pushing them down over his hips, leaving himself clad in only his smallclothes. He was not bothered by his near nudity. The only defect in his appearance was his nose. His time as a soldier had honed his body to near perfection. No, what discomfited him was Orlando’s rapt attention. No one had ever looked at him that way, never seeing further than his nose.

Orlando smothered a gasp at the sight of the Adonis before him. He knew Viggo was a warrior as well as a poet. He had seen the man fight, but he had never imagined that such flawlessness existed beneath the tunic and cape his lover habitually donned. If he had known, perhaps he would have taken an interest sooner. “Sit,” Orlando urged, the blood seeping from Viggo’s shoulder enough to draw his attention away from the delectable body revealed before him. There would be time to explore after he cleaned and bound the wound. A knock at the door distracted him and he rose from where he knelt to open it to the servants bearing the water and cloth he had ordered.

Viggo turned his back, preserving his modesty as the servants carried in two buckets of steaming water. While he did not mind standing nearly naked before his lover, he preferred not to make a spectacle of himself in front of others. Now that Orlando returned his love, his body was for his lover alone. When they were alone again, he turned and met his lover’s eyes where the younger man stood with the supplies the servants had brought. “I fought today knowing you were waiting for me,” he admitted. “Thinking of you made me stronger than I have ever been.”

The words soothed fears Orlando did not even realize he had, and he stopped what he was doing to go to Viggo’s side. He reached up, feeling incredibly daring, and kissed his lover tenderly.

Viggo trembled. He had initiated their first kiss, claiming Orlando’s mouth hungrily. Orlando had reciprocated willingly, but with a tell-tale shyness that had touched Viggo’s heart. The esurience in this kiss took Viggo aback. He had honestly not had time to think about it, but he had expected to find the same demure lover he had seen that morning. The tension of the day seemed to have shattered Orlando’s reserve, leaving a passionate houri in his place. Desire rose in him, urging him to unveil the charms hidden beneath the simple garb Orlando wore, to lower him onto the bed and make slow, thorough love to him. Certainly, the young man merited that and more, but the throbbing in Viggo’s shoulder was increasing, distracting him from what he wanted to focus on. “I must tend my shoulder first, my love,” he murmured regretfully against Orlando’s lips.

“You will do no such thing,” Orlando retorted, though his voice lacked any sting. He was far too overwhelmed by their kiss to be truly bothered by Viggo’s characteristic independence. His love had never allowed himself to rely on anyone, Orlando knew, not since he left Bergerac. That was fine in public, but the poet was going to learn to depend on Orlando in private. “You will sit down there and let me take care of you. I thought about ordering a bath, but I did not know how badly you were hurt. I can order one now if you want.”

“The rag in your hand will be fine,” Viggo assured him, sitting down on the bed, warmed by Orlando’s insistence. The wounds of battle were no pretty sight, but he seemed determined to soldier on despite the blood and gore. “Wipe the blood away so we can see how bad it is.”

Orlando soaked the cloth and returned to Viggo’s side, dabbing gently at the rivulets of blood that stained the lightly tanned skin. The hiss of Viggo’s indrawn breath tore at his heart, but he hardened himself to his task. Regardless of the pain it caused his lover, this had to be done. When the rag was red with blood, he rinsed it out in the porcelain ewer and returned to his task. The creases around Viggo’s mouth and across his forehead deepened with the pain, but Orlando knew he had to wash away all the blood, dirt, and sweat if he had any hope of keeping the wound from festering. He leaned over and brushed his lips across Viggo’s brow, smoothing out the lines as if to apologize for adding to the poet’s pain, no matter how necessary his actions were.

Finally, the area was clean to Orlando’s satisfaction. “A moment more and then you can lie down,” he told Viggo gently.

Viggo nodded, his teeth clenched tightly against any sound that would discourage his lover. It was not Orlando’s fault he was wounded. He did not want the young man to feel guilty for the care he was providing.

