Lucas’s breath seemed to choke in his throat. He felt slightly light-headed. The beat became louder in his ears: Tom, Tom, Tom.
Tom was quite different from him. Not just the black hair at his groin, but the shape of his balls, the shape of his cock. His own balls were round; Tom’s were oval. Tom’s cock was as long as his, but not as thick and its angle was different, jutting upwards rather than outwards. Its color was a deeper shade than his own cock ever achieved, berry red rather than salmon pink, and the crest was conical rather than blunt, shaped like an ancient Greek helmet. Corinthian, a little voice said—irrelevantly—in his head.
Lucas’s throat choked even tighter. He swallowed and struggled to breathe—and felt craving clench in his belly.
He wanted to touch Tom’s cock, wanted to feel the silky skin, the hard muscle, the heat.
He could see the slit clearly—and see the bead of clear liquid oozing from it.
The craving became stronger.
Lucas jerked his gaze from Tom’s cock, and looked at Tom’s eyes instead.
Tom was staring at him. “Want to touch it?”
Lucas swallowed. Vaguely, dimly, at the very back of his mind, he was aware of panic; but foremost was craving. Yes, he wanted to touch Tom’s cock.
He swallowed again, tried to breathe, and gave a tiny, stiff, ashamed nod.
Tom made a help yourself gesture and said, “Be my guest.”
A lump grew in Lucas’s throat. He had to swallow twice this time. Slowly, he reached out. The drumbeat of Tom’s name was loud in his ears and beneath it was a faint whine of panic—and then he touched that ruddy helmet, and the whine of panic died and the drumbeat became deafeningly loud: Tom, Tom, Tom.
Lucas inhaled a shallow breath and slowly traced the contours with his fingertips, following the helmet-like rim, catching the bead of moisture with his thumb, smoothing it over sleek, burning hot skin. When he’d thoroughly explored the crest he slid his hand lower and wrapped his fingers around the strong shaft. Tom’s cock seemed to pulse in time with the drumbeat in his head. He glanced at Tom’s face—and discovered that Tom wasn’t watching his hand; he was staring intently at his face.
Lucas felt himself blush hotly. He looked back down at Tom’s cock, red and straining in his hand, and saw another bead of moisture leak from the slit. He’s almost ready to climax.
His craving intensified, clenching tightly in his belly. At the back of his brain, he was aware he should be horrified—but the craving was too fierce. Lucas experimentally stroked his hand down that hot, throbbing shaft and back up. Once. Twice. He glanced at Tom’s face and did it a third time—down, then up—and watched Tom tremble and catch his breath.
Lucas gripped more tightly and picked up speed. This was power: pumping Tom like this, making him gasp and shudder, making him lose control.
Tom reached out and caught his hand, stopping him.
Lucas looked at him, his mouth open to protest—and the words dried on his tongue. Such hot, hot eyes.
“You’re hard again,” Tom said hoarsely. “I can see it in your face.”
Lucas didn’t need to ask what that looked like; he could see for himself: the hectic flush along Tom’s cheekbones, the dilated pupils.
Tom fumbled at Lucas’s waistband. “We’ll do this together.”
Lucas held his breath while Tom unbuttoned the breeches, unbuttoned the drawers. His cock lunged out, thick and blunt-tipped, eager for Tom’s hand.
Tom captured it, wrapped his fingers tightly around it.
Lucas’s breath strangled in his throat. He groaned. His gaze jerked to Tom’s face—and was caught.
Time seemed to slow, almost to stop. Never had he experienced a moment of such profound, heart-stopping intimacy: his cock in Tom’s hand, Tom’s cock in his hand, and Tom’s eyes, hot and dark, staring into his soul.
The drumbeat in Lucas’s head became so loud that it felt as if his skull would explode—and then Tom looked down at their hands, and Lucas was able to breathe again. He inhaled raggedly.
Tom tightened his grip and pumped once, hard.
Pleasure jolted through Lucas. His eyes squeezed shut. Jesus.
“Lie down, Lu.”
Tom had to say it twice before the words penetrated the fog of arousal. “Lie down, Lu. It’s better.”
Lucas obeyed, and Tom was right: it was better, stretched out on the bed. He’s done this before, with that damned colonel of his. But there was no space in his head for jealousy, not now, not while they were stroking and squeezing each other, pumping each other, and his heart was galloping, and he was hot enough to burst into flame.
“Lu, let go,” Tom said breathlessly. “I’ll do us both together.” He peeled Lucas’s fingers open and took them both in one grip. Their cocks pressed together, hot and slick and taut and throbbing.
Lucas’s heart kicked in his chest. His balls tightened painfully. Breath hissed between his teeth.
“Like that?” Tom said.
Lucas opened his mouth to say Yes, but only an inarticulate groan came out.
Tom laughed, and leaned closer, until his mouth touched Lucas’s. “Kiss me.”
Lucas did, fierce, bruising kisses, his fingers buried deep in Tom’s hair, while their cocks clashed in Tom’s hand and their bodies strove against each other. Not long. Not long now.
Tom’s hand moved faster, the kisses became more frantic, and then the moment came—a vertiginous orgasm, like plunging over a cliff—and they bucked against each other for endless, endless, endless seconds.
Finally, the spasms faded. Lucas lay panting and exhausted, half-dazed.
Tom released their cocks, and stretched lazily. His eyes were dark and drowsy and his lips looked almost bruised, bee-stung.
