Without Owen even noticing how, Arthur had moved to lie between his spread legs; he shifted his hips, just a little, and his erection rubbed against Owen’s, the friction exquisite despite the layers of clothing between them.
“Oh,” Owen said, and then, “ohhhh,” as Arthur moved again, with more purpose this time, dragging his hard, heavy cock over Owen’s.
Arthur pulled his arm out from under Owen’s body and propped himself on his hands, the muscles in his arms flexing. He looked down at him, his face flushed and his lips parted; he was both more and less intimidating, like that — all masculine strength, but nearly undone, just for him. Owen couldn’t help pushing up, just a little, pressing them together again. A shudder went through Arthur’s body.
“It’s supposed to be like this,” Arthur said, quick and low. “To be too much. It’s that for me too — Owen, I won’t hurt you. I give you my word. Will you trust me?”
Even through the haze of arousal and confusion, Owen knew this was a pivotal moment in his new marriage. He could choose to trust, to put his faith in this man he hardly knew and hope that it would be justified — or he could give in to his fear of the unknown and push Arthur away, and lose any chance he had of being happy in the life he now must live.
Almost overcome with shyness, he stroked his hands down from Arthur’s shoulders and along the bunching muscles in his upper arms. They were just the sort of arms Owen imagined around him, when he daydreamed. He could be safe, wrapped in arms like that.
He looked up into Arthur’s eyes. “I trust you.” He would, anyway. He would.
Arthur leaned down and stole a kiss, quick but demanding. “I don’t believe you, but you will,” he said, reading Owen’s thoughts far too precisely for comfort. “Now lie back, and let me show you how perfect too much can be. And tell me if you don’t like something. I’ll stop if you do.”
He shifted down, mouthing over Owen’s torso through the thin linen. Each touch made Owen squirm, and his cock stood straight up now, tenting the nightshirt too obviously to miss. Arthur moved around it, nibbled at Owen’s hipbone, and then glanced up; he smiled at the look on Owen’s face, and went further down. When he pushed the nightshirt up to bare one creamy thigh, Owen had to clench his fists in the coverlet to keep from pulling it back down again.
Arthur’s first soft kiss to that tender skin had Owen bucking up, gasping. And then Arthur lifted the nightshirt’s hem, and Owen couldn’t move, could hardly breathe, as Arthur bared his cock, smoothing the shirt down over Owen’s abdomen.
Without hesitation, Arthur lowered his head and took the head of Owen’s cock into his mouth, flicking his tongue against the slit.
That had to be a figment of Owen’s imagination, because a man like Arthur, servicing him like that? “Goddess, are you really going to…?”
Arthur lifted his head enough to shoot him a purely wicked grin. “Would you rather I not?”
“No! But I thought…” Owen swallowed, feeling so very foolish in the face of Arthur’s laughter. “I thought that you would want me to, that you wouldn’t want to.”
“That I wouldn’t want to give you the same pleasure I would want from you?” Arthur shook his head. “I intend to taste every part of you.”
Every part? Before Owen could even begin to wrap his mind around the implications of that, Arthur bent and swallowed his cock all the way to the root. Owen’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he moaned, lost in the sensation of tight, hot suction, of the clever movements of Arthur’s tongue, of the most overwhelming delight he had ever known.
Clearly Arthur had done this before, and often. He drew Owen nearly to his peak almost at once, but then pulled back, letting just the head of Owen’s cock slide through his lips. Panting, he tried to find some self-control; he couldn’t spend so soon — Arthur would laugh at him. Wouldn’t he? Oh goddess, but he was so very, very close, all of his nerves singing, the aching need for release near-maddening. Just then, Arthur slid one hand up Owen’s inner thigh and pressed two fingers against that tender spot just behind his bollocks. One finger slid even further and pushed, just a little, inside Owen’s body, while Arthur took all of Owen’s length quite suddenly into his mouth.
Owen’s climax struck like lightning, and he distantly heard a keening cry, his own voice all but unrecognizable. He pulsed and pulsed, Arthur swallowing around him, and yet he felt nothing so much as that one callused fingertip lodged within him, the center around which the storm in his body raged.
