by KJ Charles
Right. Deep breath, go back to where things had worked, and start again. “Well, that can be remedied, but it seems to me you play very well,” he said, keeping his voice light and encouraging. “After all, you enjoyed our game yesterday, did you not? You certainly took me in hand most effectively.”
“Yes,” Hart agreed cautiously, shoulders relaxing a little. “That was good.”
“Well then. Play is just—oh, developing an idea that entertains us both. Nothing more complicated. For example, yesterday, we were talking about getting me into a state of desperation. Aroused to the point of begging you for satisfaction, so you could hear exactly how much I want it. I think we both liked that idea?”
“Very much.”
“So, if that would please you, would you care to put it into action?”
Hart nodded, wordless. Robin shoved his chair back so he could sprawl in full view, and ran his hand over the front of his breeches. “I can think of all sorts of ways to get into such a state. I could use my hand while you watch, perhaps tell me what you want to see. Or you could do it, if you prefer. I’d like your hand on me again. Or—”
“That.”
Robin rose, walked over to where Hart sat, and pushed the various plates out of the way. He swung a leg over Hart’s thighs, straddling while still standing, rested his arse on the edge of the table, and unbuttoned himself., Hart’s eyes were on his face at first, then they dropped as if drawn downwards.
“Touch me,” Robin said softly.
Hart’s hand was tentative. Robin leaned back. “Mmm. Yes. You had me so hard yesterday, on your lap.”
“That was down to your imagination.”
“My imagination, your hand, match made in heaven. Your prick too at some point, I hope. Uh, do you like that?” he added, realising he should assume nothing. “Fucking, I mean?”
“I do.”
“Phew.” Robin pushed against his hand, undulating his hips. Hart’s movements were firmer now. “If you want to see willing, keep doing that because I’ll be pleading for satisfaction soon, and then you can decide just how you want to give it to me. How long you want to make me wait for it.”
“Do you like to wait?”
“I enjoy anticipation, but the problem is, I have very little self-control. None, really. That’s why I’ll be begging and pleading and offering to do anything you like if you’ll only fuck me.”
“Last time.” Hart’s voice was a bit raspy. “You said you’d like to be, uh—”
“Put over your desk,” Robin offered helpfully. “Yes, I did.”
“Was that imagination?”
“Think of it more as a subtle hint.”
“That is very subtle,” Hart said. “I’m surprised you haven’t considered a career in diplomacy.”
There was a laugh in his voice, and his thumb was doing good work over the tip of Robin’s prick. Robin could have collapsed with relief. He leaned back instead, letting himself enjoy the sensation and the anticipation. “I would have, but it would be all too easy for an ambassador to wring concessions out of me.”
“Your lack of self-control again?”
“Exactly. Oh God. Are you going to fuck me?”
Hart paused, then said, so deliberately that Robin could barely hear the nerves in it, “Not yet.”
Good boy. “Not fair.” Robin moaned theatrically and thrust into his hand; Hart loosened his grip to the lightest touch, eliciting a real moan. “Oh, not fair. I have thought of you having me for weeks.”
“Then you can surely wait a few minutes more.”
He seemed to be getting the hang of this, and it wasn’t long until Robin was whimpering with frustration that wasn’t entirely play-acting. “Please. Please, Hart. What do I have to say to get put over the table? I need it—Fuck!”
That was quite genuine, because Hart had abruptly let go. Robin made a strangled noise. Hart’s eyes were dark. “This might be better continued in other surroundings, with stronger furniture.”
“Lead the way.”
The desk in the sitting-room was impressively sturdy. Robin perched provocatively on the edge, and felt a wave of something like pride in a pupil as Hart leaned over him and clamped a hand between his legs.
“Sir John!” Robin said, with wide-eyed mock shock.
“I can see you are keen. But—uh. You said, yesterday, I should ask—?”
“Indeed you should, for whatever you want.”
