Page 7 of The Wrong Rake
“I’ll be ready to go again quickly enough,” Standish said, his tone hard and mocking, the words shattering the silence and making Simon start. “If you’re that eager.”
At that, Simon’s last hope that Standish would have been mellowed by the “practical demonstration” withered and died. And a nasty suspicion bloomed in its place. Had the man accepted his ministrations with the intent of shaming him, demeaning him, in the first place? Had Simon been led so far astray by his own desire?
It seemed quite possible. Sickeningly so. Simon’s belly clenched into a cold, hard knot.
He had nothing whatsoever to gain by further attempts to conciliate this bastard but his own degradation.
“Eager?” he retorted, anger and humiliation giving him a voice at last. He sounded as wrecked as he’d feared. “Hardly. Your performance a moment ago has hardly inspired me to linger, Standish.”
Standish’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “And yet you’re still on your knees.” He reached down and began to do up his buttons, tucking his magnificent cock out of sight.
Damn him to hell, anyway. “My legs are stiff!” Where the devil had Simon’s poise vanished to? He was one and thirty, not a green lad, and he bloody well owned Perdition, one of the most fashionable establishments in London. But he could not seem to find his equilibrium, his heart pounding and his own cock stirring again, helplessly responding to Standish’s scorn and huge, intimidating presence. “Believe me, I find no pleasure in remaining—”
“If your legs are stiff, all the more reason to rise.” Standish’s lips twisted into an ugly smirk, strangely out of place, Simon thought wildly, on a face whose lines seemed formed by genuine smiles, by kindness. “Allow me.”
And before Simon could protest, Standish had fastened his last button and surged to his feet, grasping Simon’s arm in a firm grip he couldn’t escape and hauling him after.
They fetched up chest to chest, Simon having to tip his head back to look into Standish’s face—and damn the man for his barbarian height, anyway, Simon himself stood an inch at least over most other men. The iron grip around his upper arm almost hurt, but he refused to give Standish the satisfaction of wincing or struggling.
“Perhaps I ought to make it up to you,” he said, very low, his gleaming eyes boring into Simon’s face. “Since my performance failed to please you.”
“No!” Simon cried, but it was too late; Standish’s other hand had worked its way between them and brushed over the damning dampness of his breeches.
And then stilled. Standish stared down at him, the strangest expression making its way over his face. His jaw worked, eyes fixed on Simon’s.
“You really are a liar,” he said at last. “A damnable liar, Beaumont. Myperformanceseems to have been more than adequate. Spectacular, even. You had both your hands on me the whole time. Having my cock thrust down your lying throat made you—” He stopped abruptly, swallowing hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “You spent in those fucking tight satin breeches without a touch,” he finished, voice gone rough. His hand shifted and settled on Simon’s hip, tightening and pulling him closer as if without his conscious volition. “You spent when I held your head down and took you.”
He had, he bloody well had, and what could he say when Standish had already felt the evidence for himself? And particularly when his cock had gone from barely stirring to stiffening noticeably, when if Standish pulled him any closer he’d feel that for himself, as well?
Standish leaned in and down, his lips a whisper away from Simon’s, and—
Footsteps pounded down the hall, and a heavy knock sounded on the door. “Simon!” And that was Caesar’s voice. “Simon, we have a problem downstairs. What the devil are you doing, anyway?”
Standish reeled away, jerking his hands off of him as if he’d been burned. Simon stumbled back, unbalanced in body and soul. “A moment!” he called out. “A moment, if you please.”
The doorknob rattled, and Caesar’s laughter carried through the door. “You never lock your office! I suppose I don’t need to ask what you’re doing, after all.”
“Who the fuck is that?” Standish hissed, patting frantically at his breeches and tugging at his waistcoat and cravat, attempting to order himself. “He’ll bloody well see me, Beaumont!”
“Caesar Potts, he owns this place with me. He’s as bent as they come, he won’t care a whit,” Simon whispered back, desperately working to bring some semblance of respectability to his own clothing. Caesar had very little by way of shame. None, in fact, and he could be found kissing and groping and flirting with his lover George all over Perdition at all hours of the day and night. But Simon preferred to keep his liaisons more discreet, even from those he considered his close friends. Wet breeches were quite the opposite of discreet.
But there was nothing for it, because Caesar kept up a stream of demands that the door be opened, and the man wouldn’t go away, not even for a thousand pounds.
“Try not to give him anything to laugh about,” Simon growled, and went to open the door.
***
A moderately tall, well-dressed fellow pushed his way inside the moment Beaumont had it unlocked. He grinned, looking Beaumont up and down, and then grinned all the wider, blue eyes twinkling, as he caught sight of Harry lurking off to the side and scowling.
“Well, this is certainly cozy, Simon,” he said with a chuckle. “I applaud your taste. And in your office, too! Not at all your usual style, my dear fellow. But we’ll talk about that later,” he added as Beaumont opened his mouth. “One of those idiots who were here last week is back, trying yet again to cheat, and his friends are…”
Potts rambled on, filling Beaumont in on whatever nonsense was afoot downstairs, but Harry didn’t care enough to follow.
Even if he had cared, his attention remained fixed on that stain on the front of Beaumont’s breeches—and when Beaumont turned a little, on the fit of the breeches around his arse.
Harry had never fucked another man, but on two memorable occasions, a particularly adventurous lightskirt had invited him to take her that way rather than in the more standard manner. He knew how to accomplish it. And he knew how very much he enjoyed it. Would Beaumont want to be fucked? Harry suspected so, after the way he’d responded to being on his knees. He hoped so.
In fact, he had been all of three seconds from discovering Beaumont’s willingness for himself when this bounder Potts had knocked on the door. Bending him over his desk, tearing the breeches off of him, shoving those long, lean legs apart…they were long enough that Beaumont’s arse would’ve been sticking up in the air, absolutely begging for Harry to spread him open and make him scream—
