by Ava March
Vincent frowned. Completely irresponsible of Middleton to leave his wife beggared. The first concern upon his marriage should have been to ensure her security. A young woman from a good family would have no means of providing for herself in the event of her husband’s death. “Surely she has family who can assist her.”
Oliver shrugged. “Haven’t a clue. I would like to hope so, but Middleton passed away almost a month ago. If she had family, one would think they would have offered their assistance by now.”
Vincent took the last bite of his supper and set his fork down. “How substantial is the library?”
Brow furrowed, Oliver pursed his lips. “I’d say at least another dozen crates worth, likely more.”
He made a mental note to send a letter to the widow on the morrow and a note to Mr. Young. His son was a strapping young man, well able to pack and transport more than four crates to London.
“Prime stock,” Oliver added. “Really wish I could have purchased the lot of them, but at the very least, she should have no trouble finding a buyer for the remainder.”
No, she would have no trouble at all.
With a soft tap of footsteps, Mrs. Hollister entered the dining room. “There’s more pork in the kitchen if you’d like, Lord Vincent.”
“No, thank you.” He pushed from the table and stood, giving his bottle green coat a tug to straighten it.
She looked to Oliver, who shook his head. “I could not eat another bite. You have outdone yourself yet again, Mrs. Hollister. The tenderloin was perfectly cooked.”
“You are too kind, Lord Oliver.” She beamed at Oliver, as if the man had just presented her with a trunk full of jewels. She never bestowed that look on Vincent, and he employed her.
With an easy smile, Oliver got to his feet. “It’s not kindness, but the truth.”
“There’s brandy in the study, if you gentlemen would care for it. And a plate of raspberry tarts as well.”
Nor were those tarts intended for him. She clearly adored his lover. Well…he couldn’t much blame her.
Oliver’s smile widened. “Ah, now that is kindness.”
Mrs. Hollister giggled. The older woman actually giggled as she began clearing the table of the remnants of their supper.
Somehow Vincent kept from rolling his eyes. He walked to Oliver’s side and clasped a hand on his shoulder. “Shall we retire to the study?” If he allowed it, Oliver would remain in the dining room and chat with the housekeeper, keeping the woman at the house precious minutes longer than needed.
Oliver must have picked up on the hint, for he didn’t glance at Vincent in question when he nudged him—all right, the nudge bordered on a shove—toward the door. When they reached the study, he found Mrs. Hollister had already stoked the fire in the hearth. The strong flames warmed the room.
Rather than head straight for the small plate of tarts, Oliver stopped before the console table situated in front of one of the windows. With the candles lighting the room and the dark sky backing the window, Oliver’s reflection was visible in the glass as he picked up the crystal decanter from the silver tray. He bowed his head, a chunk of his wavy hair falling forward, and focused on pouring brandy into first one tumbler and then another.
Vincent settled in the armchair angled toward the couch. Glass clinked faintly as Oliver set the decanter back on the tray.
“For you,” Oliver murmured, offering a tumbler to Vincent.
“Thank you.” He brought the glass to his lips. The well-aged brandy flowed smoothly down his throat.
Oliver sat down in his usual spot on the couch, conveniently enough within arm’s reach of the tarts on the end table. After taking a sip of brandy, he reached for a tart. “Care for one?”
“No, thank you.”
“Are you certain? They’re delicious.”
“I’m certain they are. However, I’ll leave them to you.” Unlike his lover, he had never had a taste for sweets. After a satisfying meal, a nice glass of brandy and good company were all he needed.
A little smile played on Oliver’s lips as he chewed. Then he popped the last bit of the tart into his mouth, swallowing it down with a long sip of brandy. He brushed a fingertip to the edge of his mouth, swiping up a droplet of liquor. The motion quick and without thought, unlike when he wiped the trickle of pearly white seed from the corners of his mouth.
The decadent image played in Vincent’s mind—of Oliver, his heavily-lidded gaze locked with Vincent’s as he slipped his fingers back into his mouth to suck on the tips as if savoring every drop.
