by Ava March
Max kept his gaze pinned on Tristan, waiting for the young man to shift his weight, to break eye contact, to fidget in some manner, to reveal his words as false. As merely an attempt to say what a potential client wanted to hear.
After a long moment, Tristan nodded once, a perfunctory, businesslike bob of his head. “I understand. I don’t suit. Charles should be available soon. He’s the only other man in the house willing to take male clients, but he’s presently occupied. I can have a supper tray sent up if you’d prefer to wait.”
“What are you going on about? I never said you didn’t suit.” If anything, Tristan suited much too well. “I merely wanted to be certain I wasn’t buggering a boy.”
“I am not a boy.” Fire flashed in Tristan’s eyes, briefly darkening the green-gold depths.
“And you have convinced me of such.” With a nudge of his chin, he beckoned Tristan.
In the blink of an eye, all traces of irritation vanished from Tristan’s beautiful features. He crossed the room, his strides long and limber, full of natural grace. He settled next to Max on the couch, and as he turned his shoulders toward him, his knee pressed against Max’s thigh. Just that bit of contact was enough to make the lust spike. The jolt landed squarely in Max’s ballocks. His cock hardened, pressing against the placket of his trousers, eager for attention.
With an absent flick of his fingers, Tristan tucked the long strands of his hair behind one ear. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a calling card.
Max took the proffered card. Written in neat black type was an amount. That was it. Nothing more. So he’d assumed wrong—it wasn’t a calling card. Rather, the man’s rate for the night. “We haven’t discussed specifics yet.”
Tristan lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It matters not what we do. That’s the price for my time.”
“And how long do I have you?”
“No more than three hours.” Tristan arched a dark blond brow. “Do the terms meet with your satisfaction?”
The answer required no thought at all. “Yes.” Shifting on the couch, he withdrew a fold of pound notes from his trouser pocket. When he made to give the required amount to Tristan, the man shook his head.
“Just put it on the side table.”
Max did as requested, setting the notes next to his empty glass.
“Do you have a name?” Tristan asked.
“Yes. Max.” He didn’t elaborate beyond that. Though he highly doubted Tristan moved about in Society, Max was a duke and there weren’t a plethora of his kind in England. It was possible Tristan would recognize his family name, and Max much preferred the veil of anonymity while at this house.
“What would you like tonight, Max?”
Blunt and to the point. One of the many reasons why he preferred men. Various options filled his head. The two of them locked together on the plush rug, Max driving into Tristan, the man’s head thrown back in ecstasy, fingers digging into Max’s forearms. Tristan bent over the side of the bed, arse tilted up, showing off the plug lodged deep within. Tristan on his knees, hands bound, cock bound, desperate want pouring off him. He could do anything he wanted with this man. Could give every one of his desires complete and absolute free rein.
Perhaps not. “What will you do?”
“Most anything.”
“Most?” He wanted to know Tristan’s limits up front. Straying across one in the heat of the moment could rather spoil the evening.
Tristan gave him another one of those casual half shrugs. “I’d prefer if you didn’t hit me with a closed fist or treat me like a dog.”
“No concerns there. I’ve never been one to beat my lovers black and blue. Redden their arse perhaps, but not beat. And I don’t much care for dogs.” And Max didn’t much care for the fact Tristan had felt the need to state such limits. No man who cared a wit about his bed partner would ever do either of those things.
A hand settled on Max’s knee, then skimmed up to his upper thigh. A shiver of need racked Max’s spine. Tristan leaned closer, his lashes at half-mast, a sinful smile toying with the edges of his mouth. The business portion of their evening was clearly over.
“Do you want to fuck my arse?” Tristan asked, voice low, temptation turned to sound. “Restrain me? Shall I don a dress and play the damsel in distress?” Elegant fingers drifted up to play over the placket of Max’s trousers, tracing the length, the width of him. With effort, Max held back the groan, held back the urge to lift his hips, to demand more, to betray how desperately he needed more. “Or do you just want me to suck your cock? I’m quite good at it.”
