Bound to Him

Chapter Nine

Wet heat probed between his arse cheeks. Vincent’s eyes flew open. Shock swamping his brain, he went up onto his toes, but with a firm tug on his spread cheeks, Oliver pulled him back down. Oh…God…the man was licking his arse. Long strokes, dragging the flat of his tongue from just above his ballocks and over his entrance, painting a line along the entire crease.

A hot, wet, thoroughly indecent line.

Oliver had wanted to do…this—Christ, he didn’t even know the name for it—since he had removed his trousers at that brothel?

Holy hell.

His muscles were tensed, poised to jerk away, to escape the intimate intrusion. Yet he clenched his teeth and held still, determined to prove true to his word, to let the man do as he pleased with him, even though he never felt so vulnerable, so exposed in all his life.

But it was damn hard. That wet tongue swirled over his flesh, tracing his entrance, and then…

“Oliver.” The name came out on a strangled yelp as the man sucked hard. His spine locked, jolts of sensation seizing his nerves. His brain screamed that such a thing was beyond the pale, but his cock didn’t mind in the slightest.

Arousal licked at his groin in time to the rapid flicks of Oliver’s tongue. Sweet and lush, forbidden to its core, and so very different from anything he had ever experienced. It spread up over his ballocks, engulfing his prick in a wash of pure heat, suspending him between acute self-consciousness and blinding pleasure.

Humming a low, entirely too erotic purr, Oliver intensified his efforts, licking, nipping, and sucking, until Vincent couldn’t hold back the groans clogging his throat.

When that amazingly skilled tongue swept up the crease to his lower back, Vincent almost, almost, almost begged him not to stop. The words were right there, on the tip of his tongue. But he kept his jaw clamped tight as Oliver licked a path up his spine.

Soft wool brushed his legs as Oliver moved to stand behind him. Hot, sticky pants bathed his shoulder blade. The musky scent of his arousal poured off him, so thick Vincent could taste it.

“I know you’ve never let another man bugger you, so I won’t even ask. You already told me so once before. But…” The hand kneading his arse shifted, fingers drifting into the crease, sliding over the moisture there. “Have you ever penetrated yourself?”

“No.” The word popped out of his mouth before it even formed in his head.

“Haven’t you ever wondered how it would feel? Ever been curious?”

Vincent fought to drag air into his lungs as Oliver swirled the tip of his finger over his entrance. Slow and decadent, a slippery wet caress that obliterated any attempt to hold back the truth.

He squeezed his eyes closed tight. “Yes,” he admitted on a low, ragged breath. God, yes, he had thought about it. His mind had wandered down that forbidden path more than once before he’d yanked it back. But even under the cover of darkness, when he was alone in bed, stroking his prick to orgasm, he had never given in to the impulse.

“Well, wonder no more,” Oliver replied, the grin clear in his far-too-smug voice.

A finger pushed, sliding easily inside and lighting up nerve endings Vincent didn’t know he possessed. His eyes flew open, his cock jerking its approval, fluid beading at the tip.

“You’re so tight. So hot, Vincent,” Oliver moaned, wrapping his other arm around his waist, the linen of his shirtsleeve almost too rough against Vincent’s highly sensitized skin. Oliver straddled one of his legs, grinding the hard arch of his arousal against his thigh, as he kept up those agonizingly sweet thrusts.

Another finger joined the first, filling him, stretching him wide enough to cause a slight burn, probing deep, until…

“Fuck!” Vincent slammed his fist against the wall, fighting off the white-hot surge of a sudden, impending orgasm. His ballocks lurched up closer to his body.

With each stroke, Oliver rubbed that spot inside him, pumping more pleasure into his already overloaded senses. All traces of modesty gone, he hung his head and rocked his hips, fucking himself on Oliver’s fingers. No wonder Oliver begged for him to fuck him. It felt goddamn unbelievable to have his arse filled.

The notion ticked the edge of his mind, encouraged by the hard, demanding rub of Oliver’s erection against his thigh. But could he throw aside his pride and beg to be taken? Bend over and plead for Oliver to ram that pretty prick of his deep in his arse—

Lust slammed into him, a startling undiluted wave, so potent he would have crumbled to his knees if not for the support of the wall before him.

He pushed back, impaling himself on Oliver’s fingers. But it wasn’t enough. “More.” Christ, Oliver had reduced him to begging, but he no longer cared in the slightest.

