It was half past midnight as Justin made his way up to his room. The day’s ceremonies had been somewhat entertaining, he’d been served three meals at regular intervals, no unexpected disasters had befallen, and the company had been pleasant if not sterling. Lastly and most importantly: despite the absence of both his secretary and most of his notes, he’d had great success in negotiations on three of the five contracts he’d hoped to close during the Ambrellan festivities. There was no reason whatsoever that he should feel even more wrung out today than he had after yesterday’s far more considerable aggravations.

Except that today I have no angel waiting at my room, anticipating my every wish.

He found it especially ridiculous to be missing something he’d barely had time to experience, much less to grow accustomed to. He had a sense that Striker’s hand was behind the scenes of some little events of the day: someone had laid out clothing for dinner for him this afternoon, and again for supper, and someone had made sure his dirty clothing was cleaned and hung again in the wardrobe, and the bedroom windows opened during the heat of the day, and suchlike. Some of it might have been the responsibility of others of the dean’s staff, but most of those chores were things Justin expected his valet to do. If it was Striker, though, he’d kept out of sight while doing it.

Someone had also been in his room since Justin went to supper: he could tell by the light leaking beneath the closed door. Perhaps the fire had been set; the night was a cold one again. Justin opened the door. There was a banked fire in the hearth, but most of the light was from a lamp on the desk.

Which illuminated the face of his angel, looking up from a book as Justin entered. Justin leaned heavily on the doorknob as their eyes met. Striker wasn’t wearing his uniform: he was dressed in an evening jacket of dark blue with silver lapels, over a white dress shirt and pale grey breeches. The well-tailored outfit made him look more lord than servant, and suited him far better than the academy’s colors. Strange to see a servant in such finery: castoffs from a former master, perhaps. After a moment, Justin stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “I thought,” the viscount observed mildly, “I told you to go on holiday.”

Striker offered a shy smile in answer. “I didn’t come to work, my lord.” He gestured to his attire and the book as if in explanation.

Justin clasped his hands behind his back, leaning against the door. “Ah. I suppose this is the only place with a lamp you might use?”

The valet dropped his eyes, smile turning lopsided. “Maybe not.”

“Mm. No other chairs you could sit in?” Justin asked. Striker’s pale cheeks flushed. No other beds you could sleep in? There’s plenty of room for another in mine, if you care to join me. He did not voice the thought; he did not wish to torment the man. But ohhh, the things Justin did want to do to him.

“That…might not have been the main reason, either.” Striker set his book on the table and stood. He still wore the same half-smile, but fidgeted nervously, taking a pair of dress gloves from the table before setting them back down deliberately. “Am I intruding, my lord? Are you sorry to see me?”

“No,” Justin said, his voice soft. “I’m not. At all.” You’re the only person I’ve truly wanted to see all day.

Striker’s smile turned full and sensual. “Good.” The heels of his shoes clicked against the hardwood floor as Striker crossed the room, stopping a few feet short of Justin. As he met Justin’s gaze, his smile faltered, fear apparent in those round blue eyes.

Justin clenched his hands together tighter behind his back. I am not going to hurt you. Again. Why are you here, if I scare you so? I gave you leave to go. Abandoned world, I ordered you to. Why come back?  “So…what do you want, then, Striker?” he asked, tone as light and inoffensive as he could manage.

The young man swallowed. “You,” he whispered. He took that last step forward and raised a hand to touch pale, unsteady fingers to Justin’s cheek. His touch firmed as he caressed backward to bury his fingers in long dark hair. Head tilted back, eyelids fluttering shut, Striker touched trembling lips to the viscount’s in a feather-light kiss.