His attention was drawn to Tristan’s gorgeous mouth. Plump and full and tinged pale pink. He knew those lips would feel goddamn amazing sliding up and down his prick. An invitation he could not refuse. Did not want to refuse. Max spread his legs, granting Tristan greater access. “Why don’t you show me?”
That sinful smile kicked up a notch. “It would be my pleasure.” Efficient and deft, Tristan undid the buttons on the placket and tucked Max’s shirttail beneath his waistcoat. A tug on the string of Max’s drawers, and he pushed aside the white linen, revealing the hard arch of his erection. All it took was a shift of Max’s hips, and his cock sprang free of the confines of his clothing.
A pink tongue darted out to swipe across Tristan’s bottom lip. In one graceful movement, he bowed over Max’s lap, the length of his ginger-blond hair falling over his shoulders, hiding his face. He braced a hand on the other side of Max’s hip, and then those elegant fingers wrapped around the base of Max’s prick.
Warm breaths fanned the crown. Anticipation rushed through him. Max couldn’t stop his hips from lifting up, toward the source of those warm, moist breaths.
Slowly, ever so damn slowly, a teasing tongue dragged across the tip of his cock. Then just as slowly, swirled across the crown, wetting every inch of the needy surface.
Max’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his body thrumming from just that tease of sensation. A part of him wanted to revel in the anticipation, let it ratchet the lust higher and higher. Yet ten months of only his own hand for company pushed the demand from his lips. “Suck my cock.” The words came out on a growl, heavy with impatience.
Tristan let out a little moan of agreement. The next instant, wet heat engulfed the crown. What felt like the softest silk slid down Max’s length.
Max couldn’t stifle the groan. Did not want to stifle the groan as Tristan lavished his cock with attention. Bobbing up and down, his fist tight around the base, his lips caressing his skin, his mouth applying the perfect amount of suction.
He pushed his fingers into the soft strands of Tristan’s hair, pulled it back, wanting to see his prick sliding in and out of the man’s mouth. See those plump, lush lips stretched around the thick length.
The sight did not disappoint.
“That’s it. Suck me,” he murmured, voice gone hoarse, like carriage wheels crunching over gravel.
The line of Tristan’s shoulders went loose as he increased his efforts. Quickening the pace, increasing that blissful suction. Max flexed his hand against the man’s skull, resisting the almost unstoppable urge to push down, to force Tristan to take every inch of his erection.
As if able to sense Max’s thoughts, on the next down stroke, Tristan shifted his grip and sank lower. The head of Max’s prick bumped the back of Tristan’s throat then he felt the muscles relax just enough for Tristan to take him deep, trapping his cock in snug heat.
Max’s mouth fell open on a heavy gasp. Pleasure saturated his senses. His thighs trembled under the force of the climax barreling upon him. That snug heat clenched, like a little ripple. Once, twice, three times, as Tristan swallowed around his prick.
The orgasm burst across his senses. A sudden, intense slam of pleasure, too quick, too fierce, to even make an attempt to hold back. His shou
t echoed in his ears as Tristan sucked hard, pumped the length, prolonging Max’s climax. Amplifying it to almost unbearable levels. Until Max could have sworn Tristan had sucked every drop of seed from his ballocks.
His spent cock slipped from that gorgeous mouth as Tristan pulled back. Max released his hold on the man’s hair, allowing him to sit upright. With a swipe of his fingertips, Tristan wiped the trickle of pearly white seed from the corner of his reddened lips.
Max could do nothing more than gasp for breath, his muscles lax, senses thrumming in the aftermath of that powerful climax.
Hell and damnation, it had truly been much too long since he’d been with another man.
A pleased smile tipped the edges of Tristan’s mouth. “Would you care for a glass of brandy?”
The question, with its distinct note of finality, jolted him from the thick haze of sensation. Did Tristan believe once he’d brought Max to climax they were done for the evening?
Bloody hell no. There were two of them on this couch, after all.
“Remove your clothes.”
