Chapter Two

A petite blonde walked into the bedchamber leading a man by the hand. The light from the corridor outlined a tall, broad-shouldered figure. Six-foot-two to be exact, four inches above Oliver’s own height.

As the man turned to shut the door, a flash of green below his throat caught Oliver’s attention. Without his spectacles, Oliver couldn’t make out his features from this distance, but he knew it was Vincent. He was the only person Oliver was acquainted with who wore a jade cravat pin.

“Would you care for a brandy, milord,” the woman said, moving toward the dark shadows along the wall.

“No, thank you.”

Oliver’s breaths stuttered at the deep, cultured voice. His erection twitched, straining against the placket of his breeches. He had got hard on more than one occasion just listening to Vincent speak. Deuced inconvenient when they were at a gambling hell, or White’s, or a ball, or…anywhere.

And, Christ, Vincent was looking directly at him. He could feel the force of the man’s stare. Oliver moved next to a nearby armchair so the firelight was behind him.

“Holly?”

“Oh, yes, milord.” She stood in front of Vincent. “Cameron is unavailable tonight. Madame Delacroix personally selected another man for you. I am to give you her assurance he will not disappoint.”

“Hmm.” Vincent rubbed his chin.

Oliver’s knees shook. He gripped the back of the leather armchair. What if Vincent rejected him? What if, with one glance across a darkened room, Vincent deemed him unworthy?

“He’ll do.”

Relief poured over Oliver, though Vincent didn’t sound terribly pleased. If anything, he sounded bored.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Lord Vincent?” she said, an open invitation in her question. Her small pale hand caressed the sleeve of his dark evening coat.

“No.”

She must be accustomed to hearing the word no, for she simply gave Vincent a short curtsey. As she walked across the room, she reached out to trail a fingertip along the edge of the chest of drawers. When she neared Oliver, she murmured, “Try not to scream too loud. You’ll disturb the other guests.”

Her superior smirk said it all.

Gaping at her, he watched her leave. As the narrow door swung closed, it occurred to him. That damned madam had known all along what would be in store for him tonight. Her coy smile coupled with her parting words should have been a clue, but he’d been too eager by half for the chance to be with Vincent.

“What is your name, man?”

His head snapped back to Vincent. His mind went blank. Why hadn’t he thought to select a name before now? “Jake,” he blurted, giving his childhood dog’s name. The one who had never learned to sit on command.

His strides long and easy, Vincent stepped further into the room. “Jake, why are the candles not lit?”

“I prefer it this way,” he said, pitching his voice low and doing his best to match the servant girl’s accent. “Is it acceptable to ye, milord? It’s not completely dark. The fire is lit.”

“I could be persuaded to accept it.” Stopping at the chest of drawers, Vincent selected one of the leather cuffs. Metal clinked as he undid the buckle. “I don’t recall Delacroix ever mentioning a man named Jake.”

“I’m new.”

“How new?”

“You’re my first client.”

Vincent’s hands stilled as he toyed with the buckle. His posture stiffened with obvious uncertainty.

“I want to do this. I want ye, milord,” Oliver said, desperate for Vincent to accept him.

Metal clinked once again. “I like the way you call me ‘milord.’ Very nice. Tell me, Jake, are you good at following orders?”

“Y-yes.”

“Then we shall get along very well, you and I. Come here.”

Forcing his hand to unclench from the back of the chair, Oliver did as he was bid. He stopped before Vincent, close enough to take in the man’s enticing scent. Not a hint of cologne, only clean male skin, the starch from his cravat and something else, something undeniably Vincent. The golden glow from the fire behind Oliver barely reached where they stood, providing just enough light for him to make out Vincent’s rugged features from his shadowed face. The slightly Roman nose, the strong jaw and firm lips. Lips he wanted to feel against his own.

Though he couldn’t see the details in the sparsely lit room, he knew Vincent’s eyes were so startlingly blue they would have appeared feminine in a less masculine face. And those gorgeous eyes were currently sweeping up the length of his body. He quickly bowed his head, using the length of his dark hair to partially obscure his face from Vincent’s probing gaze.

“You’re in need of a shave.”