Vincent shifted, stretching out his legs and settling more comfortably in the chair. Oliver was damn brilliant at sucking cock. But a good half hour remained before the housekeeper finished tidying the kitchen and left for the night. A good half hour before he could give Oliver the order to drop to his knees. Rather than let impatience build, he simply savored the low hum of anticipation and the smooth glide of the brandy down his throat.
Heat rolled off the fire in the hearth behind him, warming him from the outside while the brandy heated him from within. Resting his head on the back of the armchair, he let his eyes drift shut.
The only sounds that broke the companionable silence were the very faint clinks of china and glassware as the housekeeper worked in the kitchen, the crackle of the logs in the hearth, and the creak of leather whenever Oliver shifted on the couch.
He sensed Oliver’s presence a second before he heard the splash of liquid. He opened his eyes to find Oliver refilling the tumbler resting on the arm of the chair, Vincent’s loose grip just enough to keep the glass from falling to the floor. Lashes at half-mast, Oliver looked down at him, that little smile playing once again on his mouth.
“Thank you.” Though one more splash and Oliver would have been in danger of overfilling the glass. Vincent carefully brought the tumbler to his lips and took a long sip. No reason to allow perfectly good brandy to go to waste.
After replacing the decanter on the tray, Oliver settled back on the couch. “Did you enjoy supper?”
“Most assuredly, and especially the company.”
Oliver tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Mrs. Hollister should be finished soon.”
“Indeed.”
Vincent’s gaze swept over his lover. He had one leg drawn up, elbow resting on his bent knee and his heel braced on the edge of the couch cushion. At first glance, he appeared fully at his ease. Yet the little smile that seemed fixed to his full lips, the faint glint lurking in the depths of his dark eyes…
He swore he could detect a new layer of…confidence radiating from his lover. Not blatant but subtle and definitely there.
Interesting. Perhaps it was merely a by-product of his afternoon appointment. Oliver adored books, and the purchase of a few new crates’ worth surely pleased him.
“Is there anything else you gentlemen need before I leave?”
Vincent pulled his attention from Oliver. The housekeeper stood in the open doorway of the study, her brown woolen coat buttoned to her chin and her gloved hands clasped before her.
He opened his mouth, but before he could reply, Oliver spoke.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Hollister. I hope you have a good evening.”
She tipped her head and turned. Vincent gathered his wits just in time to bid her good evening before she disappeared down the corridor.
His attention snapped back to Oliver, who regarded him with that same little smile. The click as the back door shut seemed to fill the study, fairly echoing off the walls. His lover’s gaze remained locked with his over the rim of his glass as the man drained the last splash of brandy. Oliver set the empty tumbler on the end table and, in one fluid motion, stood from the couch.
He did not know what to make of this new version of Oliver. Not that he held any qualms with it, yet he could do nothing but stare at Oliver as he crossed the distance separating them. Of their own accord, his legs opened wider, just enough for Oliver to step between them. Bracing a hand on the back of t
he chair, he leaned down. Vincent expected a light brush of his lips. Instead Oliver’s mouth slanted over his. Hot and quick, his agile tongue sweeping into Vincent’s mouth.
Lust washed over him. A startlingly thick, heavy wave that clung to his senses.
Oliver pulled back just enough to break the kiss. “Are you ready to retire to my bedchamber?”
Struck mute by the combination of anticipation and need and determination blazing in the dark brown depths of his lover’s eyes, Vincent could only nod.
Chapter Five
Oliver set the single candle he’d brought up from the study on the mahogany dresser. The soft golden glow provided enough light for him to see clearly, while leaving the corners of the bedchamber darkened with shadows. The fire in the hearth was already lit and the drapes closed tight courtesy of the housekeeper. The room felt warm and comfortable and was very familiar to Vincent. The perfect setting for tonight.
The door snapped shut. A tremor of anticipation rocked through him. Oliver took a deep breath and focused on keeping the exhale smooth and even. When he felt he could proceed without pouncing on Vincent, he turned from the dresser.
Unbuttoning his coat, Vincent stepped farther into the room. “You seem rather pleased with yourself this evening.”
