The big day had finally arrived.

The day Oliver would give up his freedom in exchange for an arranged marriage, a sacrifice demanded not by sword or blood, but by the seal of a political agreement. The morning breeze carried the shy aroma of spring, yet its freshness couldn't ease the tightness in his chest. Did he really need to give up everything out of duty?

Through the window, the cloudless sky displayed a vast blue. The soft fragrance of jasmine and the dew still clinging to the petals in the castle gardens mingled in the air.

Oliver longed to absorb that tranquility, but hope seemed as distant as the delicate shadows the trees cast on the stone ground. The sparse, withered leaves swayed melancholically, as if lamenting the love denied to him.

Outside, the castle buzzed with preparations. Horse hooves echoed in the cold courtyard, hurried voices of servants and guards blended together. The soft notes of a string quartet floated in the cold air, announcing the imminent ceremony. These sounds, though distant, seemed to penetrate the stone walls, filling the environment with an almost palpable anticipation.

But inside, in Oliver's room, reality seemed distant.

His reflection in the mirror revealed a young, exhausted prince, with dark circles deep as burning embers on a pale face. The insomnia, worry, and emotional exhaustion of the previous night haunted him. Disheveled hair and an unshaven beard completed the spectacle of his anguish.

It was evident that the facade of composure was about to crumble.

Sighing, Oliver immediately felt Ian's absence, even though he had spent the night by his side. He cast a longing glance at the empty chair, almost able to visualize Ian's figure there, enveloping him in an embrace capable of restoring his faith. However, his reverie was interrupted by soft knocks on the door.

Alice entered the room silently, her eyes closed in a playful grimace.

"Decent?" She asked with a tender smile when she opened her eyes, revealing a piercing light blue, capable of reflecting not only her resilient spirit but also the depths of the morning sky.

She moved with a grace that contradicted the tension of the moment, her slender figure wrapped in fabrics that captured the daylight, making her copper-colored hair seem to shine.

Oliver went to her and enveloped her in a tight hug, lifting her off the ground. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"And miss my favorite brother's wedding?" Her broad smile was followed by a kiss on Oliver's cheek. The joy, however, soon gave way to concern on her face. "How are you feeling?"

"Probably as bad as I look," Oliver shrugged, honest. "And you? You look beautiful."

"Better," she sighed, heading to the bed where she sat on the edge. "A break from this madness works wonders."

Her gaze lowered for a moment before returning to Oliver, somber.

"I met Ian on my way here. I asked who he was."

Oliver's heart raced. "He was here?"

"Standing outside your door a few minutes ago," she pointed with a compassionate smile. "He's quite handsome."

"I know," Oliver murmured, stunned. "I can't believe he didn't tell me he was here."

Alice patted the mattress softly beside her.

"Come here, Oliver." He obeyed, sitting in the spot she indicated. The natural light gently filtered through the window, illuminating his face and reflecting the seriousness in his eyes, so similar to their father's. She extended her hands towards Oliver's, enveloping them with a softness that contrasted with the tension of the moment. Her fingers were a beacon of hope in his sea of despair. "I may seem hypocritical bringing this up now, after so long apart, but you need to understand that I would give anything to take this throne in your place, to spare you this pain," she said, her voice tinged with sincerity.

A sad smile formed on Oliver's lips as tears blurred his vision.

"I missed you so much," he confessed, the last word almost lost in a whisper.

"Me too," she responded softly, her fingers threading through Oliver's hair in a caress that made him close his eyes for a moment, transporting him to a simpler time under their mother's watchful gaze. "I wanted to be here... for you, Ollie."

"You needed to take care of yourself, Alice," Oliver countered, resting his head on her shoulder for a moment. "I'm just happy you're feeling better. That's what matters to me."

They hugged, each consoling the other in some way.

When Alice asked, "Do you love him?" Oliver was already immersed in the pain of his reality.

"With all my heart," he confessed, feeling her palms wiping the tears from his face, a gesture that brought brief comfort.

"Not all is lost, Oliver. You will find a way." Her words, though full of affection, seemed to conflict with reality.

"In a few hours, I'll be standing before an altar, representing a nonexistent happiness, while I see him lost among the guests. And despite the pretense, my secret wish will be that he is beside me, not just in thought, but in presence, sharing that moment with me," Oliver confessed, exhaling a sigh laden with a weight that seemed to anchor his soul.

