by Ava March
His breaths stuttered as lust made a valiant attempt to spark anew. And the man had wanted Tristan’s arms over his head while he’d buggered him, during the first time anyway. The hard tone, the commanding presence... He could well imagine Max to be the sort who’d relished in such play. Max would be damned good at it, too. He wouldn’t leave welts on Tristan’s skin, wouldn’t shove him roughly to his knees, wouldn’t make him feel like the lowest of dogs.
As Max turned from the chest, Tristan briefly closed his eyes. Every toy and leather good he’d ever been acquainted with flashed before his mind. Which one would Max select? He opened his eyes.
Max held a massive black marble dildo. It was so thick his large hand couldn’t contain its width. The thing had to be a good twelve inches in length.
“Can you take this?”
Tristan swallowed hard, the muscles in his sore arse clenching. “Yes,” he whispered. It had hurt like hell when shoved inside him. But in Max’s hands...
The echo of a whimper registered through the haze of lust suddenly swamping him.
Had that sound come from him?
What could only be classified as a satisfied smile with a distinct note of anticipation tipped the edges of Max’s lips.
Yes, indeed. That whimper had come from Tristan.
Max’s gaze strayed to the bedside table. The smile left his lips. And with the loss of that smile, it was as if all the warmth, all the intimacy, left the room.
Marble clacked against marble as Max put the dildo back in the drawer. “I should be on my way.” He grabbed his trousers from where he’d discarded them at the foot of the bed and dressed. It wasn’t but a handful of minutes later and he was slipping out the door.
All he left in his wake was a fold of pound notes on the side table and Tristan, still sitting alone on the bed.
Chapter Four
Max let out a sigh of relief as he stepped out of the doors of Westminster. The good Lord above must have been smiling upon him, for the session had finally closed for the summer.
He hadn’t made it halfway across the yard when a hand clapped him on the shoulder.
“Heading back to Hampshire tomorrow?” Rawling asked.
“Yes. First thing in the morning.” He’d been tempted to extend his stay in London, but responsibilities did not disappear simply because his prick wanted attention from a particular individual. He had been in London long enough. Past time for him to turn his focus fully back to Arrington Park and the countless other responsibilities, besides the House of Lords, that encompassed the dukedom.
“Then I take it this will be the last I will see of you for some weeks to come.”
“If you are fortunate you won’t see me for a good couple of months or so.”
“However will I get along?”
Max chuckled. “I have no doubt you will find something to occupy you.”
“Or someone, if I am fortunate.”
“There is that hope.” Did Rawling prefer men as well? Was that how he had known Rubicon’s had male employees? Max couldn’t recall him ever mentioning any specific woman who had caught his attention. Then again, their conversations did not tend to run toward those topics. At least not until lately. And it was a topic he did not want Rawling to nudge him about yet again. While he appreciated Rawling’s concern, he did not want to put Jonathan completely behind him. That experience had taught him a valuable lesson, one he was determined to never forget or repeat. “Or you could occupy yourself with your estate.”
A frown briefly tightened the edges of Rawling’s mouth. “Don’t stay away too long, Pelham. Your disposition has improved over the last week, and I would hate to see you turn back into a glowering old man.”
It would have been a neat turn of the conversation, if it wasn’t glaringly obvious Rawling did not want to discuss his estate.
“That glower was due to the Lords. Since that hell is over until well after the New Year, you have no immediate cause for further concern.”
Rawling cast him a glance from the corner of his eye, one that said Max was fooling no one, least of all himself.
A glance Max ignored.
Stopping at the street, he turned toward Rawling. “Try to ensure London stays in one piece while I am gone.”
Rawling tipped his head. “I shall do my best.”
A parting shake of the hand, and he left Rawling on the walkway and crossed to where his carriage was waiting on the opposite side of the street.
A footman hopped off the boot to see to the door. “The town house,” Max said as he stepped inside.
He gazed out the window as his carriage took him back to Mayfair, his driver deftly guiding the team of four around the hackneys and other carriages. The streets were much busier than when the Lords usually adjourned for the night. The sun must have recently set for the sky still held an echo of its light. It could not be much past nine. Still early yet. Max pulled out his pocket watch, confirmed the time.
The dreaded supper party Saturday evening had not concluded until the wee hours of the morning, and a visit from one of his solicitors yesterday had brought business concerns that required his immediate attention, keeping him ensconced in his study well into the night. As he had told Rawling, he did not plan to be back in Town for months to come. And he had a long journey ahead of him tomorrow to reach Arrington Park. Plenty of hours to finish going through the pile of paperwork he had left on his desk last night when he’d finally taken himself to bed.
The decision made, he rapped on the ceiling. A narrow slot in the wall above the opposite bench slid open. A gust of warm evening air swept into the carriage.
“Curzon Street,” he called out to his driver.
“Yes, Your Grace,” came Morgan’s deep voice over the pound of hooves and the rattle of harness. His driver slid the small panel closed, muffling the sounds of the street.
