by Ava March
He set the dildo on the table beside the bottle of oil he hadn’t bothered to put away last night. Flicking the blanket aside, he lay back on the bed. The fire in the grate had burned out sometime during the night, but the chill April morning air did little to cool his already heated skin. He licked his palm then reached for his hard cock. It was the way he had started and ended every day for the past week, since he had last laid eyes on Vincent at White’s. His hand on his prick, stroking himself to orgasm. And after the dream he had last night…there was no way he could begin this day any differently than all the others.
That dream had been so vivid and crisp, so authentic, that when it woke him a few minutes ago, he had actually been shocked to find himself in his own bed, alone, without Vincent.
Closing his eyes, he fondled his cock as he sifted through the memories, those snippets of scenes from the dream, trying to decide where to start.
The brothel. That masculine, tidy bedchamber. Vincent, fully dressed and standing beside the large bed, arms crossed over his impressively broad chest as he appraised a naked Oliver.
Are you good at following orders? The deep cultured rumble of Vincent’s voice sounded in Oliver’s head.
“Yes, milord,” he muttered.
I don’t recall giving you permission to touch your cock.
Oliver snatched his hand to his side, left his prick resting on his lower belly. His breathing quickened. One time with Vincent and he was already addicted to the heady sense of anticipation. The added thrill of waiting, of being at another’s mercy, being forced to proceed at their pace.
Good boy. Then the hard command seeped back into his voice. Do you want me?
“Yes.”
What do you want?
“You. Your cock in my arse. Please, milord.”
Ah, you must be very, very good to earn that reward. First, you must show me how much you want me. Touch yourself, Oliver.
Reaching down, Oliver cupped his ballocks, dragged his palm roughly over his sac then up to his shaft. His grip firm, he picked up the familiar rhythm. He stroked the length, flicking a finger over the needy head, spreading the leaking fluid.
He ran his other hand up and down his abdomen, sweeping over the quivering muscles, pausing every now and then to deliver a hard pinch to his nipples. Lost in the decadent sensations, his head tipped back, his lips parting. He lifted his hips, rocking into each stroke. Faster and faster, his hand flew along his cock, chasing the climax teasing the edge of his mind. The muscles in his thighs trembled. His entire body drew tight. The orgasm coiled down his spine, gripped his bollocks.
Stop.
Gritting his teeth, Oliver heeded the command. It hurt, in the most intense pleasurable way, to be left poised on the verge, teetering on the brink. Impatient and needy, his cock throbbed, sending heavy, quick pulses throughout his body in time to the rapid beat of his heart. He bit his lower lip, forced himself to remain still, to resist the almost unstoppable urge to touch his prick. Just one stroke. That was all it would take for him to climax.
Are you ready for my cock?
“Yes, yes, please, milord.” The whispered words rushed out of Oliver’s mouth.
Then prepare yourself.
He snatched the glass bottle from the bedside table and poured a generous amount on his palm. Bending his knees, he spread his legs, feet planted on the mattress. He reached down under his thigh and oiled his entrance. He swirled his fingertips over the puckered skin then eased two of them inside. Scissoring his fingers, he stretched himself, prepared himself. His movements quick and efficient, to hold off the eminent orgasm strumming his senses. Then he coated the dildo, his hand slipping over the cool black marble. The width was so substantial his fingers barely enclosed it. He had more than a few such toys in the bedside table drawer and this one most closely matched the dimensions of the real man’s cock. The crown wasn’t quite as broad and the length nearly an inch short of Vincent’s, but the shaft matched in thickness.
His arse tingled, eager and ready for that first amazing thrust. Holding the dildo by the flat circular base, he closed his eyes and waited for a moment. Let the anticipation build, let his nerves coil tighter and tighter. Sweat pricked his brow. A drop of fluid leaked from his cock, dripping onto his skin. His ballocks clenched, drawing up so tightly it felt as though his testicles were trying to get inside his body.
Good boy, Oliver. Vincent’s voice was soaked in sin, low and luxurious. You want me, don’t you? Tell me.
