Throw His Heart Over

by Sebastian Nothwell

  Lindsey mounted his own gelding at speed. A groom opened the gates, and they rode off side-by-side. Out of the corner of his eye, Lindsey watched Aubrey breathe deep of the fresh country air—breathe deep for the first time in weeks—and marvelled at how quickly he had attained such a fine seat, with supple waist and shoulders rolled back, combined with the riding jacket and breeches to make a splendid figure of him.

  They rode on across fields and into woodland until they came upon a meadow fit for their picnic luncheon—cucumber sandwiches and muffins with jam. Having polished this off, Lindsey stripped down to his shirtsleeves, leaned back against the trunk of an accommodating oak, and found Aubrey leaning against him in turn. The warm weight of him thrilled through Lindsey’s frame. He slung his arm around him, holding him snug, and Aubrey in turn raised his head to meet Lindsey’s adoring look with his own affectionate gaze.

  And the clouds, thank God, did not turn grey.

  They returned to the stable yard just as the sun began to sink in the sky. Amongst the grooms, Fletcher looked particularly relieved to see the geldings returned without empty saddles. Having turned over their steeds, Lindsey and Aubrey went into the house and upstairs to their bedroom to change.

  “What do you think of your second ride?” Lindsey asked him, bending to remove his own top-boots.

  “I wouldn’t say it’s over quite yet,” Aubrey remarked.

  Lindsey gave him a quizzical glance and found his deep brown eyes sparkling with mischief. This was all the warning he received before Aubrey captured his mouth in a kiss.

  More than willing to be thus entangled, Lindsey let Aubrey guide him back towards the bed. Two pairs of hands undid buttons and ties all the while, jackets and waistcoats dropping to the floor in heaps. Lindsey took particular delight in peeling the skin-tight breeches off of Aubrey’s thighs, already slick with sweat. By the time he’d laid him bare, Aubrey had fallen back upon the bed, his prick standing taut and flush with a pearl of seed at its tip. A glance up to meet Aubrey’s half-lidded eyes and glimpse of the wicked smile upon those bow-shaped lips, and Lindsey required no further suggestion to lick it clean. He savoured the taste of Aubrey upon his tongue as he circled the head of his prick, then swallowed the whole of him down. Aubrey’s groan of pleasure rang in his ears. Calloused fingers ran through his hair, clenching as he traced the pulsing vein, then releasing to smooth down what they’d ruffled. A husky whisper passed over his head, too soft for him to catch its words.

  Lindsey let Aubrey’s prick slip from between his lips and gave him an enquiring look.

  Aubrey, his pale cheeks burning scarlet with desire, spoke again, his voice louder but no less hoarse. “Come here.”

  Lindsey crawled up to kiss him, cradling his sharp jaw in his own soft palms.

  Aubrey devoured him in return, clutching him like a man drowning—then used his hold to flip Lindsey onto his back on the bed. Lindsey offered no resistance, only moaning in protest when Aubrey pulled away.

  It was then Lindsey realised Aubrey had the jar of Vaseline.

  Quick as lightning, and twice as hot, Aubrey slicked his fingers and took both their cocks in his fist. They slid together in his iron grip, two swords in a single sheath, sending unspeakable sensations up through Lindsey’s frame, playing his nerves like harp-strings. Lindsey’s back arched beneath him, his hips rolled of their own accord, his breaths coming in desperate gasps.

  Then, unaccountably, Aubrey released them.

  But before Lindsey had gathered breath enough to complain, Aubrey straddled his waist, lined Lindsey’s prick up with his hole, and leaned back upon it—just as he had the very night he’d claimed Lindsey for the first time.

  Now, as then, the sensation of slipping inside—his sensitive cock-head squeezing through that tight ring of muscle, and the swift, slick thrust of his length following, engulfed in a passage soft as velvet and blazing hot—drove all thought from his head, and cast him into blissful oblivion, threatening to send him over the brink in an instant. He held on by his nails, digging into Aubrey’s thighs with trembling hands, and feeling the flexing of powerful muscles beneath his fingertips.

