by Ava March
Hand braced on Vincent’s thigh, Marsden picked up a rhythm of long plunging strokes that had an orgasm tickling the base of his spine in no time.
It would feel so good to spill down Marsden’s throat, to have the man suck every last drop out of him. But…he tugged on his hair. With a crude wet popping noise, those lush lips were pulled from his prick. Marsden’s long lashes rested against his flushed cheekbones, his quick pants fanning across Vincent’s glistening length.
“I want you on the bed. Naked. Now.”
Marsden trembled, the barest of whimpers escaping him. Then he scrambled to his feet and hurried through the open door of his bedchamber.
He heard Marsden scurrying around in the next room. Vincent removed his coat and waistcoat and draped them over the back of the old upholstered armchair near the fireplace, giving Marsden the time he needed to follow his orders. When the rustling and distinct creaks of the bed ceased, he went into the bedchamber.
Satisfaction surged through him at the sight of Marsden, naked and lying on the bed, as instructed. The man was sleek yet compact, his muscles defined beneath golden skin that looked even more inviting under the glow of the candle on the bedside table. Not a single dark hair marred his flawless chest. Legs slightly spread, he had his erection in one hand, stroking the length, and his ballocks cupped in the other. Full lower lip captured between his white teeth, his gaze tracked Vincent’s every movement.
There was nothing quite like the feel of that intent dark gaze. The lust and need there. Desperate and dependent, wanting him and only him.
He stopped at the foot of the bed. “Should you be touching your prick?” he asked, as he untied his cravat.
Marsden snatched his hands to his sides. His hard cock jutted from his body, pointing straight to the ceiling.
Vincent took his time removing the rest of his clothes, allowing the anticipation to crank even higher until he couldn’t keep his hands from shaking as he pushed his trousers down his legs, leaving them in a heap at his feet.
He eyed the utilitarian wooden headboard with its single plain rail spanning the width of the bed. Marsden’s wrists would look quite nice tied to that rail, arms stretched overhead, his beautiful body Vincent’s to do with as he pleased.
He grabbed his discarded cravat. Head lowered, he crawled onto the bed and up Marsden’s body. When he reached Marsden’s groin, the man lifted his hips, putting the flushed crown mere inches from his lips.
“Kiss me,” Marsden murmured. Vincent watched Marsden’s abdomen tighten, a tremor seizing the sleek muscles of his thighs. His prick bobbed, conveying in no uncertain terms where he wanted that kiss.
Crouched over Marsden, Vincent stared, transfixed by the drop of clear fluid beaded at the tip.
Kiss him? There? As in press his lips to another man’s prick?
Gut instinct urged him to jerk back, yet the musky scent of Marsden’s pretty cock was an oddly irresistible lure, begging him to discover if he tasted that sweet.
Marsden grabbed his upper arm and tugged. “Just fuck me.” He twisted beneath him, his calves brushing Vincent’s erection as he rolled onto his stomach. He snatched the bottle of oil from the bedside table, and reaching back, handed it to Vincent.
He gave his head a sharp shake, clearing the disorientation, and took the proffered bottle, leaving the cravat on the bed by his knee. Shoulders pressed to the mattress, Marsden arched his back and tipped his hips up. Once again on solid ground, Vincent rocked back onto his haunches and oiled his length, his gaze on that perfect round arse presented so sweetly to him. Then he quickly poured more oil onto his fingers, probed between those cheeks, searching for his entrance, and shoved two fingers inside.
Marsden sucked in a swift breath, the muscles in his back tightening and then, with a grunt, pushed back, impaling himself on Vincent’s fingers. He rocked once, twice.
“Fuck me. Now.”
Vincent pulled his fingers free. “I’ll give you now,” he growled, grabbing Marsden’s slim hips and pushing past the tight ring of muscle.
Marsden whimpered. Not in pleasure but in pain. The sound cut through the thick haze of passion. Vincent hesitated, not wanting to hurt his friend.
But Marsden shook his head. “More. All of it, Vincent,” he said, more demand than request, shimmying closer.
