“Shall I free you?”
“Just my ankles,” Henry said. “Please.”
Kit pulled out, smiling at Henry’s swift protest, and quickly undid the buckles on Henry’s ankles, before leaning forward again to massage the tight muscle briefly with his fingers, then push his hips forward and plunge into Henry’s body again.
Henry’s eyes rolled up at that, and he lifted his legs, tightening them round Kit’s waist as Kit began to fuck him in earnest, his hips slamming forward.
When Henry came, it was sudden and shocking. His cock had been pulsing between their bellies for a while, leaking a steady stream of fluid, and then suddenly it was erupting in thick, creamy pulses and Henry was gasping, “Oh, fuck! Oh, Kit, I’m coming—no, don’t stop, keep fucking me, please!”
So Kit did. He kept fucking till Henry’s long climax finally ended and he fell back on the mattress, his legs slack now, gasping for air. Only then did Kit let himself go, let his own crisis roll over him, yanking an orgasm from his balls so strong his vision greyed as he came deep into Henry’s body, shouting out some sort of absurd war cry of dominance and possession.
The sudden wetness of his own seed inside Henry’s body made him feel ridiculously pleased. He found he wanted to stay inside Henry, to keep his seed there, painting Henry’s insides, owning him somehow. It was stupid and primitive and made him feel rather silly, but there it was. It seemed that Henry had unleashed something—or someone—quite primitive inside Kit, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with this surprising side of himself.
Eventually, though, as his cock softened and Henry began to shift beneath him, Kit had no choice but to extricate himself. Lifting himself off of Henry, he undid the wrist cuffs, then awkwardly dismounted and wandered over to the jug and ewer on the armoire to wash himself.
By the time he brought Henry a damp cloth and clean towel, Henry was sitting up, blinking dazedly.
“Thank you,” Henry mumbled, accepting the offerings, while Kit turned away to fetch his shirt and drawers off the floor.
Once he had his shirt and drawers back on, he found Henry’s and handed those over too. Henry blinked, seeming nonplussed. After a moment, he set the bundle of fabric down on his lap, imperfectly covering himself.
“Well,” Kit said, aiming for something close to his usual light tone. “That was… unexpected.”
He thought Henry might take his cue from that, attempt to put some distance between them, but no. Even as he went to move away from the bed, Henry reached for him, his fingers closing over Kit’s wrist, tugging him back.
“Kit,” he whispered. “I had no idea.”
Kit wasn’t sure what precisely Henry was referring to having no idea about, but one thing was clear to him—Henry felt vulnerable in this moment. He needed comfort. And so, half-reluctantly, he let Henry tug him back onto the bed. Let Henry pull him close and settle Kit’s head on his shoulder the way he used to all those years ago. Let him stroke his fingers through Kit’s hair. So familiar. So intimate. As intimate in its way as it had been for Kit to plunge his cock into Henry’s body. And arguably, more dangerous.
After a while Henry said, “That was—astonishing. I don’t think I could have done it with anyone else.”
Kit snorted.
“I mean it, Chri—sorry, Kit.”
Henry fell silent again, but Kit could practically hear him thinking, and he waited patiently for the words he knew would follow. He had learned this about Henry a long time ago—he needed to be allowed a little silence before he would say much.
At last Henry said, “I came to you in hopes of repaying you for my past mistakes. And all I’ve done is indebted myself to you more.”
Kit lifted his head and looked down at Henry, frowning. Henry’s handsome face was anxious, genuine regret in his grey eyes.
“If you think I got nothing out of what just happened, I have to doubt your sanity.” Kit gave a crooked smile. “I haven’t come that hard in years.”
Some of the tension went out of Henry’s expression and he chuckled softly.
Kit lifted himself up to a sitting position. Looking down at Henry, he said seriously, “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“I asked you this before, but this time I need you to promise first, on your honour, that you will be perfectly honest in your answer.”
Henry met his gaze. “I promise, on my honour.”
