Kid Gloves (6 page)

He left the market, then, heading for the address where he could buy the ale Dalton had requested. It wasn’t too far from Spitalfields, meaning he could make a wide loop back to the shop and return in time for tea.

A shop on the other side of the road made him hesitate, stopping short, then apologizing to the other people whom he had caused to bump into him. It was a shop selling ladies garments. He wondered if they sold stockings.

Heat pooled in his cheeks at the thought of buying such a thing—would the owner even sell them to him? Yet his feet seemed to make the journey across the road with no need for his mind to tell them to do so.

The bell above the door tinkled as he pushed it open, and his eyes were forced to adjust to the light—much dimmer than the bright day outside. There were no other patrons inside, for which Finn was grateful, and a man sat behind the counter.

A man. Thank goodness.

“Can I help?” the proprietor asked in a gruff voice.

Finn nodded and cleared his throat. “I’m looking for a gift,” he said cautiously, tugging his sleeve down to cover his hand. The man didn’t seem to notice.

“Ah, right.” He gave Finn a nod. “A gift for a…
lady friend?
”

The way in which he said it—
lady friend—
left Finn with no doubt that the man expected him to buy something for a prostitute. He quickly decided that this assumption was far superior to the truth and gave a short nod. “Yes.”

“Anything in mind, son?”

Finn cleared his throat again and cast his eyes around the room. It looked like most of the items for sale were costumes; skirts for chorus girls, their silk garters and garments intending to raise the breasts to extraordinary heights.

Single stockings were modeled on crude approximations of a lady’s leg, each lined up on one wall. His eye went to a red pair, dark red, rich-toned but still delicate. Finn imagined these on Dalton, how they would look next to his lover’s pale skin.

“Those,” he said, nodding toward the stockings. “The red ones.”

A little smirk flirted at the corner of the proprietor’s mouth, but Finn didn’t care. He allowed the man to wrap up a new pair from a drawer and exchanged coins, carefully, with his left hand and nodded his thanks before leaving.

Now, his journey through London took a different tone.

His back felt heavier—heavier than potatoes and parsnips and apples and bread—this was the weight of a secret he was carrying around in his pack. Even though he knew that the stockings were well hidden, pushed deep down inside the pack, he couldn’t help but wonder if anyone had seen him enter or leave the little shop with its gaudy wares.

He found the shop and the girl called Lucy with little difficulty, asking her to select for him and hoping to make their transaction quick so he could hurry back to the shop on Columbia Road. She was a plump, efficient girl with a friendly smile and a shop filled with bottles of ale, each neatly stacked on a shelf and carefully labeled. He packed the bottles into his pack and arranged them to prevent their clanging together as Lucy processed his payment, instinctively holding out his right hand for the change.

“Oh,” Lucy exclaimed as she caught sight of his mechanical hand. Finn cursed to himself. “You’re Dalton’s boy.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I meant nothing by it, sir,” she said, letting the coins fall into his palm with a soft
clink
of metal on metal. “Only that I’d heard that Dalton had an assistant now, and you must be him.”

“Not his assistant,” Finn corrected, straightening his spine. “Dalton is helping me with the rehabilitation. I’ll be returning to the military once the hand is fully functioning.”

Lucy nodded. “Begging your pardon, sir. Pass on my regards to Mr. Dalton.”

Shaken, but deciding to not dwell on it, Finn left the shop without looking back. He now had everything that Dalton had asked for, and a little extra, and had no desire to delay any longer. His planned, circuitous route back to the shop was made with his head down and his long stride eating up the distance, meaning by the time he arrived home—arrived back at the shop—he was slightly out of breath.

“I’m back,” he called, shutting the door behind him.

“Me too,” Dalton called back.

Finn made his way around to the workshop, leaving his pack on the bench and finding Dalton in the small washroom.

“Hallo.”

Finn smiled.

“Am I going to get another kiss?” Dalton said, the cheeky grin lighting up his face and making him seem younger at once.

“Since you asked so nicely,” Finn replied and closed the distance between them, leaning in to brush his lips gently over Dalton’s. Instinctively, his hands gripped at Dalton’s waist, pleased to feel the leather under his work shirt.

