Regency Rogues Box Set -- 4 Gay Historical Romance Stories in 1

by Ruby Moone

  He was so damned beautiful; tight and hot. Sam had to concentrate on not spending immediately. He thrust hard, but held him close. The high-pitched keening sound interspersed with harsh pants suggested he was hitting the right spot so he kept it up. Hips snapping in short, harder thrusts, and then long and deep. The boy moved to take his cock in his hand and Sam slapped his arse. “No touching until I say.”

  The hand moved immediately but the imbalance made his other arm buckle so Sam pushed him down so his face was in the pillow, arse still canted upward, and held him tight as he rode him. He didn’t think he could last much longer, his boy was simply too much, so he pulled up his hips until he could get his own hand around and grabbed his cock. It was hard and wet so Sam used one hand to hold him and maintain his balance and one hand to pump him as hard as he could whilst he pounded into him relentlessly. The boy howled and bucked and writhed as he spent and Sam fucked him through every second of it, hammering out his own release which contorted his entire body.

  He collapsed on top of the boy. As his senses returned he had to admit that was probably one of their best goes. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. He moved as the boy squirmed beneath him.

  “Undress please,” the boy said, not looking at him.

  Sam rolled off the bed and his head swam. He hesitated before unbuttoning himself, hesitated for just a moment, but then took a breath and went ahead.

  * * * *

  Tristan turned his head to one side to watch his lover undress. Lover. What a joke. His lover was the man that he paid to be attentive, loving, but hard. Henri was so beautiful it hurt to look at him. Over six feet in height and with broad, manly shoulders he was magnificent. Long, dark wavy hair curled about his head and looked as though it needed the attention of a barber. It made him look gloriously debauched. Added to that were his eyes of a clear, almost crystalline, greenish-grey hue that seemed to see everything. It made him nigh on irresistible.

  The man stood now, carefully removing his clothes so that Tristan could crawl onto him and be held. The two things that brought Tristan back time after time was the man’s powerful body that at once could overwhelm him, pin him to the bed, and bring unutterable pleasure, but then could hold him as though he were precious. Sometimes they just lay there in the flickering candlelight, sometimes they talked. It felt for that short time as though someone actually gave a damn about him. As though he were loved. Tristan hated that he needed both things, but not enough to stop him coming back for more. Not ever enough.

  Tristan rolled to the side and took one of the cloths by the side of the bed to clean himself. When he had done, he looked up to find Henri naked. His stomach was taught and his thighs hard with well-defined muscle. His cock was still half hard even after the pounding he had given him. Tristan allowed his eyes to linger there. Henri walked to the bed and climbed on so Tristan moved to give him room to lie beside him, but then stopped.

  “Wait.” He sat up and grasped the man’s shoulder.

  “It’s nothing, please.”

  Tristan was staring in horror at Henri’s back. It was covered in bruises. Long red welts that looked as though they had been laid there by a cane.

  “What happened? Who did this to you?” Tristan ran his hand gently over the marks, but he flinched so he stopped.

  “I swear it’s nothing.” He laid back and opened up his arms, but as much as Tristan wanted nothing more than to lie on him, to rub his face in the soft hair that filled the gap between those dark nipples, he couldn’t think of adding his bodyweight and pressing on the bruises. Instead, he lay beside him.

  Henri looked puzzled. “Would you prefer not to…” He gestured vaguely.

  “I want to, but tonight I will hold you.”

  At this, Henri looked downright baffled but Tristan held out his arms and awkwardly, the big man shuffled over so that he could lay his head tentatively on Tristan’s shoulder. He relaxed after a moment, gathered Tristan up in his arms, and snuggled into him tightly.

  “Would you like to tell me what happened to you?” Tristan said.

