by Ava March
Oliver bucked forward, and Vincent jerked back a bit, fighting the impulse to gag. Closing his eyes, he swallowed down the gag reflex and bobbed along Oliver’s length. Salt and sweat and hot silken skin blended together to form the sweetest thing Vincent had ever tasted. It lit up his tongue, urging him to take more, to suck harder, to pull every last drop from his lover’s prick.
“Stop, stop, stop!”
He pulled back and glared up at Oliver. He might have never sucked a cock before, but he knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end, and that damn well should have felt good to him. “My precious lips finally touch your prick and you tell me to stop?”
“Yes,” Oliver whined. There was no other word for it. The man actually whined. “You were going to make me climax.”
Vincent arched one eyebrow. “That’s the point.”
“But I want you to fuck me. Please, Vincent. I need you.”
“Do you now?” he asked, fighting to keep the smug smile from his lips as he got to his feet.
“Yes, yes. Now. I need you. I need to feel you inside me. Please.”
His threadbare whimper did more than crank up the lust pounding through his veins, it tugged on Vincent’s heart, reminding him anew of how perfect they were together. Two halves of a whole, he had once described them. How the hell could he have been so foolish as to even consider his father’s request? He wouldn’t give up Oliver for the world.
The impatient rattle of chain snapped him to his senses. Vincent slicked his cock with oil then poured a generous amount in his palm and swiped it between those still red cheeks, the skin hot to the touch. He pushed one finger inside, then another.
Oliver went up onto his toes, breath hitching in his throat. “I need you. Now. Now. Now.”
Grabbing hold of his slim hips, Vincent pushed past the tight ring of muscle and into hot, clinging, welcoming heat.
As Oliver shuddered beneath him, he wrapped his arms around him, pressed a kiss to his shoulder and growled, “And now you have me. Forever.”
* * *
Oliver snuggled closer to Vincent. The man generated a remarkable amount of heat, but it only warmed one side as he sprawled on top of him. He blinked open his tired eyes and turned his head, looking for the blanket.
Shafts of sunlight seeped through the gaps in the drapes. Morning? But…
He bolted upright, straddling Vincent’s hips, and stared down at him. Alert and bemused brilliant blue eyes met his.
“You stayed.”
Vincent’s lips twisted in a grimace, all aristocratic affront. “Of course. Did you honestly believe I wouldn’t?”
“Well, you never have before.”
A deep sigh expanded Vincent’s chest. “And I apologize for that. I should have stayed, many times. And I will stay more often than not in the future. But not every night. You do understand, don’t you?” He took hold of Oliver’s hand and gave it a squeeze. The amusement left his eyes, replaced with solemn gravity. “Just know that when I do return home at night, it’s not because I don’t want to stay with you. I do. But we still need to be very discreet, Oliver.”
He feathered his fingertips over Vincent’s mouth, drawn in a grim line. “It’s all right. I understand.” The reality of their relationship was sometimes hard to bear. It seemed wrong to have to hide his love for this man, but it was something he had learned to accept long ago.
Twisting around, Oliver snagged the edge of the blanket from the foot of the bed. He should start a fire, but he didn’t want to get out of bed just yet. With the blanket draped over him, he dropped down and snuggled back up to Vincent again.
His eyes drifted closed. The soft hair on Vincent’s chest lightly tickled his nose. The strong beat of Vincent’s heart lulled his senses, tempting him to fall back into a blissful sleep.
“Oliver.”
“Yes?” he muttered.
“I need to go to Rotherham next week, and I want you to come with me. The house is small, and therefore the staff is small. They only come up from the village when I’m in residence, and only for the day. We can get a nurse to watch over your grandmother in your absence.”
He smiled against Vincent’s chest. “For how long?”
“A fortnight, maybe longer.”
“No longer than a fortnight. Can’t leave the shop unattended for an extended period. Just purchased the thing. Don’t want to be perceived as a negligent investor.” He tried for an off-handed tone, but he couldn’t keep the pride completely from his voice.
“You’ve made an investment?”
He shifted up onto his forearms. “Yes, I bought Wallace’s bookshop. It’s just around the corner. Not much of a shop, but I’ve grown quite fond of it.”
“And when did this happen?”
“Two weeks, five days ago. No, make that six days. Decided to expend a bit of effort.”
Vincent frowned once again. “I do apologize for that. Uncalled for and in bad form to say such a thing.”
“But necessary.”
“I wouldn’t—”
Oliver cut off his words with a kiss. “I would.” If not for Vincent, he would have never taken that step toward making something of himself.
“Well then, congratulations are in order. Well done, Oliver.”
“Why thank you, Vincent,” he said, flopping back down and hiding his grin against Vincent’s chest.
This man was his. Forever.
What an amazing concept.
Or was he?
Oliver levered up onto his forearms again. “I most certainly am not going to marry. Not ever. But are you ever going to marry?”
