Chapter Two

Panting, Oliver squeezed his eyes shut tight. Vincent’s “other plans” clearly involved tormenting him until he had been reduced to a quivering pile of need. Deprived of Vincent for four long weeks, his senses soaked up each sensation, savored them like the most treasured of gifts, while simultaneously frantic for more. If Vincent kept this up much longer, he’d climax before his lover worked his big prick into him.

“Please, milord.”

Vincent chuckled, a low throaty rumble. He drew a line down the oil-slicked crease of Oliver’s arse and paused once again to linger over his hole, slowly tracing the puckered flesh. His skin tingled, the ring of muscle relaxing under Vincent’s touch, ready for more. Then the tip of his finger slipped inside, rewarding him with the barest hint of penetration.

Oliver let out a moan of pleasure, his body tightening greedily around that digit. After being teased for what felt like an hour, though in actuality fifteen minutes could not have passed since they had entered his bedchamber, Vincent was finally giving him the tiniest taste of what he had been promising.

Needing more, Oliver pushed back and almost lost his balance. The muscles in his thighs tensed as he fought to keep from sliding off his bed. Vincent had him naked and kneeling on the bed, his calves dangling off the edge, his chest pressed to the mattress, his arse on full display. The precarious position restrained him far more than the leather cuffs binding his wrists behind his back.

A large hand grasped his hip, steadying him. “Don’t move. You will get what I give you and thank me for it.”

Oliver’s breaths stuttered. He loved it when Vincent spoke to him in that hard, commanding tone. “Yes, milord.”

“Good boy.” Vincent went back to toying with him. Up and down, a slow, luxurious caress, just the pad of his index finger sliding along the crease, driving him to distraction. The decadent sensation kept him suspended on the knife-edge of anticipation, every fiber in his being acutely aware of the man standing behind him and what he might choose to do next. The unknown, the wait—a heady thrill all its own. One he was absolutely addicted to.

He clenched his fists as Vincent skimmed past his entrance again. The ballocks hanging between his spread thighs tingled, tightened, begging for attention. As Vincent drew another line down his crease, he couldn’t help but arch his lower back, lifting his arse, hoping for a touch, an accidental brush of Vincent’s fingertip, anything.

He received a hard smack on his left cheek. The sting flared, radiating across his bum and down his groin to envelop his ballocks in a wash of heat. Biting his lip against the exquisite blend of pleasure and pain, he groaned.

“Did you like that?” Vincent demanded.

“Yes.”

“Do you want more?”

“Yes.”

“Of what? This?” A long finger pushed inside him. One thrust, in then out. So quick and fleeting, it only served to sharpen his appetite for more. “Or this?” Vincent smacked him again.

A strangled gasp shook his throat. A drop of fluid leaked from his aching cock.

“Or something else? Tell me what you want.”

The truth rushed out of his mouth. “You. All of you. Everything.”

Vincent chuckled and smoothed a palm over his arse, soothing the smarting skin. “All in good time, boy.”

Soft wool whisked past his bare foot as Vincent stepped around him, his evening shoes clicking on the floorboards. Dragging his face across the coarse woolen blanket, Oliver turned his head to the left. Through the tangled hair hanging over his eyes, he squinted, willing his eyes to focus across the room without the aid of his spectacles. Vincent stood before the straight-backed wooden chair in the corner of the bedchamber. He reached into an inside pocket of his greatcoat folded neatly over the back of the chair.

Tall, broad of shoulder, and with a powerful build, Lord Vincent Prescot defined “ruggedly handsome.” Six months and Oliver still couldn’t fully believe this man had chosen to be with him. Vincent had discarded his black greatcoat and navy evening coat shortly after they’d arrived at Oliver’s apartments, but other than that, he was still fully dressed. He hadn’t even removed his cravat yet, which meant he planned to make Oliver wait a bit longer until he fucked him.

Settling in for the wait, he shimmied slightly on the bed, pulling his knees more securely under him. The old bed creaked.

“Marsden,” Vincent said, the warning clear in his tone.

Damnation. Handsome, intelligent, and wealthy. Did the man have to have excellent hearing as well?

Vincent turned from the chair and stopped beside the bed. With the lightest of touches, he combed the hair from Oliver’s eyes and tucked it behind his ear. The gesture made Oliver’s heart clench. The man possessed such great strength, but could touch him so gently, so tenderly, at times it almost felt like Vincent loved him.

Vincent held out his other hand. “A gift. For your collection.”

