by Ava March
“I’m not a woman, Vincent.” His stomach sank, as that perfect sense of complete and absolute happiness began to drain out of him.
Letting out a sigh, Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. “I am quite aware of your masculinity. That’s not the point I am trying to make. While I accept as fact that our relationship is against the law, it can be more than frustrating at times and not only because of the constant need for discretion. If I took a wife tomorrow, pledged myself to her, no one would bat an eye or question my commitment to her. Yet because you are a man, the law and the church have decreed what I feel for you is somehow wrong. It doesn’t seem at all…fair,” Vincent said with a threatening scowl that would have sent any clergyman scurrying toward the closest door. “But I will not allow the law or the church to completely tie my hands. I cannot predict what the future holds. If something were to happen to me, I want to ensure you are provided for. You are…the only person in my life who has ever truly cared about me. I want my estate to go to you. But if for some reason the will is contested, then at least you have the account.”
“Why would anyone contest it?”
“Because I have changed my will so the bulk of my fortune will no longer go to Grafton or to any family member. He could contest it, either on his behalf or the behalf of his son. He has the means to engage in a lengthy legal battle, if he so desires. I don’t believe he would go to such extremes, but it is not a risk I am willing to take. Hence the account. It is in your name and your name only. No one can take it from you.”
Well, that explained the thirty thousand pounds, but it seemed all so complex. He appreciated Vincent’s sentiment far more than he could ever express, and quite strangely Vincent’s desire to take him to wife made perfect sense. A connection he’d have never made on his own. The whole point of marriage was to produce children, a desire Oliver did not have in the slightest. Yet to Vincent, a man who valued his standing in society and needed the esteem of his peers, above all marriage stood for the physical proof of commitment. Though if Vincent started calling him wife, he’d definitely have issues with it. But…
His attention was drawn to the papers in Vincent’s hand. The weight of the fortune they held more than intimidated him, never mind the possibility of engaging in a lengthy legal battle with Grafton, the current heir to the powerful Saye and Sele marquessate.
No, Vincent did not need to go to such lengths for him. It wasn’t necessary. “Vincent, you don’t need—”
“Oliver, please. I know you can’t depend on your father or your brother. Your grandmother is not a wealthy woman, either. While I am alive, it is not a concern. I am here if ever you have need. I don’t know what would become of me if you were taken from me. If I didn’t have you in my life. I certainly would not be anywhere near all right. But if something ever happened to me, I…I just need to know you would want for nothing. Please say you understand.”
The same fragile vulnerability he had glimpsed a week ago now filled Vincent’s gaze.
The pieces clicked together.
The way Vincent had left him after their night together in Rotherham. Their resulting conversation by the pond. He had thought he had eased Vincent’s mind—the man hadn’t seemed out of sorts since then. But he now saw the true source of Vincent’s unease. It had not been the act of giving up control that left Vincent shaken, but the fact Vincent had done so with him. Vincent loved him, and he certainly told Oliver enough for him to believe it. But giving himself over to Oliver must have somehow driven it home to him. Combine that with their conversations about the Widow Middleton’s situation… Vincent had not been merely shaken. He had been scared.
Financial security was something Vincent knew well. Something solid and tangible. Something he could control. And changing his will and creating the account for Oliver was his solution. It had nothing at all to do with Vincent trying to find a new way to give Oliver money he had not earned on his own. And everything to do with how much Vincent needed him.
“Yes.” Oliver nodded, more than a bit awed at the depth of Vincent’s love. “I understand.”
“Then don’t argue with me over this matter. Take it and ease my mind.”
“All right.” He took the papers from Vincent’s outstretched hand. “But you are all that matters to me. You’re all I want.” All the money in the world could not take Vincent’s place in his heart. He wanted to wrap his arms around him, hold him close, but they were at Vincent’s town house. Even behind the closed door of his study, Vincent had never allowed such an intimacy. The servants were a continual presence his lover could not ignore.