“Bandage it well,” Viggo directed, looking down at the wound. It was deep, but not terribly wide, the result of a thrust with a sword, not a slash. He wondered if it would affect his ability to fight later, but he pushed the thought aside. He could fight with his left hand just as well as with his right, if it came to that, but he suspected his need for a sword would seem less pressing now that he had Orlando at his side. The bitterness that had often characterized his address to others was disappearing, replaced by his love for the incredible man at his side. Why spend his time attacking the vices of society when he could spend it worshipping at the altar of beauty that was his lover? “Tighter,” he urged when Orlando tied a length of cloth around his shoulder. “It has to stop the bleeding completely.”

Orlando nodded and pulled the cloth more snugly until Viggo stopped him. “Can you sit a little longer?” he asked, his concern clear in his voice. “You will rest more easily if you are clean.”

I will rest more easily with your arms around me, Viggo thought, but he did not make any effort to stop Orlando’s ministrations, not when they kept the delicate hands moving over his bare flesh.

Orlando set aside the bloody rag he still held and picked up another one, dipping it in the bucket of hot water again. He started with Viggo’s back, wanting his lover supine as quickly as possible. Carefully avoiding the bandage, he explored the broad planes with cloth and fingers, tracing the lines of muscle and bone, learning his lover’s body as intimately as he knew his own. The muscles bunched and released under his touch, revealing his incredible power over the man beneath his hands. A touch sent a shiver through Viggo. A caress made his skin leap with pleasure. In a moment of daring, he lowered his head and pressed a kiss to Viggo’s unbandaged shoulder, wondering what reaction that would engender. The soft moan that escaped Viggo’s lips thrilled Orlando to his core.

Viggo was not a complete stranger to this sort of intimate touch. His name and notoriety had been enough to secure him amicable company, despite his nose, of an evening when the weight of being alone had grown too much for his strong constitution. The tenderness, the devotion that imbued Orlando’s every touch and especially the kiss, were wholly unique, though in Viggo’s experience, moving him in a way he had not dreamed possible. “Orlando,” he murmured – the name a prayer – as he trembled with love and desire.

Not understanding the tremor that went through Viggo, Orlando urged him to lie flat so he could rest, thinking he had overtaxed the other man’s limits. He began to wash the rest of the swordsman’s chest, taking care not to do anything to further discomfit his lover.

Viggo waited, eyes closed, for the caresses to continue. When they did not, he opened them with a slight frown, wondering what he had done to discourage his lover. Seeing the concern and guilt written clearly on Orlando’s guileless face, his expression softened and he reached for his lover’s hands, lifting them to his lips before guiding them to his chest. “Your touch is most welcome,” he assured the young man. “It distracts me from the pain.”

Given permission, Orlando resumed his explorations eagerly, taking note of those places where Viggo was most sensitive. Unsurprisingly, attention paid to the dusky nipples hidden beneath the dusting of hair had Viggo gasping. A coy smile crossing his face, Orlando abandoned the cloth in his hand, leaving it resting against Viggo’s stomach, to explore skin to skin. To his delight, Viggo twitched and quivered beneath his touch, nipples peaking as fingers then palms traced their circumference.

Viggo held himself as still as possible, both to minimize the likelihood of causing himself more pain and to savor as long as possible these tentative moments of discovery. He and Orlando would have a lifetime to love one another, but only one first time, and Viggo had no intention of marring the experience. He wanted all of Orlando’s memories of this time together to be joyous ones, loving ones. “Kiss me,” he requested, his good hand reaching for Orlando’s cheek.

