Bound to Him (Bound Series Book 2)

by Ava March

  “More, more. Please!”

  “I’ll give you more.” Grabbing his forearms, Vincent yanked his upper body from the bed and slammed hard, hitting that perfect spot inside him.

  Pure molten pleasure overloaded his senses. Oliver threw back his head and howled. The orgasm raced down his spine. Seed shot from his prick. The heavy pulses seized his nerves in rhythm to his lover’s demanding thrusts.

  “That’s it. Come off for me, boy. Grip my cock so damn tight.” Vincent’s ballocks smacked against him, as he took what he needed, stroking hard and fast.

  He hung his head, gasped for breath. Senses shimmering from that powerful orgasm, he couldn’t stop himself from begging for more even though his arse throbbed under the onslaught. With each thrust, the wet tip of his still-hard cock smacked his belly, sending jagged vibrations down to his drained ballocks. Yet he took it all. Savored every bit of Vincent’s undivided attention. Let the man do as he pleased with him. After four long weeks without him, he didn’t want to stop. Not now. Not ever.

  Vincent’s pants turned into short, gravelly grunts, growing louder, harsher in time to the quick snap of his hips, until Oliver felt the shudders shake Vincent’s powerful body and warmth flood his passage.

  With his prick still buried deep within Oliver, Vincent hauled him fully up against his sweat-slicked chest and wrapped his arms around him. The comforting embrace calmed the frantic need pounding through his veins, enveloping him in a rich, thick languor. Oliver’s eyes drifted closed, his head tipping back onto Vincent’s broad shoulder. He could stay like this forever. Held close to Vincent, intimately joined with him.

  For many moments, the only sounds that broke the silence were their hard, labored breaths. Then soft lips nuzzled his ear. Oliver turned his head, needing Vincent’s kiss. His lover’s mouth met his, and with a greedy groan, Oliver slipped his tongue past those parted lips. The sweet, hot taste of Vincent saturated his senses, made his head go light, pulling that frantic need back to the surface. Tugging on his wrists, he pressed back against Vincent’s chest, trying to get closer to the man he loved, to get more of him. Damn leather cuffs. He wanted to wrap his arms around Vincent, tangle his fingers in his hair, crush the man to him, and deepen the frustratingly languid kiss.

  Vincent pulled back, breaking the kiss long before Oliver had his fill. His eyes were heavy-lidded, the brilliant blue depths hazy with sated lust. A hint of a smile played on his mouth. “Let’s get you untied.” The low rumbling words brushed across Oliver’s wet lips.

  Vincent’s arms tightened around him before releasing him, his softened prick slipping from his body. Oliver held back the protest and did his best to balance on weak knees as Vincent unbuckled the leather cuffs. Vincent tossed the restraints aside, the leather and metal buckles clattering to the wooden floor. Then he gently massaged Oliver’s wrists and forearms, soothing the sweaty skin.

  “Better?” Vincent pressed a kiss to the apple of his shoulder.

  “Yes.” Oliver sighed. A roll of his shoulders loosened his stiff joints. He crawled farther up the bed, past the wet spot on the woolen blanket, nudging the jade dildo Vincent had discarded to the edge of the mattress, and flopped down on his stomach. He was sweaty and sticky and should clean himself up, but he couldn’t summon the effort just yet. “Come here,” he mumbled with a half-hearted wave of his arm. It really was all he could muster.

  The mattress dipped and shook as Vincent crawled toward him. The bed wasn’t all that large, barely wide enough for the two of them. Pulling Oliver close, he lay down on his back, fitting him against his side. Letting out a contented sigh, Oliver nestled even closer, until he was draped half-over Vincent’s body, his leg tangled with Vincent’s, his arm slung across his broad chest. He could feel the man’s heart beating against his cheek. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

  His world narrowed until all that existed were the strong, steady beats of his lover’s heart, the intoxicating scent of his sweat and skin, and the lulling caress of the large hand kneading his backside.

  I love you.

  He tried to get the words out, but he was so exhausted his mouth didn’t want to cooperate.

