Two Rogues Make a Right

by Cat Sebastian

  Bemused, Martin watched Will pile pillows against the headboard before leaning back against them, still fully clothed, his arms stretched out to either side. Martin’s mouth went dry with some unholy combination of nerves and lust. “Bring a book,” Will said.

  “What does a book have to do with anything?” Martin asked.

  “We’re going to read it,” Will said, as if books were a very normal part of this sort of thing. Martin, despite his ignorance, was fairly certain they were not. “So pick something you like.”

  Martin turned toward the shelf that Will had put up over the chimneypiece. Over the last few months, the cottage had started to fill with books. It was, he supposed, only to be expected that Will would spend all his money on books rather than a decent coat, not that Martin minded the steady supply of reading material. He ran his finger over the spines. There was a well-worn copy of Blake, which he dismissed out of hand. He did not want poetry, especially not mad poetry. A novel, then. He did not want to read about unfortunate young ladies trapped in attics or cellars or fleeing from cursed ancestral homes, as that struck rather too close to the heart, and besides he had read all of them already. Nor did he fancy reading about genteel young people who saved their families through a combination of pluck and good character. He wanted misadventure and bad character. His hand alit on a well-read volume and he grinned. He crossed to the bed and handed it to Will.

  “Really?” Will asked. “Seriously?”

  “It’s one of my favorites, and you don’t have Journal of a Plague Year.”

  “Journal of a— Do you need to have seduction explained to you?”

  Squabbling was easy, familiar, safe ground. Martin already felt better. He pulled off his boots and settled onto the bed beside Will. “You can start reading to me whenever you want,” he said primly, pulling the covers up to his chin.

  “Oh no,” Will said. “You’re reading to me. I have other things to do with my mouth.”

  Martin made a noise that he hoped was a dismissive snort but was probably closer to a moan. But he opened the book and started reading at the frontispiece. “The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders, etcetera,” he began. “‘Who was born in Newgate, and during a life of continued variety for threescore years, besides her childhood, was twelve year a whore, five times a wife (whereof once to her own brother),’”—perhaps Will was correct, and this was not an inspired choice— “‘twelve year a thief, eight year a transported felon in Virginia—’”

  “Shove over,” Will said, squeezing between Martin and the mountain of cushions behind them, one leg to either side of Martin’s.

  Martin continued reading, and Will did nothing more than wrap his arms around Martin’s chest and rest his chin on Martin’s shoulder.

  “You’re skipping bits,” Will said. “You realize I can see the words.”

  “Of course I am.” Martin flipped forward several pages. “I’m getting to the part where she—ah, there we are. ‘Thus I gave up myself to a readiness of being ruined without the least concern.’ See, it’s thematically relevant.”

  “Am I meant to ruin you? I didn’t know men ruined one another, but I suppose we could give it a go.”

  “No,” Martin said, reaching behind him and swatting the top of Will’s head with the book. “You’d be hard-pressed to find a happier heroine in all of literature.”

  “In literally the next clause,” Will said, taking the book in his hands and jabbing a finger at the clause in question, his other hand coming to rest on Martin’s stomach in a way that seemed accidental, “she says that other women ought to learn from her bad example.”

  “Yes, but she doesn’t believe it. And we’re not meant to believe it either, obviously. If we judge Moll, then we’re judging ourselves for wanting to read about it.”

  Will made a skeptical sound but kissed Martin’s temple and pulled him closer.

  “Honestly, William, I can feel your erection. Don’t tell me you judge Moll for going to bed with the wrong people when you could not have found a less suitable bedmate in the kingdom. In any kingdom.”

  Will pressed a kiss right underneath Martin’s ear, and—oh, he hadn’t expected that to feel so lovely. One of Will’s hands was splayed on Martin’s thigh, and Martin was not sure when it happened but it seemed that he had interlaced his fingers with Will’s.

  “The penniless and consumptive son of your brother’s mortal enemy,” Martin went on.

  “You are so dramatic,” Will muttered before again kissing that spot by Martin’s ear.

