Bound by Deception

Chapter Six

The end of the key skipped across the brass lock leaving a deep gouge in the wooden door. Cursing his shaking hand, Oliver shoved the key back at the lock. This time, the key slid home.

A smarter man would have taken a much longer route from Lady Collarton’s. A route that wouldn’t have put him at his front door until well after the appointed time. But what had Oliver done? He’d walked straight home.

Glutton for punishment, aren’t I? And in more ways than one.

Shaking his head at himself, he crossed the dark front parlor of his bachelor apartment and lit a candle. The golden light illuminated the untidy room in all its glory: the brown leather couch with newspapers strewn across its lumpy but comfortable cushions, the mahogany end table with a volume of Shakespeare under one leg to keep it from wobbling, the scratched bowfront cabinet next to the old upholstered armchair, and the floorboards that hadn’t been polished in ages since he couldn’t afford a maid. The faded wallpaper was marred by two large rectangles where gilt-framed landscapes had once hung.

He cringed. Christ, he lived in hovel.

Well, it wasn’t quite a hovel, but it was damn close especially when compared to Vincent’s stately white stucco townhouse.

Oliver hastily gathered the newspapers he had used in an effort to fill the last week when he rarely left his apartments and tucked them under his arm, grabbed the two empty glasses on the end table, picked up the brown coat and the dusty boots from the floor, and opened the bottom drawer of the cabinet, dumping everything inside. The drawer wouldn’t shut, so he took out the boots, kicked the drawer closed and tossed them into his bedchamber, not caring where they landed.

He simply shut the bedchamber door, closing off the view to the mess he had created getting prepared for the ball. There was no reason to attempt to tidy that room, for Vincent wouldn’t want to go in there tonight or any night.

Groaning, he sat in the armchair, removed his spectacles, and rubbed his tired eyes. Resting his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head in his hands. His right leg shook uncontrollably. The rapid, unsteady tap of his heel against the floorboards echoed in the quiet room. A clammy sweat pricked his scalp. His gut clenched against the vile dread churning in his stomach.

He swallowed hard and focused on taking short, even breaths, willing his stomach to settle. He would not get sick. Could not embarrass himself like that. Not when Vincent would arrive at any moment.

The urge to drop to his knees and beg Vincent’s forgiveness had been so great Oliver had not trusted himself to remain at the ball even an instant after Vincent turned his back on him. It had taken all of his courage to summon the fake accent and inform Vincent where he had found the man’s cravat pin. But the hardest part of all had been standing there and watching the pain and fury distort Vincent’s ruggedly handsome features. The strong jaw clenched tight. The firm lips compressed in a straight line. The gorgeous eyes clamped shut.

Oliver had not seen or heard the worst of it. Even taking the direct route home, the walk from Lady Collarton’s took close to an hour. Vincent had a town carriage. Sleek, shiny, and black, pulled by four matching bays. Equipage which matched his position as second son to the obscenely wealthy Marquess of Saye and Sele. He would arrive momentarily and unleash the anger on Oliver he had contained while at his aunt’s ball.

Vincent had every right to lash out at him. Oliver was not looking forward to it, but he was prepared. Nervous, sick with nerves, but prepared. On the long walk home, he had been struck by a rare moment of clarity, the realization cutting through the excruciating heartache.

He had nothing left to lose. No reason to hold anything back. In a few short minutes, Vincent would arrive, and he’d likely never speak to Oliver again once he left this shabby parlor. But while he was here, he’d receive nothing less than brutal honesty.

A sense of purpose stole over him, settling his stomach and clearing the anxiety from his mind. Standing, he unbuttoned his coat and draped it neatly over the back of the armchair. He put his spectacles back on, gave his white waistcoat a sharp tug, and removed the cravat pin in preparation for its return to Vincent.

He was checking the clock on the mantle when heavy footsteps sounded outside his door. Squaring his shoulders, he clasped his hands behind his back and gripped the jade pin tightly, the oval stone pressing into his palm.

You have nothing to lose.

The brass knob turned and the door opened.

Without bothering to knock, Vincent strode into Marsden’s apartments and slammed the door. “Explain yourself, Marsden,” he said, barely able to get the words past the anger and betrayal clawing at his throat. The past hour had done nothing to dim the rage, merely providing ample time for it to build to intolerable levels.

Standing across the room near the fireplace, Marsden lifted his chin. “It was the only way I could be with you. I love you. I—”

“Stop!” Vincent halted in his tracks. He wanted to clamp his hands over his ears, shut out those words. Marsden had not just said that to him.

“No, Prescot.” Marsden’s features hardened with determination. “I have loved you for so long. The feeling’s so familiar, so a part of me, I can’t remember when it first began. All I wanted was one night. I was desperate for one night with you. I understand it can never happen again, but I couldn’t live the rest of my life without being with you once. If you are worried word will get out, you needn’t be. I won’t speak a word of it. You can trust me, Prescot.”