“Yes, fuck me, Vincent, please,” Oliver said, the words hitching in his throat.
He positioned the dildo at his entrance then pushed. One long thrust, just as Vincent had done. Determined, persistent, demanding complete submission.
A wince tightened his brow, his mouth opening on a soundless cry of pleasure. He gasped for breath. Grabbed the blanket by his hip and gripped it tight. The intense stretch as his muscles worked to accommodate the intrusion caused a flush of raw heat to sweep over his skin. He shoved it deep, bottoming out, the base pressing hard against his flesh. It wasn’t quite as long as Vincent, and he craved that extra inch, the one only Vincent could provide.
Releasing the blanket, he pinched one nipple, twisting hard. Sharp sensation radiated across his chest. He arched his back and grabbed his cock, stroking furiously as he picked up a matching rhythm of hard, relentless thrusts. With each stroke, the veins along the marble shaft teased his hole, just as Vincent’s cock had done. His ballocks ached with a need to be touched. His nipples smarted, reminding him of the sweet luscious pain that was only a twist away. Damn it, he didn’t have enough hands.
Beg for my cock. You want it, don’t you? Tell me.
He could almost feel Vincent’s broad chest pressed against his, the heavy weight of his body, the heat from his skin, the warmth of his breath as he spoke those words into Oliver’s ear. He turned his head, searching for those firm lips, wanting to feel them against his own.
“Yes, I want you, Vincent. More…please,” he begged in broken tones.
If the real Vincent saw him now, like this—knees drawn up to his chest and ramming a big dildo in his arse…
An orgasm rushed down his cock.
“Vincent,” he bellowed, throwing back his head, hips lifting from the bed, as his release splattered across his chest.
It was several long moments before Oliver could catch his breath. He gave his head a shake to clear it, then carefully withdrew the dildo. A little jolt shot through him, shaking his limbs as the head slipped from his body.
With effort, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and bent to pick up the drawers he had discarded last night. After wiping his hands, he wrapped the linen around the dildo then dropped it to the floor. He’d clean it later. Right now, he needed to clean himself up.
He set a hand on the bedside table and made to push to his feet, then stopped. A shaft of morning sunlight streamed into the room, cutting across the table and glinting off Vincent’s jade cravat pin.
The betting book at White’s had proved futile. He hadn’t been able to gather the courage to enter the club again after he had shared a drink with Vincent last week. The cravat pin tucked in his waistcoat pocket, directly over his aching heart. His nerves on edge, waiting for Vincent to recognize him. But he hadn’t. Oliver had thought himself relieved, yet now with the prospect of having to gamble to raise the necessary funds to be with Vincent again, the real man and not the dream…
Months of being alone. Months of avoiding Vincent.
Raw pain lanced into Oliver’s chest, slicing deep. He let out a low grunt and rubbed his chest, trying to sooth the ache.
But he couldn’t avoid Vincent tonight. The man had proved true to his word, as always. The invitation to the ball had arrived seven days ago, delivered by one of her ladyship’s footman.
Oliver picked up the stolen pin from the dented little silver tray beside the candlestick and touched the jade stone with a reverent fingertip.
Lord Vincent is an as
tute man. The madam’s confident words echoed in his head.
No one else would notice, but Vincent would.
Swallowing hard, he put the pin back on the tray, stood, and crossed to the washstand. He poured water in the chipped stoneware basin, wet a washcloth, swiped the sticky semen from his chest, quickly cleaned the oil from his backside, and tossed the cloth onto the floor. Then he splashed water onto his face. Dragging a short length of towel across his dripping wet jaw, he looked in the mirror. His dark hair stood at odd ends. Short yet long, but not long enough to pull back in a queue. It would need to be fixed today. He certainly didn’t want to give Vincent an additional reason to scowl at him.
Vincent’s valet was out of the question. He wasn’t about to present himself at Vincent’s door and inquire about an offer the man made a week ago.
He studied his reflection. Perhaps he could fix it himself.
* * *
“I’ll be but a moment,” Vincent said to his driver as he exited the carriage. He went up the stone steps, through the crimson door, and passed a footman stationed in the entrance hall, ignoring the man’s offer to take his hat and gloves.