“You’re all I want as well, Oliver.” Slow and tentative, Vincent reached out, took hold of Oliver’s other hand, and gave it a squeeze. A shuddering breath expanded his broad chest. “Forever.”
Oliver’s heart clenched. The hell with the servants. The damn door was shut.
Tugging Vincent by the hand, he pulled him close and wrapped his arms around him. Buried his face in his chest. It took not even a moment for those familiar, strong arms to wrap around him. Vincent held him so tightly it made it hard to breathe, but Oliver did not mind in the slightest. Vincent’s breaths fanned the top of his head, and then warm lips pressed against his temple in the lightest of kisses. Chaste and pure. Oliver tipped his face up, seeking more. Vincent’s mouth found his, the deep kiss sealing forever more solidly than a mere fold of papers.
Vincent pulled back just enough to break the kiss. “I want you to stay with me tonight.”
“Of course. We’ll go to my apartments after supper.”
“No. Not there. Here.”
He looked up at Vincent in question. “Are you giving your staff the night off?”
Vincent shook his head. “But you can still stay the night. I have plenty of guest rooms. One’s next to mine, though they’re not connected like at the country house.” His hands drifted down to palm Oliver’s arse. “I want you in my bed.”
Oliver blinked in shock. They had spent countless hours in the old bed at his apartments, and always shared the bed in what had become his room at Vincent’s country house. But never had Oliver so much as laid his head on Vincent’s own bed. Hadn’t even stepped foot in Vincent’s bedchamber at the town house. Sex anywhere there had never been an option.
Yet it was now.
A smile curved his lips. “I would like that very much.” He would need to leave before dawn, steal into the guest room without gaining the servants’ notice. Play Vincent’s role. But it meant more than he could express that Vincent wanted him to stay.
“It won’t be every night, but tonight I want…”
“Of course. I understand. A change of scenery every now and then doesn’t do any harm. Though…what type of bed do you have? Four posters? Sturdy headboard? Do you believe it’s up to the task?” He tipped his hips forward and rubbed against Vincent.
Vincent went stiff. “Oliver.” Dear Lord, the man looked positively scandalized. “I don’t intend to…” His gaze darted to the closed door. “I am not going to tie you up here.”
Oliver could not help it. He chuckled. One would think he had asked Vincent to bugger him under his father’s roof. “You do intend for us to do more than sleep, correct?”
“Most assuredly, but you’ll need to be quiet.” He dropped his voice to a low, commanding rumble. “Think you can do that, boy? Can you hold back your shouts when I finally allow you to have your release?”
Oliver’s lashes fluttered. His spine went lax even as anticipation began to wind its way into his veins. “Yes, milord. I can be quiet. I promise.” He would do anything for Vincent, and staying quiet was a small price to pay to share his lover’s bed.
Vincent’s eyes darkened to a lust-banked deep blue. One edge of his mouth curled in distinct challenge. “We shall see about that.”
Chapter Nine
After prodding the fire in the hearth, Vincent leaned the iron poker against the marble surround and stood. He took the small brass clock from the ma
ntle and angled the face so it caught the light from the fire. Ten minutes until midnight.
He scowled at the black hands. Perhaps he should have told Oliver eleven o’clock. His valet always retired shortly after himself. The servant would have been abed by eleven tonight. His other staff as well, at least those who would have cause to be on the second floor of the house.
Were the hands even moving at all? He stared hard at the clock, and after what felt like an exceedingly long moment, the larger black hand moved forward.
Letting out a short, frustrated grunt, he replaced the clock on the mantle.
Next time, definitely eleven. Well, perhaps half past eleven. The kitchen staff had a tendency to linger overlong in their duties. And the footman stationed in the entrance hall would not retire until midnight.
No, no. Midnight was the most prudent time.
He glanced over his shoulder to his bed, the coverlet already turned back courtesy of his valet. Only the fire lit the room. He had extinguished the bedside candle a good half hour ago lest any servants travel by his door and wonder if he’d fallen asleep with it lit. Everything was at the ready, down to the bottle of oil he had stowed in the bedside table drawer.