Puzzlement flickered across Tristan’s face. He glanced down to Max’s just-spent cock. The puzzlement faded, replaced with what Max could only define as polite acceptance. “That’s not necessary.”
“What’s not necessary?”
“It is perfectly fine. While the sentiment is appreciated, you needn’t bother.”
Sentiment? He needn’t bother? What the hell was the man going on—
Understanding dawned. The insult hit him square in the chest. His eyes narrowed. “Stand up.”
With a complacent little shrug, Tristan unfolded his frame from the couch and stood. An erection tented the placket of his trousers. He may pretend to be unaffected, but a man’s body did not lie.
“Right here.” Max pointed to the spot between his own spread knees. Once Tristan did as bid, Max repeated his initial demand. “Remove your clothes.”
Without hesitation, Tristan reached up to his neck and undid the elaborate knot of his cravat. The white linen fell to the plush rug beneath his feet. This time, his fingers weren’t quite so deft and efficient as he undid the buttons on first his coat then his waistcoat, his gaze locked with Max’s all the while. A shrug of his shoulders, and the garments slipped from his arms.
The fire in the hearth crackled. Tristan took hold of the bottom of his shirt and whisked the fabric over his head, baring a perfect expanse of flawless pale skin. He shifted his weight, toeing off his evening shoes. One tug had the placket of his trousers undone. A moment’s hesitation, and Tristan pushed the trousers down his legs and stepped free of them.
A blush tinged the crests of his high cheekbones. A blush Max suspected was from more than mere arousal.
The last traces of annoyance faded away. Max gave Tristan a hint of a smile as he leaned forward and palmed Tristan’s hips. One light tug was all that was needed. Tristan moved onto the couch, knees straddling Max’s hips.
Max wrapped one hand around Tristan’s erection, the other still on Tristan’s hip. He’d expected the man to be lithe and lean everywhere, but the not-insubstantial length in his hand defied that assumption. Tristan’s body had definitely been designed for pleasure, every hard inch of it.
He tightened his grip just a bit around Tristan’s cock. “Our evening is not over until we take care of this.”
A nod from Tristan. “All right.”
“Just all right?”
He swept his gaze over Max’s face. “Thank you?”
The beginnings of a chuckle shook Max’s chest. “Thank you is always appreciated, though I much prefer enthusiasm.”
“Oh, I’m definitely enthusiastic about taking care of—” he glanced down to his cock then met Max’s eyes again, “—that.”
“Very good to hear.”
He released Tristan’s cock to spit into his palm. The man’s breaths stuttered as he grabbed hold of him once again. He picked up a leisurely rhythm, stroking up and down the slicked length, his grip firm but not tight, giving Tristan a moment to grow accustomed to his touch.
Tristan’s hands flexed at his sides. Then he reached up, rested them on Max’s shoulders. His lashes fluttered then swept down. At the first nudge forward of his hips, asking for more, Max increased his pace, tightened his grip.
He wanted Tristan writhing on his lap. Wanted to hear his desperation. Feel it, taste it. Wanted to shove aside all traces of the calm, professional facade as if it had never been there.
His hold on Tristan’s hip shifted back to palm the firm curve of his arse cheek, fingers delving into the crease. With one fingertip, he pressed against the tight hole.
Letting out a whimper, Tristan pushed back, asking for more, wanting more. Well aware of the lack of anything slick to ease his way, Max ignored Tristan’s request and focused on teasing the man to distraction. Pressed and played yet didn’t breach his entrance. All the while, he worked the man’s cock. Flicking a finger over the tip with each pull forward, paying due attention to that sensitive spot just under the crown.
The flush on Tristan’s cheeks crept down his neck to stain the smooth skin over his delicate yet strong collarbone and the top of his chest. With each rock of his hips, Tristan’s ballocks dragged over Max’s cock in a decadent caress. Lust built in Max’s veins once again, his cock hardening, lengthening, as if it had been weeks, months, and not mere minutes since he’d shot his seed down Tristan’s throat.
