A Hidden Beauty

by Jamie Craig

  I imagine now that I have your daguerreotype, Joseph’s activity will just increase. But I cannot help myself, even for the sake of peace in the village. The very image of you intoxicates me.

  Sincerely yours,

  Jefferson

  Chapter 13

  Jefferson had never been so alone on the eve of Christmas. He had certainly spent the holiday by himself, more than once since his mother passed on. But he had never been so acutely aware of his isolation. He felt his separation from the rest of the village, from God, from Micah. It was an actual ache behind his eyes and between his shoulders. He had been invited to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with Reverend Deem, but Jefferson had refused the invitation without thought. He felt it was best to remain isolated. He was not fit for company.

  The pot of porridge he planned for his supper bubbled pleasantly over the fire. As he watched the surface swell and burst, he couldn’t help but think of Micah. He had never mentioned it to Micah, but Jefferson had been invited to a function at his father’s home once, long before, and he could imagine the large house, full of people, clearly. Micah should be sitting down to a veritable feast, his eyes reflecting the candles, his cheeks flushed red from the meats and pies and delicacies.

  He cradled Micah’s gift between his palms, squinting to see the image in the dark. His eyes were getting bad. He shuddered to think that soon his composition would be limited to daylight hours. But for this evening, he would not worry about writing. Not until later, at least. After supper he would read all of Micah’s letters again, and then pour his thoughts onto paper, to pick out the passages that would please Micah the most.

  The same time the previous year, Jefferson had prayed and meditated on the nature of God and his relationship to the Father. Now his thoughts were solely focused on the younger man who was securely placed in his heart. How he had made himself so lovesick, so quickly, was a mystery to Jefferson. However, his current state of lovesickness was undeniable. Everything in his life that had once brought him pleasure, or defined his purpose, now seemed colorless and pointless. Even his poetry. None of it seemed to matter in comparison to Micah. How could he continue this way? How could he ask Micah to come to him when Micah didn’t yet love him?

  Occasionally, he felt foolish in his devotion. He did not doubt Micah cared for him deeply, but Micah was young and Jefferson couldn’t help but be achingly aware of that fact. When doubts plagued him, he thought of Micah’s face at the moment he saw and recognized Jefferson in his audience. That smile alone said more than a thousand of Micah’s letters ever could.

  The longer he stared at the image, the more aroused he became. Jefferson tortured himself with thoughts of Micah’s hands, his mouth, his firm body, his prick, and even his buttocks. Some nights, he sought relief by his own hand. Other nights, he kept his hands off his erection, and he allowed the exquisite torment to increase gradually, until he thought his body would split at the joints.

  Did Micah experience a similar torment? Did he have his own desperate, hungry fantasies? Certain passages in Micah’s letters implied as much. Jefferson would have given anything in his possession to know what Micah fantasized about. What did he want Jefferson to do to him? Where did he want Jefferson to start? Would he ever know? Could Micah ever tell him?

  Jefferson didn’t think he would torture himself that night. He did not enjoy pain, and it would be far too painful to ignore his erection for the rest of the evening. The fresh throbbing in his groin prompted him to rethink his plan. He’d write his nightly letter to Micah now, and then he would retire and ease a little bit of his suffering.

  Jefferson settled in his desk and pulled a fresh piece of paper from the drawer. The correspondence was getting expensive, between the paper and the private courier he hired. He realized he needed to raise more money soon. In the past, he could arrange a lecture in Boston, or sell a new poem. He could even write the occasional essay. None of those options seemed remotely possible in his current state.

  He shook his head. He didn’t need to think about it now. For now, he had more than enough resources to send his letter, and several more like it.

  His quill was poised over the paper when a sharp rap on the door brought him up short. It was Deem, no doubt, coming to issue him another invitation. He sensed Deem’s growing concern for the state of his soul, but Jefferson dare not return to the church. Each time he stepped beyond the threshold, candles burned, doors slammed and the air grew hot. He wished he could explain to Deem that he kept his privacy for the village’s safety. As agitated as his thoughts had been, Joseph would be more so. It was neighborly of the man, Godly even, but Jefferson didn’t want visitors. Until he opened the door and his heart lodged in his throat.

