Page 17 of The Wrong Rake
Simon lifted his head and parted his lips, and his heart gave a swoop as Standish leaned down to meet him halfway, holding the kiss as he pulled back his hips and thrust again.
And again, and again, deeper and harder, jolting Simon across the bed, his weight and strength pinning him so perfectly. Harsh, panting breaths, and the slick sound of two bodies joining, and the pressure built and built, Simon’s cock straining, every motion driving him higher—until everything went white, all his muscles clenching at once, and he lost himself in a wave of pleasure that crested and then washed over him, knocking him askew and out of reality.
He came back to himself as Standish groaned low and deep, and Simon clenched again as he felt Standish’s release deep inside him, hot and wet.
Standish slumped down and rested his head beside Simon’s shoulder. His own shoulders heaved, slick with sweat, and Simon reached up and stroked along the point of one, tracing the bone. Standish shuddered and turned his head to press an open-mouthed kiss just below Simon’s ear.
Slowly, the world filtered back in: laughter from the stable boys outside in the courtyard drifting in through the window, the distant clatter of dishes as the servants served luncheon to guests downstairs. The cool air of the room settling on Simon’s bare skin like a chilly blanket, cooling the perspiration on his legs and chest.
He still had Standish’s softening cock filling him, anchoring him, pinning him to the bed, and Standish’s weight pressing him into the bolster. He let his legs fall, wincing as his muscles flexed.
“I suppose that’s my hint to get off of you,” Standish rumbled in his ear. “Sorry. I’m a bit of a heavy lump.”
“I don’t mind,” Simon managed, feeling unaccountably shy yet again, damn it all. How many times had he performed this particular dance, the physical and mental extrication from another man, the attempt at grace while one did so and the side-stepping of any emotional entanglement? And yet this time…he knew he would stumble, and the attempt sounded exhausting.
He didn’t want to extricate himself in any way. He wanted to lie here, to feel Standish’s heat and strength over and around him, to close his eyes and drift in the peace of this dull little inn’s dull little bedchamber, safely anonymous, with the world held at bay. More than anything, he wanted Standish to want the same, to feel a similar reluctance to go. To desire more of Simon than this one fuck and the awkward conversation about Adam’s visit that must come after it.
Oh, bother, Adam.
Simon bit his lip to try to hold in a moan of annoyance.
Standish lifted his head and peered down at him.
“I’m hurting you? Fuck, my apologies, I’ll—”
“No, don’t!” Simon cried, wrapping his arms around Standish’s shoulders as he tried to withdraw. “A moment more.”
He sounded rather desperate, he supposed, but he couldn’t regret it; Standish let his weight settle again, bending his head down to nuzzle at Simon’s throat.
Fuck it. He could close his eyes and allow himself that moment, since Standish seemed agreeable to the idea. One moment more before he must face the world.
Chapter Seven
Beaumont seemed quite insistent that Harry stay precisely where he was, and Harry wasn’t going to complain. Not when he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so utterly at peace. Years of warfare had left him with a rather thin roster of pleasant memories of physical comfort. But even if he’d been lounging in luxury for a decade, this moment would have become his new favorite.
The lean, muscular body beneath him seemed to have been made to fit his, every angle and curve aligning with his own. And Beaumont’s flushed skin and sated little smile, the way his eyelashes fanned against those rosy cheeks. The taste of his throat, salty and sweet under Harry’s tongue—for he couldn’t seem to stop nibbling and licking and kissing that smooth skin. Beaumont’s valet clearly earned whatever no-doubt-inflated wage the man paid him, for he was a genius with soap and a razor. Harry knew his own chin would be slightly prickly, as always, and thought with some guilt of the way he’d rubbed his face against Beaumont’s tender inner thighs. At least he hadn’t complained. Perhaps Harry ought to lick them later, to soothe any injury.
His cock, still buried inside Beaumont’s hot, yielding body, gave a little twitch at the thought. Good Lord, he’d never go fully soft at this rate. He’d stay on top of Beaumont all day, fucking into him lazily the moment his cock hardened enough after the last round.
Right here, with Beaumont’s hands stroking his back, and bloody hell, but that felt like nothing Harry could remember. None of the women he’d taken to bed had ever troubled to be gentle with him, perhaps supposing—rightly—that he didn’t require it, and perhaps because none of them cared enough.
But not requiring something didn’t mean one didn’t crave it, bone-deep. And though Harry’s body stretched out over Beaumont’s sheltered him from the world—from any danger, unlikely as it might be for any to come calling—and while Harry wanted it that way…Beaumont’s strong arms around him were protective, too. As if he could lay down his cares for a little while, knowing that he wouldn’t be entirely defenseless if he did. It felt rather as it had when he slept rough on some lonely Portuguese hillside with one of his comrades keeping watch a few feet away, only infinitely sweeter.
And unfortunately, he and Beaumont had a shared mission to complete, even though no one was at all likely to try to shoot them.
Beaumont’s blasted brother had to be dealt with.
Harry realized, with a little shock but no real surprise—for he’d slipped into liking Beaumont somewhere along the way, and couldn’t possibly resist the urge to protect the lover he had spread out beneath him all pliant and trusting—that his anger at the other Beaumont now stemmed in part from his attempts to lie to and extort money from this Beaumont, as well as from his treatment of Amelia.
Bollocks. He couldn’t stay inside Beaumont all day, after all.
With infinite care, he pushed up on his elbows and began to withdraw from the tight, wet, lovely heat that surrounded him. Beaumont let out a sleepy little murmur of protest.
“I have to, sweetheart,” he whispered—and then went very still, his heart giving a stumble and then kicking like a mule. He’d used that endearment at times with women and had never been misunderstood; those liaisons were so brief, and frequently accompanied by coins changing hands. But this? This was entirely different.
But Beaumont didn’t react other than by grumbling a little and letting his arms fall from around Harry’s back.
He already felt colder and lonelier for the loss, but he forced himself to pull back and out, lifting his hips from the cradle of his lover’s and allowing his cock to slide free. A trickle of semen followed, slicking Beaumont’s thighs.
