by Tamara Allen
“My eyes are not ridiculous.”
“They are. Nobody else has eyes like that. Madder blue, it’s called, that shade of grey-purple.”
Francis knew the colour of his eyes. Ash felt an odd lurch in his chest.
“And you were always there.” Francis released himself and stepped forward. “Forcing your presence on your elders, uninvited. Insisting on gambling, when you are so very unsuited to the gaming tables. Demanding my attention.” He brushed his fingers lightly over Ash’s arse, then reached for the oil. “Setting yourself at me.”
“I never set myself at you,” protested Ash, a man sprawled naked over a table, to the man who was going to fuck him.
“Didn’t you?” Francis’ thumbs were pulling him wide, and Ash felt the blunt pressure of his erection. “You didn’t want me?” He pushed in, against the tight ring of muscle, steady and firm. “When you looked at me throughout those interminable nights, when you thought I wasn’t watching you, when you kept trying to stammer your inarticulate apologies, did I misunderstand your intentions?” He closed his hands on Ash’s hipbones and paused there, with Ash trembling in his grasp. “Have I misunderstood you now?”
“No!”
Francis rewarded him with another, deeper stroke, then stilled again. His thumbs circled on Ash’s oversensitive skin. “I’m delighted to hear it. And you never thought of this before?” He gave just the slightest push of his hips, still only halfway in, a little taunt. “Hmm?”
He pushed again. Ash’s fingers scrabbled for a purchase on the smooth wood. He was utterly at Francis’ mercy, half penetrated, desperate for more, unable to brace himself. The helplessness was unbearably exciting. He took a little sobbing breath.
“I want you, Gabriel,” Francis said softly. “I have wanted you for a long time. And now I have you.” He clamped a hand on Ash’s shoulder and thrust.
Ash screamed, throwing his head back, careless of discretion in Francis’ capable hands. “Christ! Again.”
“My name,” Francis said through his teeth.
“Francis. Francis. Oh.”
Another relentless thrust and Francis’ hips were against Ash’s skin. He paused, breathing deeply, then began a steady rhythm, bearing down on Ash with a twisting motion that made him jerk and flail.
“I have sat at the gaming table so many nights and dreamed of pulling you over it, pushing my cock into your mouth, your hand, your arse . . .”
“Uuh.” Ash was beyond speech, lips pressed to the varnished wood. Francis ground into him, stretching, pleasure and pain and pleasure of pain setting Ash’s nerves aflame. “More. All of it. Oh Jesus, Francis, I won’t last. I’m going to come, I need to—”
“Keep your hands on the table. Don’t touch yourself.”
“Please.” Ash was begging, nakedly desperate, writhing under him. “Please let me.”
“Under—no—circumstances.” Francis sounded desperate himself. “Christ, you like a good ride, don’t you? Who’s been having you when it should have been me?”
Nobody worth remembering. A stranger in Hyde Park; some fellow in a darkened molly house; occasional relief with a friend who shared his tastes. Bodies, but sturdy ones; faces, but smiling ones. Nobody with a long lean build and a narrow stare that stripped him to his skin. Nobody he’d wanted.
Ash shook his head, and Francis took a handful of his hair, pulling his head back. “Gabriel. I want all of this.” His other hand gripped Ash’s thigh. “All of you, for me. I’ll make you mine.” Francis was panting, sweating, losing his rhythm, and Ash squirmed helplessly, the friction of his cock against the smooth wood so very nearly enough. “I’ll fuck you till you won’t ever need another man.”
“Anything. God. Just let me come now. Oh God please, please . . .”
Francis drove into him once more, at just that perfect angle, and Ash was spending, almost painfully, wailing with the fierce pleasure, feeling Francis jerking and shuddering inside him, flooding him with heat. He flopped forwards, gasping, and Francis’ head came to rest heavily on his back.
“Sweet Jesus,” Ash managed and felt a nod against his skin.
