A Proper Lover (Ganymede Quartet Book 2) (40 page)

“That was the best we’ve done today,” Martin said softly. “Don’t you think?”

It was by miles. “Definitely the best.” Henry kissed the top of Martin’s head.

They lay in contemplative silence a few minutes, a bubble of intimacy, Henry stroking Martin’s hair with shaking hands, full of feeling. Henry’s love felt too big for his body. It made him feel nobler than he possibly was. It might be the best thing about him.

“What are you thinking about, Henry?”

He answered readily. “How much I like you. How glad I am I found you.”

“I feel that too. We’re lucky, aren’t we?”

Henry felt quite confident that none of his friends shared this kind of precious closeness with his slave. He felt he truly was a proper lover to Martin, just as he wanted to be, and that it meant more than mere sex.

“No one matters more to me than
you
,” he said, giving it the force of a vow.

“I feel the same,” Martin said. “Not because you’re my master—not because it’s my work—but because I care for you, too.” He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Henry’s chest and then rubbed his cheek on the spot where he’d pressed his lips. “It hurt a little when I came,” he admitted, seeming more amused than upset.

Henry laughed. “I’m a little sore, too. How’s your ass?”

“It feels fine. It feels
good
.”

“Promise to say something if it’s too much.”

“It’s been only three times with my ass,” Martin pointed out. “We’ve done that lots of times before.”

“Promise.”

Martin’s sigh implied Henry was being ridiculous. “I promise.”

They stayed close and warm, Martin seeming content to stay put instead of bustling around with his basin, and Henry appreciated this. He must have dozed a little, because he was jolted alert by Martin asking a question.

“Henry, do you want to try one more time before I go down, or should we wait until after dinner?”

Henry felt heavy and slow, not at all up to the task. “What? Oh, let’s wait.”

Martin sat up and climbed over Henry and down off the bed, reaching for his basin on the nightstand. Henry was just grateful Martin had been willing to hold off as long as he had.

After Martin’s ablutions were complete, he stretched out on top of Henry, his hair spread across Henry’s face, and Henry reveled in the weight of him, the solidity. He was lean, but he was substantial and real. Henry wasn’t imagining him, even if he
was
something out of a dream.

“Are you thinking about what you want to do next?” Martin asked.

Henry laughed. Martin was so driven! “No, I haven’t thought about it at all.”

“You want to keep going, don’t you?” Martin seemed worried that this would not be the case.

Henry would keep going because that’s what Martin obviously wanted to do. He would endeavor to keep going until Martin was satisfied;
he
was already quite content.

“Of course we’ll keep going,” Henry told him. “I’ll think about what we should do while you’re at dinner.”

“I should get ready,” Martin said, rolling off of Henry and getting down from the bed. He moved about the room picking up the clothes they’d tossed on the floor. He hung Henry’s suit in the wardrobe, carried their soiled linens into his own room, and emerged fully dressed a short time later looking very proper, his hair pulled back neatly.

“Do you need anything before I go, Henry?”

“Just a kiss.”

Martin smiled and bent over him to give him a kiss, soft and sweet, before leaving.

Alone, Henry, did consider what they might do next. They had tried sex in all sorts of contorted positions in the past, but neither had ever wanted to revisit those poses. Some of the things Henry thought of seemed unduly taxing of one or the other of the parties involved; maybe it was enough to simply alternate general methods and follow Martin’s rule.

Henry slept again, this time without memorable dreams, and woke when Martin returned to dress him for his dinner. Martin admitted with some amused embarrassment that he must have been emitting some sort of inner red light, an erotic aura that hinted at how he’d spent his day, as Billy and Jerry had spent the dinner hour teasing him mercilessly about the more intimate aspects of his job.

“They wouldn’t let up, not until Mr. Tim told them to leave me alone.”

