Page 34

Thirty-Three

KILMARNOCK ABBEY, EDINBURGH - AUGUST 1, 1816

TOM

Anticipation crawled along my spine. Weeks. It had been weeks since Xander and I had a moment alone that wasn’t stolen in a garden shed. Even with our new help, the wait had been agonizing.

Sorcha’s room was first. As a gentleman, I completely agreed with that choice. As a man in desperate need of privacy—well, I’d been so devastated by the pronouncement that I accidentally sawed through the dining table. Much to the amusement of Sorcha, Lock, and Murray, who’d been nearby when I lifted the board I’d been sawing to find a lengthy jagged slash in the mahogany.

Then Miss Gillan and Kenna from the molly house needed a room. It wasn’t proper for the ladies to sleep in the kitchens, not with all the other folks milling about.

Finally, Xander’s room was finished—which was thrilling right up until the moment I realized that I absolutely could not sneak past a host of folks sleeping in the kitchens and drawing room.

And so I was forced to wait another week until a third upstairs room was believably serviceable so Godfrey and Miss Gillan would not question my change of rooms.

It was a cruel sort of torture after the freedom of the molly house. But tonight… I shuddered at the thought.

For some of the staff, Xander’s retreat—pleading exhaustion—was an exercise in futility. They all knew what we were about. But there were still a few requiring the illusion of propriety.

Still, Lock had given me a knowing look when I tried—unsuccessfully—to sneak the open bottle of whiskey when I retired precisely twenty minutes after Xander. Once it became clear that I hadn’t escaped notice, I grabbed the neck more pointedly and set off.

My blood thrummed through my veins, leaving me delightfully aware of every whisper of air and caress of my clothing.

The echo when I knocked on his door was only in my head.

Xander, clad in shirtsleeves and breeches with braces hanging fetchingly about the waist, opened the door without a word but with a glance down the hall. Once I was inside, he turned the lock with a definitive snap.

“Oh, good. You brought fortifications,” he said, taking the whiskey from me. He popped the cork before taking a swift gulp directly from the bottle, followed by a gasping breath through his teeth.

“Are you nervous?” Much as I tried to mask it, my incredulity shone through.

“Of course. It’s been years. And it’s you,” he explained as he handed me back the bottle. The whiskey was cheap, its caramel flavor brief and false before the astringent bite of alcohol overwhelmed my taste buds and clawed my throat on the way down.

“You’re supposed to be the confident one in this.”

He plucked the bottle from my hand again and took another swig, wincing as he did so. “This is truly terrible. Who brought this? Lock?”

“Murray, I think.”

Apparently, it was not so terrible as to prevent him from taking another sip. “Hopefully his oil is better than his drink,” he mumbled before passing the whiskey back. “So we’re both nervous.”

“Yes. We should… talk about it? That seems like the best choice.”

The whiskey wasn’t any more pleasant on my second drink.

He shrugged. “I’m nervous that you won’t enjoy it, that you’ll decide it’s not everything you hoped for and you will leave me and return to London to marry some pretty, bland debutant and have perfectly gangly children.”

“My children wouldn’t be gangly,” I protested instinctively before the rest of his concerns settled into place. “But you should know, I’ve never, not once since the moment we met, had a desire to marry a pretty, bland debutante and have perfect, not-at-all-gangly children. In fact, you’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to marry.”

He choked on the whiskey and broke into a hacking cough. “What?”

“I know it’s not possible. I’m not— I understand. But if I had my choice… If I could choose anyone in the world, I would choose you.”

Xander surged forward and pressed his lips against mine firmly, immobile, but passionate all the same. When he pulled away, his eyes flicked to mine before dropping to trace the whole of me. With a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, he bent to set the whiskey on the trunk by the door.

“You would marry me,” he repeated in a low grumble.

“Yes.”

Broad hands shoved my coat off my shoulders to pile on the floor, landing as a whispered promise of more to come.

“Over anyone else in the entire world.”

Deft fingers traced my chest to find the topmost button on my waistcoat. It was only a moment before it joined the growing pile.

“Yes.”

Xander’s warm hand cupped my cheek while the other settled above my heart. “Christ, you make me want to be brave. It is by far your most irritating quality, you know. I wasn’t supposed to fall in love. Not ever. I was supposed to marry the pretty, bland debutant. I was supposed to have children with limbs of a reasonable length. I was supposed to do my duty by my title. And none of those things required love—in fact, they were the antithesis of love.”

The hand on my cheek slipped around to the back of my neck and pulled me into a passionate kiss. I couldn’t think, could hardly move. It was all too heady and before I’d managed to sink into him, Xander pulled back.

“But you,” he continued. “You barge your way into my life with your too-innocent eyes, too-pretty lips, and too-long legs. And somehow, with one teasing smile, you have me tearing down every guard post, burning every fence. Everything I put in place to protect myself, to fulfill my role is in ashes at your feet.”