His own eyes still open, Justin stared at his angel, unable to believe this was real. It’s not real, a cynical inner voice said. He doesn’t want you. Feel how nervous, how shaken he is? He doesn’t want you. He wants something he hopes you’ll give him. A position, money, power, something, and he’s willing to sell his body to get it. Still shivering, Striker nuzzled at Justin’s unresponsive mouth, then started to draw away, eyes downcast. “I – my lord, I’m sorr—” Striker started to say, before Justin locked his arms around the youth’s slender torso and pulled him back to cover the young man’s mouth with his own. Screw it. If he’s selling I am curst well buying. There was no concealing his hunger and need, but Justin struggled to be gentler this time, lips slightly parted to taste Striker’s full lower lip, one hand stroking jacket-clad back, the other curling through the hair at the base of his head, loosening the ribbon there. To Justin’s surprise, the tension in the man’s body eased instead of increasing: the mouth under his moved eagerly in response, if not with much assurance. Striker’s fingers tangled in Justin’s hair, holding his face close, as if he truly wanted this. Justin loosened his own grip just enough to work one hand between them, unfastening the buttons of Striker’s jacket and pushing it open to stroke the fine shirt beneath, feeling the warmth of that strong lithe body through the layer of cloth. His fingers started to work at the shirt buttons next, then hesitated. Justin lifted his head away, to give Striker a chance to speak, to change his mind about the demon’s bargain he’d set out upon. Blue eyes flicked open near his, the pliant body in his arms stiffening. Striker curled his fingers into a fist around Justin’s lapel. “Please, my lord,” the young man whispered. “Don’t trifle with me again. Please.” Striker buried his face against the curve of Justin’s neck, clutching tightly at him.

Trifle. Saints, is that what Striker thought I did? Was that what I did? Savior. “Never,” Justin promised, nudging Striker’s head to the side to lip at the curve of his ear. A shudder passed through the servant’s body, arching into the touch of Justin’s lips, breathing out a quiet aroused noise. Striker shifted his hands down to unbutton Justin’s jacket, waistcoat, shirt. Too impatient to get them all, the angel slipped a hand beneath the shirt just as soon as he’d worked open a gap large enough to allow him, sliding his palm against bare warm skin, sparse dark curly hairs tickling his fingertips. Justin groaned under the sensuality, the urgency in that touch. He nibbled down Striker’s ear, rewarded by soft pleased gasps, the feel of his body pressed close, hips grinding instinctively against him.

After a long interval that was not nearly long enough, Striker drew back, withdrawing his hand from its explorations of Justin’s back. The youth had such a dazed, joyous expression on his face that Justin instantly forgave him for pulling away. Striker tried to speak and failed. He cleared his throat to ask, “Might I get that for you, my lord?” in his courteous professional way, hands going to Justin’s neckcloth to undo the careful folds and knots.

Justin gave a low rumble of laughter, capturing the young man’s wrists in his hands. “I told you no working. Do you think to override me, boy?” He forced Striker’s hands down, neckcloth unraveling into a flat drape around his shoulders before the young man released the ends.

Striker swallowed, meeting Justin’s eyes, making no effort to escape. “Believe me, my lord, this isn’t work.”

Justin laughed again. “Nonetheless – I daresay it’s my turn.” He pushed the young man’s arms behind his back and then forced him against the wall, pinning him there with his weight. Justin shoved the jacket off Striker’s shoulders, but only down to his elbows, leaving his arms tangled in it. He unfastened Striker’s jabot and opened the shirt, no longer wondering at the rich clothing: who would not choose to shower gifts upon such an angel? Shirt joined jacket down around Striker’s elbows, and Justin stroked the smooth exposed skin of chest and shoulders with a mixture of greed, delight, and wonder. It was like unwrapping the most splendid present imaginable: Striker was even more beautiful nude than clothed, frame slight compared to Justin’s over-developed one, but the shapes of muscles clear beneath pale skin, hard and firm under Justin’s touch. Striker trembled as Justin’s fingers moved over his chest, gliding down his abdomen as Justin leaned in to nuzzle the bare neck. The servant wriggled, abandoned trying to free his arms, and rubbed his cheek against the top of Justin’s head instead. He tensed as Justin unhooked suspender straps and unfastened Striker’s breeches, pushing them and his smallclothes down in the same smooth motion. Justin cupped a hand around the curve of the servant’s ass, nipping at his neck and pressing his back against the wall. The flesh under his teeth flushed red, body shivering despite the heated skin, and Justin thought again Striker doesn’t want this doesn’t want me Savior I don’t care just let me – he bit down harder and the youth whimpered, making Justin relent. But Justin wanted to mark him, claim him – mine! – and not care who might see and wonder at the marks. Surely Dremmond leaves his servants some privacy?

