Another Place in Time

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “True.” Webster contemplated him. “A hundred pounds against your coat.”

  “What?”

  “It’s so often said, the coat off a man’s back, yet I’ve never played for such a thing. One should be open to new experience.” Webster’s thin lips curved. “On the first trick.”

  Apparently, he meant it. Ash swallowed. “Very well.”

  He dealt, giving himself a worthless hand. Webster proposed an exchange. Ash accepted, exchanged four cards himself, and found himself with nothing more than knaves. If only Webster would exchange again . . .

  “I stand.”

  Ash held back a curse. He couldn’t exchange if Webster didn’t, and this was not a promising hand.

  And he did not win. Webster took the trick, contemplated the cards, and looked up at Ash. One of them, Ash wasn’t sure who, breathed out hard enough to send the candle flame jumping, making shadows flicker over Webster’s eyes, darkening their hazel-green.

  “Your coat,” Webster said softly.

  Ash stood, movements a little jerky, feeling the cloth tight around his shoulders. “You’ll have to help me.”

  Webster moved round, behind him. Ash felt breath whisper over the skin of his neck, raising hairs. Webster’s hands came onto his shoulders, very softly, closing over the cloth, gently tugging it away from Ash’s body, sliding the tight material down his arms. Ash stood, not moving, as he would with his valet, feeling a touch of chill as the warm cloth was removed, leaving him standing in his shirt, with Webster behind him.

  Webster’s finger brushed Ash’s, and he jolted, but the man was merely bringing the sleeves over his hands. Ash calmed his breathing. His heart seemed to be pounding a little too fast.

  “Another hand,” Webster said softly, dropping the coat over the back of a chair.

  “What do you propose to play for now? My shirt?”

  “If you choose.”

  Ash almost laughed. “What do you stake?”

  “A thousand.”

  Ash’s breath caught, an audible little gasp. He didn’t have a good hand, but it was surely worth the risk. “You must want my shirt very much.”

  Webster moved back to his side of the card table. “It’s a fine weave,” he said with dry amusement, but his eyes looked very dark in the candlelight.

  “Very well,” Ash said. “On the next trick?”

  Webster inclined his head.

  He led. Ash lost.

  He wasn’t sure what to say. Webster didn’t speak either, simply watching, and Ash realised with incredulity and a terrible anticipation that the man was waiting for him to take it off.

  He stood. Loosened his cravat, stripped off his waistcoat. Tugged the shirt-tails free with hands that shook a little. Watched Webster watching him.

  He lifted the linen off his shoulders, over his head, knowing that as he did it, as his face caught in the soft cloth, his torso was exposed to Webster’s scrutiny. He pulled the shirt off and stood in the candlelight, bare-chested, waiting.

  Webster didn’t make a move to take the shirt from him. He was looking at Ash, and not at his face either. His lips were slightly parted. Ash could hear him breathe. The narrow gaze that lingered on Ash’s waistband was as intimate as a finger drawn along his skin. He was suddenly, painfully conscious of the blond curls that ran down his abdomen, inviting Webster’s gaze to follow them lower.

  “What now?” Ash asked, dry-mouthed.

  “Another wager. The next trick.”

  “What will you stake?”

  Webster swept up the sheaf of papers—scrawled promises to pay, banknotes—and shoved the lot into the middle of the table. “Everything.”

  “I . . .” The constriction in Ash’s throat was as bad as the constriction from his damnably, impossibly tight breeches. “And what will you have me stake?”

  “Yourself.” Webster’s voice rasped, as if he had to force the word out. “You, over the table. Legs spread. Crying my name.”

  Ash’s fingers tightened in the shirt, bunching the linen in front of his groin. This was unconscionable. Anyone would call the man out. He would surely expect an angry response . . .

  Had Webster heard whispers about him? Could this be a test, a way for Webster to ruin him more thoroughly than money ever could? But no, too dangerous: Ash could accuse him in return, tell people about that outrageous wager, and his word was as good as Webster’s.

  And he knew damned well it wasn’t a test. There was nothing of pretence in the hungry eyes that watched him. The thought made the blood pulse painfully in his loins.

