Page 21 of Beguiled
“You’re leaving?” He yawned.
“I should go before one of your servants comes in.”
Balfour sat up, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Boyishly rumpled, he was a different man from the elegant peer of last night—messier and altogether more human. And when he looked David up and down as he was doing now, the corner of his mouth kicking up in appreciation, he was so appealing he made David’s mouth run dry.
“Don’t worry about the servants,” he said. “I brought some of my London staff with me. They’re more discreet—they know never to enter my private rooms in the morning till I call for them. Besides”—he leaned back on his elbows and gave one of his half-hitch smiles—“it’s Saturday. Spend the morning with me.”
“Don’t you have duties to perform?” David replied. His voice came out lower than he’d intended, rough with desire. He cleared his throat, adding, “I thought you were on the King’s retinue.”
“Not quite. I’m more one of the outer circle. As for today, I’ve no commitments other than the Levee this afternoon.” He consulted the clock on the wall. “And it’s not even seven. I’ve got a few hours before I go anywhere. Enough for a decent breakfast, at least. Join me.”
“I should really—” David began automatically, then he broke off.
Why not just do as Balfour asked? Why not let himself enjoy the man’s company for a few more hours? It was a pleasurable diversion from normal life, wasn’t it? One that was safe from any fear of discovery and ruin, unlike his usual encounters. He’d already crossed the line by coming here, so why not enjoy the fruits of his recklessness to the full?
“All right,” he said. “I’ll stay a bit longer.”
When Murdo grinned at him and flipped the bedcovers back, he felt a rush of joy that should have been alarming. But he didn’t even let himself think about it. Instead he let himself have the moment, let the joy of it brighten him.
He stripped his breeches and drawers off again—the work of a moment—and impulsively leapt at Murdo, landing on top of him and knocking a surprised shout of laughter out of him. Murdo twisted, rolling David onto his back and under him, and they wrestled for a minute, muscles straining, bodies pressing and sliding, a brief tussle for dominance.
Bested, David stopped struggling, gasping with laughter, and Murdo stilled over him. Their gazes locked for the longest time, and David felt a queer ache in his chest. He had to close his eyes to gain control of himself.
When he opened them again, Murdo’s gaze had shifted downwards. He laid his hand on David’s chest, letting his fingertips drift over David’s nipples, the flat planes of his chest, and the ridges of muscle below. His dark eyes were appreciative.
“You look slender in your clothes, but you’re strong.” He ran his hands up David’s arms, testing the muscles there. “How do you manage it? Bookish fellows are usually softer.”
“I walk a lot—I love to be outside, in the country. I like to climb too.”
“Climb? What do you mean?”
David laughed, a little embarrassed. “Oh, you know. Hills, rock faces sometimes. Last month I climbed a bit of Salisbury Crags.”
Murdo’s eyebrows rose. “How very odd. Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Well—yes.”
Murdo laughed, delight sparkling in those pitch-dark eyes at David’s artless response. “I’d love to see you climb. Perhaps you could take me, one day.”
“Perhaps,” David agreed, smiling, liking the thought of showing off to Murdo, for all the childish absurdity of it.
Murdo lowered his head, capturing David’s lips with his own. His hand, caught between their bodies, coasted down David’s chest, belly, flank. Those strong, determined fingers sought and found David’s prick, rubbed it in long, luxurious strokes.
Grinding his hips, Murdo pushed his own cock forward, opening his grip so the blunt head pushed against David’s, rude and insistent. Then his big hand was closing about both of them, pressing and rubbing them together, making David helplessly groan.
“You too,” he breathed against David’s mouth. “Put your hand over mine.” David fumbled his hand down between them, his fingers interlacing with Murdo’s to make a clumsy cage of flesh that began to move in exquisite, dragging counterpoint to the slide and grind of their shafts. Murdo’s hips jerked against David’s as they worked together, kissing as they went, nearly devouring each other. David was so beyond thought, he could do little more than let Murdo steer their joined hands while he lay, moaning incoherent encouragement, until they went over the edge together, their mingled seed spilling over their fingers and dripping onto David’s belly.
They lay there together, sticky and sated, and David let his mind empty, let himself enjoy the languorous aftermath of orgasm.
“Do you remember that first time we were together here, like this?” Murdo asked after a while.
David was staring up at the intricate petals of the ceiling rose. Murdo’s voice in his ear was a surprise, but he didn’t shift his gaze, just nodded. The truth was, he remembered that night as though it was yesterday; the impossible, unprecedented intimacy of it burned in his memory. Murdo’s mouth on the entrance to David’s body, his long fingers breaching, then moving inside David.
That night had undone him entirely. Changed him. There was no going back from something like that, something that had scuppered so many of his personal limits. Later, when Murdo was gone, returned to London, the memory of it had tormented him. Yet it had fortified him too somehow. Sometimes he hated that he’d done it, and other times, it felt like the only sane thing he’d ever done in all his life.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you after I went back to London,” Murdo said roughly.
Astonished, David turned his head on the pillow to meet the other man’s gaze. That face. So familiar, on such little acquaintance. As though he’d absorbed every detail about Murdo Balfour without realising it.