A Proper Lover (Ganymede Quartet Book 2) (15 page)

Something about the violin’s tone was so plaintive and needy, so full of longing for the drag of the bow, and Henry wanted to feel what the violin felt, wanted to feel that drag against his quivering prick. He arched his back a little and concentrated his touch on the wet head that felt so raw and skinless and made him shiver as his fingers slid over its curve.

He wondered if Martin could manage to play while they fucked, if he could ride Henry’s cock while producing coherent notes, and thought that this probably wasn’t the case, although the idea of their bodies joined in the music was terribly erotic.

He was close now, and part of him wanted Martin to catch him in the act, but it would only be good if Martin saw him on his own, not if Henry called out and drew his attention. His hand sped up over his prick and his breath caught in his throat. He alternated between wanting to be caught and wanting to get away with something and the pressure built up and up at the base of his cock. The head was exquisitely tender and wet under his fingertips. Any moment now, he’d come.

Martin hit a sour note and swore under his breath. “
Shit
.” Then, “Oh,
Sir
!”

Henry opened his eyes and blushed. His hand faltered.

“No, Henry,
please
,” Martin said, his voice pressured and excited. “Don’t stop. Show me.”

“Keep playing,” Henry managed, his voice strained. He made his hand keep moving despite his embarrassment, despite how exposed he felt.

Martin came to stand at the bedside, his legs pressed against the side of the mattress, and tucked the violin under his chin. He played one of the fast sections, one he was especially adept at, and Henry shuddered with the notes and arched his back and came with a stifled moan, catching most of his mess with the handkerchief.

Martin put the violin down. “Oh, my god, Sir!
Henry
!” He bent and kissed Henry hungrily. “What were you
doing
?”

His face shamefully hot, Henry said, “I-I really like the way you play, Martin,” and then flushed an even darker red.

Martin was so aroused he was shaking, and his hard cock was plain to see through his fawn trousers. “Oh, Sir,” he said, “I never imagined that you…that anyone…” He shook his head, disbelieving and delighted. “I had no idea you liked it so much, Henry. I’m so flattered!”

Henry put his hand on Martin’s cloth-covered cock and Martin leaned into the touch. “What about you, then?”

Martin put his hand over Henry’s and squeezed. “Take off your shirt, Sir.” He took a half-step back, out of Henry’s reach, and worked the buttons of his own trousers with trembling hands.

Henry reached for his waistcoat buttons, noting with dismay that he’d gotten a few drops of semen on the wool, and began to undo them. “Okay. What for?”

Martin bit his lip, spots of color high in his cheeks. In a husky voice, he said, “I want to come on your chest, Henry. On your skin. Can I do that?”

“
Yes
.” Henry hurried to unbutton his waistcoat and shrugged it off, let his braces fall around his hips, and tugged impatiently at his collar.

“Let me,” Martin said, stepping in to help. Together they unfastened Henry’s collar and cuffs. Henry pulled his shirt off overhead, and when his head emerged from the collar, Martin was there to kiss him hungrily while he shook his hands free of the sleeves.

Martin had come on his chest lots of times before, but always in the context of riding Henry’s cock. He’d never stood over him fully dressed and done it, and the idea made Henry feel a little ashamed, but it made his pulse pound nonetheless.

Martin held his cock in his left hand, and touched Henry’s chest with the right. “Come closer, Sir.”

Henry shifted himself over and lay on his side near the edge of the bed, propped up on his elbow, knee bent, presenting his chest hopefully, excited and a little anxious. His nipples were hard and tingling, sensitized. Martin lightly pinched first one and then the other, just the barest contact, sending jolts of sensation to Henry’s cock and making him jump.

Martin held his shirttail up out of the way with his right hand and the way he touched himself with the left reminded Henry of the way he handled the violin, with loving skill, sensual and confident. Henry moaned softly and blushed, and Martin smiled down at him.

“What is it you like about the way I play, Henry?” Martin asked, slightly breathless. “What’s so exciting?”

