LVL excerpt (short smut)

This one I'll be completing and polishing behind the scenes. Don't worry, I'm still working on Piety too! I seem to have become enthralled with reading history books. Psh.
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Lorenzo winced and sucked a short, sharp breath in through his teeth.

“The path to salvation is not without sacrifice, Lorenzo.” Laurent’s voice was a low rumble against Lorenzo’s ear.

“Sì, monsieur.”

The cold of the nearby inkwell against Lorenzo’s exposed flank had startled him, and he wormed his free hand down to nudge it aside. His breath left him as nails dug angry red furrows through the sparse scattering of hair on his chest.

“We must be repentant in all things.”

Laurent’s palm dug against Lorenzo’s sternum. Lorenzo shifted against the desk, winced as he felt the side of his arm brush against something. There was a heavy thud a moment later. Laurent’s green eyes remained trained on Lorenzo, fixed on the painter’s animate expressions.

“Are you repentant, Lorenzo?”

Lorenzo raised his left hand to tuck a coil of blonde hair behind Laurent’s ear. Lorenzo did not mind the way that Laurent loomed and hovered, nor the emotion that was wrought through the whisper. Was he repentant? He suspected not.

“Yes. Yes. It is why I have come to confession every week, monsieur. It is why I come to mass on Sundays, and vespers on Wednesdays.”

“Very well, but why are you here on this day? It is Monday, and morning still.”

He was there for the same reason he was always there. He’d come to see Laurent. He’d come to watch the man’s long fingers and broad palms gesture with passion, watch his stern features shift with faith in his words. Lorenzo had come to tempt, though he would never admit it.

Perhaps he had some penitence after all. His gaze averted from Laurent’s intent regard. Lorenzo looked up to the crucifix hanging high on the wall behind the man’s desk. There were no answers in the carved and painted face that stared piteously down. Nothing there but blood and agony.

“I came this morning to pray.”

Lorenzo tensed his right arm, shifting it beneath the pin of hand at his elbow. Laurent held fast, the tips of his nails biting at skin for the strain of his grip. Bruising and uncaring of that fact. He was too taken with admiring the body laid bare atop the rich dark wood.

“Monsieur?”

The stillness troubled Lorenzo. He was not accustomed to such lengthy pauses. He was likewise unaccustomed to being stared at. Lorenzo stared back. His dark eyes were surrounded by a wealth of boyish lash, nearly impinged upon by the fringe of equally dark curls that lay messy upon his brow.

Laurent smiled. The smile was a small one, and the narrowing of his eyes emphasized the creases that had begun to form at their corners. He brushed the backs of his fingers along Lorenzo’s cheek. Lorenzo’s gaze was diverted to skin as Laurent’s loosened cassock parted all the wider at his collar.

“And have you said all of your prayers for the morning?”

Lorenzo sighed out softly with relief. Laurent’s mouth was a warm smear along Lorenzo’s collarbone, leaving a semi-damp trail to cool in the air. Audible breath filled Lorenzo’s ears, and he relaxed into the sprawl on the desk.

“Yes, monsieur.”

Laurent released his grip on Lorenzo’s pinned arm, allowing him to move it for the first time in many minutes. The dithering of heavy fabric whispered beneath the steady hush of breathing. Lorenzo watched Laurent’s elegant fingers slide down along the front paneling of his cassock to find the closures beneath his cincture. One layer of fabric led to another, all lost in a sea of black. Lorenzo rolled onto his side, elbow to desk, cheek to palm, and gave an amused flicker of a smile. His toes curled and uncurled as one foot rubbed against the other in order to strip away the last bit of fabric still clinging to his skin: the sock on his right foot.

“Sometimes I think you like to watch me struggle,” Laurent murmured.

There was a flash of pale skin amongst the sway of coal-dyed wool. Lorenzo pushed himself up to sit, his legs dangling from the edge of the desk. He brought both hands up to pet at Laurent’s shoulders.

“No, Monsieur Lorraine. I simply like to watch you.”

Laurent’s thin lips thinned further. They rolled inward even as they stretched into either cheek. His mouth seemed torn on which way it should shift, though ultimately yielded into an expression that bordered on a smirk.

“You must come to confessional again soon, Lorenzo. You’ve much hubris.”

“Yes, monsieur.” Lorenzo did not look particularly apologetic.

“You would do well to temper it.”

“Yes, monsieur.” Lorenzo gave a small smirk of his own.

