“I ought to have known better,” Courtenay said. “Isabella’s health had always been delicate and the constant traveling took a toll.”
Julian’s heart stuttered. He hadn’t realized Courtenay’s sister had been unwell, hadn’t realized Courtenay believed he could have saved her by acting differently. “Based on what you’ve told me, there wasn’t anything you could have done to persuade your sister to settle down in one place. Am I right?”
“Yes, but—”
“So, your guilt over the matter is predictably self-indulgent.” He tried to imagine what he’d want someone to tell Eleanor if she had chosen to stay in Madras, if she hadn’t managed to convince Julian to leave before another summer weakened him further. “You loved your sister and you did your best.”
Something of his tension must have bled into his voice, because Courtenay reached across the table and briefly touched Julian’s hand. Courtenay couldn’t possibly understand why Julian found this topic personally disturbing, but he could tell that Julian was disturbed, and he cared. And that meant more to Julian than he could have anticipated.
When Courtenay picked up his tale again, he let it veer into anecdotes that were slightly off color—he’d reference a former mistress or being caught in flagrante in a delicate situation—and he’d hesitate before proceeding.
“You’d better not be thinking of leaving that out,” Julian said in one such instance. “I’d feel cheated.” And he would feel cheated, not only because those were the juicier parts of Courtenay’s tale, but because they were at all part of Courtenay’s tale. He wouldn’t be the man he was, sitting across a scarred wood table from Julian if he hadn’t been the sort of man to run off to Athens with Italian princesses (a lady who had since reunited with her husband) and have an affair of long standing with his sister’s coachman (a man who now owned a tavern near Naples).
Julian had initially thought the roast a trifle dry, but by the time they rose from the table, he considered it was the best meal he had had in his entire life.
Chapter Sixteen
The sun had set by the time they returned to the stables where Medlock kept his horses near his London lodgings. It was an unseasonably warm evening for April, and it was the first time Courtenay felt agreeable about the weather since he had set foot on English soil.
“Care for some tea, Courtenay?” Medlock asked with the too-casual tone of somebody with an ulterior motive.
“Not really, Medlock,” Courtenay responded, amused. Not well-practiced in seduction, was Medlock. And that only made Courtenay like him more, damn it, because any other man would leave the seduction up to Courtenay—but Medlock liked being in control. Courtenay rather liked Medlock being in control too.
“You’ll come up anyway, I dare say,” Medlock retorted.
Yes, God help him, he would. He followed Medlock up the stairs and settled into a low chair, watching as Medlock dispensed with his manservant. Medlock never looked better than when he was telling people what to do. He wasn’t precisely handsome, nor even striking or any of the other adjectives people used to describe men with unconventional looks. No, Medlock was the opposite of striking. He was aggressively neutral. But the way he moved, the way he spoke, the things he said—Courtenay’s heart thumped in his chest whenever he caught a look at the man. He was aware of a growing conviction that Medlock looked precisely the way he wanted a man to look like, whatever that even meant.
“Come here,” he said after Medlock locked the door behind him. His trousers already felt too tight.
Medlock came and stood before him, his usual haughtiness tempered by a hint of awkwardness that made Courtenay want to laugh with happiness. Courtenay took hold of his hands and tugged him down into his lap. Medlock adjusted himself so he was straddling Courtenay’s knees, and it wasn’t clear whether Medlock was sitting on Courtenay’s lap or pinning him down. Courtenay was fine with either option.
“Thank you,” Courtenay said, looking up at Medlock. “For today.”
Medlock’s quicksilver eyes gleamed. “It was a rare pleasure to deal with your mother. It’s not every day I get to be as rude as I like.”
Courtenay smoothed his hands down Medlock’s sides and felt the man shiver. “You’re very good at being rude.”
“I know.” Medlock tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, almost preening.
“But I didn’t only mean what you did at Carrington, though. Thank you for the whole day.” He felt Medlock go slightly stiff under his hands. “I enjoyed being with you.”
“You’re going to make things awkward, Courtenay.”
