by Ava March
Arthur considered for a moment. “Yes.”
Satisfied that particular problem was resolved, he rapped once on the ceiling. Jones opened the door, letting in a gust of chill air. “Don’t bother with the bags. Jones will see to them.” Stooping to fit through the narrow door, Leopold exited the carriage and then waited for Arthur at the foot of the stone steps.
Arthur followed him and stopped at his shoulder to stare at the stately country house with its four thick columns stretching past the second-floor windows to support the broad stone portico. “Definitely not a cottage.”
“No, it isn’t.” He smiled as a rush of pride filled his chest. He had a fondness for Ramsey House, but Sinclair Abbey was so very different. He slanted a glance to Arthur and lowered his voice for Arthur’s ears only. “It has seven bedchambers.”
“Really?” Arthur replied, brows arched in interest.
Leopold tipped his head. He swirled his tongue in his mouth, savoring the lingering taste of Arthur. “I would be more than happy to show them to you.”
Arthur’s eyes flared. “All seven?”
“You aren’t expected back at the office until Monday.” He winked, then set off up the stone steps that led to the front door. Three nights and two and a half days. Definitely manageable.
Arthur shut the bedchamber door and slowly turned the lock in an effort to quiet the metallic click as it slid into place. A good half hour had passed since the servants had retired at nine, but it never hurt to exercise a bit of caution. Tugging his shirt from his trousers, he turned from the door to find Thorn sprawled on the bed, his shoulders propped on a mound of white pillows and his legs casually spread. One hand held a magazine while the other absently stroked his cock.
“Interesting reading?”
“The Farmer’s Magazine. And no, it’s not responsible for this.” He dragged his hand up his hard length, fingers closing around the flushed head. A drop of fluid seeped from the tip. The magazine fell from his grasp, tumbling to the floorboards. “You are.”
“Very good to hear,” Arthur said as he crossed the room, drawn by the gorgeous expanse of Thorn’s bare skin.
“Bed number one,” Thorn murmured.
“You really believe we can christen them all before we return to Town?”
“We are not leaving until Monday morning. Plenty of time, if you are up to the challenge.”
A short holiday with Thorn and without his leather bag to offer even the potential of a distraction? “Most assuredly.” He stopped beside the bed. When Thorn shifted as if to move to him, he held up a hand. “Remain where you are. I quite like the view.”
The edges of Thorn’s full lips kicked up. He settled back against the pillows. “Do you, now?” His lashes dropped to half-mast, gray eyes glittering with an all-too-wicked spark as he spread his legs a bit wider. Those lazy strokes grew more determined, long fingers wrapping more securely around the rigid length. Gaze pinned on Arthur, Thorn reached down to cup his ballocks.
Arthur pulled his shirt over his head. A thin moan slid past Thorn’s lips as the garment fell to the floor. A surge of pure lust shot through his body. The man was going to make it extremely difficult not to tackle him and take everything he offered. But Arthur held tight to his determination, forcing himself to proceed slowly.
As he had paced his new bedchamber, waiting for the clock to strike half past nine, he had realized how selfish he had been of late. Thorn was so aggressive, so eager, so willing to do absolutely anything to please him. Sucking him off, giving himself up for Arthur’s pleasure. He even prepared himself for Arthur’s prick. Hell, it had been well over a month since Thorn had asked to fuck him…not that Arthur should have been waiting for him to ask. Thorn had given him so much, and it was past time Arthur started giving back.
Though… He raked his gaze over Thorn’s body. A faint flush warmed the pale skin of his lover’s flawless chest, his copper nipples drawn into tight buds. How could he resist the opportunity to watch Thorn as he undressed? In any case, if Thorn started touching him, whispering in his ear, he had a feeling his determination just might fly out the damn window.
He tugged on the placket of his trousers and let the soft wool whoosh down his legs. Bending his knees, Thorn spread his legs even wider, opening fully to him. A single fingertip drifted slowly, tantalizingly over the smooth expanse of skin behind his ballocks.
