Resigned to continue the occasional secretive dalliance, he buried his desires deep once more. Nathan pulled the blanket off Stackpool and slid his arms around the cloak wrapped bundle. Stackpool stirred, rippling against Nathan’s chest with a contented sigh. The sound made him think of kisses: languid, liquid heat shifting between their frantic tongues. Stackpool was one hell of a kisser. Even high on the opium they’d fed him, he’d devastated Nathan; shaken his view of the world.
Trapping his burden close against his chest, Nathan navigated the doorway and crossed the drive. He had them inside the sitting room in a moment. Stackpool moaned as Nathan settled him onto a dust cloth covered settee. He scrounged for a blanket and covered him over. The man burrowed into the cushions; asleep again in moments, but the sour stench of white smoke clung to him.
~ * ~
Warmth, this time liquid and good, slid over his skin in seductive waves. Henry was floating, it seemed, but there was movement against him.
Hands, gentle, thorough, glided over his skin, cupped his balls and prick briefly then slid down his legs. He wanted more touch to his prick. He wanted pleasure.
Although it was difficult, Henry opened his eyes and tried to focus on the room around him. A large hearth burned hot and a copper tub held him suspended in deep water. This dream had turned practical. He could laugh he supposed, but that required effort he didn’t want to expend. His feet were moved, tantalizing sensations raising gooseflesh and awakening a part of him that always begged like a hungry dog for scraps of attention.
He turned his head to see who teased him.
His fantasy man hadn’t changed much. Regal, but disheveled. He remained trapped in a fantasy about his duke, his lord and master. But he wasn’t Henry’s. He’d never be naked around the morally upright Duke of Byworth.
Henry didn’t know how long his fantasy would last and he grew desperate to extend the pleasure. He grabbed the hand holding the washcloth and brought it to his groin. Slippery hands fumbled, but Henry held them firm against his quickening flesh. And then mercifully, the fingers moved, curling around his aching length, granting blessed friction.
Overwhelming need rocked him.
Since Henry was dreaming, he had no qualms about letting his fantasy duke service him. The duke appeared good at it, too. He tightened his fingers and quickened the pace, pulling pleasure up from Henry’s toes. He watched the impostor lick his lips and Henry caught His Grace’s hair and pulled. The duke grunted and Henry received a brief kiss. Too little. He needed more. Henry parted his lips and sought more, pressing ardent kisses to a mouth slack with surprise. But then his fantasy lord dragged in a groaning breath and kissed him back, hard, desperate kisses that made Henry’s head spin.
Their tongues touched; each eager to dominate the exchange. Henry was too tired to resist for long and he let the other man lead the pleasure. The duke kissed his jaw, his neck, but returned to obliterate all thought bar one.
Henry wanted to come in that pretty mouth. He wanted his prick nestled deep when his pleasure peaked, so he twisted, threaded his fingers into the dark locks and pushed the fantasy man’s head toward the water’s surface.
The man resisted, fingers stopped stroking his prick.
“Suck me,” Henry hissed. The dark head under his hand shuddered and then fingers gripped tight to pull his cockhead above water.
Warm breath stole over the tip. Shuddering, Henry widened his knees, tilting his hips in anticipation. Lips pressed to his prick and then the man tongued his slit. Blinding lust controlled Henry’s arm and he pushed against the dark head again. The scorching heat of a hungry, wet mouth enveloped his cockhead and extended down over his aching length. As the man struggled to take in more, tongue lapping at his shaft to ease the way, Henry’s prick thickened further.
The slow descent fired his pulse to dangerous levels and he clutched the dark locks to stay grounded. When lips enclosed most of his length he could do nothing but moan. His prick was buried deep, a tongue lapped at his length and then the man pulled back, to bob up and down in earnest. Delicious wet friction opened Henry’s eyes as the other man pulled pleasure from every nerve.
Cheeks hollowed as the duke sucked hard, and Henry had never seen a prettier sight. His fantasy duke was good. He devoured him whole, kept pleasure bubbling beneath the surface of his skin for a long time. Determined to enjoy the bounty within reach, he slid his hand over the other man’s back and closed on a firm, fleshy ass. A deep needy moan vibrated through Henry’s prick from his lover and his pleasure spiked, exploding into blinding heat as he filled the Duke of Byworth’s throat.
Chapter Six
Wholly hell, he was mad. Nathan rocked onto his heels, and stared at the limp prick he’d just devoured. It lay not quite flaccid on a bed of dark curls, bobbing beneath the soapy bath water and tempting him again. He wiped his damp face, and glanced at Stackpool.
But his steward had passed out, head turned to the side, mouth slightly open. He didn’t snore, but his breath sounded terrifyingly loud in the empty cottage.
Anyone could have walked in and caught them. “Hell.”
Stackpool flinched, sliding deeper into the copper tub until the water lapped under his chin. Not wanting him to drown, Nathan hooked his hands under Stackpool’s arms and pulled. Bathwater tumbled from Stackpool’s skin and drenched Nathan’s legs. The cloudy gaze of his steward focused and Stackpool smiled suddenly, appearing blindingly happy to see Nathan.
Prick throbbing in earnest, Nathan fought the desire to kiss his servant again. He had to get him squared away, and out of sight. Stackpool was heavy and slick with bathwater. Yet as ungainly as he was, Nathan managed to maneuver him into a hard chair.
Stackpool hissed as his weight settled on the chair.