“Yes, I damned well am, and you’re going to listen to me do it. I enjoyed spending time with you and I think you enjoyed spending time with me. If it doesn’t terribly bother you, I’d like to continue to do so. Is that acceptable?”
Medlock was silent for a moment. Courtenay heard nothing but their own breathing and the distant ringing of church bells. His chest felt tight with a suspense that was surely disproportionate to the situation.
“Is this how you usually carry on affairs?” Medlock chided. “So businesslike?”
He was going to be difficult, then. He always was, and strangely, Courtenay wouldn’t have it any other way. “There is no usually where you’re concerned.” Courtenay was well out of his depths. In the past he had generally preferred warm, affectionate sorts of people. Medlock was made of ice and thorns, venom and gunpowder. It ought to be hard to get anywhere near him, let alone fall into love with Medlock. But it hadn’t been hard at all, had it? It had been as easy as breathing.
Courtenay had always thought love had to be the stuff of grand declarations. Hothouse flowers and gifts of great price, not to mention the kind of poetry Medlock would dismiss as being rife with self-indulgent sentiment. Courtenay nearly laughed at the thought of how appalled Medlock would be by any of that. Courtenay tried to think of some way to tell Medlock what he felt, what he wanted, what he yearned for, but without saying anything that would scare the man off.
Instead, he settled for taking Medlock’s chin in his hand and stroking his thumb along Medlock’s cheekbone. “Come to bed with me,” Courtenay said. “Then let’s wake up tomorrow and we’ll have pastries. You’ll fence or have tea with duchesses or do whatever it is you do. I’ll go to your sister’s house and count how many new cats she’s taken in. Then we can go for a ride in the park and dine at Simpson’s.”
“You don’t keep a horse,” Medlock said, as if that were at all the crux of the matter. But Courtenay could hear the thickness in his voice and he knew Medlock wasn’t unaffected. “You sold it to line your mother’s pockets.”
“I’ll hire one,” Courtenay said, suppressing a smile. “Then we’ll come back here, you’ll get rid of your servant, and I’ll fuck you.”
Medlock gave a sharp intake of breath. “Is that something you want?”
Courtenay pulled Medlock closer so he could feel for himself how much he wanted it. “Would that be acceptable?”
“It’s . . . ah. Hmm.” Medlock’s eyes were glassy, his lips parted. Watching him try to look aloof was the most arousing thing Courtenay had ever seen. “I’m not opposed. Rather, I’m amenable. What I mean to say is please do that.”
Courtenay could feel through the layers of wool and linen that separated them that Medlock was indeed far from opposed. “I’ll fuck you, then,” he murmured. “Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Why are we talking about this instead of you actually fucking me?”
“Because I like feeling how hard you get when I’m talking about it.” Also because he wanted to make sure Medlock would see him again, wanted to hold out the prospect of a good fucking like a sugar lick for a horse.
“I want it now.” Medlock was only a shade this side of arrogance. Courtenay loved it.
“No.” He cupped Medlock’s arse in his palms and pulled him even closer.
“Why the hell not?”
“I’m leaving something on my plate for Miss Manners.”
>
“You have got to be—”
“Don’t worry.” He pressed his fingers into the seam of Medlock’s breeches, tracing the cleft of his arse, just enough to give the man ideas. “I’ll bring you off before I leave.”
“I should damned well think you will.”
Courtenay pulled him close then, because there was nothing else to do with such a sharp tongue than to silence it with a kiss.
“Take off your coat,” Courtenay murmured into Julian’s neck. The rasp in his voice made Julian’s head swim with lust. It was heady, this sense of having a man like Courtenay—handsome, experienced—want him so badly. He felt intoxicated on the strength of Courtenay’s want alone.
“No,” Julian said, just to be contrary, just to keep Courtenay on the knife’s edge of desire a little longer. There was also that bothersome memory of Courtenay’s meekness the last time, and now it was all tied up with his demeanor today at Carrington Hall.
Julian would not tolerate any more of that. He would have Courtenay, he’d have his body and his pleasure, but most of all he’d have Courtenay’s words.
“I’m sure we can work around it,” Courtenay said, his gaze dragging down over Julian’s body and leaving a wake of heat behind it. “Unconventional, but hardly unheard of.”