Why hadn’t it occurred to him that the days-old beard would annoy Vincent? “My apologies, milord.”

“There’s nothing to be done for it now.” He paused. “Remove your breeches,” Vincent said, as casual as could be.

Careful to keep his head bowed, Oliver tore at the placket with shaking hands, shoved his breeches down and kicked them free of his legs. His cock jutted from his body, arching toward Vincent in a silent but very obvious plea to be touched. He was completely naked, yet Vincent hadn’t even removed his coat.

The man was impeccably dressed, as usual. His coat appeared to be black, though it could be navy given the yellow silk waistcoat. The crisp white cravat was tied in a perfect Gordian knot, the ends secured by the jade pin. Dark trousers hung straight down his legs, the hems brushing the tops of his polished evening shoes.

“Hold out your arm.”

Oliver hesitated. His arm trembled as Vincent buckled the cuff around his wrist. Loose enough not to pinch but tight enough to be secure. The leather was pliant and warmed from Vincent’s grip.

As he placed the second cuff on Oliver’s other wrist, he asked, “Have you been restrained before?”

“No.”

“Nervous?”

“A bit,” Oliver admitted, his voice wavering. There was no point denying it. He shook like a damn leaf, from nerves, from excitement, from being naked and close to Vincent.

“There’s no need.” Vincent’s tone softened, turned reassuring. “If you wish to stop at any time simply give the word. I’ll take care of you, Jake, and it is critical you trust me to do so.”

Oliver nodded.

“Good. Now get in place.”

He swallowed hard. His cock bobbing with each step, he moved directly beneath the chained iron bar.

“Lift your arms.”

Oliver didn’t give himself time to think on it. He raised his arms until his hands brushed the cool metal chains. Chin down, he watched under his lashes as Vincent approached. There was no hurry in his step, no impatience. The man moved as if tying up another was a common occurrence.

Vincent stopped beside him. The fabric of his coat shifted as he reached up to secure Oliver’s wrists. Through sheer force of will, Oliver resisted the urge to watch. He kept his gaze on the chest of drawers in front of him. The tail end of the leather bullwhip hung from the neat coil, grazing the side of the chest. The firelight flickered on the oil-filled, glass bottle and cast shadows over the other objects. Would Vincent use every one of those objects on him? Or would he choose depending on his mood? Or on how well Oliver followed orders?

Would he have to be good or bad for Vincent to paddle his arse?

His cock jumped, signaling its approval. Instinctively, he made to reach down to wrap his hand around the needy length. Chains rattled as he was stopped short. He glanced up. A metal ring on the leather cuff was fixed to the clip on the end of the iron bar. His other wrist was similarly secured.

Panic chilled his nerves. Closing his eyes, he tried to push the rising anxiety aside.

“Take a deep breath,” a calm voice said from behind him.

Oliver gasped but air wouldn’t reach his lungs. What if Vincent lit a candle? What if he left him here?

“Do it,” Vincent said, all sharp command. He grabbed a handful of Oliver’s hair and tugged.

Oliver winced. The pain penetrated the stifling fog, pulling the word “stop” off his tongue. He took a deep breath, taut muscles settling on the exhale.

“Good boy.” Vincent’s voice flowed over his shoulder like warmed honey. A pause. “All right?”

“Yes,” Oliver said, nodding. And surprisingly, he was all right. The anticipation was back—a delicious hum that occupied his senses. Vincent would take care of him, and Oliver trusted him to do so.

Vincent crossed to the chest of drawers and returned with the two larger cuffs and the other iron bar. He dropped to his haunches, his bowed head inches from Oliver’s erection. His coat stretched across the broad width of his shoulders and the expanse of his back as he buckled the cuffs onto his ankles.

Oliver clenched and unclenched his hands. His fingers itched to tousle the neatly combed dark hair, to grip the short length, to pull Vincent’s head up and push his cock into the other man’s mouth. A moan of longing shook the back of his throat.

Looking up, Vincent lifted one eyebrow. “Widen your stance.”

He complied, spreading his legs to accommodate the length of the iron bar.

Vincent secured the bar between his ankles then went to the chest, returning with the dog collar. “Lift your chin.”