Oliver let out a whimper, threadbare and breathy, and then worked another digit alongside the other two.

“Yes, yes,” Vincent panted, flames licking his arse as he was stuffed full. So wonderfully, blissfully full. He rocked back, his erection bobbing between his legs with each thrust. Their heavy pants blended together until he couldn’t distinguish the sounds above the pulse hammering in his ears.

Oliver abruptly yanked his fingers free; a slick, wicked rush of sensation that pulled a grunt from Vincent’s throat.

“Don’t stop!” he protested, glancing over his shoulder.

“I won’t. But I have to taste you again,” Oliver gasped, sliding down his body. “Turn around.”

Vincent didn’t hesitate. Kneeling at his feet, Oliver grabbed his cock and sucked it down to the root. Those nimble fingers tickled his ballocks, tugged hard, and stopped just before crossing that line into pain, and then snuck behind. One hand braced on the wall behind him, Vincent widened his stance and tilted his hips, granting Oliver access to slip his fingers back up his arse. The lush drag of Oliver’s soft lips, the hard insistent penetration… The combined sensations were too much. The climax coiled down his spine, winding tighter and tighter. Then Oliver swallowed, the velvety muscles of his throat massaging the head of his cock. At the same moment, Oliver rubbed that sweet spot, and Vincent couldn’t hold back the orgasm any longer.

Letting out a mighty roar, Vincent spilled himself down his lover’s throat, his muscles clenching around the digits buried in his arse in rhythm to the spasms racking his entire body.

Oliver gently pulled his fingers free and then released his prick. With a swipe of his forearm, he used his shirtsleeve to wipe the trickle of creamy semen from his swollen, wet lips.

He gazed up at Vincent, the most profound adoration reflected in his dark eyes. His cheeks were flushed, his forehead glistening with sweat, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the gray brocade waistcoat. Still on his knees, Oliver clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head, dark waves tumbling over his face. His body went lax, the line of his shoulders visibly relaxing.

“I am yours, milord.”

Still reeling from the orgasm, Vincent could do nothing but marvel at how easily his friend gave up control. His trust was an awesome responsibility, and Vincent would never take it for granted again.

“Love you,” Vincent murmured, reaching down to tuck Oliver’s tangled hair behind his ear. He glanced down Oliver’s body. The erection that had rubbed so insistently against his thigh tented the placket of his trousers.

He would need to see to that, and he knew just how to do it.

“Don’t move.” The edge taken off his lust, Vincent left Oliver kneeling on the ground and went into the bedchamber.

Ignoring the rumpled bed and the clothing littering the floor, he lit a couple of candles and gathered the necessary supplies. With each step he took, his arse throbbed a bit. Nothing painful or uncomfortable. Rather, a pleasing burn that served to get the blood coursing through his veins once again. Hell, being the object of Oliver’s undivided attention had been quite the experience. One he would definitely need to repeat.

From the top drawer of the chest, he selected the leather cuffs that had an attached length of chain and a black leather flogger. Then he went to the bedside table. He’d forgo the plug but did need the oil. He made to pick up the glass bottle then stopped at the sight of the empty silver tray.

“Where is it?” he demanded, stalking across the bedchamber, the flogger and cuffs clutched in one hand.

Oliver snapped his head up. “Pardon?”

“The pin. Did you sell it?” He shouldn’t be such an arse about it, but he couldn’t help it. If Oliver had sold the pin, then that meant he had given up on Vincent. Completely. And the possibility hurt more than he could have imagined.

Oliver ducked his chin and reached inside his waistcoat. “Never, Vincent. I would never sell it,” he whispered, holding out his hand.

He had carried it with him, directly over his heart.

Grabbing his chin, he tilted Oliver’s face up and leaned down to give him a quick kiss. “Good,” he grumbled, snatching the pin from Oliver’s outstretched hand. He turned on his heel and returned to the bedchamber. “Take off your clothes and get your arse in here, Oliver.”

The last lingering bit of panic left him as he placed the jade cravat pin back in its place in the dented little silver tray. He heard the sound of bare feet against floorboards and looked up. Hell, the man could get his own clothes off in a trice, but it had felt like forever when he had removed Vincent’s.

“Shut the door,” he instructed as he took the oil and moved it to the washstand so it would be within easy reach. He set the flogger on the foot of the bed and held out the cuffs, the chain dangling from his grip. “You know where I want you, boy.”