Henry didn’t like the sound of this. “Are you sure you’re okay with them treating you that way? I can say something about it.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine, Henry. It was embarrassing, but I’m a little proud, too. I don’t mind everyone knowing that I do a good job for you, and that I enjoy it. I would be a terrible companion otherwise, don’t you think?” He helped Henry on with his jacket and looked over his shoulder, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

“It makes it so much better that you enjoy it,” Henry assured him. “If I felt you were just putting up with it, I wouldn’t want to do it nearly so often. Probably not at all.”

“I love having sex with you,” Martin said simply and solemnly. He came around and ran his hands over the lapels of Henry’s jacket. “There, you’re ready.”

Henry ate his dinner without tasting it and was restless in the parlor while Pearl read, impatient to return to his marathon.

“You have the attention span of a gnat,” Father remarked about his fidgeting, and Henry blushed at his disapproval.

Released to return to his bedroom, Henry was undressed, and then Martin dealt with their laundry while Henry brushed his teeth. Henry was tired, maybe even a little tired of sex, but he determined he would soldier valiantly on so long as Martin needed him to do so. Upon Martin’s return, they made a seventh attempt, ultimately coming to a satisfactory conclusion as they sucked one another’s cocks. Before their eighth effort, both admitted to a little soreness and fatigue, but Martin adamantly wanted to continue, so Henry spooned and fucked him while they kissed.

The eighth orgasm was pleasurable and painful in equal measure. Henry was ready to be done, thinking eight times was quite enough, but Martin pressed for one more go.

“I’m sure we could have done it once more before dinner,” Martin said. “We should do it once more now to make up for not doing it then.”

“Do you think you can even come again?” Henry asked, feeling dubious about the prospect for himself.

“Yes,” Martin said firmly. “It might take a bit more work, but I’m sure I can.”

“All right,” Henry said. “Once more. Whatever it takes to get the job done, even if we have to break the rule.”

They tried a lot of different things, variations on themes. Henry came the ninth time with surprising ease with a combination of Martin’s mouth and hands. Martin took longer, straddling Henry’s waist and tugging on his own cock with Henry’s fingers hooked deep in his ass.

“Come on,” Henry urged. “Come for me, you dirty boy.”

“Oh, god,
Henry
!” Martin’s hand sped up.

“Come on me, Martin. Do it.”

Martin moaned and threw his head back. “
Henry!
”

“That’s right,” Henry said encouragingly. “Do it for me, Martin. Come for me.”

Martin hunched over, his hand moving erratically, and then stilled, the muscles in his stomach jumping as his cock jerked out a few paltry drops of jism onto Henry’s belly. “Oh,” he said, “Oh, god, Henry. That hurts!” He laughed and folded forward into Henry’s arms. “That really hurts!”

They rolled back and forth on the sheets, giggling. Henry teased, whispering, “One more time? Just once more?” and Martin laughed and shoved him away.

When at last Martin got up to fill his basin again (which Henry thought entirely unnecessary considering his meager final output), he moved a little gingerly.

“Are you in pain?”

Martin smiled at him. “I’m tender. It’s fine, though. I knew I would be but I wanted to do it anyway.” He wiped Henry’s chest clean with a dreamy smile. “We had a wonderful day, didn’t we?”

“It was amazing,” Henry agreed.

“I was right. We could have done it once more before dinner.”

“We did nine, though, Martin. Nine’s a lot.”

“It
is
a lot,” Martin conceded. “But ten would’ve been even better. Double digits!”

Martin returned his basin to the bathroom and then got into bed with Henry, curling up against his chest. Henry felt raw and tender, emotionally and physically, and he felt slightly in awe of Martin, whose endurance seemed almost heroic.

As he was falling asleep, sifting through the last traces of the glittering, epic affection that had fueled his day, Henry felt so very lucky, so blessed. His heart throbbed slow and heavy in his chest, aching with inchoate feelings.

