by Ava March
Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm his pulse that pounded through his veins at the promise of what was to come. “All right.”
Max arched a brow.
“There’s definite enthusiasm. Have no doubt about that.”
Max gave him a little shake of his head, the firm line of his mouth curving up just the slightest at the corners. He stood from the couch. “Remove your clothes and get on the bed.”
Tristan’s first instinct was to rip the clothes from his body, the buttons on his new violet silk waistcoat be damned. But the pound notes on the small chest of drawers beside the couch recalled him to his senses, and to his surroundings. Max wasn’t his lover. Max was his client, and he mustn’t forget he had a job to do.
With that reminder clear in his mind, he untied his cravat. His coat, waistcoat and shirt soon found their way to the floorboards without a single button lost in the process. Yet as with last night, when he made to push down his trousers, he had to push past the urge to hesitate and will his fingers to release the waistband, to let the fabric fall down his legs.
Ridiculous. He’d undressed countless times for countless other men. No reason at all to feel the least bit self-conscious.
Stepping over his discarded clothing, he went to the bedside table. Pulled open the top drawer, removed a bottle of oil and set it on the surface next to the small brass clock. Then he positioned himself on his back, midway along the width of the forest-green coverlet, legs casually spread, knees slightly bent and head resting on one of the pillows at the headboard.
He didn’t need to ask to know Max wanted him to wait. With his arms at his sides, he lay still and waited for Max’s next command.
Dark gaze locked with Tristan’s, Max reached up to remove the pin on his cravat. After slipping the diamond pin into his pocket, he tugged on the knot. The floorboards creaked ever so faintly as he crossed the distance separating them. The man stopped at the foot of the bed and let the cravat fall from his fingers. He didn’t say a word as he undressed. Silence filled the room, yet rather than unnerve Tristan, it prodded the lust even higher. It was all he could do to keep the plea inside for the man to hurry. He wanted Max’s bare skin beneath his hands. Wanted to have all that power and strength crouched above him, driving into him, driving him to the edge and shoving him over it.
Most clients didn’t care in the slightest if he had an orgasm, nor did they need to care. They paid for their own pleasure, and his did not figure in to the bargain in any fashion whatsoever. The fact he rarely got fully erect while being buggered mattered not to them. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for the act. Rather it was the knowledge that whatever man paid for his time did not care whether it was Tristan or another. All that mattered was that he’d allow them to do whatever they wanted with him. Yet with Max...
Tristan was about as certain as could be that before their three hours was up, Max would bring him to climax. Based on their encounter last night, he highly doubted it would be an experience he’d want to forget anytime soon.
The mattress dipped slightly as Max got onto the bed. His hard cock bobbing with every movement, Max crawled to him yet stopped midway along his body.
“What do you want?” Max asked.
It had become so very easy to ask a client for what he wanted, to present options in all of their accompanying explicit details. But to give voice to his own desires? “I want you to fuck me,” he replied, hoping the tremble in his voice didn’t betray how difficult it had been to get those words out.
There was that hint of a smile again. “That outcome’s a given.” Max broke eye contact, his gaze flickering to Tristan’s cock. The hard length arched over his lower abdomen, a drop of fluid clinging to the tip. “Very nice.”
“Thank you.” Had he just thanked Max for complimenting his prick?
Max dropped his head.
Tristan’s breath caught as Max dragged his tongue up the underside of his erection. Crouched between Tristan’s spread legs, the muscles of Max’s strong shoulders bunched and flexed as he tormented Tristan. Long, slow licks designed to tease, to torture, to rouse the lust but never quite satisfy it.
Before he was aware of it, his arm lifted from his side and his hand was cupping Max’s head, fingers pressing against his skull, trying to guide Max to the needy crown. To get Max to take him inside his mouth. To satisfy the all-encompassing urge for more than those teasing drags of his tongue.
“Arms above your head.” Max didn’t snap the words. He didn’t speak with the harsh bite of a reprimand. He didn’t even spear Tristan with a scolding stare.
