The surge of joy at seeing him again shocked me with its strength. “I was beginning to think the damned museum meant to keep you until dawn,” he said, even as he drew my head down for a kiss.
“There was an incident—”
His mouth closed against mine: hungry and urgent. His tongue swirled over my lips, and I parted them eagerly, letting him taste me. I pulled him tight, reveling in the feel of having him in my arms again. My skin ached for his touch, and my member hardened, pressing against the swell of his erection through the cloth of our trousers.
The kiss ended, although we kept our arms about one another. “Poor dear,” he said. “I hesitate to ask.”
“It can wait,” I said breathlessly. “Your room?”
“My thought exactly.”
I gladly let him draw me into the room, where he immediately began to divest me of my sweat-damp clothing. I did the same for him, thrilling with each inch of bare skin I uncovered.
Unlike my gawky body, his was a marvel, from the perfect ripple of muscle along his shoulders, to the temptation of his flat, small nipples, to the thickness of his member. I loved even the ugly scar on his right thigh, for no reason other than it was part of him.
He kissed me again, nibbling on my earlobe, before trailing his lips across the line of my jaw, onto my throat. When he shoved aside my drawers and grasped my length, I groaned and pulled him tighter, relearning the shape of his muscles with my hands. God, he felt good. His familiar scent, of sandalwood and musk, filled my nostrils. I ran my tongue over his collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin.
Then the last bit of clothing fell to the floor, and we tumbled into the bed. I reached for his member, the silky hood sliding beneath my palm as I gathered the thick pearl of liquid from the slit. “Shall I taste you?”
“Please,” he groaned. “I’ve been dreaming of having your mouth on my cock again.”
I made a small, involuntary sound in the back of my throat. Unlike me, Griffin had never shown any inhibition when it came to bed-talk, and his words fired my blood. He laid back, head propped against the pillows, allowing him to watch. I slid my hand down his organ, peeling back the hood, before bending my head to wrap my lips around him.
I’d spent my life alone, denying even my dreams of other men, until Griffin shattered all of my barriers. How had I come to crave this so quickly? His salty-bitter flavor, the weight and thickness of his cock in my mouth, the way he gasped when I rolled his balls in my free hand: I wanted it all, needed it all.
His hips twitched up, fingers digging into the bedclothes. I glanced up at him; his green eyes shone bright and hot with lust. “We should make love in front of a mirror some time,” he said. “So you can see how irresistible you look like this.”
Was he joking? Just the thought of seeing my lanky, imperfect body against his made me faintly queasy. I closed my eyes and concentrated on his cock with renewed fervor, taking him all the way in, until my nose pressed against the curls at his base and my throat worked around him.
“Enough,” he panted. “It feels too good, and I want to see your face when you come.”
He rolled me onto my back and positioned himself above me, pressing our lengths against each other. Seeing what he was about, I loosely wrapped my hand around us both. He began to thrust against me, and I moaned at the heat and friction, the feel of him, stiff with desire. I’d never understand what a handsome man of the world such as him saw in me, but the fact I could make him feel such passion unleashed my own.
“Ival,” he whispered the pet name, even as he looked down at me with an expression combining need and tenderness in equal measure. “Missed you so much, my dear love.”
I clung to his shoulder with my free hand, arching against him, striving to add to the heat building between us. I spoke thirteen languages, and yet all my words deserted me in these moments. I groaned his name, white heat building in my sack, cresting and cresting, before unfurling in streams of spend across my stomach.
“Yes,” he growled, thrusting against my sensitized length once, twice, before joining me in release.
Our ragged breathing evened out gradually. With a soft chuckle, Griffin rolled to one side and propped himself up on an elbow. “Welcome home, indeed,” he said with a grin.
Chapter 2
I slept more soundly than I had in weeks, waking only the next morning, when the bed shifted under Griffin as he rose. Opening my eyes, I saw him at the washbasin, preparing his morning shave. He hadn’t yet dressed, treating me to a view I had sorely missed in his absence. My member roused eagerly, and I rolled onto my side so as not to make too much of a spectacle beneath the covers.