“Trust you? You betrayed me in the worse possible manner.”

“I did not reveal my identity. That was my only deception.”

His only deception? Vincent gapped at Marsden. “I thought you were my friend.”

“I am.”

Unflinching and resolute, his steady gaze bore into Vincent’s. A dark wavy chunk of his untidy hair partially obscured one eye. Jake had brown eyes. Not blue or green, but brown. So rich and dark, they almost approached black. With a start, Vincent took a step back, distancing himself from Jake. No, Marsden. Hell, his mind refused to reconcile the image of Jake’s nude body, the very one that tempted him like no other, with that of his childhood friend. Yet when he looked at Marsden now, he saw Jake’s broad shoulders, his lean hips, and his full mouth. How many times in the past week had Vincent stopped himself from wondering how that beautiful mouth would feel wrapped around his cock?

“You pay for a prostitute’s services on the first Thursday of every month.” Marsden’s blunt words jolted Vincent back to the argument at hand. “It doesn’t matter to you who you fuck. So what’s so wrong about it being me?”

“Everything,” Vincent said, throwing up his hands in exasperation, refusing to examine why it hurt that Marsden thought so little of him. “If I would have known it was you, I…I…” Teeth clenched, Vincent growled. “Goddamn it! I worried about you.” He gave his head a sharp shake. “About Jake.”

“You did? Why?” Marsden asked, utter bewilderment on his face.

A sneer twisting his mouth, Vincent dropped his gaze to his evening shoes. “You said you were new,” he grumbled, embarrassed to admit his worry had been for naught. “That I was your first client. Some men can be downright cruel in their pursuit of pleasure. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Vincent fought to keep from shifting his weight against the uncomfortable stretch of silence. He wanted to rub his temples, do something to ease the brutal pounding in his head. “How did you find out?” he asked, managing to infuse enough indignant anger into the demand to cover the knot of panic in his gut. He’d seen Marsden a time or two in Delacroix’s receiving room, along with many other gentlemen of the ton. If Marsden knew he didn’t actually hire a woman, then there could be others. What had Vincent done to give himself away? Or had it been obvious to everyone all along?

Marsden let out a weary sigh. “You’re Cameron’s favorite. He never stopped going on about you. He didn’t mention your name,” he added quickly. “But I knew you frequented the brothel and eventually guessed the handsome, domineering lord with the sky blue eyes was you.”

Marsden thought him handsome? Vincent’s lips quirked then thinned. “So you fucked him, too.”

“Well, not exactly.” A faint blush stained Marsden’s cheekbones. “It was the other way around.”

The knowledge that Cameron had fucked Marsden didn’t sit any better. If anything, it was worse. Much worse. The thought of another man gripping those lean hips, ramming his prick into that tight arse, kissing those full…

Oh God, he had kissed Marsden.

“Other than us both being frequently overlooked second sons to marquesses, I used to believe we had very little in common,” Marsden said, calm and composed when Vincent felt like the floor was tilting underneath him. “You succeed at everything you do. You’re damn near perfect. Whereas I’m, well…” He waved a hand, indicating himself and the shabby room in one gesture. “You have responsibilities, property to oversee, and I have absolutely no prospects. Never even attended university. But we aren’t so different after all. You know what it feels like to wonder why you’re this way. Why you aren’t like every other man who lusts after women and wants a wife to call his own. And you can understand the difficulty and the need to keep it hidden.”

Vincent’s eyes widened, cold panic gripping his spine. “I’m not like you.”

“Yes, you are.”

“The hell I’m not! I don’t bend over and take it like a woman.”

Marsden flinched, as though Vincent had punched him in the gut. “Is that what you tell yourself?” he asked, hurt and anger warring in his narrowed eyes. “That has nothing to do with it.”

“Yes, it does! I’m not a…a—”

“A what?” Marsden shot back, hands fisted at his sides, advancing swiftly until he stood chest to chest with Vincent. “Go on, say it. But calling me a sod or a molly isn’t going to change the fact you fucked me. Hell, you did more than that. A fuck is just a fuck. But you kissed me!” Marsden threw the truth violently at Vincent.

Bristling at the reminder, Vincent resisted the urge to take a defensive step back. “I’m well aware of that.”

“So why can’t you accept it? I’m not asking you to acknowledge it outside of this room. But why can’t you accept yourself for who you are?” Marsden went still then, peering through his wire-rimmed spectacles into Vincent’s face as though looking for something. His brows knit together. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re angrier at yourself than you are at me. You see it as a failure, and Lord Vincent Prescot never fails, does he?”

