In the Company of Men Boxed Set

by Lynn Lorenz

  Gareth had never pitied Arvel. He’d seen the incredible beauty of the young man just barely out of his youth, and latched on to it as a babe clings onto its mother’s breast.

  He knew what good fortune looked like, and that day it had looked like a slender, young redheaded man lying in the dirt in the village square, being pummeled by mud, muck, and stones.

  Arvel ran his hand over Gareth’s thigh, the pressure turning hard and insistent, pulling Gareth from his thoughts. Arvel’s reach grew nearer and nearer his crotch, where Gareth’s once flaccid member now strained to be free.

  With deft and eager fingers, Arvel loosened the strings of Gareth’s breeches, splaying back the opening. He leaned forward and licked a line up the underside of Gareth’s cock, igniting a wave of pleasure. Gareth groaned and leaned back in the chair, spreading his legs wider. Arvel moved closer as he worked the shaft with his clever tongue.

  Arvel looked up at him, smiled, and then swallowed the head, sucking on it until Gareth could barely stay still or keep his moans inside.

  “Aye, my pet, that’s it. Take me.” His grip tightened in Arvel’s tresses as he pushed him farther down his cock. And his lover responded by taking him deeper into his throat.

  Now he watched as Arvel bobbed up and down like a cork on the end of a fishing string, taking Gareth to the heights of pleasure and ecstasy. No one had ever pleased him as Arvel did—no one had ever loved him so completely. And for that, he would give Arvel anything he wanted, even another man.

  Peter. With the dark eyes and hair. He understood Arvel’s interest, and the more time he spent in Peter’s presence, the more his own interest in the man grew. What mission drew him here to the lodge? Gareth knew, despite Peter’s tale about hunting for the duke, if the duke wanted to hunt, he’d be here himself.

  As if Arvel knew his mind wandered, he cupped Gareth’s stones and rolled them in his hand, bringing Gareth back to the present and his focus on the man kneeling between his legs.

  Gareth closed his eyes and let Arvel’s mouth work his rod, his tongue tickle and tease, the hard sucking bringing him closer to his release. The working of his sac with feather light touches, building his arousal.

  What if it were Peter on his knees, taking Gareth’s cock in his mouth?

  He groaned. Oh aye, that would be fine. And despite Peter’s obvious reluctance, Gareth would have him. Gareth’s stones pulled tighter at the thought, giving him warning his release would come far too soon.

  “Peter,” he whispered as he rose off the chair, hips thrusting into that warm, sweet mouth, dark eyes staring up at him, his hands wrapped in Peter’s dark hair.

  Gareth’s release over took him, and he shouted as his cream pumped in hard spurts down the waiting throat. He gave a final sigh, opened his eyes, and stared into the face of the man who wasn’t Peter.

  Sweet Arvel, his pet, licked him clean, tucked him back in his breeches, and tied his strings. Gareth nearly choked on the guilt that rose in his throat.

  Good God, he’d come thinking of Peter, not Arvel, and it had been so good.

  Now Arvel slid onto his lap and gave him a kiss. Gareth tasted his own seed mixed with his lover’s flavor.

  Arvel leaned back and put his hand on Gareth’s heart. Gareth drew him close and deepened the kiss. When they broke apart, Arvel stood and moved to the table to prepare their meal.

  Gareth slumped back, closed his eyes, and wondered if Arvel had known, could tell, that he’d been thinking of Peter.

  ∙•∙

  Arvel smiled. His plan was working. Gareth had returned from the stable with Peter’s scent all over him. They’d had some encounter, but it hadn’t ended in either man’s release, that much he knew by the lack of the heady scent of cream.

  But his Heart had sat on the chair by the fire, his hand rubbing the thickening of his member, and Arvel hadn’t missed that.

  What state had Peter been left in? Hard and wanting, if Arvel knew his Gareth.

  Each step, each moment the men spent together, building their desire for each other, would lead to what Arvel had wanted—Peter, Gareth, and himself sharing one another completely.

  ∙•∙

  When Peter returned, he found Arvel at work on preparing their evening meal, and Gareth had pulled off his boots, stretching his bare feet toward the fire. Good idea. Peter went to the chair, sat, and toed off his own boots.

