by Ava March
Oliver’s entire body vibrated with suspense. What object would Vincent select? Chains clanked as he leaned right trying to see around Vincent’s broad shoulder.
“Stand still.”
He froze at the hard command. His heart beat rapidly against his ribs as he waited for what seemed like an endless moment.
A smirk pulled one edge of Vincent’s lips as he sauntered toward him. Oliver’s eyes widened, his arse tightened, at the object held in Vincent’s hand. A few drops of oil dripped from the tapered end of the black marble plug.
Vincent had chosen the plug Oliver would have selected if given the choice, and it was similar to one of many such toys he owned. A tremor of anticipation shook him as Vincent pulled back one cheek, exposing his entrance. Without even a preliminary nudge to ease the way, Vincent pushed the plug firmly inside him. Oliver couldn’t stifle the grunt as his muscles were forced to stretch quickly to accommodate the toy. Vincent’s fingers had helped prepare him, but the marble length flared to the size of a substantially endowed man before narrowing at the rectangular base. Closing his eyes, he fought to stay still, to resist the urge to jerk his hips forward and escape the burning sting.
Just when he was certain he couldn’t endure anymore, when the word “stop” teased his tongue, the last of the thick width slipped beyond the protesting ring of muscle and the base settled against him.
Vincent tapped the end. The vibrations reverberated delightfully in Oliver’s passage. He gasped for breath. He was stuffed full, and it felt incredible.
“You’re almost ready. There’s one last thing we need to see to before proceeding.”
Almost ready? Oliver’s eyes snapped open. Standing before him, Vincent reached toward Oliver’s chest and took hold of each nipple between his thumb and forefinger. His expression intent, he pinched, steadily increasing the pressure. It should hurt, Oliver was certain of it, but oddly it didn’t. It felt damn good. A flush of heat washed over his skin. He pushed out his chest, wanting more of those punishing fingers. Fluid leaked from his cock and dripped down the shaft.
Vincent twisted and all Oliver could do was moan helplessly as lust shot to his groin. His ballocks clenched, an orgasm teasing his spine. One more twist of his nipples and he’d climax.
“Your body knows how to turn pain into pleasure. Very good,” Vincent said, releasing him.
Oliver shook his bowed head. “More please, milord.” He flinched as Vincent brushed his knuckles over his smarting nipples. “Thank you,” he said in a great rush, straining toward the other man as much as his bonds would allow.
But Vincent turned his back to him. Rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, he went to the chest of drawers and selected—
Oliver’s breath caught.
There wasn’t a bit of trepidation within him, not even a hint of fear, as Vincent flicked his wrist, causing the long length of the leather bullwhip to jump and twitch as an impatient snake.
His back to Oliver, Vincent bowed his head. The broad line of his shoulders tightened. “Do you like men, Jake?”
It wasn’t the question that made Oliver hesitate, but the low, almost cruel tone.
Vincent turned. A hard curl pulled his mouth, his eyes narrowed. He tugged on his cravat, yanking it from his neck. “Answer me.”
Was this part of the game? It had to be, for Vincent was aroused. His erection strained against the placket of his black trousers. “Yes, I like men,” Oliver said, speaking the truth. He had been with women a few times, but it never felt right. The soft curves of their bodies only made him long for the hard bulk of a man.
“Do you like me?”
No, I love you. “Yes, milord.”
The whip cracked through the air. Oliver braced for a vicious snap. The lash grazed his thigh. A shudder rippled through him at the unexpectedly erotic caress, like the tongue of skillful lover.
“Do you want me?”
“Yes.” Oh God, how he wanted Vincent.
“Where?” The whip cracked through the air again. The lash curled around his hip, nipping his arse. “Here? Is this where you want me?”
“Yes, yes.” His muscles clenched around the plug he wished was Vincent’s cock.
Strides determined, Vincent advanced. “You haven’t earned that right yet.”
Oliver craned his neck, trying to follow Vincent as he went behind him.
“Eyes straight ahead.” Ragged puffs of warm air fanned Oliver’s shoulder. “You must be very, very good to earn that reward,” Vincent said into his ear, in a rich husky tone.
“I’ll be good. I promise, milord.”
He could hear Vincent move behind him. There was a whoosh of fabric. A white shirt was thrown toward a chair.
“We’ll see about that.”