Vincent rolled his shoulders. It wasn’t the entire ballroom that could see right through him, just Marsden. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is. Vincent, it doesn’t make you less of a man, at least not in my eyes. Your father, well” —Marsden let out a condescending huff—“why should his opinion matter? He’s dim enough to choose to lavish all his affection on your jackanapes brother and give you none.”

Good old Marsden, always propping him up when he needed it most.

Suddenly tired, Vincent trudged to the couch, sat down, dropped his head, and rubbed the back of his neck. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit he respected Marsden for standing up to him. Most of his acquaintances were too eager to garner his favor and rarely contradicted him. Yet Marsden was forcing him to examine a part of himself he had always tried to deny. It wasn’t a pleasant experience, but perhaps necessary.

How long had he been going to that brothel? Years. All the while, he told himself firmly he was simply giving those men what they wanted. That if he kept his distance, didn’t let them touch him, didn’t kiss them, or do anything but take them, then he wasn’t one of them.

With a shake of his bowed head, he snorted at his own stupidity. The truth was a bit frightening, but he couldn’t deny it any longer. He was a goddamn sod, and he went to that brothel because he wanted a man. The proof stood but a few paces from him. If anyone else had tried to confront him, he would have vehemently denied it, even gone so far as to challenge the man to pistols at dawn. But Marsden, his old friend, understood him better than he understood himself.

He had felt lust, plain, empty lust for all those other men. But he had kissed Marsden. Worried about him. Had this instinctive need to keep him safe, close by his side. And he couldn’t get the man out of his head, no matter how much he tried.

So where did this leave them? He didn’t want to lose Marsden’s friendship, but could they go on as they had, after all of this?

Was that what he really wanted? Or did he want more?

He didn’t lift his head when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching.

“Just know there’s one person who accepts you, and loves you for who you are, even if you don’t feel that way about yourself.” Marsden let out a heavy exhale. “Here. I know how much it means to you. I apologize for taking it and for upsetting you tonight. I just”—he sighed again, the sound tired, beyond defeated—“needed you to know it had been me.”

The pure heartache in Marsden’s voice tugged at Vincent’s chest, and all of his questions answered themselves. He wanted more.

Standing, he closed Marsden’s hand over the jade pin. “Keep it. You need it more than I. Perhaps it will keep your damn cravat straight.” He gazed into Marsden’s deep brown eyes. All traces of his earlier composure were gone, leaving only stark, raw vulnerability. “You said you understood it couldn’t happen again.”

Teeth digging into his bottom lip, Marsden nodded. Every line in his body drew taut, as if he was bracing himself for the worst.

“But it can,” Vincent said. “We just need to be very discreet.”

Brow furrowing, Marsden tilted his head slightly to one side. Good, about time Marsden got a taste of being confused. “So…your Thursday appointment. You want me to be there, at the brothel?”

“I have no reason to go back there again.” Vincent snorted in derision. “To think of all the money I wasted when I could have had you all along.”

Suspicion flashed across Marsden’s face. He snatched his hand from Vincent’s grasp. “What? You just want to use me for what? A cheap fuck? Christ, I can’t believe I said that. But I can’t be with you again unless I know I mean something to you. I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m not asking for your heart. Just to be more than an anonymous man to bugger whenever the urge strikes you.”

“Marsden, don’t be ridiculous. You’re more than that. How much more…I…well…” He winced, opened his mouth to try again then gave up. Frustrated, he scrubbed his hands over his face.

The concept of being in love with a man was simply too foreign for his mind to wrap around. Yet he believed Marsden loved him. He felt it, and that affection felt right. But he wasn’t at all sure he was capable of returning those feelings. Everything was much too new. Maybe with time…

But what if Marsden needed to hear the words now? Could he speak them, knowing he didn’t feel them? Could he lie so blatantly to his friend, if that was what it would take to have Marsden again?

“Hell, don’t strain yourself, Prescot,” Marsden said, humor lacing the exasperation in his voice. He tugged Vincent’s hands from his face. “Your answer will suffice. For now.”

With one hand, he grabbed Vincent’s head, pulled him down, and crushed his mouth against his. Bold and aggressive, a hot familiar tongue swept into Vincent’s mouth.

Marsden’s kissing you.

The thought passed through his mind. Then the flicker of awkwardness vanished in a flare of lust as a closed fist pressed against the small of his back, jerking him closer. Vincent grabbed Marsden’s arse and kissed him back, slanting his mouth firmly over Marsden’s, letting lose the forbidden desires that had been locked inside him for so very long.

Marsden broke the kiss, his fingers still tangled in Vincent’s hair, holding him close. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.” His hoarse whisper tickled the wet surface of Vincent’s lips.