“Did you offer yourself to me like this as penance?”
Henry opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again, and Kit’s heart twisted painfully. Henry was having to think about this. Kit had been right to be suspicious.
When he went to move away, Henry sat up too, reaching for him, catching his arm. “Don’t look like that,” he said, frowning. “It wasn’t for penance, but—look, will you let me explain properly without bolting away?”
Kit hesitated, then settled back down. “All right. Go on.”
Henry relaxed and let go of his arm. “I’m not sure how far back to go.”
“Go back as far as you need to,” Kit suggested gently.
Henry smiled at that, for some reason. “You haven’t changed a bit, do you know that?”
“God, I hope I’ve changed a little!” Kit chuckled. “No one should be as naive as I was when you first knew me.” When Henry’s smile faded, he added, “Sorry. I didn’t mean that—”
But Henry laid gentle fingers on his lips and said softly, “Please don’t apologise. You’ve every right to say such things.”
They stared at one another for a beat, then Henry dropped his hand. “Did I ever talk to you about my father?” he asked.
“You mentioned him, from time to time,” Kit said. “He knew you preferred men. I know that much.”
Henry nodded. “He was not pleased when he discovered it, not by any means, but once he realised I would fall in line with what was expected of me, he didn’t care so very much. His primary concern was to arrange my marriage to Caroline before he died—to protect the family line.” He smiled at Kit, a little sadly. “And so I married young—as he had wanted—and dutifully produced my eldest son, George, the following year.”
Like a breeding bull, Kit thought, though he did not say it aloud.
“I had a few experiences with men before Caroline and I married,” Henry said. “All prostitutes, all at the same establishment.” He smiled at Kit. “Arnott’s, in Covent Garden.”
Kit made a face—he knew the place Henry spoke of and hadn’t thought much of it.
“When you first went into Arnott’s, you were taken to the proprietor. Mr. Arnott, I presume, though he never introduced himself. He always seemed to be sneering, I thought. He’d hand over a price list of what you could have. The men were all young and reasonably well-favoured. Obedient and accommodating.” Henry sighed. “It wasn’t like this place,” he said. “There was no mingling or drinking. No places to gather. Just the ordering of a service, payment up front, then the performance. Arnott would ring for someone to be brought through after you’d paid. You could send them away and ask for someone else, if you wanted, but I never did. Arnott would tell the prostitute what you’d paid for—never by name, always by number—and you’d go to the room with him and he’d barely speak, just do what was required, then leave you to clean up after.”
Kit nodded, watching Henry carefully. He didn’t look unhappy as such, but there was something sad in his expression, and Kit could only wonder why he was sharing these memories.
“I remember the rooms were very plain and small, just a bed, and a jug of water. A tiny window at the top, letting in a very little light. It was so gloomy they always had to have a candle, even during the day.”
“It sounds rather dismal,” Kit said.
“It was,” Henry agreed. “But it was better than nothing.” He paused. “I stopped going when I married Caroline—I thought that was it for me, with men. And it was, for a few years. Until Caroline had Alice. After that, she asked me not to visit
her bedchamber anymore, and said she was happy for me to take my pleasure elsewhere.” He smiled at Kit. “I was almost giddy with the freedom of that. It wasn’t long before I heard about the Golden Lily, and the very first night I went there, I met you.” He smiled, his grey eyes warm. “From the first moment I saw you, I was infatuated. I’d have done anything to have you.”
Kit’s heart thudded in his chest as he remembered that first night and the young god who had done nothing to disguise his interest in Kit. He’d felt powerful that night, in a way he never had before. The patrons of the Lily usually liked to exercise their power over the men they bought, issuing commands, relishing the eager obedience of the whores. But Henry had looked at Kit with something like wonder in his eyes. It had made Kit feel like a person—a man—in a way he never had before.
