by Ava March
The thought had almost flittered out of his head when he snatched it back.
An uncomfortable suspicion nudged him. Instead of grabbing Tristan’s shoulder, Max reached around his hip.
Max’s mind seized with shock, every muscle in his body going still.
His hand was wrapped around a flaccid cock.
He took a quick step back, releasing Tristan and pulling free of the tight, slick heat of his body.
The sounds of his own panting breaths echoed in his ears, oddly loud. A droplet of sweat trickled down Tristan’s back, following the line of his spine to his reddened arse.
Tristan had definitely been erect earlier. Max was certain of it. He’d had the man’s hard cock in his damn mouth.
Had he hit Tristan too hard with the paddle? Did Tristan not enjoy more exotic play? Did he not like being restrained? But he’d damned well asked Tristan if he’d had any objections, and Tristan had said “none at all.”
But a man’s prick didn’t lie. His mouth could lie, the word more falling from his lips, mixing with moans of deepest lust. His body pushing back as though desperate to get more. But all those obvious signs of enjoyment suddenly felt like theatrics designed to distract him from the non-erection hanging between Tristan’s legs.
“Max?”
Max shook his head, a sharp, quick movement.
Hell, it had all been a goddamn performance.
And he’d been the idiot to believe it as truth.
Head still bowed, Tristan shifted his weight. A small little motion, steeped with uncertainty.
Taking a step forward, Max tugged the end of the leather line, all the while careful not to touch Tristan. The instant the knot released, Max stepped back, putting distance between them once again.
Tristan dropped his arms to his sides. Rolled his shoulders. Max resisted the urge to reach out, to help soothe sleek muscles likely stiff from being held in one position for so long.
Once one was naked, one couldn’t get more so. Yet Max felt exceedingly naked. He’d exposed his most wicked desires to Tristan, only to be pandered to. His desires had been merely tolerated.
Christ, Tristan had begged for more because he’d wanted it over quicker, not because he’d actually wanted more of Max.
Tristan turned to face him, hesitation and trepidation in his gaze, the black leather on his wrists a stark contrast to his pale skin. “Max?”
Those cuffs didn’t belong on his wrists. Tristan hadn’t wanted to wear them. “Take them off. The leather cuffs. Now.”
A nod from Tristan. He was ever goddamn obedient. Tristan always replied all right. Never refused Max anything. Agreed with Max’s every whim.
Because Max was paying him.
What the hell had he expected when he’d hired a prostitute? For Tristan to actually be honest with him? He’d seen Tristan work with another, watched him act with another man, for Christ’s sake.
Max had never felt more the fool in his entire life.
“You can go back to your bedchamber.”
Tristan looked up, fingers poised over the buckle on the second cuff. “But, Max—”
Max held up a hand, staying him. He did not want to hear any more of Tristan’s lies. He’d had enough for one night.
Tristan’s exquisitely beautiful features hardened. He pulled his spine straight. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Max couldn’t stop the flinch from seizing his muscles. “Don’t Your Grace me. I suck your cock.”
Tristan dropped the cuffs. The clatter of leather and metal hitting the floorboards echoed about the bedchamber as Tristan turned his back on Max and left the room.
The narrow door slammed shut. Max clenched his hands at his sides as he held back the urge to scream, to vent the frustration and anger and humiliation filling his entire being.
Chapter Eleven
Tristan set his fork beside the plate of barely touched eggs and pushed from the table. He hesitated as he left the breakfast room. Finding the corridor empty, he turned right, in the direction of the conservatory.
Arrington Park was massive. A sprawling house with too many rooms to count. But at the moment, it felt even smaller than the quaint cottage Tristan had grown up in.
A part of him knew he was being completely irrational. As long as he avoided the study, chances were exceedingly good he would not see Max until supper. Still...
Instead of reaching for the brass lever, Tristan turned from the conservatory door and the lush green plants visible through its many panes of glass. Perhaps the countryside would do him better. A couple of hours away from the house, and away from any threat of coming face-to-face with Max. Give himself time to gather his composure after last night.
The butler opened the front door as he approached. He tipped his head in thanks and stepped out into the sun. All traces of yesterday’s rain were gone from the sky. The air was quite warm even for late morning on an August day. He made his way to the stables but the twinge as he’d sat for breakfast kept him from going inside. Best to simply proceed on foot.
He glanced about and, recalling the map of the property done in watercolors hanging in an ornate gilt frame on the wall in the library, proceeded toward the low hill off to the right.
Rubbing his eyes, he let out a sigh. His eyelids felt heavy yet his nerves buzzed with that uncomfortable mixture of exhaustion and extreme wakefulness one felt after spending a night tossing and turning.
Max had been angry. He hadn’t had to speak a word...not that he’d spoken many. Tristan had read the anger in every hard line of his body, in the clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. And he had absolutely no notion what Max would say, how the man would react, when he saw him next. Max could send him from the house for all he knew. But he didn’t want to leave, at least not permanently. He really liked being with Max...when they were together, that was.
He saw not another soul as he wandered across a field. Not another person to disturb the thoughts tumbling about in his head.
