Fox of fox hall, p.30
Fox of Fox Hall, page 30
“I see your point,” Fox admitted weakly.
Conall dropped a kiss to Fox’s bruised, bitten shoulder, then raised his head. His gaze was a familiar warmth; it shouldn’t have made Fox shiver and tremble deep in his chest. The shaking was not caused by fear, Fox realized and felt slow to the knowledge, as if he should have known that at once.
He opened his mouth only to shut it, not certain what to say, then momentarily forgetting himself entirely when Conall reached between them to stroke Fox’s swelling cock.
“You’re hard-soft,” Conall observed, not unhappily, although with some disbelief. “You spent several times. I’m still in you. Yet you’re already hard-soft.”
Fox opened his mouth again. “It feels right to have you there. Here,” he added quickly as though that would make what he’d said less odd and terrifying. “In me—with me.” That was slightly better. “It’s right that you’re with me. I don’t want to let you go.”
Barely a second after that, Fox whispered, “Oh,” and closed his eyes. “I was passion-struck for you too,” he realized aloud, voice small. “And now you give me this. You won’t take this from me? I get you? I get a place?”
“You get me.” Conall ran his knuckles softly down Fox’s cheek until Fox opened his eyes. “And a home, for as long as you want it. Although it will be awkward meeting my family if you don’t release me at some point.”
Fox stared at him with faint but rising alarm. “Your family….”
“You and I are passion-struck,” Conall reminded him. “I wouldn’t give you up even if they disapproved. But they won’t. Which makes me ‘the dragon,’ apparently. A remark you might explain to me whenever you feel ready.” He raised both eyebrows in question.
Fox ignored that, not even sure what Conall was talking about. His embarrassment was more of his concern at the moment. It would grow worse over time, he was certain of it. He had been passion-struck and hadn’t even known.
He focused on Conall’s expectant expression, enough sense returning to him to make him suspicious. “You don’t seem surprised that I was struck for you.” Fox narrowed his eyes, only to be distracted by more petting.
“You told me you were last night, or so it sounded to my desperate heart. Then you said it again today in front of the king.” Conall’s smirk for that was indecent, although brief. He grew serious again when Fox tried to avoid his eye. “But I was content to try to win your affection, Fox. So, although that was pleasing to hear, I was already set on this course.”
“Foxlike,” Fox complained quietly, trying not to think about his mortifying ignorance.
Conall stroked Fox’s cheekbone, then his mouth. “I used to take a sad sort of hope in that.” He watched Fox intently as he found Fox’s curls and brushed the soft ends across Fox’s parted lips. “I dreamed that we were meant to be, because of my name and yours. Foolish, although now I wonder again. My home....” His gaze sharpened. “My home that is now yours if you want it, is named for my family. Vulpedas in the ancient language, but to those who live near us it’s always been called simply Fox Hall.” He kissed Fox’s slack, shocked mouth. “Perhaps it’s been waiting for you.”
“Conall.” Fox swallowed, tried to think, but the name was all he could manage. “Conall.”
“A good thought,” Conall went on roughly, pushing forward and pressing down to light Fox up from inside. “Fox of Fox Hall.”
Fox pulled Conall to him with all his strength, rocking up to get Conall hard while Conall was still deep in him.
To keep him.
That was how a mating worked, Fox told himself distractedly, leaning up to seek another kiss. This was how it should be.
The End
More fantasy romance by R. Cooper
How to (Not) Train a Firecat
A Heaven to Reach For
The Devotion of Delflenor
The Suitable ‘Verse:
A Suitable Consort (For the King and His Husband)
A Suitable Bodyguard
A Suitable Captive
About R. Cooper
R. Cooper lives in a pink palace by the—no. R. Cooper longs to live the life of a fictional 1980s romance novelist (but queer), but, alas, her life is actually mostly spent daydreaming and trying to write, which is at least a little Joan Wilder in spirit, including the crying over manuscripts. R. thought about gender for a while and settled on she/her/they in lieu of anything better, but don’t call her a woman because it feels oogie. She likes Moonstruck maybe too much, hates fascists, does her best not to be a jerk, hides from most humans, and lives with her cat in her semi-haunted house somewhere between the Northern California Redwoods and wine country.
www.riscooper.com
Return to Table of Contents
###
R. Cooper, Fox of Fox Hall
