by Lee Rowan
“Please stop calling yourself old,” Brendan said between greedy kisses. “You are perfect.”
Carlisle realized that his age was no obstacle to arousal; he was not sure what Brendan had intended in his whispered promise after dinner. “I mean to give you everything tonight,” could have any number of interpretations, but he was willing to take whatever he was offered. He shivered as hands slipped up the back of his thighs, kneading and exploring. The belt of his robe was coming undone, and he groaned as his own erect, naked flesh touched its counterpart.
But he did not want this to be another hurried encounter, as their tryst in the apple barn had been. “Let me draw the curtain,” he said. “I want to see you.”
Brendan obligingly stepped back, and as Carlisle moved the curtain aside his body showed clear and beautiful as a statue even in the half-light of a waxing moon. He was not quite Michaelangelo’s David; unlike the statue’s, his hands were slender and graceful, and his face far more beautiful. But there was something of the sculptor’s art in his stance, relaxed and unselfconscious and innately beautiful. The marks on his throat, covered by his neckcloth in daytime, faded to invisibility in the moonlight.
Then Brendan moved, breaking that illusion of immobility. “Fair’s fair,” he said, and stepped forward to slide Carlisle’s robe from his body. “What, no nightshirt?” he teased, tossing the garment onto a nearby chair. He skimmed a hand down Carlisle’s chest, sending a tingle in its wake. “You are so beautiful.” Another step, and he was within Carlisle’s embrace, rubbing against him like a cat.
Every time they were together, Carlisle was aware of something new. This time it was Brendan’s height; he was struck with how pleasant it was to have a lover’s body so nearly the same size as his own. And yet… the skin beneath his hands, warm and smooth as raw silk, was strangely not so different from what he remembered from years past—or what he thought he remembered. Strange that it would be so. But the hands exploring his back were far surer and bolder than Lillian’s had ever been; this boldness in a lover was very different, and very exciting.
As if reading his mind, Brendan whispered, “I love to touch you,” in his ear, and followed the declaration by a line of gentle, biting kisses down the side of his neck.
Carlisle caught his shoulders, pushing him away a tiny bit. “Not so fast, you randy youngster. Tonight it’s my turn.” He made Brendan turn around, so he could admire his back, running a single finger down his spine and smiling as he felt the shiver that followed. He explored the line and angle of shoulder blade, drawing both hands down his sides from shoulder to hips.
Carlisle could not restrain himself any longer, and pulled Brendan against him, letting his cock ride in the cleft of the young man’s arse. Everything? He had begun to wonder how it would feel to bury himself in that firm, beautiful flesh. It seemed to him that such a thing must be uncomfortable, and he did not mean to ask for that privilege unless it was offered.
Brendan pushed back against him, and Carlisle reached around, cupping Brendan’s hot, rigid cock with his right hand while his left explored his lover’s chest. When he found and tweaked a nipple, Brendan trembled and leaned back even harder. “Shall we go to bed?” Carlisle suggested.
“But then we should have to move,” Brendan murmured, leaning back to nuzzle Carlisle’s ear, “and I am already in Paradise.”
“Well, you’ll be in Paradise on the floor if you are not careful,” Carlisle warned. “My right arm is as strong as I’d like, but the left one is not.”
He regretted speaking the moment the words left his lips; Brendan turned from an amorous wanton to a remorseful faun, chivvying his lover over to the bed as though collapse were imminent. “I’m sorry! Would it be better to stop—are you in pain? Shall I—”
Carlisle dammed the torrent with a kiss, pulling him into an embrace that left no doubt of his intentions. He thought of picking Brendan up to demonstrate his fitness, but knew that such a performance was more likely to cause problems than resolve them. If he were twenty years younger he’d have done it… except that if he were twenty again, he’d never have dared this.
The moonlight was bright in the room, and Carlisle considered the risk of someone peeping through the keyhole. Unlikely, but why take the chance? With the bed-curtains drawn on the side visible from the door, they would have perfect privacy. “Let’s go to bed,” he said.
Once there, with the curtains drawn and only a little moonlight to see by, Carlisle lay back against the pillows with a tremor of uncertainty. This was no spur of the moment decision, abetted by drink; he had brought this young man to his home with serious intent. What they were doing here had meaning; it might be as close as they would ever get to a wedding night “What would you like to do?” he asked. “As we did before, in the barn?”
Brendan reclined beside him, propping his head on one hand. “Yes. Or we might do… I might do what I did that first night.” He broke the strangeness of the moment by touching—only a hand on Carlisle’s chest, but suddenly the anxiety was gone. He leaned over for another kiss, bringing a leg over Carlisle’s thigh. “I want this to be good for you,” he said earnestly.
