by Ava March
“Looking back, it wasn’t as easy, as…comfortable as I had believed. We were more acquaintances who occasionally shared a bed than anything else. And I was reluctant to ask anything of him, to disrupt the waters, so to speak, for fear he would leave me, and then I’d be alone.”
That lonely, hollow note had crept into Arthur’s voice, making his heart ache to hold the man tight and never let him go. “You don’t have to be alone. Ever. If you don’t wish it.” You can be with me.
He could feel the force of Arthur’s stare, measuring him, judging him. Please, let him find something, anything, worthy in me. He shifted his weight and continued to pretend as though his boots were the most interesting things he had ever beheld.
“I understand.” Arthur’s heavy sigh filled the room. “May I still call you friend, Thorn?”
Biting the edge of his bottom lip, he nodded.
“Thank you.” Arthur paused. “Will you please unlock the door?”
How he stopped himself from screaming no, he frankly did not know. He gave a short, tight nod and forced his fingers to unclench from his upper arms. Surely the key had left a permanent impression on his skin, but he was numb to it. It took a couple of tries to get the key into the lock, but it finally slid home, and he turned the knob and opened the door to let Arthur walk away from him.
Holding the door open, he kept his gaze downcast, unable to watch Arthur leave. As Arthur walked past, desperation yanked hold of him.
“Wait.” The click of footsteps on the floorboards ceased. The words stuck in his throat, but he forced them out, unwilling to risk losing Arthur for not being completely honest. “You’re the only man I’ve ever loved,” he whispered hoarsely.
He waited for what felt like an eternity, staring at Arthur’s feet, the black leather of his shoes marred by the rain. His heart pounded in his ears, his soul pleading for a response from Arthur. But…nothing. He had laid his heart bare only to receive silence.
The threat of tears stung his nose, his eyes. He gripped the doorknob tightly, willing the tremble from his arm, trying to keep his emotions in check. To keep from the utter humiliation of being reduced to tears in front of the man he loved.
But the effort was in vain. Before the proof showed itself on his cheeks, he snapped, much harsher and stronger than he intended, “Just leave.”
He swore he could hear Arthur’s nod. Then those footsteps receded down the corridor and into the entrance hall. His stomach twisted in an unbearable knot, the noxious taste of bile rose in his throat. At the faint sound of carriage wheels on gravel, he slammed the door shut and darted across the study. He dropped to his knees, flung open the doors on the squat cabinet, and started pushing aside the bottles, disturbing the neat rows. His stomach clenched violently, lurching in his gut. By God, he was going to be sick.
The gin. Where the hell was it? He needed it. Now.
Wine and whisky toppled from the shelf. The bottles rolled past his knees to somewhere behind him as he furiously searched the shadowed depths of the cabinet. Jones better have two bottles in there. One would not make the morning go away.
Oh fuck.
Nothing could make it go away forever.
He swiped his forearm across his eyes, the cold, sodden cloth smearing the warm drops across his cheeks. “Goddamn you, Jones. Where the hell did you put it?”
He took a deep breath, about to bellow for his footman, when he spotted the slender bottle in the back corner. He yanked it from the cabinet, pried off the top and brought the bottle to his lips. Harsh and abrasive, the gin burned his throat, but he kept swallowing great, greedy mouthfuls, needing more, desperate for the blissfully numb void that could only be found at the bottom of the bottle, even if only temporarily.
The sound of a door closing smacked against his ears, pulling his arm to his side. He held his breath and strained to hear. Someone had entered the study. The unmistakable sensation of a pair of eyes on him made the hairs on his nape prick with unease.
Bloody hell. He must be a sight to behold: soaked through from the rain, kneeling before the liquor cabinet, discarded bottles scattered about him with one clutched tightly in his right hand. Goddamn bloody drunkard. Absolutely pathetic.
“I told the driver he wasn’t needed. Should I call him back?”
Arthur. And he did not sound pleased. Leopold wanted to bolt to his feet, to move away from the mess he’d created, to distance himself from it, but all he could do was shake his head.
