A Gentleman Never Keeps Score

by Cat Sebastian

  Sam laughed from deep in his belly, the sound surprising himself and causing a gentleman in a many-caped great coat to look at him twice.

  “Come this way,” Sedgwick said, indicating the mews behind his house.

  Sam didn’t speak until they were in the safety of darkness. “What I’m trying to say is that I’ve been kicking myself all week for not having taken you up on your offer.” He lowered his voice to almost a whisper. Sedgwick leaned in to hear, and Sam wondered if the man even knew he was doing it. “More than that. I think I would have liked whatever you had in mind.”

  Chapter Six

  Hartley’s mouth went dry. “I see,” he said slowly, frozen still. He could feel his watch ticking in his pocket, counting down the time he had left before Fox walked away. Much to his surprise, he found that he didn’t want Fox to walk away. He had gotten so used to avoiding people that it took him a moment to realize that he was actually pleased to see Fox. It had been presumptuous and preposterous for Fox to insist on walking him home, but Hartley’s first reaction upon seeing him had been unalloyed relief. Not only relief that it wasn’t some former acquaintance come to make trouble for him, but relief that he was seeing Fox again. After that debacle last week—which Hartley was quite certain was his own fault more than Fox’s—Hartley had wondered if Fox would ever turn up again. Perhaps he had come to his senses and decided that neither the painting nor Hartley were worth the risk.

  “It’s Sunday again,” Hartley said, about twice as loud and twice as fast as any normal person would have. But Fox only nodded as if this were a perfectly reasonable observation. “What I mean is that the house is empty.” Alf was out on the lash, so they’d have the house to themselves for an hour at least. “You could come in and share some dodgy pie with me,” he suggested, holding up his parcel, and then winced at his own attempt at comedy.

  But when Fox smiled it was the filthy grin of someone who was about to get something he very much wanted. Hartley’s chest tightened at the desire in Fox’s gaze. Other men’s desire had historically not worked out well for Hartley, and it was hard to look at Fox while remaining optimistic. But Hartley wanted Fox in return, wanted him enough that maybe it outweighed his trepidation. Fox was wearing buckskins tonight, and the fabric clung deliciously to his strong thighs. Even in the shadows Hartley could see that his jaw was dusted with stubble of the darkest black. Hartley wanted to run his fingers over the scratch of new beard and the softness of his lips.

  “I’ll pass on the pie,” Fox said. His voice was a soft rumble and Hartley knew that however the next hour went, his dreams would be infiltrated by that voice saying things utterly unrelated to pie.

  Hartley indicated the door with his chin and somehow they got inside without Hartley further making a fool of himself. His heart pounded madly in his chest. Whatever happened with Fox was likely to end with Hartley uncomfortable and Fox disappointed. But his prick had decided opinions and was not capable of learning from past mistakes, so he abandoned the pie in the kitchen and led the way to the library.

  Once the door was shut and bolted behind them, Hartley knew a moment of raw panic and darted across the room, only stopping when he reached the window.

  Fox cleared his throat. “I’m going to speak baldly. How do you usually fuck if you don’t like being touched?” There was no judgment in Fox’s voice, just the recognition that most people found touching fairly goddamned fundamental when it came to fucking.

  But Hartley hadn’t quite figured out the answer. “Sometimes it almost works if only I do the touching.” It was never enough, never quite right; ultimately he had resigned himself to celibacy, figuring it was better than encounters that were alternately frustrating and terrifying.

  Besides, the sort of one-sided arrangement that almost worked for Hartley didn’t appeal to every man. Most men weren’t content being passive. Especially large, strong men like Fox, who likely were accustomed to certain things from a lover. Although, at the moment Fox—still at a safe distance, hands shoved in his pockets, brow creased with concern—didn’t look like he was harboring fantasies of roughly bending Hartley over the sofa. No, Hartley was the only one with fantasies of being bent over things, and he couldn’t even act on them.

  Fox was silent long enough that Hartley thought he was coming up with an excuse to leave. But then he cleared his throat, and when he spoke his voice was a bit rough. “Right then. You do the touching, eh? Let’s see what we can do.”