All else forgotten at the sound of those words, Orlando stretched out along Viggo’s uninjured side, pressing his lips to his lover’s enthusiastically. Viggo’s fingers tousled in the shoulder-length curls, guiding his head gently to deepen the kiss. Orlando’s lips parted eagerly, welcoming Viggo inside his mouth. The invading tongue tangled with his, twining together before disengaging and invading again, establishing a rhythm their bodies would eventually undertake. Orlando’s lips caught the rhythm, opening in welcome, then closing as if to keep Viggo from ever escaping. A still rational corner of Viggo’s mind marveled at Orlando’s responsiveness. Despite his patent innocence, the young beauty had none of the inhibitions society tried to inculcate, making him even more a treasure beyond price. Viggo would seduce his young love tenderly and completely because Orlando deserved only the best, but to his relief, he would not have to overcome ingrained reservations and fears. “My love,” he whispered against Orlando’s lips.

Those words – those long-desired words in the voice that had haunted Orlando’s thoughts and dreams for months – evoked such a flurry of emotions that Orlando felt himself overcome with shyness. He did not pull away. On the contrary, he snuggled closer as he buried his face against Viggo’s shoulder.

Viggo waited out Orlando’s bout of nerves patiently. His lover was taking a huge step simply being here with him. He knew what tumult he had experienced that morning, finding himself loved when he had ceased to hope. Orlando’s tumult had to be many times more intense. Viggo considered himself lucky that the young man had not simply run away screaming in protest. Instead, he had accepted the revelation with aplomb and moved forward. Shifting, he cursed his injury, wishing he could pull Orlando to him with both arms, comforting and reassuring him. “I love you,” he said instead, hoping the simple, heartfelt words would provide some stability for Orlando.

Hearing those precious words, tender and true, Orlando lifted his head and met Viggo’s eyes. His shyness evaporated in the face of the love and desire he read on his lover’s face. “Make love to me.”

Viggo shook his head. “No, Orlando, we cannot. I would not be able to love you the way you deserve.”

“You are all I deserve and more,” Orlando retorted. His expression turned pleading. “Please, Viggo, do not make me beg. I need your hands on me; I need to know that we are alive.”

“Help me sit up,” Viggo decided, not immune to the beseeching look on his lover’s face.

“But your shoulder!” Orlando protested.

Viggo chuckled. “My sweet, innocent love,” he laughed, shaking his head. “I cannot reach you well enough lying here to give you what you want. If you insist on doing this now rather than waiting until I can take care of you properly, then you must help me sit up. Gather the pillows. I will rest against them so I do not strain my injury.”

Orlando debated the wisdom of his demand, but desperate desire won out over common sense. He helped Viggo sit up and propped the pillows behind the older man, making sure he was comfortable. “Are you well?”

Viggo’s smile was gentle. “As well as I can be without you in my arms.”

Unmindful of Viggo’s injury, Orlando threw himself into the swordsman’s embrace. “Never again,” he swore. “I never want to be further from your side than I am now.”

Viggo grunted as the impact of Orlando’s body against his drove the air from his lungs. He closed his good arm around his lover’s shoulders, hugging him close. “I never want you further from me than this, but you will have to move at least a little if you intend for us to make love. It will be much easier to do if you undress first.”

He wanted to undress Orlando himself, wanted his first glimpse of his lover’s body as an adult to be a slow, tender unveiling, but his injury made that impossible. He would have to settle for watching. Later, though, he promised himself to linger over the process.

The shyness returned, Orlando’s gaze dropping as he lifted trembling hands to his laces.

“You have nothing to fear from me, from this,” Viggo reminded him gently. “You are the master of my heart, the dictator of my actions. A frown on your beautiful face would stop me, a hard word shatter me. Every word I spoke to you that night from beneath your balcony was true. I would give my happiness for yours, my life if it would bring a smile to your face. All I would need is to hear your laughter from a distance on occasion and any sacrifice would be worthwhile.”

