by Reinke, Sara
“And you want to fight him?”
“Not particularly.” Julien laughed. “But I sure as hell want that thousand dollar prize!”
Mason shook his head. “You’re drunk. You’ve lost your damn fool mind. I don’t want to see you fight some huge son of a bitch from Russia.” Catching Julien by the front of his coat, he pushed the younger man abruptly into the shadows of a nearby empty alley. “I want to take you back to my flat,” he murmured with a smile, taking Julien’s face between his hands and leaning down toward him. “I want to strip off that coat, then your clothes, and I want to touch you, taste you, take my time with you.” He kissed Julien, tilting the younger man’s head up to meet him. “It’s been three years, goddamn it, and I’ve missed you.”
Julien smiled against his mouth. “I’ve missed you, too. You can’t imagine…”
“Show me,” Mason breathed, kissing him again, and Julien’s smile widened.
“I will,” he promised—as he abruptly ducked away. “When I win that thousand dollars.”
Mason groaned, hanging his head. His cock had started to harden even at the simple act of kissing Julien, and now bulged uncomfortably, making him shift his stance to try and ease the strain on his breeches. “Julien…”
“Don’t tell me you couldn’t use that kind of money,” Julien said. “I can take this guy, Mason. I know it.” He caught Mason’s hand again. “Come on. Please. Maybe I can still sign up to fight.”
* * *
“It’s five bloody dollars to enter this contest,” Mason exclaimed twenty minutes later, as he and Julien stood at the lopsided table used for fight registration. He stared first at the hand-lettered sign that listed the entry fee, then at the middle-aged and overweight man waiting to take Julien’s money, then at Julien himself. “Do you even have five dollars?”
“Of course,” Julien replied with a wan grin, digging out a coin purse. “And I sure as hell wouldn’t part company with it so easily if I wasn’t confident I’d win it back,” he said, adding with a wink, “And then some.”
Mason watched as he doled out coins—a handful of silver two-bits, half-dollars, nickels, and pences. He couldn’t help but wonder how in the hell Julien had come to have that kind of money on him when he’d only recently admitted to being pretty much too broke to buy gloves to keep his hands warm. Even an experienced laborer only made a few dollars a day, at the most. Five dollars to many men in Boston was a full week’s worth of wages—and debts.
“Julien…” he began, catching the younger man by the sleeve. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
“Not a chance.” Julien flashed him one of his patent-pending, reassuring grins. “Finding you again as I have, that’s nothing short of good fortune. With that on my side, I’m a sure win.”
* * *
“This is your flat?” Mason asked.
With Julien’s arm slung over his shoulder, he stumbled across the threshold of Julien’s home: a small solitary room on the second story of a brick-faced boarding house.
“It’s not much…” Julien said, looking shame-faced as he pushed the door open. His was one of four on the upper story, with two on either side of the stairwell landing. With a resigned sort of laugh, he added wearily, “In fact, it’s pretty much a shit hole.”
“Mine’s not much better,” Mason assured him. “Or bigger.”
It was after four o’clock in the morning. Julien had proven to be but one in a long line of men who’d been convinced of a “sure win” against Ivan the Great in the fisticuffs matches of the Midnight Rounds. Unfortunately, Julien had also been one in that same long line of men who hadn’t made it through one round against the enormous, hulking giant of a man, never mind five.
Even with his naturally enhanced strength and speed, there had been no compensation for the simple fact that Ivan was a big man—with at least three inches over Mason’s own six-feet, two-inch frame, and nearly a full foot over Julien—and a more experienced fighter. Having survived scraps with his brothers over the years had not prepared Julien for a real bare-knuckles boxing match against a man who had participated in—and won—hundreds. Julien had danced into the ring on a surge of adrenaline, immediately on the attack. He’d even landed a few good punches in on the bigger man. But it had only taken one punch—one squarely in the chin—to knock him flat on his ass and leave him crumpled on the floor of the makeshift warehouse ring, dazed and seeing stars.
“That son of a bitch,” Julien had moaned as Mason had helped him stagger home. “He…bloody cheated.”
“He didn’t cheat,” Mason had replied. “He just knows how to fight. Your contest is a con. That’s how they make their money.”