  Henri drew up one leg and inserted it between Tristan’s. “I…I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Henri…” Tristan hesitated and sifted his fingers gently through Henri’s dark curls, his eyes following the movement. He didn’t know what to say. “I hope you know that despite the…ah…financial nature of our relationship, I value you as a friend, and care about you a good deal.” He kissed the top of his head and tightened his embrace. Henri hesitated and then squeezed him back, settling himself more comfortably. Tristan discovered that he wanted to offer comfort and kindness to the man that had transformed his life even if he had paid him to do it, because even though money exchanged hands, Tristan couldn’t help but feel that there was a real, tangible connection between them. He let his fingers continue to drift through Henri’s hair as he frowned at the bruising that marred his beautiful back.

  “You are important to me,” he whispered against Henri’s hair. “If I can help…?”

  Chapter 2

  Sam closed his eyes and held his breath. Exactly as he had hoped.

  “It was nothing. Just a beating. I’ll be fine.”

  “Just a beating?”

  Sam snuggled tighter. He tried to ignore how good it felt to be held and focused on the fact that whilst he could push his face into Maurice’s chest, he didn’t have to look him in the eye. “Just a beating.” He didn’t need to tell him that it was the last beating that pushed him to the edge.

  Maurice didn’t speak, he just carried on stroking his bruised body.

  “I have to tell you something,” Sam said. It was now or never. “I have to tell you.”

  The stroking stopped. “Tell me what?”

  Sam took a deep breath. “Well, it might not matter terribly to you, but I am leaving Dante’s.” Dante’s was the name of the club that employed him as a prostitute. Dante was the name of the man that held his life in the palm of his hand and never let him forget it. The man he had to get away from or die. Sam registered the fact that beneath him Maurice had gone completely still.

  “When?”

  “By the end of the week.”

  “But it is Thursday already. Where will you go?”

  “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have told you.” Sam sat up and ploughed his hands through his hair.

  “But I need to know where you are going. How else will I see you? Will I still be able to see you?” Maurice’s tone was taking on a desperate note.

  “You…I…I won’t be able to see you. I…” Sam put his face in his hands. “I beg of you not to breathe a word. I am running away. I cannot face this anymore.”

  There was a rustle of the sheets as the boy sat up beside him. “I am so, so sorry,” he whispered after a long moment’s silence, and his voice wavered. “So terribly sorry, I never imagined you would view me in that way. All I can say is you are a remarkable actor. I have been so wrapped up in my own pleasure, my own need for…” He stopped and put a hand over his mouth.

  Sam was taken aback. He never imagined that the boy would think that he meant him. How could he even imagine he meant him? He turned so that he could look at him. The misery was back in the boy’s eyes, tenfold.

  “Not you,” Sam said, and meant every word. “Never you.” He took the boy into his arms, rocked him, and kissed his temple. “You’ve been the one thing that makes all this bearable. I love being with you. I love every moment of it. I tried to make them let me only work for you but they wouldn’t and I can’t afford to live on…” Sam squeezed him again, meaning every word. “Never you.”

  “I suppose the money that I give them doesn’t come to you.”

  “No. I get bed and board. A roof over my head, clean clothes, and food in my belly. More than most.”

  “What will you do?”

  Sam screwed his eyes tightly shut. “I am going to escape and go to Yorkshire.”

  “Yorkshire.” The boy’s voice was breathy. “Yorkshire is an aw
ful long way away.”

  Sam nodded and risked a glance at him. “I have a cousin there. He escaped from Dante a few months ago. Not many do.” Sam smiled at the thought of Harry; settled and free.

  Maurice moved out of his embrace and looked at him, his brows drawn into a frown. “What do you mean by escape? Are you not free to leave?”

  “No. Dante’s make a lot of money from me. I am…popular. Some gentlemen enjoy a firm hand,” Sam said, and glanced at Maurice. He flushed. “Others like to experience overpowering a big lad like me. Making me take it. Some get carried away.” He glanced over his shoulder at the bruises, then back at Maurice. The owner and his right-hand man think that they can have me whenever it pleases them. He shuddered at the thought of Bill Mosely and Dante. “I can’t do it anymore.”