“There is no happiness with you at a distance, no joy without you at my side. This is part of that happiness. My skin is tingling at the thought that you will touch me as I have touched you, that you will kiss and caress me until all thought leaves my mind, until nothing exists but you – your hands, your lips, your body, touching me, exploring me, loving me. I want this, and yet…”

“And yet it is unknown as well, an experience you have never shared with anyone, perhaps even with yourself,” Viggo replied with a nod, though Orlando’s words added to his need. “Seated as we are, injured as I am, you will be the one truly in control here. You will decide how fast and how deep to take me inside you. You will set the pace at which we ride. And if that is more than you can accept tonight, then we will make love another way. This will go no further than you want.”

“But I want it all!” Orlando protested, a sense of emptiness he had never known investing his lower body at the thought of being filled. Viggo’s smallclothes veiled his cock still from Orlando’s eyes, but a downward glance revealed a sizable bulge. Unsure where the daring came from, he ran a curious hand over its contours, feeling the heft of the shaft. His eyes closed in anticipation even as he heard Viggo’s gasp. His lover was trying to be still, he could tell, but the little sounds betrayed him. Opening his eyes again, he met the cerulean gaze. “I want this.”

“It is yours,” Viggo promised. “I am yours.” With his good hand, he worked his smallclothes off, baring himself completely to Orlando’s gaze.

A flush swept up Orlando’s cheeks as he stared at Viggo’s naked body, the sense of joy and wonder that had filled him since he realized the true author of the letters he could recite by heart increasing again. Viggo called Orlando perfect, but perfection lay before him on the bed now. The hard body was scarred in places, each one telling a tale of childhood exploits, youthful indiscretions, adulthood battles, but each one was beautiful in Orlando’s eyes, the marks a reminder of what made this the man he loved. His eyes drifted upward to Viggo’s familiar face. Leaning forward, Orlando pressed his lips to his lover’s again, trying to focus on the individual sensations involved in the kiss. Viggo’s lips were firm and mobile beneath his, no longer the brush of a bee’s wings as he had whispered in the night, but commanding now, shifting and parting to welcome Orlando, to entice him. The thick moustache brushed his upper lip, adding another layer of sensation, a contrast to Orlando’s own smooth face. As their heads tilted and moved, he could occasionally feel the tip of Viggo’s nose bumping against his cheek. Giving in to impulse, he turned his head and pressed a kiss to the side of the large proboscis. “Perfect,” he whispered. “Even this.”

“I am not…” Viggo protested.

“Do not say it,” Orlando interrupted. “I refuse to hear it. You are perfection in my eyes, the embodiment of beauty and grace, and I am renowned for my taste. I will not be gainsaid. You are perfect for me exactly as you are, nose and all.” Determined to end this argument, he lowered his head, kissing Viggo’s nose again before returning to his lips.

The innocent onslaught succeeded in banishing Viggo’s doubts for the moment, stealing all thought from his head but those of his amazing lover. The sensation of cloth rubbing against his chest reminded him that Orlando was still dressed. He lifted his uninjured hand to the loosened collar of his lover’s shirt, working the laces free as best he could, wanting to see Orlando, touch Orlando as Orlando had seen and touched him. Laces undone, he reached for the hem of the shirt, breaking their kiss to pull the offending fabric from his lover’s body.

Orlando lifted his arms to facilitate his disrobing, leaning forward again immediately to continue the kiss. Viggo’s hand on his chest stopped him.

“Let me look at you,” Viggo requested. “Let me see what I have imagined for so long.”

Orlando suspected he should have felt shy, but the adoration on Viggo’s face was so clear that he knew only pride instead, pride that he could inspire such joy and devotion. Buoyed by the newfound confidence, he rose gracefully from the bed and worked the fastenings on his trousers, pushing them slowly down his hips until he stood before his lover, completely nude.

Viggo’s breath caught as he gazed upon the alabaster skin, the lightly muscled form that rivaled any statue he had ever seen. “Come to me, my love,” he whispered, stretching out his hand to cup Orlando’s hip.