The lord eased back anyway, one hand gently stroking the young man’s side and the other his face. Justin trailed his thumb over the curve of Striker’s lower lip, and the youth dipped his head to kiss it, lips parting to nip at the pad, to engulf the upper knuckle and suck. Justin groaned in anticipation – I can give you something better than that to suck on – eyes roving appreciatively down the servant’s body. He particularly enjoyed the combination of nudity but with clothing still entangling Striker’s extremities – let’s see you escape like that, my angel, bound and hobbled. Striker was still trembling, trying to squirm one arm loose from his shirt and jacket. It struck Justin that, as charming as the picture was, perhaps ‘unable to escape’ was not the kindest possible position to inflict on someone who was surely having second thoughts about his earlier decision anyway. Justin slid a hand possessively down one bicep and over Striker’s elbow, shifting his weight to free first one arm, then the other. Striker didn’t use his new freedom to push Justin away, but rather wrapped himself gratifyingly closer, stroking Justin’s hair, clutching at his back. When the blond did slide a hand between them, it was to fumble at the top button of his shirt. “Please, my lord,” he whispered, soft and full of urgency. “Please.”

Justin laughed in delight at the man’s eagerness; Striker flinched at the sound, dropping his hand and turning his flushed face to the side, tensed as if against a physical blow. The lord caught up the fallen hand and pressed the servant’s fingertips to his lips. “Whatever you want, you may have,” Justin promised recklessly. I know what I want. Nervous blue eyes flicked to his face; hesitant, Striker moved to unfasten the shirt. When Justin didn’t stop him this time, he grew bolder, hands working quickly as if he feared Justin would change his mind. As Striker reached the breeches, he knelt to pull them off. Another hesitation, then one pale hand extended to stroke Justin’s erection, carressing from tip to base. Justin twined his fingers through golden hair as the servant knelt before him. It took an effort of will not to force Striker’s head closer, and Justin was not sure if he’d managed to keep himself from doing so when he felt the angel’s lips against the head of his cock, the tentative touch of a tongue, then warm wetness all around, sucking. It was not the sure, skilled act Justin had imagined: this uncertain exploration, fingers light where he wanted them to be firm, mouth engulfing only a couple of inches before stopping, awkward pauses as the servant adjusted his angle, tried to find a rhythm. But it was infinitely and ineffably better for being real. For a timeless interval, somewhere between ‘eternity’ and ‘not long enough’, Justin stood with eyes closed, savoring the sensation until the insistent soreness of his feet impinged on his consciousness. Realizing that kneeling was likely none too comfortable for Striker either, Justin moved his hands to the young man’s shoulders and tugged him to his feet. Striker shifted reluctantly, as if afraid he’d erred. Justin only smiled, and pulled him to the oversized bed.

Justin pulled Striker close to him afterwards, feeling possessive. Often he had little interest in contact once lust was satisfied, but he did not want to let his angel go. Striker was surprisingly compliant, rubbing his cheek against Justin’s bare chest and sighing with contentment. The young man’s breathing slowed as he started to drift off to sleep, and Justin closed his own eyes. With great effort, he mustered the will to ask, “Will you be missed?”

“Mmm.” Striker stirred, nosing at dark curly chest hair. “I am entirely at your disposal, my lord. As long as you vouch for my whereabouts no one else will question me.”

“Then stay,” Justin told him. That silly footman’s bed will be good for cover, if nothing else.

Striker gave him a somnolent smile and an obedient, “Yes, m’lord.”