  A hand gripped his wrist, the hold light but enough to bring him to full consciousness and prompt him to blink open his heavy eyelids. Vincent lifted Oliver’s arm off his chest, moved out from beneath him, and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stood and, avoiding the clothing littering the floor, walked to the washstand.

  The fire in the grate warmed the room enough to take the bite out of the air from Oliver’s drafty window. Still, he felt the loss of Vincent’s warm body acutely.

  Water splashed as Vincent dunked a cloth in the white ceramic basin. The muscles in his back bunched and flexed as he wiped his chest. His buttocks tightened as he swiped lower, between his legs. The water was no doubt quite cold. Unlike Vincent, he didn’t have a house full of servants to see to such small tasks, like heating wash water, dusting, or tidying up in his wake.

  His eyes drifted closed again. He heard Vincent moving about. With each creak of the floorboards, tension seeped into him, dousing that perfectly blissful feeling of complete contentment.

  Keeping his eyes closed wouldn’t change the inevitable. He forced his eyelids to open.

  The black suspenders attached to the waistband of Vincent’s trousers stretched across his white-shirted back as he leaned down to grab his waistcoat from the floor near the foot of the bed.

  Oliver’s stomach tightened. “Where are you going?” Stupid question to ask. Of course he wouldn’t stay the night. He never did.

  “Home,” Vincent replied matter-of-factly, slipping on the cream silk waistcoat.

  Oliver pushed up to sit cross-legged and put on the spectacles he’d left on the bedside table. One hand draped over his limp cock, he twisted the rumpled sheet at his hip between his fingers. He hated sitting on the bed, watching Vincent prepare to leave. Made him feel like a pitiful, lovesick fool. “You could stay.” Bloody hell. And now he sounded like one, too.

  His pathetic offer didn’t even make Vincent pause as he picked up his cravat. “My carriage is waiting.”

  “So send it home. Take a hackney in the morning. You were gone for almost a month, Vincent.” Don’t leave me yet.

  “I can’t leave your apartments in the morning. The other tenants in the building might notice and wonder why I stayed the night. In any case, I have an early appointment with my banker.”

  Yes, of course, how could he forget? Vincent was a busy man with many pressing responsibilities. Heaven forbid if Oliver dared to take precedence over any of them.

  Using the mirror above the washstand, Vincent tied his cravat. A few deft flicks of his fingers and a couple of tugs, and he produced a perfect Mathematical knot. “By the way, you should let me manage your investments.”

  Oliver shook his head. “I can manage them myself.”

  “You could be earning a better return. Enough to move out of here.” He motioned with the comb in his hand—indicating the shabby bedchamber with its threadbare brown velvet drapes over the drafty window and its too-small, old bed—and then went back to smoothing the short layers of his dark hair.

  My apologies you have to lower your standards to fuck me. Oliver bit his tongue, holding back the surly retort. For all Vincent knew, he could be managing his accounts quite smartly. But of course, Vincent correctly assumed his investments yielded a paltry sum. Oliver wasn’t comfortable putting his money into the Exchange, or other more risky ventures. Unlike Vincent, he didn’t have the security of an obscenely wealthy father behind him. Yes, Vincent’s father ignored him in favor of his elder brother, the precious heir to the Saye and Sele marquessate, but the man would never let his youngest son go penniless. Even with his properties and investments, Oliver was certain Vincent’s father still gave him a sizable quarterly allowance. Whereas all Oliver had was the small inheritance he’d received years ago from his mother. If he lost it, he’d have nothing. The
income did not yield much, but enough for him to live on if he kept a very close eye on his expenses and didn’t indulge in such luxuries like hackney fare or a maid or a stately white stucco townhouse in Mayfair.

  “It’s not like I live in some flash house in the stews.” He couldn’t keep the defensive note from his voice.

  Vincent did up the last button on his navy coat. “Don’t get your hackles up, Marsden. I was only offering to help.” He held up a hand to stay him when Oliver opened his mouth. “But yes, I understand. You can manage it yourself.”

  Good. Glad we understand each other. Oliver swiped his unruly hair behind his ear then, letting out a breath, forced aside the irritation. He didn’t want to start an argument with Vincent. Not when he only had a few minutes left with him.