Straightening his spine, he did as instructed. The dark sweep of Vincent’s lashes were at half-mast as he did up the buckle. As soon as his hands left Oliver’s throat, Oliver tipped his chin back down, letting his hair swing forward again to partially obscure his face, thankful the two-inch-wide strip of plain leather wrapped around his neck wasn’t any bigger or it would have prevented him from doing so. Hopefully it and the lack of light would be enough to continue to fool Vincent.

Vincent took a step back. Arms crossed over his chest and head slightly tilted to one side, he appraised Oliver.

Did Vincent like what he saw? Collared and tied up tight. Arms and legs spread. Wrists and ankles secured. Oliver was absolutely helpless, yet strangely, arousal rode over every inch of his skin. And how the hell had Vincent restrained him without once touching his skin? Not even a brush of his manicured fingers against his throat.

Vincent unbuttoned his coat and shrugged it off, revealing the yellow silk waistcoat and the sleeves of his white lawn shirt. His evening shoes clicked against the floorboards as he went to the fireplace and folded his coat over the back of an armchair. Crouching, he stoked the fire, the wood popping and crackling, the flames flaring before settling back to a low even burn. When he walked back to Oliver, there was the tiniest bit of hurry in his step.

His paced slowed as he circled Oliver then stopped behind him. “Sleek yet strong.” He drew his hands down Oliver’s back, leaving a path of tingling skin in his wake. “Beautiful,” Vincent murmured, palming his arse, thumbs tickling the crease.

Closing his eyes, he greedily soaked up Vincent’s touch. He was the furthest thing from beautiful, but the reverent tone in Vincent’s voice almost made Oliver believe him.

“I paid you a compliment, Jake.”

Oliver bit his bottom lip. Vincent sounded annoyed. Did the man expect a response? “Ah, thank you, milord?”

“Very good and don’t forget again.” Vincent reached around Oliver’s raised arms. Two fingertips brushed his lips. “Suck on them.”

Opening his mouth, he took them inside. He swirled his tongue around the digits, reveling in the slightly salty, masculine taste of Vincent’s skin. Suckling hard, he drew them further into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing, as if he were sucking on Vincent’s cock and not his fingers.

A barely perceptible grunt sounded behind him. “Enough. Let go.”

Cool, wet fingertips probed between his arse cheeks. Oliver trembled, wanting more than anything for those fingers to press deep inside. But Vincent toyed with him, circling the puckered flesh, tormenting him. He brought his fingers to Oliver’s lips again. Oliver didn’t need to be told twice. He eagerly took them inside, wetting them thoroughly.

“Good boy,” Vincent said, pulling free of Oliver’s mouth.

Satisfaction shot through him at Vincent’s praise. He would do whatever the man wanted just to hear those two words. And he didn’t mind in the slightest that Vincent called him “boy”, even though Oliver was one year older than Vincent’s twenty-four.

Those teasing fingers returned to his arse, tickling lightly. Then he let out a moan as Vincent pushed past the tight ring of muscle. Slick from his mouth, Vincent’s two fingers slid smoothly inside him.

Slow and easy, Vincent finger-fucked his arse. Pleasure spiraled through him. Pleasure that was so much more intense than when he did it himself. Whimpering, Oliver arched, wanting more. His cock bobbed, lifting higher, the skin stretched unbelievably taut. His ballocks were drawn up so tight they tingled with the need for release.

Grabbing hold of Oliver’s hip with his other hand, Vincent pressed deeper, massaging that perfect spot inside him. Sharp sensation seized his nerves. Sparks danced before his eyes. “Ah, yes!"

Vincent tightened his hold on Oliver’s hip, long fingers digging into the firm flesh, and pushed even deeper. Groaning, Oliver tried to buck back, to get even more of the lush pleasure, but Vincent held him steady. On the next backward glide, Vincent pulled out completely.

“Don’t stop. Please, milord,” Oliver begged.

Vincent let out a satisfied chuckle and smacked Oliver on the arse, light and playful with just enough force for the sting to linger. Unbuttoning his waistcoat, he walked past Oliver. He shrugged off the garment, folded it and set it next to the leather bullwhip on the chest of drawers. Dark braces crossed his white-shirted back. Wool trousers hugged the muscular curves of his arse.

