A Scot's Surrender (The Townsends)

by Lily Maxton

  Even in the dim light, Ian could tell that Robert’s face had darkened. “I don’t want a prostitute. And I don’t want a fumbling handful of minutes with a stranger. It’s not curiosity.”

  Ian snorted.

  “But if it was only curiosity,” Robert said, sounding a little strident now, “I certainly wouldn’t have picked you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He made a clipped gesture. “I would have picked someone less remote. Less difficult. Someone who wouldn’t accuse me of not knowing what I want right after I kiss them.” He pushed to his feet and stared down at Ian. “If I only wanted to know what it was like to fuck another man and nothing else, I wouldn’t have picked you.”

  “If that’s how you feel, I don’t know why you’re here at all.”

  “You don’t?” Robert said, sounding both weary and exasperated. “Isn’t it obvious? You do a good impression, but you can’t actually be that unobservant. I don’t just want to fuck you, Ian, I want to be your friend, too. Your best friend. The one you talk to when you’re happy and when you’re angry and the one you go to when you don’t want to talk at all. I want to be the one you turn to. I won’t settle for less.”

  Ian’s mouth was dry. He didn’t know how to protect himself in the face of that kind of honesty. And he didn’t know how it could be real.

  “I don’t need friends,” he finally said, flatly. “I’ve never had them before, and I don’t want them now.”

  Robert looked…upset…disappointed, maybe. But he didn’t look surprised. That gnawed at Ian’s gut more than he would admit. “Very well,” he said. “If that’s how you feel, I won’t trouble you again.”

  Robert turned to go, and Ian felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Fear. A strange sheer panic. If he let Robert go, if he let him walk away now, would they ever sit beside each other while Ian pointed out constellations? Would he ever feel Robert’s body shake from laughter that he couldn’t contain?

  No. No, he wouldn’t.

  If he let him go now, he would lose all of that in an instant. And he’d already come to crave it a little too much.

  “Wait,” he said, voice sharp in the silence.

  Robert glanced back at him.

  Ian’s throat felt thick. He didn’t know what to say. He still didn’t really know what he wanted. He still didn’t entirely trust that Robert knew, either.

  All he was certain of was that he wasn’t ready to lose him yet.

  “Read your book to me,” he blurted out.

  “What?”

  “It would take me too long to read it myself,” he said. “And friends share. That’s what you told me. So share it with me.”

  For a long second, Robert just stared, and Ian wanted to go crawl somewhere and hide. It was the closest thing to an apology he could muster. It wasn’t nearly enough. But then Robert smiled, slow and brilliant, and Ian couldn’t really think at all. His heart felt like it was breaking in half, which didn’t bode well for the future of the organ. If it was already breaking now, how would he ever keep it from shattering?

  But it was too late. Too late. Too late.

  He’d fallen. He’d fallen too hard and too fast and too far to save himself.

  “All right.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I feel like an idiot,” Robert said.

  They were in his bedchamber, and he had The Adventures of Constable Whitley spread out on his lap while he sat in the desk chair, turned toward Ian, who sat at the foot of the bed, taking up too much space in the small room. His face was etched in gold and shadow from the candles Robert had lit.

  They’d kissed, Robert kept thinking to himself. They’d kissed, and Ian was here, Ian wanted to be here, with him. Ian wanted him.

  Robert felt overheated. He pushed open the window a crack to let the cool night air seep in. When he sat back down, Ian was still watching him.

  “I’m waiting,” he said, sounding bored.

  Robert sighed. He cleared his throat. “‘The Adventures of Constable Whitley,’” he read. “‘Chapter One.’”

  He was about to pause to say he felt like an idiot, but he realized he’d already said that. He didn’t know why he’d agreed to this. Except Ian had called him back. Robert had been walking away, devastated, certain he’d been rejected, and Ian had called him back, and this was what he’d asked of him.

  And Robert didn’t have it in him to refuse any request Ian made if it meant they could spend more time together. Even if he did feel like a fool reading his own work out loud.