The lash came down on his back, then his arse, and then his upper thighs. Again and again, Vincent expertly wielded the bullwhip, delivering punishing kisses that were sharp and delicate at the same time. Each stinging kiss quickly flared then shifted to sublime fiery pleasure that flooded every nerve in his body. He never dreamed being whipped could feel so unbelievably good. He was so hard the head of his cock arched up to brush his lower abdomen. Fluid leaked continuously from the tip, wetting his skin. Poised on the verge of a climax, he gasped and moaned, begging for more. The sounds of harsh breathing and leather whizzing through the air filled his ears.
“Tell me what you want,” Vincent demanded, as the lash curled around Oliver’s upper thigh, the thin end almost licking his ballocks.
He instinctively flinched but the iron bar kept his legs spread wide, kept him exposed and vulnerable. “You, milord. I—I want you.”
“What do you want?” Vincent punctuated his question with a blow across Oliver’s buttocks.
“I want your cock. I—I want you…to…fuck me. Please…m-milord,” he said, fighting to form the words against the thick heavy haze of lust filling his mind.
Those amazing snaps of the whip ceased.
“No! Don’t stop.” He shook his arms, rattling the chains in protest.
Bare-chested and barefooted, Vincent stood before him, the whip held in one hand. A fine sheen of sweat coated his skin. Oliver couldn’t stop his jaw from dropping in awe. Boarding school dormitories provided little privacy. As such, he had seen Vincent partially dressed on many occasions. And that boyishly handsome, strapping adolescent had grown into—
Christ, Vincent was built like a medieval knight. Thick, bulging biceps; strong, corded forearms; and an impressively broad chest. He suspected Vincent’s conservatively tailored clothes hid a well-honed body, but he hadn’t expected such overwhelming brute strength.
Oliver dared to tilt his head up a bit. Had Vincent grown taller? He seemed taller.
Vincent’s gaze swept over his face then down his body.
Impatient and needy, Oliver rattled the chains again. “Please, milord.”
A satisfied smile spread across Vincent’s mouth. Without a word, he dropped the whip, went to the chest of drawers, and removed his trousers. The sight of his bare backside made Oliver’s mouth water with the need to pull those muscular cheeks apart, to drag his tongue down the crease, to ply Vincent with his mouth until he shattered Vincent’s steely control.
Vincent reached for the oil-filled, glass bottle. When he turned back around, he was stroking his cock, spreading oil over the thick, long length. The firelight flickered over the hard contours of his powerful nude body.
“Are you ready for my cock?” Vincent demanded, all smug arrogance, without a hint of doubt of what Oliver’s answer would be.
Yet Oliver gave it nonetheless. “Yes, please, please, milord.”
Just watching Vincent stride toward him as he stroked his prick, ratcheted the lust permeating Oliver’s senses even higher. That magnificent cock would be inside of him soon. He had bent over for his fair share of men, in fact he much preferred to take it than give it, but he’d never taken a man of Vincent’s dimensions. Would he fit? Oliver was more than eager to
try. Vincent flicked his thumb over the broad head and Oliver groaned, his passage fluttering in greedy anticipation.
Standing behind him, Vincent tapped the end of the plug still lodged firmly up Oliver’s arse. Nerves drawn impossibly taut, Oliver trembled, his knees shaking. When he felt Vincent take hold of the rectangular end, he took a deep breath and exhaled, willing his muscles to relax. Vincent pulled. Oliver let out a grunt as the narrow end immediately flared to its thickest width, stretching him wide before slipping from his body and leaving him achingly empty.
Marble clattered to the floor. Whimpering, Oliver lifted up onto his toes and arched his back, presenting Vincent with his arse. “Fuck me, please.”
A strong hand settled on his hip. Heavy pants singed his shoulder. Then sharp teeth nipped between his shoulder blades. Hot silken skin slid over his entrance, teasing him with the barest hint of penetration, and then Vincent pushed. Kept so long on the cusp of an orgasm, Oliver climaxed. It rushed through him with amazing force, brutal in its intensity. He bit the inside of his cheek to stifle the shout as seed shot from his cock.
