At no point did Kingsley try to rush things along. No, no rush at all. Kingsley was exactly where he belonged...on his knees with Søren’s cock deep in his throat, white candlewax all over his back and the sound of his lover and his master’s ragged breathing echoing in his ears.
Kingsley had the vague realization that Søren had blown the candle out and set it down. He dared to glance up once and his boldness was rewarded. Søren’s head was back in pleasure, his lips parted, his throat exposed and his chest rising and falling. Kingsley memorized what he saw, burning it into his brain. It scalded like candlewax.
He bent his head again and returned to pleasuring Søren. Both of his lover’s hands were now in Kingsley’s hair, gripping him tightly, to the point of pain. Søren controlled the rhythm, the tempo, the depth. Kingsley let himself be used. Better to be servant of a god than a ruler of mortal men.
Kingsley prayed to his god that Søren wouldn’t stop him. All he wanted was to swallow Søren’s come. He wanted every drop of it.
Søren’s thumb found Kingsley’s cheekbone, caressed it and Kingsley glanced up one last time. He met Søren’s eyes, dark now and hooded with desire. Kingsley had to force himself to look away. With all his love and lust and total devotion, he brought Søren to the edge of pleasure and they stayed there a moment together, locked together, sealed. Søren’s stomach contracted again. Kingsley felt it under his palms. And when Kingsley dug his fingers into that vulnerable place Søren inhaled sharply and released.
Kingsley took every drop, every spurt and swallowed it like a starving beggar brought to a feast fit for a king. Only when Kingsley had emptied Søren out and drank his fill of the man did he lift his head.
Søren looked at him, lips still parted, panting. In the golden light from the fireplace, Søren glowed like a gilded icon.
Kingsley wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Then he said, “Hooray.”
Chapter Nine
Afterward, they made use of the large old pedestal tub in the bathroom, a tub large enough for two grown men. Søren carefully cleaned the wax off Kingsley’s back and washed the red wax burns with cold water.
“You think they’re watching us?” Kingsley asked.
“The walls have eyes?”
“I had a bad habit of peeping through keyholes while here.”
“Let them watch,” Søren said, as he pulled Kingsley’s back down against his chest.
After the bath, they dried off and laid down on the blankets Kingsley had spread over the rug. The fireplace provided the only light to the room.
Søren, of course, was the big spoon.
“Are you asleep?” Kingsley asked as a few minutes of silence passed without any sound but the wind outside the windows and Søren’s soft breathing.
“Not yet.”
“I’m sorry I eavesdropped.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“All right, no. But I want to be sorry. How’s that?”
Søren ran his fingers through Kingsley’s hair. It was nice being naked and wrapped up in each other on the floor in front of a warm fire. Tomorrow morning when he woke stiff and sore, he might not find it so pleasant, but at the moment, Kingsley was more than content.
“I should have told you the things I told Madame before,” Søren said.
Kingsley rolled onto his back, facing Søren. “You had your reasons for keeping your secrets.”
Søren shrugged. “Bad reasons.”
“We were young and stupid. And if you’d told me about your father...I wouldn’t have known what to say or do. I know I would have made it worse for you.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
Søren meant that apology. Kingsley knew he meant it because he punctuated the sentence with a kiss, a deep and tender one, the kind of kiss that couldn’t tell a lie.
“Forgiven,” Kingsley said.
“And I forgive you for eavesdropping. Even though you can’t seem to manage to apologize for it sincerely.”
“I got to hear about you making out with a doctor in India. How am I supposed to be sorry about that?”
“We weren’t twelve-year-olds playing spin the bottle. We did not ‘make out.’”
“But did you play doctor with him?”
“I need more wine,” Søren said. “An entire bottle.”
“Was there tongue?”
“Go to sleep, Kingsley.”
“Was he a better kisser than I am?”
Kingsley gasped in extraordinary pain when Søren—without warning—yanked Kingsley’s hair.
“Fuck...”
“Goodnight, Kingsley,” Søren said.
Kingsley rubbed his scalp. “Goodnight, you absolute bastard. I love you almost as much as I hate you.”
Søren rolled onto his back and, as he always did, Kingsley laid his head across Søren’s stomach. Søren said nothing. For once.
“You aren’t complaining?” Kingsley asked.
“There is a very good chance Colette will try to stab me in the night. Worth having your head compressing my diaphragm if it means she gets you instead of me.”
“God, you’re romantic.”