Yet still, Tristan snatched his hand back as if burned. The moment his knuckles brushed the headboard, Max went back to tormenting him. Heart slamming against his ribs, it was all Tristan could do not to lift his hips in an appeal for more. On the next downward glide, Max dropped lower. Turned his attention to Tristan’s ballocks. His tongue glided across the surface in a decadent caress, then he pulled one testicle into the hot heat of his mouth, gently sucked on it before turning his attention to the other.
Every muscle in Tristan’s body drew tight. His hands clutched the top rail spanning the length of the headboard. His breaths turned sharp, hitching in his throat. “Fuck me, Max. Please.” Christ, he was begging again.
Max drew back, Tristan’s ballocks slipping from his mouth. “All in due time.”
Ah hell. A hedonist. The rarest of beasts.
A few more glides of his tongue across Tristan’s ballocks, and Max planted a palm on the underside of one of Tristan’s thighs. Tristan eagerly heeded the pressure, drawing his knees back toward his chest and fully exposing his entrance. With his other arm bracing his weight, Max bowed low. The sound of him spitting on Tristan’s hole was the very definition of obscene and the most erotic thing he had ever heard.
That large hand coasted down his thigh. A tremor of anticipation racked Tristan’s body. A fingertip skimmed over his entrance, spreading the moisture there. Just when Tristan was certain Max was going to tease him into madness, the fingertip pushed inside. But before a sigh of gratitude could expand his chest, Max licked a path from his ballocks, up the length of his cock, and captured the head between his lips.
A groan of purest lust scraped Tristan’s throat.
Mouth working his prick and finger thrusting, Max pushed him right to the edge and held him there. One digit became two and then three. Tristan lost track of how many times he pleaded with Max to bugger him. The words fuck me and please tumbled out of his mouth unchecked, blurring together. The climax coiled down his spine, settled in his ballocks. One flick of Max’s tongue across the crown, one hard suck along his length, would trigger the climax, send Tristan spiraling into oblivion. Yet Max did nothing of the sort. Even the digits thrusting into his arse stubbornly refused to find that sweet spot inside of him.
Max was doing it deliberately. Tristan had no doubt whatsoever. It left him torn between the need to throw every vile curse he knew at him, and thank him. The experience of having so much sensation poured across his nerves, saturating his senses... Hell, he’d never been so absolutely consumed with desire, with need, so potent he physically ached with it.
Those fingers and that wet mouth left him.
“Max, please.” The plea came out drenched in desperation, bordering on a whine.
The man swiped a forearm across his wet lips. “Please what?”
“Fuck me. Goddamn it, please, Max.”
The hot weight of Max’s gaze traced the length of Tristan’s body. Tristan held his breath. Silence pressed against his ears, leaving him acutely aware that he was completely at Max’s mercy.
“All right.”
It took a couple of seconds for the significance of the phrase to penetrate the fog of lust clogging Tristan’s mind. A short chuckle dared to shake his chest. He tried to tamp it down, but it was no u
se.
The smile tipping the edges of Max’s mouth told him the man had been quite deliberate in how he’d phrased his response.
Pushing up full onto his knees, Max scooted the necessary bit closer, his strong thighs pressing against the exposed curve of Tristan’s arse. His erection jutted from his body, the crown flushed with need. Rather than allow another plea to fall past his lips, Tristan clung to the last shred of patience he possessed and waited for Max to grant his request.
Leaning right, Max snatched the bottle of oil from the bedside table. Tristan’s gaze tracked Max’s every move as he poured a generous amount of oil onto his palm. With a soft thump, he dropped the bottle onto the coverlet. Seemingly without a care in the world, Max stroked his own prick, his large hand spreading the oil along the length.
Taking hold of Tristan’s hip with his other hand, Max leaned back just enough to drag the crown across Tristan’s entrance.
“What do you want?”
The way Max asked, without demand, as if he were merely putting a question to him, caused Tristan to pause. “I want you.” And it was the truth. The very core of it. He didn’t just want Max to bugger him. He wanted the man himself.