  “Your brother’s enemy,” Martin repeated with emphasis, “and who is, one might observe, a man.”

  “One might indeed,” Will murmured into his neck. Martin was certain he could feel the man’s smile.

  “She’s dealt such a bad hand,” Martin went on. “Every human being in her life is useless or worse. And throughout it she’s . . . delighted. Find me another character—a woman, no less—half as happy.”

  Will tugged his collar open and kissed his shoulder. “Keep talking.”

  Martin was not quite sure how much longer he could talk, though. Will’s mouth was everywhere he could comfortably kiss, his hands equally busy. And Martin wanted more now, and he let himself want it. He turned his head to the side, hoping Will would know what to do, and then Will’s mouth was on his, hot and soft. Just when Martin was getting used to the bizarre feeling of lips touching his own, Will pulled away.

  “Bad angle,” he murmured, and got out from behind Martin in order to kneel over him, gently taking the book from Martin’s hands and placing it on the windowsill.

  If that had been a bad angle, then this was a very good angle, because Will was above him, one hand threaded in Martin’s hair, holding him close, but also sort of petting him. Martin put a tentative hand up to Will’s head, letting his overlong waves slip silkily through his fingers. He let his other hand find Will’s waist. The tip of Will’s tongue sought out Martin’s lower lip, and Martin heard himself gasp in response. When Will pulled away, just enough to put an inch or so of space between their mouths, Martin pushed up to close the gap. Will kissed him harder then, propping himself up on one elbow, his tongue slipping between Martin’s lips. That made Martin arch his back, desperate for more contact. Will only stopped kissing him to whisper some utter nonsense. “So good,” or “so sweet,” or even, “you’re lovely, just look at you.” Martin was certain they were both going to be embarrassed about all of this, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

  Will’s shirt had come untucked, possibly because Martin was clutching it in one fist, and now Martin had an expanse of warm skin within his reach. He smoothed a palm down Will’s side, then splayed his fingers over Will’s lower back. Martin could feel the length of Will’s erection against his belly, and knew Will could feel the same. Every time they shifted, Martin got a hint of friction, just a suggestion of what might happen if they let things progress.

  “Can I take off my shirt?” Will asked. “I want your hands on me.” Something about the way he asked—gentle but needy—made Martin’s hands shake in his effort to help get the shirt over Will’s head. He was so glad there was still enough light streaming through the clouded windows to see by. He had seen Will shirtless before, dozens of times this spring alone. But up close, and with permission to touch, Martin’s mouth watered. He felt the coarse hair on Will’s chest, then traced a finger around one pectoral muscle.

  Will swore, then cleared his throat. Feeling especially daring, he kissed Will’s collarbone, then pushed himself up on an elbow to press an open-mouthed kiss to Will’s neck. Will rolled them over so now Martin was on top, and while he missed the feeling of Will’s warm body pressing him into the mattress, he loved the sight of Will spread out beneath him. Martin bent his head and kissed the birds on Will’s upper arm, then his shoulder, then pressed a line of kisses up his jaw.

  “Please,” Will said.

  Anything, Martin wanted to say. But he needed some direction as to
what that anything might be. “Please what?” he asked.

  “Please . . . darling?” Will somehow managed to look mischievous and desperate at the same time.

  “What do you want me to do, you idiot?” Martin asked, trying to sound arch but smiling fondly.

  “Can I take your shirt off?”

  Why the hell not, Martin figured. If Will didn’t like pale, underfed men then he wouldn’t be in bed with Martin, now, would he? Any shyness Martin may have possessed was quickly whisked away by Will’s eager hands stroking his back and his lovely mouth kissing Martin’s neck and chest. Will’s eyes were wide now, the brown nearly turned to black. His lips were swollen with kissing and he was short of breath. Martin suspected he was in much the same state. Every time they moved, their hips rubbed against one another, and even through the layers of fabric, Martin felt out of his mind with want.

  “We can take our trousers off, you know,” Will said.