  “Really?” Hartley’s voice was nearly a squeak, damn it. He coughed. “I mean, good. Very well.”

  “How do you want me? Never done it without touching someone, so you’ll have to tell me what you like. Or need.”

  Hartley didn’t need anything. Well, what he needed was not to be crowded, not to be pawed at, not to have his own desire turned into a weapon against him.

  “Maybe if you could stand where I am? Against the window?” They still hadn’t touched, and it was strange but wonderful to be negotiating an encounter without there having been any touching yet. Words, Hartley could do. Words were safe. Touching was when things went awry. “And, um, let me suck you?” Fox’s eyes flared. Good. He moved to where Hartley had indicated, his back against the drawn curtains. Hartley stood before him, absent-mindedly smoothing the silk of his own waistcoat and fingering the row of brass buttons, one at a time, before he dared to touch Fox. First, he smoothed his hands down the coarse wool sleeves of Fox’s coat, stopping before the exposed skin of wrists and hands. Fox’s arms were huge, and maybe if Hartley were half right in his head he’d figure out a way to properly get a good look at them, but right now the layers of fabric between their bodies were reassuring.

  Hartley stood there a minute, appreciating the sight of Fox against the wine-colored curtain, enjoying the fact that Fox had a bulge in his breeches but wasn’t doing anything about it, instead waiting for Hartley to act. Hartley dropped to his knees and heard the air rush out of the other man’s lungs. That was good. He liked knowing that Fox wanted this, that he wasn’t just letting Hartley have his peculiar way with his body.

  He ran his hands up the sides of the man’s thighs, feeling the restrained strength beneath the rough buckskin. He took his time getting to the placket, both because he enjoyed exploring this man’s body with his fingertips and also because he wanted to draw this out. It had been a while since he had been with anyone, and in all likelihood it would be a while before he chose to do it again. Might as well make it last. He skimmed his hands over Fox’s hips and arse, only the most featherlight of touches. Fox’s hands were already gripping the curtains, large fingers twisted in the velvet.

  Leaning forward, Hartley pressed a kiss to the place where the buckskin strained at the placket of Fox’s breeches, just a small closed-mouth kiss, utterly chaste except for the location. He heard the man make a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a hiss, and under his lips the erection grew larger. Now he was running out of patience, so he worked open the buttons and shoved breeches and drawers down all at once. Fox’s cock sprang free, dark and heavy and gratifyingly in proportion to the rest of him. Hartley flicked his tongue across the head, and at the first taste of that salty bitterness, his own prick hardened in his breeches. There was so much more to these encounters than touch; there was that familiar taste and musky scent, there was the little gasp the other man made at the slow progress of Hartley’s tongue. When he glanced up at Fox, he saw that the other man was staring at him. He liked Fox’s gaze on him, could almost feel the heat of it.

  “It’s fine,” Fox said, sounding strangled. “I don’t have to be anywhere.”

  Hartley snorted with laughter, then glared up at Fox because snorting had not been part of his plan. To prevent any further levity, he closed his lips around the head of Fox’s cock and gave it a thorough suck, letting his tongue swirl languidly around the head. Fox made a sound at the back of his throat and his fingers twisted even more violently in the curtain. That velvet would be permanently crushed by th
e force of Fox’s grip, and that thought alone made Hartley’s prick twitch with interest. Fox’s body was taut with restraining himself, all because that was what Hartley wanted. He didn’t even know Hartley, didn’t have any reason to care what Hartley wanted or didn’t want. Who even was this man? Did he go door to door granting unusual sexual favors? Hartley might have smiled if his mouth wasn’t busy doing other things.

  After another suck, he pulled off and started kissing and licking his way down the shaft. He skimmed the sensitive underside with taunting flicks of his tongue, then traced the vein with tongue and lips. When he got to the root, he pressed his face into the wiry hair and breathed in the other man’s scent. His own cock was thoroughly hard now, and he wanted to reach down and adjust his trousers. Instead he wrapped one hand around the base of Fox’s erection and slowly started to slide it as far into his mouth as he could. God, he missed this, the taste of incipient climax, the feeling of fullness, of almost not being able to breathe, the sense of another man’s pleasure hinging entirely on his whim.

