Objects Of His Obsession (3 page)

“Yes, you do, don’t you?” Evander
was smiling faintly. He arched a brow. “Want more?”

Benedict refused to think. To
allow himself to doubt this moment, to analyze it the way he so keenly weighed
every other element in his life.

He’d watched Evander St John at
a distance with a desperate, despairing hunger –
obsession
, for just too damned long.

No, instead this was something
to be greedily seized.

He brought his hands up, shoved
at Evander’s immaculate evening coat.

“Off,” he mumbled, eyes half
opening, dragging his mouth back just enough to voice the word. “Take it off.”

Evander’s soft laughter was
husky now as drew back enough to discard the offending garment and Benedict
curled a hand around his nape, the other sliding up, over his back.

Christ, he had muscle under
those perfectly tailored clothes. Surprisingly hard, tough muscle that came
from physical exertion. And up close he smelled … delicious. Clean, of no
cologne, but the faintest undertone of fresh male sweat. Of sandalwood, very
faintly, probably the soap he used. And the scent of himself, his own warm
olive skin. His spine was a deeply indented line that Benedict followed with
his fingers through the remaining layers of his clothing.

Evander had him crushed back
against the glass case with absolutely no respect for its fragile, ancient
contents. The man rolled his hips against Benedict’s and Christ, he could feel
the rigid length of his cock rubbing against his own engorged flesh through the
layers of their clothing.

It was an action he repeated,
grinding their cocks together, his mouth devouring Benedict’s with a finesse
and a hunger that verged on the brutal. It was driving Benedict out of his
mind.

Too many layers.

Almost too much sensation, and
yet not enough.

Evander lifted his head and
stared down into his deeply flushed face, a flush across his own high, hard
cheekbones, his full lips reddened. The hand at Benedict’s chest freed itself,
slid down to move over his powerful ribcage, down.

That hard, carnal mouth curled
as the turquoise eyes held his, studying him as he lightly slid a hand over the
raging erection so cruelly caged by layers of cotton, of wool.

Benedict gasped, threw his head
back. The action exposed the powerful, tanned line of his throat above his
starched shirt collar. Cast his thick, dark lashes against his cheeks.

The lighting caught at his
broad cheekbones, the clean, tough line of his square jaw, the once-straight
nose that had been broken in a rugby match, his wide, parted lips.

“Fuck, you’re truly something,”
Evander bit out. All trace of that aristocratic, bored drawl gone. Nothing in
it but a gritty hunger.

Benedict shook his head. He
knew what he looked like. Too sun bronzed, frame too heavy with muscle, nose
broken. Hands rough. Clothes more practical than stylish. No elegance nor
sophistication to his appearance at all.

“No, you’re the beautiful one,”
he muttered.

Evander gave a ragged laugh,
his lips nuzzling at Benedict’s throat above the rigid linen, stroked around
before he traced his tongue over Benedict’s ear. Bit at the lobe even as he
palmed Benedict’s shaft through the layers of wool and cotton. His clever
fingers smoothed over the cockhead and Benedict jerked against him.

“Christ,” he bit out. Sensation
was burning him up. This … even this, was beyond any of his wildest fantasies, those
that had begun, disturbing, resisted, at Oxford, and relentlessly fed by his occasional
returns to London. Moving within the outer edges of Evander’s social circle
those fantasies had become wilder. Evander starring in them. Unobtainable. The
magnet around which a spinning, glittering world of the elite spun.

And yet he was here, now, with
him. Hell, how could the man even have given him a second glance–

Evander’s clever fingers were
working the buttons on Benedict’s trousers and Benedict groaned, hand sliding
down between them to catch hold of his.

“Christ, stop, I’m going to
come–”

Evander grinned. “That is the
general idea.”

That wicked grin wiped away
years from his face. Suddenly Benedict realized afresh the man, for all his
command, was actually his junior by a year. Twenty-six to his twenty-seven. And
yet had achieved far more. Was in command of a massive fortune he was
expanding, had the fawning respect of his peers, and a steely control over all
aspects of his life.