  “A new deal.” The words came unbidden. “I’m not betting my house on that hand.” Or his arse, either. He didn’t say that, but the curve of Webster’s lips showed he hadn’t had to.

  Webster picked up the cards. “Sit, then. And put my shirt down.”

  Ash hesitated, but it was too late for modesty. He dropped the shirt over the chair to join the coat. Without the concealing linen in front of him, his prick seemed to strain twice as hard at the constricting cloth, thrusting out at his opponent.

  Webster fumbled the shuffle. Cards burst from his fingers and hit the tabletop with a soft rattle.

  They stared at each other. The blood was pounding in Ash’s ears, echoed by the steady throb in his cock.

  Webster scraped the cards together, shuffled again without speaking. Ash moved forward, dreamlike, and seated himself with difficulty.

  Webster dealt. “Clubs are trumps.”

  “I propose an exchange. Three cards.”

  “I accept. Exchange two.”

  “I propose. Two.”

  “I accept. One.”

  “I propose three.”

  “I refuse.”

  Ash gripped his cards tightly. His highest card was the king of diamonds, but he had two other diamonds in his hand, including the queen, and had discarded two more. There were just three diamonds left, and no guarantee one was among Webster’s five cards. If Webster held a diamond, he would have to follow suit and Ash would have won it all back. If Webster didn’t hold a diamond, if he had a void and a trump, then . . .

  Ash didn’t look at the dining table, the one Webster wanted him bent over. It took an effort of will.

  Should he lead the diamond, or the knave of spades? He’d discarded spades too; he couldn’t remember how many.

  Webster was watching him with those hungry hazel eyes.

  He’d push Ash over the table, sprawling, helpless, and take him like that, without mercy, and Ash would cry his name, he knew he would, and he would be ruined, utterly ruined . . .

  He played the king of diamonds.

  The world stopped turning as Webster looked at the single card on the table.

  Then, in a swift movement, the tall man threw his hand down, pushed his chair back, and stood. “Your trick.”

  “What?”

  “Your trick. You win. Congratulations.”

  “You haven’t played,” Ash said blankly.

  “I don’t need to put down a card to see it. Take your damned paper and get out. And your clothes, I don’t want them. Out.”

  Bewildered, Ash stood too. “But—”

  “For Christ’s sake! You’ve won, damn it. Or did you want to lose?” That was an open sneer. Webster’s face was set in an ugly, contemptuous expression. Ash felt himself flush. He reached out a hand for his shirt.

  Then he lunged for Webster’s cards.

  He took him by surprise, but Webster was fast enough. He snatched the hand up. Ash grabbed his wrist, twisting it across the table, sidestepping round until they were locked together, as if arm-wrestling, glaring into each other’s faces.

  “What the devil are you doing?”

  “Show me your hand.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Webster’s tone was full of icy anger. Ash didn’t care.

  “If you had a lower diamond, you’d have played it. If you had no trumps to your hand, you’d have accepted my exchange.” Ash might not be a master at the ca
rd table, but he was absolutely certain of his logic. Webster’s face didn’t change at all, not a jot, holding that impassive gambler’s look. “You won. Didn’t you?”

  “Are you accusing me of cheating?” The words were bitten out.

  “Show me your cards.”

  “Be damned to you.” Webster wrenched at his grip, a sudden movement, but though Ash was the shorter, he had more strength in his arms. He kept tight hold, his bare chest rising and falling, skin just brushing Webster’s coat. “Consider your words, sir, or face the consequences.”

  “You’ll call me out for accusing you of generosity?” Ash did his best to raise a sardonic eyebrow. “I tell you what. Give me your word as a gentleman that you lost that trick, and I shall accept it.”

  Webster gritted his teeth. “I shan’t stoop to answering such an absurd allegation.”

  Ash released him and stepped back. They stared at each other, breathing hard, then Webster swept up the cards from the table in a fluent move, losing the hand into the pack forever. “Take your winnings and go.”

  Winnings. His home, his life, given back to him, his manhood uncompromised. He could walk away. He was safe.

  “One more hand,” Ash said.

  “Haven’t you had enough of gambling? You overestimate your skill. And your luck.”

  “One more,” Ash repeated.

