there, but this spring they’d had a record amount of rain, so he’d spotted something as he drove past, spotted something and stopped.
And now this long-haired young man with his bronzed skin and burning jewel blue eyes was caring for him. How was that possible? Ken felt as if he’d entered a strange world, like one of those stories where a mortal man fell asleep in a fey’s woods.
He studied his caregiver. The man’s arms were scratched, and there was a streak of mud on one lean cheek. His hair was pushed back from his face by a soft deerskin band that reminded Ken vaguely of a Native American headband. It was a practical design, lacking any embellishment.
“Safe now,” the stranger said in his flat voice. “Mine now.”
A tear rolled down Ken’s face. He squeezed his eyes shut, embarrassed by his lack of control. He took a deep breath, but his body betrayed him, shivering in spasms.
The man growled at him, as if he were displeased. And then he curled his muscled body behind Ken’s smaller one, spooning him, one palm flat on Ken’s bare belly. The stranger held him as he struggled to compose himself.
Ken’s muscles slowly relaxed, though hot moisture continued to well from his eyes and drip from his chin.
“I almost died, didn’t I?” he repeated a long time later.
His caregiver only licked his neck, tasting Ken’s tears.
H E WOKE up again because he was cold except where his wild man was pressed against him, his front against Ken’s back, one thigh thrown over Ken’s legs, as if to keep him close, under control. The sheepskin had fallen away, and his tears had dried and coated his skin, making him feel like he wore an old cocoon of his past self.
He wasn’t sure what roused the young man—a change in Ken’s breathing, the restless shift of his thigh.
He was still so weak, though he didn’t feel like something that had been shattered like a dropped eggshell on granite anymore.
He was healing.
His guardian’s hand was cupped over Ken’s sleeping sex.
He turned his head and in the yellow light from the fire, he met those lake blue eyes. He remembered his caregiver’s words: safe, mine.
The stranger sat up, shoving back his long hair. He studied Ken from under his brows, as if assessing whether this time he’d stay awake.
Helpless to do anything more than lie there, Ken studied the young man in return, seeing he had stripped off his leather shirt and leggings and was wearing nothing but a loincloth, also made of the soft leather. It cupped his penis, which was hard, the plummy head poking out to the side like a rebellious stalk of rhubarb.
Ken smiled faintly at the thought. He’d grown rhubarb in his garden as a child when his family had lived in the prairies.
The young man reached for the same cup he’d offered previously, resting again on the coals. He leaned down and tasted it and then he held it with dirty hands for Ken to drink.
“Tea,” he said. His flat tone said, drink it now.
“Arigatou gozaimasu,” Ken said, for some reason using the Japanese of his childhood. It seemed appropriate when being given tea.
But the young man frowned, dark brows lowered so that despite his dark hair, he suddenly reminded Ken of a young god Thor from Norse mythology. A displeased Thor. Ken remembered then he didn’t seem very handy with English. “Thank you very much,” he repeated very slowly.
The frown wasn’t lifted. “Not stupid.”
“No!” Ken shook his head. “You took care of me.” He cleared his throat, meaning to raise the subject again of why he wasn’t in a hospital….
The stranger grunted and gestured peremptorily with the tea. Drink, his actions mimed. Stop talking and drink now.
Ken obediently sipped, tasting root and honey and something that tasted like tree. He could see a swollen lump on the back of one hand holding the little cup, which might explain the source of the honey. His benefactor had been stung. Raiding a beehive? There was also the faint aftertaste of fish. The pot
And now this long-haired young man with his bronzed skin and burning jewel blue eyes was caring for him. How was that possible? Ken felt as if he’d entered a strange world, like one of those stories where a mortal man fell asleep in a fey’s woods.
He studied his caregiver. The man’s arms were scratched, and there was a streak of mud on one lean cheek. His hair was pushed back from his face by a soft deerskin band that reminded Ken vaguely of a Native American headband. It was a practical design, lacking any embellishment.
“Safe now,” the stranger said in his flat voice. “Mine now.”
A tear rolled down Ken’s face. He squeezed his eyes shut, embarrassed by his lack of control. He took a deep breath, but his body betrayed him, shivering in spasms.
The man growled at him, as if he were displeased. And then he curled his muscled body behind Ken’s smaller one, spooning him, one palm flat on Ken’s bare belly. The stranger held him as he struggled to compose himself.
Ken’s muscles slowly relaxed, though hot moisture continued to well from his eyes and drip from his chin.
“I almost died, didn’t I?” he repeated a long time later.
His caregiver only licked his neck, tasting Ken’s tears.
H E WOKE up again because he was cold except where his wild man was pressed against him, his front against Ken’s back, one thigh thrown over Ken’s legs, as if to keep him close, under control. The sheepskin had fallen away, and his tears had dried and coated his skin, making him feel like he wore an old cocoon of his past self.
He wasn’t sure what roused the young man—a change in Ken’s breathing, the restless shift of his thigh.
He was still so weak, though he didn’t feel like something that had been shattered like a dropped eggshell on granite anymore.
He was healing.
His guardian’s hand was cupped over Ken’s sleeping sex.
He turned his head and in the yellow light from the fire, he met those lake blue eyes. He remembered his caregiver’s words: safe, mine.
The stranger sat up, shoving back his long hair. He studied Ken from under his brows, as if assessing whether this time he’d stay awake.
Helpless to do anything more than lie there, Ken studied the young man in return, seeing he had stripped off his leather shirt and leggings and was wearing nothing but a loincloth, also made of the soft leather. It cupped his penis, which was hard, the plummy head poking out to the side like a rebellious stalk of rhubarb.
Ken smiled faintly at the thought. He’d grown rhubarb in his garden as a child when his family had lived in the prairies.
The young man reached for the same cup he’d offered previously, resting again on the coals. He leaned down and tasted it and then he held it with dirty hands for Ken to drink.
“Tea,” he said. His flat tone said, drink it now.
“Arigatou gozaimasu,” Ken said, for some reason using the Japanese of his childhood. It seemed appropriate when being given tea.
But the young man frowned, dark brows lowered so that despite his dark hair, he suddenly reminded Ken of a young god Thor from Norse mythology. A displeased Thor. Ken remembered then he didn’t seem very handy with English. “Thank you very much,” he repeated very slowly.
The frown wasn’t lifted. “Not stupid.”
“No!” Ken shook his head. “You took care of me.” He cleared his throat, meaning to raise the subject again of why he wasn’t in a hospital….
The stranger grunted and gestured peremptorily with the tea. Drink, his actions mimed. Stop talking and drink now.
Ken obediently sipped, tasting root and honey and something that tasted like tree. He could see a swollen lump on the back of one hand holding the little cup, which might explain the source of the honey. His benefactor had been stung. Raiding a beehive? There was also the faint aftertaste of fish. The pot
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