Albert. Albert was here.
“Paint?” Clary asked as she cinched his silk banyan and Marie applied the iron to his hair.
Michael tried to shake his head, then shouted as his ear was singed. “No.” He rubbed at the tender flesh. “No paint. And no more curls. I’ll finish myself.”
“Rodger said we was to help you,” Clary insisted.
“I say I can help myself,” Michael snapped, and he shooed them out.
They left, and he locked the door. After taking a moment to steady himself and still the last of his panic, Michael took a deep breath, exhaled and got to work.
He brushed his hair, removing the exaggerated curl and making sure his hair was as smooth and soft as possible, inviting touch. He applied no paint, but he did dust his cheeks with powder and darkened his brows just enough to highlight the contrast. He lingered over the oils, torn between floral scents and rosewood, which he favored. He went with rosewood in the end, telling himself it was still a plant, in a way.
When he was prepared, he put his spectacles back on, stood in front of the long mirror and regarded himself.
Sometimes he wished he knew what he looked like without the spectacles. Heaven knew he looked like an accountant with them, even naked. Then he looked like the devil’s accountant, which wasn’t alluring. Just strange.
His glasses were thick, ridiculously thick, because without them he was practically blind. He could make out things just in front of him, and technically he could read without aid, but only if he held the book four inches from his face. To go back and forth from his glasses to without often made his head hurt so badly it sent him to the icehouse, which was why, normally, he simply let the world beyond the tips of his fingers remain fuzzy and vague, navigating by broad shapes and an intricate study of hue and color. But in the past month he’d become accustomed to wearing his spectacles more often than not. To go without them for any length of time would promise quite a headache later. Obviously he would remove them before Albert arrived, but he would keep them on until he heard his footfalls in the hall.
Thinking of Albert made his butterflies begin again, so he drew his mind back to studying himself.
Outside of the glasses, it wasn’t bad, he decided. He inspected the banyan the girls had given him. It had gold stitching and floral embroidery on the shoulder, and it looked quite good on him. It was one of the girls’ gowns, technically, but he was fairly sure Albert would like it. His hair was limper than he’d like, but if he plumped it with powder, it wouldn’t feel the way he wanted it to.
He remembered how often Albert had threaded his fingers into it.
Undoing the tie to the gown, Michael let it fall open slightly, revealing more of his chest. He pulled the fabric back farther—a dusky nipple appeared, and the plane of his abdomen. Soft, but firm. Very good. He tested revealing part of his pelvis as well, but he cinched it back up immediately. No. That would be too much. Albert was the sort who would want just a bit of a tease but plenty of promise.
Albert. I am about to make love to Albert again.
The girls had laid out a small tea for him, but Michael couldn’t stomach it. He spent his remaining twenty minutes trying not to touch his hair and make it more oily.
When it was time, he went to the blue room. He lit candles and warmed the oil he’d chosen before trying out several arrangements of pillows on the bed. He rearranged the chairs and sofa too, then moved them back to their original places again.
He paced the floor for some time, and his hand ended up in his hair quite often despite his best efforts.
He was so distracted that when he heard the footsteps in the hall, he wasn’t even on the bed yet, and he had to throw himself onto the pillows, arranging himself hastily, only to realize as the door opened that he still wore his spectacles.
Leave them on and get a proper look at him, the devil’s accountant whispered. Michael ignored him, whipped off the glasses and leaned forward to stow them beneath the bed, rising up just in time to see the blurry shape of his lordship as he came into the room and shut the door.
The sight of Albert made Michael’s heart beat faster. Deprived of his glasses, Michael strained to take the man in: the great height of him, the contrast of his coat and cravat, the color and shape of his hair still damp at the edges from his bath. His short boots peeked out beneath crisp trousers. From this far away, Michael could not see his face, but even with the lord’s proper posture, his body movements belied his nervousness.
Belatedly, Michael realized he was not posed evocatively on the pile of pillows he’d spent fifteen minutes arranging, choosing instead to greet his lover dangled over the edge of the bed, banyan rucked up oddly around him and one foot lifted into the air for balance.
Damn.
