by Ava March
Max dropped down onto a bent arm. Lips covered Tristan’s, the kiss slow and unhurried and full of sated passion. Tristan looped his arms about Max’s neck and just let the man kiss him.
A nip to Tristan’s lower lip, and Max leaned his forehead against Tristan’s. “Missed having a man in my bed.” The whispered words brushed across Tristan’s wet lips.
Then Max rolled onto his side, his arm draping across Tristan’s waist.
About the same moment when Tristan became aware of the faint gray quality of the darkness surrounding them, Max spoke again. “Almost dawn.”
Tristan took the nudge for what it was. Summoning his muscles and his willpower, he shifted out of Max’s loose embrace and swung his legs over the side of the bed. As he reached down to grab his trousers and shirt from the floor, he winced. Definitely a bit sore, but he’d be fine come morning. Wasn’t as if he’d never had a vigorous night before, and a night in Max’s bed had most assuredly been worth the temporary slight discomfort.
He had once thought Max infinitely generous in bed.
Hell, had that been a severe understatement.
In a haze created by multiple orgasms and not quite enough sleep, Tristan made his way back to his bedchamber, just barely remembering to drop his clothes in the basket for a maid to see to before he collapsed on his bed.
Chapter Nine
Tristan couldn’t quite understand how Max could do it. The first day he had chalked up to simply being, well, the first day. The aftereffects of their night together just hadn’t caught up to Max yet. But on Tristan’s third morning—late morning—at the Park, when he once again was informed by a footman that His Grace was in his study, Tristan had to stop the disbelief from showing itself.
Max must be one of those men who operated exceedingly well on very little sleep for he could not have managed more than a mere handful of hours each night since they’d been in the country. And based on a comment here and there from the servants, and Max’s own comment that the Park kept country hours, Tristan highly doubted Max grabbed a couple hours of sleep once Tristan stumbled out of his bed.
Two days was all it had taken for Tristan to pinpoint the schedule of Max’s days. Rise at dawn and go to his study. Unless Tristan dared to knock on the thick walnut door, he wouldn’t see Max again until the man walked into the vast dining hall for supper. The meal was a formal affair, complete with footmen in navy livery stationed along the wall, ready to jump into service. After supper, Max would once again disappear into his study, only reemerging to retire for the night.
He dined with the Duke of Pelham, strict and stern, in his equally stern-colored waistcoats, broad shoulders held in a hard line. A man of few words. Yet at night he went to Max’s bed. Passionate, controlling Max who teased and taunted him, who gifted him with his generous mouth and turned Tristan into an utter slave to the sensations Max lavished upon him. God help him if Max ever indulged his fondness for leather. The man could take Tristan to astounding heights of pleasure with only his body, his voice and his intent gaze. Add an erotic toy or restraints...
A hot burst of anticipation sizzled across Tristan’s nerves.
But Max had yet to even hint at the topic again.
His feet took him on the now-familiar path to the breakfast room. Informal and quaint, with a bow window overlooking the side garden, he much preferred to sit at its round table than be perched by himself at the end of the massive stretch of mahogany in the dining hall. Pulling out a straight-back wooden chair, he sat down and suppressed a wince. Damn if his body wasn’t starting to protest twice-nightly romps with Max. He hadn’t been some inexperienced virgin before coming to Hampshire, but nor had he been the most requested man at Rubicon’s. Even when he’d had to bend over multiple evenings in a row, he hadn’t had clients like Max. The man was near insatiable...which made their nights very enjoyable.
He’d indulge in a long soak in the tub later. That should do the trick.
A maid set a cup of tea at his elbow, followed shortly by a plate of eggs and toast.
He’d spent his first full day in Hampshire acquainting himself with the sprawling house. Discovered the location of the ballroom—seldom-used, judging by the faint stale scent in the air—the library with its bookshelves spanning from floor to ceiling, the portrait gallery, the conservatory filled with lush green plants and a stone fountain tucked in a corner, the billiard room, three sitting rooms, a formal drawing room, a handful of rooms he had no idea as to their purpose, and too many guest bedchambers to count.