They lay over the table for a few moments until Francis withdrew with care and pulled Ash over to the couch, where they sprawled together face to face, Ash’s bare and sweaty skin pressed against Francis’ still-clothed body. Francis’ arm was round Ash’s back. He contemplated Ash’s face for a moment and then, with grave deliberation, dropped a kiss on each eyelid. “Madder blue.”
“So you said. Did you mean it?”
“Of course. I can show you samples—”
“Not my eyes. What you told me.” Ash felt himself flush, but he had to know. “Five years?”
Francis trailed a finger down his face. “Five extremely long years of wondering what you’d do if I suggested exactly this.”
“Why didn’t you suggest it?” Ash sounded almost plaintive in his own ears. The idea that he could have had Francis all this time was painful to contemplate.
Francis tilted a brow. “Why didn’t I make possibly unwanted sodomitical advances to the younger brother of a man with whom I have a long-standing mutual animosity?”
Right. Of course. If Ash had taken umbrage, if he’d gone to Mal and given him that weapon against Francis . . . He groaned. “Curse Mal. He’s such a damned nuisance.”
“I’d put it more strongly.”
“It’s not enough for him to be a bully and a brute. He has to interfere in my intimate relations as well?” Ash scowled. “Oaf.”
“True, but may I suggest we forget about him for now? I’d much rather think of you.”
Ash couldn’t argue. He wanted to hear a great deal more about Francis thinking of him. “So why did you make your sodomitical advances now?”
“I saw you in Millay’s.” Ash’s mouth dropped open. “You were letting a guardsman lead you upstairs. Which at least indicated that my, uh, instincts about you were correct, so—”
“No, wait. I was masked.” Millay’s was a house of absolute discretion, a meeting place for those of Ash’s inclinations. Everyone wore dominoes in the public rooms. The idea that anyone had identified him was appalling. So was the realisation that if he’d been in less of a hurry, Francis might have approached him. The guardsman hadn’t even been that good.
“Masked.” Francis gave him an affectionate look. “Dear Gabriel. As if a scrap of black silk would disguise that hair or that delectable form. The masks are, at best, a sop.”
Now he considered matters, it wouldn’t have been hard for him to identify Francis either. “I suppose so. But that was six months ago.”
“Indeed it was.” Francis kissed his ear. “I have been a very frustrated man.”
“Is that what last night was about?” Ash sat up slightly. “Did you plan this? To—to seduce me?”
“The word is ‘ blackmail.’” Francis rubbed at his face. “And no, I did not intend it, and I’m damned ashamed of myself for suggesting it.”
“Well, I’m not,” Ash assured him, slinging a bare leg over Francis’ buckskin. “It was a remarkably good idea, to my mind.”
“It was unconscionable behaviour, and so was last night. My temper got the better of me. It is really not my habit to ruin feckless young men who couldn’t play a decent hand of piquet to save their souls, and I have received some strong representations about my conduct.”
“From whom?”
“Richard Vane, amongst others.” Ash blinked, unable to see why the leader of the Ricardians would give a damn for his affairs. Francis evidently saw his bewilderment. “Richard is a very moral man. And right, damn him. I took your money out of frustration and anger and a great deal of thwarted need, and that was hardly the act of a gentleman.”
“I chose to play.”
“You did, but you are quite startlingly inept. I played at too great an advantage.”
“It was a fair game,” Ash objected. “You won.”
“It was a fair game but not a fair contest. My i
ntention tonight—my original intention—was to redress my error of judgement and restore your property without hurting your pride.” Francis grimaced. “I fell very short of that.”
“My pride is intact,” Ash assured him. “I can’t say the same for the rest of my anatomy.” Francis gave a quick bark of laughter. Ash had never heard him laugh before, and felt himself grinning ridiculously in response. “But about that, the winnings . . .”
“Firstly, I shall take grave exception if you call me a liar again. Secondly, I should be quite hurt if you gave way to my desires only to flee the country on the morrow. I hope I’m better than that.” Francis kissed his ear. “We shall say that we wagered the lot on a roll of the dice and you won. Nobody would believe it if we mentioned cards.”