He rolled to his side and tugged at the edge of the banyan as best he could as he carefully assumed a casually seductive pose. Fortune favored him at last, for his left nipple exposed itself all on its own, as well as a generous portion of his abdomen. Though he still couldn’t see Albert’s face, he saw his patron’s body posture quicken.
Michael smiled.
“My lord. We meet again.”
Across the room, Lord George Albert cleared his throat. Michael heard the careful intake of breath that meant he was getting ready to speak. “G-g-good day, Mr. V-Vallant.”
Michael’s pulse hammered so hard he felt it in the base of his throat. “Call me Michael.”
Another breath. A pause. “C-c-call m-me Alb-b-b-b—” Albert gave up and sighed.
He was very nervous, if that much preparation still led to that much of a stammer. Michael longed to put him more at ease. Of course, it would be nice if someone would return the favor.
“Albert.” He let his fingers slide into his hair and reached out his other hand to beckon to Albert. “Come here and sit on the bed.” I want to see you.
But Albert seated himself in one of the chairs by the fire—well outside of Michael’s sight range. Michael swore at himself silently. If he hadn’t worn his glasses so much lately, he could have seen at least a little. Now he couldn’t even read Albert’s face. While reading the faces and body movements of people was usually a handy skill for maneuvering them into the place you wanted them, with Albert it was essential for simple communication. So here they were, blind and mute together.
The depths of potential disaster expanded endlessly around them.
“Wh-why am I h-here?” Albert said at last.
Michael combed his tone for clues. Caution, nerves still, and a great deal of reserve. He tried to relax him with humor. “I thought that was obvious.”
The pause was lengthy. It took Albert three breaths before he was able to speak, and his first two attempts were nothing but sputters of consonants.
Michael gave in and softened. “Relax, darling. Relax. Deep breaths. There’s no reason to be nervous.”
Albert barked out a rueful laugh.
Michael echoed his smile. “Very well, perhaps there is a little reason.” He stroked the sheet, mimicking the touch he would have given Albert, could he have reached him. “Take your time.”
Albert’s sigh made Michael shiver. Two more breaths, and then: “D-did you ask f-for m-me?”
Michael couldn’t help a frown. “Ask?” He watched Albert’s shape tense and spoke quickly. “Darling, no—don’t, please. I’m sorry, it’s my fault I don’t understand. Did I ask what for you?”
Albert held very still. Michael could read nothing, damn it all to hell.
“D-did y-you ask him t-t-to br-bring m-me h-here?”
“Bring you?” Michael’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. “Do you mean—Rodger brought you here? Against your will?”
The pause nearly killed Michael. “N-not p-p-p”—a sigh—“p-precisely.”
How could Rodger not precisely bring him? Either he did, or he didn’t. Michael started to ask this, then stopped. “Oh—he did bring you, but not precisely against your will?”
A soft
laugh. Very soft. “Y-yes.”
“But partially.”
While Albert paused, Michael shifted nervously in his chair. “H-he p-p-promised t-to b-blackmail m-me if I d-did not.”
Michael clamped a hand over his mouth in horror and sat up. “He didn’t.”
“He d-did.”
Michael felt ill. “I’m so sorry. Please—if you want to leave, I promise I’ll make him—”
With what was clearly great effort, Albert overrode him, his voice coming out in a sharp breath. “I s-s-said only p-p-p—” This time his sigh was so frustrated it was almost a growl. “Only p-partially.”
I’ll kill him. I swear, this time I really will kill Rodger. Michael ran his hands down his face. “I am sorry. I had no idea. I never would have asked for this. Not like this.”
The shape of Albert leaned forward. “But d-did you ask? F-for m-me?”
Heat rose in Michael, the sensation suspiciously like a blush, which was almost as horrifying as the thought of Rodger blackmailing Albert into having sex with him. He tried to give a coy smile, but he wasn’t sure it worked. “Does it matter, darling?”
“Yes.”
