by Ava March
Vincent had every right to lash out at him. Oliver was not looking forward to it, but he was prepared. Nervous, sick with nerves, but prepared. On the long walk home, he had been struck by a rare moment of clarity, the realization cutting through the excruciating heartache.
He had nothing left to lose. No reason to hold anything back. In a few short minutes, Vincent would arrive, and he’d likely never speak to Oliver again once he left this shabby parlor. But while he was here, he’d receive nothing less than brutal honesty.
A sense of purpose stole over him, settling his stomach and clearing the anxiety from his mind. Standing, he unbuttoned his coat and draped it neatly over the back of the armchair. He put his spectacles back on, gave his white waistcoat a sharp tug, and removed the cravat pin in preparation for its return to Vincent.
He was checking the clock on the mantle when heavy footsteps sounded outside his door. Squaring his shoulders, he clasped his hands behind his back and gripped the jade pin tightly, the oval stone pressing into his palm.
You have nothing to lose.
The brass knob turned and the door opened.
Without bothering to knock, Vincent strode into Marsden’s apartments and slammed the door. “Explain yourself, Marsden,” he said, barely able to get the words past the anger and betrayal clawing at his throat. The past hour had done nothing to dim the rage, merely providing ample time for it to build to intolerable levels.
Standing across the room near the fireplace, Marsden lifted his chin. “It was the only way I could be with you. I love you. I—”
“Stop!” Vincent halted in his tracks. He wanted to clamp his hands over his ears, shut out those words. Marsden had not just said that to him.
“No, Prescot.” Marsden’s features hardened with determination. “I have loved you for so long. The feeling’s so familiar, so a part of me, I can’t remember when it first began. All I wanted was one night. I was desperate for one night with you. I understand it can never happen again, but I couldn’t live the rest of my life without being with you once. If you are worried word will get out, you needn’t be. I won’t speak a word of it. You can trust me, Prescot.”
“Trust you? You betrayed me in the worse possible manner.”
“I did not reveal my identity. That was my only deception.”
His only deception? Vincent gapped at Marsden. “I thought you were my friend.”
“I am.”
Unflinching and resolute, his steady gaze bore into Vincent’s. A dark wavy chunk of his untidy hair partially obscured one eye. Jake had brown eyes. Not blue or green, but brown. So rich and dark, they almost approached black. With a start, Vincent took a step back, distancing himself from Jake. No, Marsden. Hell, his mind refused to reconcile the image of Jake’s nude body, the very one that tempted him like no other, with that of his childhood friend. Yet when he looked at Marsden now, he saw Jake’s broad shoulders, his lean hips, and his full mouth. How many times in the past week had Vincent stopped himself from wondering how that beautiful mouth would feel wrapped around his cock?
“You pay for a prostitute’s services on the first Thursday of every month.” Marsden’s blunt words jolted Vincent back to the argument at hand. “It doesn’t matter to you who you fuck. So what’s so wrong about it being me?”
“Everything,” Vincent said, throwing up his hands in exasperation, refusing to examine why it hurt that Marsden thought so little of him. “If I would have known it was you, I…I…” Teeth clenched, Vincent growled. “Goddamn it! I worried about you.” He gave his head a sharp shake. “About Jake.”
“You did? Why?” Marsden asked, utter bewilderment on his face.
A sneer twisting his mouth, Vincent dropped his gaze to his evening shoes. “You said you were new,” he grumbled, embarrassed to admit his worry had been for naught. “That I was your first client. Some men can be downright cruel in their pursuit of pleasure. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
Vincent fought to keep from shifting his weight against the uncomfortable stretch of silence. He wanted to rub his temples, do something to ease the brutal pounding in his head. “How did you find out?” he asked, managing to infuse enough indignant anger into the demand to cover the knot of panic in his gut. He’d seen Marsden a time or two in Delacroix’s receiving room, along with many other gentlemen of the ton. If Marsden knew he didn’t actually hire a woman, then there could be others. What had Vincent done to give himself away? Or had it been obvious to everyone all along?