Arthur yanked on the strings of his drawers. The sound of fabric tearing rent the air. The hell with his smallclothes. He shoved them down his hips and kicked them free of his feet. “Stop,” he managed to get out.
That fingertip paused a hair’s-breadth from that tight, pink hole.
“You do realize you are the very embodiment of temptation?”
Thorn arched a knowing brow.
Yes, of course he knew. The man had used every inch of that beautiful body over the past couple of months in his effort to pull Arthur’s attention back on himself, and Arthur had been the fool who had refused to see the growing desperation behind every wicked touch, every scandalous offer. He hoped tonight he could begin to convince Thorn that he would never be so blind again. Never allow a mere stack of papers to come between him and the man he loved.
He extinguished the lone candle on the bedside table, plunging the room into near darkness, and then crawled onto the bed and crouched over Thorn. Warm fingers, the tips slightly sticky with the proof of Thorn’s desire for him, made to take hold of the prick hanging hard and heavy between Arthur’s thighs. Before Thorn could even fully wrap his hand around Arthur’s length, Arthur shook his head.
“No.” Even though his body begged for that skilled hand, he drew it away. “Let me please you,” he whispered against Thorn’s lips.
He proceeded to lavish Thorn with affection. With each kiss and each touch, he showed him how much he loved him. Skimming his hands over Thorn’s chest, pausing to pluck at his nipples. Dragging his mouth over every inch of his body, leaving no spot untouched. Following the thick vein on the underside of his cock up to the crown. Swirling his tongue over the tip, lapping up the droplet of fluid, savoring the taste of Thorn before opening wide and taking the man inside. He brought Thorn right to the edge, until Thorn was gasping and begging, thrusting up into each plunging stroke of Arthur’s mouth on his prick. And then he pulled free and started anew. Skimming his hands over blazing-hot skin, his touch light and gentle, calming, only to follow with his mouth once again. Until the salty tang of sweat beaded the smooth skin beneath his lips. Until Thorn was writhing beneath him, tugging on his shoulders, desperate fingers biting into his muscles. Until Arthur could not hold back another moment.
He pulled his mouth from the elegant curve of Thorn’s hip and shifted up. “Do you want to fuck me?” he asked, their harsh, panting breaths mingling together.
Thorn shook his head. “Not tonight. Tonight I want you. Want to feel you inside me.” His legs came up to wrap around Arthur’s waist. “Love me.”
“I already do,” Arthur whispered. “I will never stop loving you.” And if it took six more beds to convince Thorn of that fact, then Arthur was more than up to the task.
About the Author
Ava March is an author of sexy, emotionally intense M/M historical erotic romances. She loves writing in the Regency time period, where proper decorum is of the utmost importance, but where anything can happen behind closed doors. With over fifteen works to her credit, her books have been finalists in the Rainbow Awards and More Than Magic contest, and deemed ‘must-haves’ for Historical M/M romance by RT Book Reviews readers. Visit her website at www.AvaMarch.com to find out more about her books or to sign-up for her newsletter.
Look for these titles by Ava March
Now Available:
Object of His Desire
From Afar
London Legal
Convincing Arthur
Coming Soon:
London Legal
Convincing the Secretary
Some rules are destined to be broken.
From Afar
© 2010 Ava March
Loneliness. A concept with which Raphael Laurent is very familiar. He’s lived a solitary life for thirty-six years, shunning the excesses of the local vampire clan—until he spots Lord Aleric Vane, the handsome and dissolute third son of a duke. For three years Raphael has watched from a distance, for only when he is near Aleric does the hollow, empty ache in his chest ease.
Cut off from his family for refusing to follow his father’s dictates, Aleric’s nights are filled with vice. But after three years in London, the city has lost all appeal. Desolate and penniless, his future appears bleak. Until a mysterious man drops from the shadows to drive off a trio of murderous thieves.