  “And what stakes do you propose?”

  “On my side?” Ash met his eyes. “As before.”

  Webster’s mouth opened slightly.

  “Me. Bent over that table. Crying your name.”

  Webster’s body was quiveringly still, like a retriever poised for game. “And . . . what should I wager against such a stake?”

  Ash paused, drawing it out for a deliberate second, then shrugged. “Do you have a shilling?”

  Webster lunged. Ash stumbled back a pace, but he was too solidly built to be knocked off balance by a lanky fellow like that, and he took his weight on the back foot. Webster’s long hands closed around his skull, driving into his hair, and his mouth came down on Ash’s own, hard and fierce. Ash responded with equal savagery, with kisses that were almost bites. Webster’s tongue was in his mouth, his skin rasping against Ash’s, the taste of brandy on them both.

  He pulled Ash closer, body to body, dragging Ash’s face upwards to meet the kiss. Ash’s nipples rubbed against Webster’s linen. Half naked, shorter, in his house. In his power. The thought thrilled through his blood, and he ground his rigid erection against Webster’s thigh, eliciting a savage gasp.

  “Christ.” Webster pulled his mouth away, the thin lips filled and reddened. “You.” He pushed Ash back, not hard, but Ash went willingly, until his arse was against the edge of the table, and Webster’s hands were at his buttons, fumbling, undoing the front fall of his breeches, attempting to push the cloth downwards.

  “Damnation. These things are tight.”

  “Not usually this tight,” Ash pointed out. “Oh Jesus.” Webster’s hand was running over the linen of his drawers, over his swollen cock. “Oh God, please.”

  “Just—God damn it.” Webster slid abruptly to his knees, tugging cloth with him. Ash’s erection sprang free, the tip glistening wet already, shining in the candlelight, and Webster leaned forward and took it in his mouth.

  Ash made an entirely involuntary high-pitched noise.

  Webster didn’t seem to notice that he’d squealed like a bashful maiden. His mouth was warm and very tight on Ash’s cock, lips gripping firmly, sliding over the head and clamping down on the shaft. Ash groaned, the sound wrung from him, and stared down at the movement of Webster’s head.

  Francis Webster, impeccable, poised, dangerous Webster, with his supercilious sneers, on his knees and gamahuching Ash as though he were paying for it.

  Ash spread his legs as far as he could and felt Webster sway forward, between his thighs. God alone knew what picture they would make, he in his boots and Webster fully clothed, sucking his cock, and oh God, he was going to spend.

  “Stop.” He tugged at Webster’s hair. “Stop.”

  Webster looked up, the grip of his lips relaxing but with Ash’s rigid prick resting in his wet, open mouth, and Ash nearly climaxed there and then at the sight. He clenched his fingers on the edge of the tabletop. “My God. Webster.”

  “Fuh—” Webster had to pull away from Ash’s prick to speak, letting it bob forlornly. “Francis.”

  Crying my name. “Francis,” Ash repeated, as though he’d never heard the sounds before. “I propose an exchange.”

  Webster—Francis—moved to stand, and Ash put out a hand, pulling him to his feet. “You’re dressed.”

  “And so I’ll stay.” Ash’s gaze flew to his face, feeling a pulse of quick alarm, but Francis wore an odd expression, almost a smile. “To have you naked while I remain clothed is surprisingly . . .” He tailed off, as if thinking of the word, then said softly, “It excites me.”

  Christ, that was frank. Ash felt his cheeks redden, but this was scarcely a time to discover modesty. Instead, he hopped backwards, propping his arse on the smooth wood of the tabletop, and lifted a booted foot to Francis. “Then make me naked.”

  Francis’ lips parted. He stood quite still for just a second, and Ash would have wondered if he’d insulted the man if his erection hadn’t been tenting his buckskins in a way that made Ash feel relieved to be unclothed. Then he knelt, very deliberately, on his knees before Ash and took hold of one of his Hessians.

  “Oh.” Francis’ grip was tight, his fingers firm, his head bowed as if in service as he worked the smooth leather from Ash’s foot. He seemed intent on the task, so Ash used the toe of his other boot to nudge gently between Francis’ legs and heard his stuttering breath.