After long, long moments, he could hear his own breaths loud in his ears; he opened his eyes, and the blue watered silk of the bed canopy caught the candlelight in little ripples. His whole being felt turned inside-out. Arthur pulled himself up so that his face hovered just above Owen’s. He left his hand where it was, though, and Owen shifted slightly, and clenched his muscles experimentally.
“Oh gods, Owen,” Arthur groaned, and he dropped his head to Owen’s chest. “You’re going to be the death of me.” He kissed the triangle of skin bared just between Owen’s collarbones, the touch of his lips almost feverish.
Perhaps Owen ought to be embarrassed, or horrified, by what he had allowed and enjoyed from the man whose brother he had meant to marry. But he had passed beyond that; the night had taken on a dreamlike quality. He had just spent in Arthur’s mouth, and he lay beneath him now, with one of the man’s fingers penetrating him so intimately he couldn’t have thought of it without blushing just an hour before; now, he tightened his muscles again, thrilling when Arthur pressed his finger deeper. He brought his hands up to bury them in the dark mane of Arthur’s hair that tumbled down onto Owen’s breast.
His heart pounded, and he licked his dry lips. He knew how he must look, sprawled half-naked beneath Arthur’s much larger body, his legs spread and his face flushed and shiny. It was as if it were happening to someone else, someone who had no need to feel shame.
“Arthur,” Owen said, and he heard the word as if another had spoken it.
Black eyes met his as Arthur raised his head. “I’m going to have you now, sweetheart,” Arthur said, voice even deeper and raspier than usual — from taking Owen in his mouth, into his throat. Owen shivered. “I’m going to make you mine.”
Before he could respond, Arthur captured his mouth in a deep, consuming kiss, flavored with bitter salt and with passion. Lost in the kiss, Owen barely registered Arthur pulling the nightshirt up; Arthur broke the kiss for a moment to whip it over Owen’s head, where it tangled in his arms. He writhed about, the feeling of being held down, his movement restricted, sending a fresh surge of arousal straight to his cock. That seemed wrong, but when Arthur kissed him again, he was left with only a thrumming, impatient desire, all doubts swept away.
With one final toe-curling kiss, Arthur sat up, took Owen by the shoulders, and deftly flipped him onto his stomach, pressing his thighs apart and settling between them. Owen let himself be manhandled. If this was done to him, he could not be to blame; it was all Arthur’s doing, and Owen only the object of his desire. Perhaps that made him a coward, betraying his purer feelings and taking the pleasure from it, without responsibility. That didn’t matter when he felt a kiss pressed to the base of his spine, and then lower, and lower still, and — oh goddess, but Arthur’s tongue traced between the cheeks of his arse and found the center of him, flicking against that too-sensitive flesh and striking sparks in Owen’s very core.
Owen cried out sharply, and then moaned, long and low, his arms still tangled above his head, the pillow cool against his overheated forehead, knees sliding in the bedclothes, and that hot tongue pressing in, with Arthur’s strong hands braced against his inner thighs.
“Gods, but you’re sweet,” Arthur muttered, the words felt as much as heard, vibrating inside him.
How long it went on, Owen never knew, but a pressure built and built inside him with each circle of Arthur’s tongue and each caress of his rough fingers. He bit the pillow, and his hands clawed at the bed. Sudd
enly Arthur’s mouth was gone, and Owen whimpered at the loss. He needed, he craved something, he couldn’t think what, he couldn’t think.
There was a rustle, and the bed shifted beneath him. Then Arthur was back again, his lips at the nape of Owen’s neck, and his hard, masculine body against Owen’s arse and back, all smooth skin and rough hair, a tantalizing contrast. Arthur’s cock dragged over his skin, silky but hard as steel. He slid his fingers between Owen’s cheeks, and now they were slick with something that made their passage into Owen’s body easy. First one, and then two, and the stretch of it brought pain and a bright, searing pleasure unlike anything Owen had ever imagined.
“Please,” he moaned. “Please, I need —”
“I know. I know,” Arthur said, pushing his fingers deeper. “And I will, when you’re ready, I won’t hurt you…” He went on, murmuring reassurances, kissing, stroking, stoking the fire inside him until Owen feared he might combust.