Erect cock bobbing with each step, Oliver moved directly beneath the iron hook in the ceiling positioned one pace from the foot of the bed and two paces from the washstand. Hands fisted at his sides and a flush tingeing his bare golden chest, he bowed his head and waited patiently for Vincent’s next command.

He belonged to Oliver. There was no doubt about it, but in this moment, Oliver belonged to him. A fierce surge of possessiveness gripped hold of him.

Mine.

He would take Oliver to dizzying heights of pleasure. Push the man to his limits, but never take him one step beyond. For Oliver trusted him to do nothing less.

“Hold out your arms.”

Once Vincent had both cuffs buckled about his wrists, he lifted Oliver’s arms. As he reached up to slip the end link of the chain onto the hook, sharp teeth nipped at his chest.

Vincent took a quick step back and stared at Oliver, whose head was bowed once again, the perfect image of submission with his wrists bound and arms stretched over his head.

Impudent whelp.

He kept the chuckle inside and instead spoke in a hard tone. “It appears you have forgotten your place, boy.”

“My apologies, milord.”

Was he smiling beneath that curtain of dark hair?

“We’ll see how sorry you are.” Vincent stepped behind him, grabbed the flogger, and smacked the flat end against his own hand.

Oliver started then let out a low moan. “Yes.” His hips rocked back, presenting Vincent with his round arse, the perfect canvas for a few strikes of the flogger.

Arousal seeped anew into his blood, ratcheting higher and higher. His cock hardened, lifting from his body at the prospect of what was to come. But before the lust grabbed hold of him completely, he took a deep breath, settling his pulse. He needed to keep his control firmly in hand else risk actually hurting Oliver. A flogger wasn’t a child’s toy. It could cause serious harm if not wielded with an eye toward inciting pleasure and not true pain.

Oliver shifted his weight, rattling the chain. “Vincent, please.”

Starting slowly, he slapped the leather against first one round cheek then the other.

“Harder, please, milord.”

“Harder than this?” He drew back his arm and let the leather strike that now pink cheek again.

Oliver arched, shuddered, gasped. “Yes, yes. Harder.”

And Vincent gave him what he begged for. The leather whipped through the air. Satisfying smacks filled the room as that round arse turned a most becoming shade of scarlet. He alternated the rhythm, not wanting Oliver to tense in anticipation of the blows. And his lover took it all, pleading for more, his sleek, honed body writhing in ecstasy under the onslaught. The most beautiful sight to behold.

When Oliver’s gasps turned ragged, when his head tipped forward and the pleas stumbled over each other, Vincent stopped.

Sucking in great pulling breaths, he dropped the flogger and moved to stand before him. Sweat trickled down the center of Oliver’s chest. His cock was arched up, the damp head brushing his flat lower belly that glistened with the proof of his arousal.

“Don’t stop. More…please, Vincent. Please.” He shimmied, rattling the chains and thrusting his chest out.

Vincent grabbed hold of one of those flat copper nipples and twisted. “Is that what you want?”

“Ah, yes!” Oliver threw back his head, his body arching in a bow of undeniable pleasure.

Unwilling to give up his grip on that nipple, he grabbed the back of Oliver’s head with his other hand and crushed his mouth over his. Kissed him fiercely, thrusting his tongue boldly inside, sweeping the hot depths of his lover’s mouth, drinking in his gasping moans.

After delivering a sharp nip to his full bottom lip, he pulled back and met his lust-filled gaze. “Or perhaps you want something else?”

Before Vincent could think twice, he dropped to his knees and took hold of that pretty cock. Not pausing to even flick his tongue over the head, Vincent opened his mouth and took Oliver inside.

Oliver bucked forward, and Vincent jerked back a bit, fighting the impulse to gag. Closing his eyes, he swallowed down the gag reflex and bobbed along Oliver’s length. Salt and sweat and hot silken skin blended together to form the sweetest thing Vincent had ever tasted. It lit up his tongue, urging him to take more, to suck harder, to pull every last drop from his lover’s prick.

“Stop, stop, stop!”

He pulled back and glared up at Oliver. He might have never sucked a cock before, but he knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end, and that damn well should have felt good to him. “My precious lips finally touch your prick and you tell me to stop?”

“Yes,” Oliver whined. There was no other word for it. The man actually whined. “You were going to make me climax.”

Vincent arched one eyebrow. “That’s the point.”