Orlando’s breath caught in his throat when Viggo’s flesh met his. He moved at his lover’s urging back onto the bed, intending to return to his place at Viggo’s side, but his lover shook his head, encouraging the younger man to shift so he knelt straddling Viggo’s thighs. He moved as the poet directed, blushing again as he felt how open the position left him, legs spread wide to steady himself. He reminded himself that he had nothing to fear from Viggo, that his vulnerability was all in his head.

Hand still resting on Orlando’s hip, Viggo feasted his eyes on the banquet before him. Orlando’s chest was as smooth as his face, leaving the coffee-colored nipples on blatant display. Though slender, the young man’s chest was well-defined, lines of muscle Viggo’s fingers itched to trace. He would have time, he reminded himself, later if not now, to indulge every desire. His eyes drifted lower to the taut plane of Orlando’s stomach, bisected by a thin line of hair, a delicate trail leading down to the triangle of curls from which rose his lover’s long, slender cock. This time, he gave in to the urge to touch, tracing the elegant curve with the tip of one finger, smiling in gratification when the swollen member twitched and disgorged a drop of creamy fluid. Viggo caught it with his thumb and lifted it to his lips, savoring his first taste of his lover’s essence.

Orlando’s breath hitched as Viggo touched him so intimately, his head falling back as his hips arched forward, seeking another touch. “Brace yourself on my knees,” Viggo suggested softly, already imagining the picture that would create. Orlando did as he said, arching his back, his chest thrusting forward. Viggo extended a single finger again, starting this time at the crease of Orlando’s hip, tracing the edge of the curls until they narrowed to Orlando’s treasure trail. From there, Viggo’s finger drifted up his lover’s midline to the hollow at the base of his neck, savoring the milky skin and the panting moans that escaped Orlando’s parted lips. Cursing the injury that limited him to one hand, he trailed his finger downward again, tracing the outline of one nipple, then the other.

“Viggo!” Orlando cried, his back bowing even more.

“Do you like that, my love?” he asked tenderly, circling the dark disk again.

“Yes!” Orlando gasped. “Yes!”

“I would give anything to touch you with both hands, to worship these jewels at the same time as they deserve. I cannot tonight. I would never be able to lift my arm long enough, but I will soon. I will lay you flat on the bed and kneel up over you, not so different than now, and I will spend hours touching you just like this, circling your sensitive flesh until you beg me for more.” He suited actions to words as best he could with only one hand, eyes flickering back and forth between the sight of his hand on Orlando’s body and the vision of his lover’s face as he gave in to his passion.

Aroused beyond belief by Viggo’s words, Orlando opened his eyes and met Viggo’s with a smoldering gaze. “And when I do?” he prodded. “When I beg you for more, what will you do to me? How will you love me then?”

Thrilled by Orlando’s entrance into this game of words – he should not have been surprised since words had been the key to his lover’s heart – Viggo smiled and slipped his hand to Orlando’s side, urging him to lean forward. “This,” he replied, closing his lips around one puckered nub, then the other. “I will lick and kiss your aching nipples until you are writhing beneath me, so lost in passion that you cannot even speak to ask for more.”

Orlando had no problem imagining himself in such a state. Viggo’s lips and tongue worked the sensitive center of his nipple while the older man’s moustache brushed across the outer aureole, adding another dimension to the stimulation. He tangled his fingers in his lover’s shaggy hair, clutching him closer. “More,” was all he could muster.

All you desire, Viggo thought, but he did not move away enough to speak, biting down gently instead on the ruched tip. Orlando’s shocked cry might have caused him to draw back if his lover’s hands had not pressed his head even closer. Taking that as encouragement, Viggo bit down again.

Orlando was as lost in passion as Viggo had predicted, his hips shifting restlessly as he inched forward, drawing closer and closer to his lover in his search for fulfillment. He knew that what he desired lay within Viggo’s power. He needed only to convince his lover to give it. “Please,” he sobbed, mindless with need.