The hell with it. If he wanted more, he’d get it all. On his knees and straddling Marsden’s thighs, Vincent tugged up the man’s hips and pushed deeper, into exquisite heat, blazing hot and oh, so snug.
“Damn. So fucking good,” he hissed, caressing the length of Marsden’s back. The lust drumming through his veins eased just a bit, enough for him to take a moment to luxuriate in simply being joined with Marsden. This was what he needed. It was always so perfect with Marsden. And he didn’t have to think about anything but the man beneath him.
Impatient, Marsden bucked back, working himself on Vincent’s length. The lush, silken tug of his body sent lust thundering through him once again.
One hand holding Marsden steady, Vincent braced his weight on the other and slammed into him. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes. Yes.” Biceps bulging, Marsden gripped the gray blanket with white-knuckled fists. His hair had fallen forward, hiding his face. Fine tendrils stuck to his sweat-slicked nape. He gasped, groaned, begged for more. Their bodies slapped together, hard smacks that made an orgasm tease Vincent’s ballocks.
Marsden shifted, trying to work a hand under his belly. Vincent smacked his arm away. “No. Come off with just my cock in your arse, boy.” Only him, and nothing else, would bring Marsden to orgasm tonight. He crouched lower over the man, sank his teeth into the apple of his shoulder, and thrust harder. Sharp, rough, frantic thrusts. The bed shook under the onslaught, the old wooden joints creaking, blending with the sound of Vincent’s feral grunts.
He felt Marsden tighten around him, felt the tension in every line of his body as he reached for completion. Those little gasping grunts grew louder, quicker, hitching in his throat. Vincent canted his hips, changing the angle of his thrusts, needing Marsden to climax now.
“Ah, yes!”
Marsden’s passage clutched his length so tightly Vincent couldn’t hold back his own climax. It rushed upon him, a searing wave of pleasure that left him struggling to catch his breath.
Arms giving out, he slumped down, half on top of Marsden. Vincent pressed a kiss to Marsden’s sweaty nape and then rested his head on his shoulder. Languor, warm and comforting and soothing, settled over him. Marsden had his head turned the other way, his tangled hair inches from Vincent’s face. Vincent blindly reached around, his fingertips whispering over Marsden’s brow and tucking the damp hair behind his ear.
Rain lashed the window; the once steady drops had turned into a downpour. It would be hell to find a hackney in this weather. Perhaps…he could stay with Marsden tonight. He always woke at the first light of dawn regardless of where he slept, and well, if he left early enough, then it would reduce the likelihood of coming face-to-face with one of the other inhabitants of the building.
He knew he couldn’t remain here, in this shabby apartment, forever. But for some reason, he found himself loath to leave his friend.
An elbow nudged him, hard, in the ribs.
“Off. You’re damn heavy.”
“Sorry.” Vincent reluctantly shifted off Marsden’s warm body and onto the cool, coarse blanket. He was much heavier than Marsden. Should have been more considerate.
Marsden wiggled out from under the arm Vincent had slung across his back, got out of bed, and walked to the washstand. Vincent couldn’t help but feel smug. He knew exactly what caused that slight hitch in Marsden’s step.
My cock.
Could Marsden still feel him, buried deep in his arse? He hoped he could. That every step reminded him of Vincent. A little smile on his lips, he closed his eyes and waited for Marsden to come back to bed.
A wet lump landed on his lower back. He flinched. Damnation. It was icy c
old, too. He reached back and plucked the cloth off his back, dropping it to the floor. “What was that for?”
“You need to be on your way, don’t you?” Marsden stood at the washstand, arms crossed over his chest. His prick, hanging limp between his legs, appeared damp, as if he’d just washed away the remnants of his climax. A faint sneer twisted his full, kissable lips.
Brilliant. Sex had not cured Marsden of his prickly mood. Inhaling deeply though his nose, Vincent gathered his patience. “What’s wrong? Are you still upset because I was a half hour late tonight?”
Marsden shrugged, a distinctly uncomfortable lift of his shoulder, and turned his back to him. He shook out the cloth that had been balled up next to the basin and folded it. What a perfect time for Marsden to decide to tidy up the washstand.