Julien’s room was small, but the large window overlooking the street would provide plenty of sunlight in the daytime. When Julien lit an oil lamp, Mason saw the only furnishings were a small, narrow bed, a wooden chair, a nightstand with two drawers, and a wash stand. The air smelled musty, and after Julien had dimmed the wick and adjusted the lamp’s flame, he crossed to the window.
“I’ll let in some breeze,” he said. As he leaned over to wrestle with the sash, Mason closed the door quietly, then stepped closely behind him. He bent at the waist, slipping one arm around Julien’s midriff. With his free hand, he brushed aside Julien’s hair so he could nuzzle the side of his neck, his ear. Julien uttered a low groan, and through his reflection, Mason saw him close his eyes. His hand fell atop Mason’s, their fingers intertwining.
“We should get you cleaned up,” Mason murmured.
Julien sat on the side of the bed without protest as Mason dampened a rag in a shallow basin of water, then dabbed gently at his busted lip. “It doesn’t look bad.”
Julien shrugged once. “I’ve had it worse.”
Mason knew that he had, thanks to Lamar.
Julien managed a feeble, somewhat sheepish smile. “Just wish I had something else to show for five dollars,” he remarked. With a heavy sigh, he hung his head, forking his fingers through his hair. “Goddamn it.”
“I can give you money if you need it,” Mason said, but Julien shook his head.
“I don’t want charity,” he said, a furrow creasing between his brows.
“It’s not charity.” Mason pressed his hand gently to Julien’s cheek. “If you need help, I want to help you. I love you, Julien. I’ve never stopped.”
Julien closed his eyes and uttered a low, shuddering sigh as he turned his face toward Mason’s palm. “I’ve never stopped loving you, too,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse and strained. “But I…I can’t take your money, Mason. I just can’t.”
He’d always been so proud, so strong-willed and stubborn. Mason knew better than to press the matter, or argue it further. Even Lamar’s most cruel and vicious beatings hadn’t been able to strip those traits from him.
“I’ve missed you,” Julien whispered. “So much…” He opened his eyes, such stark, visible anguish apparent there that Mason flinched. “Why didn’t you come back for me? Why…why didn’t you try to reach me somehow…let me know…?”
“I’m sorry.” Mason caressed the line of his mouth with his thumb. “With God as my witness—with all that I have, Julien, I wanted to. I wanted to so badly…”
“I thought you were dead,” Julien said, and there were no tears in his eyes. There was only that bewildered, child-like sort of pain, and somehow that was even more heart-wrenching.
“My father wouldn’t let me,” Mason whispered. “Not me, not Edith, not Lisette—nobody. He even cut all of his ties with Augustus Noble. He said we couldn’t take that chance, couldn’t risk Lamar finding out we’d escaped.”
“I thought you were dead,” Julien said again. “I didn’t care what happened to me after that…what I did. I just…I felt so empty inside, like I had nothing left to live for.” He looked away, cutting his gaze across the room, and something cold swept over him, a dark and heavy shroud. Mason knew that look, that stony detachment; he remembered it only too heartbreakingly well. “Like I h
ad died along with you.”
“I’m sorry…Julien, please, I’m so sorry.” Mason caught his face between his hands, making the younger man look at him again.
Please don’t leave me, he thought, opening his mind—because he didn’t know where Julien went when that coldness would overtake him; what inner sanctum of his psyche he retreated to for comfort when he felt threatened or in pain. But he hated that place nonetheless, because it took Julien away—the Julien he knew even now, after three years’ absence. The Julien he still loved wholeheartedly.
“Stay with me,” he whispered, pleading, as he kissed Julien gently. With the tip of his tongue, he pressed lightly against the seam of Julien’s lips, and like a battlement crumbling, Julien eventually relaxed, letting him past with a soft groan.
He rose to his feet, fumbling with the buttons on the front of Mason’s coat, pushing aside the lapels and then shoving the heavy folds of wool back off his shoulders. It fell to the floor, pooling around his feet, and was soon joined by Julien’s overcoat and jacket.
