Smollet left London at one o’clock, in a post-chaise, with Lucas’s trunk and Tom’s portmanteau, but it was closer to two by the time Lucas climbed into his curricle. He was able to ignore Tom’s proximity while he threaded his way through the London traffic, but once they came out into the countryside, it became impossible. He was intensely aware of Tom seated alongside him, intensely aware that their thighs almost touched. The beat began again, in his head, in his blood: Tom, Tom.
Tom didn’t try to talk. He sat alongside Lucas, relaxed, slouching slightly.
Silences between them had always been comfortable before, but this silence wasn’t comfortable—it was taut with expectancy. The air seemed to crackle, as if lightning had struck nearby. Lucas found himself sweating slightly. He wasn’t sure why—the afternoon was edging from chilly towards freezing—but sweat prickled on his skin. Fear? Anticipation?
They didn’t reach Reading. Didn’t even come close. Three hours out of London, it started to rain, sparse, fat drops that struck the curricle with audible splats.
He glanced at Tom.
Tom was still slouching, his thigh still almost touching Lucas’s. “Going to get worse. Look at that sky.”
I know.
“Want to put the hood up, or stop at the next inn for the night?”
Lucas hesitated. “What would you prefer?”
“I’d rather not get wet.”
“The hood—”
“The wind’s in our faces; the hood won’t help much.” Tom’s glance was appraising. “But we can try for Reading if you like. We won’t melt.”
Ordinarily, he’d stop at the nearest inn. Smollet wouldn’t worry if they failed to reach Reading; he’d look at the sky and guess they’d halted early. But Lucas had the feeling that stopping now would be dangerous. Very dangerous.
“Let’s see how far we can get,” he said, determined to push through to Reading and Smollet and safety. But half a mile later, the skies opened, and even with the hood up, bitter rain swept into their faces, and when they rounded a bend and saw a country tavern, small and old and half-timbered, with light glowing in the tiny-paned windows, he didn’t hesitate at all, but turned the curricle into the yard.
The inn was called the White Hart, and it was more used to farm laborers wearing smocks and hobnailed brogues than to gentry. The whitewash was peeling and the furniture had seen better days, but despite those things the White Hart was warm and cozy and welcoming.
The innkeeper gave them two rooms up under the eaves and begged their pardon that he had no private parlor, but Lucas was relieved. No private parlor meant no time alone with Tom.
They ate mutton pie in the taproom, rubbing shoulders with farmers and a blacksmith and two carters who’d taken refuge from the rain.
Tom pushed his plate away with a contented sigh. “Best meal I’ve had in a long time.” He drained his tankard, and fished in his pocket for his sketchbook and pencil.
Lucas slowly finished his ale. The taproom was warm and noisy, Tom’s attention was on his sketches—eyes slightly narrowed, pencil moving swiftly—but tension was still tight between them, a silent hiss in the air.
Lucas pushed his plate away, and stood. “I’m off to bed.”
Tom looked up sharply.
Lucas read the question in his eyes—and found himself unable to breathe. His balls tightened. Panic and craving knotted together in his belly.
The panic won.
“Stay down here,” Lucas said. “Lots of faces for you to sketch. I’ll, uh, see you in the morning.” And then he fled the taproom.
They’d each brought a small valise, stowed in the empty groom’s seat. Lucas locked his door, found a nightshirt, and climbed into bed—and didn’t sleep. He lay awake listening to the rain, thinking about what he’d seen on Tom’s face.
Part of him wanted to go next door to Tom’s bedchamber and apologize, to let Tom kiss him. And part of him wanted to get dressed and creep down the back stairs, harness the horses to the curricle and run away. This was the middle ground, hiding in his room.
There is no right path through this. Whatever choice I make will be wrong. Running away was wrong. Hiding was wrong. Being intimate with Tom was wrong.
Lucas’s chest grew tight. Sleep receded still further. He found himself longing for the bitter taste of laudanum, for the retreat from reality it offered. But that, too, would be wrong.
Finally, he sat up, lit a candle, and rummaged in the valise for his book.
Lucas fell asleep close to dawn and woke mid-morning to the sound of rain. He climbed out of bed and opened the shutters. Yes, rain. He sighed, and leaned his hands on the windowsill, and felt as gray as the sky.
Tom was already in the taproom, eating his way through a plate of ham and eggs. His greeting was cheerful, as if they’d parted on good terms, but Lucas could still remember the way Tom’s face had stiffened last night, the way the bright expectancy had extinguished in his eyes.