  “‘Constable George Whitley was not, by nature, a superstitious man. There were things one could see and touch and smell, and to Constable Whitley, this was the extent of the world. But soon enough, the constable would find out that the world went far deeper, to shadowy places his rather unimaginative mind could not begin to guess at. It happened—’” Robert looked up and noticed Ian was smiling faintly. “What?”

  “It sounds like you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Eloquent. A little ironic.”

  “Is that amusing?”

  “No. I can picture you writing it.”

  Robert had never felt more self-conscious in his life. “It’s not a very exciting thing to picture. Mostly I alternate between staring blankly out the window and scribbling furiously. And I always manage to get ink on my clothes.”

  “Fascinating,” Ian drawled. “Are ye going to continue?”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to hear something else? I’d even be willing to read Macbeth.” He lifted his eyebrows invitingly. “Castles, bloodshed, betrayal—everything a growing Highlander needs.”

  “I’m going to ignore that.” He leveled Robert with a glance. “Ye said you would read it.”

  “I know,” Robert sighed and began again. “‘It happened during his thirtieth year. He’d just been asked to question a man who’d witnessed a murder, but this murder was no ordinary tale of vengeance or greed, for when Constable Whitley arrived, the witness swore there was a ghost involved.’”

  He didn’t know how long he’d been reading when he glanced over and saw that Ian had reclined on the bed, one arm propped behind his head like a makeshift pillow.

  His eyes were closed, his breathing steady.

  Had it really been that boring?

  Robert stood and moved to the side of the bed to look down at him. He looked peaceful, more peaceful than Robert had ever seen him, and he couldn’t even work up much frustration that his book was apparently sleep inducing, because he liked watching Ian unobserved like this.

  And then Ian spoke quietly, without opening his eyes. “Why did ye stop?”

  Robert only just stifled a startled yelp. “I thought you were asleep.” When he answered, even though his heart was thumping furiously, his voice was just as soft as Ian’s had been, as though they were on the edge of a moment that shouldn’t be disturbed.

  Ian’s eyes cracked open, a shimmer of gray in the yellow light. “I was listening.”

  If Robert leaned down a little more, he would fall right into him. But it was late. Maybe Ian was tired. And all he’d asked for was a reading of Constable Whitley, not a repeat of what had happened in the outbuilding.

  Robert must have let the silence stretch too long.

  “What is it?” Ian asked.

  He answered with the truth. “I was thinking you look good in my bed.” He did—he looked warm and peaceful and almost too large, but not quite. Ian’s breath hitched, and Robert leaned closer. He had to hold himself up with arms on each side of Ian’s head. “Are you tired?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “No.”

  Robert felt his mouth curve. “I’m not tired, either.”

  He crawled over Ian and lowered himself just enough to drop a kiss to his lips before pushing up again.

  Ian frowned.

  “You’re going to have to work for it a little,” Robert murmured. “Do you expect me to put in all the ef
fort?” He felt…happy. Happier than he could ever recall being. He couldn’t resist teasing Ian.

  In response, the other man fisted his hands in Robert’s shirt and yanked him down. His body collided with Ian’s, chest to chest, legs tangling. Ian clasped the back of his head and took his mouth in a fierce kiss.

  Robert groaned into Ian’s mouth, returning the kiss with enthusiasm that bordered on desperation. He was already hard, his cock stiff and aching, but he didn’t have much time to dwell on that embarrassment before the wet warmth of Ian’s tongue slipped past his lips.

  As he kissed him, Ian tugged at the hem of Robert’s shirt, and then Robert felt warm, large hands spanning across his back, tracing his spine, possessive, gripping and guiding. Ian’s length was pressed against the inside of his thigh.

  Ian was taking control from him, which Robert didn’t mind in a general sense—in fact, the idea made him even harder than he already was—but a swifter, more potent desire came fast on its heels. This first time, he wanted to be the one in charge. He wanted to watch Ian tremble in his bed. He wanted to know that Ian cared enough about him to be helpless before him, to be vulnerable.

  He wanted Ian’s surrender. To him, for him. He wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything.