The dildo appeared to be carved from a single piece of jade. It must have cost Vincent a small fortune and explained why the man had not worn his greatcoat into the gambling hell. The candlelight played over the highly polished green stone, highlighting the four graduated raised bands encircling the length, each one a bit larger than the next. It couldn’t be more than seven inches in length and even at its widest point, less around than an average man. Oliver had noticed how Vincent preferred toys that were shorter and thinner than his substantial cock. He much preferred Vincent over a toy, and after weeks of nothing but dildos, plugs, and his own fingers to keep him company, he wanted the real man tonight. Still, those bands on the dildo were sure to feel divine.

His arse tightened in anticipation. “Thank you, Vincent.”

A smile tugged the corners of his lover’s firm mouth, but he kept it from fully curving his lips. Vincent moved back to his position behind him. “Up with you now.”

With one hand on his shoulder, Vincent effortlessly pulled him up off the bed. For a moment, he swayed backward on his knees. Instinct had him tugging on his restraints, needing to catch himself. He felt the heat from Vincent’s body a split second before his shoulder blades touched the smooth silk of his waistcoat.

“I have you,” Vincent murmured, wrapping an arm around Oliver’s waist, holding him securely against the wide expanse of his chest. The tip of his ring finger just barely touched the dark hair on his groin. Chin resting on his shoulder, Vincent’s warm breath tickled his ear, sending shivers down his spine.

Before he could turn his head and press his mouth against Vincent’s, give him the kiss the man had held back all evening, cool stone tapped his parted lips. He immediately opened his mouth, taking the dildo inside.

“That’s it. Get it nice and wet. You know where that’s going, don’t you, boy?”

Oliver gave a short, eager nod. He hoped he knew where it was going. Just allowing him to suck on it would be cruel. Vincent might push Oliver to his limits, tie him up, spank him, and whip him, but cruel he was not.

“I’m going to bury it in that tight little arse of yours,” Vincent growled.

Oliver whimpered, the sound so needy and desperate, but he didn’t care in the slightest. He gathered as much saliva into his mouth as he could, then swirled it over the hard length with his tongue as Vincent slid the dildo in and out.

The large hand on his abdomen moved up his chest. Two fingers found one of his nipples and pinched. Hard. Sweet, luscious pain shot across his chest. Then Vincent twisted. Oliver shuddered, his cock arching up to brush his lower belly, his ballocks tightening even further against his body. Desperate to touch his lover, he stretched out his fingers and located the hard bulge of Vincent’s erection pressing against the placket of his trousers. He feathered his fingers over the impressive length, wanting to wrap his mouth around it, to feel the hot satiny skin, to have the taste of Vincent on his tongue. Air hissed as Vincent sucked in a breath, proving he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended to be. He thrust his hips, pressing his prick into Oliver’s hand. Oliver stroked him as best he could through his trousers, all the while sucking on the hard jade as Vincent tormented his nipple.

“Enough.” Vincent pulled the dildo from his mouth. “Down,” he commanded, carefully lowering Oliver’s shoulders to the mattress.

Vincent passed a hand down his spine then pulled back one cheek. A slick, hard head pressed against his entrance. He relaxed into the pressure as Vincent pushed the dildo inside. One, two, three… Oliver squeezed his eyes shut and grunted against the burning stretch as the largest band eased past the ring of muscle…four. Vincent shoved the phallus deep, eliciting a moan from Oliver. Hell, it felt so good to be filled, to have that itch scratched.

“Hold onto it.” Vincent tapped the base, and the vibrations teased Oliver’s passage.

He obediently clenched his muscles around the hard length.

“So pretty.” Vincent traced his stretched hole. “Do you have any idea how debauched you look with that dildo shoved up your arse? You love it, don’t you? Tell me.”

“Yes. Oh, God, yes.” A spasm racked him as he focused on keeping his arse tight, on holding the jade in place. “Please, please. Fuck me with it.” Need clawed at his throat so hard he could barely get the words out.

Vincent let out a muttered curse. He heard fabric rustle. Vincent was taking off his waistcoat and shirt; Oliver just knew it. And beneath the sounds of linen shifting and floorboards creaking as Vincent moved behind him were the deep pants of Vincent’s breaths. The erotic sound ratcheted Oliver’s lust even higher.

Vincent grabbed his hip. Those pants had turned heavy, harsh, blending with Oliver’s own. He let go when Vincent pulled on the dildo. He silently counted the bands as they slipped out—four, three, two, one—and the head slipped from his body.

His eyes flew open. “No. Don’t stop. More. Please.”