On the other side of another low hill, he came upon a pond, its placid blue surface glinting in the sunlight, beckoning him. Sweat tickled his skin beneath his cravat, the sun beating down on his shoulders. The navy wool coat he’d selected that morning was one of his favorites, but it certainly hadn’t been made for a hot summer day.
Dropping to his haunches at the pond’s edge, he swooshed his fingers in the water and found it to be on the perfect side of cool. He swept his gaze around him. Nothing but the pond and green grass and the occasional tree, leaves swaying in the light breeze. He hadn’t donned his pocket watch before he’d left his bedchamber and therefore couldn’t verify how long he’d been out. An hour, maybe two. But he couldn’t have walked far enough yet to have reached the limits of the vast estate.
Confident he was still on Max’s property, he stood and undid the knot on his cravat. Did Max ever indulge in a swim in this pond?
Likely not. Max did nothing but work all day.
His shoulders slumped. He tossed the cravat to the grass then unbuttoned his coat. He’d completely ruined last night for Max. And given his arrangement with Max—if they still had an arrangement—he couldn’t just forget the night had happened. The ever-changing men who’d walked into the bedchambers at Rubicon’s had never veered in the realm of something to be thankful about. Yet when an evening had gone wrong in the past—not that any had ever gone wrong quite as last night, though he had had to summon a guard a time or two—the sole positive of it happening at Rubicon’s was that he’d been almost guaranteed not to have to endure the uncomfortable situation of facing the fellow again.
Leaving his clothes and shoes on the bank, he waded into the pond. The cool water felt wonderful against his overheated skin. Once he reached waist-depth, he pushed forward and dove under, swimming out toward the center.
Hi
s sole purpose at Arrington Park was to make Max happy, and he’d made him angry. Max might be Max when they were in bed, but the man was still a duke and accustomed to having the world arranged to his satisfaction. He possessed a fortune and a title and didn’t need to tolerate someone who disappointed him.
Tristan slowed and flipped onto his back, stretching out his arms and allowing the water to support him. He blinked against the force of the sun blazing high in the sky, a bright orange-yellow circle in a wash of pure blue. If he’d had just kept a level head, he could have managed the situation without admitting the truth and without ruining everything. Not many men could climax without a touch to their prick. Surely Max wouldn’t have thought it too odd if he’d had to lend Tristan a hand. Instead, Tristan had worked himself into a right fine state.
But he couldn’t avoid Max forever. And he could no longer deny he was being a coward by trying to avoid Max. When he returned to the house, he’d pay Max a visit in his study. And whatever would happen would happen. Fretting about the possible outcome wouldn’t change it.
The decision made, he swam toward the edge and got out of the pond. He gave his head a quick shake, sending water droplets spraying onto the surrounding grass. Best to wait until he dried before pulling on his clothes. Shouldn’t take long.
With that thought in mind, he laid out on the bank and slung a forearm over his eyes. The grass was soft beneath his skin. The warmth of the sun’s rays penetrated his muscles, coaxing them to relax. He used to hate the country. Had spent his youth dreaming about going to London. He turned onto his stomach, resting his head on his crossed arms, and closed his eyes. The soft buzz of a bee made its way to his ears. The lightest of breezes brushed across his back.
He’d forgotten how good it felt to simply soak up the sun.
* * *
Max started back at the top and began again to read the latest draft of a contract for the purchase of a new property. Hell and damnation, at this pace, he wouldn’t get anything accomplished. He’d promised himself yesterday he’d make a significant dent in the stacks on his desk today. Make up for the early afternoon tryst with Tristan and for not going back to his desk before retiring for the night.
It was barely noon, and he’d already set aside three letters and a report from his estate manager in Norfolk, the documents returned to the piles of those needing his attention. And he hadn’t even touched the morning post yet.
Last night kept intruding on his thoughts, pulling his mind back to his bedchamber and Tristan.
Setting aside the contract with a short grunt of frustration, Max pushed to his feet. Enough. He needed to talk with Tristan. Resolve the situation. Then he would be able to focus on his responsibilities once again.
He reached for the bellpull then stopped. Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to have Tristan summoned. He himself had never liked being summoned to this room, for various reasons that had shifted as the years had gone by. Better to go locate Tristan.
But he stopped a couple paces outside the study. Where to look? He hadn’t an idea of what Tristan did with himself during the day or how he preferred to pass the time.
Without any better place to start, he tried Tristan’s bedchamber and sitting room. When the knock on the door and the peek inside were unsuccessful, he proceeded to the library. Then the billiard room, the drawing room, the morning room and a couple of the sitting rooms scattered about.
Nothing.
Hell. He was going to have to inquire with a servant.
If anyone knew if Tristan left the house or was still within its walls, it would be his butler.
He found the servant in the entrance hall and made his inquiry as to Tristan’s whereabouts.
“Mr. Walsh left the house a couple of hours ago, Your Grace. He did not mention his intended destination.”
Worry pinched Max’s stomach then he pacified it with the knowledge Tristan had asked to borrow a horse the other day. Perhaps Tristan had merely gone into the village. He would not have needed to ask to borrow a mount again. Max had waved the initial inquiry aside and granted him free use of the stables.