Carlisle laughed and pulled Brendan over to lie upon him. “No fear of that.” He leaned back, accepting a deep kiss, stroking down until he could just hold the curve of that lovely arse. The heat and pressure all along his body was wonderful. “I have much to learn. What would you do if I did—this? “ He squeezed, pulling Brendan’s hips close and thrusting up, and Brendan threw his head back with a gasp of pleasure.
The experimentation became much less considered for a time, touch and taste and scent mingling. When Carlisle felt himself on the edge of climax, Brendan pulled back, straddling Carlisle’s legs, his cock rising out before him like the prow of a ship. “I want you to take me,” Brendan said. “As—as a man takes a woman. Inside me.” He ran his hands across Carlisle’s chest, leaned down for another kiss.
Carlisle felt his sex stir in agreement with the proposition, but he had to ask, “Have you done this before?”
“No, not—only the other way, with…”
“My dear boy, you can say the name.”
“I would rather not. He…found it most pleasant if I was—was the—” He shrugged and sought another kiss, as though for encouragement.
“The active member, as it were?” Carlisle offered. “I think the words may be more difficult than the deed. And I would be honored, so long as it does not cause you pain.” In fact he was so hard, and so eager, that it took all his self-discipline not to simply roll the boy over and find release in simple friction, as they had done before. But that would never do. He reached out and took Brendan’s cock in his hand. “We needn’t jump all the fences tonight. This will do for now.”
Brendan’s face had gone soft and focused, his body following the movements of Philip’s hand. “Oh… But please—I want to give that to you… something important. I’ve been practicing.”
With his other hand, Carlisle reached up to tweak a nipple. This position, this free access to a lover’s body, was something entirely new. “How could you do that?” He leaned forward and took the nipple into his mouth, and Brendan thrust forward so suddenly he almost tipped backward.
“It’s stupid, you’ll laugh.”
“No.” Carlisle’s cock was riding smoothly between Brendan’s cheeks, the tip of his cock nudging his lover’s balls with every thrust. He was very near to climax, and did not need anything more.
“A candle.”
He did laugh, but caught himself immediately. “I’m sorry. But that seems… inadequate, surely?”
“Not a good candle, Philip! One of those big ones, that burn for hours. Bigger than you, so I would know.”
“Did you like it?”
“It was ... not bad. I put salve in, before you came. Please, Philip. I want to try.”
His eyes were very dark, and very sincere, and much as Carlisle loathed the idea of hurting Brendan’s body, he knew tha
t for a very young man like Brendan, an injury to the pride would be even worse.
And Carlisle’s own cock was so hard that if he did not get some relief soon, he would burst.
“Very well. Raise up.”
Brendan rose on his knees, the muscles of his thighs suddenly standing out in relief. A born rider… well, perhaps this was a fence they both needed to take. Carlisle reached between his legs and held his own cock upright. Strange, that his own touch was so much less exciting than his lover’s. “Now lower yourself… here, you put it where it needs to go. Slowly, now.”
As the tip of Carlisle’s cock nudged the hidden opening, Brendan held his breath, tensing. Then he began to breathe again, and slid slowly down, impaling himself.
Carlisle held as still as he could, sliding his hands up Brendan’s body until his thumbs caressed the hard little nubs of his nipples. He forced himself to think of his lover’s body, rather than his own; the surge of desire was nearly overwhelming and it took all his strength not to throw Brendan down and fuck him with all his strength. This slow, tentative enveloping was torment—sweet as it was, it tested his will as nothing ever had, until at last he was fully inside that hot, tight channel.
Carlisle opened his eyes; he could not remember closing them. The look on Brendan’s face resembled an angel or saint enthralled by a mystic vision. “My boy, are you all right?”
“So hot!” Brendan whispered. He clutched Carlisle’s shoulders. “Philip, please—touch me!”
Carlisle took that to mean his cock, and took it in hand again, his left hand resting on Brendan’s thigh. He began slowly, feeling that quick pulse and squeeze around his own cock as he pumped Brendan’s eager organ. He did his best not to thrust, but the small, intense movements of his lover’s body did all that was needed, and as Brendan gave a muted cry and came across his belly, Carlisle felt his own body surge upward in release.
Brendan fell onto his chest, limp and panting, and kissed the side of Carlisle’s neck. For a little while, neither of them spoke, and Carlisle began to wonder if Brendan had dozed off.
“Well?” he asked, finally. “Was that…agreeable?”
“Oh. Oh, yes.” Brendan rolled to one side, leaving a sudden coldness where he had lain. “I… I think the next time will be better, it was such an unusual sensation.”
“Indeed it was, but you please me beyond words when you say ‘next time.’”
Brendan smiled. “I know you must go back to your own bed,” he said, “but do you think we might rest a little while, and try again?”
“You greedy brat,” Carlisle teased. He slid down on the pillow, and pulled the coverlet up over them both. “I think we might. And I promise you—I must indeed go back to my own bed soon, but I will still be here in the morning.”