A small, satisfied smile briefly curved Max’s mouth. Then pressure pushed against Tristan’s entrance. The crown made the breach, stretching him, forcing him open. Teased beyond the point of utter desperation, Tristan reveled in the sting as his muscles were forced to accommodate Max’s thick cock. He well knew Max was not an average fellow. Hell, he had taken him into his throat not twenty-four hours ago. But having that prick fill his arse...
Tristan let out a moan, low and guttural, as pure pleasure swamped his senses.
Buried hilt-deep, Max went still. His dark lashes lowered. A sound, one very close to the purr of a cat, rumbled his chest. Taking hold of Tristan’s hips with both hands, Max drew back, slow and deliberate. With just the head of his cock inside him, Max went still once again.
Somehow Tristan knew what was coming next. He tightened his grip on the headboard’s rail, locked his elbows.
Max’s lashes lifted. The force of his gaze, soaked with lust, was like a physical blow, knocking the wind from Tristan’s lungs.
Before Tristan could catch his breath, Max slammed into him. All traces of control vanished, as if they had never been there. Jaw set and biceps bulging, he pounded his cock into Tristan. Hard, rough, unyielding. Pulling Tristan back to meet each thrust.
The heavy impacts radiated across his senses. Shook the bed. And he wanted more. Yet his mouth couldn’t form the words to beg for more. Grunts and groans filled his throat, mixed with Max’s.
Max shifted, changing the angle of his strokes, tilting Tristan’s hips up. On the next downward thrust, the head of his cock slid over that sweet spot inside of him. Again and again and again. Shoving more sensation into him. Winding the pleasure ever tighter and tighter. Until it shoved him over the edge.
A feral groan ripped from Tristan’s throat. Seed shot from his cock, painting his chest. Max’s thrusts turned savage, almost brutal. An instant before the rough pounding would have turned the pleasure into pain, Max threw back his head and let out a shout. Warmth filled Tristan’s passage. Then Max collapsed on top of him.
The sharp pants of Max’s breaths puffed against Tristan’s neck. “Damnation.”
If the aftereffects of that explosive climax weren’t completely addling his mind, he’d say there was more than just exhaustion in Max’s low curse. There was a fair share of awe as well. And it expressed Tristan’s own sentiments exactly. Max had wrung the orgasm out of him without touching his prick. Damnation, indeed.
Tristan uncurled his fingers from the headboard’s rail, let his hands drop to the pillow. The heavy weight of Max’s body pressed against his ribs to the point where he couldn’t draw a full breath, but Tristan was loath to nudge him to move.
He let his eyes drift shut. The quick thumps of Max’s heartbeat reverberated through Tristan’s chest, matched his own. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Max shifted slightly. The heavy press against Tristan’s ribs eased a bit, allowing him to finally draw a full breath. The man must be bracing some of his weight on his elbows. Soft lips brushed Tristan’s neck, skimmed over his jaw, found his own.
Their tongues twined together, lazy and slow. A perfect complement to the haze of satiated lust that enveloped his senses. Tristan lost track of all sense of time and place as their lips glided across each other’s, tongues stroking, tasting, playing.
Max’s hips nudged forward, reminding Tristan the man’s cock still filled his arse. A thick, hard cock.
“This all right?” Max murmured against his lips, with another nudge of his hips.
The man was actually asking if he could bugger Tristan again? Or continue buggering him, however one wanted to view it.
“Yes.” Then he added, “Please.” Even if it didn’t occur to Max, Tristan wanted him to know it was what he wanted and had nothing at all to do with anything beyond the two of them in this bed.
A nip to Tristan’s lower lip, and Max captured his mouth again. Those nudges turned into languid thrusts. Each one backed by a barely audible grunt from Max, one Tristan more felt than heard. Unable and unwilling to resist, Tristan wrapped his arms around Max’s back and held on to him. Hard muscles worked beneath his hands, the skin cool and damp from sweat yet warm from the heat of Max’s body.
