Indulgence 2: One Glimpse (24 page)

Sam pulled off. “Shh-shh. They’ll hear.” Then, daring to keep his gaze up, he took him in again until his lips were just over the sensitive ridge and sucked. John’s eyes were impossibly wide, his mouth hanging open in a look of pure awe.

For me. I’m doing this to him.

Then Sam closed his eyes and lost himself. The musky sent of John, the salty tang of his skin, the hot slide of his cock over Sam’s lips again and again; it was almost too much. He groaned as he moved, and John’s fingers fisted tighter in his hair.

“Fucking hell!” John groaned out the words, making them almost unintelligible. “I didn’t…oh, God, didn’t know…”

No. Focus on this.
Sam relaxed his throat and swallowed John as deep as he could, causing him to let up a savage curse. Sam slid his hands up John’s thighs and under the tail of shirt to his arse, so hard and round. The urge was too great, and Sam was lost enough in his own pleasure not to think about it before he clawed his fingers into both round cheeks.

John was incoherent as his entire body went rigid. Sam tasted the hot rush of seed over his tongue just before John pressed hard on the back of his head. The force of John’s rock-hard cock against the back of his throat brought tears to his eyes and he gagged before forcing himself to relax. He swallowed greedily, loving the sensation more than he ever could have imagined.

John’s legs trembled, and then his grip on Sam’s hair turned soft. Sam pulled back slowly, releasing him. When a moment passed and neither of them moved, Sam rested his cheek against the top of John’s thigh and inhaled his scent. He pressed a kiss to the side of his softening flesh.

John moaned, then slid off the side of the post and collapsed onto the bed. The ropes shrieked and the frame scraped the floor, startling Sam out of his hot-blooded reverie.

What the hell have I done?

John lay in an awkward position, his upper body slung across the bed while his legs still dangled over the side. Sam quickly pulled John’s breeches and stockings off, casting them aside with his shoes.

“Mmm.” John groaned, rolling his head back and forth on the soft mattress. “So gooood.” Sam guessed that the last glass of port John had consumed in a gulp was hitting him, for he barely formed the words.

“Come on,” Sam whispered, lifting John’s legs and pushing them so that John twisted to lay properly on the bed. The sight of him, naked from the waist down and still wearing his shirt and cravat was so debauched it left Sam transfixed.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” Sam whispered.

John flopped his hand on the mattress as if searching for something. Once again, Sam was pulled from his foolish gazing. He knelt on the bed and leaned over to untie John’s cravat, then tossed it down with his other clothes. Removing his shirt and waistcoat was not going to happen with him lying down, so there was nothing to be done for it. Searching the room, almost frantic, Sam spotted a quilt over the trunk at the foot of the bed. He crawled down, retrieved it, and shook it out to lay over John.

John’s head was tilted to the side, one arm flung up over his head. His heavy panting had smoothed out, becoming deeper as he tumbled into drunken, sated sleep. Or so Sam thought.

“Why?” John released a huffy breath. “Sam…mmm…didn’t tell.”

What could Sam say? “We should talk about it tomorrow.”

“Mmm.”

“John?”

He was asleep.

Sam searched the room to be sure nothing was suspicious, then closed the door behind him. The thoughts racing through his mind buried one another like voices in a crowd, leaving him numb. He looked down the hall to his closed door and the solitude he craved, then listened to the laughter and raucous shouts coming from downstairs. Like a marionette, he moved down the stairs without consciously making the decision. One of the buried voices in his head reminded him that he had to keep up appearances, that the others would notice if he did not return.

As he stopped in front of the door to the study and placed his hand on the knob he saw that it was shaking, and another of the familiar voices in his head started to panic. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have used John like that in such a state?

How much will he hate me tomorrow?

Chapter Eleven

Shock

John awoke to the sound of water being poured. By the time he opened one crusty eye, a servant was already pulling the door closed behind him. John rolled over to bury his grubby face into the pillow, only to realize that his head was not on a pillow. And he was still wearing his shirt and waistcoat. And his breeches were gone.

Sam.