“I-it’s just wood and strings,” Henry explained shyly, “But you make these
sounds
come out of it, like it’s a living thing and you’re teasing it or, or coaxing it, like you’re making love to it and it’s crying out.” The words all came out in a rush and Henry looked up apprehensively, worried that Martin would laugh at him, but Martin seemed to like this answer.

“Really, Sir?” he murmured, his hand now eliciting wet, slippery sounds over the length of his cock. “It feels that way sometimes, but I never imagined anyone would ever
hear
it.” He sighed and let his head fall back. “I love that you showed me that, Henry. You touching your beautiful cock.” He shifted from one foot to the other and leaned forward a little, bringing his cock closer to Henry. In a wistful, needy voice, he asked, “Will you touch me, Sir? Just anywhere, please. I just want to feel your hand.”

Henry pushed out of his slouched position to hold himself upright with a straight arm, his chest that much closer to Martin’s cock. He reached for Martin’s hip, pulling trousers and drawers down so he might touch skin, and Martin leaned into the contact. Martin’s hand began to move faster over his cock and he brought a bent knee up onto the bed to take his weight as he leaned in closer. Martin’s eyes were nearly closed, his mouth slightly open, and a look of intense concentration furrowed his brow.

“I like it when you come on me,” Henry offered, hoping Martin would want to hear it.

“Why do you like it, Sir?” Martin looked down at him, lip held between his teeth and rubbed the head of his cock.

“It’s a shock,” Henry told him, caressing his hip, “it’s hot, like a sting.”

Martin inhaled sharply and shuddered. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, Henry, that’s good, it really is.” His hand moved apace and he let his shirttail drop so that he could touch Henry’s chest, teasing his hard little nipple. He pinched it hard enough to make Henry cry out and just as quickly let go. “Oh, Sir,” he said. “Oh, god,
Henry
.” He came in hot spurts against Henry’s chest, and it did startle Henry, as it always did. Some of the semen landed in his chest hair, but most landed on bare skin, and it ran slowly down his ribs as Martin pulled him in for a brief embrace through the last of his shudders, his hand in Henry’s hair and Henry’s face pressed against his belly.

“Lie back now, Henry.”

Henry did so, but asked, “What for?”

“I want to clean you up, Sir.” Martin got on the bed and bent over him and Henry was confused for a moment, expecting Martin to go for a cloth, but instead he lowered his head and began to lick Henry’s sticky skin clean.

Henry gasped and clutched at Martin’s head. His cock was instantly hard again and he felt each swipe of Martin’s tongue as if it were applied directly to his cock. Oh, how he loved Martin’s filthy mouth!

Once Martin was satisfied that Henry was clean, he kissed him lingeringly, and it was peculiar to taste semen on Martin’s tongue but have it not be his own.

Henry took Martin’s hand by the wrist and put it on his cock, but Martin withdrew it.

“It’s my dinnertime, Sir, and I’m already late.” He ran his hand over Henry’s body, from the base of his cock to his collarbones, and let it settle over his heart. “Do you want me to help you finish undressing before I go?”

Henry would take whatever he could get. He stood and was undressed, his hard prick making its insistent presence known. Martin took hold of it too briefly and kissed Henry goodbye. “After your dinner, Sir, we’ll do anything you want.”

Alone in his room, naked and aroused, Henry squirmed restlessly on the rumpled bed and felt such longing for Martin that it seemed intolerable to be without him for even half an hour. The raging nature of his desire made Henry feel helpless and childish; if he were a true man, he’d surely have some perspective. If he were mature, he’d spend this time alone productively, perhaps doing his abandoned homework, but instead he was lying on his belly rutting against the bedcover and imagining Martin’s asshole quivering beneath his tongue.

His thoughts flew at a fever pitch, and such was his state that Henry never would have believed he could fall asleep, but he did. Henry dreamed that Martin pulled incredibly delicate, heart-rending music from Henry’s vulnerable body with his talented hands. Henry had never heard anything so lovely, but couldn’t remember a note of it when Martin returned to dress him.

