Page 24 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
Thornby nodded, looking a bit choked up. “It’s by Lawrence,” he said eventually. “It wasn’t finished when I went off to school. God, she’s just as I remember her.”
John looked at the portrait again. He couldn’t help thinking of his own mother as she’d been when he was a child—her coarse, black hair and pock-marked skin, her kind, tired eyes, her hands red and roughened with work. And Thornby had had that fantastic creature as his mother—all light and softness and gaiety and fire. What must it have been like? John could not imagine.
He must tell Thornby what he’d realised. Now.
God, what an awkward thing to have to tell a man. But Thornby had just been in that other place—perhaps even now he saw the resemblance between the fairy queen and his mother. Perhaps even now he was beginning to guess what that made him.
The silence was broken by the muffled sound of a door opening and closing.
“Father’s room,” Thornby said under his breath, eyes widening. “Father.”
John closed the drapes over the picture. Thornby shut the desk and the curtains. Then they heard a key in the lock of the inter-connecting door. Perhaps the Marquess had a fancy to gaze at his first wife’s portrait and torment himself again with what he’d lost. Or perhaps he’d heard some small noise.
They fled through the passage door and John locked it silently behind them with the chimera key. They had turned their backs to walk down the passage when they heard a key inthatdoor too. Had they disturbed the dust? Had the Marquess noticed?
Thornby muttered something under his breath and pulled John through the next door along. It opened onto one of Raskelf’s many dust-sheeted guest rooms; black beetles scuttled off into the empty fire grate as they entered. John locked the door, listening intently. When it seemed certain they weren’t being pursued, he turned and leaned on it, closing his eyes in relief. It would be much, much better if Lord Dalton remained ignorant of their search.
When he opened his eyes, Thornby was standing directly in front of him, so close they were almost touching. And there was no mistaking his expression.
“Well, Mr Blake?” Thornby said.
***
As Thornby leant forwardto kiss him, Blake caught his jaw and held it. Maybe Blake didn’t kiss. A pity, but some men didn’t. Thornby put his hand on Blake’s crotch, feeling him hardening through the wool of his trousers; a nice, thick cock from the feel of it. Thornby was about to undo the fly, when Blake grabbed his wrist as well and held that too, firmly. Was Blake grabbing it to stop him, or to make him stay? Thornby raised an eyebrow.
“No?”
Blake squeezed his wrist a little tighter, immobilising him.
“Wait,” Blake said, through clenched teeth, his voice strained.
Oh Lord, had Thornby misread the situation? Surely not. The way Blake had been looking at him earlier had seemed unmistakable. Thornby had played his cards openly enough. And Blake had smiled at that nonsense about liking a bit of rough. But now—they were still standing here, unmoving, with Blake holding his jaw and wrist in a smarting grasp.
So, what the devil was going on? Was Blake wrestling with his conscience? Was he afraid of being found? Or was standing stock-still and holding his partner in a vice-like grip simply some unusual sexual predilection? Blake had his eyes closed now. His mouth was moving slightly, as though in prayer. Thornby tried to move away a little, to give Blake room, if that was what he needed.
“Are you all right?” Thornby asked. “We don’t have to, you know.”
Blake said, in strangled tones, “I want to.Wait.”
Well, that was clear enough, and, actually, Blake’s grip was quite—exciting. The back of Blake’s hand, crushed between them, was pushing against Thornby’s cock. He pressed against it a little harder. He tried to free his wrist again, to touch Blake, or to move away, and could not. He was hard himself now, achingly so.
Blake smelt heavenly—of fresh sweat and maleness and faintly of some spicy herb. He was warm too; heat seemed to radiate from him, almost visible in the cold air of the spare room. Thornby pushed against him, and ran his fingertips over the inch or two of Blake’s cock that seemed to be all he was allowed to touch. God, it was fucking torment! It had been over a year and a half since anything even half as exciting had happened. He’d probably spend in his drawers if Blake let him. He realised he was holding his breath and let it out. It came out in a whimper; of lust or of anguish, he wasn’t sure. Maybe both.
Then, so suddenly it made him gasp, Blake let go of his wrist and jaw, grabbed the back of his head and pulled him forward into a kiss, rough and frantic. Blake’s stubble grazed Thornby’s lips. So, Blake had made up his mind. Thank God.
Blake pulled away and began tearing at the front of Thornby’s breeches with both hands. He was having trouble with the old-fashioned placket. Perhaps he’d never encountered one before. He almost snarled at it, dark eyes narrowed as if he’d hex it for not coming undone at his touch. Thornby pushed him away for a moment, undid it himself, and unbuttoned Blake’s fly at the same time.
The moment he’d done it, Blake pulled him back into that open-mouthed kiss, hand now working Thornby’s cock. Blake must have licked his hand, because it was slick. He did it just right, not too hard, not too fast; practiced. Clearly, Mr Blake was not nearly as respectable as Thornby had once supposed. Thornby moaned into his mouth, grabbing at him. And—God—for several long sweet moments, all his problems fell away. There was only the sensation of Blake’s hand on his cock, and the delight of having Blake’s thick cock in his own grip.
He realised his own hand was dry—it mustn’t feel that good. He swept his thumb over the head of Blake’s cock, feeling silky liquid spread as he did so, but that wouldn’t be enough. He was about to sink to his knees to remedy the problem when Blake groaned into his mouth, grabbed him tightly, and spent. Thornby glanced down to see the pearly stuff spattering all over his own black silk waistcoat.
Blake leaned in again and bit Thornby’s neck through his cravat, at the same time subtly altering his grip on Thornby’s cock. Lovely, long, firm strokes, then shorter, faster ones. Thornby could feel the climax building from the soles of his feet. Blake’s teeth were at his neck. Thornby came with his head thrown back, cry choked, trying to be silent.
They stood for a moment, breathing hard. Blake was resting against the door, face pressed against Thornby’s neck. He sighed deeply, breath coming cold through Thornby’s cravat where it was wet from his mouth.
What now? Now was a time to be careful. Thornby had run into trouble more than once in the afterglow. The moment they’d finished with a man, some men started regretting it. Some liked to take it out on the one who’d made it happen. Blake hadn’t struck him as the type, but his odd behaviour beforehand might mean he’d just acted against his better judgement.
Then Blake took his hand away from Thornby’s softening cock and put both arms around him, pulling him close. He did it so sweetly, so naturally, running an affectionate hand up Thornby’s back, that Thornby relaxed into him, eyes closing. What bliss to stand in a man’s arms, to feel his solid warmth, and to know that he would not turn nasty, but was on one’s side. He let his head rest on Blake’s shoulder. Blake shifted a little and Thornby wanted to plead,Don’t go. Stay with me.