Vincent gave him what he begged for. Long fingers digging into his arse cheek, holding him open, he picked up a steady rhythm. All the way in, then all the way out. The continual pattern of withdrawal and re-entry made each thrust feel like the first one of the night. Stretching him wide, stuffing him full, a delicious rush of sensation. Oliver pressed his forehead to the mattress, pleas for more falling from his lips as he fought to stay still, to simply take what Vincent gave him and not rock back into each long, plunging thrust.

His cock ached. He was so hard it hurt, in the most intense, pleasurable way. Sweat prickled the small of his back, dampened his hands clenched in fists. His nerve endings shimmered with the need to climax, every muscle in his body drawn tight, poised for orgasm.

“You want more?” Vincent snarled.

“Yes, yes, please.”

“More than this?” He pushed the jade inside him again. In then out.

“Yes, please. I want your cock. I-I need it. I need you,” Oliver begged, beyond desperate.

“Then take it.”

“Ah!” He screamed as the impossibly broad head of Vincent’s cock stretched him to his limits. In, in, in—he kept pushing deeper and deeper, the long length filling him in one determined stroke. Heat rolled through his body. Sweat tickled his scalp. The sharp mix of pleasure and stretching pain, of finally having what he wanted, made the climax he’d been fighting to keep at bay clutch the base of his cock.

With a feral growl, Vincent tugged him closer, pressing his arse to his groin, settling hilt deep, forcing Oliver to take it all. He struggled to catch his breath, the intense sensations almost too much. By God, it felt as if his prick were touching his throat. Then Vincent pulled back and pumped into him, again and again.

“Yes, yes,” he gasped. “More.”

Vincent smacked him on the arse, the sound cracking through the air, the sting flaring deliciously through his body. “That’s it. Beg for my cock. Tell me what you want.”

“More, more. Please!”

“I’ll give you more.” Grabbing his forearms, Vincent yanked his upper body from the bed and slammed hard, hitting that perfect spot inside him.

Pure molten pleasure overloaded his senses. Oliver threw back his head and howled. The orgasm raced down his spine. Seed shot from his prick. The heavy pulses seized his nerves in rhythm to his lover’s demanding thrusts.

“That’s it. Come off for me, boy. Grip my cock so damn tight.” Vincent’s ballocks smacked against him, as he took what he needed, stroking hard and fast.

He hung his head, gasped for breath. Senses shimmering from that powerful orgasm, he couldn’t stop himself from begging for more even though his arse throbbed under the onslaught. With each thrust, the wet tip of his still-hard cock smacked his belly, sending jagged vibrations down to his drained ballocks. Yet he took it all. Savored every bit of Vincent’s undivided attention. Let the man do as he pleased with him. After four long weeks without him, he didn’t want to stop. Not now. Not ever.

Vincent’s pants turned into short, gravelly grunts, growing louder, harsher in time to the quick snap of his hips, until Oliver felt the shudders shake Vincent’s powerful body and warmth flood his passage.

With his prick still buried deep within Oliver, Vincent hauled him fully up against his sweat-slicked chest and wrapped his arms around him. The comforting embrace calmed the frantic need pounding through his veins, enveloping him in a rich, thick languor. Oliver’s eyes drifted closed, his head tipping back onto Vincent’s broad shoulder. He could stay like this forever. Held close to Vincent, intimately joined with him.

For many moments, the only sounds that broke the silence were their hard, labored breaths. Then soft lips nuzzled his ear. Oliver turned his head, needing Vincent’s kiss. His lover’s mouth met his, and with a greedy groan, Oliver slipped his tongue past those parted lips. The sweet, hot taste of Vincent saturated his senses, made his head go light, pulling that frantic need back to the surface. Tugging on his wrists, he pressed back against Vincent’s chest, trying to get closer to the man he loved, to get more of him. Damn leather cuffs. He wanted to wrap his arms around Vincent, tangle his fingers in his hair, crush the man to him, and deepen the frustratingly languid kiss.

Vincent pulled back, breaking the kiss long before Oliver had his fill. His eyes were heavy-lidded, the brilliant blue depths hazy with sated lust. A hint of a smile played on his mouth. “Let’s get you untied.” The low rumbling words brushed across Oliver’s wet lips.

Vincent’s arms tightened around him before releasing him, his softened prick slipping from his body. Oliver held back the protest and did his best to balance on weak knees as Vincent unbuckled the leather cuffs. Vincent tossed the restraints aside, the leather and metal buckles clattering to the wooden floor. Then he gently massaged Oliver’s wrists and forearms, soothing the sweaty skin.

“Better?” Vincent pressed a kiss to the apple of his shoulder.

