Page 39 of Provoked
Chapter Eleven
By the time they reached Balfour’s house, David was having second thoughts. They’d walked here side by side without touching, and the October night had inserted its cold fingers between them, cooling David’s lust. He’d had ample time for reflection and the beginnings of regret during the short journey.
And yet, when they reached the townhouse, he didn’t hesitate or turn around. He went up the steps to the front door behind Balfour and followed him inside, past the expressionless footman holding the door open and into a house of restrained, masculine elegance.
At Balfour’s suggestion, he removed his hat and gloves and greatcoat, handing everything to the footman, who bore his burdens away and brought back a candle to light their way upstairs.
Everything in Balfour’s house was rich and elegant, from the long-case mahogany clock in the hall, to the framed paintings they passed as they climbed the stairs, to the long rug that muffled their footsteps as they made their way down the corridor to Balfour’s bedchamber.
Balfour swung the door open and stepped aside, inviting David to precede him.
The first thing David noticed was that it wasn’t, as he’d expected, a bedchamber. It was a sitting room, with two deep, wing-backed armchairs bracketing either side of a big marble fireplace. The grate glowed with the embers of an earlier blaze and the wasted luxury of a fire burning in an unoccupied room shocked David somewhere in the depths of his Presbyterian soul.
Balfour lit more candles, and now David could see that there was a second room connected to this one. Through an open doorway on the other side of the sitting room, he spied the hulking shape of a large bed, limned by the glow of a second fire. Balfour’s bedchamber.
“Would you like some wine?”
Tempted to find a little courage in a glass, David nodded. “Thank you.”
Balfour crossed to the sideboard, where a decanter of wine and several glasses waited on a silver tray. The crystal of the decanter sparkled in the candlelight as Balfour lifted it and poured out two glasses of ruby liquid. He strolled over to where David stood in the middle of the room—a slow, cocky stroll—and offered one of the glasses. Their fingertips brushed as David took the glass, and he almost dropped it in his haste to withdraw, fumbling it awkwardly and saving it just in time.
“Careful,” Balfour drawled. David flushed. He lifted the glass and took a long swallow to hide his embarrassment. He felt better almost immediately and finished the glass quickly. Only then did he realise that Balfour was leaning against the sideboard watching him, his own glass untouched.
“Another?” Balfour asked with a polite smile.
David had the disturbing feeling the man knew just how much he’d needed that drink. Unsettled, he shook his head and set his glass down, nerves thrumming. The politeness, the hospitality, Balfour’s damnedpatience—all of it bothered him. He was used to rough, urgent encounters. Usually in awkward situations. Alleyways and corridors and abandoned places. Never bedchambers. David didn’t think that he’d ever been in another man’s bedchamber till now.
Scrabbling for familiar ground, he paced towards Balfour, coming to a halt an arm’s-breadth away.
“What do you want, then?” he said hoarsely. “I can suck you again, if you’d like.”
Balfour put his own wineglass down in an unhurried way and levered himself away from the sideboard. He smiled, to himself it seemed, his lips kicking up at one side, a slight dimple flashing in his cheek.
“Well, since you’re asking,” he said, finally looking at David, “I’d like to see you naked. And then I’d like to fuck you.”
David wished he could control his flushes. He could feel the tidal rush of one spreading upwards from his chest to his throat and farther, till the heat of it scalded his cheeks. “I don’t allow anyone to do that.”
Balfour smiled. “Do what? See you naked or fuck you?”
“Fuck—penetrate—whatever you want to call it,” David replied, face burning.
Balfour stared at him as though he was a fascinating exotic animal. “Why ever not?” A puzzled frown drew his brows together.
Mortified, David made to turn away. “This was not a good idea. I should—”
“Wait.”
All evening, it seemed, David had been trying to walk away from Balfour, and all evening, Balfour had been stopping David from leaving. Now he did it again, his hand catching at David’s elbow and gently tugging. David turned slowly back.
Balfour’s gaze was hot and dark, impossible to look away from. “I don’t have to fuck you—but let me see you without your clothes, hmm?” He smiled and reached for the buttons of David’s tailcoat. Embarrassed, David stepped back and raised a hand to rub the back of his neck in an uncomfortable gesture.
Balfour’s lips twisted in what looked like reluctant amusement. “All right. I’ll go first, but you’ll need to help me with this coat. It’s a perfect fit and a bugger to get off, if you’ll excuse the expression.” Without waiting for a reaction, he unfastened the buttons of his own black tailcoat and turned his back on David, opening his arms out as though presenting himself to a valet.
If he wanted to leave, now would be a good time to do so, but David found himself hesitating. The idea of seeing Balfour naked was a powerful lure, one that he was unable to resist.
He stepped forward, sliding his arms over the other man’s shoulders to take hold of the lapels of his coat and slowly draw them back, removing the impossibly elegant garment, inch by careful inch. The warmth of Balfour’s hard body against his chest and under his hands, his scent—an earthy, spicy smell—it all made David feel heady with an excitement that began to overtake his shame and embarrassment.
Balfour turned round and cast the coat aside. “The rest is easier,” he said, lifting his hand to loosen his cravat. And as David stood there, mouth dry and heart pounding, the man stripped his clothes away, his dark, unwavering gaze on David. Waistcoat, cravat and shirt. Breeches, drawers and stockings. Everything, till he was quite naked.