  That shouldn’t have come as a surprise. People took off their trousers when having sex. He was twenty-three years old. He knew that. He knew that taking off his godforsaken trousers was the logical culmination of all this kissing. He also knew that he wanted—well, whatever Will wanted.

  “Or we can keep them on,” Will said, in the same easy tone of voice. “We can keep kissing or we can stop. We can go for a walk. We can have supper. You can read to me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Any of those things. I want a chance for us to make one another feel good, and any of those options would do that, I think.”

  Martin raked his gaze down Will’s body, from his untidy hair to his red mouth down to the extremely obvious erection in his trousers. “Go for a walk, indeed. I’d like to see you try in that condition.”

  “What would you suggest, then?” Will said, adjusting himself so casually Martin had to catch his breath.

  “Trousers off,” Martin whispered.

  Will had his own off in about two seconds, and then lay a hand on Martin’s waistband, his fingers curling suggestively under the fabric. “May I?”

  Martin nodded, unable to take his eyes off Will, fully naked now, kneeling beside him, his cock jutting up toward his stomach. Then he felt his trousers sliding down his hips, cool air on his exposed skin.

  “Oh fuck,” Will whispered, looking down at him with something like reverence. Martin almost rolled his eyes, but then he felt Will’s hand wrap around him. It was too much, the feeling of someone else handling him when he had tried so hard not to even handle himself.

  “Wait,” he choked out, and Will withdrew his hand immediately. “Let’s go back to kissing.” Kissing was good. Will seemed to agree. They were in perfect accord. As they kissed, he could feel Will’s hard length against him. Martin wanted to touch him but didn’t know if he was allowed—and he knew he was being incredibly stupid because Will had just touched him as if it were a perfectly normal and expected thing to do while naked and in bed with someone, which was compelling evidence that he would not mind his own cock being touched. And yet—

  “You all right?” Will murmured.

  “It’s. Um.” He waved a hand in the general direction of their pelvises. “You,” he added eloquently. “My hand.”

  That was probably the moment Will realized he was in bed with a lunatic. Something crossed his expression like sudden understanding. But instead of scrambling to get dressed and beating a hasty retreat, he nodded. “Will you touch it for me?”

  Fuck. Martin went utterly still. Fuck, fuck, fuck. How did he know? How could he possibly know that Martin needed to be asked? Martin himself hadn’t known he needed that. He put his palm on Will’s stomach, then slid it down until his littlest finger was near the head of Will’s prick. He glanced up at Will, whose gaze was flickering between Martin’s face and his hand.

  “It’ll feel good for me if you touch it. I’d really like it.”

  On the one hand, this should have been obvious. On the other, hearing it from Will in that gentle voice made all his thoughts turn into warm syrup. It was like the Shaving Incident all over again, Will’s gentleness and praise working like witchcraft on Martin’s warped mind. Or maybe it was just that Will was so good; if he was asking for something, praising something, then it must be good too. He wrapped his fingers around the silky skin, heard Will let out a breath.

  “That’s it,” Will said as Martin stroked. “You’re doing so well.” And he pulled Martin in for a kiss. Kissing was good, already familiar, a reminder that this was Will he was touching, Will he was pleasing—and there his thoughts went dissolving into treacle again. Will was pushing tentatively into his fist and Martin realized he was rocking his own erection into Martin’s hip.

  “You could bring it alongside mine,” Will whispered. “And hold us both together. That would feel good for me.”

  It was a testament to how far gone Martin was that he did it without hesitation. It took nothing at all after that—well, it took a steady stream of praise from Will, and the usual kissing and hair petting and general coddling, but very little in the way of actual touching—and Martin was spending onto Will’s stomach, followed promptly by Will.

  They lay there for a bit, still kissing, Martin feeling simultaneously very clever and like an absolute dolt, Will in some kind of post-orgasmic fugue state during which he could do nothing but pour utter nonsense into Martin’s ear. Will eventually cleaned them up and drew the covers to their chins, and then they slept.