Nothing at all for him to do but wait.
He grabbed the glass of brandy from the mantle and downed the last splash within. Did he really need a footman to watch the front door after his butler retired for the night? He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a late-night caller.
Nope, no need for the footman to remain on duty so late. Tomorrow he’d have a word with his housekeeper and have the man’s schedule adjusted.
He shifted his weight. The floorboards creaked faintly beneath his bare feet, the sound filling the quiet surrounding him. He reached for the decanter of brandy on the mantle, but stopped before his hand closed around the bottle. The last instance he had partaken more than he should before bed, the night had ended with Oliver’s prick in his arse. Not that there was any worry of a repeat tonight. Definitely not. He needed the man under him.
An ice-cold prickly sensation tightened his gut, threatened to flare up his chest. With effort, he tamped it down. Oliver didn’t leave me. The knowledge offered considerable comfort, but if his lover scared him like that again, Vincent would not be responsible for his actions. He swore his heart had stopped when Oliver had made to leave the study. A trace of that all-encompassing panic still lingered in his veins.
Yes, that was it. Not nervous at all. He just still hadn’t fully recovered from watching Oliver walk away from him in an eerily similar manner as he had done a good year ago…when his lover had actually left him. He tugged on the fabric belt of his navy dressing gown, righting the tie at his waist. In any case, there was no logical reason to be on edge. He had shared a bed with Oliver countless nights.
Tonight was just one more night to add to a long list of many, many more to come. No need to worry Oliver would keep his concerns bottled up until they exploded in a repeat of their argument in the study. And above all, the man had accepted the will and the account.
Vincent nodded. Yes, indeed. Everything was in order. Or would be, if the clock would just hurry the hell up.
A hand settled on his lower back. Vincent started, then relaxed as the heat from that hand seeped through his dressing gown. He knew who he would find behind him before he turned around.
Oliver gave him a sheepish smile. “Didn’t mean to startle you, but you did say to be quiet,” he said in an undertone. “Four times, I might add.”
He tipped his head in acknowledgment. No use denying the truth. Once in the study before supper, and by the time they had departed the study after their meal, he had managed to work three more reminders into their conversation.
Oliver’s lips quirked. “I like your bedchamber.”
“I like you in it.” He swept his gaze over Oliver’s body. He had come to Vincent’s bedchamber dressed in only brown trousers and a white shirt, the collar open and exposing his throat. No shoes, no waistcoat, not even his spectacles. The untidy waves of his dark hair framed his face. An erection tented the placket of his trousers. Oliver flexed his hands at his sides but otherwise stood perfectly still, his full attention fixed on Vincent and his eyes filled with undeniable love.
The most beautiful sight Vincent had ever beheld.
He took a moment to savor it; then the impatience that had built over the past hour got the better of him.
His arms shot out to tug the shirt from Oliver’s trousers and whisk it over his head, not caring in the slightest where it landed. A quick tug on the placket and he shoved the man’s trousers down his slim hips. His erection sprung free, jutting from his body.
A shiver racked Oliver. A shiver that Vincent knew had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
Oliver’s agile tongue darted out to swipe across his full bottom lip. Unable to resist, Vincent gripped the back of Oliver’s skull and drew him in for a kiss. Slanted his lips over Oliver’s, swept his tongue into his mouth, drank up his sigh. Oliver sagged against him, his body pliant and willing in his arms.
He pulled back, breaking the kiss. With his fingers still gripping Oliver’s hair, he stared down at his lover. The quick pants of the man’s breaths fanned Vincent’s lips. “But I would like you better in my bed.”
A moan shook Oliver’s throat. “Yes. Please.”
Need shot through him. Without giving it a moment’s thought, Vincent grabbed Oliver by the waist and tossed him on the bed. With a faint little sound of surprise, Oliver landed in the center of the mattress, his prick slapping his stomach, the ropes beneath creaking in protest of the abrupt movement. Oliver pushed his hair from his eyes, then went still, his dark, fathomless gaze pinned on Vincent.