Nik awoke disoriented, in a too-large bed beneath too-soft sheets, a warm firm body pressed behind his and the weight of an arm curled over his side. When he started and tried to sit up, that arm tightened reflexively, too strong to be resisted and ohhh Nik did not want to resist it anyway. He sank back into the bed, hugging Lord Comfrey’s arm to his chest, reliving the glory of the previous night in his mind. His skin heated at the recollection alone, penis stiffening to give evidence that no matter how satisfying the event, desire had only been temporarily satiated. The whole had a surreal quality to it: even with Lord Comfrey right there, Nik could hardly believe it wasn’t a dream. Could he truly want me as much as I want him?  When Nik had been waiting for Comfrey to return to the room the night before, he’d convinced himself that was the only explanation that made sense. The rational part of his mind believed it, but some primal unthinking part of him had remained terrified that he was wrong, certain at more than one juncture that some fresh rejection awaited, some new humiliation even sharper than the last. Now, however…he snuggled back against Lord Comfrey’s broad chest, body savoring both the physical contact and the sense and feel of Comfrey’s mind around him. The man’s mind was gloriously healthy, mindshapes well-proportioned and spaced, with snug, efficient connections between them: as attractive in its way as his body. The pearls of long-healed traumas nestled like decorations between the many shapes. The mindshape for confidence provided a strong, sturdy foundation for all the rest, while affection was a warm diffuse mass of cotton, with love small but intense, a vibrant jewel at its center. Just as with Nik’s own mind, there was nothing to suggest abnormality in his mindshapes for libido or attraction. Perhaps Comfrey did have an unusually robust libido, but it looked large and healthy, not like an out-of-control mindshape threatening to crowd out or seize dominance over the others.

Dwelling on that recalled Nik to his own body, and he pushed his rear against the dark-haired lord’s hips. Nik could feel the other man’s cock stir at the contact; experimentally, he wriggled a little more and was rewarded by a somnolent pleased noise and the feel of a hard prick against his ass. He shifted position again, easing Comfrey’s cock between his cheeks, sliding until the tip was against his anus. The transgressiveness of the act only added to its seductive power. It seemed an impossible notion, that he could be penetrated there, through a small opening undesigned and unlubricated for the purpose, and yet Nik found himself craving it. Is this how women feel?  He pushed back, ineffectually trying to capture that shaft inside.

Comfrey stirred at the effort, the arm around Nik sliding down his chest and stroking the planes of his abdomen. A tan face nuzzled aside blond hair to nip at the nape of Nik’s neck. Nik gasped, arching his spine like a greatcat to press harder against Comfrey’s erection. Comfrey’s answering groan was muffled as he bit down harder, hand moving from Nik’s stomach to curl around his cock, hips thrusting against Nik’s ass. He didn’t actually penetrate, which made it at once erotic and maddeningly frustrating. After a few moments of dry humping and groping, Comfrey pulled himself away from Nik to fumble at the nightstand, then heaved himself from the bed. “Stay put,” he ordered in an irresistible growl, and opened one of his cases. “Curse it – Striker, did you see a small clear glass bottle in here, metal cap, full of oil? Tell me it wasn’t broken.”

“Umm…I put it in the desk, m’lord?” Nik said. “I didn’t know what it was for.”

Nik watched as Comfrey retrieved it: the man’s body was amazing, a masterpiece of golden-brown skin over hard muscle. The interplay of light and shadow as muscles contracted and bulged with simple movements was by itself a marvel. Nik reached for him as soon as he returned to the bed. The man perched sideways on the edge, weaving his fingers through Nik’s and looking down on him with dark eyes. “You don’t have to do this,” Comfrey said, expression closed and hard to read.

Nik swallowed, fingers clenching about Comfrey’s. “I want to, my lord. Please.” Please.

Comfrey smiled then, setting the bottle on the nightstand to lay down beside Nik and enfold him in his arms, kissing hungrily. Savior, but it was glorious to have that need and desire and strength all focused upon him. To feel not a stifling sense of uncertainty and fear, but perfect security in the arms of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. After a moment, Comfrey pulled away to pour some oil from the bottle onto the fingers of one hand, and then rubbed his hands together. Slick fingers slid against the curve of Nik’s ass and then reached between the cheeks to press inwards, index finger pushing firm until it penetrated. Nik gasped, squirming, shocked by the intensity of his own reaction, wanting more. Comfrey shifted to work his finger in deeper, his other hand curling around Nik’s cock and stroking in time. For a little while, Nik was lost to the ecstasy of sensation, not even sure exactly what Comfrey was doing, only glad that he was, only hoping he would never stop.