“Perhaps,” Laurent spoke as he slid his hands down to grapple at Lorenzo’s hips, “it would do you some good to have a reminder of that now.”

Laurent’s fingers tightened against the soft skin and lean muscle just beneath the crests of Lorenzo’s hipbones. He grunted quietly as he grappled the boy about, flipping him to press him hard against the top of the nearly-barren desk. Lorenzo gasped softly in surprise.

“Yes, monsieur.” His tone was more acquiescent.

The edge of the desk was beveled and smooth. It still pressed rudely into the tops of Lorenzo’s thighs as he was jarred forward against it. Laurent’s fingers dug against Lorenzo’s ribs, the pointed tips gripping into the tender furrows of muscle between each arching bone. He tipped his cheek toward the wood where it was still warm from his body heat, and fixed his dark gaze on the glassy red glaze of the inkwell. His reflection stared back in colored, distorted waves.

The hands that had ushered Lorenzo to the desk gave up their pressure to his sides. One settled in warm weight to his sacrum, long fingers spidering out along the soft skin at the small of his back. Heavy black fabric played along his thighs, tickled at the backs of his calves.

Lorenzo tensed, sucking in a breath at the curl of finger against the pucker of his ass. It rocked and teased, pushed in shallow probe and withdrew. Lorenzo whimpered against the backs of his teeth, against the insides of the lips caught between them. His toes shifted along the carved wood of the armrest he’d found just behind Laurent.

There was a rumble of breath just behind Lorenzo’s ear. He turned his stare away from the inkwell, the only surviving item that had originally been on the top of the desk, and attempted to focus on the too-close features of Laurent’s face. He could just make out the green of an eye, the sharp angle of nose. A tendril of blonde hair.

More burning. More pressure. His hips squirmed forward, then eased again. Lorenzo took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he willed himself to relax. He wanted to ask for oil, for anything to make it easier. Even the ink from the well might be preferable to the dry probing of Laurent’s finger. He knew better, though. Laurent liked the whimpers that pressed out through the roof of his mouth. Laurent liked the dry tug of skin, that burn and drive, the gradual easing as thin ribbons of blood mixed with slippery globules of pre.

The touch withdrew, returned a moment later. Somewhat cool, somewhat slick. A small mercy perhaps, as the finger delved in to one knuckle, two, curled and twisted about. Lorenzo panted heavily as his pulse raced in his ears, jerked against the desk in a nudge of his trapped cock to the polished wood. His lips parted in a soft gust of a moan.

“Yes,” Laurent murmured approvingly. “Sing to me, Lorenzo.”

Eyelashes fluttered, and Lorenzo’s stomach lurched beneath the sudden gallop of his heart. His tongue passed over his lips, and he clouded the high polish of the table with another heavy sequence of erratic breaths. Breaths that hitched as fingers withdrew, though the slouch and slack was quickly made up for. A cry flew from Lorenzo’s lips, rolling through the vast interior of the opulent office. He grabbed at the far edge of the desk, securing himself with one hand as he attempted to part his legs further. To tilt his hips into the initial inward press.

“Monsieur,” Lorenzo gasped as the head of Laurent’s cock pushed past the token of resistance.

If he’d meant to say anything else, it was lost. Instead Lorenzo moaned anew. His fingers tensed against the bevel, his ass tipped to the swift forward drive of Laurent’s cock. His eyes flicked open, catching on his distorted reflection in the inkwell. Shut again as Laurent pulled back. Open to stare blindly at the soft morning light spilling in through the high window. Closed as Laurent drove forward again.

Lorenzo’s spine jerked for a moment beyond his control, the tension bleeding from his muscles. He cried out past the low rumbles and occasional grunts of Laurent from behind him. Lorenzo twitched and shivered between the cool polished wood and the frequent brushing of Laurent’s heavy cassock.

Soft hums, low grunts, the heavy whuffling of fabric from behind him. Lorenzo’s eyes opened, closed. A snatch of fresco here, a drape of embroidered silk there. His nostrils were filled with the smell of musky incense. His cheek rolled against the desk. Fingers in his hair, tugging at his scalp. A mouth at his shoulder. Palm at his side. Through all of the broken fragments of sensation came the heavy, steady pounding jostling his backside and driving him painfully against the desk.

“Monsieur,” Lorenzo moaned the word outward. Praise, encouragement. He was rewarded with a sharply angled buck that caused him to laugh.

