Page 28 of The Wrong Rake
Harry lifted his head—reluctantly, because he could think of few things he’d enjoy more than making Simon come all over himself with Harry’s tongue in his pretty hole. But he’d give Simon anything he wanted, always, and Simon was biting his lip and panting, clearly so close to finishing.
He stood and snatched the bottle of oil off of the table by the bed.
Simon flushed an even deeper crimson. “I left that there in hopes you’d come,” he said. “I haven’t used it with anyone else.”
A flash of something like triumph went through him, but he said, because it was true, “You’d have had every right to. You didn’t make me any promises.” Although it might have broken him if Simon had taken another man to his bed. But there was no need to dwell on what hadn’t happened, thank God. He opened the bottle and poured a liberal amount into his hand, slicking it up and down his cock, squeezing hard at the base to keep himself in check.
Simon watched with wide, hungry eyes, and licked his lips. “Would you—do you want me to make you one now?”
He sounded tentative, as if he expected Harry to say no, of all the absurd ideas.
A promise. From Simon. Harry’s heart gave an unsteady lurch.
But that would be unfair, wouldn’t it? To allow Simon to speak first. Harry had come to him originally, after all, shouting at him and accusing him and ruining his clothes. And it seemed only right for Harry to be the one to make the first promise.
“I only want you,” he said, kneeling on the bed between Simon’s legs. “Now, and in the future. And I promise you to be true, if you want me.”
Simon’s answering smile was better than any words could have been, and the joy shining from his dark eyes arrowed straight to Harry’s heart. “Trust you to steal the march on me,” he said. “I promise the same. Gladly. So very gladly. Come here, Harry.”
And so he did, shuddering with pleasure as Simon’s arms wrapped around his back, those clever hands stroking him and caressing him, showing him how very wanted he was. He slid into Simon as if he belonged there.
As if Simon were his home.
“You’re mine,” he whispered in Simon’s ear. “Mine, and no one else’s.”
Simon threw his head back and gasped, his wet heat clenching around Harry’s cock in a way that would have him spending so quickly, too quickly to give Simon the pleasure he deserved.
But he couldn’t stop himself, thrusting deeply, every motion of Simon’s lithe body driving him harder.
In the end it didn’t matter. They spent together, their peaks indistinguishable, two bodies merged into one. Harry moaned and buried his face in Simon’s neck, his head spinning.
“I promise,” he said hoarsely. “Simon, I can’t imagine wanting anything but this.”
“I feel the same,” Simon whispered. “And I keep my word too.”
“I know.” Harry kissed his shoulder, his neck, his cheek, everywhere he could reach, and then lifted up enough to claim Simon’s mouth.
When he broke the kiss, Simon’s lips clung to his, as if they didn’t want to let him go. Well, they wouldn’t need to. As soon as Harry had looked his fill, after drinking in Simon’s bright eyes and smiling mouth, the soft sweep of his eyelashes and the flush on his cheeks, he’d kiss him again. And again, and again.
Perhaps he ought to send Adam a note of thanks for indirectly giving Harry everything he’d ever wanted in the world.
Or perhaps not.
He bent down and kissed Simon again instead.
Epilogue
Three months later
“Those idiots who were here last week still won’t be put off,” Potts said, pulling Harry aside into an alcove behind the stairs. “They simply won’t leave Giles alone. They’ve been told more than once that the lad’s not working the upstairs anymore, but they seem to think since he’s still here at Perdition, he’s fair game.”
Harry nodded, frowned, and considered. This certainly fell under his purview, but he was hesitant to intervene personally; nothing made him angrier, these days, than discourtesy to the young women and men who sold their services to Perdition’s guests. Giles might not be one of them anymore, but he was part of Perdition and always would be, and therefore entitled to Harry’s permanent protection.
If Harry went to deal with the three men who’d been harassing Giles, he’d be as likely to throw them out a window without troubling to open it first as escort them out properly, as befitted the club’s unofficial guard.
“Try not to kill them,” Potts added, and Harry smiled. Potts had come to know him a bit, apparently.
And no wonder, for Harry had spent nearly every day at Perdition since he’d come to London to find Simon three months ago. For lack of anything better to do while Simon worked, he’d begun taking it upon himself to intimidate, scowl at, snub, and generally squelch anyone who stepped through the doors and couldn’t behave himself.