“It strikes me that if you wish to—to have me use this desk properly—that perhaps you might—”
“That perhaps I should see about you first?” Robin suggested, since he seemed to be stuck there. “On my knees, with an aching prick begging for satisfaction, just as we imagined?”
Hart’s expression was glorious, a combination of bafflement, embarrassment, and something like wonder. “Exactly so.”
“Tell me,” Robin said softly. “Please. I would like to hear you say it.”
Hart licked his lips and tightened his grip. “I want you to suck me. Pleasure me. I want you to do it while you are desperate for relief, just as you said.”
Robin slipped downward. Hart was extremely ready for him. Robin mouthed his substantial prick, and made sure he was noisy about it, moaning and grunting his enjoyable frustration against the flesh until Hart gasped, “Up. I want—”
Robin had carefully not worn garments that required too much undignified wriggling to remove. He shoved his breeches and his drawers together down to his knees, and turned.
“Oh.” Hart’s hand slid over his arse, caressing the curve and muscle of it, then down between his legs, cupping his cods. Robin whimpered. “Do you like that?”
“Touch me and find out.”
Hart put his other hand round Robin’s waist. Fingers wrapped round his prick. “Oh God. This feels...oh. So good.”
Robin rubbed against his hand. Hart pulled away after a moment to take hold of Robin’s arse with both hands, and a firmness that sent a quiver of pleasure through him, the more so when Hart gently pulled the buttocks apart and slid his thumbs down the crease. Not an entire novice, then. “You have a delightful backside.”
“Thank you, I’m fond of it myself. I sit on it a great deal, but if you have better uses for it, you could put them into practice at any time you like.”
Hart snorted. “That is another of your hints?”
“Master of subtlety.”
Hart’s hands were roaming, pressed against him. “Oh God.” He sounded like he couldn’t breathe. “You—This is perfect. Now?”
“Definitely now. I have oil,” he added.
“Thank Christ for that.”
Hart was fairly well sized. Robin didn’t cry out as the slick stand breached him—he really did not want to put Hart off again—but it took an effort of will. Not for long though, because Hart was careful, and Robin was practised, and both of them needed this. Hart wrapped an arm round Robin’s waist and Robin breathed into the movements till he was comfortable, whispered encouragement, and braced himself against his partner’s size and strength.
“You do want it,” Hart whispered, sounding almost awestruck. “Tell me you want it.” It was not an order, more a request. Possibly a plea.
“I’ve wanted your prick since I first saw you. I wanted you to pull me into the shrubbery in that garden and have me there against the wall.”
“Oh Christ. So did I.” Hart was moving a little faster. “I touched you. I wanted to do—I don’t know what.”
“When you came to me at Wintour’s, I’d have left with you for the asking. Oh God, fuck me, show me you want me now.”
Hart made a noise in his throat. His hand came round to grip Robin’s prick, so Robin thrust into his hand as Hart thrust into him, and then there was no possibility of coherent speech, just urgent movement and the hard drive of flesh against flesh.
Hart came first, letting go all restraint, hammering Robin with a few almost brutal thrusts that flattened him against the desk, crying out as he did it. Rob
in hung on through that, gritting his teeth, as Hart’s movement slowed.
“Great God. Dear God. Robin.” He shifted back a little, pulled Robin with him, and closed his hand round Robin’s prick again. “Can you spend with me still in you?”
“Might be hard not to.”
Hart’s hand moved. His hips pressed close, his other arm was wrapped round Robin’s waist, holding him tight, and he bent forward to set his lips against Robin’s neck, sending sensation shooting over his skin. “I want to feel you do it.”
“Make me,” Robin whispered, and Hart did, bringing him off with quick strokes and biting gently at Robin’s neck as he cried out and spasmed over the desk.
They stood together then, Robin’s shoulders heaving. Hart had got his breath back but it still sounded ragged.
“That’s probably going to ruin the surface,” Robin observed after a moment.
“What is?”
“Well, I just spent all over your desk. I don’t suppose it’s good for the wood. Or is it? They use beeswax in polish. And tea-leaves to clean carpets, and piss in tanning leather, so perhaps—”
“Ask a housemaid. No, please don’t.” He eased himself out of Robin’s body and winced. “I’ll get a cloth.”