  “Oh God.” Maurice ran his hands through his hair. He had lovely hands. “I’ve wondered often what your life might be like, what happens to you when I am not here.” Maurice looked lost for a moment, then a curiously hard resolve came into those blue eyes, and he spoke the words that Sam had been praying hard to hear.

  “Let me help you.”

  Sam’s heart beat fast. This was it.

  “I couldn’t ask that of you,” he whispered, holding his head down.

  The boy took hold of his chin and lifted his face so that he could look at him. Sam’s heartbeat doubled at the action. Those light blue eyes that often looked shy, shadowed, and miserable were now serious and calm, but still filled with that resolve. “You haven’t asked it of me. I offered. I think you should count me as a friend. I know I should like to think of you as such. We have been meeting for over a month now and the fact that I am here—what, two, three times a week?—should tell you that I care for you. A great deal.”

  Sam could barely speak. He had hoped that he pleasured the man enough to make him want to continue, make him want to set him up in a room somewhere, perhaps as his paramour, or whatever one called a male lover. He hadn’t expected a heartfelt offer of friendship.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, moved and unable to look away.

  The boy let go of his face and smiled. “Is Henri actually your name?”

  Sam grinned and shook his head. “Nothing so fancy. Samuel.”

  “Tristan.”

  The boy stuck out his hand and Sam shook it shyly and asked the question that had been burning inside for a while. “How old are you, Tristan?”

  “Four and twenty.”

  How old are you, Samuel?”

  Sam smiled at him. He’d thought him a little younger than himself. “The same, though I will be five and twenty in a couple of weeks.”

  “Ah, then you have the advantage. I am not five and twenty until the end of the year. You have eight months on me. So how can I help you to get away from Dante’s?”

  The change in topic made Sam jump and made him realise that although the boy might look younger, might act vulnerable and shy in the bedroom, like as not he might very different out of it as many men were. In fact, he wasn’t that young at all. He used his best smile and stroked his thumb over Tristan’s hand that still lay in his. “You can’t. Not without getting involved and if anyone ever found out and, you would be ruined. You could be hung.”

  “Why do you need to run away? Why can’t you just leave?”

  Sam hesitated, shame making his face colour, but he stuck to his resolve to be as truthful as possible, and took a deep breath.

  “I owe Dante money. He pulled me out of the gaming hells and paid my debts in return for me working for him. I’ve done it for nearly a year now and I don’t think I can bear it anymore, but the money he loaned me had interest on it and it just grows and grows. I now owe him nearly five hundred pounds. I will never be able to pay it off. Never.” The panic in his voice was genuine. At first it had seemed like a capital idea. Saved from his debtors, somewhere clean and comfortable to live, food, and an endless supply of men. What he had not banked on was the depraved nature of many of the guests who visited the club, and the nature of Dante himself and his vile henchman, Bill Mosely. In fact, it was Mosely’s return that made him realise that he had to get out if he wanted to stay out of the madhouse.

  Tristan’s arms came about him again. “What did you do before you worked here?” Tristan asked softly.

  “I served in alehouse. The Bucket of Blood in Covent Garden. Wasn’t a bad job, but I…I suppose I was greedy. I wanted more, wanted better. I’m good with cards, I can mimic the quality easily, and people seem to like me. I gambled, won, and got…greedy. I knew the stakes were high playing with Dante, but I thought I could win. Thought that I could set myself up for life. I was wrong.” Sam hung his head and Tristan squeezed his hand. He was going off script now. He was supposed to be spinning a tale that would make Tristan sympathise with him. He hadn’t planned on spilling his pathetic life story. He took several deep breaths and tried to think clearly. Appeal to him. Appeal to the kindness that he sensed in him.

  “Now, I only want you,” he whispered. It was the truth. The absolute truth. Then he remembered the miserable look in Tristan’s eyes when he came in. “Enough about me. When you came I could not help but note you appeared troubled,” he said.

  Tristan pulled his hand away and fiddled with the sheet over his lap. “You are terribly observant.”