Needing to remind Marsden just who was in charge, Vincent bit Marsden’s full lower lip and held it between his teeth. It took less than a second for Marsden to submit, his dark lashes sweeping down, the aggression slipping from his body, his hand dropping to rest on Vincent’s shoulder. The sight was so absolutely beautiful, so filled with seeped in trust, this willingness of Marsden’s to turn himself over so completely. An awed smile flittered across Vincent’s mouth then he flicked his tongue over that enticing lip, soothing any lingering sting. “Where’s your bed?”

Marsden jerked his head to the left, indicating a closed door.

“Good. I want you on it.”

Marsden blinked.

Vincent straightened and glared down at Marsden. “Now.”

Marsden practically ran to the door, throwing it open. There was a thump followed by a muttered curse. “Damn boots.”

Vincent followed at a slightly more dignified pace and glanced about the dark room. The light seeping in from the parlor illuminated the back of Marsden’s white waistcoat as the man leaned down and tossed two objects, likely the damn boots, toward the wall. As Marsden scurried about the room doing God knew what, Vincent lit a candle on the chest of drawers. Hell, Marsden needed a maid. How could the man tolerate this mess?

Stepping on the cravats littering the floor, Marsden darted from the washstand to a table beside the rumpled bed. Shoulders hunched, he shoved something into the drawer.

Four long strides took Vincent across the room. He crowded him, using his larger frame to keep the other man from turning from the table. He placed his hand over Marsden’s closed fist on the drawer, holding it open. “What have we here?”

Marsden stiffened. “Ah…nothing.”

He looked over Marsden’s shoulder. Holy hell. Only a true devotee would amass a collection of that size, and he was certain Marsden had sampled every one at least once. The thought made Vincent’s prick jump against the placket of his trousers. Somehow he kept from grinding against Marsden’s firm arse, from sinking his teeth into the man’s shoulder, and instead managed to speak with an arrogant, unaffected drawl. “Doesn’t look like nothing to me. Which one is your favorite?”

Marsden’s fingertips hovered over a black marble dildo, the largest of the bunch.

“Why that one?”

“It’s…it’s almost the size of your cock,” he whispered, his voice wavering. He touched the marble crown. “But not quite long enough.”

“No, it isn’t. Is it?” Vincent smirked, smug as hell that not one of the dildos in Marsden’s rather vast collection could surpass his own prick. “And if you’re very very good, you’ll get the real thing tonight.”

Marsden’s answering whimper shot straight to Vincent’s groin. Blood rushed to his cock so quickly it left him momentarily light-headed. When Marsden pulled his hand from the drawer, Vincent released him. The jade pin clattered as Marsden dropped it into a dented little silver tray on the table. There was that tug on his chest again as Vincent realized he had kept the pin right beside his bed, mere inches from his lumpy white pillow. Vincent would bet everything he owned that for the past week the man had never let the pin out of his sight. When he had given it to Marsden, he’d done so hoping he would wear it many times in the future. Though they would need to keep their physical relationship hidden from prying, judging eyes, Vincent was quite fond of the idea of him wearing something of his outside this room.

Stepping closer so his chest brushed Marsden’s tense shoulder blades, Vincent reached around his lean waist. “We’ll need this.” He took the glass bottle of oil out of the drawer and set it on the table. “The others can wait. I do want to see exactly what you do with your favorite toy, but…later.” Vincent dragged his lips over his ear, the tousled dark hair tickling his nose as he inhaled the other man’s scent.

Marsden gasped, a shudder gripping his body. Before Vincent gave into the impulse to throw him on the bed and pounce on him, he took a few steps back. He grabbed a nearby chair, moved it closer to the bed, and sat down.

“Take off your clothes.”

At the stuttered hitch in Marsden’s breaths, Vincent gripped the wooden arms of the chair.

“Now,” he said, infusing a hard edge of command into his voice.

Marsden turned to face him. With shaking hands, he attacked the buttons on his white waistcoat. He tossed the garment in the general direction of the chest of drawers then divested himself of his cravat, spectacles, shirt, and shoes in a few seconds. He kicked his trousers and drawers free of his feet. Then the flurry of motion ceased.

Leaning back in the chair, Vincent kept his expression blank as he soaked up the sight of his naked body. He had indulged Marsden at the brothel, but never again would he allow him to hide under the cover of darkness. The faint firelight hadn’t done the man’s body justice. He was all lean, strong lines—compact and sleek at the same time. His golden skin, a gift from his Italian grandmother, molded smoothly over solid muscle. Vincent’s fingers itched to take hold of those copper nipples, to twist the sensitive tips until Marsden sobbed for more. Unlike Vincent, the only hair on his torso was a thin line running from his navel to the dark thatch on his groin. Vincent hadn’t even touched him yet, and already his erection jutted from his body, ballocks drawn up tight.

Marsden flexed his hands by his sides, but that was the only outward sign of impatience as he waited for Vincent’s next command.

Vincent let the moment draw out, tightening the suspense. Then he leaned down, picked up a cravat from the floor and stood. “Come here.”