“But I want you to fuck me. Please, Vincent. I need you.”

“Do you now?” he asked, fighting to keep the smug smile from his lips as he got to his feet.

“Yes, yes. Now. I need you. I need to feel you inside me. Please.”

His threadbare whimper did more than crank up the lust pounding through his veins, it tugged on Vincent’s heart, reminding him anew of how perfect they were together. Two halves of a whole, he had once described them. How the hell could he have been so foolish as to even consider his father’s request? He wouldn’t give up Oliver for the world.

The impatient rattle of chain snapped him to his senses. Vincent slicked his cock with oil then poured a generous amount in his palm and swiped it between those still red cheeks, the skin hot to the touch. He pushed one finger inside, then another.

Oliver went up onto his toes, breath hitching in his throat. “I need you. Now. Now. Now.”

Grabbing hold of his slim hips, Vincent pushed past the tight ring of muscle and into hot, clinging, welcoming heat.

As Oliver shuddered beneath him, he wrapped his arms around him, pressed a kiss to his shoulder and growled, “And now you have me. Forever.”

* * *

Oliver snuggled closer to Vincent. The man generated a remarkable amount of heat, but it only warmed one side as he sprawled on top of him. He blinked open his tired eyes and turned his head, looking for the blanket.

Shafts of sunlight seeped through the gaps in the drapes. Morning? But…

He bolted upright, straddling Vincent’s hips, and stared down at him. Alert and bemused brilliant blue eyes met his.

“You stayed.”

Vincent’s lips twisted in a grimace, all aristocratic affront. “Of course. Did you honestly believe I wouldn’t?”

“Well, you never have before.”

A deep sigh expanded Vincent’s chest. “And I apologize for that. I should have stayed, many times. And I will stay more often than not in the future. But not every night. You do understand, don’t you?” He took hold of Oliver’s hand and gave it a squeeze. The amusement left his eyes, replaced with solemn gravity. “Just know that when I do return home at night, it’s not because I don’t want to stay with you. I do. But we still need to be very discreet, Oliver.”

He feathered his fingertips over Vincent’s mouth, drawn in a grim line. “It’s all right. I understand.” The reality of their relationship was sometimes hard to bear. It seemed wrong to have to hide his love for this man, but it was something he had learned to accept long ago.

Twisting around, Oliver snagged the edge of the blanket from the foot of the bed. He should start a fire, but he didn’t want to get out of bed just yet. With the blanket draped over him, he dropped down and snuggled back up to Vincent again.

His eyes drifted closed. The soft hair on Vincent’s chest lightly tickled his nose. The strong beat of Vincent’s heart lulled his senses, tempting him to fall back into a blissful sleep.

“Oliver.”

“Yes?” he muttered.

“I need to go to Rotherham next week, and I want you to come with me. The house is small, and therefore the staff is small. They only come up from the village when I’m in residence, and only for the day. We can get a nurse to watch over your grandmother in your absence.”

He smiled against Vincent’s chest. “For how long?”

“A fortnight, maybe longer.”

“No longer than a fortnight. Can’t leave the shop unattended for an extended period. Just purchased the thing. Don’t want to be perceived as a negligent investor.” He tried for an off-handed tone, but he couldn’t keep the pride completely from his voice.

“You’ve made an investment?”

He shifted up onto his forearms. “Yes, I bought Wallace’s bookshop. It’s just around the corner. Not much of a shop, but I’ve grown quite fond of it.”

“And when did this happen?”

“Two weeks, five days ago. No, make that six days. Decided to expend a bit of effort.”

Vincent frowned once again. “I do apologize for that. Uncalled for and in bad form to say such a thing.”

“But necessary.”

“I wouldn’t—”

Oliver cut off his words with a kiss. “I would.” If not for Vincent, he would have never taken that step toward making something of himself.

“Well then, congratulations are in order. Well done, Oliver.”

“Why thank you, Vincent,” he said, flopping back down and hiding his grin against Vincent’s chest.

This man was his. Forever.

What an amazing concept.

Or was he?

Oliver levered up onto his forearms again. “I most certainly am not going to marry. Not ever. But are you ever going to marry?”