Oliver’s entire body vibrated with suspense. What object would Vincent select? Chains clanked as he leaned right trying to see around Vincent’s broad shoulder.

“Stand still.”

He froze at the hard command. His heart beat rapidly against his ribs as he waited for what seemed like an endless moment.

A smirk pulled one edge of Vincent’s lips as he sauntered toward him. Oliver’s eyes widened, his arse tightened, at the object held in Vincent’s hand. A few drops of oil dripped from the tapered end of the black marble plug.

Vincent had chosen the plug Oliver would have selected if given the choice, and it was similar to one of many such toys he owned. A tremor of anticipation shook him as Vincent pulled back one cheek, exposing his entrance. Without even a preliminary nudge to ease the way, Vincent pushed the plug firmly inside him. Oliver couldn’t stifle the grunt as his muscles were forced to stretch quickly to accommodate the toy. Vincent’s fingers had helped prepare him, but the marble length flared to the size of a substantially endowed man before narrowing at the rectangular base. Closing his eyes, he fought to stay still, to resist the urge to jerk his hips forward and escape the burning sting.

Just when he was certain he couldn’t endure anymore, when the word “stop” teased his tongue, the last of the thick width slipped beyond the protesting ring of muscle and the base settled against him.

Vincent tapped the end. The vibrations reverberated delightfully in Oliver’s passage. He gasped for breath. He was stuffed full, and it felt incredible.

“You’re almost ready. There’s one last thing we need to see to before proceeding.”

Almost ready? Oliver’s eyes snapped open. Standing before him, Vincent reached toward Oliver’s chest and took hold of each nipple between his thumb and forefinger. His expression intent, he pinched, steadily increasing the pressure. It should hurt, Oliver was certain of it, but oddly it didn’t. It felt damn good. A flush of heat washed over his skin. He pushed out his chest, wanting more of those punishing fingers. Fluid leaked from his cock and dripped down the shaft.

Vincent twisted and all Oliver could do was moan helplessly as lust shot to his groin. His ballocks clenched, an orgasm teasing his spine. One more twist of his nipples and he’d climax.

“Your body knows how to turn pain into pleasure. Very good,” Vincent said, releasing him.

Oliver shook his bowed head. “More please, milord.” He flinched as Vincent brushed his knuckles over his smarting nipples. “Thank you,” he said in a great rush, straining toward the other man as much as his bonds would allow.

But Vincent turned his back to him. Rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, he went to the chest of drawers and selected—

Oliver’s breath caught.

There wasn’t a bit of trepidation within him, not even a hint of fear, as Vincent flicked his wrist, causing the long length of the leather bullwhip to jump and twitch as an impatient snake.

His back to Oliver, Vincent bowed his head. The broad line of his shoulders tightened. “Do you like men, Jake?”

It wasn’t the question that made Oliver hesitate, but the low, almost cruel tone.

Vincent turned. A hard curl pulled his mouth, his eyes narrowed. He tugged on his cravat, yanking it from his neck. “Answer me.”

Was this part of the game? It had to be, for Vincent was aroused. His erection strained against the placket of his black trousers. “Yes, I like men,” Oliver said, speaking the truth. He had been with women a few times, but it never felt right. The soft curves of their bodies only made him long for the hard bulk of a man.

“Do you like me?”

No, I love you. “Yes, milord.”

The whip cracked through the air. Oliver braced for a vicious snap. The lash grazed his thigh. A shudder rippled through him at the unexpectedly erotic caress, like the tongue of skillful lover.

“Do you want me?”

“Yes.” Oh God, how he wanted Vincent.

“Where?” The whip cracked through the air again. The lash curled around his hip, nipping his arse. “Here? Is this where you want me?”

“Yes, yes.” His muscles clenched around the plug he wished was Vincent’s cock.

Strides determined, Vincent advanced. “You haven’t earned that right yet.”

Oliver craned his neck, trying to follow Vincent as he went behind him.