Marsden stopped before him. His bare chest was tinged pink with a flush of arousal, his breaths coming in short little pants, his gaze fixed on the white cravat held lightly in Vincent’s hand.

“Turn around. Clasp your hands behind your back.”

Without question, without hesitation, Marsden did as he was bid. Vincent wrapped the linen around his wrists and tied it. Marsden’s biceps flexed as he shifted his arms, testing his bonds.

“All right?” Vincent asked in a low voice, as he laid a soothing hand on his forearm.

He got a single nod from Marsden. Reassured, he left the man standing there, his beautiful back to him, the ends of the cravat tickling the crack of his firm, round arse.

Was there a more appealing sight in all of England? Yes, there was, and more than one. He would get to them soon enough. First he wanted to sample Marsden’s mouth.

He unbuttoned the placket, pushed aside his shirttail, and pulled out his cock, leaving his trousers hanging from his hips. “Turn around,” he said, running a hand along the hard length.

Marsden’s gaze went straight to Vincent’s erection. His tongue darted out to lick his lips.

“Do you want to suck my cock?”

He speared Vincent with a hot stare, full of intense longing. “Yes. Please.”

Vincent laid a hand on Marsden’s hard shoulder and pushed. He immediately heeded the pressure and dropped to his knees.

“Then suck it, boy.”

Damnation, Marsden’s whimpers were almost enough to make Vincent climax. Those little sounds, the pure need in the breathy trembles of air. Vincent swallowed hard, forcing back the orgasm tickling his ballocks, and widened his stance so the head of his cock brushed those full lips.

Marsden opened his mouth, engulfing his cock in wet heat. Lashes resting on his cheekbones, he bobbed along the length, taking a bit more with each downward glide, sucking hard every time he pulled back. Vincent grabbed his nape, fingers tangled in the dark hair and thrust in counterpoint. Hell, the man was good at sucking cock. Far better than Vincent could have ever imagined. With his free hand, he tugged the knot on his cravat then whipped the linen from his neck. Pulling back, Marsden swirled his tongue over the crown, lapping up the fluid seeping from the slit and pulling a grunt from Vincent, then he sank all the way down and swallowed. Vincent gasped at the decadent sensation as Marsden used his velvet throat to massage his cock.

“Good boy.” The words were almost lost in his groan. “So….ah…good.”

He pulled back and did it again and again. Head falling forward, brows knitting together, Vincent held tight to Marsden’s shoulder. A tremble wracked his thighs. It was so tempting to spill down that velvet throat, to let loose the orgasm burning the base of his cock.

Gritting his teeth, he let out a grunt and fought back the urge. Not yet. He wanted Marsden to beg for his cock. Needed to hear those desperate pleas. The ones soaked in need.

“Enough. Let go.” Vincent pushed on his shoulder.

Marsden obediently released him and looked up. His eyes were glazed with lust, pupils so dilated only a thin ring of brown surrounded the black. His sharp pants seemed to fill the room. A fine sheen of sweat coated his flushed chest. The head of his prick glistened with fluid, the length so hard it was arched up, almost grazing his abdomen.

Vincent had never been with anyone who got this aroused from simply sucking cock. The experience was…humbling because he knew in his gut Marsden only reacted this way with him.

Leaning down, he planted a quick kiss on those parted lips, tasting himself and Marsden in the kiss. “On your feet, boy.” With a hand on Marsden’s biceps, he helped him up then turned him to face the bed. “Down,” he said, pushing his upper body to the mattress.

Vincent left him there—bent over and hands still tied behind his back, his arse on display. He slowly took off his coat, waistcoat, and shirt, using the time to settle the ever rising lust and allow Marsden’s to racket even higher. It had only taken a short handful of minutes with him at that brothel for Vincent to realize the man craved the anticipation, needed it. They were two halves of a whole, he and Marsden. Each feeding off the other’s pleasure. The intense rush of having him pliant and writhing for more, of taking Marsden to a place where the only thing that existed in his world was Vincent. And Vincent was determined to take him there tonight.

He dragged the chair closer, grabbed the bottle of oil and sat down. “Wider,” he said, tapping Marsden’s bare ankle with his foot. Then he laid a firm smack on that round arse.

Marsden started then sank into the mattress, letting out a moan that sounded almost like a “yes.”

Needing to hear the actual word, Vincent asked, “Did you like that?”

“Yes.”

“And which do you like better?” He rubbed a palm over Marsden’s skin, soothing the red handprint—then smacked him again. “My hand or the stinging caress of a leather bullwhip?”

“Both,” was his quick answer.

Vincent chuckled as he massaged the firm flesh, pulling the rounded halves apart. “Ah, Marsden, my dear boy, whatever am I to do with you?”