Arthur stepped farther into the room, the click of his shoes against the floorboards coming ever nearer. Fabric shifted as Arthur dropped to his haunches beside him, so close his greatcoat brushed Leopold’s hip. Leopold instinctively ducked his chin, averting his face, and clenched his left fist to resist the urge to wipe at his eyes. The scents of cool rain and fresh outdoor air, of Arthur, filled his senses. His heart pounded against his ribs.
A large, warm hand covered his, still wrapped tight around the gin.
“Let go, Thorn.”
At Arthur’s soft, gentle murmur, his hand went lax, slipping out from under Arthur’s.
“Gin?” Arthur tsked. “No, that won’t do at all.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur lean forward to set the open bottle on top of the cabinet. “What…what do you suggest?”
“Me.”
He swallowed back the lump in his throat. “For how long?” One night, two nights to finish their holiday, or more? He had to know. Was he only good enough to fuck, or had Arthur seen more in him?
“For as long as you’ll have me.”
So casually spoken, yet it had the power to clamp Leopold’s eyes shut. He pressed the heels of his palms to his closed eyes, struggling to keep his emotions from completely overwhelming him.
“Thornton?” Arthur touched him, lightly and tentatively, on the shoulder.
And it was too much. All the worry, pain and heartache that had rubbed his nerves beyond raw exploded into frustrated rage. Leopold twisted around and punched Arthur square in the jaw.
“Damn you!”
As Arthur’s head snapped to the left, Leopold flung himself at him, teeth bared and fist poised to deliver another blow. Next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, a heavy weight pressing him to the floor, his arms held above head.
“What was that for?” Arthur demanded, looming over him.
With a grunt, he tried to buck Arthur off. An absolutely useless effort. “I thought you left! How dare you do that do me?”
Arthur’s gaze swept over his face. Suddenly so grave, so somber, and not at all comforting. It killed every trace of frustration and rage, leaving Leopold weak and gasping to draw breath.
“I had planned to. I thought it the safest course of action, but I couldn’t get in the carriage. I couldn’t leave you. I couldn’t punish you—us—because of what he did to me. He broke my heart, and it damn well hurt. But it’s not broken anymore, because of you.” Arthur released his wrists. Propping his weight on one forearm, he coasted his other hand down Leopold’s arm. With a light, reverent touch, he brushed the pad of his thumb over Leopold’s wet lashes. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Can you forgive me?”
How could he not? He loved this man. Leopold nodded. But lest Arthur believe his forgiveness came easily, he added, “Just don’t do it again.”
“Never. I promise.”
Then Arthur cupped his jaw and took his lips in a soul-searing kiss.
Passion instantly ignited. A white-hot flare, consuming his senses. Leopold worked a hand between their bodies and tugged desperately on the buttons of Arthur’s coat, needing to press bare skin to bare skin. To feel the heat from Arthur’s body. To have the man inside him again.
He twisted his head, breaking the kiss. “The door.” He panted. “Did you lock it?”
“Concerned about discretion, Thornton?”
“Thorn. Or Leopold, whichever you prefer. And don’t be an arse. Just lock the damn thing if you didn’t already se
e to it.”
“All right.” A quick kiss. “But you have to get out of those wet clothes.” Untangling himself from Leopold, Arthur moved off him and onto his knees. “I’ll be surprised if you don’t catch a chill.”
Leopold sat up. “You just want me naked.”
“Yes, I do.” Arthur arched a brow, his gaze sweeping over Leopold, as if waiting for him to get started.
He matched Arthur’s raised brow and flicked his head toward the door.
“All right,” Arthur said with a chuckle. He stood. “Are you going to get up, or would you prefer the floor?”
Leopold stared at Arthur’s proffered hand. He didn’t need the help, but… He slapped his hand over Arthur’s, and the man pulled him to his feet. He couldn’t suppress the grunt as his knees protested the movement. “Floor’s damn hard,” he grumbled.
“I concur with your assessment.” Arthur turned and crossed to the door.