  “Take my boots off,” he repeated, and saw Francis shudder. “And then bend me over this damned table and make good on your wager.”

  Francis didn’t reply, simply concentrating on easing the boot off. He ran his hand over Ash’s stockinged foot, meditative, and then leaned forward, kneeling up, to rub his hard swell of cock deliberately against the sensitive sole while he pleasured Ash’s prick with his mouth once more.

  Good God. Ash could never have his valet take his boots off again.

  It was exquisite torture as Francis pulled away to remove the second boot. Ash waited for the release, waited for the slide of stockings and breeches off his legs, until he stood naked as a babe, fiercely erect, with Francis crouching at his feet, looking up.

  “We had a wager,” Ash reminded him.

  Francis reached out and took Ash in hand for one long, slow, agonising lick, spiralling his tongue along the rigid length, then stood. He put a hand on Ash’s shoulder and pulled, hard, turning him. Ash braced himself against the table and bent to the pressure of Francis’ shove. Francis pushed again, kicking his legs apart, and Ash was on his chest, face against the cold wood, legs splayed. Helpless. Indecent. Ready to be fucked.

  “Christ, I’m going to spend,” he whispered.

  “Not yet. Stay there.” Francis’ hands were on his buttocks, pulling them apart, running his thumbs between. He let go, stepping away, and was back a moment later, Ash hoped with oil, but did not look round. Francis ran his finger down Ash’s cleft again. “Oh, I shall have you now, Lord Gabriel. I shall have this.”

  “I said. My friends call me Ash.”

  “And I told you that it wasn’t your friendship I desired.” Francis bent over him, thin body covering his, to curl his tongue over Ash’s earlobe. “What do your lovers call you?”

  “I, uh . . .” Ash wasn’t sure what his own mother called him, with Francis’ rigid buckskin-covered cock pressing against his bare arse and that tongue sliding over and round and into his ear. “God.”

  “I doubt that.” Francis moved his mouth to kiss Ash’s neck. “I shall call you Gabriel when I take you.” He ground his hips against Ash. His voice was low and rough. “Because you’re heavenly.”

  It was hopelessly gauche, the kind of blandi
shment the clumsiest clodhopper might offer his sweetheart. Ludicrous for Ash to blush so fiercely at it. “You can call me the Duke of Wellington as long as you get your prick in me.” He wriggled back against Francis, heard the gasp.

  “Be still.” Francis withdrew a little, then there was a finger pressing into Ash, slick with oil. “Do you like this?”

  “Not as much as—oh fuck Jesus Christ fuck.” The bastard had slipped his finger right in, without hesitation, and hit there—

  “Not as much as . . .?”

  Ash wailed, rocking from side to side against the merciless internal pressure that spiked pleasure through him. “It’s not your finger I want.” Didn’t want preparing. Loved the feeling of a thick cock pushing him open. He wondered how big Francis was.

  “Cocksure boy.” There was a tease in Francis’ voice, an almost affectionate sound. He heard the rustle of clothing. “Gabriel.” Three long syllables. Ash disliked his absurd name intensely, but there was something in the way Francis drew out its sounds that made it chime like ancient bells. “What do you say?”

  “Francis,” Ash managed. “Francis. Fuck me.”

  “With the greatest pleasure.” Francis withdrew his finger in a swift movement that made Ash gasp. “Uh—in just a moment.”

  “What?” Ash twisted round in outrage, and saw Francis, eyes shut, gripping his erection at the base with an expression that betrayed extreme discomfort. “What the devil . . .?”

  Francis opened one eye to glare at him. “I have waited five years for your arse. I have brought myself off more nights than I can count imagining you splayed on my table like the wanton slut I knew you’d be. And if I touch you now I’m going to spend like a raw recruit with his first ladybird and I am damned if I fail to give you the tupping you richly deserve.” He squeezed again, hard. “Now be silent and let me think about something else.”

  A variety of responses jostled in Ash’s brain—offence, anger, arousal, pleas for Francis to tell him more about how he looked—but he settled on the most important one. “Five years?”

  “Ill-mannered, drunken brat,” Francis said softly. “With that glorious hair and those ridiculous eyes.”