Page 16

Felix

Felix shook out his hands as he paced his bedchamber.

He had no idea what he was doing. Well, he’d requested Thorne for a shave.

So, he was about to have a shave. He was about to have that man’s fingers coasting over his skin.

About to have the man leaning inches away from him. Body pressed against his.

What in the bloody hell are you doing?

He’d lost his mind. Because there was a very, very small chance his body wasn’t going to react to Thorne’s proximity. Not after he’d felt the heat of the man forcing him into the wall, the dominating presence of the man surrounding him. Not now that he knew .

Thorne liked men.

Thorne was everything Felix had ever wanted and never allowed himself to have.

Felix rolled his shoulders twice. Bloody hell, they were tight. He let out a breath. He was going to attempt to confirm his suspicions. That whatever charged moment passed between them yesterday did, in fact, mean Thorne reciprocated Felix’s interest.

His muscles locked tight, and William’s visage flitted through his mind.

Visions of their night together swarmed him.

His frame shook, sweat building between his shoulder blades.

This is not the same. He was purely discerning information.

He wasn’t acting on anything. He would keep his own interest hidden.

Everything would be well. Purely an experiment. It was…for science. Yes, for science.

A knock came from his door, and he froze.

Oh God.

I am a confident earl.

I am the fucking Earl of Bentley.

Except right now he was feeling a lot more like his perpetually nervous and stuttering brother, Fitzwilliam.

Another knock. Right. He should say something.

“Co-ome in.” His voice cracked. His eyes slid shut. This was so not like him. Was this how Fitzy felt all the time? God, he wanted to go give his brother a hug.

“My lord…?”

Felix’s eyes snapped open, and he was greeted with a furrow-browed Thorne, mouth parted like he didn’t know what to say. Felix didn’t blame the man because here Felix was standing in the middle of his chamber with his eyes closed like he’d lost his faculties.

He hadn’t. He’d just lost his ballocks, apparently.

He strode over to the chair at his dressing table and threw himself into it. “I require a shave,” he drawled. How was that for nonchalance?

Thorne’s lips twitched, and he ambled over, lifting the tray of shaving items meaningfully. “I never would have guessed.” His grey gaze locked on Felix’s. “Considering you rang for a shave.”

Urgh . He wasn’t even managing to act the part of arse correctly.

This man was so far under Felix’s skin, he was like that fly Fitzy had seen in an entomology exhibit—the one that laid eggs beneath the flesh, only for the hatched little horrors to wriggle their way from the inside out.

Buttfly? No, botfly. That was Thorne. Felix’s personal botfly.

And the only way to eradicate Thorne? A tryst. That would flush Thorne out of his system.

That was very sound logic.

Felix cleared his throat. “Is it foolish—willingly putting a knife in your hand?”

“Why would that be foolish?” Thorne tilted his head, soft amusement flickering in the depths of those steely irises.

“It’s obvious you don’t like me, Thorne. One doesn’t usually arm his enemies.”

“I don’t like you,” Thorne agreed frankly. His gaze swept over Felix. “But killing you isn’t my preferred solution.”

Thorne turned to the dressing table, leaving Felix blinking like a nitwit. Because that had been bold, hadn’t it? There had definitely been innuendo in that sentence. His heart rate picked up. Felix had no idea being the object of someone’s distaste could be so…exhilarating.

The sounds of sloshing water filtered through the chamber, and the scent of spiced soap floated to Felix.

“I see you somehow managed to get yourself into and out of a cravat today without assistance,” Thorne called over his shoulder while whipping the soap into a lather. “Bravo, my lord. But I’d also divest yourself of your shirt unless you want it to get soaked.”

Felix had been able to manage a passable cravat on his own. Nothing he’d feel comfortable wearing to dinner, mind you, but for a casual game of billiards, it sufficed. He pulled his shirt over his head and bunched it up in his lap, hiding his clenched fists in the rumpled fabric.

Thorne shifted toward Felix and then abruptly halted, frothy soap-covered brush frozen in mid-air, gaze slowly coasting up Felix’s bare torso.

Something wildly intoxicating simmered in Felix’s blood at seeing Thorne being the one thrown-off kilter.

It fed his confidence, helped combat the nerves skittering just beneath.

Thorne’s attention finally made its way up to Felix’s face, and Felix arched a knowing brow.

But instead of—oh, he didn’t know. Guilt?