What had got into him? The man should be pliant and lax in his arm, not grumping about and throwing things at him.
Completely off balance, Vincent sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Without looking at him, Marsden stalked over to the chest of drawers and yanked out a pair of white linen drawers.
“Why won’t you stay?” he asked, bending over to put on the underclothes.
Vincent let out a heavy sigh. He certainly wasn’t going to stay tonight, not with Marsden behaving like a surly, malcontent adolescent. “This again? I told you why last night.”
There was that condescending snort again. Vincent ground his teeth together.
“No one in the building will care or even notice, Vincent.” He snatched his trousers from the floor. “When will I see you again?”
“Tomorrow if you’d like.” Bloody hell. Lady Juliana. How could he forget? She was expecting him. “I have a call to pay, but I can stop by after. Would noon be all right?”
Vincent clenched his hand. If the man snorted one more time…
“Of course I’ll be here. Where else would I be?” Marsden’s hair fell over his brow, hiding his face as he buttoned the placket of his trousers. “But could you be on time for once? I hate being by myself all day, alone, just waiting for you.”
For once? He was late twice, and this was the treatment he received? “Perhaps you should seek employment. Give yourself something more productive to do all day.”
“And what should I do?” Marsden demanded, his head snapping up. “I’m not you, Vincent. I didn’t attend university.”
“There are many options available to you, if you choose to expend the effort to look.” Therein lay Marsden’s problem. He was a capable fellow, but he had yet to take the initiative to make something of himself. “You cannot hide behind your grandmother for the rest of your life. She’s close to ninety years of age. Quite frankly, I’m amazed she’s held on this long. Likely only did it out of spite. Eventually you will need to settle on an occupation, unless you plan to find another old woman and serve as her companion.”
“Bugger off, Vincent,” he snarled.
Anger surged up his throat, tightening his jaw, his patience beyond tried. “Pardon?” he asked in a low voice.
Marsden picked up his shirt from the floor and slowly straightened, the white linen balled in his fist. Hard dark brown eyes met his. “You know, the only time I see you anymore is whenever you deign to stop by and grace me with your presence. And that’s only when you can find a few moments in your busy schedule. You go out of town for weeks on end, and you never invite me along. I rarely go to White’s or a ball or anywhere I know you’ll be because I don’t want to be ignored. Christ, Vincent, no one suspects that you’re buggering me. No one.” He tugged his shirt over his head, tucking it into the waistband of his trousers with sharp jabs. “You’re goddamn Lord Vincent Prescot. You’re perfect. You would never do such a thing and especially not with someone like me.”
Vincent took a moment to try to piece together his fraying temper. “Sodomy is against the law. If word got out, we would be ruined. We could be hanged.”
“I am well aware of that, Vincent. You don’t have to tutor me in everything.”
Unwilling to continue sitting naked while Marsden snarled at him, Vincent stood and found his trousers at the foot of the bed. This was not the way he had envisioned his evening. A pleasant meal and then sex. Not an unexpected demand to marry his brother’s intended followed by a heated argument on an empty stomach five minutes after Marsden had climaxed on Vincent’s cock.
He was buttoning the placket when Marsden spoke again, his voice low and unmistakably hurt.
“Contrary to what others may believe, I am not a complete idiot. I know why you insist on always being in control. On tying me up, restraining me. I will do whatever you ask of me, without question, because I want to be with you. Yet you won’t even touch your precious lips to my prick.”
Vincent gaped at him, alarm skittering down his spine. If he had felt off balance before, it was nothing compared to now. “Is that what this is about? I wouldn’t suck you off tonight, and now you’re angry with me?”
Marsden threw his hands in the air. “No.” Then he shook his head and dragged his hands through his hair, a wince pulling his beautiful features. “Well, not completely. You don’t understand. The way you treat me sometimes, I wonder why you even bother with me at all.”
He didn’t understand? That was putting it mildly. “When you behave like this, Marsden, I wonder as well.”