“Eyes straight ahead.” Ragged puffs of warm air fanned Oliver’s shoulder. “You must be very, very good to earn that reward,” Vincent said into his ear, in a rich husky tone.

“I’ll be good. I promise, milord.”

He could hear Vincent move behind him. There was a whoosh of fabric. A white shirt was thrown toward a chair.

“We’ll see about that.”

The lash came down on his back, then his arse, and then his upper thighs. Again and again, Vincent expertly wielded the bullwhip, delivering punishing kisses that were sharp and delicate at the same time. Each stinging kiss quickly flared then shifted to sublime fiery pleasure that flooded every nerve in his body. He never dreamed being whipped could feel so unbelievably good. He was so hard the head of his cock arched up to brush his lower abdomen. Fluid leaked continuously from the tip, wetting his skin. Poised on the verge of a climax, he gasped and moaned, begging for more. The sounds of harsh breathing and leather whizzing through the air filled his ears.

“Tell me what you want,” Vincent demanded, as the lash curled around Oliver’s upper thigh, the thin end almost licking his ballocks.

He instinctively flinched but the iron bar kept his legs spread wide, kept him exposed and vulnerable. “You, milord. I—I want you.”

“What do you want?” Vincent punctuated his question with a blow across Oliver’s buttocks.

“I want your cock. I—I want you…to…fuck me. Please…m-milord,” he said, fighting to form the words against the thick heavy haze of lust filling his mind.

Those amazing snaps of the whip ceased.

“No! Don’t stop.” He shook his arms, rattling the chains in protest.

Bare-chested and barefooted, Vincent stood before him, the whip held in one hand. A fine sheen of sweat coated his skin. Oliver couldn’t stop his jaw from dropping in awe. Boarding school dormitories provided little privacy. As such, he had seen Vincent partially dressed on many occasions. And that boyishly handsome, strapping adolescent had grown into—

Christ, Vincent was built like a medieval knight. Thick, bulging biceps; strong, corded forearms; and an impressively broad chest. He suspected Vincent’s conservatively tailored clothes hid a well-honed body, but he hadn’t expected such overwhelming brute strength.

Oliver dared to tilt his head up a bit. Had Vincent grown taller? He seemed taller.

Vincent’s gaze swept over his face then down his body.

Impatient and needy, Oliver rattled the chains again. “Please, milord.”

A satisfied smile spread across Vincent’s mouth. Without a word, he dropped the whip, went to the chest of drawers, and removed his trousers. The sight of his bare backside made Oliver’s mouth water with the need to pull those muscular cheeks apart, to drag his tongue down the crease, to ply Vincent with his mouth until he shattered Vincent’s steely control.

Vincent reached for the oil-filled, glass bottle. When he turned back around, he was stroking his cock, spreading oil over the thick, long length. The firelight flickered over the hard contours of his powerful nude body.

“Are you ready for my cock?” Vincent demanded, all smug arrogance, without a hint of doubt of what Oliver’s answer would be.

Yet Oliver gave it nonetheless. “Yes, please, please, milord.”

Just watching Vincent stride toward him as he stroked his prick, ratcheted the lust permeating Oliver’s senses even higher. That magnificent cock would be inside of him soon. He had bent over for his fair share of men, in fact he much preferred to take it than give it, but he’d never taken a man of Vincent’s dimensions. Would he fit? Oliver was more than eager to try. Vincent flicked his thumb over the broad head and Oliver groaned, his passage fluttering in greedy anticipation.

Standing behind him, Vincent tapped the end of the plug still lodged firmly up Oliver’s arse. Nerves drawn impossibly taut, Oliver trembled, his knees shaking. When he felt Vincent take hold of the rectangular end, he took a deep breath and exhaled, willing his muscles to relax. Vincent pulled. Oliver let out a grunt as the narrow end immediately flared to its thickest width, stretching him wide before slipping from his body and leaving him achingly empty.

Marble clattered to the floor. Whimpering, Oliver lifted up onto his toes and arched his back, presenting Vincent with his arse. “Fuck me, please.”