“I am,” he admitted, somehow keeping the predatory grin from his mouth. The second glass of brandy appeared to have done its duty, lulling Vincent’s senses just enough so the tiniest bit of languid ease lurked behind his movements. He did not want the man foxed. He wanted Vincent to remember every detail from tonight. But the large glass of spirits would hopefully aid him in stripping away every one of Vincent’s inhibitions.
Vincent folded his coat and put it on the chair by the narrow door to the dressing room. “Any particular reason?”
Oliver shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance. At the slight narrowing of Vincent’s eyes, he added, “I had a productive day and shared a wonderful meal with you.”
To his relief, the hint of suspicion left Vincent’s eyes, yet his gaze lingered on Oliver’s face, as though searching for something. He was giving his lover too much time to think. That wouldn’t do at all.
Oliver crossed to the bedside table, removed his spectacles and the jade cravat pin, and placed them in the small silver dish. He unbuttoned his coat and flung it toward the washstand. Then he turned to face Vincent. “I missed you today.” Letting every bit of desire and need rush to the surface, he gazed at his lover.
As if drawn by an invisible cord, Vincent breeched the distance between them. “As I you.” Vincent cupped his jaw, brushed the pad of his thumb across Oliver’s bottom lip. “Now why don’t you put that beautiful mouth to good use?”
“It would be my pleasure.” Not wanting Vincent to settle into the role of dominant, he deliberately left off the milord address. He wanted the man focused on him and on the pleasures he offered, not on the locked trunk beside the dresser that his gaze had already found once since entering the room.
No restraints and no floggers. No crossbars or toys. Tonight it would be just him and Vincent. His breath hitched in his chest. He took a moment, a very short moment, to calm his pulse. Then he dropped to his knees.
Slow and deliberate, he unbuttoned the placket of Vincent’s trousers. A light tug and the string of his drawers released. Reaching inside, he carefully pulled Vincent’s semierect cock free. The sight alone of that gorgeous prick, the length thick and heavy in his hand, made his arse tighten in anticipation. As he flicked his tongue over the crown, he could almost feel the flared head breach his entrance, stretch him wide. A low moan shook his throat. But he ignored the demands of his own body and focused on Vincent—on slowly building the tension, on nurturing the want, the need he knew was within him.
Leisurely glides of his mouth along the rapidly hardening shaft. Teasing swirls of his tongue across the head. Soft presses of his lips to the satiny smooth skin. He adored the man’s cock. Could worship it for hours. Had done so on more than one occasion, the resulting ache in his jaw nothing compared to the pure pleasure of pleasing Vincent.
A large hand threaded into his hair to cup the back of his skull. Oliver yielded to the pressure as Vincent guided him up his length to the crown.
“Take me inside.”
The tiniest bit of impatience behind Vincent’s words threatened to bring a smile to Oliver’s lips. Instead, he opened his mouth and eagerly followed Vincent’s command.
He suckled the head, flicked his tongue to the sensitive spot beneath, and slowly slid down the length until Vincent’s cock nudged the back of his throat. Then he picked up a rhythm of long strokes, keeping the suction more gentle than hard, not wanting the lust to build too swiftly.
Vincent’s grip flexed against his skull like a cat kneading a blanket. His groans even resembled the purrs of a content lion, low and gravelly, the sounds rumbling around Oliver.
If the man had even an ounce of tension in his body when he walked into the room, it had now gone. Oliver glanced up. Vincent’s head was tipped back, lips slightly parted. From his vantage point, he could not make out Vincent’s features, but he’d bet his shop the man’s eyes were closed, every sense fully focused on what Oliver did to his prick.
He took a moment to luxuriate in the taste of Vincent and on the decadent feel of his lover’s cock sliding in and out of his mouth, gliding over his tongue, nudging his throat. But only a moment lest he get lost in those sensations. Ignoring the twinge of regret, he pulled back. A soft kiss to the crown and he got to his feet.
Vincent’s lashes slowly swept up as Oliver began to unbutton the other man’s waistcoat. To Oliver’s delight, Vincent let Oliver undress him, his large hands roving up and down Oliver’s back, pausing to grip his arse, but not making a move to stop him or to take back control of the evening. He dragged his lips along Vincent’s jaw, nipped lightly against the skin, occasionally brushed his trouser-covered erection against Vincent’s, keeping the man focused on him. Yet as he worked his way down the tan waistcoat, awareness seeped into his veins. His fingers began to shake just the slightest bit, just enough so the small fabric-covered buttons would not slide easily from their moorings.