“Xander…”

His breath was heavy, his chest rising and falling, entirely empty of resistance. “I love you.”

“You do?”

“Yes, and it is entirely your fault. You’ll have to deal with the ramifications of it.”

I felt my lips curve into a closed smile. “And what are those?”

“I am entirely incapable of guile—my face and hands reveal everything. I become easily flustered. I fret about absolutely everything. I’m needy, and in the winter my feet are always cold. These are all now your problems to manage.”

I nodded solemnly. “I can do that. Do you know why?”

His lips slid to the left side of his face in his version of an inverted smile. “I do, but I’d like to hear you say it all the same. Because I’m needy.”

“I love you too.” He surged forward, his arms wrapping around my neck as his lips slipped between mine.

Xander kissed away my nerves, and I could sense the moment—in the tightness of his shoulders, in the arch of his spine, in his responsive moans—when I kissed away his.

He broke away, working my shirt over my head even as he urged me back toward the bed. “Did you have thoughts?”

“Not coherent ones.”

His smile was small and easy. “Good to know. About tonight, I meant. Did you want to…”

“Bugger or be buggered?” I supplied in a mocking tone.

The answering sigh was indulgent. “I was searching for a more romantic term. But yes, that was the totality of the question.”

“I had thought you, inside me, I mean.” His eyes widened in surprise. “But if you had other ideas I would not be opposed to?—”

“No, I— No, it’s perfect. I just thought you would prefer the other way around.”

“Is it wrong? To?—”

“No,” he insisted. “Nothing we do in here is wrong. Not ever.”

I nodded, distracting myself by pulling his shirt over his head and dragging his lips back to mine. I’d grown to love the feel of his chest pressed against my own and tonight was no different. The sensation of coarse hair catching mine had shudders traveling down my spine.

When he pushed me back to collapse onto the bed, the shudders became a groan. Xander found my boot with both hands, tugging off first one, then the other. His soft chuckle when the second came off had my brow furrowing in confusion.

“What?”

“Your stockings.”

“What about them?”

“They don’t match.” My laughter joined his.

“I cannot tell the difference. You know that.”

“Trust me, I know. I have to look at your waistcoats all day long.”

“What?”

“Oh, yes, they’re wretched,” he explained, working the buttons on my breeches. “I’ll be selecting them from now on. Consider it one of the ramifications.”

He nodded at me to lift up at the waist and pulled my breeches and stockings free. Eagerly, I set to work on his.

“Such a hardship,” I muttered, as though the real hardship was not that it had been days since I’d had the hard cock in front of me in my mouth—a hardship I immediately rectified.

Xander encouraged my attentions with a groan, carding a hand through my hair in that way he knew I liked. “Look at you…” he breathed. “You look so pretty like this.”

My moan had his fingers tightening before he pulled me off with an obscene pop. “Get in the center of the bed,” he grumbled, low and graveled.

I scrambled back to follow his instructions, stacking pillows behind my head. It was a luxury, stretching out along a bed. Soft mattresses and new linens welcomed me. And when Xander, now freed from the trappings of his breeches, fell atop me with an eager kiss, it felt like heaven.

We rutted against each other in an inelegant but overwhelming heap of flesh and moans.

“Are you certain?” he whispered against my neck.

“I’ve always been certain about you.”

I felt his eyes squeeze shut against the corner of my neck and shoulder and cradled the back of his head there for a moment. Tenderness washed over me, swirling with the lust.

“All right, that was the last beautiful, sentimental thing you’re allowed to say tonight. Otherwise, I might die.”

“Of course,” I laughed. “Absolute filth from now on. Now fuck me, please.”

Xander’s answer was half groan, half chuckle. “So polite.” He leaned over me, reaching for a chest that was functioning as a side table. “Questions before we begin? Concerns?” He snatched a small glass bottle and a handkerchief off the top. My stomach clenched in understanding at the sight.

“Yes, how long before you cease with the stalling and we begin the fucking?”

“Ugh, you are far too coherent. And impertinent.” Amid his complaints, he pulled the decorative glass stopper from the bottle. It was a pretty thing, molded and etched into an elaborate pattern I couldn’t make out. It was so absurdly Xander, selecting a beautiful bottle for this. He loved beautiful things. He loved me.

With slick, light fingers, he traced the lines of my cock. “That is not where that goes,” I pointed out helpfully.

His smile was wry as he retorted, “So you wanted a dry prick to stroke while I fuck you?”

I shrugged, ignoring the answering throb in said cock. “Valid. As you were.”

In a reward for my agreement, he twisted his hand at my tip with a gentle squeeze, before pulling it free.

“Grab a pillow,” he commanded.

Sensing his plan, I considered the ones surrounding me for a moment. I rather thought the pillow would be relegated to this use after I chose. I pressed my hips up and he helped me position it.

He took a moment, dark eyes flicking up and down my body. “I’m going to paint you like this one day.” The tone was matter-of-fact, and somehow my body comprehended the words before my head, my belly tightening and my toes curling into the new mattress.