Vincent raised his eyebrows, clearly taken aback by the blunt question. “Um… I-I don’t want to. I truly would make a very poor husband. You’re the only person who will tolerate me and who will keep me in my place. But, Oliver, I won’t lie to you. I might need to someday. I sure as hell don’t want to, and I honestly don’t believe it will come to that, but if Grafton doesn’t produce an heir within a decade or so…” He turned his head, avoiding Oliver’s gaze. The truth was not pleasant to hear, but the strong arms holding him tight kept away any trace of despair. “I can’t let the estate go to Adams. He’s my father’s brother’s son. Next in line and more of a dolt than Grafton. Completely useless fellow. You understand, don’t you?” He sneaked a peek at Oliver from the corner of his eye. “Please say you do.”
Sharing Vincent was not a concept he was willing to explore. The man was his. No one else’s. And certainly not some woman’s. But he couldn’t demand Vincent turn his back on his responsibilities. He loved every inch of the man’s noble, honorable soul. The future might hold an unpleasant reality, but he had Vincent now and would savor every moment with him. “Yes, of course I understand.” He felt the tension ease from the powerful body under him.
Nodding solemnly, Vincent cupped his jaw in both hands and brushed the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip. “I do love you,” he murmured. “No matter what, I will always be yours.”
“Forever?”
“Yes, Oliver. I am bound to you, forever.”
Thank You
Thank you for taking the time to read Bound to Him. I hope you enjoyed the story.
Interested in finding out when my next book will be available? You can visit my website to sign up for my new release e-newsletter at www.avamarch.com, like my Facebook page at www.facebook.com/avamarchbooks, or follow me on Twitter at @ava_march.
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Bound to Him is the second book in The Bound Series. Interested in reading more about Oliver and Vincent? Check out the free short story Deliberately Unbound (Bound #2-1/2). To read an excerpt from Bound Forever (Bound #3), please turn the page.
Excerpt from Bound Forever (The Bound Series #3)
Lord Oliver Marsden’s life is perfect...well, almost perfect. His bookshop is doing well, his bank account isn’t empty, and his nights are filled with a delic
iously dominant man...who tends to be a bit too domineering outside of the bedchamber. But Vincent loves him and that’s all that should matter.
Then Vincent receives a letter that changes everything. Oliver seizes the moment and pushes Vincent toward a night they will never forget. Yet their night together has repercussions neither of them anticipated…
Enjoy the following excerpt from Bound Forever:
The runner in the short corridor muffled his footsteps as he made his way downstairs. It wasn’t a plush Aubusson rug like those in Vincent’s stately white stucco town house. Rather it was simple and functional, fitting the quaint country house. Oliver spent a fair amount of time at both of Vincent’s homes, and he felt much more at his ease in Rotherham, where a footman didn’t lurk about every corner.
And he knew for certain Vincent felt more comfortable being with him here. Vincent even shared a bed with him in the country. In London, that only happened at Oliver’s bachelor apartments. But at least more often than not he stayed until dawn.
“Good morning, Lord Oliver.” Mrs. Hollister turned from the sideboard, an ivory coffeepot in hand, as Oliver entered the dining room. Short and plump, with a ready smile crinkling the edges of her hazel eyes, the housekeeper was the most pleasant servant Oliver had ever encountered. The cleaning, the laundry, the cooking… She saw to it all and never appeared the least put out by even the most mundane of requests. A stark contrast to the formal versions at the town house or the surly ones that had inhabited his childhood home.
“Good morning to you, Mrs. Hollister. And a wonderfully fine morning it is.” He indicated the windows lining one wall, the drapes open, revealing the expanse of sun-warmed grass on the side of the house.
“Mighty fine indeed.” She lifted the ivory pot. “The coffee’s gone cold. If you’d like, I will deliver your cup to the study.”
“Thank you.” He picked up a small plate from the sideboard, ignored the two silver covered dishes, and selected a tart from the neat pile of pastries on the oval platter.
She bobbed a short curtsy before turning on her heel and disappearing through the narrow door that led to the kitchen, her dark brown skirts swooshing about her ankles.
Oliver found Vincent tucked behind his large desk in the study, dark head tipped down and silver pen in hand. The simple yet elegantly tailored bottle green coat accentuated the broad width of his shoulders; the stark white cravat framed his strong jaw. Vincent fit perfectly in the room with its heavy, masculine furniture and rich, mahogany wood, as if it had been made for him.
“Good morning, Oliver.” Vincent made a notation on the paper before him, then looked up. A trace of disapproval flickered across his face. “You are aware Mrs. Hollister is quite adept at cooking a proper breakfast?”
Oliver took an unabashed bite of the raspberry tart. “Indeed, but her skill with pastries knows no rival.”
Ignoring Vincent’s arched brow, he set the plate on the small table beside the leather couch and, taking another bite of the tart, crossed to the mahogany shelves flanking the gray marble fireplace. Though not a large room, every inch of available space along the walls of the study was given over to books. All lined up like neat little soldiers, as if they knew their master would not tolerate otherwise.
