Page 27 of To Sketch a Scandal (Lucky Lovers of London #4)

Warren became fixated on Matty’s mouth. It was not what he’d planned on—the cream was right there, after all—but he couldn’t resist the supplication.

In fact, he’d resisted Matty’s eagerness about as much as he could in his quest to stop time.

He was panting and every bit of him was aching for more.

He unfastened his own falls while Matty scrambled to sit up against the pillows, licking his lips and staring hungrily as Warren took out his own cock and stroked it.

“This will keep you quiet?” he whispered.

When Matty nodded, eyes wide, Warren did the obvious thing with just a touch of regret. The end of this was on its way—he wasn’t going to last long.

But the regret was not as strong as the desire, and when he found Matty’s mouth so warm, receptive, and skilled, he could regret nothing at all as the moment it seemed he’d been wait ing for since he first set eyes on this fellow moved closer and closer.

Matty took him very eagerly, very expertly, and the perfection of his slick movements overcame Warren much, much too quickly, eyes and jaw squeezed shut against the onslaught of his release.

Spent, he moved back. Before him, Matty looked absolutely debauched.

Warren had mussed the man’s hair past the point of recognition in his passion; his lips were bright red, eyelids heavy and chest heaving.

There was nothing calm, nothing measured, nothing blank about him whatsoever.

He was stroking himself like he’d lost all sense of anything else as he drank Warren in, as if the sight was the thing that would cool the fever that had pinked up his cheeks and the pale skin of his chest.

More clearheaded now, but still very much engaged, Warren took the task over for Matty, slowing the pace until he was squirming and begging quietly, almost silently, but with a desperation that Warren finally took pity on, leaning down to taste and suck.

Still slow, still lingering, still insisting on this lasting just a little bit longer until the delay finally drove poor Matty to grasp the back of Warren’s head, urging him on until at last he swelled and tensed and released the flood of his crisis into Warren’s ready throat.

They lay together for a bit, Warren’s head on Matty’s belly as Matty stroked his hair very sweetly.

Their one time was technically over, perhaps, but it occurred to Warren, as warm, midday sleepiness came upon him, that there was no need to make that final declaration right away.

No one waiting for the room. No public place that could be interrupted at any moment.

They’d been quiet enough to be left alone, and could linger in this haze of consummation for as long as they cared to.

And it seemed they both cared to for quite a while.

At last, though, at some silently-agreed-upon point, they sat up, smoothing hair and straightening clothes.

“Artfully done,” Matty quipped quietly. “I’d say I learned a few things in your tutelage today.”

“Glad to hear it.”

While Warren kept his tone light, a sadness was coming over him.

It was clearly time for him to leave, but he did not want to.

Leaving. Always the leaving, so quickly it seemed sometimes, to return to the club or the cleanup or simply to escape the possibility of a dreaded feeling that might threaten the careful reputation he’d built.

But it was daytime. He wasn’t shackled to that reputation at this hour, and the fact was, he didn’t want to leave.

He wanted this day to continue. The coupling had been lovely, but it did not quell his desire to draw Matty again, disheveled and loose-limbed as he was right now.

To hear Matty’s little jokes and odd perspectives.

To learn more about who he’d been, who he was now, and what exactly was going to become of him if he could not solve this art fraud case, because Warren was suddenly worried for the chap and invested in his well-being.

But that wasn’t the agreement. Warren reluctantly left the warmth of the bed, finding his jacket, his sketchbook, and hopefully his reason somewhere among the mess they’d made.

“I’ll see you in class, then, I suppose,” he said.

“All art from here on out?” Matty asked. It seemed to surprise him, that he’d posed it as a question.

It gave Warren pause, but not for long. Matty, after all, was not really an art class chum, but a lawman.

Not a typical one, sure, but his pay came from the same pot as it did for the blokes with the bats.

He was a risk. He was a hypocrite. He was no one Warren had any business lingering with further, or frankly, even liking quite as much as he did.

Warren put his hat on, waving amicably even as some foolish part of him begged to be allowed to stay just a little bit longer.

“All art,” he agreed. “From here on out.”

* * *

“How was your class, Warren?” Harry asked over dinner that night. “Are you learning much?”

It was far from the first time Harry had asked that question, but today it startled Warren so badly he dropped his fork with an unpleasant clink against the fine new dish that had recently replaced the old mismatched ones.

He awkwardly scrambled for the wayward fork, gathering it up to find the handle—and thus his hand—now covered in curry.

As he reached for his napkin, he found that everyone was staring at him, everyone tonight being the three members of his family and two of their wealthier new neighbors that Mother had befriended and was trying to impress.

When he was done with the napkin, he went ahead and reached for his wine as well, face hot with embarrassment.

“Are you alright, Warren?” Mother asked.

“Fine, yes. Sorry.” He smiled winningly at the neighbors, a wispy blonde woman and her ruddy husband. They softened quickly—he knew his way around a smile. “Distracted, that’s all.”

“Not by anything unpleasant, I hope,” said the neighbor woman politely.

