All for One (25 page)

Benoît smiled. “Then perhaps I won’t look. We can save my first sight of you for more… inviting circumstances.”

They had reached the chamber pot, and Aristide worked to free himself from his breeches and undergarment, finding it cumbersome with only one hand. “You need not avert your gaze on my account. The thought of your eyes on me is always welcome, even in so humbling a situation as this.”

Benoît made sure Aristide was steady, fixing his eyes firmly on the wall until he heard the stream of liquid stop and the fumbling with clothing cease. A part of him wanted to look, but the musketeer deserved this much privacy, as little as it was. There would be time later for ogling his lover’s body.

While ensuring his aim and remaining steady on his feet took most of his concentration, Aristide could not help but note that Benoît kept his eyes averted until he had tucked himself back into his clothing. Wondering gloomily if the smith would ever be able to free himself of his inhibitions if he could not even bring himself to look at another man’s cock, the musketeer turned back toward the bed. Perhaps he was not as strong as he had hoped, if a few steps’ walk and back could weary him so quickly.

Helping Aristide return to the bed, Benoît fluffed the pillows behind his back. “Rest until Raúl gets here with your bath,” he urged. “You look peaked again.”

Aristide scarce had time to settle on the bed when the door banged open. This time the gypsy was followed in by the big Englishman, Hawkins, carrying a wooden tub, and by Esteban and the innkeeper, each carrying buckets of hot water.

“There, by the fireplace,” Raúl directed, though Gerrard had already started in that direction, more than passing familiar with the gypsy’s requirements when a patient was involved. Esteban and the innkeeper emptied the steaming water into the tub; then they all filed back out, Esteban with a wink for Benoît, Gerrard grabbing Raúl’s hand and pulling him away when he would have hesitated. “Enjoy your bath,” Gerrard said, shutting the door firmly behind them.

“I think you can put your arm over the edge of the tub to keep it dry while you bathe,” Benoît said, looking from Aristide to the tub and back again. He kissed his lover tenderly. “I’m sorry you’re hurt, but I’m not sorry I’m the one taking care of you.” He eased Aristide to his feet. “Do you need help undressing?”

“I can manage that, but I’ll need your help stepping into the bath.” Sitting up again, Aristide loosened his breeches and slid them down his hips as he stood, bracing himself against the mattress. Stepping with care from the pooled garment, he glanced at Benoît’s reddened cheeks and took a step toward the tub, not wanting to add to the younger man’s discomfort by stripping completely.

As touched by Aristide’s concern as he was amused by the image the musketeer presented, Benoît caught his arm, steadying him. “So you bathe in your smallclothes?” he asked teasingly. “Surely you will feel cleaner if you take them off before you take your bath.”

It was Aristide’s turn to flush slightly when the touch of Benoît’s hand on his arm set his cock astir. Hoping to get into the water before his condition worsened, he untied his underbreeches and let them fall to the floor, turning from Benoît toward the tub and reaching forward to brace himself against the rim.

Benoît paused only a moment to appreciate his first glimpse of Aristide’s bare buttocks. He needed to get the musketeer in the water, and that meant paying attention to things besides the other man’s rugged beauty. Sliding his arm beneath Aristide’s shoulders, he helped him step into the tub and sink into the hot water, his wounded arm well protected from getting wet. When Aristide was settled, Benoît picked up the washcloth and the sliver of soap. “Now, let’s see about getting you clean.”

The water’s heat seemed to drain the tenseness from Aristide’s muscles, and he was content to simply lounge in the bath, his bandaged arm resting on the rim of the tub, his knees drawn up before him as Benoît wet the cloth and ran it over his shoulder.

“Tell me if I do something wrong,” Benoît requested as he worked the cloth lower, across the hair-dusted chest and under Aristide’s raised arm. “I don’t want to hurt you or make you uncomfortable.”

“Feels good,” Aristide assured him in a low voice, the brush of the cloth over his chest tightening his nipples despite the water’s warmth. He met Benoît’s gaze, relieved to see the younger man was no longer blushing. “Nothing you do to me could be wrong.”