Yesterday the sun had been out and he’d taken a horse from the stables to investigate the surrounding countryside, which had very much resembled the view out the carriage window on the way to Arrington Park. He’d even gone into the nearby village, had a bite to eat at the tavern and checked out the shops—there weren’t many. A bakery, a butcher, a milliner and a haberdasher shop, a small bookshop, and a few other similar shops though unfortunately no tailor. Servants’ gossip must have already made its way to the village for no one seemed surprised to see him. Courteous smiles and polite inquiries into London greeted him. Nor did anyone seem surprised to see him there on his own, without Max. The man’s habit of ensconcing himself in his study must be common knowledge to everyone within a good five-mile radius of the Park.
Tristan finished his cup of tea, pushed from the table and left the breakfast room. A book he pulled from a shelf in the library did not hold his attention for long.
Rain tapped against the library’s tall windows. The thick gray clouds hanging low in the sky indicated the rain would not let up anytime soon. Another ride to the village was out of the question. He wasn’t fond of getting soaked through.
All Max seemed to do was work during daylight hours. How utterly monotonous. He’d thought most aristocrats enjoyed some sort of outdoor sport, but it appeared that did not include Max. Tristan tamped down the sigh. Getting to his feet, he perused a nearby shelf. Nothing of interest. He wasn’t of a mind to head to the billiard room either. Not much fun to play against oneself. In London, he’d had a house full of friends to help pass a rainy, dull afternoon. Here he had a massive house full of servants. And he couldn’t strike up a conversation with one of them or invite a footman to share a game of billiards. A friend of Max’s wouldn’t do such a thing.
All he had in Hampshire was Max.
As he made his way to Max’s daytime domain, he reasoned he would simply ask Max about the hidden passageway between their rooms. The man had said this passageway’s straight, implying there might be others in the house. Yesterday, when Tristan had stopped in the study to ask if he could borrow a horse to take a ride about the countryside, Max hadn’t appeared displeased at the interruption. The V absent between his brows. He’d appeared more...focused on the ledger before him. And the man had spent two days doing nothing but work. Surely he could spare a few moments of his time to appease Tristan’s curiosity. Then Tristan could fill the remaining hours before supper exploring while Max went back to his beloved ledgers. He just hoped to God it wouldn’t rain again tomorrow.
* * *
Max looked up at the light knock on the door. “Enter.”
The door swung partially open and Tristan peeked inside. “Am I disturbing you?”
Technically yes, but the reticence on Tristan’s face pulled the no out of Max. He set down his pen and waved a hand to the chairs before his desk. “Come in.”
“I promise I won’t take up much of your time,” Tristan said, stepping into the study and closing the door. “Just have a question for you.” Rather than sit, he lingered next to one of the chairs. “The passageway between our rooms, are there more of them?”
Max nodded. “Mostly in the older areas. The main portion of the house has been expanded upon over the years.” Apparently his ancestors hadn’t thought the manor house quite large enough. “The newest areas are
completely void of them, but years ago, servants used the passageways to travel between rooms unnoticed. A custom that has since fallen out of favor.” He well knew he employed maids and footmen who saw to every aspect of the house. No reason at all for them to scurry between the walls.
“Where would I find one of them?”
“The drawing room, the library, the morning room. The yellow guest bedchamber on the second floor,” he said, naming a few of the rooms in the older areas of the house.
“Is there a way to spot the doors?”
Max shook his head. “They were built into the paneling, or in the library’s case, into one of the shelves. Designed to be hidden.”
Tristan’s face fell. “Oh. Well, then, I’ll leave you to your ledgers.”
He should stay exactly where he sat, continue reviewing the latest stack of paperwork from his solicitors’ office. His father certainly hadn’t built the dukedom into the vast empire Max had inherited by ignoring his responsibilities.