  His cheeks were reddened, just as Jefferson had imagined, but the color in Micah’s face came from the cold, not from heat. Sometime during the evening, it had started snowing, and fat, white flakes salted his tousled curls. A satchel was thrown over his shoulder, and his clothes looked rumpled, but most of what Jefferson saw was the smile curving Micah’s mouth.

  “So is your spirit responsible for this dreadful snow?” Micah teased. “Because the last hour of my journey was truly abysmal.”

  Only a small part of his brain registered the snow. The rest of his being was paralyzed in a sort of exuberant shock. Still not quite able to speak, he gently pulled Micah through the door and shut out the blizzard behind him. He touched Micah’s cold cheek, brushed a damp curl from his forehead, caressed his ear, his shoulder.

  “I’m just making sure you are really here,” Jefferson murmured as Micah patiently withstood the minor assault. “That I have not fallen asleep.”

  The sound Micah made—half-sigh, half-gasp—went straight to Jefferson’s arousal. “Sleep. You have no idea how badly I long for a decent night.” Pulling away, he dropped his satchel to the floor and shook the snow from his hair. “But that will have to wait a little bit longer. I’ve much yet to do this Eve, and I refuse to skip a step of it.”

  It was all Jefferson could do to respect the distance Micah put between them, and not immediately invade his personal space again. “What do you have to do?”

  His eyes twinkling, Micah simply smiled as he quickly shed his coat. When he peeled off his gloves, Jefferson realized they were the pair he’d given Micah in Boston.

  “I have a plan, you see.” Micah came back to face Jefferson, resting his hand on his shoulder. The touch was light, but it was still firm enough to guide Jefferson backward until his heels hit the wall. “I’ve been perfecting it for several weeks now, ever since I realized you were going to be far too honorable about this entire situation.” He pressed closer, and Jefferson’s muscles locked at the direct contact. “But first, I must do this.”

  And tilting upward, Micah brushed his lips across Jefferson’s.

  Jefferson wrapped his arms around Micah immediately—he was not going to get away from Jefferson again. But he did not try to take over the kiss. He let Micah’s lips guide his. It was not hard to simply follow Micah’s slow, careful lead. Jefferson wanted so much more, and yet, this was all he really needed. Just to let Micah’s lips caress his. Let Micah’s tongue tease his. Let Micah’s warm breath mingle with his until he was inhaling the smell and taste and essence of him.

  It didn’t last nearly as long as he wanted it to. But Micah didn’t break away from the circle of Jefferson’s arms, his hand sliding to Jefferson’s chest as he smiled up at him.

  “Merry Christmas,” he murmured. “Are you surprised?”

  “I can honestly say I have never been more surprised in my entire life. I was certain you would be tied to your family until January.”

  Micah shook his head. “My ties are to you. Haven’t I made that clear in my letters?”

  Jefferson swallowed hard. He almost didn’t have the ability to process Micah’s words. “What’s the rest of your plan?”

  “Now that would spoil the surprise. However, it does hinge on one crucial detail. O
ne I need you to provide, actually.”

  “Let’s discuss another crucial detail. Do I need to let you go in order for you to carry out the plan?”

  “Yes. Eventually.” He must have noted Jefferson’s disappointment because he rushed to add, “But the detail I need from you will ease that, I’m sure. You see, I’m currently homeless, and I was rather hoping you’d allow me to stay here. Mrs. Ruark is a lovely woman, but I’m afraid she just does nothing for me.”

  Jefferson blinked, suddenly certain he was caught up in a dream. He could just lock himself in his cottage with Micah for the night, and the day after, and even the night after that. He would have unfettered, uninterrupted, undeniable access to the only person in the world he wanted to be with. He didn’t fall to his knees in gratitude, but only because Micah was holding him up.

  “Stay. Please, stay. Anything of mine is yours.”

  Micah’s pleased smile reflected in his eyes. “Does that include the porridge I smell? Because I haven’t eaten since last night, and my stomach is ready to revolt.”

  Jefferson looked over Micah’s shoulder to the porridge. If he played a proper host and offered Micah dinner, he’d have to release him. He did not want to do that. But he couldn’t justify starving Micah, either.

