Page 62 of Molly Boys
His gaze locked on Stanley and his heart pounded, this time not from the exertion of running. Their bodies were pressed together in the tight space. Somewhere during their flight, Stanley had lost his hat, and his blonde hair fell loosely around his face. His eyes were so blue, it was like they’d been painted with the most vivid hue the artist could find.
Archie lowered his hand, breathing hard. His dark gaze dropped to Stanley’s full lips, they were so close. He leaned in further, feeling Stanley’s hands on his hips, gripping tightly, his fingertips digging in. Stanley’s breath panted against his mouth. All Archie had to do was lean in a fraction more and their mouths would meet.
His body trembled and he could feel Stanley’s cock, hard as a poker, digging into his hip, and he knew his own body was responding the same way. A sharp stab of need ripped through him, almost tearing him in half. He had never wanted anything more in his entire life. His body shook violently as he fought the urge to take what he was so desperate for.
Just one taste.
But he couldn’t, it was against every law he’d sworn to uphold. He couldn’t break it, even once, because if he did… he knew he’d do it again. One taste of the man pressed up against him, the same need mirrored in his eyes, would never be enough.
Closing his eyes and willing his traitorous body under control, he pulled back as much as he could in the confined space and swallowed hard.
“I think they’re gone.” Archie turned his head, no longer able to look into those blue eyes, knowing if he did he’d break and there would be no going back. “We should go.”
* * *
Jack ran, he kept running until his lungs burned. Knowing he couldn’t go back into The Nichol, not now, he headed toward the boundary of Bethnal Green Road. He’d almost made it when a hand gripped his arm so tightly the bone felt like it had snapped.
He cried out in pain as he was swung around to find himself staring at the cruel sneer of Simon Blackwell.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Jack Lightfoot,” he sniggered. “I’d ‘ave thought you’d learned your lesson last time. You really are a stupid little shit. Bringing the law to The Nichol? Telling them about my boys?”
Jack’s terror crested and his stomach revolted. Not used to having so much food in his belly and then having to run for his life, coupled with the agonising pain in his arm and being caught by Simon Blackwell of all people, was too much. He leaned over and heaved. The precious food the pretty lord and the inspector had bought him splattered over the ground at Simon’s feet, catching the toes of his boots.
“Dirty little bastard.” Simon raised his hand and cracked Jack across the face. His lip split and blood sprayed across his cheek. “You’re coming with me, boy,” Simon growled. “Rackstraw wants a word with you.”
17
“Edmund! Where the devil are you? Edmund!”
Edmund shuffled into the room, wheezing slightly and ignoring the bad-tempered bellow which followed him. He pulled his satchel over his head and lowered it to the floor with care. Unbuttoning his overcoat, he hung it on the hook nearest the door and added his hat.
“Edmund!”
Again he ignored the impatient voice and approached his work bench, setting his satchel on the scratched wooden surface. Carefully moving bottles and vials aside, he looked up as the door to his workroom crashed open.
“There you are, you no good, lazy–”
“Good afternoon, Father,” Edmund said without a hint of emotion. “Is there something I can assist you with?”
A sudden dryness caught Edmund unaware and he started to clear his throat. Taking a glance at his father’s hate-filled eyes, Edmund instead allowed a cough to escape. Small flecks of spittle caught at the corner of his mouth as he fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief.
Slowly, he allowed the coughing fit to subside and wiped his lips. Drawing in a breath, he lifted his gaze to his father fighting the little smug curl of satisfaction in his belly at the disgust in his father’s expression.
“Assist me?” Harold Baxter’s gaze swept over his son, the disappointment in his eyes clear. “Like you’d be of any real help.”
Edmund’s jaw clenched, his anger bubbling just under the surface. He schooled his expression, carefully wiping away any indication of his utter contempt for the man who’d fathered him.
“What do you want, Father?” He tried not to bite off the last word caustically.
“I want to know where my new dye is,” Harold snapped. “You promised if I funded your experiments you’d create a new colour, something no one has ever seen before. Do you think William Henry Perkin took this long to discover the secret to purple dye?”
“William Henry Perkin was an assistant with the Royal College of Chemistry who was trying to synthesise quinine when he accidentally discovered purple dye,” Edmund said coolly. “He didn’t set out to revolutionise the textile industry.”
“Yet he did.” Harold’s eyes narrowed. “His dye is now used by every manufacturer from here to Paris. Do you know how much a discovery like that is worth?”
“Yes, Father,” Edmund said blandly. The quicker he let his father rant and run out of steam, the quicker the man would go away and leave him alone.
“Need I remind you how precarious our position is? We’re one more bill away from a debtors’ prison. Do you want that? Do you think you’d survive a week in a dank prison cell?”