by Ava March
Vincent’s hard pants filled the air around him, mixing with the distinct scent of male sweat. They pushed him onward, demanding more.
“Turn.” He nudged Vincent hip. “Let me lick your arse.”
A low growl rumbled from Vincent’s chest.
Oliver shifted back, giving Vincent room to comply, and glanced down. Damnation. His clothes. He tugged at his waistcoat, not caring in the slightest when a few buttons popped loose and skidded across the floorboards. He yanked on his cravat and whipped his shirt over his head. Very briefly got to his feet to push off his trousers. His erection sprang free, so rigid it slapped against his belly. Need drumming through his veins, he drew his hands down the strong lines of Vincent’s back to his hips and nudged him to better face the bed.
Vincent bent at the waist and braced his hands on the mattress. Oliver dropped to his knees and parted those muscular cheeks, baring Vincent fully to his view. He painted a line down that forbidden crease with his tongue and pressed a kiss to his entrance.
“Ah hell.” Vincent pushed back, pushing against Oliver’s mouth.
He eagerly gave Vincent what he needed. Licked and kissed the perimeter until the tight ring of muscle began to relax. Pulled his cheeks more firmly apart and slipped his tongue inside, teasing the highly sensitive nerves. Then he slid a finger alongside his tongue, gently stretching him.
He heard a muffled thump—likely Vincent punching the mattress—accompanied by another curse.
A wave of lust washed over him. Thick and potent, soaking his senses. His cock jerked, demanding attention. His ballocks were drawn up so tightly they ached. Rather than give in, he savored the heady thrum of anticipation, savored the need so strong a twinge of pain rode hard and heavy behind it.
Finger thrusting and mouth working, he lavished Vincent with pleasure until Vincent’s curses filled his ears. Gasping for breath, he pulled back.
Vincent growled. “Damnation, don’t stop.”
“I’m not.” Hell no, he wouldn’t stop. He pushed on Vincent’s arse. “Get on the bed.”
Vincent didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, didn’t even glance back at Oliver in question. His muscles bunched and flexed beneath pale golden skin as he shifted onto the bed to lie on his side. Oliver quickly joined him, pausing only to snatch the bottle of oil from the bedside table drawer before nestling behind him.
He poured a generous amount onto his fingers, pressed a kiss to Vincent’s shoulder, and pushed two digits inside. Tight muscles clamped around his fingers. Slick and hot and soft as the finest silk. His cock jerked again, bumping against Vincent’s thigh. Careful and slow, he pushed deeper to rub Vincent’s gland and was rewarded with another muffled thump of Vincent’s fist against the mattress.
Of their own accord, his hips thrust in short compact nudges in rhythm to the strokes of his fingers fucking Vincent’s arse. His hard cock rubbed against Vincent’s thigh, greedy for any sort of friction. The heat pouring off Vincent’s back scorched his chest. Sweat pricked Oliver’s skin, slicked the hollows behind his knees, and threatened to drip down his temples. Every fiber of his body screamed for release. He could feel the frustration seep into Vincent, hear it in the hard pants of his breaths and the grunts reverberating through his back.
The pleas started tumbling from Vincent’s mouth. “More, Oliver. Need…hell, harder.”
With each thrust, he grazed Vincent’s gland, yet he stayed right on the edge of complete satisfaction. That need grabbed hold, the same one that had seized him in the carriage. His own release suddenly lost all importance.
He wanted Vincent. Wanted to mark the man as his own. Needed to bring him to climax while buried deep within him. Wanted to feel the orgasm rack his lover’s body. Wanted to be the one to make him scream from the sheer force of it.
He intensified his efforts. Slid another digit inside Vincent, stretching him wider, boldly pushing the pleasure past the point where he normally would stop and beg Vincent to fuck him.
They moved together yet in counterpoint, bodies straining, indecipherable moans mixing together. And then Vincent spoke the words Oliver had waited over a year to hear.
“Oliver…please.” Vincent groaned, pushed back against him. “Fuck me.”