"There's always a way," Alice said, fixing Oliver with a gaze that mixed determination with an almost innocent faith.

"We tried to see things that way, Alice, but it's an illusion," Oliver explained, a resolute tone amidst the sadness in his voice. "Soon, the pressure for heirs and endless commitments will make any chance of us being together impossible."

Alice, perceiving the pain within Oliver, hugged him tighter, her hands — so delicate, yet both trying to be the refuge for his torment — offering affection that struggled to penetrate the layers of his despair.

It was a gesture so loving, filled with a compassion that Oliver knew couldn't reverse the course of his thoughts.

"I wish there was something I could do," she murmured, her voice vibrating with a mixture of sadness and quiet determination, each word trying to weave a bit of hope into the fabric of his desolation. "But let's think differently, Oliver, most people don't get the chance to live a love like yours."

Oliver nestled his head closer to her shoulder, allowing, for a moment, her strength to sustain him. However, with each passing second, he was reminded of the inevitable, the performance that awaited him, and how, in the end, he would be alone in one of the worst moments of his life.

"Most people wouldn't bear to lose it," Oliver retorted, his voice sounding distant as he allowed himself to wonder. "Is our mother here?"

Alice sighed deeply, shaking her head negatively.

"I haven't seen her yet."

"I think I don't even remember what she looks like anymore," Oliver commented, feeling a tightening in his chest. "How sick is this life we lead?"

"I think we're the only ones who see through this veil of pomp and tradition, Oliver," she let out a bitter laugh, and with one last kiss on his temple, concluded: "We're doomed."

"Yes," Oliver sighed. "You can bet on it."

◃───────────▹

From the window of Oliver's room, he watched as the castle's majestic gates unfolded, allowing a procession of nobles and prestigious figures to enter his domain.

The gardens were adorned with the vibrant colors of sumptuous fabrics and the dramatic shadows of grand garments, but even amidst that dazzling scene, a sense of unease insinuated itself within him, revealing the truth behind the event: not a celebration of love, but the sealing of an agreement.

While the guests observed etiquette and witnessed the meticulously orchestrated ceremony, Oliver's thoughts wandered to Ian.

The weight of the path unfolding before Oliver pressed down on him with increasing force, as the tails of his coat became a heavy symbol of the commitment he was about to undertake. In the grandeur of St. George's Chapel, the air seemed to vibrate with palpable tension, amplifying the deafening beat of his heart against his chest, a solemn echo contrasting with the reverent silence surrounding him.

With a deep sigh, Oliver mustered the courage from within before pushing resolutely against the immense wooden doors, crossing the threshold between his now and the uncertain tomorrow awaiting him. His gaze slid indifferently over the strategically arranged opulence; the meticulous floral arrangements and candles breaking the darkness were nothing more than props on a stage that symbolized not a celebration, but marked with silent sadness the prelude to a personal tragedy.

His spirit wandered, yearning for an escape from these constructs of expectations and obligations, dreaming of a reality beyond the oppressive walls that suffocated him. The vows he was about to recite weighed on him more than chains, threatening to crush under their weight any hope he had of knowing true love and complete freedom.

At that exact moment, when it seemed his soul was fracturing, a movement at the side door caught his attention. Ian, in his almost theatrical entrance, presented himself with unyielding vigor, a clear strength radiating from his impeccably dressed figure. His hair, pulled back, shone under the soft candlelight, but it was the meeting of their gazes that paralyzed Oliver.

Ian's eyes, often a sea of liveliness and intensity, were clouded, marked by signs of a sleepless night. In them, one could see not only melancholy but also fierce determination, tinged with subtle anger.

It was a look oscillating between agony and defiance, a mirror of tumultuous feelings reflecting the complexities of a love imprisoned by the expectations of a world that did not accept it.

The deep connection established by their gaze was abruptly interrupted by the solemn sound of a wedding march echoing through the chapel, announcing the bride's arrival. All attention turned, almost mechanically, to the main entrance of the chapel, where Sofia revealed herself, entering the place with the grace and dignity the occasion demanded.

Dressed in an imposing wedding gown, Sofia walked slowly down the central aisle, each step an act of balance between tradition and the expectation of a new beginning. The delicacy of her figure, enhanced by a dress that captured the light sublimely, made her almost ethereal, further amplifying the solemnity of the moment. Her face, adorned with a delicate veil, exhibited an expression of serenity and acceptance, but perhaps masked emotional complexities unfolding behind that calm facade. The typical aura of happiness associated with brides on their wedding day seemed to be replaced by a sense of duty and resignation.