Oliver finished the tart, wiped his hands on his trousers, and, unable to resist the lure, reached out. “Are you certain you don’t want to part with any of your books?” He pulled a volume from a shelf, traced a finger lovingly over the embossed leather-bound cover. It would make a perfect addition to his bookshop.
“Yes, I’m certain.” Another scratch of pen on paper.
Oliver frowned. “I’ll pay you a fair price.”
“I don’t need the money.”
He carefully opened the cover. An attempt to flip the first page revealed the pages had not been cut. Physical proof no one, least of all Vincent, had yet to read this particular book. A shame, really, to allow it to linger on the shelf for no other purpose than appearance’s sake. “But you don’t read them.”
“You do.”
His fingertip paused on the edges of the uncut pages. The man kept all those books for him. It shouldn’t mean so much. Vincent certainly did not need the funds a sale could bring; still… He slipped the book back into its place on the shelf and looked to Vincent. As if sensing his stare, Vincent glanced up.
“Thank you, Vincent.”
A crisp tip of his head and Vincent turned his attention back to his work, but he couldn’t hide the faint hint of a blush tingeing his cheeks.
Aware he had left the study door open, Oliver kept from voicing the love you on the tip of his tongue and instead grabbed Shakespeare’s Othello from the mantle and settled on the couch to pick up where he had left off yesterday evening.
The patter of slippers on floorboards announced the housekeeper’s arrival. “The post has arrived, Lord Vincent.” She handed Oliver his cup of coffee, then placed the small silver tray on the corner of Vincent’s desk. She received the same crisp tip of the head for her efforts. “Is there anything I can get for you, my lord?”
“No, thank you.” Vincent took a letter from the top of the stack and, using the silver letter opener he had pulled from a desk drawer, broke the wax seal.
At her questioning glance, Oliver shook his head. He had everything he needed at the moment in the study with him—coffee, a book, and Vincent. After taking his empty plate, she left the room.
Oliver brought his cup to his lips and took a sip, savoring the hot, rich liquid as it flowed down his throat. With a little clink, he set down the cup and flipped to the appropriate page in Othello. Within no time at all, the book pulled him in. Even the crinkle of paper as Vincent went through the pile of letters seemed to fade to nothingness.
“Oliver.”
The hint of a reprimand behind Vincent’s voice had Oliver’s head snapping up. “Yes?” Vincent’s stare indicated he expected a response other than a yes. Clearly Oliver had missed something. “My apologies. I was not”—he lifted the book from his lap, showing Vincent his excuse—“listening.”
For purchase links for Bound Forever, check out Ava’s website.
Copyright 2017 Ava March
Also Available from Ava
Brook Street: Thief (Brook Street #1)
It was only supposed to be one night. One night to determine once and for all if he truly preferred men. But the last thing Lord Benjamin Parker expected to find in a questionable gambling hell is a gorgeous young man who steals his heart.
It was only supposed to be a job. Cavin Fox has done it many times – select a prime mark, distract him with lust, and leave his pockets empty. Yet when Cavin slips away under the cover of darkness, the only part of Benjamin he leaves untouched is his pockets.
With a taste of his most wicked fantasies fulfilled, Benjamin wants more than one night with Cavin. But convincing the elusive young man to give them a chance proves difficult. Living with a band of thieves in the worst area of London, Cavin knows there’s no place for him in a gentleman’s life. As circumstances pull him to Benjamin’s Mayfair town house, Cavin keeps pulling away from the best man he’s ever known. Yet Benjamin isn’t about to let Cavin—and love— continue to slip away from him.
For purchase links for Brook Street: Thief, check out Ava’s website.
Copyright ©2012 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited
Cover copy text used by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises Limited.
Other Books by Ava
The Bound series
Bound by Deception
Bound to Him
Deliberately Unbound (free short story)
Bound Forever
Deliberately Bound (free short story)
The Bound Series
Brook Street series
My True Love Gave to Me
Brook Street: Thief
Brook Street: Fortune Hunter
Brook Street: Rogues
The Brook Street Collection
Gambling on Love series
All In with the Duke
Sharp Love
Viscount’s Wager
London Legal series
Convincing Arthur
Convincing Leopold
Convincing the Secretary
Non-Series books
Beyond Reckless
From Afar
His Client
His Request (free short story)
Object of His Desire
Pleasures of Somerville Park (free short story)
‘Twas the Night, in the O Come All Ye Kinky anthology
About Ava
Ava March is an author of sexy, emotionally intense M/M historical romances. She loves writing in the Regency time period, where proper decorum is of the utmost importance, but where anything can happen behind closed doors. With over fifteen works to her credit, her books have been finalists in the Rainbow Awards and More Than Magic contest, and deemed ‘must-haves’ for Historical M/M romance by RT Book Reviews readers. Visit her website at www.AvaMarch.com to find out more about her books or to sign-up for her e-newsletter.
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