Marsden let out a weary sigh. “You’re Cameron’s favorite. He never stopped going on about you. He didn’t mention your name,” he added quickly. “But I knew you frequented the brothel and eventually guessed the handsome, domineering lord with the sky blue eyes was you.”
Marsden thought him handsome? Vincent’s lips quirked then thinned. “So you fucked him, too.”
“Well, not exactly.” A faint blush stained Marsden’s cheekbones. “It was the other way around.”
The knowledge that Cameron had fucked Marsden didn’t sit any better. If anything, it was worse. Much worse. The thought of another man gripping those lean hips, ramming his prick into that tight arse, kissing those full…
Oh God, he had kissed Marsden.
“Other than us both being frequently overlooked second sons to marquesses, I used to believe we had very little in common,” Marsden said, calm and composed when Vincent felt like the floor was tilting underneath him. “You succeed at everything you do. You’re damn near perfect. Whereas I’m, well…” He waved a hand, indicating himself and the shabby room in one gesture. “You have responsibilities, property to oversee, and I have absolutely no prospects. Never even attended university. But we aren’t so different after all. You know what it feels like to wonder why you’re this way. Why you aren’t like every other man who lusts after women and wants a wife to call his own. And you can understand the difficulty and the need to keep it hidden.”
Vincent’s eyes widened, cold panic gripping his spine. “I’m not like you.”
“Yes, you are.”
“The hell I’m not! I don’t bend over and take it like a woman.”
Marsden flinched, as though Vincent had punched him in the gut. “Is that what you tell yourself?” he asked, hurt and anger warring in his narrowed eyes. “That has nothing to do with it.”
“Yes, it does! I’m not a…a—”
“A what?” Marsden shot back, hands fisted at his sides, advancing swiftly until he stood chest to chest with Vincent. “Go on, say it. But calling me a sod or a molly isn’t going to change the fact you fucked me. Hell, you did more than that. A fuck is just a fuck. But you kissed me!” Marsden threw the truth violently at Vincent.
Bristling at the reminder, Vincent resisted the urge to take a defensive step back. “I’m well aware of that.”
“So why can’t you accept it? I’m not asking you to acknowledge it outside of this room. But why can’t you accept yourself for who you are?” Marsden went still then, peering through his wire-rimmed spectacles into Vincent’s face as though looking for something. His brows knit together. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re angrier at yourself than you are at me. You see it as a failure, and Lord Vincent Prescot never fails, does he?”
Vincent rolled his shoulders. It wasn’t the entire ballroom that could see right through him, just Marsden. “That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is. Vincent, it doesn’t make you less of a man, at least not in my eyes. Your father, well” —Marsden let out a condescending huff—“why should his opinion matter? He’s dim enough to choose to lavish all his affection on your jackanapes brother and give you none.”
Good old Marsden, always propping him up when he needed it most.
Suddenly tired, Vincent trudged to the couch, sat down, dropped his head, and rubbed the back of his neck. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit he respected Marsden for standing up to him. Most of his acquaintances were too eager to garner his favor and rarely contradicted him.
Yet Marsden was forcing him to examine a part of himself he had always tried to deny. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, but perhaps necessary.
How long had he been going to that brothel? Years. All the while, he told himself firmly he was simply giving those men what they wanted. That if he kept his distance, didn’t let them touch him, didn’t kiss them, or do anything but take them, then he wasn’t one of them.
With a shake of his bowed head, he snorted at his own stupidity. The truth was a bit frightening, but he couldn’t deny it any longer. He was a goddamn sod, and he went to that brothel because he wanted a man. The proof stood but a few paces from him. If anyone else had tried to confront him, he would have vehemently denied it, even gone so far as to challenge the man to pistols at dawn. But Marsden, his old friend, understood him better than he understood himself.
He had felt lust, plain, empty lust for all those other men. But he had kissed Marsden. Worried about him. Had this instinctive need to keep him safe, close by his side. And he couldn’t get the man out of his head, no matter how much he tried.