At last, Arthur slid his fingers out, leaving a painful emptiness in their wake. Owen clenched around nothing and tilted his arse up for the taking.
Arthur let out a sound that was barely human, a predatory growl of desire that made all the hair on Owen’s neck stand up. He panted, tense and desperate, caught in some liminal state between abject terror and helpless want. Big hands settled on his hips. Arthur shifted, pushing Owen’s legs apart with his knees, and the head of his cock pushed against Owen’s entrance. And then he moved, inexorably breaching Owen’s defenses, pressing inside slowly but without pause.
It was like being pulled in two, his legs parting impossibly wide, and his whole body opening to accommodate something that must be too large to fit. But Arthur moved forward all the same, until Owen was fully impaled on his length, almost too full to breathe.
A moment passed, and then another, as Arthur held himself perfectly still. “Tell me when I can move,” Arthur said, his breath coming hot against Owen’s shoulder blades. He tried to reply, but his mouth opened and nothing came out but a gasp. “Am I hurting you?” The strain showed in Arthur’s voice, and Owen forced himself to answer.
“No,” he whispered. He squeezed his eyes shut. “You can — please —”
Thank the goddess, Arthur understood what Owen couldn’t articulate, could hardly even admit: that he needed Arthur to take charge, to make the decisions for both of them.
Arthur pulled his hips back, and then he thrust. The air rushed from Owen’s lungs; he cried out, a keening wail that repeated, again and again, as Arthur moved like a piston, steady and unflagging, withdrawing and leaving Owen almost empty, and then filling him to bursting again.
His cock had hardened again, and it dragged against the sheets and drove Owen to the brink. Without warning, Arthur tugged his hips up and dragged Owen up onto his knees and half into Arthur’s lap. When he drove back in, his cock struck directly on a spot that sent stars exploding behind Owen’s eyelids; pure white heat rushed through him from head to toe, his back arched, and he screamed out something that could have been Arthur’s name.
He spun into blackness, lost to anything but his own climax. Dimly, he felt the rush of Arthur’s release, hot within him, and then he fell down onto the bed, utterly wrecked.
There was movement, a kiss to his shoulder, a murmur of praise; Owen smiled a little, and then sighed as a cloth wiped away some of the sweat and semen from his skin, and the coverlet settled over his exhausted body like a cloud. That was the last thing he remembered before morning.
Chapter Eleven
Attending to his newspaper was impossible. Arthur dropped it to the table and looked up at the breakfast-parlor door, which remained as stubbornly closed as it had been the last time his attention had wavered. Less than thirty seconds before, probably, although he refused to notice that. He frowned down at his coffee, which had dared to go cold, just as his toast had. With an oath, he dumped the cup into the slops bowl and poured a fresh one, which then sat untouched, just like the first.
Should he go upstairs and knock on Owen’s door? That would be intrusive, but did he not have the right, as Owen’s husband? He should have stayed the night. He had fervently, desperately longed to stay the night in Owen’s bed, arms wrapped around that sweet, perfect form that had driven him to madness. Owen, splayed beneath him on the bed, with eyelashes fanned over his flushed cheekbones and parted lips red and swollen, every curve and angle of him begging for caresses and kisses and worship, limp and worn-out from Arthur’s frenzy — he saw it again each time he closed his eyes. It had required superhuman restraint not to take Owen again, and again, until his lungs burned and his muscles gave out. Instead, he extricated himself as gently as he could, cleaned Owen with a cloth from the washstand, and pulled the blankets gently around him, allowing himself only one kiss to the pale, smooth shoulder peeking from under the coverlet.
And if he had remained — what then? Owen’s reluctance had almost overwhelmed his desire, last night. This morning, that reluctance might have grown into shame, or regret, and Arthur couldn’t bear the possibility of facing either of those on waking.
Since Owen had yet to appear, shame or regret seemed likelier than ever. Both of those stalked Arthur, too, every moment that he sat like a coward with his coffee and his paper, leaving Owen alone.