Tristan turned from the chair.
“I can show you, if you’d like.” The words popped out of Max’s mouth.
Pivoting on his heel, Tristan turned back to him. “You would?” Really, the man needn’t appear so shocked.
“Rather show them to you myself than take the risk of you finding one and getting lost. One or two pass by a small window, but most are dark.”
Tristan’s shoulders went stiff beneath his bottle green coat. “I am not frightened of the—”
“Yes, I know,” Max said, cutting him off before he went all bristly on him again. “Still, I don’t relish the idea of sending out a search party in my own home.” He pushed to his feet. “In fact...” He looked about the room, gaze stopping on a narrow expanse of barren paneling between two built-in bookshelves. “There’s one in here.”
“Really?” Tristan glanced around. “Where?”
“I believe it’s over there.” He rounded the desk and crossed to the spot. “Just need to figure out how to open it.” Up this close, he could just make out the seam between the panel and the bookshelf.
“You don’t know?” Tristan asked, standing at his elbow. The faint scents of shaving soap, starch from his cravat, and man drifted to Max’s nose.
“Except for the one between our rooms, I haven’t used the passageways since I was a child. And I didn’t use this door from this side. The room was my father’s study before it became mine, and it wasn’t as if I was gallivanting about while he was working.” On a rare occasion, he’d crack open the door and peek inside, and only when he’d been certain the room had been unoccupied. It wasn’t that his father had forbidden him to enter the study. In fact, when Max had grown older, his father had encouraged it. Yet as a child, the space held that reverent air of an adult sanctuary. “But I know exactly where it leads.”
“Which is where?”
Max passed his palm next to the seam, pressed on the paneling. Nothing. He repeated the process on the other side of the panel and was rewarded with a click as the latch released. “You’re about to find out.”
Tristan threw him a scowl, yet his eyes held a distinctly playful spark.
“Anticipation has a way of making things more interesting.” Max stepped into the narrow passageway.
Tristan followed and closed the door, plunging them into darkness. “Are you certain you know where this leads?”
“Quite certain.” He’d spent many an afternoon as a boy playing with his toy soldiers by the light of a single candle in the hidden passageways—his tutor had never been able to find him. “Quiet now. Don’t want the servants to worry we’ve attracted some very large mice.”
Max reached out behind him. His fingertips brushed soft wool, coasted down until he encountered smooth skin. Fingers sliding between Tristan’s, he grasped Tristan’s hand.
They’d only taken four steps when what could only be Tristan’s other hand slipped under the tails of Max’s coat to grab his arse.
“Tristan?”
“Yes, Max.” He could hear the smile in Tristan’s whispered voice.
Tristan squeezed, naughty fingers pushing the fabric of Max’s trousers between his crease, almost grazing his hole.
“Be careful with what you start,” Max murmured, part tease, part warning.
It wasn’t as if he’d never been on the other side of matters. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t enjoyed it in the past. But the thought of allowing Tristan to follow that particular path made a part of him jerk back, not sure if—
Max collided with a wall, the heavy thud of limbs against wood echoing about them. “Bloody hell.”
Tristan stumbled into him, the sleek weight of his body pressing Max against the wall. “I thought we were supposed to be quiet?”
“We are.” He’d forgotten the strides of a man of three-and-twenty would be significantly longer than a boy of eight’s. “Lost track of the length of the corridor. It turns here.”
Though Max didn’t hear Tristan’s laugh, he could certainly feel it briefly shaking Tristan’s chest, rumbling Max’s back. “Obviously.” Those naughty fingers shifted, came around Max’s hip to palm his semi-erect cock. “And I would never start something I did not intend to finish.”
Max bit back the groan. He’d promised himself only a few minutes or so with Tristan, not an early afternoon romp between the walls. Nightfall would come soon enough. He wasn’t without self-control. He could wait until then to indulge with Tristan.