Benoît laughed. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I have a feeling I’ll make plenty of mistakes as we go forward. Just tell me if I do. I’d rather know.” He lingered over Aristide’s chest, watching in fascination as the musketeer’s nipples tightened visibly from his attentions. He raised startled eyes to Aristide’s face, marveling at the other man’s reaction to his touch. “You really do desire me.”

“Never doubt that,” Aristide asserted, catching Benoît’s hand and raising it his lips before releasing it. “Would that I could show you the pleasures of such a touch….” His damp knuckles brushed the front of Benoît’s shirt, caressing a nipple through the dampened fabric. “A touch, a kiss, can be as arousing to a man as to a woman.”

Benoît shivered at the bolt of lust that went through him at the simple touch. “I’m discovering that,” he replied, soaping the cloth again and cleaning Aristide’s wounded arm as best he could around the bandages. “I hope I’ll keep discovering it.”

Aristide was discovering that Benoît’s touch anywhere on his body could prove enticing as the smith continued to wash away the sweat and dried blood. “Just keep doing what you’re doing, and I wager you will discover much more.”

Needing no more encouragement than that, Benoît urged Aristide to lean forward, working his way down the strong back, stopping just short of the musketeer’s buttocks. He told himself he couldn’t wash there because of the way Aristide was sitting, but his blush belied his thoughts.

“Do you want me to stand?” Aristide asked when the cloth stilled, hoping as his blood grew warmer that Benoît’s curiosity would prove stronger than his modesty.

Benoît flushed hotly, curiosity vying with a lifetime of ingrained morality. He hesitated a moment, arguing with himself firmly that he had to stop reacting like a country bumpkin. If he wanted this relationship with Aristide, he had to accept everything that entailed. “I would be able to wash you better if you did,” he allowed. “Are you steady enough to stand? I don’t want you to slip in the tub.”

“Let me brace myself upon your shoulder.” Aristide’s hand settled on the strong muscle, feeling it flex beneath him as he eased himself up. Water sluiced from his skin when he rose, swaying slightly until he steadied on his feet.

Cheeks flaming still, Benoît took in his first glance of his soon-to-be lover naked—and quite aroused. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he reminded himself that his current task was to get Aristide clean and back in bed so he could recover, not to molest him. The temptation to reach out and touch, not to wash but to arouse, was nigh irresistible, though. Keeping his hands steady through force of will alone, he washed the rest of the musketeer’s back and down the backs of his long, long legs, trying his best not to linger on the firm globes of his buttocks.

Benoît’s hands moved over his buttocks more quickly than Aristide would have liked, though there was no hiding the effect on his thickened shaft. No longer embarrassed by his reaction, he squeezed the smith’s shoulder gently, proud to let Benoît perceive the extent of his desire.

Working his way around to the front of Aristide’s body, Benoît hesitated before resolutely reaching for the soap once more. He started to ready the cloth again, but knowing his own preferences, he changed his mind, setting the square of fabric aside and soaping his hands instead. “May I?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, his fingers a hair’s breadth from Aristide’s cock.

Aristide’s grip tightened, his cock twitching at the mere thought of Benoît’s hands on him, even though he knew the younger man’s intent was in no way erotic. “Please,” he rasped, steeling himself to withstand the innocent contact.

Tentatively, Benoît slid his hand over the thick shaft, down to the nest of curls at its base and the heavy sac beneath. He knew he’d need to clean them well for Aristide to feel completely refreshed, but he could admit to himself that his hand lingered for more than just cleanliness. Each little gasp from Aristide’s lips, each twitch of the engorged cock set his own nerves dancing and boosted his confidence that perhaps he could do this. He momentarily considered stroking his lover to climax this way, but he was not sure Aristide was strong enough for that yet, and he did not want to injure him again. Nor, honestly, was he sure he was ready to take that step, as if having crossed the line of being responsible for Aristide’s orgasm, he would never be able to go back.

As much as Aristide yearned for the release Benoît’s touch intimated, he feared such a loss of control would frighten Benoît back into scandalized propriety. “Enough,” he husked, his grip sliding down to still Benoît’s hand. “Much more, and you will bring me undone.”

Reluctantly, Benoît released the silky length. “Sit down so I can wash your feet,” he said simply, hoping a time would come—and soon—when neither of them would feel the need to stop at this juncture.