The short, clear word, delivered with no pause, cut straight into Michael. He felt dizzy, confused and afraid. And aroused. Between the distance, the stammer and the revelation of Rodger’s meddling, he hadn’t been able to read the question at all. Was Albert simply curious? Was he amused? Was he besotted? Was he suspicious? Was he planning on reveling in the thought that a whore had asked for him particularly?
And while he was wondering, why did Michael care about any of this?
Because even with the stammer, he could hear Daventry in Albert’s voice. Because more and more every day the dark clouds of the past closed in on him. Because somehow one night of sex with Albert had managed to take away everything he’d built in sixteen years, and now that Albert was in the blue room with him, he wasn’t sure that trying to fuck him again would do anything but make matters worse.
Michael could bear no more torture. “Come to the edge of the bed,” he demanded.
He watched Albert’s shape like a hawk, watched him hesitate, watched him rise slowly, watched him smooth his clothing. He watched the blurred figure move closer.
When Albert stepped into Michael’s field of vision, it was as if he stepped through a magic portal, morphing from shaped blob into man, into the man Michael remembered, only he was here now, not a memory but real. Dark hair, neatly combed, conservative clothes. Tall, wide frame. Same jaw as his father. Long, almost pretty nose.
Lips, parted and wet, revealing a hint of teeth.
Hands, strong and smooth, resting on his hips, fingers curved inward.
Soft, beautiful brown eyes trying so hard not to let Michael get the better of him, hoping so hard this would not be a disaster.
Michael stifled a sigh of relief.
Albert’s chin came up. “D-did you ask for m-me?”
Proud. So proud. So tender and gentle, yes, but proud, and so very strong.
Sitting in the center of the bed, Michael kept his eyes on Albert as he replied, “Yes.”
A blush crept over Michael at the confession, but he decided it was worth it when Albert smiled and reached up for the tie to his cravat.
Chapter Five
Wes worked the complicated knot of his cravat slowly, not wanting Vallant to see how clumsy his fingers were. He wanted his hesitant speech to be the only awkward thing about him just now.
Vallant was beautiful. His pale skin shone in the light of the candles strewn around the room. The room itself was nothing but sensual opulence—silks and brocade, gilded surfaces and rich carpets. A scent of something soft and exotic wafted around him—rosewood, he was almost sure of it. But Vallant was without question the most enticing part of the scene. He wore blue silk and nothing else, the garment parting to reveal a hint of skin. Wes’s focus lingered on that exposed nipple, making him want to suckle it. Vallant’s golden hair gleamed as it framed his face, inviting touch. His eyes were dark pools that promised a host of erotic delights. His mouth was as sensuous as Wes remembered.
The last knot of the cravat came undone, turning the material into a long, cream-colored length of fabric draped around Wes’s neck. He pulled it free, and as the material slid away, Vallant came forward on his hands and knees, prowling like a cat.
Wes reached for the fastenings of his coat. Vallant continued on, as the dark sleeves of Wes’s jacket fell away before they sailed over to the chair to join the cravat. Vallant was almost to Wes now, but he didn’t increase his speed, apparently content to watch the waistcoat peel away.
He asked for me.
Vallant was inches before Wes now, still crouched, but he rose as Wes undid the buttons of his shirt. He slid up the length of Wes without touching him, his breath teasing Wes’s skin—a whisper along his thigh, a hot, deliberate exhale against the growing outline of his cock. He smiled as he passed Wes’s midsection, lifting his gaze to Wes’s own. He took gentle hold of Wes’s hips, slipping fingers to the top of his waistband. By now Wes had his shirt undone, and he reached to the edges of the panels, pulling them wide, exposing his skin.
Vallant closed his eyes, leaned forward and opened his mouth over Wes’s stomach.
He kissed, he laved, he nipped his way up and down Wes’s abdomen, his fingers tugging at the waistband of Wes’s trousers. With his stomach quavering at the gentle sensual assault, Wes let his shirt fall, and with no way to reach his trousers and nothing else to do with his hands, he slid them into the silky blond hair. Vallant sighed, then resumed his kissing as Wes massaged Vallant’s scalp.