  Aubrey slid upwards, sacrificing almost all the length of Lindsey’s prick, leaving only the head inside as he kissed him. Then back again, in one swift thrust—and forth, a kiss—and back—

  At the third kiss, Lindsey loosed his hold upon Aubrey’s thighs to grasp him by the shoulders and hold him in place. “For God’s sake—if you don’t want me to spend at once—!”

  He had hardly breath enough to say it, and the kiss Aubrey used to silence him left him more breathless still. When Aubrey pulled away again, Lindsey feared himself lost, until Aubrey sat back upon Lindsey’s prick and rolled his hips. A less intense yet no less enjoyable sensation for Lindsey, and, judging by how Aubrey threw his head back with a choked-off gasp, far more pleasurable for his partner.

  Lindsey rolled his own hips experimentally, and knew no small measure of satisfaction as he watched Aubrey’s whole frame tremble. He let his fingers fall to Aubrey’s thighs again, his thumbs tracing the crest of his jutting hipbones, holding Aubrey down upon his prick as he rolled into him. Aubrey squirmed in his grasp, his own hand sliding down his front to grasp his bouncing cock. Lindsey adjusted his own grip to allow himself to join Aubrey there, to tangle their fingers together around his prick, knotting around it, twisting his wrist as he pulled. Aubrey cried out in ecstasy, leaping off of Lindsey’s cock only to slam down upon it again and again, harder and harder, until—

  With a final thrust down onto Lindsey, Aubrey stiffened, his back arching taut as a strung bow, and his cock pulsing in Lindsey’s hand, spilling over his fingers. He trembled within as well as without, and this last sensation, combined with the sight of his exquisite pleasure, brought Lindsey to his own climax. The world faded to white, and Lindsey knew nothing beyond his own dear Aubrey.

  Some moments later, he knew not how long, Lindsey roused himself to find Aubrey collapsed half on top of him, with his face nestled into his collar. Lindsey bent to kiss the crown of his head and found the scent of horses still in his hair. Aubrey stirred, lifting himself just enough to meet Lindsey’s gaze with an expression as fond as his own.

  “I think,” Aubrey murmured, “I prefer to ride stallions.”

  Lindsey laughed and kissed him again.

  ~

  Chapter Ten

  Dear Mr Warren,

  I write to humbly request the honour of your company at the — Gallery in London on the evening of Tuesday next. The painting to be exhibited, called “Icarus Fallen,” will likely be of particular interest to you and your friends.

  Your servant,

  Mr John Halloway

  Aubrey received the invitation over breakfast on Saturday. He passed it over to Lindsey, whose sapphire-blue eyes swiftly ran across the page, a handsome smile spreading on his face all the while.

  “Shall we go?” he asked, returning the letter to Aubrey.

  Aubrey supposed they might.

  They arrived at the London house on Monday. Tuesday morning found Aubrey’s stomach in knots, and this condition had not improved by evening. He donned the black tie and tails Lindsey had bought him, though his trembling fingers made the tie portion difficult. He stood in front of the washstand mirror for many frustrating minutes, until, over the shoulder of his own reflection, he caught sight of Lindsey and dropped his hands.

  Lindsey, already impeccably attired and looking every inch the handsome gentleman, crossed the room with a smile. His hands alighted upon Aubrey’s shoulders, and Aubrey allowed himself to be turned around to face him. Lindsey’s long and elegant fingers made short work of the tie.

  “I thought I might go on ahead,” said Aubrey, “and meet you there.”

  Lindsey paused in smoothing out the black bows and raised his brows in evident confusion. “If you’d like…?”

  “It might attract attention,” Aubrey explained. “For a baronet to arrive in the company
of the model.”

  Realisation dawned upon Lindsey’s features, bringing with it a crestfallen expression. Aubrey felt sorry to have prompted it, but he couldn’t compromise Lindsey’s reputation, and by extension, his safety. Had Aubrey a less-distinctive face, they might get away with it. But the same burn scars Halloway had rendered with such precision marked Aubrey out as the only possible model for the painting.

  “I suppose it’s for the best,” Lindsey conceded in muted tones—yet a note of hope remained. “Halloway will look after you until I arrive.”

  Aubrey hadn’t considered he would, though now that Lindsey mentioned it, he supposed an artist owed his model as much. “A quarter-hour’s difference should suffice.”

  Lindsey agreed to it, and Aubrey set out for the gallery alone.