Marsden arched, pushing back into Vincent’s hands. “Fuck me. Please.”

“All in good time.” Pulling one cheek back, he oiled Marsden’s entrance, slowly swirling two fingertips over his skin. He could not explain it, but for some reason, he found a man’s arse incredibly erotic. Wickedly so. Given the time, he could play with Marsden for hours, just toy with him, slide his fingers up and down the dark forbidden crease, trace the puckered hole, drive him to distraction as he waited for the penetration.

When the tight ring of muscle began to relax under his touch, he slipped both fingers inside, pressing deep. Tight heat clamped around the digits, holding him in a viselike grip. Marsden let out a low gravely groan of pleasure. Vincent shuddered, his cock hardening even further, eager to feel that tight heat. Needing to quickly take Marsden past that point of desperation, he reached between the man’s spread thighs and took hold of his prick, pulling it down.

The combination of finger-fucking his arse and tugging on his cock had Marsden gasping and moaning, pleading for more. His legs shook, his hands clenched in tight fists at the small of his back. The muscles in his arms and back bunched and flexed as he twisted his head from side to side.

“Vincent, please, I’m going to climax.”

Ah hell. That breathy, threadbare whimper.

“Not yet you don’t,” Vincent growled. He stood, shoved his trousers off, kicked the chair out of the way, grabbed hold of Marsden’s lean hips, and pushed inside.

A hoarse shout rent the air. Marsden’s slick, silken passage fluttered then gripped tight, clamping Vincent’s cock so hard if felt as though he was being strangled. The musky scent of semen mixed with the scents of male sweat and arousal. Christ, Marsden had climaxed with nothing more than the head of his cock in his arse, just as he had done at the brothel.

Fingers digging into Marsden’s skin, Vincent pushed harder, needing to be buried deep.

Gasping for breath, Marsden begged, pleaded. “More. All of it. Please.”

Vincent gave it to him. He rammed his cock so deep his ballocks were pressed tightly against Marsden. Then he rotated his hips, pulled almost all the way out, teasing the rim, and slammed back home.

Marsden arched, throwing his head back, his shoulders lifting from the mattress. His arms formed a strict V down his back, his stretched fingers brushing Vincent’s groin. Vincent continued to fuck him, thrusting hard.

Marsden shook his arms, tugging hard on his bonds. Grunts of definite frustration mixed with his harsh moans. “Untie me. Please, Vincent.”

He didn’t hesitate. He let go of Marsden’s hips long enough to tug quickly on the knot. The linen fell to the floor. But before he could grab Marsden’s shoulders, hold the man steady for his hard thrusts, Marsden twisted beneath him, disengaging with a sharp grunt and scrambling onto the bed.

Disorientated from the abrupt change, Vincent gave his head a shake. Kneeling in the middle of the rumpled sheets, Marsden leaned forward and grabbed Vincent’s wrist, pulling him full onto the bed and on top of him. He grasped Vincent’s nape, pulling him down between his spread thighs so Vincent had to brace himself on his forearms lest he crush Marsden with his weight.

Marsden tilted his hips, his hair-dusted calves wrapping around Vincent’s waist so the head of Vincent’s straining erection grazed his oil-slicked entrance. “Fuck me. Like this. Please,” he whispered against Vincent’s lips.

Supplicant and eager, Marsden lay beneath him. The new position ignited a primitive, unstoppable need to possess. It rolled up from his belly, violently yanking hold of him. With a feral growl, Vincent lunged forward, sinking hilt deep into that exquisite tightness and pulling a groan of gratitude from Marsden. Then he picked up a rhythm of hard, demanding strokes.

“You’re mine. Mine,” Vincent growled, slamming into him.

“Yes, yes,” Marsden panted, his hot breaths fanning Vincent’s neck.

“No other man will ever touch you again.”

“Only you, Vincent. I only want you.”

Marsden levered up and crushed his lips to Vincent’s, tongue sweeping inside, devouring his mouth. His hands were everywhere, branding Vincent’s skin with his touch. His back, his biceps, his neck, his jaw, his arse, his chest. The sensations blended together, heightening the lust until it consumed him.

Marsden’s hard prick was crushed between them, the satiny length rubbing against Vincent’s abdomen. By God, he wasn’t going to be able to hold back, to hold off until Marsden climaxed again. The orgasm was barreling upon up Vincent, coming ever closer with each quick jerk of his hips. And when the hell had he lost control? It had slipped through his fingers without him even being aware of it.

Desperate to wrestle it from Marsden, he twisted his head, breaking the kiss and tried to rear back. But Marsden held tight, curling his upper body into his, dragging his lips in a searing path down Vincent’s neck to his chest. Wet heat latched onto Vincent’s nipple, sharp teeth nipped the hardened peak.