Determined, persistent, Vincent worked his big prick into Oliver. Stretching him, filling him, prolonging his orgasm. He howled against the onslaught of purest sensation. Rammed ballocks deep, Vincent ground his hips in a mind-shattering circle. Pleasure pulsed through Oliver in heavy, sweet waves, fraying his overwrought and overstretched nerves. With a punishing grip, Vincent held his hips steady and began a rhythm of hard, relentless thrusts. Pounding into him, pushing him onward, driving him to rapturous new heights of pleasure he never believed were possible.
“More,” he gasped, trying to buck back into Vincent and rattling the chains. He wanted to wrap his arms around Vincent, crush his mouth against those firm lips. But he could do nothing but serve as a Vincent’s slave, a willing vessel for his possession.
Vincent’s harsh words filled his ears. “That’s it. Beg for my cock. You want it, don’t you? Tell me.”
“Yes, I want you. Fuck me. Harder. Please.”
Vincent slammed into him. Oliver climaxed again. Fierce and swift, the orgasm rocked his senses, left him begging, pleading, sobbing for more. Hot tears leaked from Oliver’s closed eyes, streamed down his cheeks. Sweat trickled down his back. His skin felt too tight, too thin. Every place Vincent had whipped him burned and throbbed. Yet he wanted more. He wanted Vincent to take him, use him, gorge himself—leave him so aching and sore he would never forget this night.
Vincent’s thrusts sped up, ballocks smacking his arse. Long fingers bit harshly into Oliver’s hips. Vincent let out a feral growl as he shoved somehow, incredibly deeper.
Oliver screamed against the undiluted ecstasy assaulting his senses. Then he felt Vincent’s cock pulse within him, filling him with hot seed.
His strength abruptly gave out. Sagging in the chains, Oliver’s head lolled forward. The leather collar dug into his jaw, keeping his chin from resting on his chest. “More,” he muttered, gasping for breath. He quivered as Vincent’s cock slipped from his body. “No, no, no. Don’t stop.”
The large hands on his hips turned gentle, caressing and soothing his bruised flesh. “That’s enough for now,” Vincent said, with a pant in his voice.
Fingers brushed his ankles as Vincent unbuckled the cuffs. There was the soft sound of bare feet against wooden floorboards. Knuckles scraped against his bristly jaw, lifting his chin to remove the collar. With a light touch, his tangled, sweat-damp hair was tucked behind one ear.
“Jake. Open your eyes for me.”
Oliver tried to heed the gentle command, but his eyelids were so heavy he could barely open them, let alone lift his bowed head. His pulse pounded thickly through his veins, echoing in his ears. With considerable effort, he looked up into Vincent’s handsome, rugged face. The dark brows were lowered with obvious concern, the firm mouth set in a grim line. The most profound adoration filled Oliver’s heart. Christ, how he loved this man.
And he will never know how much you love him.
“My name’s not Jake.”
“I surmised as much. What is your name?”
Why had he admitted that to Vincent? Slow and sluggish, Oliver shook his head.
“It’s all right,” Vincent said, in that same gentle tone.
The moment Vincent unbuckled the cuffs on his wrists, Oliver’s legs gave out, unable to hold the weight of his body. Strong arms caught him, holding him up against a hard sweat-slicked chest.
“Easy now. Let’s get you to the bed.”
Stumbling over his own feet, Oliver let Vincent help him onto the bed, turning him so he lay on his stomach. A pillow cushioned his cheek. The bed was so wonderfully soft, so unlike his own. Because you’re in a damn brothel. “I can’t stay,” he said, trying to sit up.
The mattress dipped then shook. A kind but firm hand pressed between his shoulder blades, effortlessly keeping Oliver on the bed.
“Just for a moment. You need to rest.”
Vincent’s deep voice wrapped around him, lulling his senses. Just one moment, he promised himself, as he gave up the fight against the exhaustion pulling on his mind.
Chapter Three
A steady thump-thump, thump-thump penetrated Oliver’s sleep-fogged mind. Eyes closed, he turned into the comforting sound, dragging his lips over a smattering of soft, short hair. The large hand kneading his arse felt so good—bone meltingly gentle and possessive at the same time. It would be so easy to fall back to sleep, but his cock was twitching to life: eager, needy, and demanding attention. Yawning, he stretched against the solid body under him, bare skin rubbing enticingly against bare skin. Then he grunted as an ache seized every muscle in his body.
“Sore?”