“I never even thought to doubt it,” Brendan said.
When Brendan went to the family home the next day, he found his grandmother still ensconced in his room and showing no signs of budging. His mother was delighted that Major Carlisle was so generous with his hospitality, and thought it a good sign that after being in mourning for so long, he was finally coming out of himself a bit. Brendan advised her not to start looking for a wife for the Major, as he was so preoccupied with his horse-breeding that he seemed to have no inclination in a matrimonial direction.
They had a few more nights together, a clandestine honeymoon of sorts. But Philip was not able to stay on in London; there were matters out at Twin Oaks that required his supervision, and he had never intended to be away from the land at this time of year.
“It’s for the best,” Philip said, closeted with Brendan once more, in his study. “You must begin to find yourself a teacher, and learn what sort of preparation you need to make. I would only be a distraction. And I have work to do, from which you would be a distraction.”
“I know,” Brendan said. He sighed. “I understand… but right now I would rather be distracted than anything else in the world.”
“So would I.” Philip put a hand to Brendan’s face, tipping it up. “And it will always be this way, my boy. It’s the price we must pay.”
“You are worth any price,” Brendan promised, and opened his lips for a kiss that turned into a long, wistful embrace. “Take care. I shall be back as soon as I possibly can.”
“Am I respectable?” Philip asked, straightening his clothing.
“Not a hair out of place. And I?”
Philip regarded him fondly. “A scruffy, charming brat. But you’ll pass muster in polite company.”
“That’s good to hear. I must lunch with Grandmama today.”
“Brave lad.”
Viscountess Townsend sent for her eldest son after her youngest son set out for Kent. She could see that Brendan was enjoying high spirits, but found it difficult to believe that a box of paints and a few lessons had elevated him to that degree.
James understood her concern, but he was able to set her straight. “Of course he’s in high gig, Mama! I don’t believe Brendan ever spoke of it to you, but he has been fretting over what to do with himself ever since he came down from Oxford.”
“But, really, dear—painting? He seems quite taken with the notion, but he never showed the slightest interest when Miss Dennis was instructing the girls.”
James laughed. “Of course not. Brendan was never the sort of boy to stay cooped up in the schoolroom. You must remember he was always out in the stable. And what sort of half-hearted boy would condescend to paint pretty pictures of flower-gardens with his sister and her governess? I’d have worried if he’d showed that inclination. He showed me some of his sketches, though, and I have to say they’re better than most.”
“You think he would succeed, then?”
“Oh, no doubt, Mama—if he applies himself. I can’t say I would find any pleasure in spending my days drawing pictures of a bunch of oat-eating brutes, but my brother’s been horse-mad since he was big enough to sit astride. And I suppose we must all admit that if a Townsend has to make a career of horses, it’s better that he be painting their pictures than currying them or mucking out the stables.”
“Nonsense, my dear. Brendan is going to be a proper artist. I intend to persuade him to paint a family portrait. Or at least a portrait of your children. I think that would persuade their grand-papa that his son was embarking on a respectable career.”
James stifled a grin, knowing that it was not his father who required persuading. “Poor Brendan. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t put ears and a tail on the infantry.”
His mother narrowed her eyes. “I am quite sure that Brendan will see the wisdom in impressing his father with the seriousness of his intentions.”
“Poor Brendan,” James said again.
Some thirty-five miles away, Poor Brendan was stepping out of Major Philip Carlisle’s traveling carriage, a fresh supply of pens, ink, and high-quality drawing paper in the case in his hand. By the end of that summer at Twin Oaks, he planned to have a portfolio that would show the range of his abilities. Sketches and pen-and-ink drawings of horses, humans, design details of several cathedrals in London, and the vast panorama of the estate visible from the upper levels of the apple-barn. He was beginning from a point of absolute ignorance; he had much to learn. But now he had someone who believed in him, and that made all the difference. With luck, he would assemble a portfolio that would gain him the attention and instruction of a reputable artist who would take him on as a student.
And if not… If not, then, he’d buy set of paints and teach himself.
Brendan stood at the front entryway as Edward drove the carriage off to the stable. He was about to knock at the door when it opened, and Major Philip Carlisle walked out and smiled at him, and he knew that life could never hold a greater joy.
“Welcome home,” Philip said.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lee Rowan has been writing fiction since a first grade teacher explained that made-up stories did not constitute lying. In the intervening decades she has read
several thousand books, climbed trees, raised many cats and dogs, married, divorced, worked in a number of boring office jobs, walked on fire, run a business, planted gardens, found and married the love of her life, helped rehab an old house, seen four of the five Great Lakes and both sides of the Atlantic, moved to a foreign country, and is now writing romantic adventures while learning bits of French from the bilingual labels in the grocery store. Visit her website at www.lee-rowan.net
© 2009 by Lee Rowan
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2009927579
eISBN : 978-0-762-43924-9
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