The bedroom door was barely closed before Scott was shoved back against it, his head thumping hard enough into the wood that stars burst momentarily behind his eyes. He made a sound, low in the back of his throat, but it was lost against the hot, demanding mouth that took his without warning, without mercy. The author found a handful of suit jacket and pulled, the satisfactory pop of buttons being ripped free loud in his ears - as was the growl of acknowledgement, a thread of sound shoved between his lips. He shuffled his feet, looking for leverage, but there was a knee nudging its way between his own, knocking his thighs apart with undeniable insistence. Scott fought it â just for a moment â and was reward by a sharp tug at his hair that dragged his head back to expose his throat, the vulnerable curve of which was attacked by that same, relentlessly demanding mouth. Kisses turned to bites, sharp, bittersweet pinpoints of fire that bloomed under his skin and drew short, hitched protests from his lips. His whole body thrummed with barely checked anticipation and he arched up into the impatient hands that tugged at the collar of his button-down.
âYou are wearing entirely too much clothing, Fitzgerald.â
Scottâs answer was a barely coherent command to be rid of them â and even before the words could leave his lips in their entirety, fabric melted away from his skin, leaving him bare and exposed for the cool, roving touch that seems suddenly so intent on exploring every inch of him.
âHave you craved for me in my absence, wordsmith? I think so.â The words were a low, warm murmur against the curve of his ear, a knowing purr that sent a shiver of something forbidden down Scottâs spine. âYouâve missed me a great deal, havenât you?â
Scott didnât bother to deny it â not when long fingers found the proof of Lokiâs claim between their bodies, jutting up from between his thighs, aching and hard and shamelessly flushed. His only answer was lift his hips, offering himself to the godâs touch in unspoken need. He didnât have to say a word, he knew he didnât â because Loki knew. Loki always knew.
But it didnât stop the deity from playing with him, he knew that too â and he hissed a curse when those cool fingers wrapped around his length and squeezed, stroking him slowly, tortuously.
âHow much have you missed me, my scribe? Tell me, Scott â how much would you give for me to ease this ache for you now?â The words were a black magic invitation, a bid to sell his soul.
Scott drew a breath to say, crafting his answer from odds and ends of pretty words, spinning them together into a teasing, coherent replyâÂ
Until the flat of Lokiâs thumb flicked across the sensitive tip of his arousal and Scottâs hips jerked sharply away from the door with a curse, the word mangled over an invocation of the godâs name.
Lokiâs low chuckle was wicked and unforgiving.
âAbsolute perfection.â