In the aftermath of all their sex, Henry had a satisfying awareness of his physical self, a sense that he was a particularly sleek, robust animal, and he reveled in this confidence. He was not invincible, however, and he couldn’t help wondering what would happen if—
when
—his love for Martin continued to grow. He already felt quite at capacity, skin tight, bursting at the seams, with scarcely room enough to draw breath. If his affection increased, it seemed certain to blow him apart, and the idea was exhilarating and terrifying both. When Henry had dreamed of some intimacy with a boy, when it had all just been imaginings, he’d never suspected it could be so tender. Even the dirty moments, the rough moments, were sweet as nectar.

He was gripped by a strong desire to be vulnerable with Martin, to be utterly open to him, and he might have dared to say some extravagant, passionate words if Martin had been receptive, but Martin was already asleep, his breath warm against Henry’s throat. Henry smoothed his hair back from his forehead and kissed his fluttering eyelids. His affection for Martin was a pressure in his chest, in his throat, bringing tears to his eyes. He drew Martin closer still and fell asleep quickly, soothed by Martin’s steady breaths and the measured beats of his heart.

Sunday morning, Henry awoke with the muscles of his hips and ass pleasantly sore from his day of vigorous sex. Martin was only just up and out of bed, stretching with arms overhead and back arched, still naked. He had a handspan bruise on his hip and Henry felt a peculiar satisfaction knowing he’d put it there.

“Oh, you’re up early,” Martin noted with a smile, seeing that Henry was awake. “You don’t need to get up yet. You can sleep awhile longer if you’d like.”

“You should come back to bed,” Henry suggested, lifting the sheet in invitation. “It’s nice and warm.”

Martin smiled again, but shook his head. “I have to go down for my breakfast, Henry.”

“Eat with me instead. My parents are never there.”

“But they could be,” Martin pointed out. “Any day they might decide to eat with you, and I don’t want to go hungry.”

“I wouldn’t let you go hungry,” Henry promised. He patted the bed. “Just lie down with me a minute.”

Martin laughed and shook his head again. “I have to go downstairs. But if we’re lucky, I’ll be able to sit down with you while you eat, too.” He went into the bathroom and began running the taps for the shower.

Henry sighed and flopped back against his pillow. He shifted, noting the satisfying ache in his hips. He thought Martin would surely be sore, too, but suspected he would not mind the discomfort either. Thinking over their marathon day, Henry’s cock stiffened and he petted it idly, a soothing gesture, while he remembered particularly tender moments, specific angles, the roughness of Martin’s cries and the softness of his mouth.

After an efficient few minutes, the shower was shut off, and moments later a steamy mist emanated from the hallway. Henry could hear Martin opening and closing drawers in his own room.

“Martin?” he called.

Martin appeared in the doorway dressed in fawn trousers and unbuttoned shirt. His hands went to the placket of the shirt as he said, “Yes, Henry?”

“How are you feeling this morning? Are you sore?”

Martin grinned, his cheeks pinking. He shook his head. “I feel good.”

Martin went downstairs, and Henry intended to go back to sleep, but his eyes didn’t want to stay closed. He rolled around restlessly, making a messy nest of the bed, and buried his face in Martin’s pillow, smelling his scent on the case.

While he was dreamily breathing in vetiver, he remembered that Louis had broken things off with Miss O’Malley last night while he’d been enjoying himself with Martin—while they’d been enjoying each other. Even if the break-up had gone relatively well for Louis, without tears or accusations, Henry imagined it couldn’t have been a particularly happy scene; after all, no matter how well Miss O’Malley took the news, Louis was still going to end up without a girl.

Henry couldn’t help comparing his own ideal situation to that of his friend and thinking how much better off Louis would be if only he felt for Peter what he’d claimed to feel for his Bridget.

Near lunchtime, and when he was sure the Briggs family would have returned from church, Henry called Louis to inquire about his evening.

“Come over,” Louis suggested. “I don’t want to talk about it over the telephone.” He didn’t sound happy, Henry noted.

After lunch, he and Martin walked up to the Briggs house, Martin wincing a little from time to time.