He did more than that, bringing tepid water that had presumably not been left for that purpose, and two cloths so they could both clean themselves up. Robin pulled up his pantaloons but didn’t fasten them. “Was that good?”
“Magnificent,” Hart said. “Did—did I hurt you?”
“Of course not.”
Hart put a hand out as if to touch, then pulled it back. “I want you to say if I do. If I am clumsy, or excessively forceful.”
“I like forceful, it shows a flattering enthusiasm. Excessive is in the arse of the beholder.”
“In the—” Hart put a hand over his face. “You are astonishing.”
“I try.”
Hart nodded slowly, at what Robin wasn’t sure. “Do you need to return home?”
“No, but I will if that’s a hint. If not, we might retire somewhere more comfortable between bouts?”
Hart’s eyes widened. “Between—?”
“Well, since I’m here.” Robin fluttered his eyelashes.
“I assumed your, uh, obligation was met for the night. Is that acceptable? Do you mind?”
Did he mind? Robin examined his face. “Good Lord. You really are worrying about what I want, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am. I told you that.”
“Then let me tell you what that is. I want to tup you spineless over the next month. I want to fulfil every desire you have, and all the ones you didn’t know about. I want to be your fantasy, your incubus, the perfect fuck that you’ll remember on your deathbed. That’s what I want, and I suggest you let me get on with it.”
Hart’s mouth hung open. The look in his eyes was delicious. “Uh. Why?”
Because they were both lonely, and this could be fun, and he might leave someone better off for having met him, which would make a change. “Because it would please us both,” he said in lieu of admitting that.
“It sounds more like you pleasing me.”
“Yes, but I like to please. If it’s good for you, it will be good for me.”
“That doesn’t always hold true,” Hart said carefully. “As a general rule.”
“Not if one’s partner is only concerned with himself, but you don’t strike me as a selfish or a careless man.”
“Oh.” Hart’s cheeks darkened visibly. It was a blush. Robin had made him blush. That was utterly delicious. “Uh. Thank you.”
“And in any case I’d be quite ashamed of myself if I struck this bargain and didn’t put any effort in,” he went on. “If one is to do anything, one should do it properly. And I’ve always thought I’d make an excellent courtesan, so this is my opportunity to find out.”
“I,” Hart said, then passed a hand over his face. “I have no idea what to say.”
“‘Good idea, Robin,’ would do.”
Hart exhaled. “If you care to remain—to sit a while—there is the settle.”
So he wasn’t going to be invited into the bedroom, or at least not yet. That was a perfectly reasonable boundary. He was here as a whore, even if Hart was treating him like a mistress.
He smiled. “The settle it is.”
Chapter Thirteen
Robin Loxleigh was an incubus. Hart was sure of it.
He was absurdly perfect. Beautiful in the way Hart most liked, with his solid build; outrageously wanton; and now he’d stopped mouthing sugary platitudes, he was thoroughly enjoyable company, an excellent listener, with an irrepressible cheerfulness that didn’t falter even when Hart misstepped with some unfortunate bluntness.
He did that as early as the second day, after Robin, chest heaving at the end of a lengthy bout, had complimented him on his stamina with that laughing light in his eyes. Hart had wanted to reply in the same vein, to talk of lovemaking with the uninhibited enjoyment and pleasure Robin displayed, but what had come out of his mouth was, “Got to get my money’s worth.”
He could have kicked himself even as the words sounded, but it was too late, it always was. He started to apologise, and Robin had shushed him at once, with the unanswerable words, “I don’t know what you’re apologising about. I have the highest-priced arse in England. I’d take out advertisements if I could.” And had gone on to make Hart call him a thousand-a-week whore as they fucked a second time, which was so obscene he’d barely been able to say it, and, in the moment, ridiculously erotic.
Your fantasy, your incubus, the perfect fuck that you’ll remember on your deathbed.