A strong hand settled on his hip. Heavy pants singed his shoulder. Then sharp teeth nipped between his shoulder blades. Hot silken skin slid over his entrance, teasing him with the barest hint of penetration, and then Vincent pushed. Kept so long on the cusp of an orgasm, Oliver climaxed. It rushed through him with amazing force, brutal in its intensity. He bit the inside of his cheek to stifle the shout as seed shot from his cock.

Determined, persistent, Vincent worked his big prick into Oliver. Stretching him, filling him, prolonging his orgasm. He howled against the onslaught of purest sensation. Rammed ballocks deep, Vincent ground his hips in a mind-shattering circle. Pleasure pulsed through Oliver in heavy, sweet waves, fraying his overwrought and overstretched nerves. With a punishing grip, Vincent held his hips steady and began a rhythm of hard, relentless thrusts. Pounding into him, pushing him onward, driving him to rapturous new heights of pleasure he never believed were possible.

“More,” he gasped, trying to buck back into Vincent and rattling the chains. He wanted to wrap his arms around Vincent, crush his mouth against those firm lips. But he could do nothing but serve as a Vincent’s slave, a willing vessel for his possession.

Vincent’s harsh words filled his ears. “That’s it. Beg for my cock. You want it, don’t you? Tell me.”

“Yes, I want you. Fuck me. Harder. Please.”

Vincent slammed into him. Oliver climaxed again. Fierce and swift, the orgasm rocked his senses, left him begging, pleading, sobbing for more. Hot tears leaked from Oliver’s closed eyes, streamed down his cheeks. Sweat trickled down his back. His skin felt too tight, too thin. Every place Vincent had whipped him burned and throbbed. Yet he wanted more. He wanted Vincent to take him, use him, gorge himself—leave him so aching and sore he would never forget this night.

Vincent’s thrusts sped up, ballocks smacking his arse. Long fingers bit harshly into Oliver’s hips. Vincent let out a feral growl as he shoved somehow, incredibly deeper.

Oliver screamed against the undiluted ecstasy assaulting his senses. Then he felt Vincent’s cock pulse within him, filling him with hot seed.

His strength abruptly gave out. Sagging in the chains, Oliver’s head lolled forward. The leather collar dug into his jaw, keeping his chin from resting on his chest. “More,” he muttered, gasping for breath. He quivered as Vincent’s cock slipped from his body. “No, no, no. Don’t stop.”

The large hands on his hips turned gentle, caressing and soothing his bruised flesh. “That’s enough for now,” Vincent said, with a pant in his voice.

Fingers brushed his ankles as Vincent unbuckled the cuffs. There was the soft sound of bare feet against wooden floorboards. Knuckles scraped against his bristly jaw, lifting his chin to remove the collar. With a light touch, his tangled, sweat-damp hair was tucked behind one ear.

“Jake. Open your eyes for me.”

Oliver tried to heed the gentle command, but his eyelids were so heavy he could barely open them, let alone lift his bowed head. His pulse pounded thickly through his veins, echoing in his ears. With considerable effort, he looked up into Vincent’s handsome, rugged face. The dark brows were lowered with obvious concern, the firm mouth set in a grim line. The most profound adoration filled Oliver’s heart. Christ, how he loved this man.

And he will never know how much you love him.

“My name’s not Jake.”

“I surmised as much. What is your name?”

Why had he admitted that to Vincent? Slow and sluggish, Oliver shook his head.

“It’s all right,” Vincent said, in that same gentle tone.

The moment Vincent unbuckled the cuffs on his wrists, Oliver’s legs gave out, unable to hold the weight of his body. Strong arms caught him, holding him up against a hard sweat-slicked chest.

“Easy now. Let’s get you to the bed.”

Stumbling over his own feet, Oliver let Vincent help him onto the bed, turning him so he lay on his stomach. A pillow cushioned his cheek. The bed was so wonderfully soft, so unlike his own. Because you’re in a damn brothel. “I can’t stay,” he said, trying to sit up.

The mattress dipped then shook. A kind but firm hand pressed between his shoulder blades, effortlessly keeping Oliver on the bed.

“Just for a moment. You need to rest.”

Vincent’s deep voice wrapped around him, lulling his senses. Just one moment, he promised himself, as he gave up the fight against the exhaustion pulling on his mind.