Duncan MacLeod should always
sleep swathed in black silk, Methos decides while watching one
sleepless, guiltless night.
Duncan lies naked, a portrait in bronze and black. He sleeps with one
arm thrown back, revealing the
flame of hair in his armpit, black as the silk shimmering over his hips.
Long, black hair drifts over
the glossy temptation of his neck and shoulders, curling, tangling,
catching the moonlight. Methos
reaches out to wrap a cool, crisp curl around one fingertip and tug
gently. He edges closer, his
skin slipping over the warm silk, and then watching is no longer
Duncan's knuckles are white
where his fingers clutch the headboard. White, too, the marks in his
where Methos' fingers dig deep
in the hard muscle of his ass, lifting him up, spreading him wide.
Teeth sink into the lushness
of his lower lip, white against dark rose. Beautiful.
Another thrust, four, five,
urgent, unstoppable. The world is white behind Methos' eyelids and he's
coming hard, grabbing Duncan
harder, the last of his breath leaving him in a long, single groan.
Nirvana. Rubber-limbed, he
collapses against Duncan's side, trailing his fingers through the hot
pooling on Duncan's belly.
There's blood on Duncan's
neck, a burgundy smear left by Methos' teeth sinking into the
lure of fine bronze skin while
the red madness of passion was still with him. Methos licks the blood
away, lazily, thoroughly,
feeling Duncan shift against him, even though he has gone to sleep long
It doesn't matter now;
Duncan's body knows his, responds to it instinctively. An arm drops
around his waist, drawing him
closer to Duncan's heat, warmer and more comforting than any fire.
Love is fire, he decides in
the moments before sleep: hot, beautiful, dangerous, consuming.
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