“Did you get everything?” Dalton asked when they broke apart.

“Yes. And a little more.”

“How exciting. Can I see?”

Finn shook his head. “Later. I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” Dalton repeated and threaded his fingers with Finn’s to tug his partner upstairs.

They ate sat opposite each other at the small table, each recounting the story of their morning. Finn remembered to pass on Lucy’s greeting and decided not to repeat the comment on him being “Dalton’s boy.” He was yet to decide if there was any subtext within the comment and was not in the mood to discuss it, not when Dalton seemed to be so happy.

“Do you have much to do this afternoon?”

Dalton hummed his agreement. “Unfortunately.”

“That’s okay,” Finn said. “I need to put my bow back together.”

“You have it with you?”

“In pieces,” Finn said with a smile. “It shouldn’t take too long, but I can sharpen my arrows at the same time ready for later.”

Dalton grinned again. “Can I see the ‘something extra’ now?”

Caught unawares, Finn blushed, and Dalton reached out to run his fingers over the flushed skin.

“Now you have to show me,” he murmured.

“Okay,” Finn agreed before his brain caught up with his instincts.

The stockings were the only item left in his pack, everything else now tidily placed in the pantry to keep it fresh and cool. Still, Finn fumbled over pulling the paper-wrapped package from his pack and handing it to Dalton to unwrap.

It was the work of moments to release the packaging, and a slow, easy smile spread across Dalton’s face as he pulled each long stocking out of the paper.

“These are beautiful,” he murmured softly.

“I hoped you would like them,” Finn said.

“Should I put them on?”

“Now?” Finn asked, his head snapping up.

“Why not?” Dalton said lightly.

While Finn chewed on his lower lip, Dalton stood and unbuttoned his trousers, toed off his shoes, and then pushed both away. He hadn’t dressed in stockings that morning, so his legs were bare, and he had neglected to put on underwear too.

“Do you want to help?”

“No,” Finn said, his throat thick. “I want to watch.”

Dalton wasn’t shy, but he was aware of Finn’s hot gaze upon his body as he carefully gathered the first scarlet stocking over his hand, then propped his foot up on his chair to carefully roll it up his leg. These had no tie at the top, just delicate lace.

“I need to attach these to hold them in place,” Dalton said. From one of his drawers he collected four strips of fabric, each with a hook at one end and a clasp at the other. “Look,” Dalton said, returning to Finn’s side. “This end hooks through one of the little loops inside the corset, and the other holds the top of the stocking.”

Finn nodded, entranced, as Dalton carefully attached the hook to a part of the corset he’d never seen before.

“Could you do the two at the back for me?” Dalton asked. “I can’t twist around that far.”

“Of course,” Finn said, his voice low and rough. He carefully followed the same procedure he’d watched Dalton perform, delighted at the contrast of the tie against the round curve of Dalton’s buttock.

Dalton turned and placed his foot, this time, on Finn’s knee to roll on the stocking. It was shockingly intimate, more so for the fact that he was achingly erect. They completed the ritual, Dalton attaching the tie at the front, then turning for Finn to attach the last tie at the back.

“They look good on you,” Finn said, feeling bold. “I knew they would.”

Dalton caught Finn’s face in his hands and leaned in for a demanding kiss, the hot slide of mouths and tongues revealing how desperate both men were for this connection. Finn pressed up into the kiss and demanded as much as he gave, his hands caressing Dalton’s legs from knee to hip.

When Dalton pulled back and stood tall, his erection bobbed toward Finn at the perfect height to be sucked. Dalton raised an eyebrow—a suggestive move, were it not for the fact that he was breathing heavily and obviously affected by the simplest of kisses.

Without even considering his actions, Finn grasped Dalton’s hips and attached his mouth to the end of the pink, shiny cock. His thumbs traced the crease between hip and thigh, delighting in the places where the sensations changed from skin to lace to silk and back again. Meanwhile, his mouth was flooded with sensation—the heavy weight, the odd taste, the arousal that trickled through his whole body.