“I missed you,” I admitted.
He glanced over his shoulder, shaving cream still covering half his face. “And I missed you terribly, my dear. At least we live in modern times, when we can communicate easily via post. If I’d not been able to write to you and receive your letters, I would have quit the accursed job halfway through.”
“Was it very difficult?”
“Not in its particulars. A simple case of theft, as you know. The most difficult part was tracking down the fellow and waiting until he grew bold enough to sell something unique to his former employer. I never minded stalking criminals while in Chicago or out west, working for the Pinkertons. It was part of the game. But knowing you awaited my return, I discovered a new streak of impatience.”
My cheeks heated, and I ducked my head, hoping he didn’t notice. “I never thought sleeping alone would be difficult.”
“I’m glad to hear you’ve grown accustomed to my presence,” he said, as he dried his face. “Shall I make breakfast?”
Our pantry was rather bare, entirely due to my neglect. In his absence, I’d survived on canned beans and bread, with an occasional meal at the lunch counter. “Er, there might be…flour…in one of the cabinets. And milk, if it’s been delivered.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Pancakes it is. Shall I add your tuxedo to the laundry?”
“Please.” He gathered our discarded clothing and left, whistling cheerfully.
I washed quickly then borrowed one of his dressing gowns to cross the hall to my room. A cleaning woman came once a week to tidy up, and we sent our clothing and linens out to be laundered. For appearances’ sake, we maintained two bedrooms, his belongings in one and mine in another. In the normal course of things, we slept one night in my bed, and the next in his, ensuring both would be equally rumpled and used by the end of the week. With his absence, I’d been forced to confine myself to my room. In very short order, I’d come to hate the tan wallpaper, not for any fault of its own, but because it reminded me of his absence.
The Arcanorum still lay out on the nightstand. I opened the drawer and tucked the book inside, leaving the area bare except for a small paper card Griffin had unexpectedly presented to me on Valentine’s Day.
The card was…well, hideous, to be honest, featuring a wretchedly ugly Cupid in a swan-shaped boat. “To My Valentine” was emblazoned beneath the boat, while Cupid appeared to be writing a less-than-inspired poem ending with the words “be mine.” Griffin had not signed it, of course, or even addressed it to me.
I loved it.
Dressed in a fresh suit, I hurried downstairs to the kitchen. Griffin stood in front of the stove, a pan in one hand and cooking oil in the other, regarding the wall with surprise.
Oh dear. I’d forgotten about the rather large scorch mark blackening the plaster.
“Whyborne,” he said, in a deceptively calm voice, “did you leave the gas on too long before lighting the stove?”
I winced. “Er, no.”
“I see.” He put the pan on the stove. “Would you care to tell me what did happen?”
I felt rather like an errant schoolboy caught out by a disapproving headmaster, a sensation I did not care for in the least. “Well, I…that is, while you were gone, I, er…experimented.”
“Experimented.”
“With the sp
ell. The one for fire.”
Griffin turned to me, exasperation clearly written across his face. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t use that damnable book without discussing it first.”
“You’re being quite unfair,” I objected. “The spell saved our lives, more than once. Besides, it’s only a novice’s magic. It’s not as if I’m raising the dead, or creating monsters, or calling lightning down from the sky. Although, the last one might be useful…” I trailed off at his expression.
“So you waited until I left town, knowing full well I’d disapprove otherwise, and did what? Tried to set the house on fire?”
“Of course not.” I tugged absently at my shirt cuffs, even though they were already perfectly straight. “I simply ran a few tests. I wanted to find out what effects distance might have, and if I could alter the size of the flame produced.”
“I take it the answer was yes,” Griffin said dryly.
“Forgive me—I’ll have the plaster patched soon, I promise.”