There was absolutely nothing hurried about it as Max ramped the passion back up. Their kiss still unbroken, Max’s thrusts pushing them onward toward another climax.
And Tristan gave himself completely over to Max. There was only Max, his kiss, his strong body moving against him, the scent of his skin, the feel of his cock invading him, possessing him. When the climax gripped him again, it felt just as unhurried as Max’s thrusts, washing over his senses in a languorous wave. And with a deep grunt, Max followed him over the edge.
* * *
The muffled laugh of a woman roused him from sleep. Tristan blinked open his eyelids, which felt damned heavy. Max was sprawled half on top of him, head resting on Tristan’s chest, one leg tangled with his and an arm draped across his waist. He couldn’t quite remember falling asleep. After the orgasm, Max’s kisses had drifted down to his throat, and that was the last thing he could recall.
Mighty rude of Tristan to fall asleep, but judging by the faint rumble behind each of Max’s deep, rhythmic exhales, the man wasn’t taking issue with the unplanned nap. If he wasn’t mistaken, the little puddle on his chest, directly beneath the corner of Max’s mouth, was drool. Suppressing a chuckle, Tristan wrapped his arms around Max and gave in to the urge to let sleep overtake him once again.
His eyes snapped open. Turning his head, Tristan glanced to the bedside table, to the clock deliberately angled toward the bed. Focusing on the small numbers on the clock’s face, he forced his mind to do the maths.
Oh, hell.
He nudged Max’s shoulder.
Rubicon would have his hide if he allowed an appointment to exceed the allotted three-hour limit. Overstepping even one rule could lose him his position and leave him without any means to repay his debt to her.
Another nudge, this one harder. “Max, you need to wake up.”
“Why?” he asked, voice a mere rumble, dark lashes still resting against his cheekbones.
“It’s been almost three hours. You need to leave soon.”
Max lifted his head. The mussed hair and bit of moisture at the corner of his mouth countered the stern frown. Just when Tristan was certain Max would refuse to leave, he said, “All right. But give me a moment.”
Tristan nodded.
Max settled against his side. His back lifted on a deep breath, the exhale whooshing across Tristan’s chest. “You’re from the country, correct?”
“Yes. Yorkshire. A
nd how did you know?”
“You sound like you were raised in the country.” Well, yes, there was that. “When did you come to London?”
“A few years ago.” He had been so eager to leave Yorkshire, leave his father’s farm, his older brothers and their cast-off clothes behind, to find someplace where he belonged. Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken him long to realize London did not at all resemble the glittering city of his boyhood dreams.
Something in his tone must have given him away, for Max asked, “Not what you expected?”
“No.” That was putting it mildly.
“I spend a great deal of time in the country myself. Only come to Town when business demands it.” Max lifted up onto his elbows. “You need to wash up. Dried seed can’t be comfortable.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded to the washstand.
Tristan looked down and tilted his head to one side in an effort to mimic Max’s viewpoint. The candlelight caught the dried remnants of his climax splattered across his skin.
Wonderful.
“Here,” Max said, holding out a wet cloth.
“Thank you.” Tristan sat up and pushed the tangled mess that was his god-awful hair over his shoulder. After cleaning up, he set the cloth in Max’s outstretched hand.
Max dropped the cloth on the nearby chest of drawers. Rather than turn back to the bed, he pulled open the top drawer. The man had a gorgeous back, all hard muscle and smooth skin. Tristan remained on the bed, resisting the impulse to reach out, to trace the strong line of Max’s spine.
“Interesting,” Max murmured, reaching into the drawer. “I had expected these chests not to contain such mundane things as smallclothes. Appears my expectations were correct.”
Even after two years at the house, Tristan didn’t know every room well enough to know exactly what that particular top drawer contained. Some variety of toys or leather goods, no doubt. Was Max in the mood to play again? After two rounds with Max, his arse begged for a no, but the prospect of being bound for Max’s pleasure...