It was half-past nine. Surely country-bred lads woke early, didn’t they? Earlier than this. Worry crept in. If he had hurt Owen, if his young husband was distressed, in pain…
Arthur had half-resolved upon charging upstairs, propriety be damned, when the door opened at last. After a brief hesitation, Owen entered, shutting the door behind him. He glanced at Arthur briefly, meeting his eyes for an instant, and then blushed and hurriedly turned to the sideboard without a word.
“Good morning.” Arthur kept his voice even with herculean effort. Owen jumped, the tongs he held clattering against a dish.
“Good morning,” came the reply, so low Arthur could hardly make out the words.
Owen lingered over the dishes set out, dithering from one to the other in a way that had Arthur grinding his teeth with impatience. Finally he turned and sat at the table, taking the chair to the left of where Arthur sat at the head. As he sat, he winced, imperceptibly perhaps to a less focused observer. A wave of fierce, primal satisfaction roared through Arthur, fighting a brief and losing battle with his conscience. He could not quite triumph, much as he wished to. Not when Owen had not offered so much as a smile to show that he was quite all right.
To Arthur’s right, a wall of windows let in a wash of pale golden light, illuminating Owen’s face perfectly. Or it would have, if he hadn’t ducked his head to examine a china plate holding far too little to justify such a long time spent filling it. Arthur could see just the curve of one soft cheek and the solemn line of Owen’s jaw as Owen fiddled with his napkin and lifted his fork to poke at the little mound of scrambled eggs. He didn’t take a bite.
Arthur cast around desperately for something, anything to say other than a direct inquiry about Owen’s state of mind. “I can ring for something else, if there’s nothing there that suits you.”
A short laugh met that, and then Owen said, “I can’t imagine what else they could have in the kitchen.” He didn’t lift his gaze from his plate.
“May I pour you some coffee?”
“No, thank you. I don’t like it.” And then Owen looked up sharply, his face turning pink with embarrassment, and said, “But it doesn’t matter! Whatever you prefer. I don’t need anything.”
Arthur already had his hand on the bell, and he shook it once, knowing the footman outside the door would be alert for the sound. He stepped in an instant later. “Bring a pot of tea, James. And tell Mrs. Hobson that we’ll have both coffee and tea at breakfast from now on." James sketched a bow, and the door shut again behind him.
“Really,” Owen said, voice small, “I don’t need tea. You needn’t put yourself out.”
“I’m not putting myself out. Am I in the kitch
en making the tea?” At Owen’s look of misery, Arthur abandoned teasing as an avenue for soothing him. “Owen. Why on earth would you think anyone would be put out by making tea? And who gives a damn if they are? This is your home, and your servants. You can order anything you like.”
Owen worried at the eggs with his fork, and Arthur bit his lip against the urge to tell him to put them out of their misery. “I don’t want to be a bother,” Owen said tentatively. “I’ve only been here less than a day. I can’t just — march in and begin ordering everyone about.”
Arthur tried, and signally failed, to imagine Owen marching and ordering under any circumstances, and he couldn’t hold in a chuckle. That, to his surprise and delight, won him a glance under Owen’s sinfully long eyelashes and a rueful little smile. Still, a smile it was, and Arthur’s heart beat a little faster. Surely he couldn’t have hurt Owen, or frightened him too much, if he could look at Arthur so sweetly.
“The marching about might be a little much, but yes, you very much can order everyone about, and I wish you would, if it means you’ll speak up when there’s something you need or want.” That smile widened just a bit, and Arthur almost reached out to lay his hand over Owen’s — but then the door opened again, and James stepped in with the tea, and the moment was lost in the bustle of moving things about on the table and pouring Owen a cup.
They sat in silence after that, Owen drinking his tea and at last taking a few bites of a muffin, and Arthur finally sipping at his coffee. This cup had gone cold as well. He couldn’t bring himself to care.
It became clear, as Owen toyed with the crumbled remains of the muffin and made no move to refill his teacup, that breakfast was over. He would try to tempt Owen with something more to his taste later on, but for now he would leave it. If his husband was too nervous to eat, the thing to do would be to make him feel at his ease, not pester him about his appetite.
“Let’s go out,” he said.
The Replacement Husband Page 7