Griffin put aside the makings of our breakfast and crossed the room to me. Gripping my shoulders with his hands, he looked earnestly up into my eyes. “I don’t give a fig for the plaster. I understand you can’t help but be curious. Your inquisitive mind is part of what attracted me to you in the first place. But I worry about you.”
His words warmed me. “I appreciate your concern. But truly, I’m careful. Er, mostly.”
A wry grin slipped across his features. “Well, at least you didn’t burn down the house, or set yourself on fire. Just let me supervise the next time.”
“Of course.” I hesitated, but could hardly put it off any longer. “By the way, the newspaper might contain mention of a ‘freak wind’ at the museum last night.”
“A what? Whyborne…”
“Oh, did I hear the postman?” I blurted, before hastily escaping to the porch.
There was indeed post in the box. I sorted through it as I carried it back to the kitchen. “I’ve a letter from Dr. Maidstone, one of my old philology professors at Miskatonic. I wonder how he’s getting on? Flyer for a new department store…a new issue of the sensationalist trash you subscribe to—”
Griffin rolled his eyes. “Not every work of literature has to be a classic to last the ages. I enjoy reading adventure stories.”
“Hmph. Oh, and here’s another letter—”
I came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the familiar, thick paper of the envelope and the bold, heavy hand which had addressed it. My throat constricted sharply, and bands tightened around my chest, making it even harder to breathe. Why would my father write to me—and why would he send a letter here, instead of to the museum? I felt as if the sanctuary of our home had been suddenly violated.
Then my eyes caught up to my thoughts, and I read the name on the envelope.
No. Oh no. How dare he.
“Whyborne? Is everything all right?”
The expression on my face must have been truly alarming, because Griffin immediately set the pan aside and turned off the gas. “What’s wrong?”
I thrust the envelope at him with a shaking hand. “A letter from my father. Addressed to you.”
Griffin paled sharply, no doubt thinking the same thing as I. That Father knew of our relationship I had little doubt, considering what he’d witnessed last December. Given I was already the rebellious child, I’d expected him to simply pretend Griffin didn’t exist, rather than risk bringing any scandal on our family.
Apparently, I had been wrong. “If he’s threatened you, in any way, I will never speak to or see him again,” I said. It would be hard on Mother, but I knew she, of all people, would understand. “We’ll go to Europe if need be—I don’t care.”
Griffin took the letter from me, but the color returned to his face. “Let’s not buy our tickets until we’ve read what he has to say.”
The red wax seal, stamped with our family crest, shattered under his fingernail. Unfolding the letter, he scanned the single page, his brows drawing into a frown.
“Well?” I asked, when he didn’t say anything. “Where do you prefer to go? The Mediterranean is rather nice, I hear.”
“It isn’t a threat.” Still frowning, Griffin held the letter out to me, as if imploring me to make sense of it. “Or an attempt to bribe me away from you.”
“Then what?”
“It seems your father wishes to hire me.”
~ * ~
Two days later, we stood on the street in front of Whyborne House, staring up at the pretentious family crest emblazoned above the heavy doors. A feeling of dread curled in my belly; I couldn’t imagine what Father was about, but past experience suggested it would prove highly unpleasant.
The offer of hire had included an invitation to dinner, which might have been something of a peace offering, or a tacit acknowledgement of Griffin’s status in my life. Or it might have been some new attempt on Father’s part to manipulate me, which seemed far more likely.
The butler, Mr. Fenton, opened the door at our knock, the usual expression of displeasure affixed to his face. The staff lived in fear of him. Actually, I’d been rather afraid of him myself as a child.
His eyes flicked dismissively over Griffin, although my companion appeared quite presentable in his best suit and hat, with a lovely new tie, accentuating the threads of blue in his eyes. No doubt the fact he was in my company damned him enough.
“Master Whyborne,” Fenton said. Without any further acknowledgment, he turned and led the way inside. A maid took our hats and coats then melted away, leaving us to follow Fenton.