On Saturday when Martin woke him, he asked Henry, “Do you remember, Sir, that you wanted to talk to Mr. Tim about his first master?”

“Yes, of course. I’m very curious.” He stretched and slipped his arms into the dressing gown that Martin held ready.

“I spoke with him about it again today at my breakfast, and he’s quite willing to tell you whatever you want to know. Would you want to have lunch with him—well,
us
, really—Sir?”

“Eat lunch with the slaves?” Henry was very much in favor!

“Yes, Sir. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“I’d love to,” Henry insisted. “I’ve wanted to eat with you ever since I brought you here.”

Martin seemed taken aback. “Really, Sir? Whatever for?”

Henry followed Martin into the bathroom and stood by while Martin turned on the water in the shower. “Because I want to know about your life, Martin. I want to know everything about you.”

“Oh, I think you know everything important, Sir,” Martin said dismissively, clearly not understanding that Henry really meant
everything
. He wanted to know which chair Martin sat in during his meals. He wanted to see what food Martin put on his plate and in what quantities, which things were his favorites. He wanted to see how Martin got along with the other Blackwell slaves, not just Timothy and the footmen. There was no detail too small, too insignificant, to arouse Henry’s interest.

Martin held out his hands expectantly and Henry turned so that Martin could relieve him of the dressing gown they’d just put on him moments before.

“I’d love to have lunch with you and Timothy,” Henry said again, stepping under the spray. “I’m looking forward to it.”

It was wet and dismal out, so Henry decided to forego a ride. After breakfast, he did all of his homework except the Latin while Martin played the partita. It seemed less arduous to do the schoolwork knowing that he was about to get such a special treat, this window into the lives of the household’s slaves, this chance to see Martin in a new context. After he was done (and after he had tucked away Dr. Foster’s translation mimeograph unread), he put his head down on his crossed forearms and listened to Martin play, very conscious of how he’d behaved the
last
time Martin had played and squirming a little in his chair.

Henry must have dozed a little; Martin stood behind him, his hands squeezing Henry’s shoulders.

“Sir? Do you want to go down to lunch?”

Henry stood and pulled Martin into an embrace. “Yes,” he said against Martin’s soft neck. He ran his hands all over Martin’s back, his ass, his upper arms, and kissed him hard. “Yes, that’s what I want to do.”

Henry had only ever been in the slaves’ mess when it was empty; it was a large room, but it seemed smaller now, full of people, all of whom stopped talking and stood up when Henry walked in behind Martin. Henry felt horribly self-conscious and felt his face grow hot, then hotter still.

Timothy sat at the head of the long table with a full plate in front of him. He stood as Henry approached. “Good afternoon, Sir,” he said. He nodded at the other people in the room. “You might put them at ease, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh,” Henry said. “Of course.” He turned to look at the silent, staring slaves. “Hello. Please, be about your business. Don’t let me keep you from your lunch.”

Henry’s remarks were met with a chorus of murmured
Good afternoon, Sir
s and
Thank you Sir
s and the slaves turned away from him one by one and resumed quiet conversations and ate their food.

Timothy gestured toward the chair at his right hand. “You might sit here, Sir, if it’s all right with you.”

“Yes, quite all right.”

Martin held out the chair and Henry sat.

“Let me prepare a plate for you, Sir,” Martin said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Thank you,” Henry told him. He looked around the room and noted that the slaves were congregating at the far end, many standing with their plates rather than sit in the presence of the young master, and he began to feel guilty for coming.

Timothy seemed to know what he was thinking. “They’ve been told they can sit with you, Sir,” he told him. “They’re being quite foolish. Don’t let it concern you.” He patted Henry’s arm.

Henry tried to do as Timothy suggested. “Who usually sits here?” he asked.

“Actually, Sir, that’s Martin’s chair. When Pearl joins us, she sits to my left, but she usually takes her meals with your mother. The other chairs aren’t assigned. Companions have a particular status, you see, Sir.”