  “Christ, you’re good,” Fox groaned. “Hell.”

  Hartley gave a little hum to let Fox know his words weren’t unappreciated, and really he could feel free to keep talking like that and then some. Maybe Fox took the hint, because he kept up a stream of murmured praise. “Just like that. So good.” And then his words became a more urgent. “God help me. Your mouth is—I need to—I don’t know—” His hands were fisted in the curtains, his body taut with stillness.

  If Hartley took himself in hand, he’d last three strokes, maybe four. He wouldn’t do it, though. For now he needed to store up as much of this as possible, to memorize every detail of this encounter. Hoping he still remembered the trick, he swallowed the shaft as best he could. And, success; Fox let out a muffled oath. Hartley could do this for a good while but decided to take pity on the man. He took the two globes of the man’s arse in his hands and tugged him forward, then released. He did it again, building into a rhythm that he set himself. Fox wasn’t moving so much as letting Hartley move him. A few more strokes, a swirl of his tongue, a muttered warning from Fox, then the burst of climax. Hartley lingered a moment, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  This was the awkward part. Well, there were a lot of awkward parts, but this was the worst of the lot. Now they would both be wanting to get away from one another, but it was dashed odd to slap your hat back on your head and take off into the night after having your cock sucked. Hartley quite felt bad for Fox for having to manage it.

  Then Fox slid to the ground where Hartley still knelt. “Bugger,” he said, and Hartley gathered it was meant to be a compliment. “Didn’t think I’d manage to come for a while there. Making myself hold still . . .” He shook his head and made a sound of appreciation.

  “You managed,” Hartley said, primly adjusting his cravat. His voice was hoarse and he was glad of it.

  “You’re still . . .” Fox gestured at the visible erection in Hartley’s trousers.

  “Yes, well. I imagine I will be for a while.”

  Fox tucked himself back into his buckskins. “Anything I can do?”

  “It’s a hard prick, not a fatal condition,” Hartley snapped. “It’ll keep.”

  “Oh well, as long as you don’t actually die, then, I guess it’s nothing to worry about.”

  Hartley huffed out a laugh despite himself. “I’ll deal with it later. Did you really think you weren’t going to be able to come?” he asked with no small interest. Hartley wanted to hear more about that, knowing he’d think about it when he took himself in hand later that night, in the safety and solitude of his small bedchamber.

  “Damned hard when you can’t move.”

  “I never said you couldn’t move.”

  “You didn’t say I could. And I didn’t think you’d like it if I did. Was I right?”

  Hartley thought. “Yes,” he admitted. He had felt safe with Fox, but he had felt other things too. Things he’d be remembering alone, with his hand wrapped around his frustrated erection. For now, it was time for Fox to go home and leave Hartley to his empty house and turgid prick. He was still kneeling, but sitting back on his heels. Fox had landed in a sitting position, with his knees tucked up in front of him. It felt oddly companionable. Hartley didn’t like it. “Well, Mr. Fox, I thank you—”

  “No. After that—” he gestured in the vicinity of his breeches “—you’re going to turn around and call me Mr. Fox? Everyone other than the excise man calls me Sam.”

  Hartley felt his face heat. Looking away from Fox, he brushed some dust off the knees of his trousers.

  “Unless you want me to call you Mr. Sedgwick,” Fox said, letting his words linger on the air.

  That sounded all wrong. “No, please call me Hartley. Sam,” he added.

  “Right then. When am I calling you Hartley?”

  “Pardon?” Hartley tilted his head in confusion.

  “When am I going to see you again? It isn’t a come on, I just like to know things in advance. If you tell me to bugger off, that’s what I’ll do, no hard feelings. But you’re helping me with Kate’s picture. Maybe you’ll think of something I can do to help that won’t risk my neck.”

  That was the first time Hartley had heard the name of Sam’s friend and it kicked up some dust around an old memory that still remained just out of reach. “Come back next week. My house is always empty Sunday after midday.” It was pretty empty most hours of most days, to be fair. “We won’t be interrupted,” he added, in case Sam thought they were only going to spend the afternoon planning a burglary instead of pursuing better uses of their time.