When he did, it was only a pause to shift positions. “Here,” Comfrey said, rolling onto his back and pulling Nik on top of him. “Let’s try this…” The man’s strength made it easy to position Nik exactly as he wanted him: Nik straddling his hips, knees to either side, feeling the hard erection oil-slick against his ass. Nik swallowed again, rising slightly as if from a riding seat, then lowering himself onto that cock. Even well-lubricated it felt an impossible fit; Nik wondered if he’d misunderstood the whole intention, until the tip forced its way inside and Comfrey groaned in pleasure. Nik stopped with his thighs tense, locked into position. It hurt and felt strangely good all at the same time, like he wanted more and could not bear to get it. Comfrey’s hips twitched slightly upwards and Nik couldn’t stop a whimper from escaping. The man beneath him stopped moving, one strong hand resting lightly on Nik’s hip, the other reaching between them to capture Nik’s penis and caress it to stiffness again. The combination of stimulants overwhelmed pain with pleasure, and Nik moved again, sliding down onto Comfrey’s erection. It still hurt but Nik almost didn’t care because it felt wonderful at the same time. He rocked lower while Comfrey stroked Nik’s cock, the stronger man’s body stiff with the effort of remaining still, of letting Nik control the pace. Nik rose on his thighs and the other man arched his neck, pressing his head against the pillow, breathing labored, hips trembling but not thrusting.

“Do you like that, my lord?” Nik felt awkward, uncertain, and in need of reassurance. Is it supposed to feel like this, good and bad at once?  He tried lowering himself again and winced at the jolt of pain, even as aching need accompanied it.

“Saints,” Comfrey growled, his fingers clenching into the flesh of Nik’s hip: Nik could tell he wanted to pull Nik down but would not let himself. “You could drive a man mad – ahhh.” He gasped as Nik eased himself lower and then started to rock.

The pain receded further, displaced by intense bliss. Nik couldn’t help smiling at the colloquialism: the exact opposite of his Blessing. “Not me, my lord, I would – ohhhh—” he thrust against the golden-brown fingers encircling his cock, then forced himself all the way down onto Comfrey’s erection “—never – my lord—” Nik rose slightly only to move down again, biting his cheek to keep from crying out in sheer ecstasy as he climaxed, white ejaculate spurting over Comfrey’s muscular abdomen.

Nik leaned forward, dizzied by release, while Comfrey thrust with slight, controlled motions into him. Nik fought to move with him, to maintain a rhythm. With the intensity of orgasm past, the pain was far worse. Part of Nik wanted it to end now, but Comfrey’s hands were locked about his hips and the man’s expression was so intent that it felt profoundly wrong to ask him to stop. But as each movement turned to agony, Nik could endure no more. “Stop – my lord – I can’t—” He braced his hands against Comfrey’s chest and tried to push off.

After a moment, the stronger man’s hands released him, and Nik rolled off with a gasp of pain, feeling a combination of relief and guilt. He reached for Comfrey’s still-erect cock and stroked up and down the slick length, knowing this was no substitute, but hoping it was better than nothing. He couldn’t bring himself to use his mouth as he had the night before, not after that. Dark eyes flicked open to glance at Nik, and a slight smile formed on narrow lips. Then Comfrey closed his eyes again and thrust against the hand for several long moments, until his spine arched and body spasmed with release. The only sound he made was a long, drawn-out hiss.

When Comfrey opened his eyes again, Nik flushed, embarrassed by his own distress and the mess he’d made of things. “I’ll clean up,” he mumbled, and stumbled away from the bed to the wash area of the room. He cleaned himself off quickly, wincing and feeling foolish – it didn’t hurt that much, not now – then hurried back with a washcloth and a towel to mop off his lord.

Comfrey watched him work with a saturnine expression, thick brows shadowing dark eyes. After Nik dried him off and tried to move away, Comfrey sat up and touched Nik’s wrist. “Striker…”

Nik couldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m sorry.” He drew away and went back to rinse off the washcloth and hang the towel. As he turned around, he found Comfrey standing nude before him. A faint sheen of sweat highlighted his well-developed musculature, the hard curves of biceps and pectorals standing out even in a relaxed posture. Long dark hair streamed down his back, a few strands clinging to his shoulders, one lock cutting across his face. He was devastatingly handsome; Nik felt even more inept by comparison with his strength and composure.

The tall man closed the distance between them with a stride and folded Nik into his arms. Comfrey bent his head to murmur in Nik’s ear, “You are magnificent.”