  Vincent crossed the room and picked up his gold pocket watch from the dented little silver tray on the bedside table. From his crisp white cravat to his polished evening shoes, he was the very image of a proper aristocrat. One would never guess by looking at him that he’d just buggered another man. Oliver soaked up his strong profile—the slightly roman nose, the neatly combed hair, the dark brows furrowed the tiniest bit as Vincent attached the watch chain to his waistcoat. He must have shaved tonight before he went to the hell, for there wasn’t even the hint of a shadow of a dark beard on his jaw.

  “Love you,” Oliver whispered.

  Vincent’s lips curved in a smile, his blue eyes softening with genuine affection. Oliver’s heart leapt into his throat, pleading for the response he knew Vincent would not utter. He wanted to hear those words just once. One time. Even if Vincent didn’t feel them. He could at least have the sound of them as a memory and play them over in head as he lay alone in his bed and pretend they had come from Vincent’s heart.

  Vincent cupped his jaw. Eyes drifting closed, Oliver leaned into his touch. A quiver of need shook his body. Soft lips brushed his, the lightest of touches, a mere whisper of skin against skin. Then that large hand slipped away.

  “I’ll bring supper tomorrow. Eight o’clock all right?”

  Oliver pressed his lips together and nodded.

  “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He couldn’t stop himself from watching Vincent walk from the room, his greatcoat in hand, and shut the door behind him. He heard his footsteps as he crossed the parlor. Then the front door snapped shut.

  “Why don’t you love me?” The words he could never make himself utter in Vincent’s presence echoed in the room. Mocking him, taunting him, a harsh reminder of what he did not have.

  He tossed his spectacles onto the bedside table and pressed the heels of his palms to his closed eyes, pushing back the misery, the threat of tears, and then dragged his hands down his face.

  “Christ. I’m fucking pathetic.” He punched his pillow and flopped down on the bed. Why did he torment himself like this? Vincent cared enough to be with him. Shouldn’t that be enough? A year ago, he would have given anything for a kiss from Vincent. In love with him for too many years to count, he had subsisted on mere friendship. A chance meeting on the street. A shared drink at White’s. All the while hiding his true feelings for his childhood friend.

  Until he discovered Vincent had secretly hired a man and not a woman during his visits to a brothel. An establishment Vincent no longer needed to frequent since he now had Oliver at his disposal.

  Hell, he had been extremely lucky Vincent hadn’t turned his back on him when he learned he had hired Oliver on that fateful night at the brothel. The resulting argument had not been pleasant, but in the end, it had gained him Vincent. Or whatever it was that he had of him.

  Oliver let out a heavy sigh and reminded himself forcefully that it had taken a lot for Vincent to accept the fact that he preferred men. Vincent excelled at most everything he did, and he had viewed those desires as a failure. Hadn’t he told Vincent six months ago that he wasn’t asking for his heart? He had known better at the time to not expect more than mere lust and affection.

  But it had been six months. Surely enough time for Vincent to become comfortable with his sexuality. To fully acknowledge to himself that he did indeed prefer men. To completely accept that part of himself and open his heart to Oliver.

  But therein lay the problem.

  While Oliver loved to submit to Vincent, to give himself over to the man he adored, the tight leash Vincent kept on their sexual activities screamed loud and clear that he wasn’t ready to be fully intimate with another man.

  Be patient. Be patient. How many times had he told himself that? Used those words to pacify the all-encompassing need gripping his heart? But it damn well hurt that Vincent did not love him.

  All he wanted was to be with Vincent. To be near the man. To be able to take in a deep breath and soak up the scent of him.

  To have Vincent need him, as Oliver needed Vincent.

  The pressing question was—could he?

  “Enough,” he told himself as he rolled over. He’d have one hell of a sleepless night if he kept this up. He tugged the woolen blanket up to his chest and did his best to clear his mind and allow sleep to overtake him. To not think about how Vincent had stayed in Rotherham one week longer than originally expected. How he had arrived at the gambling hell two hours late without even an apology until Oliver had reminded him of his tardiness. And about the tiny distance Vincent kept between them.