  He sat back with a sigh, sinking into the cushions of the chair.

  “I’ve been thinking, Gareth.”

  “Dangerous, that.”

  “Aye, but this is about Arvel.”

  “Oh?”

  “There is enough time before I leave to build a coop. Do you think Arvel would tend chickens?”

  “Leave?” Gareth leaned forward, brows furrowed, then cleared his throat. “Chickens? Good thinking. He’d have eggs and meat.”

  “In time, I must return to Marden. We could get a small garden going. Just a few rows for him to work should be enough. He wouldn’t have to go into the village so often when you’re gone.”

  Gareth rubbed his chin. “Good ideas.”

  “Can you ask him?”

  “Aye.”

  Peter nodded and stared into the fire. Arvel cooked, moving back and forth between the hearth and the table. Gareth frowned.

  “I suppose you’ll be leaving once you’ve finished your…hunting, is it?”

  “Aye.”

  “And do you know when that will be? I’ve yet to see any of this game the duke has sent you for.”

  “Perhaps I’ll find my quarry soon. Perhaps more time will be needed.” He shrugged. “But I will have to go out again on the morrow. I may be gone a day or two.”

  “On the same road I met you on?”

  “Possibly.” Peter didn’t want to give the man too much information. Logan had told him to keep his secret, and he meant to keep his promise to do so.

  Gareth chuckled. “Then if you are to leave, we shouldn’t waste much time tonight lingering over our meal.”

  Peter turned from the fire and met Gareth’s gaze. At the look, Peter’s body burned, and his stomach fluttered with yearning and anticipation. Instead of dreading it, tonight Peter couldn’t get to their bed soon enough. Peter smiled, flicking his gaze to Arvel, then back to Gareth.

  ∙•∙

  Arvel pretended not to notice the way his lovers teased each other.

  Perhaps tonight would be the night.

  His cock stiffened at the thought of both his men. Of Gareth taking Peter.

  That he would dearly love to watch, just as he watched them now, strutting before each other like two roosters.

  He hid the smile on his face as he turned back to his work.

  ∙•∙

  Gareth spread his legs wider, evidence of his growing arousal outlined in his leather breeches, and he leaned back against the chair, the very picture of assuredness and confidence.

  Peter almost reached out and touched his knee, but instead he held on tight to the arms of the chair, refusing to let Gareth have the victory. To his great relief, Arvel motioned them to the table to take the evening meal.

  They spoke of little until Gareth cleared his throat, touched Arvel on the shoulder, and got his attention.

  “Do you know about chickens?” Arvel focused on Gareth’s mouth forming the words he’d never hear. Arvel’s mouth turned down. Then he made a motion with his hands to repeat.

  “Chickens? Do you know about taking care of chickens?” Gareth spoke slower and clearer.

  Arvel nodded once.

  Gareth pointed to him. “Peter thought he might build you a coop, and you could raise some chickens. Would you like that?”

  Arvel broke into a wide grin, and nodding, looked at Peter. He reached out, took Peter’s arm, and gave it a squeeze.

  “I think he’s pleased,” Gareth said.

  “I’ll start the coop when I return.” Peter smiled at Arvel’s happy face.

  They ate their meal and spoke o
f starting the garden. Arvel seemed pleased about it, and Peter felt as if he’d done some good, giving Arvel these means of surviving.

  ∙•∙

  One look at Gareth’s face, and Arvel knew his lover hungered for him. Let him hunger. Arvel could tease Gareth just as much as Gareth teased Arvel. He’d taught him much this past year together.

  Arvel took his time cleaning up the plates and the stew pot, wiping down the table, drawing out going to their bed. With each new task his Heart grew more impatient.

  Arvel knew he could push only so far before Gareth would break and demand Arvel’s services. Then would come the hard loving Arvel desired, being taken again and again until his lover, completely spent, fell into a deep sleep.

  He picked up a boot and rubbed his cloth over the toe, to give it a proper shine, ignoring his lover’s growing aggravation.

  At last, Gareth roared, grabbed him, slung him over his shoulder, and carried him away. Arvel pretended he was upset as he beat on Gareth’s back and motioned back to the work he’d left undone.