  Both the London house and the gallery were in the West End, which made the walk a shorter one than Aubrey was used to. As he neared the appointed address, the number of rattling carriages and hansom cabs increased, discharging gentlemen passengers who continued on foot in the same direction as Aubrey. The reasoning for this became apparent, as the street directly outside the gallery was too crowded for through-traffic, and indeed, clusters of gentlemen in identical black tailcoats spilled out of the gallery door into the road. The murmur of the crush within rumbled outward. Before he even reached the entrance, Aubrey felt the radiating heat of the crowd. As he awaited an opportunity to slip inside, a pair of gentlemen stepped out.

  “—an outrage,” one gentleman said to his companion, donning his silk top hat as he spoke. “An absolute outrage.”

  His companion said nothing, but stroked his walrus moustache and nodded in agreement as they walked on to hail a hansom.

  Aubrey’s knotted stomach turned. He swallowed down his rising gall and pressed on into the gallery.

  Much like the street outside, gentlemen filled the gallery interior, all speaking at once in hundreds of separate conversations rising into a mutual roar. Electric light blazed from the chandeliers to illuminate the paintings covering every inch of the walls. Waiters balancing trays of champagne flutes sailed through the crowd with well-practised ease. Aubrey found his path more difficult. The snatches of conversation he caught as he passed didn’t ease his nerves.

  “—absolutely disgraceful—”

  “—shame to cover up such handsome features with scars—”

  “Warren!”

  The sound of his own name went through Aubrey’s frame like a lightning bolt. He whirled around to find Halloway with champagne flute in hand and a broad grin.

  “Come here,” he called. “Let me shake your hand—find you a glass—no? Very well, as you wish—but do allow me to introduce you to my friend—Mr Talbot—the proprietor of this fine establishment.”

  Aubrey turned in the direction Halloway indicated to face an unassuming middle-aged man with both hair and moustache waxed with precision.

  “How do you do,” said Mr Talbot.

  Aubrey replied in kind, though he couldn’t help noticing how Mr Talbot’s eyes had widened and his smile had frozen stiff. For, as Aubrey turned, he had revealed the other side of his face to the gallery owner, and with it, his burn scars.

  “Mr Warren,” said Halloway, clapping his free hand upon Aubrey’s shoulder, “is the celebrated model.”

  Aubrey knew as well as anyone that fact was immediately obvious to all who set eyes upon both his own face and the painting, but he appreciated Halloway’s introduction, nonetheless.

  “Indeed,” said Mr Talbot. He’d recovered most of his good manners by then, though his gaze yet lingered on the melted portion of Aubrey’s ear. “I thank you, sir, for making such a splendid work possible. Your visage is a most inspiring one.”

  Aubrey tried not to read too much into the compliment, lest he find more insult than the gallery owner had intended, and thanked him.

  “Forgive me for abandoning you so soon,” Mr Talbot continued. “But I’m afraid business calls me elsewhere. Good evening, Mr Warren. It was a pleasure meeting you. I hope to see you again soon.” With a bow to Halloway and Aubrey both, he vanished into the crowd as easily as a ghost.

  “Talbot thinks we might have an offer on the painting this very night,” Halloway announced, drawing Aubrey’s attention.

  “That’s good,” Aubrey replied, though his uncertainty turned the remark into a question.

  “It’s very good,” Halloway confirmed. “Better than I’d hoped—though no less than I feel it deserves, if I may be honest at the risk of being arrogant. Have you seen it yet?”

  When Aubrey admitted he’d not yet glimpsed the painting hanging in the gallery, Halloway bid him follow and carved a path through the crowd to the wall. Every wall in the gallery bore artworks from floor to ceiling. Yet even amongst the clutter, Aubrey’s eyes immediately alighted upon the massive spread of Icarus Fallen.

  In the makeshift studio of the Wiltshire house ballroom, the painting-in-progress had sat upon its easel at eye level with all who gazed upon it. In the gallery, it hung a little higher, forcing Aubrey to crane his neck upward towards its majesty. The painting had a glow about it, illuminating from within the pristine details of the feathers on the half-melted waxwork wings and the sculptural representation of Aubrey’s own body.

  “What do you think?” Halloway asked.