A savage groan rumbled his chest as he drove into Marsden with all the force of his lower body. He was vaguely aware of Marsden’s hand moving between them as he jerked his own cock. Liquid fire rushed down his prick, erupting from the head, his hips sputtering to a halt in time to the jolts shaking his entire body.

Exhausted and gasping for breath, Vincent flopped onto his back, pulling Marsden with him so the man lay over him. Marsden’s arms were slung over his shoulders, his legs bracketing him. They were sprawled sideways on the bed, Vincent’s calves hanging off the edge. Marsden must have climaxed again for there were sticky wet spots mixed with the sweat on his chest, but Vincent didn’t have the strength to clean them up, at least not yet.

Turning his head, he dragged his lips over the top of Marsden’s head, which was tucked against his shoulder. How had Marsden done it? Vincent had fucked him, yet he felt as though he was the one who had been taken. The thought should have been unsettling, but strangely it wasn’t. No, not strange at all. Perhaps he was still in a daze from that explosive climax but it was suddenly so very clear to him. The control he believed he exerted over Marsden was simply an illusion. By willingly bending to Vincent’s will, Marsden held it all, even Vincent, in the palm of his hand.

His chest rumbling with the beginnings of an amazed chuckle, he absently glanced about the room. Then he grimaced.

“You need a maid.” But not a valet. No man except Vincent would be helping Marsden get dressed or undressed for that matter.

“No, I don’t,” Marsden grumped, sounding like a peeved, prickly adolescent.

“Yes, you damn well do. I’ll see to it,” he said, well aware of Marsden’s precarious financial situation. “A girl will be here tomorrow. The place could use with a good dusting.” He had plenty of servants. One less wouldn’t be a hardship.

“I don’t want a maid. Don’t want any servants lurking about at an inopportune time. In any case, she’d ask about the hooks in the ceiling, and then what would I tell her? They’re merely decorative?”

What was Marsden going on about? “There aren’t any hooks in the ceiling.”

He felt him smile against his chest. “There will be. I plan to install them tomorrow.”

Vincent’s spent cock surged to life, pressing against Marsden’s abdomen. “No maid. I can tolerate the mess as long as you’re here.”

Pushing up onto his forearms, Marsden stared intently into his eyes. “I will always be here for you, Vincent. Always.”

Those words echoed in his head, filled his entire being. He owed Marsden a debt he could not express. If not for the courage of his friend, he would have never stopped fighting himself. Never opened his eyes to see that everything he needed had been here all along.

He might never earn his father’s respect, but he found it was no longer as important as it used to be. As long as he had Oliver, that was all that mattered.

He tucked a stray stand of hair behind Marsden’s ear. “As I you, Marsden. Now about tomorrow. I’ll have some errands to see to. What do you think about a paddle? A nice wooden one. Maybe covered in leather?”

Marsden’s breath hitched, excitement flaring on his flushed face. “Yes, please, milord.”

Thank You

Thank you for taking the time to read Bound by Deception. 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 by Deception is the first book in The Bound Series. To read an excerpt from Bound to Him (Bound #2), please turn the page.

Excerpt from Bound to Him (The Bound Series #2)

Lord Vincent Prescot’s life couldn’t be better. Thriving investments, well-respected by his peers, and a man who submits to his every desire—what more could he want?

Lord Oliver Marsden should be more than happy with his life. He’s been in love with Vincent for over a decade and six months ago the impossible happened and they became lovers. But since then, nothing has changed. More specifically, Vincent hasn’t changed. Oliver has tried to be patient—it took a lot for Vincent to accept the fact he preferred men. But what felt like a tiny distance between them six months ago now feels like an ever-widening chasm.

Then Vincent’s father asks him for a favor—one that involves marriage. If Vincent agrees, he’ll have the respect he’s craved from his father his entire life but he could lose Oliver. Nor does Oliver make the decision easy. To keep Oliver, Vincent must do more than deny his father. He’ll have to give Oliver his heart.

Enjoy the following excerpt from Bound to Him:

He scanned the room, spotted Marsden’s dark head over at the cashier’s cage, and went over to him. He stopped at Marsden’s shoulder, ignoring the protests from the two men in line behind him. “Ready to leave already?” He would admit to a certain eagerness to go on to Marsden’s apartments. All right, more than eager. But since he’d been gone for weeks, he had rather looked forward to spending some time with him. Outside of his bedchamber.

“I’ve had enough gambling for one night.” Marsden took the few shillings the cashier pushed under the gilded bars of the cage. Then he lowered his voice. “I’ve been here for two hours. Your note said eight, Prescot, not ten o’clock.”

Vincent gave his chips to the cashier. “The rains delayed my travel. As it was, I only stopped home long enough for a change of clothes.” And to pick up your gift.

Marsden said nothing, merely shoved his hands in his pockets and contemplated his scuffed evening shoes.