Whatever choice I make will be wrong.
Lucas pulled out a chair and returned Tom’s greeting, but there was tension in his shoulders, tension in the back of his neck.
A plate of fried ham and eggs and a tankard of ale made him feel slightly less gray, but did nothing for his tension; the longer he sat next to Tom, the more aware of him he was—and the tighter his muscles became.
“Chess?” Tom said. “There’s a set in one of the cupboards.”
Lucas shrugged stiffly. “Why not?”
They pushed aside their plates and played chess. Usually they were evenly matched, but this morning Lucas found himself unable to concentrate. Tom beat him quickly, twice.
“You all right?” Tom said, when Lucas lost for the second time.
“Bit tired,” Lucas admitted. “Didn’t sleep too well.”
“You want to stop?”
“No.” At least the chess disguised the awkward constraint between them.
They were halfway through a third game—and Lucas was losing again—when the innkeeper’s wife bustled in with a mop and a bucket of water.
“Want to finish this game?” Tom said diffidently. “There’s a table and chairs in my room.”
Lucas hesitated. He thought of his half-read book—and then he remembered the hurt on Tom’s face last night. “Why not?” But once they were upstairs in Tom’s room, a fire burning in the grate, he regretted his decision. This was too cozy, too intimate, too private.
He lost the third game in six moves. “Another game?” Tom said.
Lucas picked up a pawn and turned it over in his fingers, the movements sharp, almost agitated. “No point, is there?” He turned the pawn over again, flick, flick, avoiding Tom’s gaze. “Not much of a game for you. Boring.”
Tom reached out and caught his hand, stilling the movement. “Lu, relax. I told you, I won’t do anything you don’t want.”
Lucas gripped the pawn tightly. His heartbeat grew loud in his ears: Tom, Tom, Tom.
He lifted his gaze—and found that he couldn’t look away from those green, bright eyes. The crackling tension intensified. The air felt charged with expectancy. The back of his neck was tight, his shoulders were tight, his chest was tight—and Tom’s fingers burned on his skin.
They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Tom released his hand. “You won’t be a sodomite, Lu. I promise.”
Lucas tried to swallow, but his throat was too constricted.
Tom pushed back his chair and stood slowly, came around the table slowly, bent slowly, kissed him slowly—a gentle kiss, a kiss that demanded nothing.
Lucas’s breath caught in his throat in a sound close to a sob.
Tom kissed him again, and whispered against his mouth, “Relax, Lu.”
Relax? How could he relax when craving was tying his stomach in knots, and his lungs had clenched in his chest, and his balls were painfully tight?
“Relax,” Tom whispered again, against his lips—and Lucas gave in to the craving and kissed him back, desperately, urgently.
Tom made a sound—sigh? groan?—and deepened the kiss, no longer gentle, but insistent.
Lucas dropped the pawn. He reached out and gripped Tom and hauled him closer, and kissed him—kissed him—kissed him.
He didn’t release Tom until they were both panting heavily.
Tom straightened. His face was flushed, his green eyes even brighter than usual. “The bed,” he said.
Lucas flinched.
“Nothing more than the mews, stoopid. But we may as well be comfortable.”
Lucas looked down at the hard floor and imagined Tom kneeling there. Heat flooded his groin—and shame flushed his face. “All right,” he managed to say.
Tom stepped back.
Lucas stood, a jerky movement. “The door—”
Tom crossed to the door, turned the key, and came back to the table. “Come on, Lu.”
Lucas’s panic surged—but he let Tom take him by the wrist and draw him across to the bed. His legs were stiff with trepidation and his cock was stiffening, too.
“Tailcoat off,” Tom said. “And those boots. And your neckcloth, too.”
“But—”
“Tailcoat, boots, and neckcloth,” Tom said firmly, and reached up and unwound his own neckcloth.
Lucas fumbled his way out of his tailcoat. The anticipation and trepidation were building. His fingers trembled. It took him three tries to get the neckcloth off.
“Sit,” Tom said. “I’ll pull your boots off.”
Lucas hesitated, and sat on the very edge of the bed. He had a sharp burst of memory: the night of his birthday, Tom pulling off his boots, unbuttoning his breeches, sucking his cock.
Tom removed the top boots. “And your waistcoat, too. Don’t want to crease it.”