Nik flushed, half-thinking the man must be mocking him again but pleased anyway. “Not half so much as you.” He slid his arms about Comfrey’s waist and leaned into him.

“We shall have to agree to disagree on that,” Comfrey replied, amused. “Striker. You’ve nothing to apologize for. You are a wonder and a delight, and…you needn’t do this, you know. I’ve no wish to coerce you into anything.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You can still take that holiday, if you like. But should you choose to spend more time with me, your presence will be more than welcome.”

Nik snuggled into him and exhaled. “Gladly, my lord.” He tilted his head back to smile at Comfrey, then gave him a tentative kiss.

There was nothing tentative in Comfrey’s answering kiss. “All right, then.” Comfrey smiled wryly. “Though I suppose I should get to breakfast before Dremmond sends someone else to find me. I’ve not stamina enough for two such angels.”

In a strange way, Justin was relieved that Striker had asked to stop. When the beautiful blond man had made the initial offer, Justin had known it would hurt Striker, even if the servant didn’t realize that. Justin’s greatest fear had not been that the man would change his mind, but that Striker would change his mind and Justin would not allow him to stop. Sensitivity did not come naturally to Justin, but he was haunted by the moment when he’d forced that kiss upon his angel, and by the accompanying thoughts that had been even worse than his actions. I am self-centered and over-indulged, but there are lines one cannot cross, ideas that should be unthinkable, and that is one of them. And yet I’d thought it.

Justin certainly would have enjoyed it had the man ridden him to climax – Savior, but he’d felt incredible, so tight and hot and intoxicating – and he couldn’t deny that he’d been tempted to overrule Striker and force him to finish what he’d started. But the important thing was that Justin hadn’t. That he could master his desires rather than letting them rule him. That he was not a monster. That knowledge was worth more than a better caliber of orgasm.

Despite Striker’s reassurance, Justin half-expected the servant to think better of his resolve. But the valet was awaiting Justin with a smile when he returned after the morning session.

The next few days passed in a blissful blur for Justin. Discretion was second nature to him, and he attended to his various business and social obligations with the same focus and precision as always. But he did take every opportunity to retire to his room a little early to change for a meal or “rest” before a meeting. When he arrived in privacy, Striker was always waiting, always eager to attend to any needs.

Justin had screwed a lot of men and even several women over the years – all criminal conduct, of course, but when one had wealth and a title, the law was a malleable thing, quite willing to overlook such banal offenses. Striker was by no means the most skillful – Justin was pretty sure he was the first man to bed the golden-haired angel, if not the first person – but he had a compelling enthusiasm that more than made up for any want of experience. His face seemed to light whenever they were alone together, eager to touch and caress, to hold and be held, not to mention activities more intimate still. Justin loved the little noises Striker made at the nibbling of his throat or licking of an ear, the way he shivered when Justin ran his hands down his sides. Striker begged him to try taking him a second time, as if it were a favor Justin might withhold. Like so many things, it went better with practice.

It was hard to reconcile Justin’s original certainty that Striker was only making the exchange in anticipation of personal gain with the ample evidence of desire the valet had shown since. Perhaps necessity had awakened genuine interest, or perhaps Striker’s professionalism made him as thorough at work in bed as out of it, or perhaps the young man was simply an excellent actor, giving the performance his audience of one wanted.

Or maybe he truly does desire me as much as I do him.

That last thought struck Justin as unduly optimistic. He’d tried asking Striker what he wanted from him in return, but the young man only answered with shy requests for sexual favors. Which was endearing and erotic, but not exactly to the point. Justin was starting to think that Striker’s goal was to besot him – and if so, he was afraid it might be working. Striker did not let his activities while prone interfere with his duties as valet, and he took exquisite care of his temporary master. It was as if he thought of nothing else save what Justin might desire.

Justin extended his planned three-day stay first by one day, and then a second, which was all the pretext he could reasonably produce for delay. On the night of his last day, after making love one more time, Striker lay spent atop him, breathing deeply and half-drowsing in the afterglow. Justin cradled the slender, pale body to his chest, still not ready to let go. He stroked long blond hair back from Striker’s ear, and murmured impulsively, “Come with me.”

Striker stirred, nuzzled his chest. “All right. Where are we going?”

