by Cooper, R.
“Why do you mean Etienne harm? He has done nothing to you. It is not the money.” He asked it in a high, impassioned voice, though somehow could not believe that it was truly about gold, not when Villon risked losing that in his quest for… What he desired with Etienne Saint-Cyr, James could not say. The sons of noblemen sometimes dueled over matters of honour, matters that those with more important troubles dismissed as nothing, yet for all his airs, René was no nobleman.
René’s tongue clucked loudly against the roof of his mouth, and he made a displeased face. His look chastised James for speaking so directly, and James could not help but gape, thinking of René’s own bluntness when it came to matters of carnality.
“We value gold,” René slowly pronounced at last, dropping his lashes and then lifting them slowly to reveal eyes that glittered like the jewels in his earbob. James blinked at the lights, angling his head back without standing up or leaning away. He recognized his own words from the disastrous supper, and then René was shaking his head violently, biting out his words. “I never said I would harm your…Etienne.” He struck one hand hard against the top of the desk, and the force reverberating up James’ arms.
“You want to,” James countered firmly, refusing to pull away even when René slammed his other hand down and leaned in furiously, though his stomach twisted, nervous pains spiking through him. “I kn…know you do. It is wrong, René.”
“What do you know, James?” Villon spat out his name, and hot breath spilled over his face. “You knownothing.” René spat that too, drawing so near that the breath caressing James’ face was wet like the very Indies air. He inhaled, and tasted spices on his tongue. Anise and vanilla, like in candies. He wondered dizzily if René would taste of marchipan sweets, but collected himself at Villon’s next words. “You are an innocent who should have been a priest. You will not preach to me!”
“Why?” James spoke roughly, somehow hurt by the remark, and saw the angry crease in René’s forehead, and the trembling in his arms, though his sword still remained untouched. He had to swallow down the lump in his throat despite the dryness, and then swipe his tongue across his lips. “Because I place worth on a man’s life? Because I try to help my friends?”
If René had been frowning before, he looked ready to soak the sands of Jamaica with blood now; the cold determination that had preceded Carter’s death was nothing to fire bursting from his eyes that seemed to scorch the skin of James’ face. Involuntarily, James tried to step back, but his hands slipped on the papers until one brushed René’s fingers. It burned like with fever, and René tried to pull his hand away.
James clamped down on the smaller hand without thinking, much as he might have done with the quickly disappearing hand of a pickpocket. “Should I spare him as you spared Deniau?” René sneered, the muscles in his hand twitching under James’ touch. James knew he flinched at the name, just to recall the rage that had momentarily sung through his veins. But he would not allow his eyes to leave René’s, letting the silence drain them both. The whole room around them seemed to shake, and James felt his body wanting to collapse with the strain. “That cost me, James.”
“It cost me too,” James confessed urgently; it had cost him as it was costing him now. But then Villon had known that when James had swooned afterwards. His mind had been sick with too many passions that night, but he remembered that, being ordered to bed like a weak child. It was as clear in his brain as holding out the blade and thinking about killing Deniau. They should never have happened, Cavendish’s murder and James’ attempt at justice, and yet René had allowed both to occur. Justice…murder…both words teased, mocking him with the idea that blood could wash away blood when it couldn’t even wash the stain from a man’s soul.
He did not think there was anything worth such a price. Letting out one deep breath did not help him with any answers, and he reached out, surprised to realize that he still held Villon’s hand, that he held it against the palm of his hand, and stroked it slowly, softly. Dark eyes were locked on his face, waiting, and James searched through his rambling thoughts for anything to say. He found himself whispering when he did speak, watching how his breath disturbed the hair framing the handsome face before him.
“A sin, René.” He dared to say the name once more but other than the scented, warm breath tingling through his nostrils, there was no reaction from Villon. His heart was so loud in his ears, mayhap René had spoken and James had not heard. But his eyes were raw from how he had not blinked, and René’s white face was only a finger’s length from his own.
“I will tell him,” James promised rashly, anything to prevent this, to take away the dread that had him suddenly so agitated. For a moment he thought René was still unmoved, and the other man ground out a rough curse to one of his Roman saints.
“Why have you not already?” Villon asked him seriously, panting as though he had run here from the harbor. It was an impossible question to answer, a hundred different lies filling James’ mouth though he held them in. Most had the familiarity of his thoughts these past few nights, doubts and suspicions that had remained unvoiced despite his fears.
“I do not wish to see you die, Villon.” James let this explanation fall onto the pile of papers between them, one of the few truths he admitted to. Cowardly it was, but the weakness of his mind seemed to want to possess his body as well, and he had the terrifying thought that if he did he would be left with naught but his soul, and his hold on that was slippery, as though coated with the same sweat that dotted his palms.
“To you, I will be like Deniau, if I do this, what you imagine?” There was a challenge in the tilt to Villon’s chin, up and to the side as though both angered and thoughtful. “Only that?” With his soft little sigh he seemed to be the same languid man who had lounged on the deck and sucked thirstily on the neck of a wine bottle. Mayhap he was; for it was that same man who had reared up at the first hint of defiance, striking down James’ arguments with a recklessness for his own body and soul that had had James staggering. “I will do as I please!” René reminded him in the next moment, yanking his hand free at last, only to place it on top of James’. He leaned in, and his waist pushed against the desk.