  Aubrey didn’t quite know what to think. It felt odd, to gaze upon himself from without, as a fixed image rather than the fluid and responsive reflection in a mirror. He thought Halloway had exaggerated certain features—the muscles of his arms and shoulders appeared in sharper definition than life, though still as slender as he knew his own limbs. And the burns, of course, Halloway had rendered with perfect accuracy. These, too, seemed to glow along with the rest of his flesh, as if the heat which had scarred him still blazed.

  “It’s… impressive,” Aubrey said at last.

  As he spoke, he felt his words a paltry offering in the face of the tremendous service Halloway had done to his image. Yet the wry smile on Halloway’s cheek showed he understood the true meaning behind the speech, and he clapped a friendly hand upon Aubrey’s shoulder before another patron demanded his attention and, with apologies, he too disappeared into the larger crowd.

  Aubrey remained by the painting, alone within the throng. Icarus Fallen compelled his gaze for reasons apart from vanity. Yet as he looked, the conversation around him drew his attention, and he glanced about the crowd from person to person, following the snatches of speech.

  “—a Romantic approach, rendered with such realism—”

  “—repulsive, perhaps, but tender as well—”

  “—make an offer,” a silver-haired gentleman said to the gallery owner.

  It took Aubrey a moment to realise the significance of this last exchange. When at last it broke over him like an Arctic wave, stopping his heart as much as his feet, he had to exert a great force of will to prevent himself from whipping his head towards the source. He resumed his lackadaisical course through the crowd until he came just near enough to observe the speakers out of the corner of his eye.

  “I’m afraid,” the gallery owner replied, “the work is already sold.”

  This revelation surprised Aubrey as much as it evidently shocked the silver-haired gentleman. A powerfully-built individual, with his black evening suit tailored to show his form off to the best effect despite or perhaps because of his age, he seemed unaccustomed to hearing he couldn’t have what he wanted. Indeed, from the way his ice-blue eyes flew wide at the gallery owner’s words, he found himself totally flabbergasted for the first time in all his life.

  “Whatever price has been paid,” the silver-haired gentleman said when he’d recovered himself, “I will double it!”

  Aubrey’s growing disbelief was tempered by the gallery owner’s reaction. Rather than surrender to the new and no doubt astronomical bid, he simply leaned in closer to the silver-haired gentleman and, in a very low voice, hardly moving his lips, said a few short words Aubr
ey couldn’t quite catch.

  The gentleman’s face drained of colour, its pallor almost matching his silver-white hair. He swallowed hard. “I see. In that case, I’m afraid I must rescind my offer.”

  The gallery owner gave him a gracious nod and departed, slipping back into the crowd to go about his business.

  Aubrey kept an eye on the silver-haired gentleman. When the gentleman had first expressed interest in the painting, and then confirmed it, Aubrey had a moment of concern that perhaps the gentleman had been a former client of his from his days as a telegraph-boy. But upon performing the usual mental test for such a thing—attempting to picture the stranger without his clothes on—Aubrey found he had no recollection of the gentleman. He was, to all appearances, merely an admirer of art, with a passion for this work in particular.

  The silver-haired gentleman watched the gallery owner’s departure, then turned back to the painting. He raised his eyes to it as if compelled, and as he stood there gazing upon it, a curious expression came over his distinguished features.

  Aubrey had anticipated the audience for Icarus Fallen would express disgust at the raw depiction of such wretched wounds. After overhearing the silver-haired gentleman’s conversation with the gallery owner, he amended his prediction to account for a few individuals’ lust for the nude male body on full display.

  But though there was certainly desire in the silver-haired gentleman’s eyes, Aubrey didn’t find the lustful gleam he knew so well. Instead, the silver-haired gentleman’s face showed a simple want, equal parts raw and wistful, and a slow dawning of heartbreak at the reminder that this work of art could not be his. At length, the heartbreak overcame the desire, and the gentleman turned away whilst blinking back a faint glimmer of tears.

  In doing so, he turned towards Aubrey.

  Aubrey quickly spun himself away from the silver-haired gentleman, but not before their gazes met. Recognition flashed in those ice-blue eyes. Rather than confront it, Aubrey dove into the crowd and let its current pull him away from his anonymous admirer.