Giving his black evening coat a tug to straighten it, Vincent paused inside the open door of the brothel’s elegant receiving room. His gaze skipped past the other patrons, stopping on a petite blonde who, along with a brunette, stood rather closely to a young gentleman. Two pairs of small pale hands slid over the navy coat, toying with the buttons and caressing the man’s chest in a clear attempt to entice him to part with enough blunt for not one, but two girls. Judging by the young man’s flushed cheeks and eager grin, the girls were succeeding.
Vincent crossed the room and tapped the blonde on the shoulder. Certainly he was violating some unwritten rule by pulling the girl away from a potential client, but he didn’t much care. Marsden’s invitation had come with a price, namely his word to arrive at his aunt’s ball early enough to partner his entirely unpleasant cousin for the first dance. He was due there within the half hour.
“Holly,” he said, when his polite tap yielded no results.
She looked over her shoulder. The reprimanding scowl shifted to a welcoming smile at the sight of him. “Ah, Lord Vincent. What a pleasure to see you. An unexpected pleasure, but a pleasure nonetheless.”
After whispering in the young man’s ear, she took Vincent’s hand. Familiar with the routine, she didn’t say a word, didn’t inquire into his preferences for the evening, as she led him up to the second floor. Her hips swayed, her violet silk skirts swooshing softly with each step. Voluptuous and petite, the epitome of femininity. Holly was quite popular with the other patrons and her popularity was what initially drew him to her. No one would question what he did behind closed doors when he went upstairs with a woman like her.
She opened a door midway along the hall. Vincent went into the empty bedchamber and declined her offer of a drink.
“We are unprepared for your visit, my lord,” she said, hands clasped before her, playing the part of a gracious hostess. “If you would wait here, I will alert the staff to ready a room for you.”
“Unnecessary. This room will suffice. Send Jake in.”
Brow furrowing, she tilted her head to one side. “Jake?”
“Yes. The young man I” —fucked—“saw last week.”
Comprehension dawned on her face. “Oh.” She pressed her lips tight together, her hazel eyes crinkling at the edges.
What about his request did she find humorous? Nerves already rubbed raw, he speared her with a hard stare for daring to make sport of him.
She quickly turned her back to him and reached for the doorknob. “Yes, of course, Lord Vincent,” she said as she disappeared out the door, her voice strained, as if she held back a laugh.
Jaw clenched, Vincent let out a short, frustrated growl. He tugged off his white gloves, dropped them inside his black top hat, and set it on a chest of drawers. Then he pulled out his pocket watch. That damn whore better be quick. If she would have deposited him in his usual room, he could have used this time to look for his lost cravat pin. Instead, she’d left him in this garish, overdone crimson bedchamber which had recently been occupied. The nauseatingly sweet scent of cheap perfume and the distinct note of female arousal lingered in the room.
Brilliant. He’d arrive at his aunt’s smelling like a brothel. No one would be rude enough to mention it to him directly, but they would assume he’d stopped for a quick poke on his way to the ball.
Better they assumed that than the truth. The worry had eaten away at his stomach until he could no longer tolerate it. All he needed was a few minutes with Jake to ease the anxiety. A simple conversation—a few questions, a few answers—then he would leave. The visit purposefully structured to prevent himself from acting on his baser urges. The first Thursday of the month was weeks away, and until then, he would continue to keep those desires locked up tight, no matter how difficult it was becoming.
His evening shoes sounded against the polished floorboards as he paced the length of the room. For the past week, worries had plagued him. One concern over whether desperation had pushed Jake into the brothel’s employ had spawned another concern, then another, until they were all he could think about. Keeping him up until the wee hours of the morning and pulling his mind from his work in the afternoons. While Jake had taken to it exceedingly well, he clearly had not been accustomed to the exotic play Vincent preferred. Yet Vincent’s preferences were mild compared to some of the depraved acts that were allowed in the decadent brothel. Would Jake’s need for funds push him to engage in acts in which he’d be uncomfortable? Would Jake even be allowed to refuse a client? It took skill and control to wield a bullwhip without breaking the skin. What if Jake trusted the wrong man? What if some depraved bastard strung him up and abused him? Vincent’s strides faltered, ice-cold dread leeching into his anxiety, at the thought of Jake left crumpled on the floor, bleeding and in pain. Who would take care of him if the brothel tossed him aside like a broken toy? What if—
The doorknob clicked. Vincent spun around.