“Mmm, Albert,” Vallant murmured against the top of Wes’s pelvis as he took hold of Wes and made him hiss a breath. “Such a nice, firm cock. So big and fat.” His hands slipped down the length of it, and his eyes tipped upward as he drew back, running his tongue from base to tip before smiling and speaking again. “I want to feel it in the back of my throat.”
Wes groaned, tightening his grip on Vallant’s hair. He met Vallant’s gaze as long as he could, watching the pretty mouth close over him until the heated sheath of his sucking became too much. He shut his eyes and gave over to sensation.
Very quickly, though, he had to hold back, because Vallant’s exquisite skill risked his coming within the first minute of the experience. It was lovely, yes, to have someone take the time to tease the tip of his penis, to apply pressure at the base, to have such a wicked tongue and rigid seal of lips pleasuring him—but since he was accustomed to the need to be fast, to not be found out, it took some focus to keep his body from rushing to release.
Vallant kept driving him toward the edge, gripping his hips, taking his cock deep, holding it there and humming around the shaft, making soft, mewing noises so submissive and carnal that they woke dark things in Wes. He wanted to hold Vallant by the hair and pump roughly into his throat. Now. But he didn’t let himself.
Vallant came off his cock with a soft pop to nuzzle Wes’s stomach as his hand kept up a regular rhythm on Wes’s cock.
“Darling,” he said, breathless, never ceasing his kissing. “Darling, shh. Let go now, and I’ll build you back up again later. I promise.” His tongue traced an erotic path across Wes’s pelvis before he continued. “Let me taste you, love. Let me drink you down. Let me drain you before I fill you up again. I will, I promise. Trust me, darling. Trust me.”
And so Wes did. When Vallant swallowed him down this time, he gave over, letting Vallant’s expert tongue and mouth bring him back to the edge. He fucked that sweet mouth three times, then erupted into him. He clutched that blond head as he fought for breath, as the orgasm made him dizzy and weak.
Vallant’s hands slid around him, drawing Wes down beside him onto the bed and giving him a kiss flavored with his own semen.
For several minutes they languished there, simply kissing, Vallant leading. But it was odd, because while he instigated everything, it was more that he issued invitations
for Wes to do things to him. Vallant began the kiss, yes, but to lure Wes into his mouth as he made soft, desperate gasps. He pulled on Wes’s shoulders, letting Wes push him down into the mattress. He tilted his head up, encouraging Wes to explore his neck.
Take me, he said without words. I am for your pleasure. Enjoy me. Try this. Try that. Try all you like.
It was a heady elixir to Wes, and he accepted each one of Vallant’s overtures. When Vallant arched his back, pressing their chests together and sending his banyan over his shoulder, Wes pushed it away on both sides and rubbed the soft fur of his chest against Vallant’s smooth skin. Their nipples brushed, and Vallant moaned and arched again. Wes shuddered, grinding harder. A surge of power filled him, fueled by Vallant’s plaintive, helpless whimpers, and the erotic sound drove Wes into a state of lust he hadn’t known he had in him. With a grunt, he ground his still half-hard cock against the apex of Vallant’s legs, shoving them wider with his knees as he drove him deeper into the bed.
Without warning, Vallant went from soft and moaning to stiff and shouting, his hands shoving at Wes’s shoulders.
Wes pulled back at once, ardor not just doused but drowned as Vallant rolled away from him and curled into himself, tugging the blue silk tightly closed.
“Oh God.” Vallant turned his face into the mattress. His countenance was pale, and his whole body shook.
Wes sat back carefully on his knees as Vallant drew tighter and tighter into himself. Wes tried to comprehend what had happened and what he should do. Had he hurt him? Had he been too rough? Even as guilt rose, it tangled with more confusion. Wouldn’t Vallant have behaved differently, if that were so? For pulled hair, he would have winced. For too much pressure, he’d have directed Wes to lift up. No, there was no way to match what he’d been doing with Vallant’s response. This was something else. Something… God help him, but Wes had no idea. Likely it would be best if he left.
“Damn Rodger and his ideas,” Vallant whispered. “Damn me for listening to him.” His hands ran up his face, covering his eyes. “God help me, I don’t want to go to Bedlam.”
A Private Gentleman Page 7