Vincent raised his eyebrows, clearly taken aback by the blunt question. “Um… I-I don’t want to. I truly would make a very poor husband. You’re the only person who will tolerate me and who will keep me in my place. But, Oliver, I won’t lie to you. I might need to someday. I sure as hell don’t want to, and I honestly don’t believe it will come to that, but if Grafton doesn’t produce an heir within a decade or so…” He turned his head, avoiding Oliver’s gaze. The truth was not pleasant to hear, but the strong arms holding him tight kept away any trace of despair. “I can’t let the estate go to Adams. He’s my father’s brother’s son. Next in line and more of a dolt than Grafton. Completely useless fellow. You understand, don’t you?” He sneaked a peek at Oliver from the corner of his eye. “Please say you do.”

Sharing Vincent was not a concept he was willing to explore. The man was his. No one else’s. And certainly not some woman’s. But he couldn’t demand Vincent turn his back on his responsibilities. He loved every inch of the man’s noble, honorable soul. The future might hold an unpleasant reality, but he had Vincent now and would savor every moment with him. “Yes, of course I understand.” He felt the tension ease from the powerful body under him.

Nodding solemnly, Vincent cupped his jaw in both hands and brushed the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip. “I do love you,” he murmured. “No matter what, I will always be yours.”

“Forever?”

“Yes, Oliver. I am bound to you, forever.”

Thank You

Thank you for taking the time to read Bound to Him. I hope you enjoyed the story.

Interested in finding out when my next book will be available? You can visit my website to sign up for my new release e-newsletter at www.avamarch.com, like my Facebook page at www.facebook.com/avamarchbooks, or follow me on Twitter at @ava_march.

Reviews help other readers find books they will like. Help out a reader by leaving a review.

Bound to Him is the second book in The Bound Series. Interested in reading more about Oliver and Vincent? Check out the free short story Deliberately Unbound (Bound #2-1/2). To read an excerpt from Bound Forever (Bound #3), please turn the page.

Excerpt from Bound Forever (The Bound Series #3)

Lord Oliver Marsden’s life is perfect...well, almost perfect. His bookshop is doing well, his bank account isn’t empty, and his nights are filled with a deliciously dominant man...who tends to be a bit too domineering outside of the bedchamber. But Vincent loves him and that’s all that should matter.

Then Vincent receives a letter that changes everything. Oliver seizes the moment and pushes Vincent toward a night they will never forget. Yet their night together has repercussions neither of them anticipated…

Enjoy the following excerpt from Bound Forever:

The runner in the short corridor muffled his footsteps as he made his way downstairs. It wasn’t a plush Aubusson rug like those in Vincent’s stately white stucco town house. Rather it was simple and functional, fitting the quaint country house. Oliver spent a fair amount of time at both of Vincent’s homes, and he felt much more at his ease in Rotherham, where a footman didn’t lurk about every corner.

And he knew for certain Vincent felt more comfortable being with him here. Vincent even shared a bed with him in the country. In London, that only happened at Oliver’s bachelor apartments. But at least more often than not he stayed until dawn.

“Good morning, Lord Oliver.” Mrs. Hollister turned from the sideboard, an ivory coffeepot in hand, as Oliver entered the dining room. Short and plump, with a ready smile crinkling the edges of her hazel eyes, the housekeeper was the most pleasant servant Oliver had ever encountered. The cleaning, the laundry, the cooking… She saw to it all and never appeared the least put out by even the most mundane of requests. A stark contrast to the formal versions at the town house or the surly ones that had inhabited his childhood home.

“Good morning to you, Mrs. Hollister. And a wonderfully fine morning it is.” He indicated the windows lining one wall, the drapes open, revealing the expanse of sun-warmed grass on the side of the house.

“Mighty fine indeed.” She lifted the ivory pot. “The coffee’s gone cold. If you’d like, I will deliver your cup to the study.”

“Thank you.” He picked up a small plate from the sideboard, ignored the two silver covered dishes, and selected a tart from the neat pile of pastries on the oval platter.

She bobbed a short curtsy before turning on her heel and disappearing through the narrow door that led to the kitchen, her dark brown skirts swooshing about her ankles.

Oliver found Vincent tucked behind his large desk in the study, dark head tipped down and silver pen in hand. The simple yet elegantly tailored bottle green coat accentuated the broad width of his shoulders; the stark white cravat framed his strong jaw. Vincent fit perfectly in the room with its heavy, masculine furniture and rich, mahogany wood, as if it had been made for him.

“Good morning, Oliver.” Vincent made a notation on the paper before him, then looked up. A trace of disapproval flickered across his face. “You are aware Mrs. Hollister is quite adept at cooking a proper breakfast?”