“Yes.” Oliver sighed. A roll of his shoulders loosened his stiff joints. He crawled farther up the bed, past the wet spot on the woolen blanket, nudging the jade dildo Vincent had discarded to the edge of the mattress, and flopped down on his stomach. He was sweaty and sticky and should clean himself up, but he couldn’t summon the effort just yet. “Come here,” he mumbled with a half-hearted wave of his arm. It really was all he could muster.

The mattress dipped and shook as Vincent crawled toward him. The bed wasn’t all that large, barely wide enough for the two of them. Pulling Oliver close, he lay down on his back, fitting him against his side. Letting out a contented sigh, Oliver nestled even closer, until he was draped half-over Vincent’s body, his leg tangled with Vincent’s, his arm slung across his broad chest. He could feel the man’s heart beating against his cheek. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

His world narrowed until all that existed were the strong, steady beats of his lover’s heart, the intoxicating scent of his sweat and skin, and the lulling caress of the large hand kneading his backside.

I love you.

He tried to get the words out, but he was so exhausted his mouth didn’t want to cooperate.

A hand gripped his wrist, the hold light but enough to bring him to full consciousness and prompt him to blink open his heavy eyelids. Vincent lifted Oliver’s arm off his chest, moved out from beneath him, and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stood and, avoiding the clothing littering the floor, walked to the washstand.

The fire in the grate warmed the room enough to take the bite out of the air from Oliver’s drafty window. Still, he felt the loss of Vincent’s warm body acutely.

Water splashed as Vincent dunked a cloth in the white ceramic basin. The muscles in his back bunched and flexed as he wiped his chest. His buttocks tightened as he swiped lower, between his legs. The water was no doubt quite cold. Unlike Vincent, he didn’t have a house full of servants to see to such small tasks, like heating wash water, dusting, or tidying up in his wake.

His eyes drifted closed again. He heard Vincent moving about. With each creak of the floorboards, tension seeped into him, dousing that perfectly blissful feeling of complete contentment.

Keeping his eyes closed wouldn’t change the inevitable. He forced his eyelids to open.

The black suspenders attached to the waistband of Vincent’s trousers stretched across his white-shirted back as he leaned down to grab his waistcoat from the floor near the foot of the bed.

Oliver’s stomach tightened. “Where are you going?” Stupid question to ask. Of course he wouldn’t stay the night. He never did.

“Home,” Vincent replied matter-of-factly, slipping on the cream silk waistcoat.

Oliver pushed up to sit cross-legged and put on the spectacles he’d left on the bedside table. One hand draped over his limp cock, he twisted the rumpled sheet at his hip between his fingers. He hated sitting on the bed, watching Vincent prepare to leave. Made him feel like a pitiful, lovesick fool. “You could stay.” Bloody hell. And now he sounded like one, too.

His pathetic offer didn’t even make Vincent pause as he picked up his cravat. “My carriage is waiting.”

“So send it home. Take a hackney in the morning. You were gone for almost a month, Vincent.” Don’t leave me yet.

“I can’t leave your apartments in the morning. The other tenants in the building might notice and wonder why I stayed the night. In any case, I have an early appointment with my banker.”

Yes, of course, how could he forget? Vincent was a busy man with many pressing responsibilities. Heaven forbid if Oliver dared to take precedence over any of them.

Using the mirror above the washstand, Vincent tied his cravat. A few deft flicks of his fingers and a couple of tugs, and he produced a perfect Mathematical knot. “By the way, you should let me manage your investments.”

Oliver shook his head. “I can manage them myself.”

“You could be earning a better return. Enough to move out of here.” He motioned with the comb in his hand—indicating the shabby bedchamber with its threadbare brown velvet drapes over the drafty window and its too-small, old bed—and then went back to smoothing the short layers of his dark hair.

My apologies you have to lower your standards to fuck me. Oliver bit his tongue, holding back the surly retort. For all Vincent knew, he could be managing his accounts quite smartly. But of course, Vincent correctly assumed his investments yielded a paltry sum. Oliver wasn’t comfortable putting his money into the Exchange, or other more risky ventures. Unlike Vincent, he didn’t have the security of an obscenely wealthy father behind him. Yes, Vincent’s father ignored him in favor of his elder brother, the precious heir to the Saye and Sele marquessate, but the man would never let his youngest son go penniless. Even with his properties and investments, Oliver was certain Vincent’s father still gave him a sizable quarterly allowance. Whereas all Oliver had was the small inheritance he’d received years ago from his mother. If he lost it, he’d have nothing. The income did not yield much, but enough for him to live on if he kept a very close eye on his expenses and didn’t indulge in such luxuries like hackney fare or a maid or a stately white stucco townhouse in Mayfair.