  “You sit down,” Jefferson said, dropping his arms and allowing Micah to step back. “I’ll serve your dinner. But you’re not allowed to leave when you realize I can’t cook like Mrs. Ruark.”

  Micah stooped and picked up his satchel, carrying it with him as he followed Jefferson into the sitting room. “My trunks are at the inn.” The sight of him taking his usual seat on the chaise warmed Jefferson’s blood even more than it already was. “But I’d rather not bother Mrs. Ruark on Christmas to fetch them, if that’s all right with you.”

  “We’ll be fine without them, I’m sure.” Jefferson dished up the porridge mechanically, his mind far from the task. “It’s hardly a Christmas feast, is it? I might have had something more appropriate if I knew you were coming.”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise. That’s why I sent you the early gift. I wanted you to think that I was done.”

  “You’re very clever. Because I did think just that.” Jefferson handed him his bowl, then settled beside him. “Be careful with that. It’s hot, and the last thing I want is for you to burn your mouth.”

  Nodding, Micah bent down slightly and blew across the top of the steaming porridge. Jefferson couldn’t tear his eyes away from the full mouth as they pursed, and he tightly gripped the edge of the chaise. It wouldn’t do to maul the man with hot food in his hands.

  As he dipped his spoon into the bowl, Micah glanced around the room. “I’ve missed this place,” he said, a definite ache in his voice. “It always felt more like home to me than my own in Boston.”

  “It’s been empty without you. I never once thought it was too big for me, until after you left. And then it felt like I had nothing but room.” Jefferson looked at his feet. “How long will you be staying this time?”

  Seconds passed as he listened to Micah take several bites of the porridge. Then, the bowl appeared in Micah’s lap and his familiar hand settled on Jefferson’s knee.

  “I left Boston, Jeff. For good. So I am here for as long as you want me.”

  Jefferson lifted the bowl from Micah’s lap and set it on the arm of the chair. He cupped Micah’s face, his thumbs caressing Micah’s cheeks, and studied his clear eyes. Jefferson wanted to kiss him until his lips were swollen. He wanted to quote sonnets and assure Micah that he would want him there forever. But there was one thing holding him back, and he couldn’t ignore it.

  “What about Harvard?”

  Micah didn’t blink. “I left.”

  “Why? Micah, your education meant so much to you.”

  “You’re right. It did. When I had nothing else.” He reached up and held Jefferson’s hand, his fingertips warm from his food. “But then I found you. And Harvard was in the way of being with you.” He turned his head just enough to skim his mouth over the heel of Jefferson’s hand. “My father was actually quite pleased to hear I’d left. Until I informed him that I needed to learn how to be my own man, independent of the Yardley name. Which, unfortunately, required leaving Boston, as well.”

  A part of Jefferson wanted to insist that Micah go straight back to Harvard and straighten everything out. Then the rest of Micah’s explanation filtered through his shock. He had informed his father he was leaving. He had stood up for himself. The young man Jefferson met just a few short months earlier would have never done that. Pride and respect and love swelled within him.

  “Micah…” His name was a mere breath before Jefferson closed the final inches between their mouths and claimed his lips.

  The grip on his hand tightened as Micah responded to the caress. He made a sound in his throat the moment before his lips parted, and Jefferson denied the small voice in the back of his mind warning him to take it slow to sweep his tongue across Micah’s before tracing back over his full mouth. The lower lip quivered, his breaths coming shallower. Then, Micah shyly touched the tip of his tongue to Jefferson’s, beckoning him back.

  Jefferson dipped his tongue into Micah’s mouth, sampling the soft curves slowly. He wanted to pour all of his emotions into Micah’s body, like it was nothing more than a waiting vessel. But he didn’t want to startle him. He willed the tension from his muscles and swallowed the bittersweet desire for more. He didn’t have to rush this, because Micah was not going anywhere. Jefferson moaned as their tongues tangled, and Micah echoed the sound. Jefferson’s entire body felt too raw, too sensitive.

  He could tell the exact moment Micah tensed, a tightening of his fingers, a shift in his upper body. As much as he loathed breaking the contact, Jefferson let Micah pull back and let the hands that still held each other fall to the chaise between them.

