Chapter Eight

One cold hand on the wobbly rail, Oliver stopped at the top of the stairs and blinked. Yes, that really was Vincent with his back to the door of his apartments, hands clasped and legs slightly spread, as if he were standing guard. The long, dark greatcoat added width to his already broad shoulders, to the point where Oliver could barely make out the door behind him.

“Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for twenty-five minutes.”

The accusatory tone obliterated the shock, chasing away the chill that had seeped into Oliver’s bones on the walk home and making his hackles stand on end, stiff and bristly. So the man did not like to wait. Too bad. And why was Vincent there anyway? Hadn’t he been clear enough already? He no longer wanted anything to do with the man.

If Vincent labored under the assumption that he could bend Oliver over, use him for nothing more than a convenient fuck, an anonymous vessel to slake his desires, then he was vastly mistaken.

Goddamn arrogant bastard.

Pulling his key from his pocket, he stalked across the distance separating them and glared up at Vincent. The man moved aside enough so Oliver could fit the brass key into the lock and open the door without brushing against him.

“Where have you been?” Vincent asked. Again.

Oliver lit the candle on the small table. The feeble golden light illuminated a not-so-empty parlor as Vincent had followed him inside. He sure as hell wouldn’t answer Vincent’s question. It was none of his concern, nor did he need to know that Oliver had taken a very long route home to prolong the inevitable. Three weeks and it still hurt to come home to an empty room. To know he’d have a long, lonely night ahead of him.

The door clicked shut.

Oliver ground his teeth together. By God, the man had ballocks.

Mouth twisted in a sneer, Oliver put the tinderbox back in the drawer and slammed it shut. “Have you come by to invite me to your wedding? If so, you needn’t bother.” Vincent was truly fit for Bedlam if he thought Oliver would happily sit in one of the benches at St. George’s Church and watch as he wed that girl. And of course, Vincent would marry at St. George’s, the most fashionable church in London.

Vincent slipped his greatcoat off his shoulders and draped it over his arm, fussing with it until it hung in neat folds. When the garment met with his satisfaction, he looked up and speared Oliver with a solemn stare. “No. I wanted to advise you to have a care with gambling.”

Uncertain how to interrupt that statement, Oliver went to the fireplace, dropped to his haunches, and busied himself piling logs onto the grate and starting the fire. He had asked Vincent if he should bet on his impending marriage or not. Was Vincent trying to tell him that he was not going to wed the girl?

Only one way to find out.

“Are you going to marry her?” Oliver asked, using the iron poker to nudge at the burning logs. The flames flickered up, reaching toward the flue, the logs popping and cracking, offering a welcome bit of warmth. He kept the threadbare brown velvet drapes closed tight in the autumn and winter months, but they did little to keep out the chill.

The floorboards creaked once, twice, three times. Then the room went quiet.

“No.”

His hand shook ever so slightly as he carefully leaned the poker against the sooty bricks of the fireplace surround. He stood and turned to find Vincent one pace from him. The dark greatcoat covered the back of the nearby armchair. “Why not? Your father wishes it.” He threw the words out there, as if doing anything other than what the marquess wished was inconceivable.

Vincent shrugged, discomfort etched in every line of his powerful body. A heavy furrow marred his brow. His hands were clasped so tightly before him that his knuckles had turned white. “She prefers my brother over me. Apparently she’s in love with him.”

“Silly chit.”

“Well, yes, but I don’t blame her. I’m not the easiest man to be with, and I would have made a very poor husband.” Shifting his weight, he glanced to his polished evening shoes and then back to Oliver. “And I, well…I prefer you.”

Oliver’s heart leapt into his throat but somehow he managed to speak with a bored drawl. “Do you now?”

“I must. I love you.”

Oliver’s jaw dropped. Had he heard Vincent correctly? Or were his ears playing tricks on him, letting him hear the words he had ached to hear for so long?

“I apologize for being such a condescending arse. It’s rude of me to keep you waiting. To be so presumptuous. Please forgive me for behaving so abysmally toward you when we were out and about. But whenever I’m near you, I want you, and I can’t help but worry it’s obvious to all.” Vincent dragged a hand through his hair, disheveling the neat layers. “I remember everything you said that night. Christ, I can’t forget it. And I won’t. I give you my word that I will never again be such a damn stubborn fool. And if you’ll but give me another chance, Oliver, I’ll—”

Oliver launched himself at Vincent, cutting off his words and shoving him roughly against the wall. He tangled his fingers in Vincent’s dark hair, hauled the man’s mouth down to meet his, and crushed his lips over Vincent’s. Absolutely devoured his mouth. Teeth nipping, tongue delving deep, tangling with Vincent’s.