An image of Tristan on his knees, eager hands bound behind his back, lust-soaked gaze locked with Max’s as he sucked his cock, slammed into Max’s mind.
“I thought you wanted to discover where this passageway led?” Max pushed back and turned right, stepping away from that too-tempting hand, away from the heat of Tristan’s body.
“I do, though—”
“It’s just a few strides ahead of us.” This time, he reached out before him, stopping when his hand encountered cool wood. “We’re here,” he murmured.
“What if there’s a servant in the room, tidying up or something?” Tristan’s voice drifted over his shoulder.
Very valid question. When he’d pop out of one of the hidden passages as a child, he never worried about such a thing. Now though...
While it was his home and he had every right to go wherever he pleased, he was an adult and he was with Tristan, his new houseguest. And while he was doing his best to ignore his erection, that didn’t change the fact it would be quite obvious to anyone who laid eyes on him.
He pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. But his servants could move about very quietly.
“Likely best not to take the risk of startling a maid.” He turned from the door, turning into Tristan.
“Which room was it?”
“The drawing room.” Not very exciting, but the fun had been in making Tristan wonder. “Let’s go back the way we came.”
Instead of stepping back and turning, Tristan stepped into him, breaching whatever distance had been between them. A hand wrapped around Max’s erection as much as the placket of his trousers would allow, gave the hard, needy length a squeeze.
“Do you think you could be quiet while I finished what I started?” Tristan asked, voice dropping to a low, scratchy whisper, soaked in the promise of a spectacular orgasm.
The hell with it. His desk could wait a few more minutes.
“Of course,” he replied, as if Tristan had no cause at all to even ask the question.
There was the soft sound of fabric shifting as the press of Tristan’s body left him. The man must be dropping to his knees. Anticipation spiked in Max’s veins. Hands deftly worked the buttons on his trousers, reached inside to pull out his cock. Wet heat engulfed the crown.
As Max tipped his head back against the door and set his jaw to hold back the groan filling
his throat, he discovered Tristan’s hair was indeed still long enough to get a good grasp on it.
Chapter Ten
Max leaned back as a footman cleared the last course from the table. “We’ll take brandy in the library.”
A nod, and the footman left the dining hall, arms laden with the remnants of Max and Tristan’s meal.
He felt the force of Tristan’s questioning gaze from the opposite end of the dining table, yet Tristan said not a word. Merely followed Max’s lead and pushed from the table.
He should go back to his study for another two or three hours, but he highly doubted he’d get anything accomplished, his mind too focused on the man trailing a pace behind him. Knowing when to negotiate, when to seek a compromise, was just as important a trait as knowing when to keep pushing, when to refuse to concede. He’d call it a night and make up for the day’s lapses tomorrow.
He opened the door to the library. The drapes had not yet been closed for the night, but the thick clouds outside the windows obscured the setting sun, heavy shadows clinging to the corners of the room. They hadn’t been expected to make use of the library, therefore the hearth was dark, as were the candles stationed about. Instead of waiting for a maid to see to the tasks, he lit the candles on the side table between two of the leather armchairs. The hearth he left dark—no reason to bother with it. The bit of dampness lingering in the air from the earlier summer rain certainly wouldn’t harm them.
Max sat and motioned Tristan to the other armchair.
“Did you finish with your ledgers early today?” Tristan asked, settling his lean frame into the chair.
“No.” Said ledgers and a fat pile of paperwork were exactly where he’d left them, in neat stacks awaiting his attention. Tomorrow, he reassured himself. He’d deal with them tomorrow.
“Oh,” Tristan replied, slightly taken aback. He gave his shirt cuff a tug, straightening it beneath the sleeve of his coat. The cuff arranged to his satisfaction, he looked to Max again. “Thank you for serving as my guide this afternoon.” The edges of his mouth quirked up in a hint of a sinful smile.