His eyes flew open, and he scrambled from the bed. As soon as his bare feet touched the floor, his head started pounding. It was not his first experience with too much drink and unlikely to be the last. It was the first time, however, that his throbbing head failed to put him in a bad mood. How could he possibly be in a bad mood?

“By God, Sam,” he muttered aloud. For the merest second he wondered if he had dreamed it all, but the state of his clothes alone put that idea out of his head. It had happened. He remembered it in sporadic scenes, like seeing people move behind rain-spattered windows, but it was enough to have the moments flooding back to him. Sam had touched him, undressed him, had dropped to his knees and—

“Bloody hell!” John hurriedly shed the rumpled remains of his clothing. At the washbowl he splashed frigid water on his face and scrubbed with a linen. He had to get dressed and find Sam. They had much to discuss, namely why Sam had kept the truth from him. Despite his liquor-clouded brain, John did not for a moment think last night was a fluke or a moment of reckless curiosity encouraged by too much drink. No man dropped to his knees and sucked another man’s cock if it was not already in his nature, regardless of how much brandy he put down.

And not with such skill.

Even if Sam’s deception bothered John, and it did, it still stood second to his new goal. He was going to get Sam alone today, somehow, somewhere, and he was going to kiss him until he was a whimpering, incoherent mess. The thought of it made his blood rush, which was not the smartest thing for his headache.

He dressed in another of the outmoded suits he kept for the country and headed downstairs. From the light of the crisp, cloudless day, he guessed it to be around ten in the morning. If the others had kept drinking after he and Sam left, they had likely not been up long.

“Darny. Was wondering if you were alive up there,” Mosley said as John entered the breakfast room. He was dressed for hunting and looked as if he had already been out. Michael and Fletcher were the only others present.

“Take a closer look,” Fletcher said with a chuckle. “I’m not sure he
is
alive.”

John had not bothered to shave and suspected he looked like death. Seeing that Sam was not there, his inclination was to go search for him, but it might raise questions. So he went to the sideboard and piled food he did not want onto a plate and took a seat. As he poured himself some much-wanted coffee, he yawned and asked casually, “Where is everyone else?”

“Farny and Leeds took the curricle out for a ride on the main road,” Michael said, leaning back in his chair. The sour look on his face reminded John of their squabble last night.

“And Sam?” John said when it was clear Michael was not going to offer the information.

“Shaw, you mean?” Michael smiled. “Gone back to town. I guess the country air didn’t agree with him.”

What?

“Don’t be an ass,” Mosley said over a mouthful of eggs. “Shaw got an urgent message this morning by special rider. Some family emergency that couldn’t wait. He left about two hours ago.”

A tremor ran up John’s legs, but he forced himself to remain seated. Anything not to go dashing out to the stables and his horse.

“That’s unfortunate,” he said carefully. “His sisters are in town for the season. Maybe it was to do with them. Was the rider in his house livery?”

“Mmm?” Mosley swallowed some coffee. “Oh, no, didn’t see the messenger. Shaw met him on the lane when he was out walking early this morning.”

“Strange that Shaw would be out walking so early when he retired just as late as the rest of us,” Michael said, stirring his coffee slowly.

John used the side of his fork to viciously cut the kippers on his plate. He had not even been awake twenty minutes, but already he had concocted an entire day’s worth of plans, all dashed. What could the urgent message have been about?

“Shaw may have retired with the rest of us, but he was not nearly so drunk.” Fletcher laughed at Michael. “Just because you cannot stagger to bed and still rise with the cock—”

John inhaled half a kipper and proceeded to sputter it back out. Damned if Fletcher’s choice of phrase didn’t make John’s bitter humor show itself. He recovered quickly and said, “Well, it’s too bad for him. He was looking forward to a break from the season and his duties to his sisters.”

Michael gave John an incredulous look before he turned to the others. “I find it odd that Shaw did not have the messenger refresh his horse in the stables, or at least water and rest him. The grooms I spoke to never saw him.”

John dropped his fork on the plate. “And? Perhaps there was an urgent message in reply and he had to send the rider back.”

“And perhaps there was no messenger,” Michael said, setting his cup down with a clatter to match John’s fork. “Perhaps Shaw did not care for our company and felt the need to concoct a story to justify his leaving.”

“Is that what you think?” John countered as uncertainly coiled in his gut.