Unable to get enough, he pressed himself against the hard length of Vincent’s body. Strong arms wrapped around his waist, holding him so tightly he couldn’t draw a full breath. But he didn’t care. Vincent was kissing him back with an urgency that surpassed his own.

He gave himself over to it, his fingers unwinding from Vincent’s hair, hands falling to those broad shoulders, surrendering completely to the passion in Vincent’s kiss. To the love so strong he could taste it.

Then the kiss softened, a slow melding of lips gliding across each other. Vincent nipped his bottom lip and broke the kiss. Warm, panting breaths brushed across his face.

“Is that a yes? Will you give me another chance?” Vincent asked, so low and reluctant Oliver more felt the words rumbling his chest than heard them.

He blinked his eyes open. “Of course. You called me Oliver,” he whispered. He had been able to keep the excitement under wraps, keep it contained as it built within him as Vincent said the most unbelievable things to him, until he had heard his name. Never in their thirteen years of friendship had Vincent called him Oliver. Yet tonight, it had fallen unbidden from his lips. The clearest sign of all that Vincent had opened his heart to him.

Vincent nodded, grim and determined, not one hint of Oliver’s smile echoed on his face. With gentle hands on his shoulders, he moved Oliver a step back, putting distance between them. He worked the knot on his cravat and then tugged the linen from his neck. “I do remember everything you said that night. Everything.” Oliver watched his Adam’s apple bob beneath the taut skin of his neck as he swallowed. “You can do with me as you please.”

Oliver stared in utter disbelief at the long length of white linen in Vincent’s outstretched hand.

“You can tie me up, take me, and do whatever you please with me. I am yours, Oliver. Forever.”

It was almost too much to believe that Vincent was willing to put himself in Oliver’s hands. To relinquish all control. “You really do love me.”

“Yes.”

His heart swelled near to bursting. Oliver held back the grin, but it was mighty difficult—the poor man looked absolutely terrified. Determined, but terrified at the prospect of submission. Now was not the time to grin like a damn fool and let out the bark of joyous laughter building within him.

“Don’t look so frightened, Vincent. I don’t want to tie you up.” He took the cravat and let it flutter to the floor. “But there is something I’ve wanted to do since I saw you take your trousers off at Delacroix’s brothel.”

“And what would that be?”

Suppressing a smile, Oliver raised one eyebrow and removed his coat, taking the time to undo the buttons properly. It had taken a box of scones to convince his grandmother’s housekeeper to sew the buttons back onto his coat and waistcoat. He had managed to avoid her questions the first time, but didn’t want to press his luck by having to ask her to repeat the chore. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the coat onto the armchair.

His spectacles. He should remove them, too. He wouldn’t need them for what he had planned; Vincent would be plenty close enough to see him clearly.

He left Vincent standing against the wall by the open bedchamber door and placed his spectacles on the fireplace mantel. Perhaps they should move to the bedchamber? No. That terror had dissipated when the cravat fell to the floor, but the man was still clearly very nervous. If he asked Vincent to move, he might bolt for the wrong door.

Not that Oliver was all that comfortable playing the dominant, either. He could count on one hand the number of times he had taken another man, and it had been years ago. He much preferred to submit, to put his pleasure in the hands of another, but he could not deny the heady thrill that sang through his veins at having Vincent at his disposal.

His to touch. His to kiss. His to do with as he pleased.

His back to Vincent, he allowed the grin to spread across his face as he lit a candle on the mantel.

“What should I do?” Vincent asked.

“Nothing. Just stand still.”

He wiped the smile from his lips and went back to Vincent. Willing the tremor of anticipation from his hands, he unbuttoned Vincent’s coat and then his waistcoat, working each fabric-covered button free. Vincent could see to the task much quicker, but Oliver wanted to do it. To slowly reveal all that powerful male muscle. Vincent’s body was a sublime gift, one the man had never before allowed him to thoroughly explore.

He remembered to remove Vincent’s pocket watch from his waistcoat before tossing the garments behind him. After slipping the watch into his own trouser pocket, he pushed the black suspenders from Vincent’s shoulders and tugged the white shirt free from his trousers.

“You’ll have to remove it yourself. You’re much too tall.”

Vincent tipped his head. “As you wish, milord.”