  Micah’s breathing was hot and quick, his pupils dilated with desire. “Can we…?” He swallowed. Tried again. “I’ve been dreaming of this, of you, for so long now. Dreamed of feeling your mouth on mine again, of tasting you. But I am…” His cheeks were flushed, his lashes ducking as he fixed on their clasped hands. “I accept who I am, the fact that I desire you, that you consume my thoughts until I burn. But the answers I have sought have all been internal. I do not…I haven’t…” He stopped, clearly choking on the inability to find the right words.

  “I know.” Jefferson brushed his lips across Micah’s forehead so lightly, it was almost chaste. “I promise, Micah, I’ll not do anything you’re not comfortable with. But please…I just…I need to touch you.”

  Micah didn’t lift his eyes, but Jefferson caught the swift sweep of his tongue across his dry lower lip. “How?” Micah whispered.

  “Like this.” He brushed his knuckles through the curls above Micah’s ear. “And this.” He smoothed his other hand down Micah’s arm, from his shoulder to his wrist, feeling the firmness of his toned muscles. “And this.” He trailed his fingers along Micah’s jaw and then down the column of his throat. His lips followed his fingers, and he ghosted his mouth over Micah’s warm skin.

  A trembling hand came up and caressed Jefferson’s jaw. He paused, waiting for Micah to voice a protest, but when that didn’t come, Jefferson shifted the path of his mouth, stifling his groans when he felt the muscles of Micah’s neck twitching beneath his tongue. Micah tilted his head to the side, silently offering more, but it was the cautious weight of his fingertips on Jefferson’s thigh that made his prick jump.

  Micah’s skin still tasted vaguely of snow, and Jefferson dragged his tongue across the skin beneath his ear. Micah didn’t move his hand, but Jefferson enjoyed the unfamiliar weight and warmth on his leg. He knew Micah would venture farther up his thigh when he was ready. Jefferson folded his fingers in the material of Micah’s shirt. He longed to see if Micah’s body looked as good as it felt.

  The incidental scratch of his nails through the fabric made Micah start. He jerked his hand away from Jefferson’s leg
and abruptly stood up, knocking over the porridge in his haste to flee. Dismay crossed his face, and he immediately dropped to his knees, trying to spoon his dinner back into the bowl.

  “I’m sorry,” Micah rushed. “I’m just…I’m overwhelmed, I think. I can’t seem to think straight. Or walk straight, apparently.”

  Jefferson slid off the chaise and knelt on the floor beside him. He reached out and took Micah’s wrist, stopping him from spreading the porridge over the floor. “I’ll take care of this.” He brought Micah’s hand to his lips, kissed the back of his thumb and released him. “You tell me what you want.”

  Behind the desire that still darkened Micah’s eyes lurked a bleakness that made Jefferson want to pull him into his arms and never let him go. “I don’t know. I thought…it seemed so much simpler in my dreams. I didn’t expect to feel so out of control. Like…there’s something inside me just waiting to be unleashed.”

  “That’s how it’s supposed to feel,” Jefferson said gently. “And it’s nothing to be afraid of.” Micah still looked uncertain. “Have you…ever touched yourself?”

  Micah shifted awkwardly, his gaze sliding to the fireplace. “There have been…a few times. Once, when I woke from a dream, aching and unable to function. After finishing your letter where you spoke of…wanting to know all of me.” He rubbed a weary hand over his face. “You must think me a child.”

  “No, I don’t think any such thing. But I do think I want you to be comfortable. Will you trust me?”

  “Of course.” Then Micah glanced at him through his lashes, a small smile dancing on his lips. “Is this where you ply me with brandy so I forget my fears again?”

  “No.” Jefferson’s smile matched his. “We’ll save the alcohol for tomorrow night. In the meantime, I want you to take your shirt off, then kneel directly in front of the fire so you don’t get cold.”

  Without looking away, Micah sat back on his heels and pulled his shirt from his waistband, undoing the necessary buttons before pulling the garment over his head. Jefferson’s mouth went dry as he exposed his chest. Unblemished skin, dark flat nipples, shoulders broader unclothed than they were hidden away. Even the sculpture of his biceps spoke of an artist’s chisel, not a poet’s quill, and he wondered not for the first time just what Micah did on his many walks through Boston.