When Aleric awakens, he finds himself forever changed. The itch for more that drove him to London is gone. In its place is the feeling that he’s known the beautiful Raphael all his life.
But to save Aleric, Raphael had to break the rules, giving him a chance to love the one man he never thought he could have—a chance that could be ripped away by Aleric himself…
Warning: This book contains hot m/m action with a new vampire with a ramped-up sex drive, and a dash of voyeurism of the m/m, m/f, and m/m/m varieties. Definitely not your traditional Regency romance.
Enjoy the following excerpt for From Afar:
He turned from the washstand and scanned the room. The navy velvet coat and brocade waistcoat strewn near the foot of the bed had to belong to Raphael. Aleric didn’t even bother to pick them up. Given the man’s slighter frame, they wouldn’t fit anyway. His trousers alone would have to do for now.
More to give himself something to do than anything, he grabbed the candle and left the bedchamber to have a look around. There was only one other door at the end of the corridor, the room Raphael had planned to use last night.
Not last night. Day.
It would definitely take a bit of doing to rearrange his thinking.
That wasn’t the only thing he’d have to grow accustomed to. That sense of looking for something, that constant itch for something more that had pushed him to be a reckless lad, always searching for adventure in the staid countryside, was absent for the first time in as long as he could remember. But while a part of him embraced the open possibility of his new life, everything was still much too new, too startlingly strange for comfort. Nor did he have any notion of how he would go about this new phase of his life. Where would he spend his days, hiding from the sun? He hadn’t a shilling to his name. His apartments wouldn’t be a viable option for long.
And above all, there would be no going back to how he had been before Raphael had made Aleric like himself.
“It will get easier to accept with time.”
Raphael’s words drifted through his head, a calming balm that soothed the unease. He went down the stairs and opened the door at the end of the short corridor.
A stale scent hit his nose. The candle threw splashes of light and shadow onto the ghostly shapes scattered throughout the room. He made to take a quick step back then realized it was simply furniture draped with white sheets. Well, they had once been white. A light layer of dust covered the peaks and valleys outlining two settees, a few chairs and small round tea tables. As with Raphael’s bedchamber, mirrors and paintings in heavily gilded frames lined the white paneled walls. An intricate plasterwork pattern covered the ceiling edged with elaborate molding.
This had to be the main drawing room of the house. Did Raphael never have use for it? He investigated the other rooms, even going down to the first floor to check the dining room and the ground floor to check the kitchen before returning to the drawing room. Except for the small library with its bookcases spanning from floor to ceiling, every other space resembled the drawing room. As if it hadn’t been inhabited for years. And the ornate, Rocco-influenced décor marked it decades old. It left the house with the eerie impression it had been frozen in time some forty or fifty years ago.
If felt distinctly…lonely. How could Raphael live here? Or perhaps this wasn’t his home. Perhaps he merely borrowed it, its true owners long removed to the country. It certainly didn’t feel like a gentleman’s residence. He could almost sense the echo of an elegant older lady who still insisted on donning a powered white wig.
That brittle sense of loneliness vanished. Warmth filled his chest. The stale air now rich with the scent of—
“Aleric.”
Before he was aware of it, a smile had stolen across his lips. He turned to find Raphael striding into the room.
Perhaps this was his home after all.
A red silk ribbon held back the length of his hair. Pristine white lace cuffs spilled from the sleeves of his amethyst velvet frock coat. Silver satin knee breeches hugged the lean muscles of his thighs, with white stockings covering his calves. And those shoes. Low-heeled with diamond-encrusted buckles. On any other man, the ensemble would look ridiculous. But it somehow fit him.
“Evening, Raphael. You’re turned out quite smartly tonight.” Odd, to feel so comfortable around him. His presence so familiar, like Aleric had known him forever.
“Did you find my note?”
Aleric nodded.