Easing back into the cooling water, Aristide could not resist leaning forward to press a kiss to Benoît’s lips. “You need not fear your lack of experience, when you can see how even your simplest touch is enough to set me aflame.”

“Tell me that when it comes time to do more than wash you,” Benoît quipped, though he was quite reassured by their interaction, both by Aristide’s reaction and his own ability to please the older man. “Now, let me finish your bath, and then we must get you back in bed. All this activity has surely worn you down.”

“Quite the contrary, as you have seen,” Aristide retorted, though he rested a foot on the edge of the tub to allow Benoît to complete his ablutions. “Though I admit that returning to bed has its appeal, especially if I can persuade you to accompany me.”

Sliding his fingers between Aristide’s toes to make sure his feet were clean, he glanced shyly in the musketeer’s direction. “I think you can probably persuade me to do pretty much anything.”

Chapter 23

B
ENOÎT
stirred against Aristide’s side, skin rubbing against skin as wakefulness returned. The day had passed in just such a way, fits of dozing interspersed with moments of tender consciousness, soft kisses and exploring caresses fading off to rest, only to resume when they next awoke. At one point, Benoît had been aware of the door opening and Raúl looking inside, but the gypsy had left them alone, withdrawing as soon as he saw them resting. No one else had disturbed them. “Emile,” he murmured, nipping lightly at the musketeer’s jaw. “Are you awake?”

“No,” the musketeer answered, inclining his head into the kiss without opening his eyes. “I’m dreaming.”

Benoît smiled, licking at the stubble-roughened skin. “Open your eyes, love. I promise I won’t disappear.”

“Say that again,” Aristide demanded in a sleep-roughened voice, his eyes opening to meet and hold Benoît’s while his arm tightened around the smith’s waist.

“I won’t disappear,” Benoît repeated, lifting his head to peer down into Aristide’s bottomless eyes. “I won’t disappear.”

“Not that.” Aristide shook his head, raising it just enough to brush against Benoît’s lips in a tender kiss.

“What, then?” Benoît asked coyly, though he thought he knew. Their interludes throughout the day had been punctuated by quiet, heartfelt declarations to the accompaniment of soul-stirring kisses.

Aristide’s hand slid slowly up Benoît’s back, committing to memory the hard muscle under bare, smooth skin. Pausing when he reached the dark, tousled hair, the hand curved to cup Benoît’s chin, his thumb ruffling the short, fine beard. “That you love me,” he punctuated the words with a series of soft kisses, “as much as I love you.”

“More,” Benoît swore, leaning into the tender caress, eyes closing as his lover lingered over his beard, cherishing the marks of his masculinity. His arms tightened around Aristide’s waist, though he took care not to apply any pressure to the musketeer’s wounded shoulder, as the force of his emotion overwhelmed him momentarily. He buried his face against Aristide’s shoulder, clinging desperately as the reality of how close he had come to losing his lover before he’d ever had him sank in once again.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Aristide whispered, resting his head against Benoît’s. His free hand continued to stroke and explore as much of Benoît’s body as he could reach, lingering in appreciation over the light dusting of hair, the curves of chest and limb, the assurance of strength without bulk. Letting his eyes drift closed again, he offered a silent prayer of thanks for the love he had begun to despair of ever knowing. Some might consider his prayer blasphemous, but Aristide knew in his soul that such joy was only his through the Lord’s grace.

Benoît didn’t argue. There wasn’t any point in such a discussion. Not really. They were together, committed, lives as entwined now as their bodies were, curled up beneath the light blanket. Tentatively, he returned the caresses Aristide had bestowed on him so liberally during the day, stroking his lover’s back and chest with slowly increasing confidence, though a part of him still expected each touch to be the one that finally met with rejection.

A firm knock on the door drew their attention. Benoît started to pull away guiltily, but Aristide’s arm wouldn’t let him retreat. “Who is it?” the smith called.

“’Tis Raúl,” the gypsy answered. “I’ve come to fetch you for dinner, Benoît. Aristide needs to eat, too, if he’s to recover his strength.”

“Go, join him.” Aristide eased his clasp of Benoît’s waist, recognizing his selfishness in keeping the smith in bed with him all day. Though, were it his choice, he would gladly keep him there longer, he hoped to have the rest of their lives to spend together—in sleep and less passive activities. “You can bring me a tray of whatever the kitchen is serving.”