If Tom’s lips looked almost bruised, his left cheek definitely was bruised.
Lucas felt a sharp pang of remorse. He reached out and touched Tom’s cheekbone, traced that purple mark. “I’m sorry I hit you.”
“That? Lord, it’s nothing.” Tom smiled sleepily, and pulled Lucas close and hugged him.
Lucas pressed his face into Tom’s shoulder. The drumbeat in his head was a slow, low beat: Tom, Tom.
They lay silently together, while the fire mumbled in the grate and rain pattered against the windowpanes. Lucas felt Tom’s arms around him and listened to Tom’s quiet breathing and knew that this was the most purely happy moment of his life.
When Lucas woke, Tom was sitting by the fire, a large sketchbook propped on his knees. Lucas stretched and yawned and rubbed his face. “What’re you drawing?”
“You.”
He yawned again, and buttoned his drawers and breeches, and climbed off the bed. “Lemme see.”
Tom held out the sketchbook. Yes, that was him all right, sprawled on the bed, fast asleep, with his breeches unbuttoned and his cock peeping out.
Mortification heated his face, and then he looked again. Tom hadn’t made him look comic or foolish—he’d made him look beautiful, like a fallen angel.
Lucas looked more closely. This wasn’t one of Tom’s two-minute sketches. This had taken time. Hours. The shading, the way light fell across the planes of his face . . . Jesus, he could practically see every hair on his head. “How long was I asleep?”
“Couple of hours.”
Lucas flicked back a page and there was his cock—just his cock—rising from its nest of hair, thick and sturdy.
Lucas’s thoughts lurched to a halt. His lips parted in horror. His gaze jerked to Tom.
Tom was eyeing him warily.
Lucas looked back down at the drawing and felt a surge of anger. A violation of privacy, that’s what this sketch was.
“I wanted to draw you while I remembered how you looked,” Tom said, in a neutral voice.
Lucas swallowed, and tried to tamp down his anger. “Why?”
“Because you’re fucking magnificent.”
His gaze jerked back to Tom’s.
“You’d put Goliath to shame.”
Lucas felt himself blush. He hastily closed the sketchbook.
“You’ve a cock like an ox’s, Lu.”
Lucas felt his blush spread, down his throat, to the tips of his ears, across his scalp. He thrust the sketchbook at Tom. “Well, yours looks like it’s wearing a helmet.”
Tom’s brow creased. “What?”
“It looks like it’s wearing a helmet,” Lucas muttered. “You know, one of those Greek ones. Corinthian.” Take the damned sketchbook.
Tom stopped looking wary. His eyes lit with laughter. “I’m going to call it that from now on: the Corinthian.” He took the sketchbook and flipped to a new page. “And I’m calling yours the Ox.”
Lucas reached for his tankard and took a hasty swallow. The ale was lukewarm and flat. He gulped another mouthful, and sat at the table. A pile of smaller sketchbooks caught his eye. He took one at random and hastily thumbed through it. Portugal.
He slowed, turning the pages, looking at the sketches of soldiers. Was Tom’s colonel one of these men? He flicked over a page—and halted. Good-looking, Tom had said. Clever. Brave. Liked to joke. “This is him, isn’t it?” Jealousy roughened his voice. “Your colonel.”
“Armagh sold out before Portugal.” Tom plucked the sketchbook from Lucas’s hand, glanced at the page, and gave it back. “That’s Major Reid. He was a damned good soldier, too. One of the best.”
“Was?” Lucas looked at the strong, handsome, laughing face captured in a few slashing pencil strokes. “He died?”
“He sold out after Vimeiro,” Tom said, and his tone held an odd note.
Lucas glanced at him. “What happened?”
Tom hesitated, and then shrugged. “Reid was an exploring officer. Reconnaissance. He used to go behind enemy lines in uniform.”
“In uniform? But . . . wasn’t that dangerous?”
Tom laughed. “Extremely dangerous.” And then he grimaced.
“What?”
“They caught him. The French. Just before Vimeiro.”
Lucas looked down at the handsome, laughing face Tom had sketched.
“We got him back the next day, but . . . they’d been a bit rough with him.”
“That’s why he sold out?”
“He sold out because he got the fever and it nearly killed him. Damned shame.” Tom sighed, and looked at the litter of sketchbooks on the table. “I’m starving. Want to go downstairs and eat?”
That evening, when Lucas retired to his bedchamber, he didn’t suggest Tom remain in the taproom; instead, he diffidently said: “I’m going upstairs if . . . if you want to come?”
They went up the stairs together, and undressed together, and climbed into Lucas’s bed together, and then the afternoon replayed itself: the bruising kisses, their cocks dueling in Tom’s hand, the dizzying orgasm.
Lucas woke in the dark, cold hours of early morning. He lay on his side and Tom was curled around him, holding him, and he had the same feeling of being safe and warm and protected that he’d sometimes had when he was a child.
He quietly cataloged the sensations: Tom’s breath feathering across the nape of his neck. Tom’s warm, solid chest pressed to his back. Tom’s arm heavy and possessive around his waist. Tom’s legs half-entwined with his.
The sense of warmth and safety deepened. Contentment stirred in Lucas’s blood and he knew—just as he’d known that afternoon—that he’d never been as happy as he was right now, in this cozy nest of a bed.
He laid his hand over Tom’s and interlaced their fingers and slid back into sleep. When he next woke it was daylight and Tom was gone. Only a dent in the pillow showed where he’d been.