He didn’t stop to ask if Vincent was certain, though he did pull free to grab the oil. The touch of his own oil-slicked palm to his prick almost triggered an orgasm. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste the metallic tang of blood, then took a deep breath and rode the surge of pure need until it ebbed to a manageable level. Then he poured more oil on his fingers. Vincent was already quite slick, but he wanted nothing left to chance. Reaching down, he swiped his fingers over Vincent’s entrance.
Vincent shifted his leg forward and tipped back his hips, granting Oliver access.
For a moment, the sight of Vincent laid out on the bed struck Oliver mute. The golden glow of the candle caressed every line of his powerful body, his most intimate flesh slick and ready, chest heaving with each heavy breath, and wanting him.
Emotion clogged his throat. Somehow he was able to give voice to the “love you” that filled his entire being.
Then he positioned his cock at Vincent’s entrance and, slowly pushing forward, made Vincent his in the most intimate way possible.
Vincent’s broken gasp cut through the silence. His body clamped around the head of Oliver’s prick. So damn tight and hot and perfect. Unwilling to break the spell, Oliver resisted the urge to ask if he was all right. Instead, he cupped Vincent’s hip, pressed his mouth to the apple of Vincent’s shoulder, and began to gently rock his hips.
Pressure filled him as Oliver nudged inside. A pressure that satisfied the overwhelming need that had built to unprecedented proportions. Oliver’s cock certainly did not rival his own in size, but hell if he didn’t feel goddamn huge. Stretching Vincent wide, pushing in so damn deep, stuffing him wonderfully, blissfully full. A tiny bit of pain threaded under the pleasure. But strangely, he welcomed it. Wanted more.
Even as the word “more” tumbled from his lips, a portion of his brain reeled in shock. Stunned that Oliver’s prick was in his arse. And doubly stunned it felt so unbelievably amazing.
Completely drunk on the all-encompassing sensations, Vincent slung his leg up, shifting so that he was partially on his back, and draped his arm around Oliver’s neck. Oliver palmed Vincent’s thigh, pushing his leg up higher, and dropped his head to brush his lips across Vincent’s nipple. Pulling the tip into his mouth, he thrust even deeper—slow, plunging strokes that had Vincent’s head lolling back.
Oliver’s grip on his thigh tightened, but he kept his thrusts lusciously slow. A chunk of his untidy hair had fallen forward to obscure one eye. Vincent’s fingers itched with the need to tuck it behind his ear, to fully expose those beautiful features he knew so well. Yet every muscle in his body felt completely lax, so consumed by pleasure he could not have lifted his other arm if he tried.
And then Oliver shifted behind him, and on the next downward thrust, he hit that spot inside him. The one that made a white-hot surge of lust shoot through him.
Again and again, the head of Oliver’s prick massaged that spot. Ratcheting the ecstasy drenching his senses. Building it stronger and stronger. Coiling tighter and tighter, past anything he had ever experienced before.
Vincent struggled to catch his breath, but the effort was in vain. His breaths hitched, high and sharp, in his chest. His cock ached. Goddamn it, it hurt. He wanted to grab his prick, but he was…afraid to move. To even shift enough to bring his hand to his groin. One move and he could lose that absolutely perfect angle of Oliver’s prick. The one that brought the orgasm so close he could taste it.
As if reading Vincent’s mind, Oliver’s hand slid down his thigh to close around Vincent’s cock.
“Yes.” The word ripped from Vincent’s throat.
Oliver’s grip was almost too rough but at the same time exactly what he needed. His thrusts turned harder, longer, more demandi
ng. The strokes so deep his ballocks slapped against him.
Shameless and needing even more, Vincent bumped back. He was right there, on the very edge, senses poised on the brink, but… Damnation!
Beyond desperate for the climax that frustratingly eluded him, Vincent gazed up at Oliver.
“Come off for me, Vincent,” Oliver whispered, those dark eyes boring straight into his soul.
The orgasm slammed into him, harder and more powerful than a runaway stagecoach. His hoarse shout echoed in his ears. Seed shot from his cock, splattering his stomach, as Oliver continued to drive into him, prolonging the climax until Vincent could only gasp in awe.
