48

BOYFRIEND ENCHANTED

L éon was quiet on the way home.

They all were. émile was asleep in his brother’s arms. Souveraine seemed distracted, looking out the window, unusually distant.

Catherine wasn’t inclined to bother her, and only responded to Henry’s comments rather than direct any chat.

Meanwhile, poor Henry was bursting with excitement, unable to contain the news he’d just been hired to write an article for Paris Revolutions , a leading newspaper in the city.

He tried to keep quiet for émile’s sake, desperate to get Léon alone so they could talk freely about how their very first night in Paris had put the realisation of all his ambitions directly at his fingertips.

Unfortunately for him, getting Léon alone was easier imagined than done.

Léon took Souveraine’s quiet pensiveness as unhappiness rightly directed at him, and once he’d deposited émile in his bed, he seemed to hang on her every move rather than simply go upstairs, undress, and climb into Henry’s sheets.

There was the offer of a drink from Catherine, which Souveraine passed on, which Henry refused, and which Léon agreed to in the hopes of being up a little later with Souveraine.

“Maybe I’ll change,” Henry said pointedly.

“Okay,” said Léon, on a brief smile.

“Would you like to change?” Henry asked him.

“I’ll be okay,” said Léon.

“For now.”

“Well, then…” Henry hesitated, but got the distinct impression Léon was willing him to leave, which made him none too happy, the annoyingly beautiful barmaid sitting there all pale and glum and dull and still annoyingly beautiful.

But Catherine swiped her drink up and said she would walk upstairs with Henry to have a talk.

This left Léon alone with Souveraine.

She said nothing, only sent him a strange look that held in it all the distance she’d ever had from him.

Since they were children, she had never once looked at him quite like that, that he could remember.

She walked through to the library, and when he’d followed her, she had two hands on the desk and her head sunk low.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Her arms softened, and she stood as though the weight of all the last few weeks hit her exactly at that moment.

She took a hand to her temple.

“I’ve been thinking… Or not thinking. Léon, I don’t think I was ever thinking once before and…” She met his eyes.

“Do you think it’s too late for us?”

His heart beat out a flutter of panic, but he kept his voice idiotically neutral.

“For us? How do you mean?”

But neither her thoughts nor her words ran on their would-be romance.

“Look at this room.” Her blue gaze traced over the rows and rows of leather-bound books, beautiful in their hues of brown and maroon and gold.

“How do you get this? Where do you start? I met women tonight, unlike any I’ve met before. And they said things no one has ever said to me. And now I feel… I feel like I’m at a loose end. And I feel a bit lost.”

Thrown by her unexpected train of thought, “Things have been hard. And that’s my fault.”

“It is,” she replied coolly.

“You put me in a very difficult position. You did it a lot of times.”

Even if it was true, he hadn't expected to hear it. But her next words surprised him even more.

“You have always protected me. And you have always respected me. And I love you for that.” She took his hands, tears stark in her eyes, swelling to overflowing, landing on her soft cheeks. “If you are determined to leave Paris in a week, I will come with you. But if you should be inclined to stay a little longer…” She looked to the floor, a strange shyness about her. “Cathy has asked me to consider it, if you would, and… I wanted to let you know that I would be happy to stay here. For a time.”

“A time…” He didn’t trust the words to be true—imagined his brain had incorrectly processed them somehow in his desperation to hear them. “Do you mean… Are you saying you’d like to stay in Paris?”

“I’m saying I should…” Her hands tightened on his. “I think I should like to attend another party like that.” Souveraine’s head moved close, but instead of taking the kiss on his lips that would have been her right as his betrothed, her soft kiss landed on his cheek. “Goodnight, Léon.”

She passed out of the room without a sound, while Léon stood alone and bewildered.

Had that just happened? Was Souveraine falling for Paris just as Léon was?

This Paris of ex-cathedrals and executioner friends and baths and food and alleyway blowjobs?

This Paris of Henry…

A bolt of sheer happiness shot through Léon, and he sprinted upstairs, loudly slamming his bedroom door in a pathetic show of modesty. Henry ran to their adjoining door, and the two met in the middle. Léon threw his arms around Henry, plastering a hard kiss across his lips. Henry braced him with powerful strength, holding them both stable, his fingers pulling on Léon’s stupid cravat. “Did you have a good night, Ange?”