“And what of what pleases me?” James could not help but ask it, though it was the height of folly even if he spoke so gently that René’s hair did not stir. Heat fanned across René’s high cheekbones, accentuating the bejeweled features of his face, making him seem a collection of gleaming dark stones. He parted his rosy lips, revealing his pink tongue, and then James was groaning and shoving against the desk in complete surprise at the feel of that tongue sliding along his jaw.
Embarrassment at the short, startled laugh from Ben that recalled the boy to James’ mind had him pulling away, his own foolishness, and the sudden awareness of his own desperate state of arousal bringing a conflagration to his cheeks. Throbbing against the hard wood he was, so hard himself that he feared turning around to face Ben. He focused angrily on the cause of his arousal instead, but finding not the slightest traces of amusement in René’s expression.
His lips were still parted, and oddly stung and swollen now, as though he had been kissed, or bitten them as James was wont to do. They shined from where he had licked them with that same torturous tongue, and seemed to try to form words though René said naught.
The grip on his hand was deathly tight, fingers pressed to his wrist to feel how quickly René had made his blood pound with only a tiny caress, but when James allowed his gaze to fall to it, he saw only the tense, slender body, arched into the desk as if René would have it gone, and James in its place.
The idea was enough to have James twitching, his cock rubbing the inside of his breeches, and through that the unbending wood, making him gasp. His vision became fogged, his mind dizzy. He needed the desk to stand upright.
“Ben.” Even that took effort, and he had to speak in English. He could not turn his head to look, and René’s eyes said that he would not allow it in any case.
Nonetheless he sensed Ben’s excited jump to attention, and had the feeling that Ben had not taken his eyes from the scene they must have made, not once. “Go out there, see if the contract was left with one of them.” The fingers at his wrist clutched him with a new strength, surely stopping the flow of blood, and James closed his eyes when the ache in his lap only intensified, pulsing so heavily that he had to fight the need to push his body against anything. “Cl…” The shame of what he was to say, of what others and no doubt René as well would think had him stammering. “Close the door behind you.”
It was mad. The utmost of foolishness to say this, to try to argue with a man who flies the sign of the Devil himself, to ask to be alone with him. But Ben said nothing, and when the sound came of the door opening and closing again, he reopened his eyes.
Villon’s eyes were wide, but clearer than James feared his own were, dark with an amusement that would have made James blush with anger had not his face already been heated. The other man leaned in to close the distance that James had created, pausing abruptly without yet touching him, though James had not moved.
“Saint-Cyr’s life is mine.” René tossed it like a rich man might discard a glove, and James was amazed at the emotion there, the certainty in the low voice. There was no doubt that René meant it, that it was more important to him than anything, that even the clouds of lust could not push it from his mind. What under Heaven could have been the crime to warrant such a sentence?
“But you do not have to take it.” He knew there was no use in disputing René’s arrogance, though it made his lip tremble to say only that, until he held it firmly between his teeth. When this earned him no more response than a startled blink, he shuddered, wondering if it were useless to be attempting this.
This was René Villon, the corsaire, standing there before him in the very coat he had stolen from James’ murdered master, and though the man was no devil, he seemed to crave the soul of one. James flinched to recall how Villon had stood there, watching him leave and row away into Tortuga, letting the wind tear through his hair until it had left red lash lines across his face, all without ever seeming to feel the pain of it.
He shook his head with sudden force and pushed off from the desk, straightening for the first time in a long while. René stayed where he had left him, body taut and motionless as James rubbed absently at his wrist. James eyed him warily, but he did not seem inclined to move, and they stared at each other, listening for any sounds approaching the door.
There was a high-pitched, eager voice, Ben talking to Goodwin likely, but James felt his shoulders hitch regardless, and saw from René’s slow, almost imperceptible nod that he had seen the gesture.
“There are worse things than death,” he commented in a much less harsh voice, almost thoughtful in fact. His eyes dipped to the desk for the first time in many long moments, and then he glanced back up, looking as though nothing of any strangeness had just come from his red lips. “But what will happen, will happen.”
“Aye,” James agreed, for it was the truth and there was no denying that. That it was the truth did not keep the icy unease from knotting his belly, nor his teeth from sinking into his lip. Villon did not add to his words, and James heard them again in his mind, noting that though the fury in René’s voice had faded, his arrogant manner had not. The man had no more to say, but had given him those words. As a threat or a concession, he could not determine.
“That is Fate, René. Faith,” he blurted in astonishment, his tongue running away with him as René’s final words sounded in his ears. He could not keep the pride from the words, though he tried, watching in dismay and no little fear as René came away from the desk and strode furiously around toward him. Clenching his hands into balls at his sides gave him only a modicum of strength, and he forgot himself for a moment, falling back before the power of the smaller man’s passion. He found his spine a moment later and stood still, though it was too late, for Villon was upon him. “I do not want anybody to be hurt, René,” he fired out hurriedly, though it made no difference. The other man just grabbed his veste before he had even fully stopped walking and raised it up so that he could slide his hands underneath the fabric.