As the remnants of that powerful release still thrummed through Vincent’s body, Oliver’s hips snapped forward. It felt as though his cock somehow grew thicker, longer, harder, stretching Vincent’s body to its limit. Teeth bared, Oliver let out a growl, deep and low and unlike anything Vincent had ever heard from him. Then warmth filled Vincent’s passage.
Oliver slumped, his forehead dropping to Vincent’s chest. Hot, sticky pants fanned Vincent’s chest, clinging to his sweat-slicked skin. Lazy and slow, and almost unconsciously, Oliver slid his hand, still wrapped around Vincent’s cock, up to massage the crown. A spasm racked his entire body, abrading his overwrought nerves, muscles clenching around Oliver’s prick, still buried deep.
“Hell!” The curse burst from his throat, though the word sounded embarrassingly much closer to a yelp.
“Sorry,” Oliver murmured as he released his hold. He didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. If anything, he sounded smug. Oliver was a man. He damn well knew how sensitive one was after an orgasm.
For a long moment, the only sounds that broke the silence were their heavy breaths. He could feel Oliver softening within him, and then the man’s spent prick slipped from his body. The protest, the need to keep Oliver with him, rose within. So strong it took all his willpower to keep the plea inside.
The strength of it jolted him harshly to the present. His arse burned, throbbed, yet it was strangely pleasurable. Hell, his entire body felt sore. He was suddenly aware he was practically lying in Oliver’s arms. And it felt good. So good, he never wanted to leave.
His gut tightened.
Oliver levered up to lean over Vincent. His dark hair stuck to his temples, damped with sweat. His cheeks were flushed, his heavily-lidded eyes reduced to mere slits. The most content smile curved his mouth. “Love you.”
The words were whispered against his lips an instant before Oliver’s mouth found his. But the kiss did nothing to vanquish the leaden feeling building in the pit of his stomach.
Chapter Six
Sprawled on his belly, Oliver kept his eyes closed as the sensations from last night drifted from his dreams to fill his sleep-logged, barely conscious mind. The press of Vincent’s hard body along his. The sounds of Vincent’s hoarse, desperate moans for more. The urgent thrusts of Vincent’s arse against his pelvis as the orgasm built within his lover. He flexed his hand tucked under his pillow, the memory of his grip on Vincent’s thigh still fresh on his palm.
He had watched Vincent climax countless times, but never like that. Every line in his powerful body lax yet thrumming with undeniable need. And the look on Vincent’s face when the man’s release claimed him—absolute bliss, undeniable awe, and unwavering trust. A look Oliver would never forget. Vincent had completely given himself over to him, placed his pleasure fully in Oliver’s hands. And judging by the pearly white seed that had coated the man’s rock-hard abdomen, Vincent thoroughly enjoyed the experience.
The smile teasing the edges of Oliver’s lips broadened into a sleepy, triumphant grin.
He felt like a damn god.
He shifted his hips, pulling one knee up toward his side, in an effort to relieve some of the pressure on his erection trapped between his belly and the mattress. An erection that just last night had been buried hilt-deep in Vincent’s no-longer-virgin arse.
His own arse tingled with awareness. Need threaded under his skin, seeped into his veins, building stronger with each passing second. Perhaps he could convince Vincent to repay the favor.
He reached out his senses, searching for the heat radiating from Vincent’s body, yet…
Oliver opened his eyes and found the place next to him empty. He levered up onto his forearms. The white pillow still held the impression from Vincent’s head, and the coverlet was rumpled as though someone—Vincent—had hastily flung it back into place after vacating the bed.
He could not recall Vincent getting up. Granted, Oliver had a tendency to sleep soundly, but Vincent always at least nudged him before he left the room, be it this room or his bedchamber at his bachelor apartments.
Perhaps the man had simply gone to relieve himself. But… He passed a hand over the sheets under the coverlet. Not a trace of warmth from Vincent’s body. A glance over his shoulder toward the marble fireplace confirmed his suspicions.
Vincent had been gone for some time—so long, the fire he usually lit before leaving the bedchamber had burned down to faintly glowing embers.