“The best night, Henri. The best night of my life.” He worked at his breeches while Henry pulled his coat back over his shoulders. “The way you looked tonight.” He slipped an arm free, grabbing Henry’s neck. “The way you speak, the thoughts in your mind, the words that you say, the fire in your heart. I want to burn alive in it.” He shoved Henry back towards the bed, slipping his shirt off. “What you did to me, in the alleyway…” He climbed on top of Henry, straddling him. “It doesn’t end now. Not ever.” He leaned over and kissed him. “I can’t get enough of you.”

Gasping for air, overwhelmed by the declaration, Henry caught his cheek. “Does that mean…”

“I’m staying, Henri. I’m staying if you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll have you?” Henry pressed their lips together, a hand running down his back. “ If I’ll have you ? Léon… You’re my dream. You’re everything I want.”

“Henri… I love you. I love you and I love you and I love you a thousand times over. I should have said it sooner. I should have told you already. I love you, and I’m not leaving. You were right. Paris, the revolution, it’s everything. You’re everything. You’re… What the hell is that?” He poked at the squishy spot he’d just come across in Henry’s coat.

With a sly grin, “It’s butter, Ange…”

“It’s…” Léon gasped, eyes wide. “You stole the butter from the party?”

“I stole the lot of it.”

“Oh.” Léon kissed him. “You’re a perfect criminal.” He kissed him again. “I love you.” Another kiss, then desperately devoted eyes. “Tell me you love me.”

Henry leaned forward, pushing Léon up with him. “I love you, Ange.” Complete happiness, complete peace, spread through every inch of Léon. “I told you I wouldn't let you go. I thought it would take more than a single night to convince you?—”

His finger came down on Henry’s lips. “That’s where you were wrong. Because I already loved you. I already loved you, and I’ll never stop telling you now. It’s you and me. And I’m so in love with you. For the rest of my life.”

Despite their recent tryst in the alley, despite the throbbing pain of the bullet wound in his arm, despite the exhaustion in every inch of his being, Henry attempted to push Léon onto his back to ravish him.

But Léon had other ideas.

He held Henry where he was, legs locked on either side of his thighs. “Not tonight, my sweet.”

Henry’s breeches were undone, slipped down and pulled free, and Léon was on top of him, kissing him, rifling through his top for the butter.

He wasn’t going to…

Henry swallowed. He’d never done it that way. And Léon didn’t even ask. It hadn’t occurred to him that everything wouldn’t be perfectly reciprocal. Sex was as natural to him as breathing, no boundaries, and Henry didn’t think he’d ever feel that thrill of a first time again, but there it was. That uncertainty, that slight edge of fear, all but drowned out by desire.

Léon’s deliciously buttery fingers move straight towards his hole, and would he know what to— Yes! Yes, Léon knew exactly what he was doing. He stroked Henry’s cock, and he traced around his rim, and Henry thought he should probably say, “I’ve never done this before.”

Léon’s gloriously pretty mouth fell open, but his hands never stopped and his eyes only sparked. “I’m your first?”

No offer to stop and switch, then. “You’re my fir-ohhh.” Léon’s lips wrapped around his dick, and Henry’s head dropped back. But as that finger circled his entrance more insistently, Henry shifted back a little. “Listen, um. The butter is a lot of fun, but we might need to use…” Léon’s brow furrowed adorably as Henry leaned over to his bedside table and pulled out a bottle of huile de cachalot . Léon couldn’t read the label when Henry handed it to him, but his disappointment said it all.

Henry grabbed his chin and pulled him close for a kiss. “Can we use that? Tonight? I’m… I want to. But… I’m nervous.”

Léon cocked his head to the side, then a slow, sly smile lit his face. He unscrewed the lid and coated his long fingers plentifully. “That’s good to know,” said Léon, hot tongue licking pre-cum and butter from the tip of Henry’s dick, “but I’m not going to go easy on you.” His finger circled Henry’s entrance once again, while his other hand worked Henry’s cock, his mouth chasing the delicious taste of butter with each movement, until he slid the first finger in.

