Page 29 of The Wrong Rake
Potts, Black—the other owner—and Simon had all reacted with gratifying enthusiasm. They’d had a fellow doing that job, but he’d gone off somewhere absurdly remote to live happily with his lover and left the position open. Harry turned down a salary, but he happily accepted room and board. He lived in Simon’s room now, and listened daily to Simon’s complaints about the state of his clothing, none of which came up to Simon’s standards.
Harry had begun to consider trading certain favors for allowing Simon to take him to visit his tailor, and had gone as far as sweet-talking one of Perdition’s lightskirts into loaning him a set of leather cuffs for the purpose.
Bloody hell. Harry had better things to do than murder a passel of whining London fops who couldn’t take no for an answer.
And far better things to do than sit in gaol awaiting a murder trial.
“I’ll deal with it,” he assured Potts, patted him on the shoulder, and slipped out of the alcove, heading for the parlor across the hall from that used for gaming, where he knew he’d find the three offenders.
He did indeed find them, all seated around a table with a bottle of brandy and ogling the two lads currently entertaining patrons at another table across the room.
When Harry came to a stop, looming over them, they all stared up at him with varying expressions of annoyance, fear, and sullen defiance.
“I understand you’re looking to hire someone for the night,” Harry said.
“And he’s being damned unaccommodating!” one of them cried, setting his brandy glass down with a thump and a slosh. “What’s the little bugger paid for, eh?”
Another gestured obscenely, making the third laugh.
All three of them were dressed in the height of fashion, with collar points holding their heads at uncomfortable angles, and all three clearly had guineas to spend. Harry doubted any of them had ever done a day’s work in his life, and his fists clenched with the effort he was expending not to murder them after all. Useless wastrels…Giles was worth the lot of them.
“He’s not paid for anything, anymore,” Harry growled. And then, like a flash of genius, he remembered something Simon had said to him in jest a few weeks before: that if Harry chose to replace Giles, he’d certainly draw a different type of patron, but he’d be as wildly popular. Harry had only just finished fucking Simon into a limp, pliant mess, and he took it as the compliment Simon intended it to be. “However, I’m available,” he added, making his voice as pleasantly menacing as ever it had been when he found soldiers under his command drunk on duty. “Three guineas, one for each of you. We’ll step out back, eh? And believe me, I’ll make it worth your time. You won’t walk straight for a week. If ever.”
All three of them stared up at him, eyes wide. One pressed back in his chair as if trying to get as far away from Harry as possible, while the other two had frozen in their seats.
Harry leaned down, planting his fists on the table and meeting each of their terrified gazes in turn.
“And if you don’t like what’s on offer, which to be clear is my very particular attentions, then I suggest you finish your bloody brandy like the gentlemen you pretend to be, and then bugger off.”
They didn’t wait to finish their brandy; thirty seconds later, the front door of Perdition shut firmly behind them.
Harry had followed them into the hall to make sure they departed, and he turned from watching them go to find Simon behind him, his lovely eyes all bright with laughter.
“I caught some of that from the doorway a few moments ago,” he said, still chuckling. “Dear God, Harry. You’ve gotten rather good at this.”
Harry shrugged and crossed the distance between them, his heart lifting as it always did when he beheld Simon, no matter how much time they spent in one another’s company. “Potts requested that I not kill them. I always try to give satisfaction to my employers.”
Simon cocked his head, a sly smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “I’m one of your employers, am I not?” he purred. “Perhaps I ought to demand my share of satisfaction. I don’t mind not walking straight for a week. If you’re still available for the night.”
“It’ll cost you,” Harry said, grinning. “Although I’m willing to take my payment in trade.”
Perhaps tonight would be the night to make that bargain about the tailor, after all.
Simon held out his hand. “They’ll come up and knock if they need either of us,” he said, and led Harry toward the stairs.
***
The leather cuffs Harry had produced from God only knew where dug into his wrists a bit, having been clearly made for someone a bit more dainty than Simon. But the slight pain only ratcheted Simon’s pleasure all the higher—they dug in as Harry pulled back, tugging on Simon’s arms where they were bound to the bedposts, and then loosened as Harry thrust into him again, pushing him up the bed, huge cock slamming into Simon’s helpless body.
“Harry,” Simon gasped, swallowing hard around the tightness in his dry throat. He’d been unable to say anything else for some time now, all other words having fled. “Harry.”
“Spend for me without a touch to your cock,” Harry growled, “and I’ll go to your tailor tomorrow and allow you to order me two new coats.”
Later, Simon would be ashamed of how those words, at that moment, sent a bolt of lightning down his spine and made him spill all over himself, back bowing, a high, keening cry tearing out of his throat.
But at that moment, he couldn’t have been ashamed to save his life.
Harry cried out too, his eyes closing and his big shoulders hunching as he pounded into Simon once, twice, and then stilled, shuddering, his heat filling Simon’s body.
