Page 7 of Provoked

“Christ,” Balfour moaned. “Yes, that’s good.”

And then Balfour was fucking his mouth in short, efficient jabs. David did his best to stay still, to accommodate all that hammering flesh. He tried to spare Balfour the scrape of his teeth but it was impossible to avoid the occasional catch and the resultant loss of rhythm. Impossible too not to gag, not to choke and drool a little. But it didn’t matter. Somehow, it was the imperfections of this that made it so very good.

Balfour stiffened and froze, his cock right at the back of David’s throat now. And all David needed to endure was one long, last breathless moment as the other man jerked out his crisis, spilling his semen down David’s willing throat. David’s head swam, vision blurring. He felt an odd sort of ecstasy in his physical discomfort, a muddling up of his honest worship of Balfour’s body with a deep-rooted belief that he deserved nothing more. Pleasure and torment together.

When Balfour finally withdrew his prick, David stayed where he was, half expecting the other man to do up his breeches and walk away. It wouldn’t be the first time. But before David knew where he was, Balfour had yanked him to his feet and pressed him back against the wall. And then Balfour’s lips were on his, his tongue pressing inside, tasting hungrily.

Still dazed, and now weak with longing, he didn’t turn away this time, but allowed Balfour to ravish his mouth.

After a while, the bigger man drew back a little, his mouth gentling. David almost regretted allowing the kiss because he knew one day soon he would look back at this moment and wish he’d been strong enough to turn away from it. But for now he pushed that thought to the back of his mind and returned Balfour’s kiss, revelling in the conflicting sensations of warm, soft lips and rough, scraping jaw.

Eventually, Balfour broke the kiss and pulled away, smiling, a glint of teeth that David could just make out in the darkness.

“I think that was the best cock-sucking I’ve ever had,” he said. The crudity of his words was softened by their teasing tone and that shadowy, piratical smile. His hands moved lower, tracing the shape of David’s backside. “I only wish I could fuck you.”

David shivered, saying nothing. That, he would never allow. Thankfully it seemed the danger of it was past now. He distracted himself from the uncomfortable thought by throwing his head back against the wet bricks while Balfour unbuttoned his breeches and drew out his aching member.

Stroking David’s prick with one hand, Balfour yanked at his cravat with the other, exposing David’s throat, his mouth descending in a hot kiss that turned into a bite and then a kiss again.

“Yes, yes, God please—” David muttered, hips jerking as pleasure and need built intolerably. A powerful climax brewed at the base of his spine as Balfour’s mouth savaged his throat again and his big hand worked. His brawny body shoved at David, warm and assertive, pushing him harder into the wall. Demanding and taking. David was being conquered by a relentless force. Routed utterly.

Balfour kissed up the line of David’s throat and whispered harshly in his ear, “God, but I want to do everything to you. I want you in my hand. I want you in my mouth. I want to bury my tongue inside you and fuck you forever.”

Christ.

David’s orgasm, when it came, was the most intense he could remember. And through it all, Balfour was there, enveloping David with his warmth and strength.

For a few moments after, they stood, David’s head resting on the other man’s shoulder as he came back to himself. The blissful aftershocks gradually faded away and he became aware, once again, of the cold wall behind him, the dreich, mizzling rain.

Balfour brought out a handkerchief and used it to clean David up, his smile glinting again in the darkness. David felt embarrassed by the attention, but when Balfour tucked the handkerchief away and began to attend to his own breeches, he experienced the oddest sense of loss. After they’d fastened themselves up and David had roughly retied his cravat, Balfour bent down, straightening again with David’s hat in his hand.

“I wouldn’t put it on if I were you,” he said, offering it to David.

“No,” David agreed with a weak smile, taking it. God only knew what was on the ground under their feet.

They exited the close together and paused at the opening onto the street.

“I’ll let you go ahead,” Balfour said.

David nodded briskly, hiding the melancholy that had suddenly settled on him like an old familiar coat. “Good night then,” he said. He began to turn away.

“Lauriston—”

He stilled at the sound of his name on the other man’s lips and looked over his shoulder. All he could see in the darkness was Balfour’s bulky outline, yet even without seeing his expression, David somehow sensed a hesitance in him.

“Yes?”

“That was—good. I hope it was for you too?”

David swallowed, wondering why that simple question should make his chest ache so.

Before he could answer, the door of the inn burst open and a group of men exploded onto the street, talking and laughing loudly. The light and noise broke the strange fragile spell between them.

David imagined going to Balfour, pressing his lips against the other man’s and whispering in his ear,Yes, it was good. Better than good. And,Come to bed with me.Stay the night.

Instead he nodded once, his expression carefully blank. “Good night, Mr. Balfour.”

Once inside, he went straight up to his chamber where he stripped off his clothes and got into bed. There he lay, awake, reliving every second of that brief, intense, unexpected encounter, before finally falling into a fitful sleep in the early hours. By the time he woke the next morning, Murdo Balfour was long gone.