Vincent unclenched his hands at his sides and took a moment to rein in the almost unstoppable impulse to leap onto the bed. To cover Oliver. To have the man beneath him.
But that wouldn’t do at all. At least not yet.
He had, in essence, issued a challenge to Oliver in the study. Far be it for him to not see it through, and he was quite looking forward to testing the limits of Oliver’s ability to remain quiet.
When he felt somewhat in control, he crossed to the side of the bed. The fire from the hearth just reached the mattress. The soft golden light played happily across Oliver’s bare skin, highlighting sleek, compact muscles and the glistening drop of fluid beaded on the head of his hard cock.
His lover was exactly where he belonged. In his bed.
The last lingering thread of fear finally vanished, leaving only lust and need and pure, true love.
Oliver was his. Would remain his always. Just as Vincent would always remain Oliver’s.
“Love you,” he whispered, forcing the words past his suddenly constricted throat.
“Love you too.”
His heart swelled, nearly filling his entire chest. He couldn’t stop a mirror of Oliver’s content smile from curving his lips. Then he let the haughty mask fall over his features. “Now be a good boy and raise your arms over your head.”
A full-body tremor shook Oliver. Another swipe of his tongue over his bottom lip, then he did as Vincent bid, lifting his arms over his head without a trace of hesitation. With one hand clasped around his other wrist, he laid his body out for Vincent in a silent offering.
Intent on giving Oliver everything he desired, Vincent remained where he stood. Let the anticipation build. The fire behind him warmed his back, but it had nothing on the lust drumming through his veins, heating his skin. Oliver’s nipples had hardened into tight buds that seemed to scream for Vincent’s attention. He watched as a bead of fluid dropped from the tip of Oliver’s prick, landing on his flat abdomen. He would get to that soon enough, but first…
He tugged on the belt of his dressing gown, shrugged his shoulders, and let the garment slip from his arms. Leaving the dressing gown pooled on the floorboards, he placed a knee on the bed.
The creak of the ropes beneath the mattress c
ut through the silence, unnaturally loud. He fought to keep the wince from crossing his features. He swore his bed wasn’t normally so noisy, but it wasn’t as if he had ever shared it with another or had reason before to be concerned about the creak of ropes. So much for any plans to pound Oliver into the bed tonight. Fortunately he didn’t need brute strength to keep Oliver on the cusp of a climax for hours.
Moving slowly, he made his way up Oliver’s body. The man immediately spread his legs, knees coming up to bracket Vincent’s hips in undeniable welcome. His eyes drifted shut as his chin tipped up, exposing the lines of his throat and the rapid beat of his pulse, in a glorious display of willing submission.
Crouched over Oliver, Vincent bent his head and pressed a reverent kiss to his lover’s throat. Then worked his way down: the delicate hollow at the base of his throat, the curve of his collar bone, and directly over his heart. Each press of lips to skin light and delicate, containing not a trace of the desire clamoring within him to be set free.
“Remember. Quiet,” he whispered against Oliver’s flawless chest. Head bowed, he felt Oliver’s nod in the trace movement of the mattress. “And don’t move. Nor are you allowed to climax until my cock’s buried in your arse.”
The absolute lack of movement of the man beneath him, down to the chest that had gone momentarily still, was akin to a sweetly sighed yes, milord.
Reassured Oliver would try his best to do exactly as Vincent bid, he captured one nipple between his teeth and began to torment Oliver. He tugged on the sensitive tip, sucked hard, plied it with his tongue, then shifted to the other and lavished it with attention.
Oliver’s quickening pants filled his ears, the slight hiss behind each breath a telltale sign his lover had clenched his teeth in his fight to hold back his pleas for more. Vincent pushed harder, determined to take him right to the edge and hold him there. To make it a night the man would never forget.