“Sorry.” Grabbing up the length of towel, Nathan hurried to dry him, wiping gently over marks and scrapes that would ache in a day or two. “Damn it, Stackpool. What the devil were you doing with the Duke of Lewes?”
He hoped for a response, but got nothing for his patience. Sighing, he threw the towel and hefted Stackpool over his shoulder like a sack of grain. It was helpful that his servant was light, but after traversing half the staircase, sweat poured off Nathan in waves. He was getting weak. Either that or he was getting old. To preserve his ego, he settled on the former. He was only three and thirty.
Feeling the other man slipping, Nathan clapped his hand over Stackpool’s ass. His servant hissed in pain. Carefully, Nathan spread his fingers wide over the other man’s bare backside and negotiated the remaining stairs. The morning sun streamed through the open window and he gratefully deposited Stackpool on the only proper bed in the house. His.
Nathan leaned over Stackpool, tucking him beneath the thick linen sheets to rest. Poor fool. He’d curse the day when he fell in with the Duke of Lewes.
Nathan lingered while Stackpool fell asleep. His steward lay caressed by sunshine, yet he’d been found in the darkest place Nathan knew, an establishment whose veneer of respectability was too thin by far.
When Stackpool whimpered suddenly, Nathan laid his hand upon his servant’s bare shoulder. He stilled and Nathan let his thumb rub small circles between the angry red marks. What he really wanted to do was snatch the sheet back from his bare skin and take him into his mouth again.
Not trusting himself to linger without molesting Stackpool, Nathan left the room and descended the staircase. John Coachman had returned.
“Got everything you needed, Your Grace. Larder’s full and if it’s all right with you, I’ll tend Mr. Stackpool before seeing to your supper.”
“Stackpool is sleeping,” Nathan said quickly, determined to prevent anyone seeing what had become of the other man. “I’ve tended his wounds.”
Although the coachman raised a brow at Nathan’s words, he knew better than to question him.
Pleased that his title could be useful, Nathan dug in his pocket again. “After you’ve seen to supper and retrieve my possessions from Grantley, take yourself back to the village and spend the night at the inn. You may return in the morning, but I don’t want to hear that you wrecked the tavern like last time.”
John Coachman lowered his chin and muttered, “The man was rude.”
Nathan sighed. His coachman was something of a hothead, yet he wanted him far from his sight until his steward was himself again. “Never-the-less, we might be here as long as a week. Do not wear out your welcome or you’ll be sorry for it.”
“A week.” The coachman rubbed his hands together, anticipation evident in his smile. “Then I’ve got plenty of time to visit the widow on
Rose Street
. Always hinted I could stay.”
The coachman tipped his hat and hurried out the door.
Nathan stood at the back door until the servant had disappeared and then he walked out to the cliff.
The cottage stood on a high bluff, offering views of the ocean and occasional passing ships. This place was his refuge. He came here to escape his wife and his responsibilities, but he wasn’t alone this time, he had company. Delicious, masculine company.
That thought settled him to the ground and he hung his head, ashamed of what he’d done this morning. He’d taken a man’s prick deep into his throat. He’d greedily sucked in the ridged flesh, tasted the salty musk and brought Stackpool pleasure.
What made it worse was that Nathan had enjoyed it far more than was reasonable. And he wanted to do it again. Now. He wanted to taste all of his servant. But Stackpool was not himself and it was wrong to think like those brutes at Lewes’ house. He wasn’t like them—he wasn’t depraved, and Stackpool’s head was turned by a girl in a pretty dress, not the cut of a man’s waistcoat.
The sun stood high when Nathan returned to the house, but he was no closer to purging his soul of the unnatural desire to pleasure his servant again. He hurried upstairs but Stackpool slept deeply, not even stirring when Nathan placed his hand upon his hot skin. Afraid of what he wanted to do, Nathan backed away and descended to the small sitting room. His book lay where he’d left it on his last stay so he tucked it under his arm and headed outside to read.
Several times he checked on Stackpool. His servant moved a bit, but stayed deeply asleep, hair tossed across his cheek until Nathan swept it back with his thumb. As the sun set he entered the kitchen. A stew bubbled on the hearth, and Nathan lifted the lid, assailed by the most delicious smell. But he was starved for more than food. He wanted Stackpool awake.
He had an alarming need to hear his steward speak of his ordeal and confirm he was well. Nathan awkwardly scooped out two generous bowls of stew, tucked a loaf of bread under his arm, and hurried upstairs.
~ * ~
Henry could smell stew burning. The scent wafted under the sheet he’d pulled up over his face and teased him. His stomach rumbled, but he couldn’t determine if it was in anticipation or some other malady.
Silver clinked against porcelain and he turned his head to the sound. Still deep in fantasy, the Duke of Byworth watched from the dark edge of the room. But there was no hint of welcome, only silent contemplation. Henry couldn’t keep his eyes on a delusion so he glanced around the dim chamber. Plain, square, window sealed tight against the outside world. Henry didn’t recognize the dwelling and he turned back to the apparition. His Grace stood beside the bed, hands empty of spoon or bowl. Perhaps Henry merely dreamed.
“Mr. Stackpool.”
Henry gulped. Familiar voice—familiar greeting. “Your Grace.”
So, this wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare.
“How are you feeling?”
Henry had to think about it for quite a while. His brain didn’t want to catalogue anything but fatigue. He thought about his toes, legs, his ass hurt, his stomach cramped, his head ached. “I am well.”