There was a rumbling near his ear. Low and gravelly. He couldn’t make out much. Something about sweetness and apples. Lorenzo didn’t need the words, though. He could make out the tone. Lusty and warm. Encouragement in kind.

Laurent’s strokes came faster, though there was less jarring against the desk at the peak of each. Still, there was no time to recover from one before the next was there, driving hot and hard deep inside. Striking little sparks of heat that flowered outward through the tension coiling deep in his gut.

Teeth at Lorenzo’s shoulder caused him to cry out anew. They bit down harder than was pleasant, crushing capillaries and grinding their imprint into pale skin. Weight on his back pushed the air from his lungs and limited how much he could gasp inward. Lorenzo bucked against the desk, tightening about the firm flesh that speared within. His face rocked against the wood, and though he could not breathe deeply, the sharp jolts of Laurent’s erratic pace provoked little grunts and groans from Lorenzo’s lips.

“Little angel,” Laurent praised near his ear, voice strained with the effort of his thumping hips. “Little demon,” he growled and bit again, this time at the delicate curve of Lorenzo’s earlobe.

Lorenzo grunted and thrashed, his ribs straining against the desk and his toes curling mid-air. His belly was slick with sweat and smudges of precum. He wanted so much to reach beneath himself and grab, stroke, find those last coaxing paces that would satisfy the maddening need to move. Instead he was made to grip and paw at the desk in frustration, warmth and heat along his back.

The weight of the body atop his own was starting to make his face tingle. Lorenzo gasped repeatedly, fish-like, with flares of nostrils and rounded partings of lips. Prickles in his fingers, his toes. He felt light, so light. Warm and driving, grinding. The pressure and heat from behind built, swelled, intensified. Strained at the surface, speared inward as Laurent’s growling filled Lorenzo’s ears.

The strange tingling was replaced with a fuzzy warmth. Tickled with pleasure, focused about the tight pull of his balls and the slide of his cock against the desk. Rock and shift. There were hips flush with his, grinding forward and circling, not withdrawing. Stuffing deep with each swell and surge, lingering after the immediate burst had faded. Lorenzo rocked his face against the wood as the frenzied need turned to melting.

Lorenzo struggled to catch another breath as Laurent bore him against the desk. Melting and heat, relaxed and flowering. Lorenzo came hard, distantly aware of the frantic pounding of his heartbeat through his ears, the drum of it against his sternum. There was gold along the insides of his eyelids, and his clutching fingers contented themselves to simply spasming. His head tossed, dark hair stickling here and there to the thin sheen of sweat that had broken on pale skin. Electric and warm, his hips angled and squirmed as he rubbed and ground, stilling within the pooling of trapped cum only as the pleasant heat threatened to turn burning.

Lorenzo cringed mildly against the desk. Laurent straightened all at once. The air came rushing back so quickly that Lorenzo’s ribs ached. Dark eyes rolled and blinked against the involuntary shedding of tears. The red of his face subsided, and Lorenzo went back to clutching at the desk. He had to, or he would have fallen with Laurent’s backward step.

“Mmmmmmn.” Lorenzo had meant to say something, he was sure of it.

Laurent replied by stepping forward again. This time there was no skin to brush to skin, only the soft texture of heavily woven fabric. Laurent’s teeth found Lorenzo’s shoulder, driving in a deep press against the band of muscle near the top. Another bruise stamped into place. Lorenzo yipped, then sighed for the soft pass of the man’s tongue as it came a moment later.

Long fingers stroked down along Lorenzo’s spine in a fluttery brush. A gentle petting that was followed by another, and another. Lorenzo gathered his wits about him, then tucked his face into the fold of his elbow. He laughed soft and light, trembled again in another lingering quake of delight.

“You should dress,” Laurent murmured as his hand slid along the edge of Lorenzo’s shoulder blade. “Set my desk to rights, hm? Ask forgiveness as you do. I expect to see you in confession soon.” Laurent’s fingers curled through Lorenzo’s hair, settling tight near his scalp, and gave a brief shake before tugging free again.

“Sì, monsieur.”

Lorenzo slid slowly from the desk, watching the smudgy imprint of his body heat slowly fade away to dull streaks on the polished wood. He turned his head at the sound of the door closing to the far end of the vaulted chamber. A soft chuckle tumbled from his lips, and he shook his head as he crouched to retrieve the papers that had scattered every which way.

“Perhaps sooner than you think,” he murmured to the perfumed air as he studied a particularly interesting page.