“Are you sure?” Benoît asked immediately, loath to leave Aristide’s side while he was injured. “I can get a tray and bring it back for us both. What if you need something while I’m gone? What if—?”

“I think I can spare you for half an hour to take your dinner,” Aristide said in a soft voice, nudging at the smith’s ribs. “We just put some meat back on these bones—I would not be the cause of you losing your strength.” His cobalt eyes sparkling, his lips twitched in a smile. “We may have need of it later.”

Aristide’s grin was infectious, but while Benoît returned it immediately, he couldn’t help but tease a bit. “Why?” he inquired. “Do you think to take another bath? Or perhaps it’s another trip to the chamber pot you desire?”

“Come back after eating, and I’ll be pleased to show you just what I desire.” The musketeer’s smile never dimmed, but his eyes darkened with promise.

Benoît flushed brightly, unable to hold Aristide’s gaze. “I should go see what the innkeeper’s serving for dinner.” He rolled away, pulling his shirt back on and lacing it up swiftly. He didn’t tuck it in, though, or pull on the tunic he often wore over it. “I’ll be back soon.”

Not soon enough in Aristide’s regard, but he kept the thought to himself and simply told Benoît to enjoy his dinner. Sinking back against the pillows, he turned his mind to the ways he might best please his lover on his return while limited to the use of a single hand.

“Where’s Esteban?” Benoît asked when he joined Raúl and Gerrard in the inn’s taproom for dinner.

“He left after lunch to return to Paris,” Raúl replied. “He was itching to rejoin Teo, and I’m sure the other musketeers will be glad to hear news of Aristide’s progress.”

“I’m sure they will,” Benoît agreed, the day spent in bed with Aristide having gone a long way toward easing his jealousy of the other two men.

“Unless Aristide takes a turn for the worse during the night, Gerrard and I will be leaving for Paris tomorrow as well,” Raúl continued. “We’ve travelled some distance to see our friends, and while I would never abandon a patient in need, from all I’ve seen, your care will more than suffice for our friend upstairs.”

Benoît’s eyes grew wide, and he stuttered, “But… but….”

“But nothing,” Raúl insisted. “I’ll check on him in the morning, but unless he develops a fever overnight, all he needs is time and good food to recover, both of which you can provide without my assistance.” The gypsy glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to hear them. “More than anything else, having this time alone together will help you cement your relationship before you must return to face the rest of the world. Take this time and profit from it.”

Benoît blushed furiously, a reaction he could not seem to banish whenever his relationship with Aristide came up in conversation. Raúl and Gerrard smiled at him indulgently, ignoring the blush and continuing their conversation about returning to Paris as if nothing else had been said.

When their meal was finished, Benoît gathered a tray for Aristide and climbed the stairs once again, pushing the door open and smiling at the sight of his dozing lover. “Are you hungry, Emile?” he asked softly.

“What have you to offer?” Aristide was sure he would never tire of the sight of Benoît’s modest blush, though his cheeks had been ruddy when he entered their chamber, making him wonder what the gypsy and his companion might have said to his innocent over dinner.

“The cook made lamb stew,” Benoît replied, not entirely sure Aristide was asking about the food, but he did not have the courage yet to offer more than dinner. “It’s very tender, and the vegetables are still fresh. And I brought a bottle of wine.”

“Come share it with me, then.” Already half-hard from his daydreams while Benoît was gone, the mere slide of the sheets over Aristide’s cock as he turned was enough to stiffen him fully—or perhaps it was the nearness of Benoît, setting the tray between them before sitting at the edge of the bed.

“I’ve had more than enough,” Benoît demurred as he poured a glass for Aristide. “I’m not used to drinking much. I don’t want to… lose control like I did last time.”

Sipping the ruby liquid with approval, Aristide met Benoît’s gaze with an indulgent smile. “I have naught to complain about the last time you lost control, save for its ending, which was my fault, not yours. I will not make the same mistake this time.”

Benoît’s eyes grew wide as his cheeks colored again. “That scares me almost as much as your leaving did,” he admitted softly. He looked up, gaze earnest. “I haven’t changed my mind. I love you and I want to be with you, but it scares me nearly as much as it arouses me to think of lying back down next to you, of having you touch me again that intimately.”