Viggo wanted to linger, to take his time, savoring every inch of Orlando’s body, but he recognized the desperation in his lover’s voice. Unaccustomed to desire, Orlando was already trembling on the edge, too tense to enjoy Viggo’s continuing explorations. Releasing his lover’s nipple, he pulled Orlando’s head down for a kiss, slipping his hand between them to encircle the younger man’s steadily leaking cock. He pumped the shaft slowly at first, feeling every catch of Orlando’s breathing, every shiver that wracked his spine. Slowly, he increased the pace, until Orlando was thrusting frantically into his fist. He could feel the younger man teetering on the edge of release, yet not quite able to give in to it. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he lifted his other hand, sliding it between Orlando’s legs, spreading the young man’s buttocks so he could find the furled rosette between. He bumped against it gently even as he continued to stimulate his lover’s cock. Conscious of Orlando’s innocence and the absence of anything to ease his way, Viggo did not try to penetrate his lover’s passage, but the stimulation to the outer ring seemed to be enough. Orlando’s passion spilled forth, covering Viggo’s hand and smearing over their bellies as Orlando collapsed forward. Viggo slid his hands from between them, his injured arm falling back to the sheets while the other hand stroked soothingly over the smooth skin of Orlando’s back and buttocks, caressing and calming his trembling lover.

Eventually, Orlando’s shaking eased and he lifted his head to meet Viggo’s gaze. “That was…” he began, at a loss for words for the first time since he had learned to speak.

“Only the beginning,” Viggo promised.

Orlando shivered. Viggo’s voice held such promise. He could barely assimilate all the new sensations he had already experienced. The thought of more was almost beyond his comprehension, but he could feel Viggo’s cock pressing against him still, unsated. Feeling selfish, he pushed himself upright, closing his hand awkwardly around Viggo’s shaft. To his surprise, his lover caught his arm, stopping his caress before he could do more than stroke the fascinating length.

“If you do much of that,” Viggo warned gently, as the untutored caress stole his breath, “we will have to finish this another night. I will understand if this is all you are comfortable with tonight, but there is still so much more I could show you.”

Curiosity won, and Orlando moved his hand, sitting back on his heels again. “Show me.”

Viggo’s eyes closed as he struggled for control. Orlando’s words – just the thought that this beautiful young man wanted him, loved him – had his passions chomping at the bit, threatening to steal the reins and run wild. He could not let that happen, though, not with a virgin lover in front of him. He would rather lose a hand than hurt his precious Orlando in any way. “Do you have oil?” he asked. “Or cream for your hands?”

Orlando frowned in confusion. “I have scented oil for my bath in my bag, but why do you ask?”

Viggo smiled despite the struggle he continued to wage with his desires. “Because, my sweet innocent, without it, what you want is nigh impossible. I am not a small man, and you are untouched. I would prefer not to hurt you. Fetch the oil for me.”

Orlando blushed as he thought of Viggo’s finger touching him so intimately a few minutes before and realized what that surely presaged. Despite his suddenly returning nerves, he trusted Viggo. The older man would never knowingly hurt him. Heedless of his nudity, he rose from the bed and crossed the room to rifle through his valise. Finding the flask of oil, he returned to the bed and handed it shyly to his lover.

Viggo took the proffered bottle and promptly set it aside. Orlando’s nervousness was palpable. He needed to relax his lover again first. Only then could he think about sating his own desires. Words had always been key for Orlando. He would use them now to rouse his lover’s passion again.

“I could spend the rest of our lives just staring at you as I am now,” he told Orlando quickly, his voice taut with unfulfilled desire. “I look at you and see all my dreams come true. I do not know, cannot begin to imagine why you love me, but I will never stop being thankful that you do.” He watched Orlando’s face as he spoke, watched the hesitation fade when Viggo did not immediately press his suit. He flicked his thumb over the sienna nipple, wringing a surprised gasp from his lover’s throat. “And then to have you so responsive to my touch,” he continued, “so willing, so eager even. I could not ask for more.”