Dalton’s fingers laced in Finn’s short hair and tugged at it ineffectually as the other man sucked him gently, too damn gently, he needed more. Reminding himself that Finn was inexperienced took all of his concentration when his instincts were telling him to thrust forward, to claim that hot mouth with its plump lower lip and quietly flickering tongue.

“Finn,” he groaned, allowing that one word to hold all his pleasure, all his desire.

Blinking owlishly, Finn looked up and smiled before returning to his task.

It didn’t take long for the hot, wet mouth to tip Dalton over the edge, spilling into Finn’s mouth while gently grasping the other man’s face between his palms. He cursed, then did it again, then pulled back, stroking Finn’s hair.

“Do you want…,” Dalton asked, more than willing to return the favor if Finn wanted it.

But he shook his head. “Later,” he said. The corners of his swollen mouth quirked into a smile, and Dalton felt a rush of affection.

“Okay,” he agreed. “Later.”

R
ESTRINGING
his bow and sharpening the handful of arrows took Finn’s attention, even if he could let his thoughts wander to his partner downstairs and what he was wearing under the tailored trousers and heavy boots. As he’d suspected, the color looked beautiful against Dalton’s skin tone, making him wonder what other colors or styles he could buy, just to experiment with.

The promise of
later
was going to hang with him all evening, especially since he knew just what he could look forward to. For now, he needed to concentrate on not letting the metal parts of his hand do any damage to his delicate bow, and not letting the sharp arrowheads do any damage to his fingertips.

As the afternoon drew on, Finn packed up his bow and arrow, slinging the homemade quiver over his shoulder and sheathing his hunting knife in his boot, then lightly jogging down the stairs.

“I’ll try not to be too long,” he said to Dalton, who was working at his bench, deep in concentration.

“Be safe,” Dalton mumbled without looking up.

Determined not to be a distraction, Finn slipped out of the shop and into the evening. He knew where the park was and the easiest route to get there and moved quickly through the London streets. This time of day was always fairly busy; people returning home, traders packing away, ready to do it all again the next day.

The cast iron of the park gates was suitably imposing, but Finn walked straight past them and turned right to the more overgrown, wooded area of the park. It was here that he was more likely to pick up something worth eating.

He had to be careful, aware that there might still be people out for a leisurely walk, although he doubted he would run into anyone with sinister motives. He was armed, after all, and an excellent marksman.

After carefully loading his bow, Finn sat back against some tree roots, keeping his back straight and waiting for any unsuspecting prey to wander through his line of sight.

He missed the first rabbit by a mile and decided he was working against his new hand, and the fact that he was very out of practice.

As the light continued to fade, Finn quickly set up a target against a patch of soft moss on a tree trunk and selected three arrows for target practice. He carefully marked them, knowing that the bark would damage the sharpness of the arrowhead and make them unsuitable for targeting animals.

He shot each of the arrows three times, until he was satisfied that he knew how to hook his new fingers around the thick string of his bow and how to release them quickly without catching them on the arrow flying past his face. Then he resumed his previous position, hoping that his practice hadn’t scared off anything for miles around.

If he knew the area better, he would have ventured further into the woodland. Even in the dark and in unfamiliar territory he knew ways of marking his path in a way that no one would know he’d been there, even if they were looking, but he didn’t want to spend hours stalking something, taking him further and further away from Dalton.

No, this little spot was perfect for catching a few rabbits and returning to his lover before night fell completely.

In fact, when he knocked lightly on the shop door, he’d done better than a few rabbits. It was like the animals in the park had never been hunted; natural curiosity or a lack of awareness when it came to predators meant he had three rabbits, two pigeons, and a handful of squirrels. The birds could be roasted slowly and kept in the coolest corner of the pantry for a day or two, and he planned to hang the rabbits for a better flavor. The squirrels they would eat first, the meat good enough for a stew and tasty too.

“Impressive,” Dalton said as he opened the door, then securely locked it when Finn was inside.

“I’ll use the courtyard to do the butchery,” Finn said, referring to the contained alley behind the shop. “I don’t want to do it indoors.”