Page 16 of The Wrong Rake
“That’s not what I mean at all.” Standish looked up again, his eyes fixed on Simon’s face with terrifying intensity. “I know precisely what to do. Only I want to do bloody well everything.” He put a knee between Simon’s legs, pushing him open even further. Standish leaned down, laying one hand in the center of Simon’s chest. “I want to tear your shirt off, rip it down the middle and ruin it.” He hooked his fingers under the edge of the shirt and tugged gently, Simon’s hand flying up to stop him, his own fingers wrapping around Standish’s wrist, feeling the muscles flex. “I want to lay you bare, Beaumont.”
It sounded like more than a wish to have him nude, and Simon had to swallow hard, his throat painfully tight. Very few men had ever expressed a wish to have more of him than his body, and those liaisons had ended poorly in any case. And the very last man in the world who’d want more than a tumble with him would be this one: in London only to seek revenge against Simon’s kin, a soldier and a provincial, not a town man at all. Hardly likely to have much common ground with someone like Simon, at least not beyond the most superficial of pleasures—and even less likely to seek it.
And yet Simon couldn’t help himself. Hewanted. Standish’s cock in him, of course. He certainly wanted that. But from the moment they’d met, Standish had interested him, surprised him—not always positively, of course—and engaged him. He hadn’t been bored, at the very least, and Simon had spent much of the past decade attempting one means after the other to cure his jaded ennui.
Even Perdition, a den of sin and vice and many other lovely diversions if ever there was one, failed to claim his full attention much of the time, and he bloody well owned the place along with his two friends.
Gazing into Standish’s eyes, he found he couldn’t locate so much as a scrap of boredom anywhere within him. His body and mind and soul sang in harmony, a thrumming symphony of desire and interest and excitement.
“Lay me bare, then,” he whispered. “And see what you find.”
Standish’s mouth quirked into a half-smile, a delightful one that reached his eyes and brightened them with something that looked very much like the match to Simon’s own longing.
“Nothing but beauty, I expect,” he said softly. And while Simon still reeled from that, unable to do more than gape, he slid his hand down and pulled Simon’s shirt up, working it over his chest.
Simon tried to help, to pull his arms out and to sit up to allow the shirt to come off, but Standish bent his head and pressed soft, hot kisses on every inch of bared skin, licking and nibbling along his ribs, and then taking one of Simon’s nipples between his lips and sucking it, hard and sudden.
Everything became a blur after that, Simon’s overstimulated nerves misfiring and setting him reeling. Standish went from one nipple to the other, biting and licking in between, one hand still working the shirt up and off while the other was busy between Simon’s legs, lifting his bollocks and stroking his thighs. How did the man have the coordination to manage all of that?
And then one of his fingers found Simon’s hole, and the last of his reason fled. Standish teased him with a fingertip, stroking a circle around Simon’s entrance, the delicate touch in such unbearably delightful contrast to the roughness of Standish’s callused skin.
“I need to fetch something,” Standish muttered against Simon’s chest, pressing one more kiss to his swollen nipple before lifting up and leaving Simon cold and bereft.
Something. Of course,something, and Simon’s heart beat all the harder. Standish bent to rummage through his valise, and Simon couldn’t resist sitting up a bit to enjoy the view. Standish’s arse was as muscular as the rest of him. He took the opportunity to struggle the rest of the way out of his shirt, tossing it aside and letting go, at the same time, of the last of his concerns for how he’d look when he finally dressed again and stepped out into the world.
Perhaps he’d look as if he’d been thoroughly tumbled.
Well, then he would. And as Standish turned, smiling triumphantly and holding up a small stoppered jar, Simon thought that it would be well worth it.
In the past, Simon’s lovers had been reluctant to prepare him for this act, and he’d almost always done it himself. He could only assume Standish would be at least equally squeamish.
He held out a hand, saying, “I’ll take care of—” only for Standish to cut him off with, “Don’t even think about it. I want to see how you feel inside.”
Oh,God. Simon’s stomach clenched, his cock throbbing, and he could hardly draw breath. Those words, with those eyes still fixed on him as if he were the most beautiful thing Standish had ever seen…there was only one possible answer.
Simon dropped back on the bed and brought his feet up to brace them on the edge of it, spreading his legs and giving Standish a target he could not possibly miss. “Come and feel me, then,” he said huskily.
And Standish didn’t wait to be invited a second time, advancing on Simon with a predatory smile and a gleam in his eyes. He knelt down beside the bed again, putting himself nearly at eye level with Simon’s…everything. He hadn’t been shy since he was a boy, and perhaps not even then. But Standish’s focused scrutiny nearly undid him. If this was how Standish had approached his military objectives, he must have been formidable indeed. Standish stroked Simon’s inner thighs, traced the curves of his cheeks, leaving Simon clenching his fists in the coverlet and moaning. And then he did something with the jar that Simon couldn’t see from his vantage point. A moment later, a slick finger pressed against his hole and in. The sudden penetration had Simon catching his breath, but it felt so bloody perfect: pressure inside of him, the slight stretch of his muscle, the promise of more to come.
And Standish gave him more, twisting his finger and stroking him on all sides, feeling his inner contours, and then pulling back to add a second. He braced his other big hand on the back of one of Simon’s thighs, firmly holding him open and leaning down to watch the progress of his fingers, his breath puffing fast and hot against Simon’s bollocks.
Simon nearly tore holes in the bedding with the force of his grip. His aching cock demanded immediate attention, a hand or a mouth, or hell, a breath of air might have done for him, but he refused to bring himself off again before Standish had finished even the once—before Standish’s cock had even thrust inside him.
The thought drew out a groan he couldn’t suppress. “For the love of Heaven, Standish! I’m ready, I could not possibly be more ready—”
Standish pulled his fingers out so abruptly Simon lost his breath, and he stood, using his slick hand to smear oil on his own erection.
“I wanted to be certain I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said. And then added, “But I couldn’t agree more.”
He knelt on the edge of the bed between Simon’s spread legs, lined up his cock, and pushed inside with one hard, powerful thrust.
Simon didn’t really feel it for a moment, only the shock of it.
And then sensation rushed in on him, the burning stretch and the incredible fullness, the pressure of Standish’s cock on that perfect, sweet spot inside his body. He brought his legs up and wrapped them around Standish’s hips, tugging him down, and he let out a startled sound and toppled, catching himself on his hands to either side of Simon’s head. Standish’s hard abdominal muscles and the roughness of his hair pressed down on Simon’s cock, and he arched up, shamelessly rubbing against the man on top of him like a cat in heat.
“Fuck,” Standish breathed. “You feel—I was right. You feel extraordinary inside.”
The light in Standish’s eyes as he gazed down at him had Simon’s chest unbearably tight—well, that and the firm, demanding pressure inside him where Standish had his massive cock lodged so very deep.