“I’m not sure I should accept that.”
“I wish you will. For my reputation, if not your comfort. I should prefer not to be known as a ruiner of young men.” Ash looked down at his naked body and raised a brow meaningfully. Francis gave him a look. “You know what I mean. There is quite enough bad blood between me and your brother without adding to it.”
Ash took a deep breath. “True. Very well. I can’t deny, I’d rather not flee to the Continent. I don’t even speak French. Francis . . .”
“Mmm?”
“Will we do this again?”
Francis looked down at him, arm tightening. “You didn’t answer my question, you know. What do your lovers call you?”
It had tended to be Ash, from his friend, or Sir, from the anonymous and the paid. “By lover, do you mean tupping?”
“Not just that, no. I mean one with whom you hope to have a long and pleasurable association. One to whom you are . . . special.”
“I’ve never had a lover, then.” Ash looked up into that shrewd, intelligent face, the eyes fixed on his, and plucked up his courage. “But, if I did, I think he might call me Gabriel.”
“So do I.” Francis kissed him again. “Though I have a condition. If you are to be my lover, my Gabriel, I must insist that you learn to play piquet.”
Ash groaned. “Oh God, really?”
“I shall teach you.”
“I doubt you can.”
Francis tapped him on the nose. “You underestimate yourself. You do that quite often, I think.”
Ash wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was scarcely the most important question. “Will we wager on it?”
“Of course.”
“This sort of wager?”
“It’s quite possible.”
Ash clicked his tongue. “Playing with you, Mr. Webster? I fear you’ll ruin me.”
“It is my aim, and would be my privilege, to ruin you for all others for a very long time to come.”
Ash leaned into his embrace, burying his face in Francis’ shirt to hide his smile. “In that case . . . I hope you have a shilling.”
About KJ Charles
KJ Charles is an editor and writer. She lives in London with her husband, two kids, an out-of-control garden and an increasingly murderous cat.
KJ writes mostly romance, gay and straight, frequently historical, and usually with some fantasy or horror in there.
Contact
Website: kjcharleswriter.com
Twitter: twitter.com/kj_charles
Facebook: facebook.com/kjcharleswriter
Email: [email protected]
Warren Burch paused on his mother’s stoop and set his suitcase at his feet. It’d been a long, long day, with his train delayed several times by troop transports. In the waning light, he glanced around the familiar front porch. A dozen little things needed doing; there was paint peeling on the railing, a crack in the mortar of the steps. Things that should have been fixed months ago, if he hadn’t been in Philadelphia, and Charlie . . . He suddenly missed Charlie with a visceral ache. The old house felt like home, and yet it would never be the same. He straightened his shoulders and raised his hand to the doorbell.
A sudden crash and tinkle of broken glass off to his left made him jump and whirl around. There was nothing visible on the twilit street. He heard a burst of loud, unpleasant laughter and the sound of running feet from the other side of the hedge between his mother’s house and the neighbor’s. Warren leaped down the front steps, stumbling on his bad leg, and managed a lopsided run down the front walkway. Despite his effort at speed, when he rounded the hedge all he could see was the back view of a trio of young ruffians, already halfway to the next corner, boisterously jostling each other as they sprinted away.
For a moment he thought about chasing them, but they were sure to be faster. No hope. No point. Instead he turned to the house behind the hedge. It was like his mother’s—small, boxy, made of yellow brick, with four front steps and a white door between large, matching front windows. When he’d last been living at home, Mrs. Richardson had owned it, grimly clinging to her independence. Now one of the two windows was covered by a board, nailed to the frame. The other was shattered, a big hole smashed in the center with jagged glass shards clinging around the edges. Warren only noticed the breakage in passing, because his gaze was drawn irresistibly to the front door, and the big swastika painted in dripping red on its smooth surface.
As he stared, the door opened. A man stepped through onto the stoop. He stood looking straight at Warren, backlit, his blond hair frosted near-white, his eyes shadowed and dark. He was tall, lean, with cheekbones that might cut glass, and the icy beauty of a Teutonic hero. And young, very young. The man glanced at the window, then at the door. For an instant he looked furious, even dangerous. Then, like a shutter coming down, his face went frozen and still. He stepped back inside without a word, and silently closed the door.