Without warning, Tristan fell forward to rest his forehead on Max’s shoulder. The soft stands of his hair brushed Max’s ear. The heat from Tristan’s body, the sounds of his panting breaths, the scents of male skin and of arousal, filled Max’s senses. He greedily soaked it up, every sound, every sensation, like a parched man stranded in the desert.
Those panting breaths turned into faint grunts. Tristan shifted on Max’s lap, the movement drenched in desperation. “Fuck me. Please,” he whispered.
Max shook his head. “Not tonight.” He had no idea where the refusal came from. It was just there, on his tongue. And once out, once given, he didn’t question it. “Tonight, I want you to climax. Right here, between my hands.” He pressed on Tristan’s entrance and squeezed his cock harder, driving his point home.
Tristan shuttered. Groaned. Then Tristan’s lips were on his. Mouth crushed over his, tongue pushing inside. Max’s instincts screamed to the forefront, demanding he take control of the kiss. He fought back the urge, let Tristan take what he needed. Max felt every muscle in the man’s body draw taut and within the next moment he was rewarded by a guttural moan. Liquid heat splashed Max’s fingers as he milked the crown, drawing Tristan’s pleasure out as much as possible.
Releasing Tristan, he grabbed his own prick. Wrapped his hand, fingers coated with Tristan’s seed, around his length. Three strokes and the orgasm gripped hold of him. The second lacked the sharp, blinding intensity of the first of the night. Still, the strength of that climax made those he’d given himself in his lonely bed pale in comparison.
The tenor of the kiss shifted, the urgency replaced by utter contentment. Soft lips dragged across his own, a light nip of teeth. Pulling back, Tristan broke the kiss. Tousled hair framed a most satisfied face, his eyes heavy-lidded and darkened from sated pleasure.
Those eyes dropped to Max’s chest. A furrow marred his brow. “Oh, your waistcoat.” Tristan dragged a fingertip over the silk fabric, smearing the seed that had splattered there.
“My coat will cover it.”
And when Max returned home, he’d throw it into the basket in his dressing room for his valet to see to. For all the valet would know, it could be the remnants of a dally with some chit. Nothing at all labeled the mess as a mark from an encounter with the most beautiful man Max had ever laid eyes on.
“Can you even grow a beard?” The question popped out of his mouth befor
e he could give it any consideration. Tristan’s jaw looked as smooth as a baby’s skin, without one hair marring the surface or even the hint of a shadow of an evening beard. He wanted to cup the man’s jaw, verify the smoothness of his skin, yet the sticky-cool sensation of drying seed on his palm kept his arm at his side.
A smile curved Tristan’s mouth. “Yes, though it’s sparse.”
With that, Tristan moved off his lap. It took all of the effort within himself to release his hold on Tristan’s hip, to let the man get to his feet. Cold, empty air brushed against him, seeping through his clothing.
As Tristan reached down to grab his trousers, Max mentally shook himself to his senses and righted his own, tucking his length inside his drawers and doing up the placket.
“Would you care for a glass of brandy?”
He had done what he had told Tristan he would do. He’d seen to the man’s pleasure. Their evening was now over.
So this time when Tristan asked the question, Max nodded his assent to the glass of brandy.
Chapter Two
With a soft swoosh of muslin, Mary turned on the low dais before the gilt-framed mirror. “What do you think?” she asked, blue eyes alight with expectation.
Legs stretched out before him, Tristan Walsh set his tea cup on the table beside his chair and contemplated the gown. Ice-blue muslin with a pale ivory net overlay and intricate lace detail around the hem. The matching blue ribbon underscoring the bodice drew the eye exactly where the wearer intended it to go. The modiste had done an excellent job, somehow finding the balance between demure and blatantly sensual.
“It’s perfect.”
She looked to the bodice and tugged on the fabric. “Not sure it’s quite low enough.”
“Any lower, and it wouldn’t be able to do its duty. Honestly, the gown is perfect the way it is. He’ll adore it.” And the man would likely adore it more when it was off of her.
Her lips pursed. “Perhaps just a bit lower.”