The confidence that had seized hold in the carriage on the drive to Vincent’s country house began to slip away. What if he did something wrong? What if Vincent didn’t enjoy it? Oliver pushed the waistcoat off Vincent’s shoulders and reached for the stark white cravat. It had been ages since Oliver had taken a man, and to his knowledge, never a virgin. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know how it was done. But…
Another tug on Vincent’s cravat. He did his best to hide the sigh of relief when the elaborate knot finally gave way to his struggles. He stepped back just enough to pull the white shirt up Vincent’s chest.
His lover finished the task for him, whisking the shirt over his head. By God the man was gorgeous, bared to the waist with his erection jutting stiff and hard from the open placket of his trousers. A thin moan slid past Oliver’s lips.
Unwilling and unable to resist the lure, Oliver reached out to touch his bare skin. The heat radiating from Vincent’s body almost scorched his palms as he swept his hands up to those impossibly broad shoulders. This man was his and only his. Forever.
“Love you,” he whispered against Vincent’s neck.
“Love you too.”
A tremble shook Oliver’s body, breath catching in his chest.
The hell with it.
Oliver grabbed the back of Vincent’s neck and pulled him down for a kiss—slanted his lips harshly over Vincent’s. With his hands on Oliver’s arse, Vincent jerked him closer, pressing their bodies tightly together, and thrust his tongue into Oliver’s mouth. Oliver let go and gave in to Vincent’s kiss, to the power and the strength of the man in his arms. No more trying to gauge Vincent’s reactions. No more trying to keep the man on a predetermined path for the evening. If it happened, it happened. If not, it wasn’t meant to be.
Threading his fingers into Vincent
’s hair, he dived into the kiss. He rubbed against Vincent, reveling in the complete lack of give in the man’s hard, strong body. The scent of his lover filled his every breath—clean male skin, not a hint of cologne, and undeniably Vincent. His head went light under the onslaught of sensations. The last drop of the tension he hadn’t even realized existed slid out of his body, and his senses focused absolutely and completely on pleasuring Vincent.
The lust built within him with each brush of Vincent’s tongue. With each groan that rumbled his broad chest. More. He wanted more.
He kissed his way down Vincent’s chest, pausing to flick his tongue over one copper nipple, then over the hard abdomen, following the thin line of dark hair to that beautiful cock. But before he wrapped his lips around it again, he pulled Vincent’s dark trousers down his legs.
Vincent nudged his hips forward so his erection brushed Oliver’s parted lips. But the silent request wasn’t necessary.
Bracing his hands on Vincent’s thighs, Oliver opened his mouth and worshipped Vincent’s cock in earnest. Long, plunging strokes coupled with hard suction. Relaxing his throat, he took him all the way down and swallowed, massaging the sensitive head. When the powerful muscles beneath his palms began to draw tight, he shifted down, ducked beneath, and pressed openmouthed kisses on his ballocks. Vincent widened his stance, granting him greater access. Oliver took it and more. He drew one testicle into his mouth, sucking and tugging lightly before moving to the other. All the while, he pumped Vincent’s length, his grip firm, his hand sliding easily over the spit-slicked skin.
Vincent’s hard pants filled the air around him, mixing with the distinct scent of male sweat. They pushed him onward, demanding more.
“Turn.” He nudged Vincent hip. “Let me lick your arse.”
A low growl rumbled from Vincent’s chest.
Oliver shifted back, giving Vincent room to comply, and glanced down. Damnation. His clothes. He tugged at his waistcoat, not caring in the slightest when a few buttons popped loose and skidded across the floorboards. He yanked on his cravat and whipped his shirt over his head. Very briefly got to his feet to push off his trousers. His erection sprang free, so rigid it slapped against his belly. Need drumming through his veins, he drew his hands down the strong lines of Vincent’s back to his hips and nudged him to better face the bed.