“Brickwall. I’ve business there.” That I’ve neglected two days to spend with you.

A long pale finger stirred through the black curls of Justin’s chest hair. “What, when you leave tomorrow?” His lover blinked back sleep, coming more fully awake.

“Yes. You can be my valet. Permanently.”

Striker laughed as if he thought Justin was joking. “Don’t you already have a valet?”

True, and it wasn’t exactly fair to give Ethan the boot just because he’d found someone more beautiful and pleasing. And, granted, better at being a valet. Still – “I’ll find some other position for him. Come. Whatever Dremmond pays you, I’ll double it.”

The servant laughed again, lifting his head to meet Justin’s gaze. At Justin’s serious expression, Striker’s laughter died away. “I don’t think my parents would approve,” he said, softly.

“What if I tripled it?”

Striker grinned and shook his head, although there was a hint of sorrow in his deep blue eyes. “Not even at a hundred times, my lord. Middle of the school year and all.”

They take honor rather too far, Justin thought. Dremmond can find other servants, surely, even if it is busier here during the school year. “At the end of the term, then?”

That won another chuckle from his beautiful lover. “No, my lord. I don’t think it would quite suit.” Blue eyes glittered in the lamplight. Striker closed them and dipped his head to kiss Justin before the viscount could make another offer.

Justin met the kiss with unanswered hunger, not understanding the reason for Striker’s refusal. Did I offer too little? Make the wrong kind of offer? Perhaps he hoped for some arrangement that would not require duties outside the bedroom?

Or, more likely, a few days is all he wants. Asking him to make a career of me is rather a lot. He might fear I would grow bored and put him aside. Justin rolled over to pin Striker beneath him against the wide bed, nuzzling from lips to cheek to ear, listening to the gasp of renewed desire from his lover’s lips. It was a reasonable fear, surely. Even the pleasures of the flesh eventually dulled. Justin caught Striker’s wrists in his hands, holding him fast as he bit down on the side of the man’s pale throat, sucking hard, feeling his lover’s cock stir against his hip. Justin shifted to imprison Striker’s wrists with one hand and moved to one side enough to stroke that erection with the other. Striker whimpered, thrusting into his fingers with helpless need. The sense of power was overwhelming, giddying – Justin was well-used to being in charge, but never had power felt so worth having, using. He poured a measure of oil over Striker’s cock and lowered himself onto the shaft, stifling a groan of pleasure. It was hard to imagine ever growing tired of this angel, his handsome, responsive, enthusiastic, golden-haired angel.

You would, he thought, after passion was sated again and conscious thought returned to his mind. Justin curled about Striker, snuggling the slighter man close, drifting near to sleep. Still. It would have been nice to have the opportunity to find out when.

Leaving hurt more than Justin had expected. In their last moments alone as Striker helped him dress, it took an effort of will not to beg Striker again to join him. The thought dominated his mind, so loud he wondered that Striker could not hear it: come with me, please, come with me, please, don’t make me leave here alone, come with me. Please. Please. Justin was torn between irritation and amusement at his own infatuation. And here I thought I was immune to that.

Still, Justin wanted to give the man something, some token of his appreciation for the wonder and delight of the last few days, and could not imagine any gesture grand enough. After Striker tied the knot and arranged the folds of his neckcloth for the last time, Justin wrapped him fast in his arms. “Tell me what you want,” Justin growled in his ear, insistent, commanding.

His lover only shook his head. “Nothing I can have,” Striker whispered, barely audible even as close as they were.

Justin nipped at his earlobe. “Tell me. Whatever it is.” My love, only tell me and I will remake Paradise to bring it to you. His own thoughts startled him: overwrought absurdities. I don’t love this man, he told himself. I barely know him. Lust, that’s all. But his arms tightened around the slender frame anyway, breathing in the scent of golden hair.

Striker only shook his head again, troubled eyes closing. “Until we meet again, my lord,” he said, and kissed him with a wild yearning.

Even as he answered the kiss with equal passion, Justin wondered when that would be, and if he could possibly come up with an excuse for losing his own retinue again and induce Dremmond to assign the same replacement on another occasion. It seemed so improbable. But he conjured a smile as he released Striker anyway. What’s one more pretense in a life so full of them?  “Until then.”