Page 15 of The Wrong Rake
It was by far the most breathtaking sight of Harry’s life: Beaumont’s open mouth and fluttering eyelashes, the long line of his body, the way his thighs spread as he fucked into Harry’s hand and lost any pretense of control.
And then Beaumont fell back on the bed, moaned, and covered his face with his hands.
Chapter Six
Simon would never, ever live this down. Standish would get to his feet and depart—or no, he couldn’t, because this was his bedchamber.
The thought drew out another pitiful little groan, spurred on by a twitching aftershock of pleasure that Simon couldn’t control. Simon would need to be the one to stand—which would mean exposing his face, and seeing what expression graced Standish’s. Contempt, annoyance, mockery? All possibilities, and not mutually exclusive, either.
He would need to dress. He might have come on his trousers.
Simon shuddered. Bloody fucking hell.
The soft rustle of fabric followed by the distinctive sound of flesh on flesh made Simon lift his head and spread his fingers, peeking through them at Standish.
Who had his head bent down, his shoulders shifting as he…brought himself off, good God, his huge hand stroking up and down his equally huge cock, the thick red head appearing and disappearing mesmerizingly.
Caught between indignation, lingering mortification, and a shock of renewed desire that almost had his own cock rising again, Simon could do nothing but stare for a long moment. He could have stared at such a sight forever, in fact, and even paid for the privilege. How many of Perdition’s habitués would have laid down as many guineas as Standish could ask to watch him working his cock like that, kneeling on the floor, muscular legs spread to give him room to work, massive arm flexing as he moved?
But powerful as Simon’s lust might be, and humiliated as he might still feel at having spent like a stripling, indignation won out in the end.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, pushing himself up on his elbows so as to glare more effectively.
Standish started and looked up sharply, his hand stilling. His eyes left Simon transfixed: the pupils so large that the slate-blue had almost disappeared, and locked on Simon as if he were something to be devoured.
Which, of course, he was. The problem was that Standish had stopped in the midst of doing so.
“I beg your pardon,” Standish said hoarsely. Simon shivered. God,hehad done that, with his cock in Standish’s mouth. “But seeing you find your pleasure made me wish to—”
“Fiddlesticks!” Simon snapped, realizing that he sounded dreadfully like his great-uncle and not being quite able to care. “You promised to fuck me, Standish. Are you a man who keeps your word, or are you not?”
Standish’s mouth dropped open, and he let out a low, incoherent sound that shot down Simon’s spine and lodged in his bollocks. Slowly, without a word, he took his hand away from his cockstand. And even more slowly, he rose to his feet, leaning in, predatory, making Simon’s heart burst into a rapid gallop despite how he’d asked for it—demanded it, even. All the while, Standish’s eyes were fixed on his face.
He'd meant to stand his ground, but Simon found himself falling back again, lying back on the bed and spreading himself out like an offering on the altar of some lustful pagan god. Standish leaned down over him, propping himself on his fists to either side of Simon’s ribs.
“I keep my word,” he said at last.
Simon opened his mouth to reply, but Standish cut him off by swooping down and slamming his mouth down over his. All words fled his mind as that hot, demanding mouth plundered his, as Standish’s weight pressed him down, as one of Standish’s hands worked its way under his shirt and slid along his ribs, over his belly, down to his cock. He arched up and moaned into Standish’s mouth as that big hand wrapped around his half-erect length and squeezed, just this side of too hard. Standish’s tongue twined with his and then thrust into him, mimicking the motion Simon wanted so desperately to feel much lower down.
His head swam, all of his skill in the bedroom, and his wits, gone fluttering away into the ether. He reached up and tried to grasp onto Standish, to take some control of the situation, but too late; Standish tore his mouth away from Simon’s and slid down again, catching hold of his trousers with both hands and wrenching them off his hips. He tugged and tore at them as Simon flailed and cursed, yanking them off along with his stockings and his shoes and tossing it all into a messy heap behind him, leaving Simon bare from the waist down.
It felt so infinitely more debauched than being entirely naked, sprawling there with his legs akimbo and only his loosened shirt to cover what it could.
When Standish stood again, he was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling like a bellows. He shoved his own trousers down and off without ceremony, stepping out of them as he pulled his own shirt over his head and off, giving it the same careless treatment he’d offered Simon’s unfortunate garments.
And then he gazed down at Simon with an avid, hungry glint in those slate-blue eyes, fists clenching at his sides. God, he was a fine figure of a man, and he took Simon’s breath away: the broad chest and broader shoulders, the lean hips and long, muscular legs. Red hair scattered his body in all the right places, thicker in the middle of his chest and arrowing down to the thatch around his cock. He had scars, too, enough to show he’d been no coward in his time on the Continent, but not so many as to suggest he’d been careless or unskilled.
He was not the kind of man Simon would usually find in the gaming parlor at Perdition, nor at the parties and routs he attended elsewhere in London.
He could tear Simon apart if he wished.
Simon rather hoped he wished, and shivered as he spread his legs further, showing Standish what was his to claim.
Standish’s gaze dropped from his face down between his thighs, and the flush on his tanned cheeks darkened.
“Fuck, Beaumont,” he muttered. “You’re—I hardly know where to begin.”
“Well, I can guide you through—”