“My apologies for my absence. A few errands required my attention and I thought it best to see to them before you awoke.” A hint of worry slipped into his features, drawing his brows together the slightest bit. “Last night you asked if there were others like us in London. I have made arrangements for us to pay a call. An introduction to the clan.” Before Aleric could open his mouth to voice his question, Raphael added, “I’ll explain on the ride there. The carriage will arrive shortly. Before we can leave you need to change into something more appropriate.”
“Despite the lure of purple velvet, I highly doubt any of your clothes will fit me.” He flicked his fingers to his trousers. “Everything else I had on last night is unfit to wear.”
“Not to worry. I stopped by your apartments.”
Did you now? The stiff bristle of irritation dug sharp and hard into his spine. “I don’t recall handing over the key.”
“Your bedchamber window wasn’t locked,” Raphael called over his shoulder as he strode from the room.
“My apartments are on the third floor,” Aleric pointed out, following Raphael up the stairs.
“And easily accessible from the rooftop.” Raphael opened the door to the other bedchamber. “This room is yours for as long as you wish to stay.”
“Thank you,” Aleric said, taken aback by the man’s generosity. At least he needn’t worry about finding himself without a roof over his head anymore. Though he would have preferred to remain in Raphael’s room than to have his own. “And thank you…for last night.” When I behaved like a complete and utter fool.
Raphael tipped his head, the edges of his lips lifting in an understanding smile.
Thankful Raphael did not elaborate on the subject, Aleric turned and set the candle on the dresser beside a full decanter of brandy on a silver tray complete with an empty glass. The fire in the grate looked warm, but it must have been newly built for the heat had yet to take the chill from the room. Under the cool air was a hint of the same stale scent that permeated the other rooms in the townhouse, except Raphael’s bedchamber and the small library. He had the impression someone had recently removed the white sheets from the furniture. The bed appeared freshly made. The gold-patterned coverlet straightened, the white pillows fluffed.
“It is your home, correct?” Aleric asked.
“Pardon?”
“The townhouse. It’s yours?”
“Yes.”
“Have you always lived here?”
“No. I grew up in the country.” Raphael prodded the fire with an iron poker, nudging the flames to full life. “
The townhouse was my grandmother’s. She left it to me when I was a boy. The house lay dormant for years before I had a need for it.”
“Was that when you cut ties with your family?”
“I had no need to cut ties. My parents had passed away a couple years before. But I didn’t think it wise to continue to reside in their home—curious neighbors and all—so I relocated to London.” He rested the poker against the marble fireplace surround and indicated a narrow door along one wall. “You’ll find a change of clothes in there. If you have need of anything, you have only to ask.”
Aleric wanted to know so much more about Raphael—what was his life like before he’d been turned, did he miss it or had he embraced his new life?—but the way in which he changed the subject indicated he preferred not to discuss his past. So he made do with another “Thank you.”
“How do you feel?” The heavy regard in the man’s eyes begged an honest answer and not merely a polite, conversational response.
“Damned fantastic. But I’m thirsty.” Those last three words popped out of his mouth without conscious thought. But he had spoken the truth. He was parched. Not hunger, but thirst. Sharper and more acute than after a long summer’s day spent under the hot sun.
Raphael pushed up one lace-edged sleeve, held out his wrist to Aleric. “Here. Drink.”
“Ah…I-I don’t think I should…” Even though uncertainty waged within, his feet moved, taking him closer to Raphael, to that beautifully bared wrist.
“I had more than enough last night. Take what you need.”
“We can drink from each other?”
The hesitation before Raphael nodded did not inspire confidence. In one swift movement speaking of practiced ease, Raphael brought his wrist up to his mouth, slashed his fangs across his own skin.
An all too familiar sweet, slightly metallic scent wafted from the wound, surrounding Aleric. He flared his nostrils, drinking in the delicious scent. He vaguely registered the prick on his gums as his fangs descended. All his attention had focused on Raphael’s wrist, the blood pooling over the wound, the strong pulse in his vein.
