Page 14 of The Wrong Rake
He licked his lips, imagining how it might taste if he leaned in and wrapped his lips around the head, flicked out his tongue the way Beaumont had when he first tasted Harry’s cock.
Not only had he never done such a thing, he’d never wanted to. Tossing another fellow off now and again, in the semi-privacy of a tent the night before a battle neither might live through, well. He’d never been ashamed of it. Legality and morality were alike rather irrelevant to something that had no effect on anyone else.
But he’d never wanted more than that with a fellow.
And now, it seemed, he did.
To be fair, Beaumont smelled rather more pleasant than the other soldiers Harry had had to choose from in the past. And he was softer, not only in body but in habits and manners.
Or perhaps Harry’s desire now was born of some alchemy he couldn’t possibly parse: a smile, a kiss, a protestation of innocence, the turn of a wrist in a gesture. Beaumont’s demand that another coat not be ruined; his perhaps too-generous forgiveness for the first. That he had come here today not to upbraid Harry for his violence, but to verify his assumption that Harry hadn’t acted the blackguard after all.
Harry had never been one to think too long when instinct led him to act.
For several seconds, perhaps, he looked at Beaumont’s cock, taking in its proportions.
And then he leaned in and closed his mouth around the tip of it, barely having the chance to taste salt and heat and an oddly smooth, slick texture before Beaumont jumped as if galvanized and let out a cry that echoed off the ceiling, sliding out of Harry’s mouth with the motion.
When Harry glanced up, he found Beaumont staring down at him as if he’d turned purple or begun to dance a jig. “What are you doing?” he gasped. “You—I beg your pardon?”
Harry choked down a laugh that he knew, without having to wonder, Beaumont would find wildly offensive. He’d grown rather used to a more Continental style of manners. Only a true Englishman would beg pardon for another man trying to suck his cock, even if his meaning were to wonder that Harry would do it at all, as he suspected was the case.
“You’ll need to be quieter than that if we’re not to bring the whole household down on us,” Harry said, and let go of one of Beaumont’s legs to reach up and press his hand firmly over Beaumont’s mouth. “Quiet.”
Beaumont’s eyes went even wider, and he let out a muffled little moan, his breath puffing against Harry’s palm and his tongue flickering out to tease it for an instant.
That sensation went down, straight down, heightening the burgeoning ache in Harry’s bollocks.
And Beaumont made no move to push Harry’s hand away.
Keeping it in place, Harry bent down again and lapped at the head of Beaumont’s cock. Aside from the salt and faint musk of a man’s body, he smelled like lemon soap, fresh and tart. The combination made Harry’s head spin. Did other men usually smell so delicious? Not in Harry’s experience, but then again, he’d never dallied with a London dandy.
Beaumont’s moans behind his hand spurred him on, and he drew in a deep breath and sank down onto his cock, taking several inches of it into his mouth at once. Firm and smooth, it pressed up against the roof of his mouth, insistent but hardly troublesome. As an experiment, he lifted his tongue and ran it around the shaft. He had to push down hard on Beaumont’s thigh to keep him in place; he kept squirming, blast him.
That drew out another soft whimper, another tease of Beaumont’s tongue against his palm.
Bloody hell, the power of this—having another man entirely at his mercy. Did Beaumont enjoy that? Although he hadn’t had as much of an upper hand. Harry would let Beaumont go if he really struggled, but that would be entirely at his discretion; Beaumont couldn’t get away unless Harry allowed it. The reverse hadn’t been true the other night.
Beaumont shifted his weight, and one of his hands landed on the back of Harry’s head. He didn’t shove Harry’s head down; the touch felt tentative, as if he thought Harry might object.
As if he could object to being caressed like that, after years of violence. Until Beaumont ran his fingers through his hair, delicately stroking his neck, he hadn’t even realized how profoundly he craved such a touch.
Only Beaumont’s cock still filling his mouth prevented him from letting out a sound of pleasure that would likely have been mortifying in the extreme. To a man like Beaumont, who wanted rough usage, wouldn’t it be rather pathetic to be driven to moans by a simple touch?
Harry licked and sucked as best he could, wrapping his lips and his tongue around Beaumont’s cock, but his own demanded attention, and that damned hand stroking through his hair drove him mad.
He lifted his head, letting Beaumont’s hot flesh slide over his lower lip and off.
The sight that met his eyes as he looked up had him frozen in place, his cock throbbing and the rest of his body paralyzed with want.
Beaumont gazed down at him, eyes glassy and teeth dug into his reddened, swollen lower lip. A wild flush stained his cheeks and neck, down between the loosened ends of his formerly perfect cravat.
With his spit-shiny cock exposed by his open trousers and the dishevelment of his shirt and hair, he presented a view as debauched as anyone could find at Perdition. And far more beautiful.
Harry knew precisely what he wanted, the desire burning in his veins, clenching the pit of his stomach into a knot. There had to be some sophisticated, gentlemanly way to ask…and he was damned if he could think of one.
“I want to fuck you,” he said, his voice hoarse and roughened by the cock he’d sucked. “Spread you out and fuck you in that gorgeous arse, Beaumont.” Beaumont simply stared at him, seeming to hold his breath, eyes going darker. Harry could be allowed to press his suit with more than words, couldn’t he? And so he took Beaumont’s cock in hand, stroking it lightly from base to tip, a little squeeze on the downstroke and a pass of his thumb over the head on the way up. “I think my prick would open you up nicely, don’t you? Fill you. Make you spend—”
“Oh God,” Beaumont choked out—and his back arched as he did precisely as Harry had said, and spent, all over Harry’s hand and onto his shirt.