Too stunned to say another word, Henry rocked against him as he curled his finger against Henry’s sweet spot, just as Henry had done for him. Léon’s eyes flashed desire, but also… control. A control Léon loved to have, for the first time, taking complete ownership of the scene and the sex, and of Henry.

The second finger made Henry gasp. Léon scissored them, stretching him, always working his cock, moaning with pleasure when Henry hadn’t even touched him, and Henry was a wreck. He was at Léon’s mercy, and he liked it there. He tried to manoeuvre Léon, to give back all the pleasure he was getting, But Léon denied him, holding him firmly in place with his wet mouth and his perfect fingers and the pure seduction that made up every inch of him, until finally he rasped, “I can’t wait, Henri. I need to fuck you.”

It was all Léon could do to get his breeches down. He took a handful of oil, slathered his dick, and pressed it, golden, to Henry’s waiting entrance, then pushed in.

“Oh, fuck!” Henry cried, and Léon slapped a hand over his mouth to quiet him.

He leaned down, threading fingers through Henry’s hair, pulling out a little, then slowly sliding back in. “Do you want me to stop?”

Henry, unable to make a sound, shook his head.

On a shuddering breath, “Thank god.” He curled a hand around Henry’s shoulder and pushed deeper. The other hand was on Henry’s dick again, stroking, and he pressed his thighs into the back of Henry’s, opening him wide. “You feel amazing.”

“You’re beautiful, Ange,” Henry whispered. He curled arms around Léon’s neck to pull him close, inviting him. His legs wrapped around his flanks, and his fingers sliced into Léon’s skin when Léon took the liberty of sinking further.

“Does it hurt?”

Henry’s hands grabbed Léon’s ass in answer, forcing him in. “I want you.” He kissed him. “All of you. Every inch. Every night.”

Léon pulled back, then thrust deeper again, kissing him all the while. “And every morning.”

Henry arched against him, pressing his cock where he needed him. “You’re going to kill me, beautiful.”

A coy and lascivious smile crept across Léon’s face. “Just like I always wanted to.”

A warm chuckle leapt out of Henry. “This was your scheme all along? Seduce me and murder me with your sword?” He caught Léon’s neck. “Well, joke’s on you sweetheart, because I love it.” He smashed Léon in, sinking his dick to its full length, so hard and so fast and so delicious that they both cried out.

Sparks blazed behind Léon’s closed eyes as the table turned. He was on edge, again, at Henry’s mercy, and even if Léon was on top, Henry looped a leg over his shoulder, slapped a hand down on his ass, and fucked him. Too hot, too tight, it was a new and overwhelming sensation. Henry’s hand locked over his hand on his dick, used him to get off, used his hip to take Léon to new levels of splendour, because amongst it all, it was “I love you,” over and again from both their lips. It was “forever,” and it was so many beautiful promises of so many beautiful tomorrows. It was perfection in every breath, every stroke, every thrust, until Henry finally turned rigid and let go, a beautiful display of cum painting his abs, the gorgeous expression of lust and satisfaction and love, and Léon had done it. And how desperately that made him want to finish in Henry.

Henry’s hand, dripping, ran over Léon’s chest, up and down, covering him in cum as he fucked into him. Léon grabbed his hand and brought it to his lips, one buttery, cum laden finger, then two, pumping in and out. He closed his eyes, lost in Henry, the sensation of him, the taste of him. A flash of his hot, devouring eyes, then he came hard, gripping Henry’s waist, smashing into him with all the love and relief and hope for the future Henry had painted for them, that Léon now believed in with his whole heart.

Henry’s body wrapped around him, held him close through the exquisite shaking, every tremor of appalling perfection that floored Léon all over again. All the pleasure Henry had given him, but this with the honesty of his pure heart on full display. “I love you, Henri,” he whispered. “I love you and I always will.”

“I love you. My beautiful angel.” Henry swept his sweaty hair back, kissed him, and they fell into a filthy, sweaty, buttery pile, all locked limbs and love, and they slept together in Henry’s own bed, all that long, glorious, first night in Paris.