  They got to their feet and Hartley absently led the way toward the front door. It was nearest, and it was the door he habitually used, so it was only natural.

  He froze, his hand on the door pull. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I forgot myself. I’ll bring you to the kitchen. Much safer that way.” Hartley had no reputation to speak of, but Sam kept a tavern and might be recognized for that reason as well as his dark skin. Sam’s reputation wasn’t Hartley’s to throw away, which could very well happen to any man seen coming and going from Hartley’s house.

  But when he looked at Sam, he saw confusion on his face, followed by a blank coldness. After the pleasure, closeness, and sheer bloody relief of the last hour, Sam’s stony expression was a bracing shock. Hartley didn’t understand, perhaps because he was so carried away by the novelty of having forgotten himself for a time. All he could be sure of was that this encounter, like so many others before it, had ended badly.

  Sam was no stranger to men who looked to him for an anonymous fuck, something rough to go along with his size and his looks. They wanted to be shoved up against a wall and used, and then afterward they left without more than a few embarrassed words. That wasn’t Sam’s ideal way to get off, but it was fine. Or at least he was used to it, and sometimes he thought being accustomed to something was maybe the same thing as accepting it.

  That’s not what he had expected from Hartley. Hartley hadn’t wanted Sam to use him, hadn’t assumed that Sam wanted to hand out a brutal fucking. They had talked and then Sam had damned near lost his fucking mind trying not to shove his prick down Hartley’s throat. At one point he thought he might pass out or start whimpering if he didn’t come, and he thought Hartley liked that. God knew Sam had.

  Once, at a time when Sam had less concern for law and order than he did presently, he had met a man in an alley behind the Cross Keys. When they went back to the man’s lodgings, the fellow had wanted Sam to tie him up. Sam had obliged, mostly because it wasn’t any skin off his back if a bloke wanted his hands bound while he was rogered, but he couldn’t say the practice had done anything special for him. Now he thought he understood what it did for that other fellow, though. The inability to move, the physical helplessness—it had scratched an itch Sam hadn’t known he had. Sam didn’t think he’d go in for actually having his hands bound. But knowing that he wasn’t supposed to move was even
more of a restraint than any ropes could ever be.

  He had lived his life entirely aware of his strength and power. Hell, he had never been allowed to forget. Not in the ring, not when people crossed the street in alarm upon seeing him, certainly not in his brief encounters with men. He hadn’t ever thought his strength was something that he wanted to put away temporarily, to escape from. But now he craved another chance to do exactly that.

  He had seen Hartley’s face after their encounter. He had been as taken by surprise as Sam had by the force of whatever it was that sparked between them. “A lid for every pot,” his mum had often said, usually when referring to some slightly odd cousin who had finally settled down. Sam had always dismissed this saying as one that could never apply to him: what business did a man like him have looking for matches? Sitting on the floor with Hartley, though, he had wondered if that was what his mother had meant.

  It wasn’t Sam’s usual encounter, and he was annoyed that it had ended the usual way. As if he even wanted to go out Hartley Sedgwick’s precious front door. It would serve the fellow right if Sam never darkened his doorway again. The only problem with that plan was that Sam already knew he wanted to see Hartley again. And that just made him more irritated with himself. Because who was Hartley to him, anyway? A fellow who didn’t have the sense God gave a duck, walking through bad streets with gold chains hanging out, and all to get a slice of dodgy pie. “Pitiful,” he said aloud, and didn’t know whether he meant himself or Hartley.

  “It’s anybody’s guess which of you is more cross,” Nick said, dropping a tray of empty mugs on the bar.

  “I’m not cross.” Kate yawned. “You’re cross,” she said, perched on a stool. Sam worried she would fall asleep and topple off the thing.

  “I’m not cross, just busy, mate,” Sam told his brother. He hadn’t meant to snap, but he was pretty sure that’s how it had come out. Besides, he wasn’t cross so much as thoughtful, and even if his thoughts happened to stray toward everything in the world that annoyed him, that didn’t mean he was cross, he was quite certain.