So where did this leave them? He didn’t want to lose Marsden’s friendship, but could they go on as they had, after all of this?
Was that what he really wanted? Or did he want more?
He didn’t lift his head when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching.
“Just know there’s one person who accepts you, and loves you for who you are, even if you don’t feel that way about yourself.” Marsden let out a heavy exhale. “Here. I know how much it means to you. I apologize for taking it and for upsetting you tonight. I just”—he sighed again, the sound tired, beyond defeated—“needed you to know it had been me.”
The pure heartache in Marsden’s voice tugged at Vincent’s chest, and all of his questions answered themselves. He wanted more.
Standing, he closed Marsden’s hand over the jade pin. “Keep it. You need it more than I. Perhaps it will keep your damn cravat straight.” He gazed into Marsden’s deep brown eyes. All traces of his earlier composure were gone, leaving only stark, raw vulnerability. “You said you understood it couldn’t happen again.”
Teeth digging into his bottom lip, Marsden nodded. Every line in his body drew taut, as if he was bracing himself for the worst.
“But it can,” Vincent said. “We just need to be very discreet.”
Brow furrowing, Marsden tilted his head slightly to one side. Good, about time Marsden got a taste of being confused. “So…your Thursday appointment. You want me to be there, at the brothel?”
“I have no reason to go back there again.” Vincent snorted in derision. “To think of all the money I wasted when I could have had you all along.”
Suspicion flashed across Marsden’s face. He snatched his hand from Vincent’s grasp. “What? You just want to use me for what? A cheap fuck? Christ, I can’t believe I said that. But I can’t be with you again unless I know I mean something to you. I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m not asking for your heart. Just to be more than an anonymous man to bugger whenever the urge strikes you.”
“Marsden, don’t be ridiculous. You’re more than that. How much more…I…well…” He winced, opened his mouth to try again then gave up. Frustrated, he scrubbed his hands over his face.
The concept of being in love with a man was simply too foreign for his mind to wrap around. Yet he believed Marsden loved him. He felt it, and that affection felt right. But he wasn’t at all sure he was capable of returning those feelings. Everything was much too new. Maybe with time…
But what if Marsden needed to hear the words now? Could he speak them, knowing he didn’t feel them? Could he lie so blatantly to his friend, if that was what it would take to have Marsden again?
“Hell, don’t strain yourself, Prescot,” Marsden said, humor lacing the exasperation in his voice. He tugged Vincent’s hands from his face. “Your answer will suffice. For now.”
With one hand, he grabbed Vincent’s head, pulled him down, and crushed his mouth against his. Bold and aggressive, a hot familiar tongue swept into Vincent’s mouth.
Marsden’s kissing you.
The thought passed through his mind. Then the flicker of awkwardness vanished in a flare of lust as a closed fist pressed against the small of his back, jerking him closer. Vincent grabbed Marsden’s arse and kissed him back, slanting his mouth firmly over Marsden’s, letting lose the forbidden desires that had been locked inside him for so very long.
Marsden broke the kiss, his fingers still tangled in Vincent’s hair, holding him close. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.” His hoarse whisper tickled the wet surface of Vincent’s lips.
Needing to remind Marsden just who was in charge, Vincent bit Marsden’s full lower lip and held it between his teeth. It took less than a second for Marsden to submit, his dark lashes sweeping down, the aggression slipping from his body, his hand dropping to rest on Vincent’s shoulder. The sight was so absolutely beautiful, so filled with seeped in trust, this willingness of Marsden’s to turn himself over so completely. An awed smile flittered across Vincent’s mouth then he flicked his tongue over that enticing lip, soothing any lingering sting. “Where’s your bed?”
Marsden jerked his head to the left, indicating a closed door.
“Good. I want you on it.”
Marsden blinked.
Vincent straightened and glared down at Marsden. “Now.”
Marsden practically ran to the door, throwing it open. There was a thump followed by a muttered curse. “Damn boots.”
