Page 37 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
His horror must have been obvious, because Thornby said quickly, “Bad idea?”
John opened his mouth, then closed it. The idea was appalling. And yet—would it be better than trying things on a cursed man? No, it was too dangerous. The whole point was to get Thornby away unharmed, not to ruin his life more. John opened his mouth a second time to refuse, then closed it again. How else would he know if he’d found something that worked? Experiment on a hedgehog and get trapped again? He might not get out a second time, even with Thornby’s help.
“Why don’t you come in while you think about it?” Thornby opened the door to his room.
The moment John went through it, Thornby closed the door and put his arms around him. “So, in five minutes, can I kiss you?”
John couldn’t help smiling, even as all the blood in his body was rushing to his cock. “Maybe not five. Wait a minute.”
He did the calculation he always had to do; time passed minus power expended. The rowan light, drying the clothes and dead leaves, stopping the wind, the wards, the work with the chain. Now it was about nine o’clock. This time he came up with a negative answer. Not worth the risk. He disentangled himself from Thornby, dug out a couple of iron pins and spent power into them.
Thornby was watching closely, lips parted, pupils dilated. Well, he’d said he liked being made to wait. John put the pins on the floor by the door, where they balanced like two little grey guardsmen. But the magic was impotent, contained harmlessly.
He took Thornby in his arms.
This time it was Thornby who said, “Wait.”
“Are you being funny?” If Thornby was teasing him at a time like this, he’d make him sorry. Oh, how he’d make him pay.
Thornby rolled his eyes. “The door. There’s no key. Can you do that thing again? Not that I’m expecting anyone, but—”
“The chimera key? It takes an age. I’m not waiting that long. Hang on.” There was a chair in the study. John got it, on legs of aspic, and jammed it under the door handle.
“That’s not very impressive, Mr Blake.” Thornby’s smile belied his snooty tone. “I was hoping for magic.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Thornby leaned in, eyes closing. John kissed him—gently, just lips. Thornby angled his head and John felt the flicker of his tongue; it turned his knees to water. But after a moment, John pushed him away. Last time, he had been too overcome for any finesse. This time would be slower; more to his liking.
“First, some clothes,” John said. He began to undress Thornby. He did it methodically, one button at a time, feeling Thornby tremble at his touch, eyes pleading. Thornby was biting his bottom lip, that beautiful red mouth getting redder from his own teeth. When Thornby tried to touch him, John knocked his hands away.
“John, can’t I—”
Thornby was no innocent to need kind words and encouragement; their first encounter had shown that. John held up an admonishing finger. “No. You can wait.”
Thornby balled his hands into fists, shifting uncomfortably. John finished unbuttoning his old-fashioned black shirt and let it fall to the ground. Shirtless, Thornby was even more desirable: thin, but strong-looking, arms well-knit with sinew and muscle. His chest was nearly hairless, nipples dark against the pallor of his skin, stomach taut. The front of his tight breeches did not leave much to the imagination. A spot of moisture was growing there, darker black on black silk. Not allowed to touch John, it was clear he wasn’t quite sure where to put his hands. Ah, the triumph of seeing that elegance confounded; a little awkward, a little unsure.
“God, you’re beautiful,” John said. “Come on, take off the rest.”
Thornby obeyed, finally standing naked in the cold morning light. Thornby’s cock, pink at the tip, and jutting out in front of him, was already leaking clear fluid. John looked him up and down, trying to steady himself. The white bandage around Thornby’s ankle drew his attention. Thornby’s foot, below the bandage, was mottled, pink and white. An old burn? That must be why he sometimes limped. But it looked a little—odd. John hadn’t noticed it last night in the rowan twig’s unnatural blue light.
“John?” Half question, half plea. The pulse in Thornby’s throat was beating as fast as a bird’s wings.
“All right,” John said. “My turn. You can do it.”
He enjoyed making the better-born ones turn valet. Some of them hated it. But Thornby stepped forward readily enough and removed John’s jacket, unbuttoned his waistcoat, untied his cravat. John let him struggle with his cufflinks, take off his shirt, unbutton his fly—but when Thornby reached into his drawers and trailed light fingertips up his cock, John grabbed his wrist.
“You have to wait. Remember?”
“I’m not sure I can.”
John sat on the edge of the bed and took off his boots and socks. Slowly. He stood, removed his trousers, and finally, his drawers. Then he stood there for a moment, letting Thornby look, enjoying the expression on his face. Then John sat again and held out his arms in invitation.
Thornby came, putting his hands on John’s shoulders. John put his hands on Thornby’s hips and pulled him until Thornby’s cock bobbed close to his mouth. It was a pretty cock; slender, like Thornby, with a graceful curve. John licked his lips and felt Thornby quiver. John looked up. Thornby’s brows were furrowed. He was breathing through his mouth, his eyes huge and black.
It would be very fine to take Thornby in his mouth and give him what he wanted. But not yet. Ignoring Thornby’s cock, John rested his head against that lovely narrow chest. He used his tongue on a nipple, stroked Thornby’s round buttocks, fondled his balls, and finally ran a wet knuckle down the cleft of his arse, smiling to himself as Thornby made a sound like a sob. He did it several times, finally grinding his knuckle against Thornby’s puckered arsehole. Thornby whimpered, and pushed his hips forward so the tip of his cock grazed John’s chin.
“Oh, Christ! John—”