“Not even the experience to love you the way you deserve?” Orlando asked, his words revealing an insecurity he did not even know he felt.

Viggo shook his head. “Not even that. Knowing that I am the first to touch you, the first to see you unclothed, the first to share this moment with you means far more to me than any expert caress. You will gain experience as time goes on, as we make love night after night. I will learn your body and you will learn mine, inside and out.”

“Truly?” Orlando asked, wondering if he understood Viggo’s meaning.

Viggo smiled. “Of course. I am not unselfish enough to forego the feeling of having you inside me forever.”

Orlando’s eyes widened. If Viggo truly felt that way, then perhaps he had nothing to fear now. His cock twitched as desire rekindled, fanned by the tender, lusty words. “I will not make you wait too long,” he promised, “but first you must teach me what to do.”

“Now?” Viggo questioned, not wanting to rush Orlando.

Orlando nodded.

Viggo picked up the oil again, uncorking the bottle and coating his fingers. “First, I must make you ready for me,” he explained, lifting his head enough to catch Orlando’s lips in a quick kiss. His fingers slid between the young man’s buttocks again, more deliberate in their actions this time, spreading the oil generously over the tightly puckered flesh. He took his time, massaging the entrance firmly, working the oil into the skin so it would stretch more easily. Periodically, he would press his thumb deliberately against the smooth patch of skin between his lover’s sac and entrance, another layer of stimulation designed to drive the younger man wild.

Almost immediately, the tumultuous desire returned as Viggo stimulated Orlando’s flesh in new and unfamiliar ways. Each time his lover’s thumb pressed down, sparks shot off behind his eyelids, and the constant pressure of those talented fingers urged him to relax, to give in to the caress, to open himself as he had never done before. Without conscious direction on his part, his hips began to rock gently into the questing digits, seeking more contact.

Seeking penetration.

“Kiss me again,” Viggo urged. When Orlando’s lips met his, he slid a single finger through the ring of flexing muscle, feeling it clench and relax as Orlando’s body struggled to accept the novel caress. His lover squirmed against him, but the purr of pleasure that vibrated against Viggo’s lips assured him Orlando was well. He crooked the invading digit, seeking the spongy nub that would set the stars dancing behind his eyes. The sudden twitch of Orlando’s hips made Viggo smile against his lover’s lips. “Let me hear you,” he murmured. “Let me know how good it feels.”

Orlando buried his face against Viggo’s uninjured shoulder, struggling for breath, for coherency in the midst of the swirling surge of sensation. Words escaped him, though, and he had to settle for a breathy moan. Viggo did not seem to care, however, his finger continuing its seductive slide in and out of his body.

As much as Viggo would have enjoyed hearing the words Orlando chose to express what he was feeling, he recognized the compliment in the fact that he had driven the young man beyond speech. His own desire was beginning to demand his attention and so he added a second finger to the first, stretching the resilient ring of muscle that much more, in preparation for the final act in this dance that had been building between them for months.

Orlando quivered against him, his reawakening shaft pressing firmly against Viggo’s stomach, giving the soldier all the encouragement he needed to continue. He added a third finger, trying hard now not to rush his lover too quickly. His own cock, though, was demanding attention. When Orlando did not balk at that stretch, Viggo slid his fingers away and grabbed the bottle of oil again. “Give me your hand,” he requested.

Orlando held out his hand, palm up, surprised when Viggo poured a few drops of oil onto his skin. “Prepare me, my love. I want to be inside you now.”

With an eager smile, Orlando curled his hand around the older man’s cock, smearing the oil up and down the strong length, impatient to feel it inside him.

Viggo endured the caress as long as his control would allow, finally pulling Orlando’s hand away gently. “Are you ready for this?” he asked, giving his lover one last chance to demur, to change his mind.

Orlando did not hesitate. “Yes. Please, I want you.”