“Yes, that is what I think,” Michael shot back. “What could possibly have him racing off so early with no explanation, and him conveniently strolling the grounds so that none of us or the servants can say they saw this messenger?”

“Hold on, old boy,” Mosley objected. “If you’re to call a man a liar, I say you do it either to his face or where he can defend himself. I saw no proof of Shaw taking such hard favor with our company that he would want to fly off just to escape. This is foolish.”

“Aye,” Fletcher agreed. “And he lost five quid to me at piquet last night and was more than a sport about it. If he was so out of sorts with us that he wanted to leave, he’s a damn finer actor than any I’ve seen on the stage.”

Michael wadded up his napkin and tossed it on his plate as he stood. “Pardon me, gentlemen. Think I’ll take my ride to the river early.” With that, he stormed out of the room.

John glared after him, but his anger was second to the worry eating at him. What if Michael was right? What if Sam had lied in order to leave? If he had, it would not be difficult to guess what would make him wish to flee. Did Sam regret their intimacy? If so, was it the deviant act itself that he regretted, or was it John?

Perhaps he does not feel anything for me. He ran to avoid me.

“I must say, Darny,” Mosley said, his serious tone cutting through John’s thoughts. “I know Sills is your particular friend and you’ve known each other since you were lads, but he is beginning to wear on me. By the day, it seems, he becomes more… How shall I put this?”

“Belligerent?” John offered.

Mosley and Fletcher shared a look before both went back to eating their eggs.

* * * *

Michael marched into the stables and barked an order at one of the boys to ready his horse. The grooms set to saddling his sleek black mare as he paced in the yard and slashed his crop at the weeds growing up through the rocks. The sight of his gorgeous horse being fitted with the worn secondhand saddle he had been forced to purchase only increased the heat of his frustration. How much longer before he was forced to sell her too? The damn solicitor had already informed him that there was not enough money in his accounts to pay the upcoming quarterly rent on his rooms in St. James. And the filthy dock brute that bastard of a tailor had hired to press him on his back bills had begun making inquiries after him all over town. Michael had hoped to ask Darny for a bit of a loan when the time was right, but not now.

Bloody fucking Shaw!

It made no sense. It was not as if Sir Samuel Shaw, the portly baronet hothead, was a new introduction to town. At least then Michael could attribute the association to a new face, a new voice. John had always been the sort to want to meet everyone, see what was what. But Shaw had been around
forever
. The same balls, the same parties, the same club for Christ’s sake.

No. Something was different. Something had happened, and Michael had thought he knew what it was when he heard about Shaw’s sister and her obscene dowry. Even someone as well off as Darny might be tempted by that much coin. But his reaction when Michael mentioned it had dispelled him of that explanation. And Darny’s vehement defense of Shaw had set his rage to boiling. What was so damn special about Shaw anyway? Baronets were a two a penny, and one could easily say that eight out of ten of them were neck-deep in trade while still pretending to be gentlemen.

Men like Shaw set themselves up in town spending more and more money, forever raising the standards with all their merchant-class wealth while true gentlemen like Michael were forced to scrape and scramble just to keep up. It was true that he enjoyed some luxuries. He visited his tailor often enough, and he enjoyed wagering at the tables as any man should, but it was people like Shaw who set the stakes too high, who encouraged the tailors to update the fashions too regularly, so that the cut of a man’s coat would be out of style before he had had a chance to wear it! And surely the cost of everything would not be so damn high if the merchants didn’t know fat-pursed frauds like Shaw could afford to pay.

Michael swatted his crop against the stable door as he passed. “I don’t have all morning!”

Whatever was going on with Darny and Shaw—there
was
something—Michael was determined to find it out. As the possibilities ran through his head, each becoming more sinister, he began to think that perhaps Darny would be grateful if he was able to extract him from Shaw. Yes, if it was something truly underhanded like blackmail, perhaps he would be able to find something equally damaging on Shaw. Blackmail could explain their sudden apparent friendship, as well as Darny’s frustration and anger whenever Michael dared to speak ill of Shaw. After all, if he had something over Darny, he would not want anyone doing or saying anything that might upset the little blood-knighted shit.