“No.” Julian got to his feet. “If you want me to be in charge—
“Yes,” Courtenay said immediately.
“—then I want to tie you up.”
“I . . .” Courtenay cleared his throat. “Medlock, I hadn’t seen that coming.”
And that was another thing. “I’ve had it with this Medlock business. I’ll happily call you Courtenay if you like, but for God’s sake call me Julian. Now, are you going to let me tie you up or not?” Julian tried to sound like a man whose mouth hadn’t gone dry at the thought of Courtenay bound up beneath him. “I do recall that you said you liked being manhandled.”
“You remember that.” Courtenay passed a hand over his mouth.
How could he not? “I remember everything.” Julian felt his cheeks heat as he spoke.
“I’ve never done that.” Courtenay rose to stand before Julian. “I mean, I’ve done the tying up, but nobody’s ever offered to return the favor.”
“No time like the present,” Julian said briskly. “The only condition is that you need to tell me what you want.”
“At the moment, I want you to tie me up, damn it. Who knew?” he added under his breath.
“That’s a good start. Now, into the bedroom.”
Julian systematically divested Courtenay of all his clothes, kissing newly exposed skin—a hard shoulder, the dent beside his hip, the inside of an elbow. Julian could have spent all night pressing worshipful kisses to Courtenay’s body, but he had the sense that would not be a new experience for Courtenay. He pushed Courtenay flat onto the bed. Julian kept his own clothes on. He had an inkling that Courtenay would find that arousing, and based on the state of the man’s cock, which was rigid and arched up towards his belly, he had been right.
Courtenay obligingly presented his wrists, and Julian bent down to bite one before using Courtenay’s own cravat to bind them to the bed frame over his head. He could hear Courtenay’s breaths, fast and shallow, and knew that the man was panting for him.
Julian stood back to admire his handiwork. Or, really, to admire Courtenay, who was now testing Julian’s knot in a way that did very interesting things to his biceps and chest.
“Comfortable?” Julian asked, shoving a pillow behind Courtenay’s head.
“Yes, actually.” He did look decadent, sprawled on Julian’s soft featherbed, surrounded by fine linen, and yet tied up.
“Would you rather, ah, not be comfortable?”
“No, this suits.”
Thank God. There was a limit to how much Julian could manage in the name of manhandling. He knelt between Courtenay’s legs and smoothed his hands up the man’s thighs. He hadn’t yet seen Courtenay properly naked. The first time they had kept their clothes on. The second time the only light had been from the moon. But tonight Julian’s valet had lit a fire in the grate and there was enough light to see that Courtenay was every bit as splendid naked as he was fully clothed. For a man who seemed to spend most of his time lounging about and reading, he was surprisingly muscular. Perhaps his dalliances tended to be athletic in nature. Julian felt his cock pulse at the thought of the fucking he’d get tomorrow. He traced a finger along Courtenay’s hard belly and down across his hip and thigh. “I damned well expect you to exert yourself when you’re fucking me,” he said. “Put all of this”—he gestured to Courtenay’s physique—“to good use.”
Courtenay’s eyes went wide as he made a low rumbling noise at the back of his throat.
“But that’s for tomorrow,” Julian added, palming himself through his trousers and watching as Courtenay’s erection jumped in response. “What do you want me to do?” With his other hand, Julian stroked the line where Courtenay’s leg met his torso.
Courtenay’s chest was rising and falling quicker now. “Whatever you please.”
“No, that won’t do,” Julian chided. Tonight he wanted Courtenay to tell him exactly what he wanted, to admit to himself and to Julian everything that he desired and then let Julian give it to him. “Where do you want my hands?”
“On my cock,” Courtenay said promptly.
Julian immediately complied, wrapping both his hands loosely around Courtenay’s cock. Very lightly and perfectly still. He looked expectantly at Courtenay’s face.
Courtenay groaned. “Feel free to move them.”
Julian gave a halfhearted little wiggle of his fingers. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at Courtenay’s outburst of incoherent rage.