A man clad only in a pair of breeches shut the bedchamber door. Cocksure and smug, he sauntered toward Vincent. “Good evening, Lord Vincent,” he said, a sinful smirk curving his sculpted lips, as he palmed the erection visible beneath his snug-fitting black breeches. “I missed you last week.”
How had Vincent ever thought this man appealing? Tall, muscular, and with deliberately tousled golden blond hair, Cameron’s every glance, every gesture, every word from his lips promised untold sensual pleasures. Yet he was too slick, too obvious, too much of his kind. This arrogant creature was incapable of Jake’s raw honesty and uninhibited responses. “Where’s Jake?”
Cameron stopped in front of Vincent and trailed his fingertips down Vincent’s arm. With heavy-lidded eyes, he gazed up at Vincent. At six feet in height, he stood a couple inches short of Vincent’s six-two.
“He’s unavailable, but I am available. You can do with me as you please,” Cameron said, his broad shoulders rounding, his chin tipping down, in a patent gesture of submission.
Unavailable? Hot, rabid jealously invaded Vincent’s stomach at the thought of Jake with another man. Harsh and swift, it mixed violently with the noxious tangle of near-paralyzing worries. His hands balled into fists. “Where is he?”
Cameron leaned closer, his bare chest brushing Vincent’s stark white waistcoat, his hand drifting toward the placket of Vincent’s black trousers. “It matters not,” he said, dismissing Vincent’s sharp question.
“The hell it doesn’t.” Vincent shoved Cameron roughly aside and yanked open the door, prepared to drag Jake out of whatever bed he currently occupied. The muscles in his arms shook with the need to rip the man who dared touch Jake limb from limb. The sounds of his heavy breaths echoed in the empty corridor as he looked left and right. Hell, there were too many doors in this goddamn brothel. “Where is he?”
A hand gripped his forearm. “Lord Vincent, come back i
nside.”
Vincent whipped his head around to look over his shoulder. Cameron went pale, true fear reflected in his wide deep blue eyes. Every trace of arrogance vanished. Taking a quick step back, he released Vincent.
“Where is he?” Vincent asked slowly through gritted teeth, as he turned to face Cameron.
“I-I don’t know, my lord.” Cameron’s voice wavered as he spoke.
“Where?” The curt demand snapped through the air.
Swallowing hard, Cameron took another step back and shook his head.
Eyeing Cameron’s neck, Vincent opened and closed his fists. His hands would fit nicely around the man’s neck and he’d tighten his hold until the whore told him what he needed to know. “Where. Is. He.”
“I don’t know, my lord. I swear it.” Cameron continued to back up as Vincent advanced. “He’s not here.”
The man’s panic-stricken words reverberated in his head, cutting through the thick red haze of jealousy. Jake wasn’t here? His mind blanked with shock for the briefest of moments then a thunderstorm of rage roiled up within him. “Then where the hell is he?” Vincent bellowed.
Cameron flinched, as though he’d been struck. He scrambled back, bumping into the bed and throwing out his arms to keep from landing on his arse. His gaze darted anxiously about the room, his bare golden chest working against his short, shallow pants. “I don’t know. He—he left, and he hasn’t been back.”
Vincent threw back his head and let out a teeth-baring roar. But it did little to ease the riot of frustration and fury pervading every inch of his being. And if Cameron said “I don’t know” one more time, Vincent would strangle the man.
The madam. Perhaps she could answer his question. But he’d appear a desperate pathetic fool if he stormed into her office and demanded to know the whereabouts of one of her whores. He’d already made a big enough spectacle out of himself tonight. Surely the entire brothel had heard him bellowing like an enraged bedlamite.