Leopold whipped the shirt over his head, flinging it in the general direction of his desk. It landed with a wet slap. He had his trousers unbuttoned and pushed down to his hips when he remembered his boots. He glanced about the room. Hell. He looked to Arthur, who strode toward him, dropping his greatcoat onto an armchair as he passed it.
Leopold leaned back against the paneled wall, placed a hand on the top of the liquor cabinet to steady his balance and lifted a leg out before him. “Pull.”
“Shall I fill in for your valet?”
“I don’t have one. There isn’t a bootjack in the study, so if you want me naked, pull.”
Arthur got into position. Back to him, he straddled Leopold’s leg and took hold of the heel of his boot. One tug and his foot slid free. The boot dropped with a thud. Leopold switched legs, and the other boot came off just as easily. Then he shoved his breeches down, kicking them from his feet.
Grabbing Arthur’s upper arm, he spun the man around to face him and slanted his mouth over his. Leopold tugged at the placket of Arthur’s trousers, releasing the buttons, and then reached inside to pull out his hard cock.
Arthur hissed through his teeth. Strong hands covered his arse, jerked him closer. He took a step back, taking Arthur with him, until his bare shoulder blades hit the cool paneled wall behind him. He hiked a leg around Arthur’s waist and hopped up, wrapping his other leg around him.
“Fuck me. Please.” He tilted his hips so the head of Arthur’s cock brushed his entrance.
“I don’t have any…um…with me.”
“Oil,” Leopold filled in for him. “Neither do I, but we don’t need it.” He shimmied, the fabric of Arthur’s clothing rubbing against his damp skin as he shifted his arms around Arthur’s neck to get a better hold. Once he felt secure, he unwound one arm. “Give me your hand.”
Arthur gave him a puzzled look, but he complied. The biceps of his left arm bulged as he held Leopold with only one large hand gripping his arse. As soon as Leopold brought the man’s fingers into his mouth, the bewilderment was replaced with lust. He sucked on Arthur’s fingers, liberally wetting them.
“You know where to put them?”
“In your tight arse.”
Leopold groaned at the crude words from Arthur’s lips. The groan turned into a hiss as those wet fingers pressed against his entrance. One slipped inside, followed by another.
Panting hard through his nose, he sucked on his own fingers and then spit on his palm for good measure. He quickly worked his hand between their bodies and grabbed Arthur’s erection. His fingers slipped over the silken skin in rhythm to the digits thrusting into his arse. His insides fluttered, eager to feel Arthur’s thick cock pound into him.
“Fuck me. Now.”
Arthur pulled his fingers free. Leopold positioned the crown at his entrance, and Arthur pushed inside.
His head tipped back, his mouth falling open on a sigh of utter pleasure. He relished the burn as his muscles stretched to accommodate Arthur’s erection.
“All right?” Arthur asked.
“More than all right.”
The last word turned into a moan as Arthur started stroking. His mouth found Leopold’s neck, sucking on the skin hard enough to leave a bruise. A cravat would easily cover it, but Leopold would know it was there. A mark, a physical sign that Arthur wanted him. Needed him. Trusted him. Could maybe someday love him.
And he would. Leopold felt it in his heart. In his soul. Felt it behind each powerful thrust as Arthur drove them quickly to completion. Arthur’s lips found his, silencing his shout as the orgasm gripped hold. He climaxed, every muscle in his body tightening as Arthur poured deep within him.
Several moments later, they caught their breaths. With a grimace, he unwound his legs from Arthur’s waist. His knees threatened to buckle, but Arthur’s hands on his hips kept him on his feet.
Arthur ducked his head to nuzzle his neck, soft lips gliding across his sweaty skin. “We will be all right, won’t we?”
At the uncertainty in those whispered words, he cupped Arthur’s jaw, brought his face up to his. “I will be the very image of a proper gentleman,” he vowed.
If Leopold hadn’t loved the man already, the smile curving his lips would have stolen his heart.