  That distance that now felt like a damn chasm.

  Chapter Three

  Oliver slowly closed the leather-bound book, careful to keep the pages of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet from rustling. Holding his breath, he set the book on the pedestal tea table beside his chair and moved to stand.

  “If you want to leave, say so. You do yourself a disservice trying to sneak away like some sort of inept thief.”

  Damnation. Oliver slumped back into the chair. “My apologies, Grandmother. I thought you had fallen asleep. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “I am not asleep.”

  Obviously. He kept from rolling his eyes. The doctor claimed advanced age had severely diminished her eyesight, but Oliver didn’t believe him. Nothing escaped the older woman’s notice. He picked up the book. “Would you like me to continue reading aloud?”

  She waved a small, bony hand, the intricate lace cuff of her dressing gown fluttering with the movement. “No. You clearly have had your fill of me for one day.”

  He sighed. “That’s not true, Grandmother.”

  The afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, the golden rays creating a halo effect around her gray head. Propped up against a pile of fluffy white pillows, and with the ivory coverlet tucked about her waist, she looked so very tiny and frail, but her sharp tongue belied her appearance. The carriage accident almost a decade ago had left her an invalid, confining her to her massive four-poster bed. If not for him, she would be left with only the company of two servants. She might not be the most pleasant individual, but she was his grandmother and he did love her.

  Frowning, she selected a scone from the box nestled at her hip and took a bite. Likely she only tolerated his visits because he brought her sweets.

  “Would you care for another cup of tea?” he asked.

  “You’ve already pushed three cups on me. I do not need another.” She finished the scone and closed the baker’s box.

  He remained seated, waiting patiently as she struggled to retie the red ribbon around the box. If he offered his assistance, he’d only get snapped at.

  When she finished, she set the box on top of one of the piles of books on her bedside table. Othello, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, MacBeth. He knew every one of those books by heart. After readjusting the coverlet about her, she turned her attention back to him. “When are you going to take a wife?”

  He squirmed in the pink floral silk chair. Where had that question come from? And how could he tell her never without revealing why? He reached up and straightened the jade pin on his cravat. He belonged to Vincent, never with another. />
  “Radford’s married and has already produced an heir,” he said, referring to his elder brother, who held the courtesy title Earl of Radford. His brother’s wife had written to him from Northumberland a few weeks ago informing him of the event. The countess was as bland and aloof as his brother, but at least she remembered he existed.

  “What does that have to do with your future wife?”

  “There’s little chance the title will come to me. So there’s no need to inflict myself on some innocent woman for the sake of securing the title.” A title that was little more than a name and a neglected property in Wiltshire, since his father had long since bled the estate dry.

  Thin lips pursed, she stared at him, her cloudy, dark brown gaze sharp and piercing. “I never did much care for Radford or your father.”

  No surprise there. She didn’t much care for anyone.

  “But you…you should take a wife.”

  Oliver shook his head. The woman was definitely getting on in years. She wasn’t making the least bit of sense. “But I don’t have anything to offer a wife. No prospects. A pittance of an income. I can’t afford to pay a lady’s modiste bills, much less purchase a home for her to live in.”

  “Nonsense,” she declared, all aristocratic condescension. “You are the son of a marquess. That alone will fetch you a chit with a decent dowry, enough for you to live comfortably. She will marry you for your name, and you will marry her for her money.”

  How cold and impersonal. He winced.

  “That is what is done.” She punctuated her words with a short, determined nod. “How marriages are made, and how your mother came to marry your father, and how I came to marry your grandfather. Sentiment has no place in marriage. Do not forget that. Expecting more will only lead to disappointment.”

  But of course. Why ever would he expect someone to love him? A tide of misery, so fresh it felt as if Vincent had just walked out the door, tightened his throat. He tipped his chin down, letting his over-long, jaw-length hair partially obscure his face, and studied the ornate embossed leatherwork on the book’s cover in his lap, as he struggled to regain his composure. “Ah…I’ll…I’ll keep that in mind, Grandmother.”