Julian tried to focus on Alaric's face—the raw, naked desperation there was the only thing keeping him from panic. Slowly, agonizingly, he forced his breath to even out.
He let his legs, which had been locked stiff, fall outward, draping over Alaric's hips tightly, holding on like a lifeline.
As Julian's body finally accepted the intrusion, Alaric let out a jagged, broken moan.
He began to move with the heavy, rhythmic power of a soldier.
Each thrust was deep and deliberate, a physical echo of the declaration he'd made in the garden. He was marking Julian from the inside out, claiming territory that no Imperial decree could ever touch.
He hadn't plunged his entire self inside yet, afraid that it would break Julian too soon, and Julian was doing his best to keep his sanity at this moment.
It felt uncomfortable at first, as if someone had plunged a baton into his guts, but as the Duke began to move, that nauseating feeling was replaced by a powerful jolt over his body.