Viggo urged Orlando to kneel up, positioning his cock so it bumped against the loosened opening. “Take me in at your own pace,” he directed.

Orlando pressed back against the hard shaft, too aroused to be nervous. He had dreamed for so long of finding someone to love, of giving himself in love, that this moment held no fear for him. Not now. Not with Viggo. The stretch of his muscles around his lover’s cock felt strange at first, the fullness odd as his body struggled to accept the foreign object. It did not take long, though, before he relaxed and sank down more, taking Viggo deeper into his body. Finally, he sat completely on Viggo’s lap again, impaled by the hard shaft. He panted for breath, giving his body time to adjust to the invasion. He stared down into Viggo’s glittering blue eyes, the mingled lust and love he could read there swelling his heart.

Heat surrounded Viggo with excruciating slowness. He was glad he had let Orlando set the pace, because he never would have had the control to move this painstakingly if he had been in charge. Even now, only his injury kept him from rolling the younger man beneath him and thrusting into him the way his body demanded. “Move, please,” he pleaded, looking up at Orlando desperately, his face a contorted mask as he struggled for control of his passions. “Please,” he repeated again as Orlando started to move, to rise and fall gently on his aching cock.

Orlando would never have imagined the sense of power that came with hearing his lover pleading, but knowing that Viggo wanted him, desired him, loved him so desperately was a heady thought, adding to the myriad of sensations already assaulting him. He had asked Viggo earlier not to make him beg, but now he wondered if he should have, if hearing such pleading from him would have fired Viggo’s passions even more. He filed that thought away for another time, turning his attention back to his lover who lay beneath him, vibrating with unfulfilled desire. Leaning back, he rocked on the thick cock more deliberately, letting out a surprised gasp when the head of the hard shaft hit the susceptible spot inside him. Eager to feel the zinging sparks again, he repeated the movement, his gasp this time one of sublime pleasure.

With Orlando moving above him, Viggo rocked his hips gently in counterpoint, trying to prolong and increase their pleasure. He trailed his good hand over Orlando’s torso, teasing across his nipples and then down to the younger man's resurgent cock. He gripped it firmly, stroking in time with their thrusting hips, determined to bring his lover to release again before giving in to his own climax.

The dual sensation of Viggo's cock inside him and Viggo's fist surrounding him sent Orlando's head spinning. He arched into the touch, his hands moving to rest on his lover's knees as they had earlier, opening himself, offering himself.

The contrast that was his sweet innocent, so pure and yet so debauched, sent shivers through Viggo's body, wracking him with ever increasing desire. He would not be able to wait much longer, but he needed to know Orlando was with him. Gritting his teeth, he moved his injured arm, letting that hand replace the other on Orlando's cock. He would not be able to stroke that way, but he could provide a channel into which his lover could thrust. That freed his good hand to fly across the younger man's beautiful body, stroking, caressing, pinching, plucking, anything to add to the sensations bombarding him. "Come for me," he pleaded, feeling his own release threatening.

Orlando choked on a sob, giving in to the love and lust that wracked him, the cock that plundered his willing passage, the fist that surrounded his eager shaft, the hand that ravished his burning flesh. With a sharp cry, he bowed backward, his release taking him with the force of a hundred suns, scorching him from the inside out, sending him flying into the abyss from which there was no rescue.

Feeling Orlando's body spasm about him, Viggo gave up the fight for control, his resolve melting in the heat of his lover's gaze as snow melts in the warmth of spring. His hips rose and fell frantically, striving to reach the powerful, heretofore unfathomable moment that would be his climax inside the man he had always loved and never dared to dream of having. He lifted his eyes to Orlando's face, saw the delicate features transfigured by passion, and knew himself blessed. Eyes closing as he reached the pinnacle of desire, he sank back into the pillows, frail flesh forgotten. Only his heart remained, beating in time with his lover's, binding them together in a communion that went far beyond the mortal plane, uniting their souls in a bond that could never be undone.

*****

THE END

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