They stumbled together in a clumsy semi-circle, mouths locked, until the backs of Mason’s knees struck the flimsy bed frame. Down he went, sitting on his ass, as Julien tilted his head back, tearing his cravat knot loose from his collar. As he shrugged out of his waistcoat, Mason wrestled with his boots. He threw them aside, one by one, then grunted as Julien planted his hands firmly against his shoulders and shoved him back across the width of the bed. His legs remained dangling, bent at the knees, his head nearly hanging off the other side. He raised his head and watched, feeling the bloodlust within him responding along with his physical need, as Julien ducked his head and pulled off his shirt, casting it aside in a tangle of pale linen.
Christ Almighty, he was still the most beautiful man Mason had ever seen, his torso and arms exquisitely muscled. The swell of his own arousal strained against the front of his breeches, but he ignored his own need for the moment. Dropping to his knees between Mason’s outstretched thighs, he hooked his fingers beneath Mason’s waistband and tugged.
Mason raised his hips from the mattress as his breeches slid down, exposing the long, thick shaft of his fully aroused cock. Julien uttered a low, hungry sound, nearly a growl, as he curled his fingers slowly around the breadth of him. Then he dipped his head, slipping Mason between his lips, toying with him against the tip of his tongue, and oh, dear Jesus, Mason knotted the bedclothes beneath him in his fists and arched his back, sucking in a sharp, hissing gasp of pleasure.
“God Above,” he praised, because there was no other accounting for Julien’s amazing talents when it came to fellatio. Within moments, he’d taken Mason in fully, his lips brushing through the wiry curls framing the thick base of his cock. He remained poised like this for an exquisite duration before withdrawing again; Mason hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath until it shuddered from him as Julien’s mouth slipped away.
He spread his fingers in the crown of Julien’s hair, and when the younger man descended on him again, he rocked his hips up to meet him. Past the warmth of his mouth and tongue came the tight confines of his throat, and again, Mason groaned, tightening his grasp on Julien’s hair.
“God,” he whispered as Julien began to move, sliding him in and out, seemingly deeper with every movement. When he suddenly drew his mouth away, Mason groaned again, this time in an urgent, wordless plea, trying vainly to pull him back. Julien only smiled up at him, wry and mischievous, then ducked his head farther, his lips parted wider so he could draw first one, then the other, then somehow—God in Heaven—both of Mason’s testicles into his mouth. It felt like a wondrous electrical current surged through him; Mason arched off the bed with a soft cry.
“God,” he gasped as Julien reached for his cock, moving his hand against him in an undulating series of strokes that left him dizzy. All the while, he continued working Mason’s balls with his mouth, using both the blade and tip of his tongue to caress and explore them, or nipping lightly with his teeth, tugging gently against them with his lips.
Ten minutes of this exquisite torture was all he could bear. Mason sat up, his arousal so pronounced, so swollen and ready, it physically pained him to move. He reached for Julien, hooking the younger man by the arm and dragging him onto the bed.
“Come here,” he rasped, clasping his hand against the back of Julien’s head and pulling him near, crushing his lips against his. He gripped Julien’s ass through his breeches as he drew him onto his lap, rubbing the length of his cock teasingly against the cleft. The bloodlust had roused, along with his desire, and his pupils had expanded in full, leaving his eyes glossy and black, his canines half-way down from the roof of his mouth. Without releasing his grip on the back of Julien’s head, or his kiss, Mason jerked at the waist of Julien’s pants. He heard fabric rip, seams snapping apart with the force, and then, with Julien’s legs wrapped around his hips, he shifted his weight, forcing Julien down on his back against the bed.
The tattered remnants of his breeches prevented Mason from straddling him, filling him, and he ducked, hooking the pants behind his head like a sling, effectively clearing a path to Julien for him—and leaving Julien’s legs bound by his boots and pants over Mason’s shoulders.
Julien looked up at him, his skin glossed with sweat, his own pupils engorged, his heart jackhammering beneath his breast. When Mason spat against his fingers and reached between them, Julien’s legs tightened with eager anticipation against the sides of Mason’s neck. Mason slid his fingertip past Julien’s threshold, feeling its muscular grip against his skin. He ventured farther, then added a second finger, then a third, until he was knuckle-deep, and Julien had canted his head back, gasping for breath.