Ian and Oliver, caught in the wave of formality and ritual, discreetly resumed their positions and prescribed roles in that carefully choreographed celebration. The expressions of complex and intimate emotion exchanged earlier gave way to masks of composure as they prepared to play their parts in this drama.

The ceremony unfolded like a well-rehearsed play, with spoken words, exchanged vows, and music filling the air with an almost celestial resonance. Amidst it all, a subtle interaction of glances, small gestures, and the memory of the shared gaze with Ian remained as silent witnesses to the hidden love beneath the surface of a royal marriage aligned with the desires and strategies of kingdoms and families, rather than the hearts of those directly involved.

As the ceremony approached its climax, the reality of what this union represented — a bond of power and politics — settled on the shoulders of all present, a tangible reminder that, in circumstances like these, the heart often yielded to reason. Under the weight of traditions and expectations, the ceremony proceeded, encapsulating the contradictions and sacrifices often inherent in noble marriages.

After the ceremony, as the guests dispersed through the gardens, Oliver found a moment of solitude. The fresh breeze carried a whisper of freedom, and there he was again: distant, watching from afar, his gaze met Oliver's. For a moment, the world around them disappeared, and they communicated in a silence filled with inexpressible emotions. Amidst the applause, rigidly drawn smiles, and toasts to the prosperity of the kingdoms, a part of Oliver was lost, drowned by the reality of an impossible love that could never be openly lived.

The party continued, but Oliver's mind and heart remained in that moment of silent farewell. Sofia, now his wife, beside him, noticed his distraction and, with a gesture of understanding, lightly touched his hand. Perhaps, in another life, everyone could have chosen their paths. But at that moment, under the weight of crowns and kingdoms, they were bound by a fate none of them desired.

As the music echoed through the castle halls and the last vestiges of sunlight disappeared, a new chapter of their lives began, an uncertain path paved with the best intentions, but haunted by the ghost of true love that, though never lived, would burn eternally in Oliver's heart. 

A sweet poison, a perfect agony.

◃───────────▹

The corridor stretched before Oliver like a narrow tunnel, impregnated with the silence permeating the castle's private wing, a harbinger of doom echoing in his ears.

Facing the half-open door of the old room, bathed in the trembling moonlight, Oliver whispered honest words: "I imagined you'd be here."

His breath fogged the air as his hand pressed against the cold wood, pushing it into the shadows.

There was Ian, a portrait of melancholy, the dim light of the lamp casting shadows on his face. The glass of whiskey in his hand was more than an object; it was an extension of his despair, held with a delicacy that contrasted with the storm in his eyes.

The toast he raised upon seeing Oliver was a poisoned dagger wrapped in a bitter smile.

"Congratulations, Your Royal Highness," his words sounded provocative, engraving themselves in Oliver's consciousness like hot iron.

The way he averted his gaze was a rejection more painful than any accusation.

Oliver approached him, feeling his own existence dilute, as if passing through a curtain of mist between them. The rigidity of Ian's shoulders, fingers scratching the edge of the glass, tense jaw — everything about him screamed a silent plea for understanding.

The question escaped Oliver's tongue before he could reason, almost like an insult to Ian's evident pain.

"Are you okay?" In response, he received a look tinged with skepticism. With a bored expression, acknowledging the rhetoric of the question. "Nevermind, it was a stupid question."

A sigh that Oliver assumed was a sarcastic laugh escaped Ian, its ambiguous nature.

"I'm furious, to be honest," he confessed, a glint of anger shining in his eyes.

"I know, I—" Oliver began, promptly interrupted by Ian.

"With you," he retorted, making Oliver meet his stormy gaze, a dark sea threatening to engulf.

"With me?" Shock crystallized in the words as he advanced, each step a sound in the void that stretched between them.

Ian arched his neck back, holding Oliver's petrified gaze, the lines of his posture a challenge.

"I was just fine before you," he spat the words like flames from a wounded dragon, a confession of pain and discontent boiling beneath the surface. "I had a decent job, a stable life, for God's sake, my dignity."

"Ian, please," Oliver pleaded, pressing his eyelids closed with his fingertips. "Don't make things worse."