  Peter followed, laughing at them both.

  When Gareth tossed him onto the bed, Arvel worked quickly to remove his clothing, and all traces of his Heart’s irritation had fled. Arvel’s heart soared, just as the falcon did, swooping and diving on the breeze.

  Peter and Gareth moved just as swiftly to divest themselves of clothing, both of them anxious to join him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Caelin stumbled past the stone marker. Marden? His father veered left at the crossroads, the opposite direction of their manor, and headed toward his liege lord’s village. Caelin hurried to catch up with his father’s mount.

  “Father? We go to Marden?” He panted as he held steady with the horse.

  His father made a face and nodded but refused to speak. Caelin ran through the possibilities for this change in their journey home. Not that he was looking forward to arriving or the beating his brother would give him, but what plan could his father have? Certainly, whatever it was, it would be to rid himself of Caelin.

  There was a church at Marden but no abbey, so it couldn’t be to place him again in a holy order. The village was large enough, so perhaps his father sought to find him employment.

  After all, he was a fair scriber.

  But they passed through the village and turned toward Marden Castle.

  Caelin looked up at the tall gray walls that rose in the near distance.

  The castle? What business could his father have there? It wasn’t the time to make his liege payment to the duke, and besides, his father had brought neither the coin nor the goods to pay his yearly debt.

  Well, if it meant halting this trek, getting off his sore feet and out of the hot cassock he wore, he welcomed the castle.

  Once they reached the gates, his father asked to enter and was allowed in. Caelin followed. By now, he was in complete disarray. The hem of his robe had been splattered and dragged through mud and muck, his hair had plastered to his head, and sweat burned in the wounds on his face. He could feel the caked blood on his chin and neck.

  An armsman led the way into the keep and announced them to the duke’s man.

  Before Caelin could catch his breath, they were brought in front of the duke as he sat by his hearth.

  Caelin’s father bowed, fell to his knee, and introduced himself but not Caelin.

  “What brings you to Marden, Lord Holdess? It’s been many months since you’ve graced our keep.” The duke smiled, eyes expectant and piercing.

  “I come on a matter most delicate, Your Grace.” His father turned slightly to acknowledge Caelin. “About my son.”

  The duke’s gaze fell on Caelin, and he couldn’t breathe. The duke was one of the most handsome men he’d ever seen. Long blond hair, green eyes, well-formed. And as he observed the duke, those green eyes narrowed, his mouth turned down, and a hard, cold look came over him.

  Caelin swallowed.

  Oh God, he knew. Somehow the duke knew. His father had brought him here to be thrown to the duke, to expose his sins and have him killed. The bones in Caelin’s legs turned to soft clay, and he staggered backward, throwing his arms up over his face to hide his shame.

  “What evil is this? Why is this man so marked?” The duke pushed out of his chair and strode toward Caelin.

  Caelin cast glances at his father, begging him wordlessly to help him. Not to do this. His shame was great, but did it warrant death?

  He fell to his knees and clasped his hands together and did the only thing he knew to do, and that was pray.

  “The priests at the abbey put him out, Your Grace.”

  “Did they do this?” The duke caught Caelin’s chin in his hand and pulled it up as he stared down at the wounds and his broken face.

  His father stuttered. “He’s not fit to serve God, Your Grace.”

  “Not fit? Is he a devil? Demon?” Duke Marden stared at Bryon Holdess and demanded an answer.

  “Nay, none of those. But he is a sinner, Your Grace.” His father’s voice went soft and quiet as if whispering the shame would make it better.

  “Sinner?” The duke studied Caelin’s face again. “What sin?”

  His father’s jaw worked as he waited for Caelin to speak the coarse truth.

  “Men,” Caelin whispered. “I…” He choked and let the tears he’d been holding back flow.

  “Leave him with me, then, Lord Holdess. I’ll see to him.” The duke dropped Caelin’s chin as if to touch it burned him, and he strode back to his chair.

  His father glanced at Caelin, then away. He bowed. “Thank you, Your Grace. May God bless you.”