The house looked exactly as it had since my childhood. Marble floors and dark wood, brooding portraits of past Whybornes glaring their disapproval at me. Fenton led the way to a parlor, which disappointed me; I had hoped for the opportunity to speak with Mother before dinner.
Fenton departed, closing the door behind him. Griffin wandered across the room, taking in everything with those sharp eyes, which missed very little. “This is where you grew up?” He sounded strange, as if he hadn’t quite realized…what? A house could be this cold and uninviting? Or how garish its displays of wealth might be?
“Unfortunately. At least Fenton put us in the parlor for intimate friends, instead of the formal one. Perhaps it’s a good sign?”
Griffin’s eyes widened slightly. “This is the informal parlor?”
“Well…yes.” I looked around, wondering where his sudden distress originated. Mementos of various kinds crowded the parlor, many of them handed down from previous generations. Photographs in gilded frames sat atop the mantel: a family portrait of Guinevere, Stanford, and myself as children; another of our parents dressed in their wedding attire; the mourning photograph of my twin sister, who had died within hours of our birth. Several hideous, but expensive, vases sported fresh flowers, and an ugly clock crusted with emeralds loudly ticked away the seconds. Father’s cavalry sword hung in a place of honor on the wall; he’d served with General Grant in the war.
“These are all family heirlooms,” I said, nodding vaguely. “The formal parlor is more concerned with business and, well, money.”
Griffin looked at a loss to reply. The opening of the door saved him from having to do so. I turned automatically, expecting Fenton or my father, and instead found Mother, dressed for dinner.
“Oh!” I said, and hastened across the room to her. Her skin held the unnatural pallor of long illness, and deep lines of strain bracketed her mouth, but the smile she gave me was bright as the summer sun. It had been years since she’d attended even the lightest of social duties; for the most part she remained confined to her rooms at the top of the house, and I could not imagine what had changed.
“Mother! I hadn’t expected—I mean, are you joining us for dinner?”
She laughed and embraced me. I returned the embrace carefully, painfully conscious of how frail she felt in my arms, like a bird, nothing but bones and a little skin.
“Of course I am!” she said, as if she didn’t usuall
y find even family meals to be beyond her. “It’s good to see you, Percival. Aren’t you going to introduce your friend?”
She’d done this for me, hadn’t she? Dressed formally, fixed her hair, put on jewelry, and forced her aching, weak body to navigate the long stairs, just to meet Griffin.
The oppressive atmosphere of the house lightened, and my breath came more freely. There might be no love lost between Father and me, but Mother had encouraged my bookish interests. She’d even sold her own jewelry to finance my degree, when Father cut me off from the family funds.
“Of course; forgive my rudeness,” I said, leading her across the room to where Griffin waited. “Mother, allow me to present Mr. Griffin Flaherty. Griffin, this is my mother, Mrs. Heliabel Whyborne.”
She extended her hand. Griffin took it with an elegant bow. “Mrs. Whyborne, it’s my honor. Your son speaks of you with great fondness.”
“Please, Mr. Flaherty, I almost feel you are one of the family. Do address me as Heliabel.”
Griffin’s smile was surprised but genuine. “If you will do me the honor of calling me Griffin.”
“Percival’s last letter said you were visiting Vermont. I hope you had a pleasant trip?”
I stood back and watched as they conversed. Griffin led her to a seat, and within minutes they chatted like old friends. Of course, I had never spoken to Mother of my romantic feelings toward my own sex, but she knew my mind perhaps better than any other. No doubt she had divined the truth long ago.
A gong rang from deep in the house, and I stiffened. There would be only four of us at the table, but heaven forbid a servant simply come to fetch us. The pleasant aura of the parlor evaporated, and my muscles tensed once again.
Mother rose, and I offered her my arm automatically. There was a decided gleam in her eye as she took it. Leaning close, she murmured, “He’s very handsome.”
Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3 Page 28