  Chapter Eleven

  Will was going to make Martin comfortable or he was going to die trying. In general he was happy go to along with whatever his lovers wanted. If they wanted to boss him around, he was game. If they wanted him to tie them up, he could do that too. Every now and then he encountered something he didn’t care for, but even then if his partner enjoyed it he’d give it a try. Martin wasn’t the first lover he had who needed to be fussed over and showered with praise.

  But Will didn’t even have words to describe how it felt to watch Martin figure it out, right in front of his eyes. He was already more fond of Martin than he was of anybody else he’d ever known; that fondness was not exactly increasing, but growing more tender—tender, but in the way a wound was tender. He wanted the best for Martin with a fierceness he could hardly understand.

  He got out of bed before Martin, thinking that lingering in bed together would lead in the obvious direction, and wanting to give Martin a bit of space before he was confronted with more. As silently as he could, he built up the banked fire and slipped out to the pump to fill the kettle.

  “What’s this?” Martin asked blearily, sitting up in bed. “You’ve already made tea? Is this what I get for successfully fondling you?”

  Will almost spit out his tea. He grinned over at Martin, glad beyond belief that there wasn’t going to be any awkwardness. “It’s the traditional gift,” he said. He carried a cup over to the bed, having already stirred in a frankly silly quantity of sugar and milk, which was how Martin seemed to think tea ought to be prepared.

  “Good to know.” Martin took a sip of the tea, a strand of hair falling into his face as he did. Will brushed it away.

  “I suppose you’ll be getting another haircut when we go to London,” Will observed.

  “Is this your way of telling me I look too much like a stowaway to be seen with you?”

  Will rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m famous for cutting a dashing figure. I like your hair.” It had grown out a bit since Daisy’s haircut, and now the ends skimmed Martin’s cheekbones when he didn’t tuck them away. They had been spending so much time outside that the dark blond had lightened in places to a pale gold. “I suspect your aunt will feel otherwise, though.”

  Martin went still, both hands wrapped around the teacup. “I don’t intend to come within shouting distance of my aunt while we’re in town to see your play. I don’t want to deal with any of that until after.”

  “After— Oh. After we leave here.”

  “Right,” Martin said, avoi
ding Will’s eyes.

  Will found that after last night he didn’t want to think about any future that lay outside the four walls of this cottage. “Is your aunt so bad, then?”

  “Bad? No, she’s rather determinedly decent. She doesn’t mean ill, but she’s used to getting her way. It’s exhausting.”

  “And yet you left her house to live in an unheated attic. I assumed she was a villain.” Will had never asked before why Martin ran away. At first he had been too furious that Martin had endangered himself in that way, and then Martin had been too sick to pepper with questions.

  Martin settled back against the headboard. At some point during the night, he put on a shirt, and now it gaped open at the neck. Will wanted to kiss along his collarbone until he reached the hollow of his throat. He could hardly look away. “It’s going to sound mad. I did it because I could. I realized I wasn’t actually a prisoner in her home, and that I didn’t need to hear her plan out the rest of my life. I know it sounds extreme, but I think that was only the second time in my life I got to make a real choice. I knew, even at the time, that it wasn’t a good choice, but the idea of having a choice at all was exhilarating. I know it was mad.”

  Will sipped his tea. “Well, I’m an expert in making poor choices while more or less unhinged. But why don’t you like your aunt? You act like visiting her is a trip to the gallows.”

  “She’s a very . . . forceful personality. She views me as a problem in need of a solution, and in her world there’s only one thing to do with a man who’s both penniless and pedigreed.”

  Will furrowed his brow. “Which is?”

  Martin cast him a glance that told him he was being very dim. “Marriage,” he said bluntly. “She means to marry me off to the daughter of some wealthy industrialist who wants his grandson to inherit a title.”

  “And is this something you want?” Will asked carefully.

  The glance Martin now gave him said he was being a monumental fool. “Do I want to marry an heiress? No. I don’t want to marry anybody. But as she has said many times, marrying well is the only way I’ll live as a gentleman. I’ve told her I have no wish to live as a gentleman, but the past few months have shown me I don’t know how to live any other way.”