  “And you, Lord Holdess.” The duke waved him off, and without a look back, Caelin’s father exited the hall, leaving Caelin behind to whatever fate the duke saw fit.

  He would be killed. Flung off the walls of the castle perhaps? His belly sliced open, his genitals cut away? Burned, even? All known punishments for a man lying with another man.

  Caelin mashed his eyelids together and continued to pray for his damned soul.

  A hand fell on his shoulder.

  “What is your name, young Holdess?” a soft, gentle voice asked.

  He opened his eyes, still praying, lips still forming the words, and looked up at his duke. Although he’d never sworn allegiance, he was bound to the duke through his father. If he had been a first son, he’d have given oath a few years ago, when his brother did.

  “Caelin,” he whispered.

  “Fear not, Caelin Holdess. You are safe here.” The duke smiled down at him.

  “Your Grace?” What could this mean? “Safe? But my father said… I told you… You said…” he sputtered into silence.

  “I know of the evil your father fears, and for my part, I do not count it so.” He shook his head and offered Caelin his hand. “Rise, Caelin. Come join me by the fire, and we shall speak.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.” Caelin gathered his robe up and stood to follow the duke. The duke pointed to a chair, and Caelin sat. Perhaps the duke didn’t fully understand his sin.

  “Now. What skills have you? Surely the holy fathers taught you something during your time there.” The duke wore an odd smile.

  “They taught me many things. I am a fair scrivener, Your Grace. The abbot said I had a steady and clear hand,” he mumbled without moving his lips. To speak too broad pulled at his wounds.

  “Good. And do you have knowledge of history?”

  “I do.” Caelin had no idea where these questions were leading and still couldn’t understand why he wasn’t being locked away in some tower or dungeon.

  “Well and good.” The duke nodded. “Then you shall stay here and teach my boys, Tomas and Joss. They have need of a tutor—too long have they run the castle in idle pursuits.”

  “Tutor?” Caelin sat back, blinking at the duke. Had he heard wrong?

  “Aye. For now. We’ll see what other services you can offer later, young Holdess.” The duke called for a servant.

  A
young woman came to them. “Aye, Your Grace.”

  “See to young Caelin. Have the healer look at those wounds, have him fed and given clean clothes, and prepare him a room.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.” She curtsied and jerked her head at Caelin to follow her.

  “Thank you, Duke Marden.” Caelin had better words right then, but they were from deep inside his heart. “Thank you.”

  The duke nodded, smiling, and waved them away with his hand.

  Stunned, Caelin trailed after the servant with only one or two looks over his shoulder at the duke, sitting in his chair, legs stretched to the fire, chin resting in his hand. The duke had surprised him, both in reaction and action. Why would the duke be so generous with him?

  Had his father been wrong? Could the duke see past the scars on his face and his broken nose? If he had, then he was a most remarkable man and one who fascinated Caelin deeply.

  »»•««

  Peter pulled Arvel to him, and his lover offered up his mouth to be kissed. Sweet, warm, and willing, Arvel opened to Peter and allowed him to sweep his tongue around. Their tongues touched and caressed. Then Arvel sucked Peter’s tongue hard, keeping it in his possession.

  On the other side of Arvel, Gareth caressed Arvel’s hip, his hand gliding over soft, pale skin, coming to rest on his slender, erect cock. Arvel groaned into Peter’s mouth as Gareth stroked him and Peter deepened his kiss.

  Gareth wrapped his arm around Arvel and pulled him tight to his chest, bringing Peter with him as they kissed. His cock lodged in Arvel’s valley, his hand worked Arvel’s rod, and he had a perfect view of Peter and Arvel kissing.

  God, Arvel was beautiful. Was this what he looked like when Gareth kissed him? Is this what Peter would look like? Gareth thrust slow and steady against Arvel’s ass, rubbing his cock up and down the silky cleft.

  Arvel moaned, broke the kiss, and turned his head to offer his mouth to Gareth.

  Peter leaned back, giving Gareth room, and Gareth took his advantage, plunging his tongue into Arvel’s mouth to claim his lover. He kept pumping Arvel’s rod, loving the feel of smooth, hot skin in his hand.

  “Beautiful,” Peter whispered.