Worry more than pinched Max’s gut.
Before Max walked out the front door, he went back upstairs, to his own bedchamber, through the hidden passageway to Tristan’s bedchamber and into the dressing room.
Familiar coats and waistcoats hung neatly on the hooks, the shelves filled with folded trousers and shirts.
That particular worry eased, Max made his way to the stables. But according to his driver, Tristan had not taken one of the horses or a gig, nor had Tristan entered the stables to Morgan’s knowledge.
“Shall I inquire with the grooms? Perhaps one of them has seen Mr. Walsh today.”
“No, Morgan, that’s not necessary.” Max didn’t want the entire household to know he couldn’t locate his houseguest.
He would just have to wait for Tristan to return from wherever he had gone.
And so Max returned to the house, to his study.
Maybe the monthly accounts from his shipping office in Plymouth would hold his attention.
He pulled the ledger from the bottom of one of the stacks and opened it. Tristan had been erect while Max had restrained him. He could vividly recall being on his knees, looking up at Tristan, marveling at the sight before him...which had included Tristan’s cock, standing stiff and hard mere inches from Max’s mouth.
The restraints and paddle had been new; everything else they had done together or Max had done to him previously with very positive, mutually pleasurable results. If Tristan had not really wanted to be restrained, his feelings would have made themselves known. And they hadn’t. A man’s prick didn’t lie.
Therefore, that left the paddle.
Max had asked Tristan if he objected to the leather cuffs before buckling them onto his wrists. Tristan had reassured him it had been all right to tie him to the bed’s poster. But Max had not asked for a similar assurance before he’d picked up that paddle. And he’d never told Tristan he could ask Max to stop their play at any time.
Had Tristan not believed he’d had a choice?
A wave of nausea clutched Max’s stomach. Max had taken such delight in reddening his arse. The smack of wood against gorgeous smooth skin. The moans and little gasps coming from Tristan. The way he’d thrust out his hips, begging for more without saying a word. The way he’d given his pleasure over to Max. Max had felt completely in tune with Tristan in a way he’d never felt with another. He’d been brilliantly happy and intensely aroused, a potently addictive combination he’d wanted to experience night after night with Tristan. All the while, Tristan hadn’t been merely indifferent. He had not liked it. He had endured, just as he’d endured that bastard’s attention back at the room at that brothel.
The noxious taste of bile rose in his throat. Max grabbed the tea cup on his desk, took a long swallow of the lukewarm liquid.
Not once after he’d picked up that paddle had Max stepped around to the side of the bed or asked Tristan to look over his shoulder at him. He’d been too focused on himself, too eager to believe Tristan’s performance.
“Surely there are others who have had to endure your...charm.”
Jonathan’s words, from almost nine months ago, sounded in Max’s head.
Had there been instances when Max had been similarly inattentive to his ex-lover?
That question did not sit well.
Resting his elbows on the desk, he scrubbed his hands over his face.
But...but Tristan should have known Max would not have wanted him to just tolerate something when they were together, let alone allow Max to continue if he was not enjoying himself. How many times had Max asked Tristan for what he wanted? He’d told Tristan on more than one occasion not to lie to him. Had demanded Tristan’s limits on their first appointment, had told him he much pr
eferred enthusiasm to a mere all right.
Yet obviously Max had not been clear enough.
You’re paying him. That’s why he agrees with everything you want.
Max winced.
But every other night together, Tristan had enjoyed himself. Of that he was certain. No one was that talented of an actor. It had just been last night.
Their arrangement was an open one. Tristan could take his two hundred pounds and leave anytime he chose.
Max’s heartbeat stumbled.
Tristan’s wardrobe was still in his dressing room, Max reminded himself. He hadn’t left. And even if he was contemplating leaving, he’d return to the house first to fetch his massive wardrobe. An errand that would include trunks and a carriage and footmen to carry the trunks to the carriage. Tristan wouldn’t be able to slip in and out of the house without Max’s notice.
And there was nothing Max could do about the situation anyway until Tristan returned.
Reaching for a pencil, he forced his attention back to the ledger. But when he reached the end of the page, all he could recall were columns of numbers. Couldn’t remember a single detail about one of those numbers.
He pushed the ledger aside. The hell with the shipping office.
The sun slowly crept out of the study as Max reached for document after document only to return each one to their respective stack, all the while, his ears were attuned to the sound of carriage wheels on gravel. By the time a light tap sounded on the study door, he was far beyond the edges of his patience with himself. An entire day almost gone and not one goddamn thing accomplished. If he kept up this pace, he might as well hand the dukedom over to one of his uncles, let one of them manage it, because he certainly wasn’t showing himself to be very fit for the task.
A footman opened the study door. “Your Grace, shall the kitchen hold supper? Or are you dining without Mr. Walsh tonight?”
“He hasn’t returned?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Hold supper.”
Max shot to his feet and rounded the desk. He’d take his hunter, go look for Tristan. The stallion’s long strides would have him at the village in no time. If Tristan wasn’t in the village, he’d scour the countryside until he found him.