“Is this alright?” Mason asked, his voice low and husky.
Julien nodded, swift, nearly frantic. “Yes,” he gasped. “God, yes…!”
“And this?” Slowly, Mason slid his fingers in and out, hooking them slightly so that he could reach Julien’s core with each stroke. This was a spot, the prostate, that generated immediate, intense sensations of pleasure unlike nearly any other. He knew when he’d found Julien’s; with a ragged gasp, the younger man reached blindly for Mason’s hand, seizing him by the wrist and wordlessly pleading.
When Mason closed his free hand around Julien’s cock and began to stroke him up and down, the swollen head of his erection protruding from beneath the cowl of foreskin, Julien writhed against the sheets, arching his back, straining toward Mason’s touch.
“Please,” he begged, as Mason moved his hands—both of them—faster, harder. “Please…oh, sweet Christ…!”
His breath hitched, his body poised on the brink of release, every muscle growing taut as he neared climax. When that release came—when his seed erupted in a hot burst against Mason’s hand, he could feel his body tighten in reflexive spasms of pleasure. Julien cried out hoarsely, his head thrown back as he clutched at Mason’s wrists.
God, you’re beautiful, Mason thought—as he always had when he and Julien made love, whenever Julien came for him. He drew his hands back, leaving Julien to tremble, his legs draped over Mason’s shoulders, his body spent in the aftermath of the powerful orgasm. Reaching between them, Mason used Julien’s own semen, slick and viscous, to moisten his threshold yet again. His own cock felt as hard as a granite post now as he sank slowly into Julien’s tight warmth. Julien moaned, giving Mason pause.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Julien had once taken all of Mason’s massive length and girth on a nearly daily basis, but that had been three years ago. Mason hesitated, not wanting to hurt him.
“No!” Julien looked up him, his blue eyes piercing and urgent. Shaking his head, he said it again. “No—don’t you dare.”
Mason delved deeper, then deeper still. He’d always loved taking Julien; he’d dreamed countless times since leaving Kentucky of being inside of him again, but even the most vivid and stirring of dreams could in no way compare to the sweet pleasure of reality. No other man
had ever satisfied him so completely, had made him feel like he’d found his way home just by making love to them. As he fell into a fast, heavy rhythm, he cradled Julien’s hips between his hands, keeping his pelvis raised so he could fill him more deeply. When he came, he came hard, digging his fingertips into Julien’s hips and burying himself in a final, furious thrust. He turned his face against Julien’s thigh, propped on his shoulder, and kissed him along the lean, taut muscles there as he shuddered with release.
“God Almighty,” he gasped, because in the aftermath of such a massive climax, he felt lightheaded, nearly dazed. He leaned down, bringing Julien’s thighs against his chest, and kissed him on the lips. “Goddamn, but I love you.”
Later, when they’d dimmed the lamp and lay spooned together in the narrow bed, with a light breeze filtering in through the open window in a cool complement to the warmth of their bodies beneath a pair of quilts, Julien reached for Mason’s hand, lacing their fingers together.
“Please tell me this is real,” he whispered. Mason had just about drifted off to sleep; at Julien’s soft voice, his eyes snapped open. He felt Julien drag his hand along the sheets toward his mouth, then his lips brush softly against his knuckles. “Please tell me I’m not dreaming,” Julien said. “That when I wake up, you’ll still be here.”
As hard as being apart had been for him, Mason understood now that it had been so much worse for Julien. At least Mason had held the hope—however faint or seemingly futile—that they’d meet again, that one day they’d be reunited. The younger man had known no such comfort; he’d had only profound loneliness and loss.
Mason kissed the crest of his shoulder. “I’m real. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
Julien nodded once, wordlessly. His body had grown strangely tense against Mason, his breath fluttering. After a moment, Mason heard him utter a soft sound, a quiet gasp, and realized he’d started to weep.
“Please don’t,” he said, drawing Julien more tightly into his embrace. He could count on one hand the number of times in twenty years that he’d seen Julien cry—and have at least three fingers to spare. That he was responsible, at least in part, for Julien’s pain, tore him apart.