The fact that the man had a
wife and two children Benedict would not allow himself to think upon, or the
wracking appalled guilt would stop this before it had begun.

And as for himself, he was …
what? A youngest son, with a career in a profession that many regarded as
eccentric. Yes, he had the growing respect of those in his field, but truly…

This night,
tonight
, was an insane aberration.

Evander must have found himself
bored and in need of diversion. Although the man had never struck him as …
capricious. Nor for that matter, a man who enjoyed other men. Sweet
Jesus–

He couldn’t allow himself to
think. Spent altogether too much of his time doing just that–

Automatically he dropped to his
knees before Evander. It was an act he had fantasized about so frequently, for
so very,
very
long it seemed strangely
natural.

As if he had done this a
hundred times before.

As he had, in his fantasies.

His fingers went to the
fastenings on the black wool of Evander’s trousers, but they were shaking,
could scarcely begin their task and Evander laughed huskily. Brushed them away
and undid them himself.

It soothed Benedict somewhat
that the man’s own fingers weren’t exactly steady. Shook a little as he pushed
his trousers, his undergarments aside to allow Benedict full access.

Evander’s cock had sprung free
and Benedict swallowed, stunned. Christ, it was long and thick, rigid, as
beautiful as the man himself.
 
But
hell, late night, sleepless fantasies in the Cairo heat, wanking himself off
just to gain some ease from Evander were one thing. He had never truly done this
before. Only had the guide of what techniques paid female prostitutes had used
on him. And then his mind shut down and he spread his fingers across Evander’s
muscular thigh, the other hand going to grip the base of that thick cock as he
slid his tongue over the plum colored head. Lapped at the pearl beading there.
Delicious, salted.

“
Yes
,” Evander hissed. “Jesus,
yes
–”
Fisted the thick hair at Benedict’s nape.

Benedict slid his tongue down
its straining, silken length. Teased at a thick vein pulsing down its
underside. Pressed his hot open mouth against Evander’s inner thigh before he
nuzzled his heavy balls. The scent of the man was intoxicating. Clean, of
sandalwood soap, of Evander’s own musky arousal.

Evander jerked in his grip,
fingers driving into Benedict’s nape. “
Dammit
,”
he groaned. “Don’t fucking tease. Your mouth. I want your mouth on me.”

Obediently Benedict shifted,
tongue slicking his lips before he slid his mouth over that beautiful, flared
head, the fingers on Evander’s thigh tightening before moving around to grip
his arse. His tongue swirled over the silken head of his cock, flattened
against the underside as he slid his mouth down over that thick length. His jaw
stretched. Christ, it felt good to hear Evander’s encouraging moans. Gasps. Feel
the clenched tightening of his fingers in his hair.

His own cock was straining
painfully against his trousers. He’d come before much longer, he knew.

Impossible not to. And he hoped
to God his own inexperience wasn’t obvious. Because he was acting on pure
instinct, pure lust. Pure knowledge of what had felt good when performed upon
him.

But performing the act upon
another was somewhat different.

He slid his mouth down as far
as he could, felt Evander’s cock hit the back of his throat and somehow resisted
the urge to choke, gag. Fuck, how had those women he’d been with done it? It
had always felt so bloody brilliant when they took him deep, worked him with
those muscles– He wanted to take Evander deeper and yet his own sudden
panic, inexperience, was against him, even as he drew back, his cheeks
flattening with suction, and Evander fisted his hair, holding his head in place
as he began to fuck his mouth.

Again, that long, thick cock
bumped against the back of his throat. He coughed violently, dragged back.

“Sorry,” he gasped. Glanced up
at the other man, met turquoise eyes that burnt into his. “That is not a
particular talent of mine.”

“No matter.” Evander’s face was
flushed, eyes glittering. “You have a talented mouth, in any case, Yeats.”