He was there to pay off the debt. Hart knew that, and he was careful not to let himself believe otherwise, but it was frighteningly easy to forget, all the same. Robin was very good at enthusiasm that seemed unfeigned, and his physical responses didn’t suggest a reluctant man: the very opposite. He was unquestionably taking pleasure from their liaison, which salved Hart’s conscience to a probably excessive degree, and by God he was giving everything he had promised.
If Hart had dared, he’d have kept Robin in his rooms the whole time, so as not to waste a single moment of this impossibly easy, magical situation. He didn’t dare. It was risky enough that he was visiting nightly, even if Hart arranged the times Robin would come so he could open the door himself and not alert Spenlow. And in any case, he had to show his face to friends and family, and Robin had to appear at parties, supporting his glittering success of a sister.
Parties which Alice attended. That was a little awkward, but she seemed inexplicably happy to meet and speak to Robin, even to dance, which Edwina permitted given Hart’s assurance he had taken care of the situation. It was undeniably better that nobody could mock Alice for failing to catch her man, or call Robin a dangerous flirt for dropping her. There was no scandal to be made out of two people on good terms.
It also meant that Hart and Robin could attend the same event, a soiree, which did indeed lead to a ludicrously risky encounter in an upstairs room. Hart had stood, heart and blood pounding together, listening for footsteps as Robin pleasured him with frantic, gleeful haste, and had to bite his wrist as he spent to restrain himself from crying out. It was stupid and dangerous, and it felt like something he’d never known. Freedom, perhaps, from the nameless, joyless sating of desires he’d given up trying to stifle but hadn’t known how to pursue. Freedom, if only in his own mind, from what he was supposed to think and feel, and the routine he’d established of work and gaming and his few friends.
He didn’t know any men of his class who shared his tastes: they must exist, but he had no idea how to identify most of them and feared to approach those who made themselves obvious in case he was found out by association. He was simply too clumsy to tread the delicate path that would keep him clear of the law. He’d gone to molly houses instead, bought company as politely as possible, felt trapped in a grimy pathway that led nowhere and which he walked alon
e.
Robin was brightness. He didn’t give a damn for the done thing. He lived with an exuberant amorality that wrapped itself round Hart and helped him ignore everything that had led them here in the constant thrum of arousal, and the even more seductive pleasures of casual intimacy, smiles, light-hearted touch.
That lasted for all of ten days.
He woke late on the eleventh morning. Robin had left him near three, and Hart wondered, not for the first time, if he might safely stay; Spenlow never came into his bedroom before ten. That would of course mean inviting Robin into his bedroom in the first place. He’d vowed not to do that—it was so intimate, such a thing lovers did, and he had to remember that they were not lovers. He had less than three weeks of Robin before his rooms would be empty again. He didn’t want his bed to be a permanent reminder of a temporary pleasure.
Perhaps that was foolish. Robin’s joy sprang from the way he lived in the moment; Hart continually thought of the future, and hadn’t made himself happy that way. He’d made himself secure instead, while Robin’s course was far more likely to end in disaster, but was it truly enough if the most one could say for a life was that nothing had gone horribly wrong? He lay in bed for a few moments thinking of the previous night, how Robin had made him laugh till he cried, and found he was smiling at the memory. The fucking had been spectacular, but the laughter stuck more in his mind.
He was still smiling when he got up and rang for breakfast. The letter Spenlow placed beside his plate, addressed with urgency in Edwina’s hand, put paid to that.
Come round at once. I must speak to you about Alice.
HART LEFT EDWINA’S house around three that afternoon. He considered stopping in at his club, but he was too angry for company.
Angry and hurt, and furious at himself that he was hurt. He should have known; he should have bloody known. Why had he trusted a man who lied, who cheated, and sold himself for debts?
He sent a terse note to Robin requesting he pay a call at once. He didn’t logically expect the man to be waiting in at his convenience, but it was still two grating, enraging hours before Spenlow announced, “Mr. Loxleigh.”