“The negotiation was a joke,” Henry said ruefully. “The madam gave me a list of demands and I agreed to them all. I just wanted you as soon as I could get you. And then, once I had you, everything you did was so perfect. It never”—he broke off for a moment before continuing—“it never occurred to me to ask for anything different. You would say, shall I suck you? or would you like to fuck me now? and whatever it was, it would always sound like a wonderful notion.”
Yes, Kit recognised the truth of those words. He had gently managed Henry when they’d been together. At the time, he’d thought Henry was indulging him in allowing it, like a favourite pet. Now he wondered if Henry had just preferred being somewhat passive.
“After Caroline died, and I left London—and you—there was a long time when I did not so much as touch another man. Years. At first, there were too many other things to worry about, and I was not inclined anyway. But later, when my desires began to reassert themselves, I tried to suppress them. I told myself I would not return to my old ways. But”—here, his voice cracked—“they would not be suppressed, Kit. The more I tried, the more urgently they loomed in my mind. The more I denied myself, the more tormented I became. I almost lost my mind, I think. One night I considered—” He broke off and turned to look at Kit with despair in his grey gaze.
“Henry—” Kit leaned forward, laying his hand on Henry’s thigh, needing some kind of physical connection with him. Thinking of Henry enduring such pain was intolerable.
Henry covered Kit’s hand with his own. “It was a terrible night,” he said. “But I survived it and it was only in that moment of despair that I was able to see the truth.”
“The truth?”
Henry smiled sadly. “That, for better or worse, this is part of me. That I could not continue ignoring that and live.”
Kit swallowed against the lump that had lodged in his throat.
Henry absently stroked Kit’s hand. “I wrote to an old friend who gave me an introduction to a place in Trowbridge where I could go. It was not a brothel—just a place where one could meet other men and find some relief. Temporary companionship.”
Kit nodded his understanding. The thought of Henry being reduced to brief, furtive encounters devoid of any affection, made his heart ache. Henry was not like that.
Henry frowned. “I’m taking a very long time to get to the point, aren’t I?” he said.
“That’s all right,” Kit said softly. “I’m more than happy to listen.”
Henry took a deep breath and let it out. “I suppose what I’m trying to say, Kit, is that I very much wanted this. That, until now, I’ve not really had so much choice about what I did in the bedchamber. I denied myself for so very long. And when I wasn’t doing that, I took what I could get, what I was offered, what others guessed I wanted. I’ve not been very good at saying—or even knowing—what I wanted.”
Kit watched him, saying nothing, but his heart ached for Henry.
“And then,” Henry said, his voice almost wondering, “I found you again, and you said those things to me about putting me on my knees and making me take your cock.” He stopped. Met Kit’s gaze fully. “I wanted that. And when I got down on my knees for you last week, it felt like the only place I ever wanted to be. Serving you like that.” He let out a long, shaky breath. “When I got home after, I could think of nothing else. Only that and coming back here to ask for more. For this.”
They stared at one another, and Kit could not look away.
“So, you see,” Henry said softly, “I did not offer myself up to you as some kind of penance. If anything, I was taking from you, again. Taking my own selfish pleasure; fulfilling my own desires. You have nothing to feel guilty about.” He sighed. “Does that answer your question?”
It answered a great deal more than that single question, Kit thought, but he didn’t say so. Only nodded, and leaned closer to kiss Henry’s cheek.
“I’m glad—” he began, then stopped. I’m glad you didn’t do whatever it was you were considering that night, when you were in despair. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words aloud though. Instead, he whispered, “I’m glad you came tonight.”
Henry turned his head a little, so their lips brushed and their eyes met. “I’m glad too,” he whispered, and in that moment, it felt to Kit as though all the years since the end of their long-ago love affair had dissolved to nothing. The man beside him was the same Henry he had fallen in love with, and this was how they’d sat together so many times before, in a nest of tangled sheets, staring into one another’s eyes, sharing the very air that they breathed.
“May I say something?” Henry whispered.
“Of course,” Kit said.
“You’ll stop me if I offend you?”