But Benedict was already
wrapping his fist about the base of Evander’s cock, determined to pleasure him
in other ways if not that. Hell, that was an ability he would have to
acquire–

His tongue swirled over the
bulbous head, probed at the weeping, salted slit before he slid down, drew
back, his tongue, the suction of his mouth working hard, hollowing his cheeks,
his fist pumping, his other hand caressing the heavy balls.

Evander’s fingers wrenched at
his hair. “Christ, yes, Benedict– God–”

His hips jerked, his cock
thrust harder into Benedict’s eager mouth. Above him, Benedict heard a muffled
curse, the hiss of Evander’s breath as he came, his semen pulsing into
Benedict’s mouth in thick washes. Benedict swallowed it, and swallowed again
and again, dimly aware of the wrenching power of the orgasm he –
inexperienced, hell, he may as well have been a virgin when it came to this
– he, Yeats, had just given this man he had been so infatuated by, had
been so damned well dazzled by … forever, it seemed.

His own cock throbbing so painfully,
moisture seeping from the tip and doubtless staining his own trousers, he
thought he’d come himself. Just the pleasure of those feral growls, the salty
taste of the man’s seed on his tongue would be enough.

Finally, the fingers wrenching,
fisted so tightly in his hair loosened, the softening cock, still so
impressive, slipped free of his lips as its owner drew back, pushed himself
back inside his clothing, buttoned himself up again.

Those lean, well-manicured
fingers caught in the hair at his nape, drew him up.

Flushed, Benedict rose,
awkwardly, on the verge of orgasm, and felt those fingers at his nape move
around to stroke, with the back of his knuckles, over the clean, hard line of
his jaw.

“Look at me, Yeats,” Evander
demanded softly.

Christ, it was one thing to
suck a man off and love every minute of it, Benedict was realizing. It was
quite another to look him straight in the eye afterwards. Especially when you’d
been fantasizing about just that act for … forever.

All the same, he lifted his dark-honey
eyes to Evander’s turquoise ones and saw the man smile faintly. He stroked a
thumb over Benedict’s swollen, tingling lips.

“No need to look abashed,
Yeats,” he drawled. “Not after the pleasure you just gave me so very well.”

“I enjoyed giving it just as
much.”

Christ, had he really said
that? But before he could say anything to sound less foolish, Evander’s hard,
carnal mouth was over his. His tongue stroking inside, fucking with his,
lapping out the last traces of his own semen from Benedict’s mouth as if loving
the proof Benedict had swallowed him down so eagerly.

And meanwhile, his hand had
gone down to the fastenings of Benedict’s trousers, in moments his fingers
curling around Benedict’s rigid, straining cock. Benedict was so primed that
just that touch had him gasping, slamming back against the glass case, the
glass, the precious contents rattling.

“Fuck–” he hissed,
against Evander’s mouth.

Evander laughed thickly.
“Indeed. Later.”

And then he was kissing him
again, only roughly now, truly demanding, devouring, utterly male, commanding,
even as he slid his thumb over the silken broad head of Benedict’s prick,
slicking it with the precum dribbling down so copiously from the slit, slicking
the satin skin before his hand expertly pumped Benedict’s thick cock, the
action remorseless even as Benedict wrenched his mouth away, teeth gritted,
eyes shut tightly as he fought the climax building, tightening his bollocks.

No, he wanted to make this last
… savor this. Needed to.

This act wouldn’t happen again.
Couldn’t.

This was just some
sophisticated sexual game of Casterwell’s.

Tomorrow dawn would arrive, and
in the sanity of daylight there would be shooting, archery, maybe tennis played
out on the grassed courts. If it were still sunny, afternoon tea served
outside, cakes, scones, wafer thin sandwiches, under the trees.

Normality would reign.

And this would be a hot erotic
dream, one that belonged to the dark night.

His fingers reached back,
found, clenched hard on the lip of the glass case on either side of him. The
breath was hissing from between his teeth.