Anticipation began to wind its way through his veins, settling in his groin. He definitely had enjoyed his time with Tristan. The man was near perfect. So responsive and eager. The way his spine had gone lax, the whimper slipping past his lips at the prospect of indulging in more exotic play. The leather cuffs and the coiled length of rope, the dildos and anal plugs, the flogger and the riding crop he had seen in that drawer flashed before his mind’s eye. He wanted to try every one of them with Tristan. Wanted to see those dark leather cuffs against his pale skin. Wanted to know what sound would slip out of his beautiful mouth when Max slapped that flogger against his arse. Wanted Tristan sagging in his arms, his lithe, lean body replete and sated, lungs gasping for breath and eyes gazing at Max with the most profound...
He gave his head a firm shake, throwing off the old hurt with well-practiced effort before it could rise anew.
If he was brutally honest with himself, being with Tristan had made him miss those nights he used to have. Miss having a warm body beneath him, above him, beside him. Miss the comfort that came from an arm holding him tight, the rhythmic beat of a heart lulling him to sleep.
Visiting a brothel was not the preferred solution to a lonely bed, but he’d come to accept even dukes could not have everything they wanted. Especially a duke who preferred men. The very thing that put any material possession easily within his grasp made trust impossible. At least with Tristan the man’s motivations were in plain sight. Yes, Max had given himself a jolt the other night when he’d briefly forgotten that fact, but he was confident he would not make the same mistake again.
On a more positive note, he now had a reason to look forward to returning to London. He could pay Tristan a call whenever he came to Town. It was a compromise he would need to learn to live with. It was either occasional visits to the brothel or nothing. Nothing was damn lonely, and Rubicon’s held an exquisitely beautiful man who fit beneath Max like he had been made for him.
A grunt
filled Max’s throat. Damned yes, Tristan fit perfectly beneath him.
The carriage slowed to a stop before a now-familiar building with scarlet double doors. Wiping the smile from his lips, Max exited the carriage.
* * *
“You’ve got a client waiting for ye, Tristan. Fourth floor, last room on the right.”
Keeping his features schooled in a neutral mask, Tristan glanced up from the worn baize covering the billiard table and nodded to the maid. “I’ll be right there.” Then he looked to Charles, who stood on the opposite side of the old table, cue stick in hand. “Your victory by default or do you want to pick up the game later?”
Charles shrugged. “If your appointment doesn’t run overlong, find me if I’m available and we can finish the game later.”
The if was a rather big if. At a good four inches taller than Tristan’s own five feet seven and with broad shoulders, Charles was the handsome option for the house’s clients who sought another man. As such, he tended to be requested more than Tristan. Not that Tristan begrudged him his busier schedule, and especially not of late.
After propping his cue stick against the wall, Tristan donned the coat he’d left on a nearby chair, and then he left the back room that Rubicon kept for employees. He well knew the weight pressing down on his shoulders had nothing to do with Mary’s departure yesterday. The new gown must have done its duty, for her gentleman had offered her a position as mistress. He would most assuredly miss her, but friends came and went from the house. It was the way of things at Rubicon’s. Some stayed for a handful of years while others for mere months or weeks. Everyone would eventually leave, move on. Even he would someday leave. When and where he would go, he hadn’t a notion. Nor did he spend any effort contemplating either question, for he would not be able to leave anytime soon.
As he pulled open the door to the servant’s stairs, he fought back the sigh of resignation. It had definitely not been the wisest of decisions to completely give himself over to Max the last time they had been together. Work had once just been work. A requirement and nothing more. He had not dreaded it nor looked forward to it. Yet after being with Max, all the others now felt like unwanted chores.
Hell, significantly more than unwanted chores.
The cold lust in their eyes, the lack of warmth in their touch. They didn’t care one bit for him. He knew that. Had known that. It wasn’t as if he’d ever tried to fool himself into believing otherwise. Yet now...
A heavy ache radiated across his chest.
But if nothing else, his time with Max had taught him that he should never ever forget the pound notes on the side table.
He pushed open the door at the top of the stairs, and as he made his way along the corridor, he tugged the string free that held his hair in a queue at his nape. When he had first come to Rubicon’s, he had been awestruck by the grandeur of the public areas of the house. Thick rugs on the floorboards, crystal sconces along the walls covered with silk paper, the gilt-framed landscapes and the fine furnishings. Now though, he saw it for what it was—trappings designed to lure the wealthy gentlemen and occasional lady of London to more easily part with their pound notes.
His feet stopped at the last room on the right. For a long moment, he simply stared at the brass knob. With a shake of his head, he snapped himself to his senses. There was no use stalling.
It took more effort than it should have to lift his arm and turn the knob.
“Finally. Took you long enough,” a man said as he stood from the couch. Tall and thick of build with light brown hair, he looked vaguely familiar. Likely a repeat visitor to the house.
A quick glance about the room proved Tristan’s assumption correct. A number of gold sovereigns had been tossed onto the console table, beside an open bottle of whisky.
The ugly pull of the man’s lips warned the fellow was not of the amiable sort. Refusing a client wasn’t an option, but if he got truly out of hand, Tristan could tug the bellpull by the bed and summon a guard to deal with him. Rubicon did hate when the merchandise was damaged by an unruly client. There were no locks on the doors for that very reason—to make it easier for a guard to intercede, if necessary.