Teeth bared, Marsden growled, his face flushed and contorted with rage, every line in his body drawn tight, poised to attack. “Stop condescending to me and stop calling me Marsden! We’re not at White’s. You just fucked me. You can damn well call me Oliver.” He swiped something off the chest of drawers. “And I’m not your damn whore. I don’t need your money.”
Vincent sidestepped, avoiding the gold sovereigns that had been aimed right at his chest. The coins hit the wall and clattered to the wooden floor.
Marsden snatched his coat and stomped from the room.
By God, the man was not walking away from him. Not after that fit. Vincent took up pursuit. Shoving his arms in the sleeves of his coat, Marsden was heading straight for the front door.
A strange sort of desperation leeched into his veins. Vincent quickened his pace. “If you’re going to storm out the door, at least put on a coat that doesn’t look like you grabbed it from a rag bin.”
Marsden spun from the door. “Do you love me?”
Vincent halted in his tracks. “Pardon?” Those knots were back, twisting his stomach so tightly he was thankful they had not had that pleasant meal. His heart slammed high and hard against his ribs.
“Do you love me, Vincent?”
Stunned, he opened his mouth, but nothing would come out. All he could do was stare into his friend’s eyes. Cold, hard eyes that used to look at him with such adoration and respect.
“I knew it. You still haven’t fully admitted to yourself that you prefer men.” A sneer pulling his lips, Marsden shook his head, all dismissive condescension. “I’m tired of waiting for you. Good-bye, Prescot.”
And Vincent watched, his jaw still hanging open, as his friend walked out the door.
Chapter Five
The door snapped shut. The rapid thumps of Marsden’s footsteps faded until Vincent couldn’t hear anything but the sound of his heart beating, a quick harsh staccato against his ears.
He lurched forward, grabbed the brass knob, and then glanced down at himself.
“Bloody hell!”
He couldn’t leave the apartments in only his trousers. But even if he were dressed, what the hell was he thinking? That he’d chase Marsden down? And then what? They’d continue their argument on the street, for all of London to see?
Letting out a growl of pure frustration, he slammed his fist into the wall. Why couldn’t Marsden be content with the way things were? Why did he have to demand so much of him?
“Goddamn it, Marsden! And why tonight?” He slammed his fist into the wall again, but all he got for his effort was smarting knuckles.
Gritting his teeth, he speared
his fingers into his hair, gripped his skull tight. All the words Marsden had slung at him blended together to form a brutal riot in his head, until he couldn’t distinguish one word from another. Until his knees threatened to buckle under the sheer force of it.
Then Marsden’s parting words rose above the tangled, noxious mass.
“Good-bye, Prescot.”
And all the fury and rage and frustration drained out of him, slumping his shoulders, leaving him beyond weary. His arms dropped limply to his sides.
He stood there—for how long, he didn’t know—his breaths coming in great pulling gasps, the rain beating on the windows.
Then he numbly turned from the door and trudged across the small parlor. He pulled the bottle of mediocre Bordeaux from the wicker basket and poured a glass. After downing the contents in two long swallows, he refilled the glass and went to the couch.
He flicked aside the newspapers on the cushions and sat down heavily. Resting his elbows on his knees, he cradled the glass in his hands and hung his head. Never in his life had he felt so powerless. So at a complete loss for how to right a situation. In the space of a couple hours, his neat, orderly life had spun completely out of control.
First his father and now this. And here he had thought everything was perfect between himself and Marsden. That they understood each other. That Marsden was happy with him.
Apparently not.
“I will do whatever you ask of me, without question, because I want to be with you.”
Had Marsden only submitted to please him? Because he had been trying to mold himself into what Vincent desired and not because he wanted to?
No, no. Vincent pushed aside the anxiety and forced himself to think rationally. Over the years, he had been with enough men at that brothel to know the difference. Marsden had not been acting these past six months. No one could respond the way he did and not genuinely crave the give and take of their erotic games.
Vincent rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension there. Had it been a mistake to allow their friendship to move into the bedroom? He winced, dreading the thought of visiting a brothel again. No. Not that. Never again. The situation with Marsden had been ideal. Had being the operative word. Now, though… He doubted they could even go back to just being friends.