Lucas groped for the buttons, struggling to get them out of the buttonholes. To his mortification, his cock was as rigid as it had ever been, tenting his breeches. He couldn’t meet Tom’s eyes.
“I’ll do it.” Tom bent and undid the buttons, peeled him swiftly out of the waistcoat, then stepped back.
Lucas reluctantly looked at him. God, Tom was beautiful, tall and lean in his shirt-sleeves and breeches and stockings. His gaze skidded down to Tom’s groin, and hastily away—but not before he’d seen the hard outline pressed against the fabric.
He felt his face flush hotly. His heart began to beat even faster.
Tom stepped close again. “Lie down, Lu.”
Panic lurched in Lucas’s chest.
“Lie down,” Tom said, a second time, and he pushed Lucas back on the bed, gently but firmly.
Lucas’s stomach was tight, his lungs were tight, every muscle in his body was tight. Oh, God, a panicked voice said, at the back of his head.
The mattress dipped as Tom sat down. Lucas’s heart beat even faster, so fast it surely must burst. He felt the same mix of emotions he’d felt in the Brook Street Mews: shame, panic—and craving.
“Relax, Lu.” Tom stretched out alongside him and gathered him in his arms and kissed him softly, lightly, tenderly. “Relax.”
Lucas’s heart stopped galloping quite so fast. It became slightly easier to breathe.
They kissed for several minutes, their mouths gentle against each other. Finally, Tom pulled back. “Better?” He stroked a strand of hair from Lucas’s brow.
Lucas nodded mutely.
“Good.” Tom smiled, and sat up.
Lucas stared up at the bedhangings. Oh, God. The panic and the craving came surging back. He lay rigid with shame, every muscle taut, while Tom unbuttoned his breeches and pushed the plackets aside, while he unbuttoned his drawers. Oh, God.
He flinched when Tom touched his aching cock.
Tom laughed softly. “Relax, Lu.”
Relax? How could he relax when Tom was gripping him like that? He flinched a second time when Tom lightly blew, and a third time when he licked, his tongue warm and velvety.
When Tom had done this in the darkness of the Brook Street Mews, he’d done it fast; here, on the bed, he did it slowly—excruciatingly slowly—licking his way down Lucas’s cock and back up again, tasting every inch of skin, licking, licking, licking.
Lucas lay with his eyes squeezed shut, panting, trembling, listening to the deafening beat of Tom’s name in his head. When Tom finally took his cock into his mouth and sucked, Lucas’s hips bucked helplessly.
Tom laughed, and sucked again.
Lucas groaned.
Time twisted in on itself. This was exquisite, agonizing torture: Tom’s tight, gripping hand, Tom’s hot, hot mouth. Pressure built inside him, built and built and built until it felt as if his skin would rupture—and then he did rupture, splintering into a thousand pieces, pleasure bursting through him in great jolts, and he bucked and cried out, a breathless, strangled sound.
It took nearly a minute for the spasms to stop.
Lucas lay trembling, panting, dazed. Dimly, he was aware of Tom coming to lie on the bed alongside him.
Finally he inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. “Jesus.” His voice was hoarse.
“Good, huh?” Tom’s voice was smug, and when Lucas turned his head to look at him, his expression was smug, too.
Tom grinned, and stretched like a satisfied cat, and reached out and stroked Lucas’s hair.
They lay there in silence, while the tingling pleasure slowly faded. Shame took its place, like a tide creeping in. Shame, and a new emotion: guilt. Here he lay, his cock warm and sated, and he wasn’t going to offer Tom an intimacy in return.
Tom didn’t expect anything from him—he’d said he didn’t expect anything—but that didn’t make it any less wrong.
Lucas lay on the bed, while the tide of shame and guilt crept higher.
I won’t do anything you don’t want, Tom had said, and Lucas knew what he didn’t want, knew down to the marrow of his bones what he didn’t want—but he didn’t have the same certainty about what he did want.
Did he want to touch Tom the way Tom had touched him? Perhaps even taste him?
He thought the answer might be Yes, and that brought a surge of panic. I can’t. It was too much, too soon, too daunting.
Tom wasn’t afraid. He made it seem easy, the easiest thing in the world, as if it took no courage at all to kneel at another man’s feet and take his cock in one’s mouth.
The moment of insight came suddenly: Tom’s done this with someone else.
Lucas felt a stab of jealousy so intense it was almost anger. He turned his head and looked at Tom. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”