Warren was left standing at the end of the path, watching the red paint slowly run down the door.
“Well, hell,” he said softly under his breath. He had a sudden urge to go explain that he’d neither broken the window nor just stood by and watched. But that icy rejection didn’t invite his approach. After another long hesitation, Warren turned away and headed back to his mother’s door.
When he rang the bell, she answered it immediately and went from anxious to delighted as she made out his face. “Warren! Darling, what are you doing home?”
He took off his hat and gave her a hug. “Couldn’t bear to stay away from the best home cooking this side of the Mississippi.”
“Well, if you’d been willing to find a nice girl and settle down, you might have had home cooking closer to hand,” she said tartly. He tensed, but it was a well-worn bit of byplay between them, more habit than anything, and his mother let it drop. She hooked her hand into the crook of his arm and pulled him inside. “Come on. Give me your coat. Sit, tell me about your life, your job. How long can you stay?”
“Thanks. It’s good to be home.” He pushed the door shut behind them, and even thought about locking it, although common sense said the boys were long gone. “The neighborhood’s gone downhill a bit, though.” It made a good distraction from his personal life, and he had to admit he was curious. “Your neighbor’s house appears to have been vandalized.”
“Again?” His mother frowned. “Some of those local boys are a menace. Too young for work or war, but old enough to make all kinds of trouble. What did they do now?”
“Broke a window.” He hesitated with the rest, feeling oddly as if he might be betraying a trust. But it would no doubt be all over the neighborhood tomorrow, no matter how fast the man cleaned it off. Warren had seen old Mrs. Cleveland’s curtains move across the street as he’d turned away. “And they painted a swastika on the door.”
“Oh dear!”
“There was a man in there . . . Is he one of Mrs. Richardson’s family?”
“No, darling, she sold the house. Two years ago.”
When his mother didn’t continue, he had to ask, “So you have a new neighbor. Is he German?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “He’s Swiss. I’ve seen his passport. He kindly showed it to me after the last time so
that I needn’t be too worried.” Her eyes drifted to her front window where the service flag hung, its single star now gold.
Warren said, around the sudden tightness in his throat, “The last time?” He didn’t look at that flag, his mother’s reminder, every minute of every day, that Charlie would never be coming home again. Focus on the mystery, the guy next door. “What happened last time?”
“They broke a window with a rock. Smashed a hole right through it. If Elsa Tillens was still living there, she’d have given them what for, I assure you.”
“I don’t think I know her,” Warren said.
“She bought the house two years ago, after Mrs. Richardson moved out. If you’d been home more, you’d have met her.” His mother gave his arm a nudge. “Amazing old lady. She must have been ninety if she was a day, but she worked in her garden every day, right up until the end. Passed away in June.”
“Has he been living there long?”
“Mr. Koehler? He moved in with her. He’s a grandson or great nephew or something. I’m not sure. They were neither of them big talkers. He drove her places, did the heavy work, carried her laundry. I guess he inherited the house when she passed on.”
Warren wanted to ask more, to get a first name, age, some kind of handle on that icy Adonis he’d seen for such a brief moment, but instead he asked, “When did the hoodlums break the first window?”
“Oh, two weeks ago? It was when we got the news of the liberation of Paris. Some of the lads were in high spirits, and it turned a bit ugly.”
“What do the police say?”
“Well, they came and looked and went away again. Not much they could do, really.”
“But you know who it was?”
“Not by name.” His mother frowned. “There are quite a few young lads running about getting into mischief. It’s hard to grudge them a fling or two before they go into the service, but some of it’s mean-spirited and destructive.”
“They should be kept busy in school now, surely? It’s September.”
“It’s not the ones who stayed in school that are the problem.” His mother sighed, then patted his shoulder. “Enough about them. Tell me about you. What brings you here? And without writing to me first?”
