Page 20 of Beguiled
When Murdo finally touched him, it was to smooth his hair back from his forehead.
“Last time we did this, you told me you’d didn’t allow anyone to fuck you,” he said, watching David carefully.
“I still don’t.”
“You won’t let me do that, then?”
David paused. The truth was, he’d thought about that very possibility a great deal over the last two years. And about what it meant to lie with another man; what it was that made a man asodomite. About the thoughts he had that made him hard and needy in the dark hours of the night, and the images that floated into his mind while he serviced—or was serviced by—another faceless man. It certainly wasn’t the case that he had no desire to be fucked. But it was still something that petrified him, though perhaps in a different way than it used to.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, David shook his head.
“All right. How about we pleasure each other at the same time?”
David’s mind raced, considering possibilities.
“Lie on your side,” Murdo murmured, and David obeyed, shifting his body into position while Murdo turned his own around. When he was done, they lay head to crotch, their bodies mirroring each other. Then, without giving David time to think, Balfour engulfed David’s prick in his mouth.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise in the circumstances, but having already climaxed, it felt oddly rude and astonishing. Paralysed by pleasure, it wasn’t till Murdo’s cock stabbed at his chin that David woke up enough to play his own part in the mutual pleasuring Murdo had initiated. The blunt, reddened tip of Murdo’s prick bobbed for attention, butting at David’s lips, the skin impossibly soft. David inhaled, and Murdo’s musky scent teased at him, heady and good.
Rather than swallow him straight down, David rubbed his cheek against Murdo’s shaft and burrowed his nose into the thatch of dark hair at his groin before pressing his lips against the hot flesh. He lapped at it with the flat of his tongue, adoring, moving up the length of it before sucking it into his mouth.
He felt Murdo’s reaction in the vibration of the other man’s throat around his own cock as Murdo groaned his pleasure, and just like that, David’s attention was diverted—he had to make a conscious effort to force himself to continue to attend to the other man, even though that was a pleasure too. The whole business was like that—a dizzying push-and-pull between giving and receiving, acting and reacting.
David caressed Murdo’s scrotum with his fingertips while taking him right to the back of his throat, relishing even the choking sensation that brought—at least it kept his attention on Murdo’s prick, a desperate challenge when the other man’s mouth was doing such wicked things to his own. God, but this mutual pleasuring had him wildly distracted—hot, sucking wetness round his prick, and hard, silky flesh in his mouth, sensation everywhere, cock, mouth, lips, balls, almost too much, too good.
After a few minutes of this insane bliss, Murdo’s fingers dug into David’s hips, and he groaned again, his own mouth going slack and inattentive round David’s prick. At the same time, his cock thickened in David’s mouth and his hips began to jerk, searching for the back of David’s throat. He was going to come, David realised, and the thought heightened his own urgent pleasure. He took hold of Murdo firmly, one hand on his buttock, the other gripping his pistoning hip, controlling the movement as he gave himself over to an abandoned frenzy of sucking.
A moment later, Murdo was crying out his pleasure, his seed exploding into David’s mouth like a wash of sea water.
“Christ, David!” Murdo gasped. “What you do to me—”
And then his head was burrowing back into David’s lap, his mouth working David’s aching shaft for the second time. And despite that first endless, wrenching crisis, David was coming all over again, his body bowing as Murdo Balfour turned him inside out.
Chapter Six
When David woke up, Murdo had rolled away to the other side of the bed and a grey, tentative dawn was poking through the drapes, reminding him of the world outside.
He propped himself up on one elbow and watched as Murdo—or was he Balfour again this morning?—slept. He knew he should rise and dress but there was something fascinating about Murdo Balfour, even in repose. In sleep, the urbane mask entirely fell away. In sleep, his expression gentled, and the tender skin of his eyelids gave him a vulnerable look.
Murdo’s temples were sprinkled with a few silver hairs. David wondered how old he was. He’d never said. He couldn’t be more than six or seven years older than David, but he might be all of that. Perhaps two- or three-and-thirty. And unmarried still, it seemed. His dynastically minded father must find him a vexation.
He’d done his father’s bidding in coming up for the King’s visit, though. Playing the part of the Balfour clan chief’s son for King and country. Had he felt silly, David wondered, parading up the High Street in with tartan paraphernalia? Murdo Balfour was the sort of man who usually dressed with severe, modern elegance—all dark superfine and snowy-white linen—David would never have thought he’d have put up with being dressed up like one of Walter Scott’s fictional creations. Though it had to be said, he’d looked very well in dark-blue-and-green tartan.
Like Young Lochinvar.
He suppressed a smile at the thought. Unlike Young Lochinvar, Murdo was unlikely to be stealing anyone’s bride.
Murdo.
Already David found it impossible to think of him as Balfour.
David glanced at the clock on the mantel. Half past six. Definitely time to leave. He shouldn’t have stopped the night—the servants would be moving about the house soon, if they weren’t already. The magic of the night was well and truly over.
For some strange reason, though, he felt no regret, no panic—not like last time, when his encounter with Balfour had sent him running off, out into the night, seeking some kind of oblivion. In fact, he felt more at peace than he normally did, as though all the jumbled parts of himself had been set right overnight.
What fanciful thoughts.
Sitting up, David extricated himself from the tangled bedcovers, moving carefully so as not to wake the other man. His efforts at silence were for nothing, though—the sounds of fabric brushing as he began to dress, along with the protests of the floorboards beneath his feet, were apparently enough to pull Balfour out of his dreams. The man stirred and opened his eyes just as David was buttoning up his breeches.