“Now, now. Keep your voice down or you’ll disturb the entire building. Weren’t you the one who lectured me about balloons and pleasure? Now tell me what you want.”
“I really regret that metaphor,” Courtenay groaned, helplessly thrusting upwards into Julian’s hand. “Profoundly.”
“How did you manage to debauch yourself so completely if you can’t even tell me what you want?”
“I have to say, Med—Julian, that most people, when confronted with my naked, tied up, obviously aroused body would have a pretty good idea of what to do with it.”
Julian narrowed his eyes. “I think you usually give people what they want. And, because you’re basically a hedonist with a broad range of tastes, you enjoy yourself perfectly well despite never articulating what you actually crave. Is that how things usually work for you? You just sort of drift into these situations and then drift through them?”
Courtenay was silent for a moment, as if he had never considered the matter in that light. “Well, yes?”
“There will be no drifting tonight. Now, tell me about what you require for your pleasure.”
“I require . . . Oh, kiss me, you maniacal bastard.”
Julian crawled up his body and by the time his lips were near Courtenay’s he was smiling too broadly to manage anything like a proper kiss. Instead he pressed his silly, uncooperative mouth to Courtenay’s and then buried his face in Courtenay’s neck.
“I’m glad you’re amused,” Courtenay said, but he had been smiling too. “But I still want that kiss.”
Julian lifted his head and kissed Courtenay fully, rewarding him for having said what he wanted. He bit Courtenay’s lip, then licked it, then thoroughly tasted Courtenay’s mouth, as if kissing was the point. That was what Courtenay had asked for, and so it was the point.
“Now what do you want?” he asked into Courtenay’s ear.
“Take off your clothes,” Courtenay said promptly, his voice low and raspy.
Julian complied, if a bit leisurely. He saw Courtenay’s eyes, black with desire, focused on his erection. He’d been hard since they walked in the door and now it was taking all his effort not to touch himself, so he gave his cock one lazy stroke. “What now?”
“Touch me.
Please. Anywhere. I just want your hands on me.”
Julian lightly skimmed his fingers along Courtenay’s bound arms, enjoying the hardness of his biceps, then down his chest. He felt Courtenay’s body tense when he skimmed over his nipples, but he didn’t linger there because he wasn’t doing a damned thing that he wasn’t asked for. He rested his palms on Courtenay’s flat belly. “I wonder what I should do now.”
“May as well put your mouth on my cock if it’ll keep you from talking.” He must have read something of Julian’s intent on his face because he quickly added, “And don’t you even think about just kissing it or whatever torture you have in mind. Put it in your mouth, as much as you can, and suck it, as hard as you can. And use your tongue,” he added, as if an afterthought.
Two seconds later Julian had the head of Courtenay’s cock at the back of his throat and was following the man’s instructions to the letter. He was determined to give the best cocksucking performance of his life, to lavish every attention he could on Courtenay. He’d never be able to put into words what he was starting to feel for Courtenay, and even if he could he wouldn’t want to. But he could show him. He could use the tips of his fingers and the length of his tongue, and maybe Courtenay would know this was meant as an offering.
He only raised his head when he tasted the beginnings of saltiness on his tongue. Courtenay’s jaw was set and he was straining deliciously against his bindings.
“Is there anything else you’d like?” he asked innocently. It was taking all his self-control to keep his hands off his own prick, but he wanted to make it clear that his foremost goal was Courtenay’s own pleasure.
When Courtenay didn’t answer, Julian swung one of his legs off the bed as if he were going to leave the room.
“No! Oh, damn you. Touch my arse.”
“With my fingers or with my mouth?” Julian asked sweetly.
Courtenay groaned. “Fingers. This time. I can’t take the other right now.”
Julian spread Courtenay’s legs further apart and pushed his knees back, then returned his mouth to the damp, swollen head of his erection. He took only the tip in his mouth, sucking and kissing while slowly trailing his fingers lower. He paused for a moment at Courtenay’s bollocks, which were already drawn up tight. He gave them a gentle tug and heard Courtenay’s strangled groan. Then he brought his fingers lower and circled Courtenay’s entrance.
The Ruin of a Rake Page 15