Embarrassment?—at being caught, Thorne’s lips slowly crept into a mischievous smirk.

And there Felix went once more, unbalanced yet again.

Thorne moved forward, the wide breadth of his shoulders looming over Felix, and then his bare fingers stroked over Felix’s jaw, slowly—so bloody slowly—angling Felix’s head up toward his.

And Felix found he didn’t even care if the man did slit his throat with his shaving knife.

The man’s fingers on his skin would be worth it.

It had been so long since Felix had felt another’s touch.

An intimate touch. Tender, teasing, tempting…

Soft bristles worked over Felix’s skin as Thorne massaged the lather in small circles. It was baffling how a hand so large held his jaw so gently, guiding his head side-to-side to spread the shaving soap.

Thorne’s gaze was glued to his task, occasionally going back to the bowl to gather more soap, not once letting his stare meet Felix’s.

Which somehow made it all that much worse.

Made every touch, every sensation, that much more pronounced: the graze of Thorne’s knuckle nudging Felix’s chin up, the drag of the bristles down his throat, the warm, sugar-scented breath puffing over his cheek as Thorne leaned closer.

Cherry? Berries? All Felix knew was it was sweet and fruity, and it had his mouth watering.

At this close, finally having a moment to study the man, no barriers, Felix soaked him in.

His jaw was taut in concentration, full lips pursed slightly.

They were the only thing soft about the man.

A jaw so sharp it could cut glass. A heavy brow that shadowed those mesmerizing grey eyes, only adding to the man’s mystery.

His jet-black hair fell over his brow, and Felix tightened his fists to keep from reaching up.

Pushing it back. Confirming it was as soft as it looked.

He wanted to trace every hard ridge. And then over those pale pink lips, right over the bow at the top.

Breathe . He needed to remember to breathe. His bloody heart needed to remember it was supposed to stay in his chest, but with the way it was beating, it was making an excellent attempt to race right out of his ribcage.

Thorne turned away, and Felix let out a quiet breath. A small reprieve. It would be much easier to withstand the torment of the man’s touch when there was a sharp blade at his neck.

But then Thorne was back in front of him, fingers lightly sinking through the soap on his jaw on each side, sliding, coasting, swirling. Oh God. Oh God.

Grey irises clashed with his, melting him on the spot. “I need a point of reference to judge when the hair is soft enough to shave.” That rough-timbered voice.

Felix’s mouth parted on a shaky exhale. It was sweet as sin.

And then those fingers, those wicked, wonderful fingers, slid slowly down Felix’s neck. All the while, those stormy eyes held him captive. Lungs. Where were his lungs? Or the oxygen that was supposed to go in them?

With one last swipe of his thumb over Felix’s jawline, Thorne stepped back and busied himself at the dressing table.

Felix sank in his chair, finally able to draw in a full breath, then let his head fall back, eyes sliding shut.

Holy fucking shite. The rhythmic scrape of blade against strop surrounded him.

It wasn’t definitive, but Felix was pretty sure he had his answer.

No valet shaved a man like this. Unless perhaps in a brothel.

His grip on his shirt tightened. A shirt that hid the very clear evidence Felix was attracted to the man.

Silence settled over the room, and Felix lifted his head, gaze snagging on Thorne. He leaned against the table, arms crossed casually, unabashedly taking Felix in. His attention flicked to Felix’s lap and back up.

“Awfully tight grip you have on that shirt, my lord,” he murmured. A dangerous gleam entered his eyes, and those sinful lips curled infinitesimally at the corners. “Would you like me to take it off your hands? It would be a shame for it to wrinkle permanently.”

Felix willed himself to remain composed, but he lost the battle, and the telltale heat of a blush hit his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Better I keep it… You never know when I might need to strangle you.”

Thorne’s teeth dug into his bottom lip, clearly tamping down his mirth. Something burst in Felix’s chest at knowing he was the reason behind that small flash of amusement. Which was daft. He needed to stop thinking thoughts like that. He didn’t want to accidentally start to like the man.

Thorne pushed off the table and ran a finger through the foam on Felix’s cheek, then paused and caught Felix’s gaze. “Well, you are well-practiced at tying knots that could strangle.”

Felix gave the man his best unimpressed expression and winged a bored eyebrow. “ Or perhaps a better use of it would be to silence that mouth of yours.”

Thorne’s eyelids lowered, gaze flaring ebony black. “That’s not the threat you think it is,” he said softly, and spun back to the table.

Shite.