“No, no. Please don’t call me that.” The address belonged to Vincent, not to him. Then he peered up at Vincent through the chunk of unruly hair that had fallen over one eye. “Well…not unless you really want to.”

Vincent furrowed his brow. “Lord Oliver?”

“How about just Oliver? I haven’t heard it enough yet.”

Vincent tipped his head again, the barest of smiles tugging his lips. “As you wish, Oliver.” He whisked the shirt over his head, revealing the hard contours of his abdomen and his broad chest. Seizing the moment when Vincent had his arms over his head, Oliver trailed a fingertip down the underside of those powerful biceps, the skin so soft and smooth, then down his side.

Vincent twitched.

Had that been a poorly suppressed giggle?

He had no idea Vincent was ticklish. The man seemed much too hard-willed to allow such an involuntary reaction. But now he knew, for he had just found the spot. Right there, under his arm, that little spot right there—

“Oliver,” Vincent protested, twisting away from his touch. He yanked the sleeves from his wrists and threw the shirt to the floor.

“You’re ticklish.” He stored the knowledge away, savoring it like a precious treasure. He loved to know such intimate details about the man he loved.

In answer to Vincent’s stern frown, he dropped to his knees and unbuttoned Vincent’s trousers, his fingers quick and efficient. Then he tugged the trousers and drawers down his long legs.

Oh. Shoes. Mustn’t forget those. The evening shoes seen to, he divested Vincent of the last of his clothing.

Shifting up onto his haunches, he moved to stand. But the semierect cock at eye level proved an irresistible lure. One swipe of his tongue across the broad head pulled a groan from Vincent, an encouragement Oliver couldn’t resist, either. Hands braced on those strong thighs, he crouched and tipped his chin up, captured the head with his lips and took Vincent inside, swallowing him to the root.

He looked up, caught Vincent’s glittering blue gaze and pulled back, a slow hard suck, savoring the glide of his lips over silken skin, and then pressed a light kiss on the tip before shifting up to stand. Oliver coasted his hands up from Vincent’s thighs, over the rippling muscles of his abdomen and to his chest, combing his fingertips through the light smattering of dark hair, reveling in the luxury of being able to touch—his tongue slipped out to tease one copper nipple—and to taste.

Pressing his nose to Vincent’s chest, he took in a deep full breath of him. Clean male skin, the barest trace of cool night air, the slight hint of sweat and musky arousal. A quiver shook Oliver’s body. God, he had missed this man so much.

Before the emotion clogged his throat and distracted him from his purpose, he took a step back. “Turn around.”

Perhaps with time Vincent could gain the comfort to respond without the telltale hesitation. But as this was Vincent’s first foray into unknown territory, Oliver forgave the lapse and waited patiently for the man to heed his command.

“Oh, and hands on the wall. And don’t move them until I give you permission to do so.”

He heard the shuddering breath expand Vincent’s lungs. Bowing his head, he braced his hands on the wall, his legs shoulder-width apart.

That would never do. The man was pressed much too closely against the wall. With a tug on his hips, he moved Vincent into position, pulling him back so his arms were straight and his lower back curved invitingly.

He trailed his fingertips there, over the sleek sweep, and then moved down lower, just barely touching the crease of Vincent’s arse. The firm globes clenched. Hell, Vincent’s entire body tensed, from his taut calves to his bulging biceps. The refusal could not have been clearer.

Stepping closer, Oliver wrapped his arms around Vincent’s waist, sliding one hand down to lightly stroke his now very limp cock. “Nervous?”

Vincent cleared his throat. “A bit.”

“There’s no reason to be.” He dragged his lips over Vincent’s shoulder blade and gave into the urge to rub his trouser-covered erection along the cleft of Vincent’s arse. Vincent tensed once again. Ah, hell. He couldn’t keep the man in suspense any longer. “Relax, Vincent.” Nipping at his lover’s skin, he smoothed his hands down his sides, slow and patient. “I’m not going to bugger you. That’s not what I want. Not tonight. But maybe in the future and only if you really want it. In fact, maybe I should only fuck you if you beg for it.”

What a scandalous and utterly delicious thought—one day hearing the words Fuck me, Oliver. Please from Vincent’s lips. And if he applied himself sufficiently, he was certain he would hear them. But not tonight. This was all much too new to Vincent. While his lover had verbally given him leave to take him, Oliver couldn’t help but feel that neither of them was quite ready to stray so far beyond their usual roles.

“Then…what do you want?”

“Umm,” Oliver murmured, kissing a path down the strong line of Vincent’s spine. “This.”