Oliver took an unabashed bite of the raspberry tart. “Indeed, but her skill with pastries knows no rival.”

Ignoring Vincent’s arched brow, he set the plate on the small table beside the leather couch and, taking another bite of the tart, crossed to the mahogany shelves flanking the gray marble fireplace. Though not a large room, every inch of available space along the walls of the study was given over to books. All lined up like neat little soldiers, as if they knew their master would not tolerate otherwise.

Oliver finished the tart, wiped his hands on his trousers, and, unable to resist the lure, reached out. “Are you certain you don’t want to part with any of your books?” He pulled a volume from a shelf, traced a finger lovingly over the embossed leather-bound cover. It would make a perfect addition to his bookshop.

“Yes, I’m certain.” Another scratch of pen on paper.

Oliver frowned. “I’ll pay you a fair price.”

“I don’t need the money.”

He carefully opened the cover. An attempt to flip the first page revealed the pages had not been cut. Physical proof no one, least of all Vincent, had yet to read this particular book. A shame, really, to allow it to linger on the shelf for no other purpose than appearance’s sake. “But you don’t read them.”

“You do.”

His fingertip paused on the edges of the uncut pages. The man kept all those books for him. It shouldn’t mean so much. Vincent certainly did not need the funds a sale could bring; still… He slipped the book back into its place on the shelf and looked to Vincent. As if sensing his stare, Vincent glanced up.

“Thank you, Vincent.”

A crisp tip of his head and Vincent turned his attention back to his work, but he couldn’t hide the faint hint of a blush tingeing his cheeks.

Aware he had left the study door open, Oliver kept from voicing the love you on the tip of his tongue and instead grabbed Shakespeare’s Othello from the mantle and settled on the couch to pick up where he had left off yesterday evening.

The patter of slippers on floorboards announced the housekeeper’s arrival. “The post has arrived, Lord Vincent.” She handed Oliver his cup of coffee, then placed the small silver tray on the corner of Vincent’s desk. She received the same crisp tip of the head for her efforts. “Is there anything I can get for you, my lord?”

“No, thank you.” Vincent took a letter from the top of the stack and, using the silver letter opener he had pulled from a desk drawer, broke the wax seal.

At her questioning glance, Oliver shook his head. He had everything he needed at the moment in the study with him—coffee, a book, and Vincent. After taking his empty plate, she left the room.

Oliver brought his cup to his lips and took a sip, savoring the hot, rich liquid as it flowed down his throat. With a little clink, he set down the cup and flipped to the appropriate page in Othello. Within no time at all, the book pulled him in. Even the crinkle of paper as Vincent went through the pile of letters seemed to fade to nothingness.

“Oliver.”

The hint of a reprimand behind Vincent’s voice had Oliver’s head snapping up. “Yes?” Vincent’s stare indicated he expected a response other than a yes. Clearly Oliver had missed something. “My apologies. I was not”—he lifted the book from his lap, showing Vincent his excuse—“listening.”

For purchase links for Bound Forever, check out Ava’s website.

Also Available from Ava

Brook Street: Thief (Brook Street #1)

It was only supposed to be one night. One night to determine once and for all if he truly preferred men. But the last thing Lord Benjamin Parker expected to find in a questionable gambling hell is a gorgeous young man who steals his heart.

It was only supposed to be a job. Cavin Fox has done it many times – select a prime mark, distract him with lust, and leave his pockets empty. Yet when Cavin slips away under the cover of darkness, the only part of Benjamin he leaves untouched is his pockets.

With a taste of his most wicked fantasies fulfilled, Benjamin wants more than one night with Cavin. But convincing the elusive young man to give them a chance proves difficult. Living with a band of thieves in the worst area of London, Cavin knows there’s no place for him in a gentleman’s life. As circumstances pull him to Benjamin’s Mayfair town house, Cavin keeps pulling away from the best man he’s ever known. Yet Benjamin isn’t about to let Cavin—and love— continue to slip away from him.

For purchase links for Brook Street: Thief, check out Ava’s website.

Cover copy text used by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises Limited.

Other Books by Ava

The Bound series

Bound by Deception

Bound to Him

Deliberately Unbound (free short story)
Bound Forever

Deliberately Bound (free short story)

The Bound Series

Brook Street series

My True Love Gave to Me

Brook Street: Thief