They clenched for one small moment against the old, thin linen of James’ shirt as René’s eyes flew up to meet his, and then they flattened out to spread all over his chest, moving everywhere at once as though René was blind and needed his fingers to see.
James’ jaw snapped shut so hard it hurt, and he jerked forward, nearly falling against those hands. He should have toppled, with only René’s hands to support his greater weight, but René had stepped closer, and suddenly they were pressed tightly together, with Villon’s arms trapped between them.
He did not have to tilt his head down to see the absolute shock of it on René’s face, the utter stillness in his features that belied the heart, powerful and demanding, against his chest. The other man’s eyes were very large, very dark, nearly swallowing James up before James could recall himself, recall that even this was just another way for Villon to distract and deny him.
“I will not allow it,” he whispered roughly, startling them both no doubt with the clarity and strength in the words. Villon’s eyelids fluttered, his cheeks filling with colour, and then he dropped his head out of James’ vision. His face lay against James’ chest, up against the outline of his own wandering hands and he sighed heavily, warming James’ skin through the many layers. The muscles under those hands jumped, and René seemed to feel it, raking soft patterns with his fingernails that only got harder when James tried without success to control his slight shifts, only moving himself further into Villon’s wicked punishments.
“René,” he gasped it, and René opened his mouth to bite him, the effect only slightly lessened by the thick, stinging fabric. But the knowledge of what the man had intended was more than enough to have him unbearably aroused, frustrated with his own clothing that kept him from the pleasure of René’s teeth. James threw back his head and let his arms come up, settling his hands on Villon’s hips to hold him.
“I do not want you to talk anymore,” René warned him in French, and bit down again, even going so far as to poke his tongue against the offending cloth, as if he relished each stirring of James’ cock against his middle at the thought of his agile mouth.
René himself was firm, hot muscle, and yet softer than the wooden desk, just as James had imagined and remembered him, and James pushed against him, tightening his grip on the slender bones beneath his hands. A startled groan sounded against his chest, and James was most pleased to hear it, stroking René’s hips as one might soothe a wild beast even as he thrust against his stomach, seeking his ease. He could feel how René desired his release too, the burning of his prick against his thigh and the wonder of his hands on his chest even though their flesh had not yet met.
Urgently, knowing that little time likely remained, James lowered his hand, searching blindly for the spot of greatest heat, and then finding it with an exclamation of excitement. That was nothing to the astounded, almost fearful shout from René, as James curled his fingers over the familiar length of his cock. But René had no reason to fear him, and so James must have been wrong.
The other man fell back a step, and James followed, had to follow, still held by René’s hands. One more step and the desk would be behind them; it was enough to make him tingle and itch on every inch of his skin, and beneath his flesh as well. Rolling his shoulders restlessly did not dispel the need to scratch, and he shifted without thinking, opening his legs to nearly surround Villon’s body.
Fingers twitched against his shirt, finding and scratching his peaked nipples as René lifted his head, panting so heavily they must surely hear it outside. His lips moved, again forming words that would not come, and James nearly smiled through his own raging ache, cupping René’s manhood and pressing on the shaft, squeezing it curiously.
“James!” A strangled gasp accompanying wide, over-bright eyes, and then there was th
e creak of the rotting door as it opened
“I have it,” Ben said loudly as René jumped away, and James pulled his hands close to his chest. The tingling in his palm was like the sting of warmth in his cheeks to be so interrupted and discovered once again, though at least he was not naked this time. He heard the door close quickly, and was grateful for that, though he could not quite bring himself to turn, not with his breeches tight and unforgiving against his screaming cock, and a breathless René Villon in front of him.
Only a moment or two longer, he could not help but think with a rush of resentment, a moment or two and then his ache would have been ended. “He interrupts again!” René was barking at him in French, tight-lipped and white in the face. He had continued his backward path, the desk at his back as though mocking James for his wantonness. “…Does not have the manners to look away,” he complained in a snarl, gesturing violently at Ben and seeming to ignore the raised area of his own, looser breeches.
James glanced down to it and then away, embarrassed now though still randy and befogged enough to long to look again. He closed his fingers over his palm, still warm with the imprint of the man’s shaft.
“He…” He caught his breath and swallowed, prepared to try to speak again knowing it would displease René, though also knowing that Villon was right, and he would need to speak to the boy if he could ever find the courage to talk so boldly to a child. “You seem to share his lack of manners,” he criticized, daring Villon to deny it. And from the way in which the man lifted his thin eyebrows haughtily, it was clear that he did. James could imagine René Villon being as outspoken and shameless a boy as Ben was now. “Can you blame him for staring?” James’ lips formed a line, knowing only too well how shameful they both must appear, being so carried away by lust they could not spend mere moments alone with jumping on each other like dogs in heat.