  He didn’t know why, exactly. Maybe it felt like it would be more permanent if Ian was the one giving himself. Maybe he wanted to bind the other man to him in any way he could while he had the chance.

  Because he knew it would be difficult. He knew it would have to be secret; they would have to be careful. He wanted to know that Ian was in this, too, as deeply as he was.

  He abruptly sat back on his knees and reached for the braces of Ian’s trousers, slipping them down over his shoulders and then going for the buttons of his falls. Ian lifted his hips so Robert could drag his trousers off and then tear at his shirt.

  Robert looked down at the naked body sprawled before him, all hard muscles and planes, a wide chest and muscled shoulders that tapered down to a narrower waist and thighs covered in wiry hair. A trail of dark copper hair spread across his chest and pointed down toward a thick, jutting cock.

  He looked too perfect to be real.

  “Like a bloody Roman statue,” Robert muttered, both in awe and a little envious.

  Ian reached for him, no doubt to take Robert’s clothes off, too, but Robert knocked his arm away. He pushed Ian back down to the mattress with his hand spread across his chest.

  Ian didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t protest.

  “I’ll take care of you,” Robert assured him. “You distrustful thing.”

  Robert bent down to kiss his shoulder and smiled as he felt the tension in Ian’s muscles ease.

  “Fine,” he said, and Robert might have thought he was bored, except when he pressed his mouth to Ian’s throat, he could feel the tremble of his pulse.

  Ian wasn’t very vocal, but Robert quickly became attuned to the small breaths, the subtle inhales and exhales, the tilt of his mouth, the arch of his brow. He was learning the language of Ian Cameron, was speaking in his verse. He studied him like da Vinci studied flying machines, like Michelangelo studied art. If a scholar was required, a scholar he would be. He would spend years learning him—a touch here, more pressure there, less here.

  Robert gleaned what Ian liked and what he didn’t: he liked his throat and chest kissed and sucked and bitten, but not his stomach. He tensed up when Robert dragged his lips through the copper hair there, and Robert stored that delightful information away for later—Ian was extremely ticklish. He seemed indifferent to his nipples being touched, but there was a spot just underneath his jaw that made his breath hitch when Robert nuzzled it.

  His exploration moved lower, down to Ian’s thighs, and he let his hand curl around Ian’s cock in a rough grip. Ian’s breathing stuttered, and his hips lifted from the bed.

  Robert licked his lips and then took Ian in his mouth, hand still gripping the base. There was a salty trace of moisture at the tip, which Robert swiped away with his tongue. He licked his way around Ian’s cock, learning the shape of it, the taste, enjoying the slight muskiness as he breathed in, and the faint, faint taste of salt. He tried to take him deep, tried to take his entire thick cock into his mouth, but it ended up messy—he pulled back, wiping a trail of saliva from his lips.

  As he sat back, he stared down at Ian, whose face and chest were flushed, his eyes heavy-lidded. Robert wanted to watch him. He wanted to see him come apart.

  He went to his desk and fetched a small glass jar from one of the drawers. When he returned, Ian was sitting up, and he had to push him back down again.

  “What are ye doing?” Ian asked, sounding a little out of breath.

  “I’m taking care of you, like I promised.” He opened the jar and dipped his fingers into oil. He let his slick fingers drift teasingly along the underside of Ian’s cock. “I want to touch you everywhere.”

  “Then do it,” Ian rasped, straining toward him.

  Robert gripped him fully, hand pumping up and down slowly, wetly, firmly. He could see every play of emotion over Ian’s face, every ounce of desire, and then he turned his head, into the pillow, away from Robert. Hiding from him.

  That wouldn’t do. That simply wouldn’t do, at all.

  “Look at me,” Robert said. He barely recognized his own voice, hoarse and gravelly as it was.

  Ian shuddered, hips jerking, and Robert realized it was in response to his voice. Desire surged through him, hot and heavy.

  “Ian. Look at me.”

  Ian looked at him, his eyes wide and dark, face flushed.