While the cashier meticulously counted a pile of gold sovereigns, Vincent tipped his head toward his friend. “My apologies, Marsden,” he murmured. “I didn’t know the roads would be such a mess when I wrote you. As it was, I was fortunate to make it to London tonight.”

Marsden tucked an errant wavy strand behind his ear and studied him from the corner of his eye. It wasn’t as if Vincent had purposefully dallied on his journey. Hell, he had no control over the weather. So why was he so worried Marsden would hold it against him?

Those long, dark lashes swept down. Ducking his chin, a little smile tugged on the corner of Marsden’s mouth, and he lifted one shoulder. “I understand. I’m glad you made it back safely.”

Vincent couldn’t hold back the smile as the tension slipped out of him, and in its place settled the delicious hum of anticipation. He had spent the greater part of the afternoon staring out the window of his carriage as it slowly made its way to London and planning exactly what he would do to Marsden once he had the man alone. “Shall we be on our way then?”

Marsden nodded, a quick jerk of his head.

He pocketed the gold sovereigns, leaving one for the cashier. When they reached the entrance hall, he stopped near the footman stationed at the cloak room. “Your greatcoat?”

Marsden didn’t pause but continued on. “Didn’t bother with it. Did you take your carriage or hire a hackney?”

Three long strides had him at Marsden’s shoulder once again. “My carriage.” The burly guard opened the front door as they approached. “Marsden, it’s October. You should not have left your greatcoat at home.” Marsden walked most everywhere he went in Town. His apartments were close, but not so close that he wouldn’t have risked catching a chill if it had rained.

“So where’s yours?”

Marsden was getting an extra smack on the arse later for that cheeky comment. Then again, knowing his friend, it would only encourage him. “My coat is in the carriage. Unlike you, I only had to walk twenty feet to reach the hell.” He stopped at the streetlamp and flicked his fingers, motioning to his driver waiting for him a few buildings down the road.

His team of four bays pulled up next to him. “Lord Oliver’s apartments,” he informed his driver as he stepped into the carriage.

Marsden’s knees brushed his as he settled on the bench opposite him. The driver snapped the whip, and the carriage lurched forward. Only the soft light from the streetlamps they passed broke the darkness, the golden glow cutting across Marsden’s profile; it illuminated the long curve of his lashes behind his spectacles, the high arch of his cheekbones, and the slightly parted full lips. How had Vincent managed to go four weeks without those lips wrapped around his cock?

“God, I missed you.” The desperation in Marsden’s whispered words sent a thrill through him.

Marsden shifted forward, as if to move to sit beside him. Aware of the open shade on the window, Vincent lifted one leg and pressed a foot over his groin, holding him down, keeping him on the opposite bench. Marsden instantly submitted, settling back, yielding to the pressure, his legs falling open. Vincent rotated his foot, rubbing the sole of his evening shoe over Marsden’s rapidly hardening cock. “Were you good, boy, in my absence?” he asked, voice pitched low but with a hard edge that would have Marsden panting in no time.

Marsden’s tongue darted out, a quick swipe across his lower lip. “Yes.”

He pressed harder, pulling a grunt from Marsden. “Yes, what?”

“Yes, milord.”

“Hmm.” He passed a hand over his jaw as he continued to rub Marsden’s cock through the placket of his trousers, the soft wool sliding easily over silken skin. It didn’t feel as though Marsden had worn drawers. One less piece of clothing for the man to remove when they reached his apartments. “Are you certain? Did you take yourself in hand?” He knew the answer, but couldn’t resist the urge to voice the question. To torment Marsden. To make the man squirm with a mixture of embarrassment and pure, stark need. To ratchet up the anticipation hanging in the air between them, so heavy he could feel it.

“Ah…I…”

“Yes or no, Marsden. Did you pleasure yourself in my absence?”

He lifted his hips, seeking even more pressure, and speared Vincent with a hot stare. “Yes.”

“And what did you do, exactly?”

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

Also Available from Ava

All In with the Duke (Gambling on Love #1)

Max Arrington, the Duke of Pelham, vows to never again let a handsome face blind him to a man's true intentions. But ten months of celibacy and lonely nights drive him to a decadent brothel, where a beautiful young man arouses his illicit passions as never before.

Tristan Walsh has grown tired of being used for men's pleasure. But his latest client is different: commanding yet generous, Max makes him feel cared for as well as wanted. Yet Tristan knows he'll never have the choice to leave the brothel and submit only to Max.

So when Max invites him to be his guest at his country estate, Tristan eagerly agrees to his terms—days to do as he pleases while Max tends to the dukedom, and nights spent together in wicked play. But when the "business arrangement" begins to deepen into something more, Tristan must face the fact that he has no true place in Max's life—or in Max's guarded heart…

For purchase links for All In with the Duke, 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