“It’s not like I live in some flash house in the stews.” He couldn’t keep the defensive note from his voice.

Vincent did up the last button on his navy coat. “Don’t get your hackles up, Marsden. I was only offering to help.” He held up a hand to stay him when Oliver opened his mouth. “But yes, I understand. You can manage it yourself.”

Good. Glad we understand each other. Oliver swiped his unruly hair behind his ear then, letting out a breath, forced aside the irritation. He didn’t want to start an argument with Vincent. Not when he only had a few minutes left with him.

Vincent crossed the room and picked up his gold pocket watch from the dented little silver tray on the bedside table. From his crisp white cravat to his polished evening shoes, he was the very image of a proper aristocrat. One would never guess by looking at him that he’d just buggered another man. Oliver soaked up his strong profile—the slightly roman nose, the neatly combed hair, the dark brows furrowed the tiniest bit as Vincent attached the watch chain to his waistcoat. He must have shaved tonight before he went to the hell, for there wasn’t even the hint of a shadow of a dark beard on his jaw.

“Love you,” Oliver whispered.

Vincent’s lips curved in a smile, his blue eyes softening with genuine affection. Oliver’s heart leapt into his throat, pleading for the response he knew Vincent would not utter. He wanted to hear those words just once. One time. Even if Vincent didn’t feel them. He could at least have the sound of them as a memory and play them over in head as he lay alone in his bed and pretend they had come from Vincent’s heart.

Vincent cupped his jaw. Eyes drifting closed, Oliver leaned into his touch. A quiver of need shook his body. Soft lips brushed his, the lightest of touches, a mere whisper of skin against skin. Then that large hand slipped away.

“I’ll bring supper tomorrow. Eight o’clock all right?”

Oliver pressed his lips together and nodded.

“Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He couldn’t stop himself from watching Vincent walk from the room, his greatcoat in hand, and shut the door behind him. He heard his footsteps as he crossed the parlor. Then the front door snapped shut.

“Why don’t you love me?” The words he could never make himself utter in Vincent’s presence echoed in the room. Mocking him, taunting him, a harsh reminder of what he did not have.

He tossed his spectacles onto the bedside table and pressed the heels of his palms to his closed eyes, pushing back the misery, the threat of tears, and then dragged his hands down his face.

“Christ. I’m fucking pathetic.” He punched his pillow and flopped down on the bed. Why did he torment himself like this? Vincent cared enough to be with him. Shouldn’t that be enough? A year ago, he would have given anything for a kiss from Vincent. In love with him for too many years to count, he had subsisted on mere friendship. A chance meeting on the street. A shared drink at White’s. All the while hiding his true feelings for his childhood friend.

Until he discovered Vincent had secretly hired a man and not a woman during his visits to a brothel. An establishment Vincent no longer needed to frequent since he now had Oliver at his disposal.

Hell, he had been extremely lucky Vincent hadn’t turned his back on him when he learned he had hired Oliver on that fateful night at the brothel. The resulting argument had not been pleasant, but in the end, it had gained him Vincent. Or whatever it was that he had of him.

Oliver let out a heavy sigh and reminded himself forcefully that it had taken a lot for Vincent to accept the fact that he preferred men. Vincent excelled at most everything he did, and he had viewed those desires as a failure. Hadn’t he told Vincent six months ago that he wasn’t asking for his heart? He had known better at the time to not expect more than mere lust and affection.

But it had been six months. Surely enough time for Vincent to become comfortable with his sexuality. To fully acknowledge to himself that he did indeed prefer men. To completely accept that part of himself and open his heart to Oliver.

But therein lay the problem.

While Oliver loved to submit to Vincent, to give himself over to the man he adored, the tight leash Vincent kept on their sexual activities screamed loud and clear that he wasn’t ready to be fully intimate with another man.

Be patient. Be patient. How many times had he told himself that? Used those words to pacify the all-encompassing need gripping his heart? But it damn well hurt that Vincent did not love him.

All he wanted was to be with Vincent. To be near the man. To be able to take in a deep breath and soak up the scent of him.

To have Vincent need him, as Oliver needed Vincent.

The pressing question was—could he?

“Enough,” he told himself as he rolled over. He’d have one hell of a sleepless night if he kept this up. He tugged the woolen blanket up to his chest and did his best to clear his mind and allow sleep to overtake him. To not think about how Vincent had stayed in Rotherham one week longer than originally expected. How he had arrived at the gambling hell two hours late without even an apology until Oliver had reminded him of his tardiness. And about the tiny distance Vincent kept between them.

That distance that now felt like a damn chasm.