And there they were, lost in each other's reflections. Ian's eyes, once warm, were darkened. 

And when he exclaimed: "I hate you," a declaration devoid of truth, Oliver took a deep breath, facing his fury. Ian held the confrontation before raising his voice in a way that crushed any remaining softness. "I hate you for crashing into my life like a fucking wrecking ball and making me love you like this," Ian hissed, the bitterness in his voice unfolding like a wave full of late regret.

The accusation echoed in the room, and every beat of Ian's heart hammered the name of an indescribable torture, as inevitable as it was tragic. It was as if he had been split in two, his internal battle as devastating as the storm reflected in his eyes. 

The anger was just a mask for despair — a mask now slipping.

"The lies we're telling," Oliver murmured, well acquainted with the range of emotions inflaming Ian's veins. "I'm sorry you feel you need to say that to hurt me somehow. But I'm exhausted, Ian. So, you can take it out on me if you want. You have that right."

Ian roared like a wounded animal, his gaze full of pain and anger.

"Stop being so condescending!" The words exploded from his mouth, a flash of fury that made him hide the face he could no longer control.

Oliver stepped closer, his touch on Ian's back the safe haven amidst the hurricane of his soul.

"I'm not being condescending," he said, the words soft as his hands sought to calm Ian's tortured being, "I just won't fight with you."

Ian turned under Oliver's touch, a reluctant movement that allowed Oliver to watch his profile. His lips moved in a sad murmur, his voice laden with a guilt that Oliver also harbored in his chest:

"You shouldn't be here."

"Neither should you," Oliver retorted, his hands moving slightly, holding Ian's shoulders and gently pushing him to face him.

Ian yielded to Oliver's touch and, as a confession, Oliver traced the line of his collarbones under the fabric of Ian's shirt, uncovering them with a slowness bordering on the sacred.

Ian's eyes followed Oliver's every gesture, an attention he didn't choose to have, but against which he became defenseless. 

He tried to build a fortress of words:

"What will the guests think if they discover the groom abandoned the bride to fall into the arms of the advisor?"

"The party is already over, Ian," Oliver replied, as Ian's shirt buttons yielded one by one, revealing the skin he knew so well, that clamored for him, "and honestly, few things matter less to me."

When Ian held Oliver's wrists, there was a firmness that spoke of a last attempt at sanity.

"You are a married man now," the words hovered between them.

"Yes, I am," Oliver acknowledged, but his body joined Ian's in defiance of that distant loyalty. "You know that, under the current circumstances, this seems... just an insignificant event."

"It feels... wrong," Ian's voice whispered, struggling to convince himself as much as Oliver.

"When wasn't it?" The provocation escaped Oliver, and Ian let out a sigh that seemed to empty his soul.

He released his grip on Oliver and sank into the armchair beside the bed, hiding his face in his hands for a moment of frustration.

He reached for the empty glass, muttering as Oliver ignored the distance between them — his own body already knowing the place it desired to occupy — and nestled into Ian's lap. Oliver positioned himself over him, feeling the rigidity of his posture slowly give way.

Ian's face was shaped by Oliver's palms; thumbs orbited his cheekbones, finding the sweat and clandestine tear of a man who said no with his body but yes with his soul.

Oliver leaned towards Ian, but he averted his gaze, refusing his approach.

"No, no," Oliver implored in a whisper, planting a fleeting kiss on his jaw. "Don't run from me."

"Oliver," Ian whispered, his voice laden with deep lament. His hands gripped Oliver's hips with desperate firmness, as if wanting to engrave in himself the tactile memory of what they had. "Don't leave me with the taste of something I won't experience again."

Oliver closed his eyes, allowing the scent of anticipated longing to permeate his senses.

A heady mix of cologne and sweat enveloped him like a comforting cloak, and he had no idea how he would survive the loss of that essence that was so inherently Ian, but at that moment he decided to bury that anguishing thought.

"I know what you're trying to do," Oliver murmured, his voice almost fading into the darkness of the room, though he knew Ian heard every word. "You're trying to push me away so it will hurt less tomorrow, but we both know we would bitterly regret wasting the time we have together with a pointless argument. It's already so brief, my love."

"Don't call me that," Ian protested, but his hands wandered eagerly under Oliver's shirt, rediscovering every inch of skin he adored so much.