“Yes, please.”

The stopper clinked against the glass bottle as he dabbed a bit more oil on his hand, slicking up his fingers. I opened my mouth to offer some insolent comment or other. Before I could, he leaned forward and caught my lips in a kiss that was instantly filthy.

Christ, I loved kissing this man. And I especially loved it when his oiled finger snaked between my legs to my opening. His tongue ravaged, even as his finger caressed. Once, twice, three times he circled before pressing oh-so-softly inside.

The sensation was odd, but not unpleasant, and the understanding of what was happening, and who it was happening with, was more than enough to make it arousing. Enveloped from below in soft linens and covered above by hard Xander, his prick sliding against my own, I was panting and breathless already when he found it.

I thought I understood on an intellectual level—but, Christ, this was something else. Every nerve in my body was connected to this one place and Alexander Hasket was playing it like a goddamn fiddle.

“Not so cocky now, are we?” he asked as I thrashed below him. Thrusting against his finger as I desperately searched for more but found too much.

“Xander, Xander, please.”

“More?”

I nodded frantically, but then his finger pulled away and I couldn’t help but cry out.

“Shh,” he whispered, returning with a second finger to destroy my sanity. “That’s better, isn’t it?” His fingers settled into some kind of rhythm that was at once more satisfying than my spasmodic thrusting—and more torturous.

“Christ, you look lovely like this. Someday I’m going to do just this until you beg me to stop.” He could do this forever. I was certain I would never beg him to stop. I could never get enough of this.

My whimpers sounded pathetic even to my ears, but I wasn’t capable of stopping them. There was only one thing that could make this better.

“Are you ready now? You want my cock?”

Between panted “Yeses” and overwrought nods, he must have taken my meaning because his fingers slid out. My whimper turned into a groan when I felt his cock brush my entrance.

“Fuck,” he muttered and reached for the oil again. “Forgot.”

My shuddered breaths filled the room as I waited for him to slick up his stand. He caught my hand, untangled it from the bed linens, and wrapped it around my prick. “Play with your pretty cock, make it feel good.” He said it as though it wasn’t the single most arousing sentence ever uttered, chuckling softly as I groaned.

And then he was back at my entrance, pressing slowly, gently, waiting for me to give way. When it finally obeyed my will, it was ecstasy. There was the strange fullness again, but this time I knew what was to come. I waited, tracing the lines of my cock with bated breath as he sank inside me with muted thrusts.

Above me, his eyes were squeezed shut—in discomfort or bliss, I couldn’t tell. It was probably a mixture of both, like me. But when his cock brushed against that spot, just once, all thought abandoned me.

And once he found it, Xander was relentless in his determination to drive reason from my body. Sweat dripped from his forehead to mix with my own atop my shuddering form. One hand pulled my cock while the other grabbed at any part of him I could reach as he tortured me with pleasure.

“Are you close?” he panted.

I must have nodded, because his hand found my cheek. “Eyes open, I want to watch you peak on my cock.”

“Fuck…” I groaned, hand tightening on my prick.

“You’re going to make me climax when you do. And then you’re mine forever. Do you understand?”

Apparently my intended yes was incoherent because he added, “Say yes.”

“Yes, God yes. Anything. Forever. Yours.”

He thrust once more, hard, at just the right angle with a single word. “Peak,” he demanded. And I spilled in great shuddering, whimpering breaths across my chest. A second later his eyes squeezed shut on a groan and then he stilled inside me.

It took a moment for anything but the most involuntary movements to return, but eventually I was forced to consciously unclench every muscle and brush away the tears that had escaped unbidden.

Xander, it seemed, had no such problems because he collapsed all at once atop me in a sweaty, satisfied masculine heap. Hot breaths whispered across the hair on my chest. Once I could convince my arm to move, I buried it in his dark strands, keeping him pressed safely against me.

For long moments, we lay there, catching our breaths as sweat cooled in the night air.

“Say something irreverent, please,” Xander murmured against my chest.

“I think you fucked the irreverence out of me. I’m entirely filled with reverence.”

“That will have to do for present. I’m going to move now, it will feel odd,” he explained. He was right. My whimper was pathetic and I was left feeling wrung out, empty. He reached for the handkerchief to clean us both up.

Eventually, he collapsed alongside me once again, tucking into my chest as I wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He traced the hair he found there with teasing swirls.

“I think I need to paint you like this too. Thoroughly fucked—by me.”

I hummed. “You can paint me any way you’d like. And you can thoroughly fuck me any time you’d like.”

“So it was good?”

“Fuck, Xander. My spine is still soup.”

“Soup?” The mirth was clear in his voice.

“You fucked the sense right out of me. I cannot be responsible for my choice of metaphors.”

“Noted.”

“We have got to find a way to ensure privacy. Because I’m going to want this all the time. Literally.”

“Agreed.” He murmured into my neck. “All the time. Forever.”