“I would die rather than hurt you.” Aristide set down the wine, his hand caressing Benoît’s cheek, his voice deep with the need to convince his lover of his sincerity. “In any case, it will be some time yet ere I am recovered in full. Perhaps you would care to learn to touch me instead?”

“You should eat first.” Benoît’s voice cracked with a mixture of desire and trepidation at the thought of touching Aristide again. He had managed credibly during his lover’s bath because he had an excuse not to linger any time he started to grow uncomfortable. Hands trembling, he reached for the wine, pouring himself a glass despite his earlier words. He needed the inhibition-lessening effects of the alcohol.

Aristide’s heart swelled at the artless response. As much as he admired the smith’s graceful body and handsome face, it was this combination of innocence and determination that had won his love. The musketeer thanked God again that Benoît had been able to overcome the lifetime of teachings that insisted what they felt for each other was wrong. He understood Benoît’s hesitancy; though it was long years ago, he had once felt much the same himself the first time he had given himself to another. Fortunately for Benoît, Aristide had more than enough experience since to control his body’s demands and allow the younger man to initiate their lovemaking at his own pace.

Even if it nearly killed him in the meantime.

Benoît sipped at the wine, feeling himself relax a little as it burned through him while Aristide finished eating. When the musketeer was done, Benoît set the tray outside the door and locked it as he came back in. Taking a deep breath, telling himself he had already spent the day lying next to Aristide shirtless, he pulled the garment over his head and toed off his boots. Returning to the bed, he lifted the covers and slipped beneath, not looking at Aristide’s body as he settled against it. It was unsettling enough to know the older man was naked.

The heat of his lover’s body was an irresistible lure, though, and before long, Benoît’s hands found their way back to the tempting expanse of Aristide’s back, his hands tracing random trails up and down Aristide’s skin.

“Take off the rest.” Aristide’s fingertips slid along the waist of Benoît’s breeches, cajoling, not coercing. “Let me feel your skin against mine with nothing between us.”

Benoît’s stomach flip-flopped nervously, but he nodded and sat up again, stripping off the rest of his clothes, keeping the sheets modestly over his groin as he lay back down and turned into Aristide’s embrace. A sharp gasp escaped his lips as their naked cocks brushed for the first time. His eyes closed as he fought not to come right then, his body aching with the sudden spike of lust.

Aristide could not bite back the hum of pleasure as Benoît’s warm skin met his, the surge of pride when a hard shaft nudged his own arousal. Sinking his teeth into his lip, he resisted the urge to pull Benoît closer, to sway against him, to reach down and bring them both to fulfillment. The wound in his shoulder was thanks, in part, to his forgetting the younger man’s inexperience, and, as he had promised Benoît, he would not make that mistake again. He settled for resting his hand in the small of Benoît’s back, just above the curve of his buttocks, lying still and waiting for Benoît to take the next step.

“Don’t bite your lip,” Benoît scolded, forgetting his embarrassment, their nakedness, at the sight of sharp white teeth worrying his lover’s lip. He swiped his thumb across the abused flesh, soothing it gently. When Aristide’s lips parted slightly at the caress, Benoît leaned forward and kissed him again, tongue sliding inside to mate with Aristide’s. His hand moved behind his lover’s head, holding the musketeer in place, though Aristide made no attempt to pull away. If anything, he nestled closer, winning another groan from Benoît at the increased contact between their bare skin.

It was the sweetest torture to lie beside Benoît, allowing himself nothing more than meeting his lover’s kiss with his own ardent response. Aristide explored Benoît’s mouth worshipfully, all his wonder and gratitude at winning the other man’s love expressing itself in the slide of tongues and the moist press of lips against lips.

The thought drifted through Benoît’s mind that if this was a kiss, then he’d never truly been kissed before now. He felt more loved, more cherished, from this than from everything he had shared with his wife. Falling whole-heartedly into the exchange of breath, of emotion, of life, he let go of the last of his hesitations and allowed his hands to move freely, sliding down to the twin objects of his obsession. One hand settled over one firm globe of Aristide’s arse while the other worked its way between them to stroke down the hard length nudging firmly against his own.