"But that's what you are, what you will always be," Oliver insisted, bringing Ian's face close to his. His eyes met Ian's, clouded with sadness and a myriad of unspoken emotions. His lips slightly parted, releasing a heavy sigh. "That won't change, no matter how the world turns."

Oliver and Ian's lips finally met while still gazing at each other, and it took a few moments before they closed their eyes, surrendering to the sensation. Ian seemed to melt as Oliver's tongue explored his mouth. His arms pulled Oliver closer, pressing their bodies together with an urgency bordering on hopelessness.

Oliver's fingers sank into Ian's hair as he kissed him with painful reverence, savoring the bitter taste of whiskey on Ian's tongue.

Ian sighed against Oliver's mouth, exploring his back, wrapping his waist, cradling his neck in his large palm — all at once.

Oliver wanted to calm him, slow down, so that everything wouldn't end too soon. So he broke the kiss gently, resting his forehead against Ian's to look into his eyes.

"Promise me something?" Oliver broke the silence with a trembling voice, dancing around the knot in his throat.

"Anything," Ian replied in the same whispering tone, his words traveling to Oliver's lips with the softness of a breeze.

"Promise you won't forget me?" Oliver's plea came inflamed with vulnerability, insecurity, and fear playing in every fiber of his being.

"Not even if I tried," Ian assured, bringing his lips close for a kiss without contact, a seal of sincerity that transcended letters and words.

Oliver wasn't finished. He held Ian's gaze with an intensity that defied the barriers between them.

"Promise we will be the Florentino and Fermina of our time? That no matter how much time passes, you will still love me?"

"I would swear that no time has influence over what I feel for you," Ian responded, tracing invisible paths along the lines of Oliver's face with his fingertips.

"Then promise you will search every loophole in succession law to undo this marriage." Oliver went further. "That our love will cross time, and we will end up together."

"Ollie, once signed, a contract has no—"

"Please, Ian," Oliver pleaded, knowing his confirmation would be an empty declaration.

Ian hesitated, but understood the futility of being so honest at that moment. Changing his mind, he replied:

"I promise. I promise I won't rest until I save you," and when a genuine smile adorned his lips, Oliver didn't understand, but when his joke came, "my damsel in distress," he rolled his eyes, letting his own smile momentarily overshadow the sadness that enveloped them.

Their lips met again, and Oliver wrapped Ian with his legs, pulling him closer. The kiss was slow, almost painfully intense, as if they were trying to engrave every sensation in their memories.

Ian leaned back in the armchair, inviting Oliver to explore his neck. Their hands wandered, removing layers of fabric until there were no more barriers between them.

A memory of their first moments together surfaced in Oliver's mind, igniting a burning desire to relive that experience.

When Oliver positioned himself over Ian, it was like returning to the beginning of everything — when all they had was a wrecked car on a muddy road and an insatiable desire for each other.

Indeed, every night with Ian was a new discovery of the first time.

Oliver had never experienced such slow and intense sex before, where every fiber of his body seemed to ignite at Ian's touch. He moved with agonizing slowness, each movement precise and intentional.

Ian's eager, hungry hands dug into Oliver's waist, trying to make him speed up, but Oliver resisted. He wanted to prolong that delicious torture for as long as possible, sinking deeper into that seemingly transcendental ecstasy.

Their eyes met and parted, interspersed with deep, gasping kisses. Oliver drank in every sigh, every low moan that escaped Ian's lips, savoring every nuance of his loss of control.

"You're killing me," Ian murmured, his voice an exaggerated lament.

Oliver smiled, satisfied with the effect he had on him, but at the same time determined to make him feel loved, desired, adored. He was in no hurry to memorize the sensations Ian provoked in his body.

"Promise you'll come see me," Oliver whispered against Ian's mouth, feeling him so close he could taste the sweetness of his breath. Ian nodded, eyes closed, lips parted, curls sticking to his sweaty forehead. "So we can keep doing this."

"I would literally promise anything right now," Ian joked, but his words only intensified Oliver's determination.

"Would you, really?" Oliver let out a slightly nasal laugh, and after a breathless curse, Ian surprised him:

"Alright, enough," he roared as he grabbed Oliver's waist firmly, and in one swift move, reversed their positions, pinning him to the carpet.

Oliver's surprised laugh was quickly silenced as Ian began to move with maddening intensity.