“But only an image.” Arthur tightened his grip on his arse, tugging him closer. Leopold moaned as the silken skin of Arthur’s semi-erect prick slid against his. “When it’s just the two of us, I want this man. I want you. And I want you often.”
“Does that mean you’ll tear yourself away from your work for me?”
“For you, Thorn…to have you in my life, to have you to come home to, to have you to grow old with…gladly. Willingly. Without a second thought.” He brushed his lips against Leopold’s in a quick, fleeting kiss. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“For what?”
“For giving me you.”
About the Author
Ava March is an author of sexy, emotionally intense M/M historical erotic romances. She loves writing in the Regency time period, where proper decorum is of the utmost importance, but where anything can happen behind closed doors. With over fifteen works to her credit, her books have been finalists in the Rainbow Awards and More Than Magic contest, and deemed “must-haves” for Historical M/M romance by RT Book Reviews readers. Visit her website at www.AvaMarch.com to find out more about her books or to sign-up for her newsletter.
Look for these titles by Ava March
Now Available:
Object of His Desire
From Afar
Coming Soon:
London Legal
Convincing Leopold
Convincing the Secretary
He thinks he’s just a wallflower. Little does he know he’s the guest of honor…
Object of His Desire
© 2009 Ava March
It’s the last night of a week-long house party in remote northern England. Every sensual delight imaginable is right at Henry Shaw’s fingertips. Yet all he wants is to be with his host, the deliciously handsome and enigmatic Arsen Grey. Henry’s certain it’s love, not mere infatuation. He’s also sure it’s hopeless. After all, the party’s purpose is to find Arsen a new mistress.
Arsen longs to leave the glittering, jaded world of the ton behind and find someone who will value him for himself, not his wealth and his title. He suspects that someone could be the strapping country gentleman he’s caught staring at him. Henry is loyal and dependable, nothing like his other acquaintances. Arsen sets a plan into motion, one designed to get Henry into his bed. One that includes a test of devotion.
Arsen never expected that in winning Henry, he risks losing his heart.
Warning: This title contains a m/m romance between an obscenely wealthy marquis and a strong, silent country gentleman.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Object of His Desire:
He passed a tired eye over the ballroom, feeling distinctly separate from the erotic tableau before him. If someone had told him one year ago when he’d left his childhood home in Devon that he’d
end up here, he would not have believed them. At the age of twenty-one, all he had wanted was to embark on his own. As the third son of a country gentleman, his means and his prospects were limited, but that had not stopped him. Shortly after his arrival in London, he had met Markus Drummond at a gambling hell. In no time at all, he had drawn Henry into his glittering, jaded social circle where Arsen reigned as king. If he had known then what he knew now, he would have put a stop to his naïve infatuation with Markus before it could begin.
Hell. He wouldn’t have refused Markus then. Men like himself, men who preferred other men, were difficult to find and the thought of frequenting a Molly house turned his stomach. Desperate for something more stable than the couple of hasty encounters he’d had with the butcher’s fickle son back in Devon, he had been eager to say yes to Markus. Given how that relationship had turned out, one would have thought he had learned his lesson. Still, hadn’t he been more than eager to say yes to Arsen? He had hoped, perhaps, just maybe the invitation had meant something. Arsen had been seeking his company more often than not of late, even choosing to sit beside him at the card tables and spar with him at Angelo’s Fencing Academy. But deep down, Henry had known exactly what the house party would hold for him.
One week. One torturous week of being surrounded by sex. Of being offered every sensual delight known to man but the one he wanted.
This infatuation with Arsen needed to end.
Who was he fooling? He was in love with Arsen. In love with Lord Somerville. Even if he had tried, there was no way he could have chosen someone more unsuitable.
It was absolutely hopeless.
Feeling strangely hollow and beyond weary, he scrubbed a hand over his face.
“Evening, Shaw.”
Henry nearly jumped out of his skin. His champagne glass slipped from his fingers. A crash rent the air. He fought the urge to cringe. One would think with hands as large as his, he would be able to hold on to a damn glass.