The quicker he got the appointment over with, the better. And then there would be another after, and another and another. It was all he could do to keep the cringe from marring his brow.
Tristan closed the door behind him and forced his lips to curve in an inviting smile. “My apologies for the delay. Is there something in particular you have in mind for our evening?”
* * *
The click of a knob cut through the silence in the room. His pulse picked up, as if it had become an ingrained reaction to that sound. Seated on the couch, Max set his barely touched glass of whisky on the side table and looked to the door.
He did not bother to hide the frown at the girl’s reappearance.
She clasped her hands before her. “Unfortunately, sir, Tristan is otherwise occupied. If you are amenable, I can send in Charles. He’s blond, tall and very handsome. Certain to please you. Or...” She stepped forward, a coy smile, the same one she’d tried on him the first time he had visited the house, spread across her mouth. “I can stand in Tristan’s place. I would be more than happy to suck your cock, if that’s what you like.”
Getting to his feet, Max shook his head. He didn’t want a woman and he didn’t want the Charles fellow either. He wanted Tristan. And the man was with another, at that very moment?
He hands balled into fists at his sides. Jealousy rushed through him. Heavy and thick yet startlingly sharp.
Sharp enough to jolt him to his senses.
What was wrong with him? He shouldn’t feel a drop of jealousy. Tristan’s very occupation necessitated others. Max was not the only man Tristan begged for. Was not the only one who had heard those pleas for more. Who had had Tristan look at him as if he was the only man in his world.
“I want to watch him.” The words were out of his mouth before Max could give them any thought.
But just as with his business dealings, he knew in his bones his instinct in this was correct.
He gave the girl credit. She didn’t give a start or appear shocked by his request. “Watching others is allowed for a price, though only if all parties involved agree. I will need to have Madame Rubicon check with Tristan’s client to determine if he is open to the notion, and if the room they are in allows such play. If you would give me a moment—”
“No. I do not want Tristan to know of my presence.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a good number of the pound notes. He always kept a decent amount in his pocket—one never knew when one would need it. Yet after his first visit to the house, when he grabbed a fold from his safe, he made certain it contained more than enough for a repeat visit, in the event he found himself with three hours free during an evening. That alone should have been a clue.
Fool. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at himself, he held out the money to the girl. “You can have this, if you can arrange it so that I can watch Tristan without anyone in this house being the wiser.”
The girl did not hesitate. She snatched the pound notes from Max’s hand. Her eyes briefly widened as she flipped through them, obviously checking to ensure the sum was worth infringing on the house’s rules. “I’ll still need to find out what room he’s in. Not all of them can accommodate your request. Depends on where they are situated. But I can ask one of the maids. Do it so she won’t suspect.”
Max gave a wave of his hand. “Then be quick about it.”
The money clutched in one fist, the girl bobbed a short curtsy and left the room.
Turning, Max reached for his glass on the side table and took a long swallow. He did not want to watch Tristan with another. But he needed to watch Tristan tonight. He needed the reminder Tristan was just a whore. He knew it as fac
t, but needed to see the proof Tristan would never be faithful to him. Hadn’t been faithful in the slightest since their first evening together, nor did Tristan have any reason to be. That there was no cause at all for him to ever feel even a brush of jealousy where it concerned Tristan.
It was all simply a transaction. An orgasm in exchange for money. Visiting Rubicon’s was his only acceptable option, if he did not want to achieve that orgasm alone. He had told himself he understood exactly what he would be purchasing at Rubicon’s and what the purchase would and would not entail. But that harsh sting of jealousy was a warning he should not ignore, especially since he’d felt so confident not an hour ago that he would not forget where Tristan’s motivations laid. Clearly, somewhere along the way, some part of him had refused to listen to logic. Therefore, it was best if the realities of the house were made crystal clear in his head. For the absolute last thing he wanted was to find himself seated behind his desk, thoroughly in his cups, a bottle of gin in his hand to help dull the ache in his chest. To find he’d somehow allowed himself to be played the fool, yet again.
The girl did as instructed and returned within a few minutes to usher Max up to the fourth floor. She stopped at the very end of the corridor before a narrow door, the type that usually marked an entrance to servants’ areas. She cast a quick glance around Max to the empty corridor behind them, and then opened the door.
“In here,” she whispered, as she disappeared inside. “Quickly, and shut the door quietly.”
The light from behind him seeped into the space, illuminating a barren corridor that was just as narrow as the door and barely wide enough to accommodate Max’s shoulders. He stepped inside and shut the door. Standing very still, he blinked against the darkness.
A hand touched his forearm, slid down to his wrist and took hold of it. He allowed her to lift his arm. She put his hand against cool wood. He felt the outline of a small knob beneath his palm.
“Slide this open and you can watch through there,” she said so softly he had to focus to hear her. “Be very quiet, else they’ll suspect. Wait until I leave to open it though. Can you find your way out of the house?”