Vincent followed at a slightly more dignified pace and glanced about the dark room. The light seeping in from the parlor illuminated the back of Marsden’s white waistcoat as the man leaned down and tossed two objects, likely the damn boots, toward the wall. As Marsden scurried about the room doing God knew what, Vincent lit a candle on the chest of drawers. Hell, Marsden needed a maid. How could the man tolerate this mess?
Stepping on the cravats littering the floor, Marsden darted from the washstand to a table beside the rumpled bed. Shoulders hunched, he shoved something into the drawer.
Four long strides took Vincent across the room. He crowded him, using his larger frame to keep the other man from turning from the table. He placed his hand over Marsden’s closed fist on the drawer, holding it open. “What have we here?”
Marsden stiffened. “Ah…nothing.”
He looked over Marsden’s shoulder. Holy hell. Only a true devotee would amass a collection of that size, and he was certain Marsden had sampled every one at least once. The thought made Vincent’s prick jump against the placket of his trousers. Somehow he kept from grinding against Marsden’s firm arse, from sinking his teeth into the man’s shoulder, and instead managed to speak with an arrogant, unaffected drawl. “Doesn’t look like nothing to me. Which one is your favorite?”
Marsden’s fingertips hovered over a black marble dildo, the largest of the bunch.
“Why that one?”
“It’s…it’s almost the size of your cock,” he whispered, his voice wavering. He touched the marble crown. “But not quite long enough.”
“No, it isn’t. Is it?” Vincent smirked, smug as hell that not one of the dildos in Marsden’s rather vast collection could surpass his own prick. “And if you’re very very good, you’ll get the real thing tonight.”
Marsden’s answering whimper shot straight to Vincent’s groin. Blood rushed to his cock so quickly it left him momentarily light-headed. When Marsden pulled his hand from the drawer, Vincent released him. The jade pin clattered as Marsden dropped it into a dented little silver tray on the table. There was that tug on his chest again as Vincent realized he had kept the pin right beside his bed, mere inches from his lumpy white pillow. Vincent would bet everything he owned that for the past week the man had never let the pin out of his sight. When he had given it to Marsden, he’d done so hoping he would wear it many times in the future. Though they would need to keep their physical relationship hidden from p
rying, judging eyes, Vincent was quite fond of the idea of him wearing something of his outside this room.
Stepping closer so his chest brushed Marsden’s tense shoulder blades, Vincent reached around his lean waist. “We’ll need this.” He took the glass bottle of oil out of the drawer and set it on the table. “The others can wait. I do want to see exactly what you do with your favorite toy, but…later.” Vincent dragged his lips over his ear, the tousled dark hair tickling his nose as he inhaled the other man’s scent.
Marsden gasped, a shudder gripping his body. Before Vincent gave into the impulse to throw him on the bed and pounce on him, he took a few steps back. He grabbed a nearby chair, moved it closer to the bed, and sat down.
“Take off your clothes.”
At the stuttered hitch in Marsden’s breaths, Vincent gripped the wooden arms of the chair.
“Now,” he said, infusing a hard edge of command into his voice.
Marsden turned to face him. With shaking hands, he attacked the buttons on his white waistcoat. He tossed the garment in the general direction of the chest of drawers then divested himself of his cravat, spectacles, shirt, and shoes in a few seconds. He kicked his trousers and drawers free of his feet. Then the flurry of motion ceased.
Leaning back in the chair, Vincent kept his expression blank as he soaked up the sight of his naked body. He had indulged Marsden at the brothel, but never again would he allow him to hide under the cover of darkness. The faint firelight hadn’t done the man’s body justice. He was all lean, strong lines—compact and sleek at the same time. His golden skin, a gift from his Italian grandmother, molded smoothly over solid muscle. Vincent’s fingers itched to take hold of those copper nipples, to twist the sensitive tips until Marsden sobbed for more. Unlike Vincent, the only hair on his torso was a thin line running from his navel to the dark thatch on his groin. Vincent hadn’t even touched him yet, and already his erection jutted from his body, ballocks drawn up tight.