  “I just think that I have come to know you well.” That was better. Sam shifted closer and stroked Tristan’s arm. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  Tristan shook his head and smiled sadly. “It’s…nothing. Did you really work somewhere called the Bucket of Blood?”

  Sam smiled and accepted his avoidance of the subject. “Indeed I did. They had bare knuckle fights there, so it got messy on occasion.”

  Tristan smiled back. “How do we get you out of here? Do you have somewhere to go if we do?”

  Sam hesitated, but decided not to push Tristan to reveal what troubled him. Instead, he let his smile spread slowly over his face. When he spoke, his voice was a little shy. “I love that you say we. I love that you want to help me…I…I think that I love you.” Sam held his breath.

  The look of unalloyed joy on Tristan’s face shook Sam to the core. “Oh, Samuel,” Tristan breathed, climbed into his lap, put his arms around his neck, and held him tightly. “Oh, Samuel,” he said again. Sam squeezed his eyes shut as guilt bit sharply. He’d guessed that the boy was terribly in need of loving, despite his requests to be taken hard, and he had been right. So right.

  Tristan pulled back and stroked Sam’s face gently. The look in those beautiful eyes was so tender, so loving, Sam wanted to weep. “I will bring the five hundred pounds. I will come as usual on Saturday, give you the money, and I will find you somewhere to live so that when we get you out you will be safe.”

  “No, you can’t do that. I can’t ask that of you,” he protested.

  “I can and I will.” He kissed him on the cheek. “I will find somewhere where we can be together regularly. Where I can visit you…is that what you want? I mean, do you want to continue our association outside of here?” He looked around at the opulent room decked in shades of crimson and purple.

  Sam squeezed him tight. “It is what I want. More than anything in the world, I want to be with you.” His words were fervent, and true. He did want to keep seeing Tristan and to have an association with him. His heart thumped painfully in his chest as he wondered if he really did love him. How one earth did a chap know if he was in love? His heart almost stopped completely when Tristan spoke.

  “Then I shall make it happen.”

  * * * *

  Tristan hurried away from the club, his head ringing. The thought of not seeing Henri…Samuel, regularly made him feel queasy. Samuel. It suited him. His head spun as he walked the pavements, dodged a flower seller, made way for a large, drunken party squabbling over who should sit where in a ridiculously large coach. He held a handkerchief to his nose as he skirted past a sewer and then struck out towards Mayfair. When he reached his townh
ouse and the door opened he wondered anew whether the footman watched out for him, day and night, waiting specifically to open the door for him when he came home. As usual the huge mausoleum of a house was silent. His boot heels rang on the marble floor and the footman stood by his side ready to take his greatcoat, hat, and gloves. He straightened his coat, smoothed his hair, and made for the study where he dismissed the servants and poured himself a generous brandy. He tossed it to the back of this throat and poured another one and sat down behind his desk. It still felt wrong to sit behind his father’s desk, in his father’s study, in his father’s house. He ran a hand over the glossy surface. In the weeks since his father’s passing he didn’t know what he would have done were it not for Samuel. He’d never spoken of it, but the man seemed to know he needed more than just satisfaction. Tristan closed his eyes and let his head flop back onto the chair, trying not to think what his father would have said about the thing he was about to do. He sighed and took another, smaller sip of the brandy and, brushing away maudlin thoughts, applied himself to the problem at hand. He was good at problems. Better at problems than people most of the time, but this time, this time he had someone else to consider. Samuel. Samuel. Samuel. He kept saying the name in his head.

  The money was no problem at all. The problem was constructing some kind of identity for Samuel so that they could spend time together without arousing suspicion. There was no doubt that he could find rooms for him, somewhere he could visit regularly. God, if he could have his way he would spend every night with Samuel in his bed. He didn’t even know what he was offering the man, or what the man wanted in return, but Samuel had said he loved him. He loved him. Him. Tristan. Tristan put his head in his hands as his heart started thundering again.