Page 6 of The Wrong Rake
Beaumont hesitated, perhaps waiting for Harry to undo his buttons.
Well, he’d be waiting a while, because impatient as he might be to feel the soft heat of Beaumont’s lips and tongue, the constriction of his throat…God, impatient might not be the right word. Desperate might fit better.
But Beaumont had proposed this madness, and Harry had no wish to make it easy for the blighter in any case. Let him do all the work.
At last Beaumont laid long, pale hands on Harry’s thighs, his fingers leaving searing traceries in their wake. Harry could hardly breathe, watching him inch closer to his target. Those nimble fingers made short work of Harry’s buttons, somehow managing to avoid even brushing against the ridge of Harry’s straining cock. It was torture, beautiful torture of the acutest kind, particularly as Harry wore nothing beneath his breeches and had only that single layer of fabric between Beaumont’s hands and the part of his body he wanted them to touch.
Beaumont pulled the breeches’ flap down. Harry’s cock stood tall and firm as a pikestaff, flushed red at the thick head, looking nearly as eager as Harry felt.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Beaumont whispered. And stared down at it, his hands clenching into the cloth of the breeches’ flap.
That was quite satisfying, Harry had to admit, although he’d have preferred action to admiration.
“Get on with it, then,” he said, rather less gently than courtesy perhaps demanded. But what courtesy did he owe this London rake, anyway? None whatsoever. “Don’t waste my fucking time.”
Beaumont let out a long, shaky breath, eyes still half-lidded, head bent down, his breath brushing the oversensitive tip of Harry’s cock. Harry’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head at just that slight stimulation. But Beaumont didn’t speak, didn’t react to Harry’s coarseness. Did it not bother him at all, to be treated so? A spark of something that could have been shame ignited in Harry’s breast. But no, no, damn it all. He need not feel anything of the sort. A hardened libertine like Beaumont—and he must be, mustn’t he, given that he presided over the goings-on in this house?—could hardly be shocked by a little rough speech.
And could hardly be dishonored by it, either.
Still, Harry wondered at his passive acceptance of it—and then lost the capacity for wondering, or any type of thought at all, as Beaumont lowered his head still further and took the head of Harry’s cock in his mouth without any preamble.
Many of Harry’s previous partners in this act had been enthusiastic and skilled, but this. This defied any comparison. Libertine might have been an insufficient word. Beaumont’s tongue flicked all around, clever and wild, and then he sank down, swallowing most of Harry’s considerable length until he felt the tightness of Beaumont’s throat clenching around him, his lips and tongue still working like anything.
In short, Beaumont sucked cock like the veriest whore, forcing it deep enough to choke himself but using his own discomfort, those constrictions of his muscles, to spur Harry’s pleasure to near-unbearable heights. Harry’s vision blurred, but he could still barely make out Beaumont’s bent, glossy head, feel his fingers digging into his thighs, kneading his flesh like a cat. His own hands clenched around the arms of the chair. And then he couldn’t resist; he lifted his right and buried it in Beaumont’s hair, callused fingers catching on the silky strands, taking a fistful of wavy locks and pushing Beaumont’s head further down onto his cock.
Beaumont let out a strangled moan, the vibrations coursing down Harry’s shaft and into his bollocks, drawn up hard and tight. He pulled back to take a breath, and Harry allowed it, moving his hand along with Beaumont’s head, but he kept his grip. The moment Beaumont had sucked in a lungful, Harry shoved him down again, thrusting up, fucking his mouth and throat, his own breath rasping in his chest and in his ears. So wet, so tight, blood-hot, his cock buried in this lying, rakish bastard’s body…he cried out, low and harsh, as a bolt of lightning shot up his spine and his back bowed, curling him over Beaumont’s head as he spilled deep into his throat.
Beaumont swallowed and swallowed, pulling every drop out of Harry’s cock, and his vision whited out completely. He slumped back at last, feeling utterly turned inside-out, shuddering as the aftershocks of pleasure made the world spin around him.
At last, he was aware of a soft, pained sound, of a tug on his hand.
Beaumont. Beaumont, who still had Harry’s cock in his mouth, suckling on his softening length and trying to lift his head. Harry still had a death-grip on his hair.
Harry tore his hand away and opened his eyes.
Beaumont gazed up at him, eyes black pools and lips parted, red and swollen.
The world stopped spinning. It stopped completely. Simon Beaumont, the man who had toyed with Amelia, whom Harry had come to London to duel or to punch in the face, knelt before him with a trickle of Harry’s spend at the corner of his gorgeous, debauched lips.
And Harry had no bloody clue what to do next. He had regained his lost temper, at least, his mind and body once again under his control. Somehow, he must wrest the truth, and some sort of restitution, from Beaumont, but a clear head unfortunately provided him with nothing more than the knowledge of how far out of his depth he had strayed, here in London with this sophisticated man and the battle one of manners and reputations, not of swords and guns.
He could only hope to hide how utterly unmanned he had been left by the glorious perfection of Beaumont’s lovely mouth, and pray that inspiration would strike.
Chapter Three
Simon’s scalp stung where Standish had gripped too hard—wonderfully, perfectly too hard—as Simon swallowed his enormous cock all the way down. His lips throbbed, no doubt swollen and puffy. And his throat might never be the same, good God. If he tried to speak, he doubted he could manage more than a raspy whisper.
What would he say, even if he could force the words out?
Really, he ought to stand up and get away from here before Standish’s post-coital enervation dissipated and he turned dangerous.
But standing would reveal the ruined state of his breeches—and not from kneeling on the floor. Ironic that he had worried about the condition of his knees, when the spreading spot of wetness on the placket would ruin the garment entirely on its own. When Standish had pushed him down, shoved his massive prick deep into Simon’s throat, held him there to be used at his pleasure, it had been too much for Simon’s self-control. And he had spent helplessly, his body convulsing, fingers digging bruises into Standish’s thighs.
Standish would see Simon’s weakness the moment he stood. At least perhaps it would bolster Simon’s protestations of a thorough interest in men. But the shame of it might or might not be worth being proven not a liar.
Neither of them spoke. A faint hubbub of voices and laughter drifted up the stairs; from outside, the clatter of hooves on the street reached them through the window. It only made the silence feel the more oppressive. Standish’s big body sprawled in the chair could have been that of a lord at his ease, with his servant in attendance kneeling at his feet. But his pupil-blown slate-blue eyes and the rapid rise and fall of his chest belied any sort of calm.
Simon’s gaze flickered down to Standish’s cock. Even mostly softened, it made an imposing sight. His mouth watered.