Unpleasant? Hardly. He was distracted by thoughts of Matty asking him to come over. The feel of them sitting side by side on the bed. That pride when Matty’s drawing turned out better than expected. The heat of the moan he’d lost against Warren’s palm.

“N-not unpleasant, no,” he said, reaching for a dinner roll that was only slightly overcooked—with company coming over, Anjali had only been permitted to handle the bread, and even then, only an English style.

Something about not embarrassing entire continents in front of the neighbors, please .

“It was a very good class, actually. Enough so that I find I’m still thinking about it hours later. ”

“Lovely!” Harry reached over to give Warren’s shoulder a friendly jostle that the proper neighbors eyed with a sort of polite confusion. “Really lovely, Warren. What was so good about it, do you think?”

“Oh. Um.” Warren sipped his wine to buy himself time.

“Just. Appreciation, is all. The instructors are pleased with my work, and some of the other students have taken note as well. I’ve been helping one of them.

Some of them.” He corrected, not quite honestly.

“Not just one, of course. You know. Since Father gave me a nice head start in some of these skills. And my…” What was Matty, in this version of the truth?

“My friend who I was helping—one of them—made some very nice progress. It’s a good feeling, to be helpful, particularly after…

” He locked eyes briefly with Anjali, who, thank goodness, shook her head to keep him from saying anything even more embarrassing than he already had.

He lifted his glass cheerfully. “Just nice to be helpful. That’s all. ”

“What a charming son you have, Mrs. Bakshi,” said the neighbor woman, turning a bit pink.

Mother smiled graciously. “To a fault, almost.”

“You know, Warren,” said Harry, who thus far, with his eccentric clothing and wild tales of travel, had seemed to alarm more than charm the neighbors.

Everyone was clearly a little anxious to hear what he was about to suggest. “I’m sure we’d all love to see what you’ve been working on.

He’s been dreadfully cagey about it,” he muttered to the neighbor gentleman.

“But tonight seems as good a night as any for the big reveal.”

Warren felt his face get very hot again. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“I think,” said Mother, looking at him seriously. “That it’s a brilliant idea. After supper, let’s all retire to the drawing room and have a look, shall we? Before you fellows go upstairs for your port?”

Port. Right. That whole after-supper, separate-spheres song and dance was a rather bewildering custom that Warren still was not used to even after a few of these higher-society dinner parties.

His parents used to do it, back when their status was middling, but he’d been just a bit too young before their fortunes changed to have ever gone off with the men once dinner was done and polite society dictated it was time to split off.

Now that he was expected in the parlor with port in hand, he found it was not nearly so interesting as he’d imagined it would be when he was younger.

At this point, he had very little to discuss with proper men, growing bored quickly.

So while he was very hesitant to show his work, the idea of delaying the inevitable hour of choking down port (he much preferred gin) while Harry scandalized the ears off this dull bloke with exaggerated tales was admittedly tempting.

And so, after the dessert was cleared (some part-time staff was brought in for these engagements while the Bakshis sorted out their continued domestic angst, which, for all the distress it was causing right now, would likely end with more full-time staff in the long run anyway), Warren fetched his sketchbook from his room.

He flipped through it before committing.

When he got to the last picture in the book, the one he’d done of Matty earlier that day when they were side by side on the bed, he strongly considered ripping it out.

There was nothing indecent about it out of context, but the moment he laid eyes on it, a sad, tight longing stretched through his chest, one he worried might be visible to an outsider.

Within seconds, he could no longer even think of the task at hand, consumed with other considerations.

Like whether Matty would still want help with the drawing, now that they’d passed through their singular moment of passion.

And more importantly whether, if he did, Warren should give it.

Certainly not. His attraction to this fellow was strong, and showing no signs of weakening anytime soon.

Their indul gence had done nothing but capture every inch of his mind not already consumed with thoughts of what if .

If the desire were solely physical, it would be easier.

That sort of thing came cheap enough. It was the other desire that scared him, the one that was still in fits that they’d not had more opportunity to talk, or create, or take another meal together.

As he stared at his work, though, he had to wonder why he’d felt closed off from those things.

It was the physical, after all, that was the danger.

There was nothing illegal or even untoward about striking up a friendship in one’s art class.

None of Forester’s concerns applied to a pair of companions.

But the loudest concerns didn’t actually seem to be coming from Forester.

They came from Warren Bakshi the barkeep , who was determined not to get attached to any particular notch, lest he prove himself another sappy sod, give up all his rakish allure, and lose the place in the world that had meant so much to him all these years.

Particularly now, when his place at home was so strange and uncertain.

But surely it wasn’t romantic anyway. His feelings were friendly, was all. He was being helpful. And there was no bloody harm in that. None at all.

He opted to leave the picture in, and he was glad he did. It was the best thing he’d done so far. When he brought it downstairs, it garnered approval from Harry, smiles from Anjali, misty eyes from Mother, and polite noises from the neighbors.

“Is that your friend, then?” Anjali asked after she’d had a good look. “What’s his name?”

“Matthew Shaw,” Warren said, ignoring how sweet the syllables tasted on his tongue and determining to chase them out with a little extra port soon enough. “And yes, he’s the friend I’ve been helping, and may continue to do so, should he need it.”