Uly’s Comet (The Swithin Chronicles 1)
Excerpts, Writing|*
Unleash the Comet… Feel the power…
Markis Shaver, the Swithin Prince, controls the power of the Comet, which may be the only thing that will act as a deterrent in a war between two vast monarchies – a war that could devastate the natural world and must therefore be avoided at any cost, even if that means killing the many to save the few. As if things weren’t bad enough, he may also have to rescue a princess and face a marriage of convenience and it doesn’t help that Markis is still in training and struggles to control the power when he calls it forth. At times, he also struggles to control his temper, which is quick to react where his feelings are concerned. The lessons, alas, do not seem to be working and he is running out of time.
His personal guard and best friend, Ryanac, disagrees with the old teachings and has always insisted that Markis should embrace love, both emotionally and physically, to control the Comet … but then again, he could be wrong.
When Markis leaves the palace one night to indulge in the luxury of a little solitude, he captures a young man and would-be thief. Out of boredom he decides to play a little game with the thief but little does he know that in time Uly will teach him a whole new lesson in desire … and love. But if he gives into love physically before he has full control, what will it mean for the world?
If Uly, a street thief, can teach a prince to let go of control, maybe love really can conquer all. Markis is afraid of the ride but maybe he should just unleash the comet and feel the power…
***
Yourn cometary do portend the end
Of war and a sweet prince’s death
For nations to lament, resolves
In answer to destruction’s call; love’s
Submission foreshadows personal descent.
– Swithin Prophecy
Cometary: of or pertaining to a comet or comets; like a comet.
Prologue
In the abyss …
The abyss gleamed golden. Black, certainly, but golden. Sometimes the gold was so pale it looked white, but that was the ice. At times, he was made of ice, a sculpture. The liquid burned like alcohol going down his throat, though it did not burn down to his stomach. It expanded to sting and then chilled his skin, freezing in the depth and darkness of space. Sometimes the experience felt hot, like the heat of desire. Most times the cold won out. Opening his mouth, it entered, catching like a sweet taste, making him shiver as it slipped down his throat.
His breathing had quickened. A hand pressed against his chest, and it did not belong to him. He opened his mouth, not knowing what he wanted to say until the plea lay on his lips. Kiss me, lick me … He wanted the hand on his chest to brush over his nipples. He bit back the supplication.
The ice replied to his silent plea, though, and he lost his breath as they hardened. Moisture formed at the tip of his cock, but the ice pressed against him, along the length of his spine, and chased the small heat away. His mouth opened, his tongue yearning but useless; nothing filled his mouth but relentless cold. This coldness could be good, light, stroking him; it could also be vicious. His tongue ran over his lips with need. Strange, a woman usually yearned to fill her mouth. Men licked. This time a clit or a cock was equally enticing. He just wanted.
The ice mocked, sent shivers down his spine, bowing it, threatening to take him to the brink of orgasm. He bit back the moan, uncertain if it would be a cry of pain or pleasure. He did not want to beg.
Fingers of ice wrapped into his hair and tugged hard, making the cold recede and bringing another kind of pain; it cleared his mind a little. The heat on his thighs told him he had urinated even though he had tried to resist it, had hardly felt it. He had not come down, though. The desire worsened, long, slow throbs escalating into ache as he hardened. He wanted, needed to squeeze and ease the ache, but he couldn’t. He tugged to free his wrists, but they remained imprisoned. He chose to drift away from his bonds, even though the pulsating, twitching, begging, attention-seeking part of his anatomy followed him.
Here he could stroke himself with the ice. At times when he could control the level of cold or heat, it could be pleasurable. He could even let it enter him in other intimate places. The desire spread, and he parted his legs, let it have its way with him. He slid in the golden rift, spiralled in the abyss, drawing the sparkling stars along in his wake. Moving like this, it washed over him, faster and faster, his heart increasing in rhythm. The wetness spread, and he threw back his head as his balls tightened. The ache throbbed at the base in a way he understood. His face and body contorted in a soaking, clenching spasm. He screamed his release …
Uly’s Comet (The Swithin Chronicles 1) available at Loose-Id