Kit laughed softly. “Yes.”
Henry paused, then he said, “When I call you Christopher, I’m certainly not thinking of you as an agreeable whore.”
Kit stared him, shocked into silence.
“I’m thinking of someone rather wonderful,” Henry said. “Someone I admired from the first moment I saw him.” He paused, then added, “Earlier you said you were naive when I first met you. I wouldn’t say so. I would say you were kind and decent and generous. You were entitled to expect the same from others—from me—and the fact you didn’t get that doesn’t point to any defect in you, Kit. I hate that you’d think that.”
Kit’s throat closed, unexpected emotion gripping him.
“I’ll call you Kit,” Henry said gently. “I’ll call you anything you want. I just want you to know that there was nothing wrong with you when you were Christopher.”
To his shame, Kit felt the hot prickle of tears behind his eyes and he pulled back, turning his head so that Henry couldn’t look at him as he calmed himself.
Henry sat quietly, but Kit could feel the man watching him, waiting.
When he felt he had himself back under control, Kit said, “Last week, after you left, I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened all those years ago.”
“Me either,” Henry said softly.
“I want you to know,” Kit said slowly, “that I forgive you, Henry, For not coming to see me before you left town. For sending Parkinson instead.”
Henry looked anguished. “But I shouldn’t have trusted him. I should have—”
“You saying that is like me calling myself naive,” Kit interrupted. “You trusted a man you had no reason to be suspicious of—you are not to blame for his betrayal, Henry.”
“I should have come anyway,” Henry said. “I should have told you myself.”
Their gazes locked. It felt as though all the years they’d been apart had melted away. Kit was suddenly very conscious that he hadn’t looked at another person so deeply, so intensely, since Henry had left him. This was more intimate than being naked, more intimate than being spread open on a bed for a punter to play with. Kit was gazing into Henry’s soul, and Henry was gazing into his. He had no idea what his own eyes betrayed, but Henry’s showed old pain and bitter regret.
Kit said, “What did you say in the letter? The one that Parkinson was supposed to give me?”
Henry was silent for several moments. Then he said, slowly,
“I said things I’d never expressed to you in person. I told you… how very much I cared for you. How painful it was to leave you.”
Kit’s heart began to race very fast.
For a moment Henry seemed to wrestle with whether to go on. Then he said, “I asked you to write back to me. To send me word if you would be willing to see me again, once I had fulfilled my promises to Caroline.”
Kit’s stomach dropped. “And you never heard back,” he whispered, stricken.
“No. At first I hoped you just needed time, to come terms with what I’d done. Eventually I came to the conclusion I’d simply been deluded in thinking you had any fondness for me.” He gave a soft, humourless laugh. “Naive.”
That word again.
Kit shook his head, a sharp denial, but he couldn’t find words. And now he was remembering the long years of loneliness Henry had just described.
“The more I denied myself, the more tormented I became.”
Would things have been any easier for Henry if he’d had word back from Kit? If he’d known Kit was waiting for him?
And would Kit have agreed to wait for him?
Yes, probably. He'd loved Henry with all his heart. But Kit hadn’t seen the letter. He hadn’t responded, or waited. And in the long years since, their lives had diverged down two very different paths.
“… you were kind and decent and generous…”
Kit wasn’t that boy anymore. He’d become harder, more suspicious and protective. The man he was now was well suited to running a scandalous club—not so much to being on the other side of someone’s fireplace.
“Kit?” Henry prompted, and when Kit looked at him again, his grey gaze was vulnerable and uncertain.
“I cared for you too, Henry,” he said hoarsely. “When you left me, it felt as though my whole world had broken in two.” He shook his head. “But that was a lifetime ago, and we have very different lives now.” He sighed and turned away, rising from the bed and reaching for his drawers. “Speaking of which, I should get dressed and get back to the club. I’ve neglected my duties too long.”
“Kit?” Henry’s voice was hoarse.
Restored (Enlightenment Book 5) Page 18