"You know what I like most about you?" Ian asked with a particularly firm pressure at that spot that made stars explode under Oliver's eyelids. "That expression on your face. I always feel it's so easy to please you."

"It is easy," Oliver retorted, his voice trembling with the thrusts Ian applied to his body. "Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done in my life, possibly the only," he paused, reclaiming the words that seemed to escape his mind. "I want every part of you glued to me."

Ian grunted softly, burying his face in the curve of Oliver's neck to press his lips there, still against the artery.

"Can I do it my way now?"

"Please," Oliver sighed, exasperated, "give me everything you want."

Oliver knew Ian well and knew he would never ignore a request of his, but when Ian's hands closed around his knees, keeping them wide open around his hips, Oliver knew Ian had no intention of being gentle.

Slowly, Ian lifted his body until he was kneeling, and Oliver watched in fascination as Ian's muscles moved with an almost hypnotic fluidity under the sweat-slicked skin. Ian's abdomen rippled like the surface of a disturbed lake, each movement hitting Oliver with a wild, uncontrollable force. Instinctively, Oliver extended his fingers, tracing the sculpted lines of Ian's abdomen, feeling the feverish moisture of his perspiration.

Oliver was lost in the golden vision that intensified the prominence of Ian's chest, the prominent veins in his strong arms that held him firmly by the hips, the oblique muscles that defined and softened with each movement.

He whispered, "God, I don't want to lose you."

"You won't," Ian replied.

As Oliver's gaze traveled up Ian's body, he felt the breath leave his lungs, the mere sight of that stunning beauty almost knocking him off his axis and sending him straight to the peak.

Beads of sweat rolled down the sides of Ian's face, tracing the angular jawline and pooling in the hollow of his collarbones. His moist, parted lips exhaled heavy breaths, wet curls moving in rhythm with the hips crashing into Oliver's in a desperate cadence.

It was a delicious torture, too much to bear.

Oliver's orgasm erupted predictably first, too quick, too intense. But Ian didn't stop. He leaned over Oliver and sealed his lips to keep him quiet, continuing to challenge his body's resistance, exploring his hypersensitivity — a pleasure almost painful, dissipating to the tips of his toes, making him struggle to pull away while simultaneously begging for more.

Ian finished shortly after. Hot, wet, messy — so incredibly perfect.

◃───────────▹

"Let me take you to the airport tomorrow?" The bitter taste of the question lingered in Oliver's mouth, like a dark shadow on his tongue.

Still lying on the floor, Oliver's chin found refuge on Ian's chest, and he felt Ian's fingers tracing a delicate, deliberate path along his arm. It was as if Ian wanted to etch his presence into Oliver's skin before time tore them apart once more.

Ian kept his gaze distant, avoiding Oliver's eyes, as he replied in a reluctant murmur, "The Queen suggested using a private jet for the trip."

"She's trying to hide you too," Oliver declared, a slight tone of revelation in his voice.

Finally, Ian turned his face, and his eyes met Oliver's with a thoughtful expression.

"If you want, you can accompany me to the runway," he proposed, the offer as fragile as a leaf in the wind. "Though it will certainly displease the Queen."

"The Queen has already taken so much from me, Ian," Oliver retorted. Each word dripped with deep, corrosive resentment. "She won't stop me from seeing you."

With a firm, protective gesture, Ian enveloped Oliver in a tight embrace, as if wanting to fuse him to his chest. Then, he placed a gentle, affectionate kiss on his hair before sighing deeply.

"Spain isn't that far," he pondered, his voice grave and reflective. "And there, I'll have a room and an office just for myself. You can visit me whenever you want."

"Really?" Oliver's pupils dilated with the possibility, a youthful, hopeful gleam lighting up his eyes, like flames dancing in a Christmas morning fireplace.

"Without a doubt," Ian replied with a suggestive smile, holding Oliver even tighter as his body melded with his. "We'll just need to maintain impeccable discretion," he continued, his lips exploring Oliver's neck with growing intimacy. The sensation of Ian's warm skin against his sent a shiver through Oliver's body. "Avoid any noise," Ian whispered, his voice laden with provocation. "The only problem is you'll need to learn to be much less irresistible for that to work."

A laugh escaped Oliver, vibrating against Ian's shoulder as his hands traced his contours.

"Just tell me when," Oliver confirmed, initiating a new game with a knee rising to Ian's chest as he adjusted between his thighs again, "and I'll be there."