That deep cultured voice was so familiar. It sounded just like…
Oliver bolted upright, hands pressing against a muscular chest as he pushed up onto his knees.
“Easy now. Careful or you’ll cause some significant damage.”
Startled, Oliver stared down into Vincent’s shadowed face. He was in bed with Vincent, and he had been sleeping on top of him, sprawled over his body like a lovesick, adoring fool. And Vincent had let him.
Vincent pushed on Oliver’s leg, which was lodged between his strong, hair-dusted thighs. “Careful,” he repeated.
Hell. He had almost kneed Vincent in the ballocks. Embarrassment flooded him, heat rushing to his cheeks. “Sorry,” he mumbled, shifting off to sit on the side of the bed. He dragged both hands through his hair. The room was near dark. The fire in the grate had burned down to glowing embers. The scents of male sweat and sex hung heavy in the air.
Why was Vincent still here? He should have left the moment Oliver fell asleep. Oliver didn’t remember passing out on top of Vincent. Had he done anything else, said anything he shouldn’t have? Cold fear slipped into his gut. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You needed the rest.”
“How long was I asleep?”
The mattress shifted. “Not long.” When Vincent’s hand cupped his hip, he flinched, startled at the light touch. “Sore?”
“A bit,” he said, stifling a moan as Vincent caressed his back in slow circles, soothing his aching muscles and tender skin. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Vincent had barely touched him earlier. Yet now, Vincent behaved as if they had awoken in bed together many times. He was having a hard time adjusting to this new relaxed, intimate version of Vincent, and while he knew it was beyond foolish, his heart thumped in his chest, pleading for more.
“Sore how? Good or bad?” Vincent asked.
The beginning of a chuckle teased Oliver’s belly. A dull ache rode over his skin, reminding him of each punishing kiss of the bullwhip. And that wasn’t the only thing that ached. He could still feel Vincent’s cock buried deep in his arse. It would be days before he could sit down without thinking of Vincent. “Good,” he admitted, ducking his chin, glad it was dark and Vincent couldn’t see the smile on his face.
He felt the warmth
of Vincent’s body as he moved closer. It must be all that muscle, for the man generated more heat than a fully stoked fire. A quiver of need shook Oliver. His fists clenched into the rumpled sheets as he resisted the urge to turn and press his lips against Vincent’s. He wanted to kiss him so badly, yet he held back. If Vincent rejected him, if he pulled back in disgust as Oliver suspected he would, then Oliver’s heart would shatter for certain. It was one thing to bugger a man, quite another to kiss one.
Vincent said not a word as he continued to rub Oliver’s back. He was kneeling behind him, knees bracketing but not quite touching Oliver’s hips. Then Vincent’s touch shifted. The hairs on Oliver’s forearms pricked with awareness. One strong hand reached around to glide up Oliver’s chest, fingers splaying over his neck to cup his jaw. There was not a trace of resistance as Oliver obediently heeded the pressure and turned his head.
Firm lips pressed against his. Shock seized his brain for the briefest of seconds. Then he opened his mouth. Vincent’s silken tongue slipped inside, stroking his in a deep, sensual rhythm. Lush pleasure wrapped around him. Blood rushed to his groin, his cock hardening. Oliver whimpered but the sound was lost in the hot recesses of Vincent’s mouth. He wanted to wrap his arms around Vincent, to crush the other man against him. But he twisted the sheets between his fingers, held perfectly still and simply experienced Vincent’s slow, languid kiss.
After nipping Oliver’s lower lip, Vincent pulled back, breaking the kiss.
“You need a shave.” Vincent’s voice was a mere rasp, a low scratch from somewhere deep in his throat.
Dazed, Oliver nodded and licked his lips, savoring the taste of Vincent. Surely he was still asleep. Surely he was still dreaming. Lord Vincent Prescot had not just kissed him as if Oliver was a cherished lover.
Vincent stretched out on the bed, one arm bent behind his head. The long powerful length of his nude body was a lure Oliver could not resist. He twisted around, intent on joining him.
“Get me a brandy. There’s a decanter on the table by the door.”
That annoyed, bored tone was back. The same one from when Vincent had first stepped into the room. It stopped Oliver short. He gave his head a quick shake, and the reality of the situation came crashing down. He was in a brothel, playing the part of one of that damn madam’s employees. Vincent’s kiss had meant nothing.