  Robert switched to his left hand, using his other to cup the warm, damp weight of Ian’s bollocks. He urged Ian’s thighs farther apart with his knee and then let his right hand drift lower, to the swell of his arse, running his finger along the seam.

  “I’ll make it good for you,” he murmured. He licked Ian’s thigh as he pressed in, tracing the tight bud with his fingertip.

  As he explored, as his left hand continued to pump steadily along Ian’s cock, he watched his face, made note of every shift in expression. Gently he pushed in and was met by a slight resistance before his finger was taken in a tight grip.

  Ian sucked in a noisy breath.

  “You like that, don’t you?” Robert murmured. He knew how Ian responded to his voice—and he wasn’t above doing his best to drive him to distraction.

  Ian hissed through gritted teeth. He thrust into Robert’s fist, and the only sound in the room was their heavy panting and the wet sound of Ian’s oiled cock sliding against Robert’s palm.

  “Do you want more?”

  “Aye,” Ian breathed.

  A second finger joined the first, knuckle deep, and Ian took them both, bearing down hard.

  Robert had never been so aroused in his life. His stiff cock was straining against the fabric of his breeches, and he felt like he might come just from that slight contact. But mostly he was focused on watching Ian, on every little sound and motion, on the way he felt.

  He was beautiful, Robert thought. Good God, he was beautiful. His body was quivering, his chest splotched and red, his mouth open and his gray eyes wild and a little dazed as they latched onto Robert’s. He’d never seen the composed man so undone, had never thought it was possible that Ian could be this undone, and a fierce, primal satisfaction filled his heart.

  This was what he wanted, always—Ian falling apart at his touch. Ian, shivering with desire. Ian, his.

  The other man didn’t look away. It was almost as though he couldn’t. And Robert knew nothing short of the world ending could tear his gaze away, either. Maybe not even that.

  Maybe he would just keep going as the castle fell down around them. It wouldn’t be a bad way to meet the end of the world.

  He matched the rhythm of his fist to the rhythm of his fingers. One of his fingers brushed something, an accidental caress, and the reaction was instantaneous. Ian’s back bowed, hands clutching the sheets at
his side.

  He was close, his body straining, his hips erratic.

  “Again?” Robert asked.

  Ian was beyond words; he simply nodded.

  Robert leaned closer, a hitch in his chest. That drive took hold of him again, sharper than before, almost overwhelming in its intensity. To see Ian helpless, mindless with need, to have his complete surrender. When Ian found his release, Robert wanted his name on his lips, every memory of every other lover vanished like air.

  “Ask me nicely.”

  Ian looked like if he wasn’t supine on a bed, he might have been tempted to strangle Robert. When he didn’t respond, Robert shook his head, let his fingers relax and his fist uncurl. He stroked Ian’s length idly, with only the tip of his thumb.

  “So, so difficult,” Robert murmured. He closed his fist, one hard stroke—Ian’s hips jerked off the bed to thrust more fully into him—and then he let go.

  Ian fell back with a harsh breath.

  “You can end this whenever you’d like,” he pointed out.

  “You—” Ian broke off when Robert curled his fingers slightly, brushing once more whatever had caused his strong reaction.

  “No?” Robert asked regretfully, letting his fingers go limp.

  “Robert.”

  He liked that. Ian saying his name. The tremble in his voice. He took Ian’s cock in a firm grip but refused to move.

  “Robert, what?”

  He bucked against him. “Please.”

  When Robert curled his fingers inside Ian and let his fist slide along Ian’s full length, Ian made a broken noise, half gasp, half sob, and stiffened, cock twitching as he erupted.

  White spooled across Robert’s fist as Ian’s length pulsed in his hand. He felt the tightening around his fingers, too, a rhythmic clenching and unclenching. Their eyes met, and slowly, Robert raised his fist to his mouth and licked Ian’s come.

  Subtle. A hint of salt and sweet and musk.

  Ian groaned, flopping back onto the bed as though he didn’t have the strength to hold himself up.

  Robert withdrew and stared down at the other man, naked and sprawled lifelessly against rumpled sheets except for the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. His face was flushed and damp, his eyes half closed.