Brow furrowed, he looked to the forest green drapes covering the window beside his bed. The gray daylight seeping through the breaks in the heavy damask made it virtually impossible to discern the time of day. He snatched his spectacles from the bedside table, slipped them on, and focused on the brass clock on the fireplace mantle.
A few minutes before nine.
He had not significantly overslept, which meant Vincent had left before dawn.
Unease nipped at his stomach. Flinging back the coverlet, he threw his legs over the side of the mattress. He grabbed his clothes from the floor and dressed. He did not bother to shave. He could see to the task later, after he located Vincent.
A check in Vincent’s bedchamber and in the study did not turn up the man.
“Good morning, Lord Oliver.”
Oliver turned from the open study door to find the housekeeper walking down the corridor toward him. “A good morning to you as well. Have you seen Lord Vincent this morning?”
“No, I have not.” As she usually arrived at the house around eight, that meant Vincent had left well over an hour ago. “There’s breakfast in the dining room. Kippers and eggs. And I just put out a fresh pot of coffee.” She smiled as though nothing made her happier than to prepare breakfast for him and Vincent.
But breakfast was the farthest thing from his mind at the moment. “Thank you, Mrs. Hollister. Would you be so kind as to keep it warm? Lord Vincent and I will be taking a late breakfast this morning.”
After grabbing his greatcoat from the closet off the entrance hall, he stepped out of the house. The morning air felt brisk and cold and held the threat of snow. Thick clouds hung heavy in the sky, blocking any attempts by the sun to provide even a hint of warmth. He buttoned his coat and tugged on his black leather gloves as he made his way around the side of the house toward the stables.
He found the stall belonging to Vincent’s preferred mount—a big-boned black hunter—empty except for about half an armload of hay in the corner. The tall stallion had not even had a chance to finish his breakfast. The grooms who tended to the horses arrived quite early from the village, usually around dawn, if he remembered correctly.
Oliver wracked his brain, but he could not recall Vincent mentioning an errand or any obligation that would require him to leave the house so early. To his knowledge, he did not have any plans for the day save working in his study.
The unease nipping at his belly turned into a tight fist of worry. On any other morning, Vincent’s absence would not rouse much more than mere curiosity. But last night had not been any other night.
“Good morning, Lord Oliver.”
Oliver turned from the empty stall. One of the grooms, a wiry young man with an unruly shock of pale blond hair, stood in the partially open door of a stall on the other side of the aisle. He had a pitchfork in one hand, as though he had been tidying the horse’s stall.
&nb
sp; “Morning,” Oliver said, with a tip of his head. He resisted the impulse to ask the groom if he had seen Vincent that morning, and if so, if he knew in what direction the man had gone. He had already asked Mrs. Hollister with no success. If he inquired with any more of the staff, he’d only end up inciting their curiosity as to why Oliver was so concerned about their master’s whereabouts so early in the day. In any case, it wasn’t as if Vincent was in the habit of keeping his servants abreast of his comings and goings.
“Do you have need of the carriage, my lord?”
“No, but could you saddle a horse for me?”
In no time at all, Vincent’s efficient groom saw to the task and brought the horse out into the stable yard. Oliver swung his leg over the chestnut gelding’s back, and with a nudge of his heels, the horse obediently slipped into an easy canter.
He took the dirt lane leading from the stables. The cold wind bit at his cheeks, yet Oliver did not tuck his chin into the collar of his greatcoat. He sat tall, his gaze sweeping the surrounding grounds, looking for any sign of the black hunter.
At the fork in the lane, he pulled the horse to a stop. Should he turn left or right? Where would Vincent have gone? About six months ago, Vincent had purchased the property adjoining his, making the Rotherham estate more than sizeable. The man could be anywhere. Perhaps he had been called to the coal mine? No, too early in the morning for that. Vincent would have nudged him awake if someone had called at the house before dawn.
The forest on the east side of the property? Hadn’t Vincent once mentioned a gamekeeper’s cottage? But as neither of them hunted, he hadn’t given the comment much notice. Perhaps the pond?