“You have an erection. You can’t be that offended.”
“You’ve heard of hate-boners, yes? This is an offended erection.”
“We’re sleeping in front of a fireplace in a château library where you were briefly held captive by a mildly deranged sadist. What’s not romantic about that?”
Søren asked a good question.
“It is pretty nice,” Kingsley said, lifting his head to glance around the fire-lit room. “I mean this rug...This fucking rug is softer than a lot of beds I’ve slept on. Well, fucked on.”
“How much do you think it’s worth?” Søren asked.
Kingsley ran his hand over the Persian rug and felt the fineness of the fibers. The pattern was an intricate paisley, the colors black and gold. Truly unique, a masterpiece of weaving.
“More than most Americans make in a year,” Kingsley said.
“Good.”
“What?”
Søren rolled onto his side and pushed Kingsley onto his.
Then Søren grasped Kingsley’s offended erection and stroked it.
Kingsley was not offended in the least by that.
“What the hell are you doing?” Kingsley asked. “Not complaining.”
“I’m making you come. Now shut up and come.”
“I’m not a dog. You can’t order me...well, you can. But you should be a little nicer about it.”
Søren put his mouth at Kingsley’s ear and bit the earlobe...hard.
Kingsley took a ragged breath. “See?” he said. “That wasn’t so hard.”
While Søren nibbled Kingsley’s ear, the stroking continued. Søren knew exactly how to touch Kingsley to bring him to the edge and leave him hanging there...and hanging...breathing hard and heavy...inching closer and pulling back...until the moment came—the tense, taut, tight, tortured moment right before...and then the final stroke, the bite on the back of the neck that would turn into a bruise by morning, and Kingsley came in almost painfully hard spurts.
He came all over the rug that had cost more than the average American made in a year.
Kingsley went limp. Søren leaned up and surveyed the damage.
“That’s going to leave a stain,” Søren said.
“Should I clean it off?”
“No.”
“You’re such a bitch.” Kingsley had to laugh.
“They were cruel to you,” Søren reminded him. “Only I get to do that. Now go to sleep before I put you to sleep.”
Søren rolled onto his back and Kingsley turned over and lay across his stomach.
Kingsley sighed with contentment when Søren’s hand found the back of his neck and caressed it gently with his fingertips.
“Søren?”
Kingsley’s head rose and fell with Søren’s utterly disgusted sigh.
/>
“What now?”
“Can you believe this all started because you made me tell you a secret I’d never told you before. One order and we end up in France three months later.”
“I will never ever play that game with you again,” Søren said. “You have my solemn vow on that.”
Søren closed his eyes. Kingsley couldn’t quite sleep yet.
“Søren?”
“God, I hope that wine was poisoned.” Søren sighed again. “Yes. What?”
“Tell me a secret you’ve never told me before...”
“I once killed a French whore in a château library.”
Ah, well, it was worth a try.
Kingsley closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep.
“That letter my father sent me, the one I didn’t tell you about... My father threatened you in it.”
Kingsley raised his head, looked down at Søren.
“What?”
“Sometimes my father, when he remembered I existed, would call the school and demand a progress report from one of the priests. One of them, in his innocence, must have mentioned that I had finally made a good friend at school, that we were spending a lot of time together. The letter from my father told me I was required to apply to university immediately—Oxford or Cambridge were my only two choices—and/or get married as soon as possible. And if I put this newfound friendship with you over my education, my father would see to it you no longer were a ‘distraction.’”
“That was a threat,” Kingsley said. He knew a threat when he heard a threat. “Did he know we were together?”
“Not for certain. You’re alive after all.”
“You really think he would have killed me?”
Søren’s father had been dead for twenty years and still Kingsley felt his blood turn cold as the grave.
“If he found out his only son and heir was sleeping with another boy? Let’s put it this way—I have no doubt in my mind he would have used you to hurt me. To hurt and to manipulate me into doing anything and everything he wanted me to do. He used my mother and my sister to manipulate me. Why not you? When I decided to marry your sister, it was because I thought I was outmaneuvering him at last. I could get married, as ordered, and still be with you. And you would be safe. We would all be safe...finally.”
But they hadn’t been safe.
No one was ever really safe.
“Is that enough of a secret for you?” Søren asked.
Kingsley kissed the center of Søren’s stomach again.
“That’s enough.”
He lay down again and the arm that wrapped around his back held him closer and tighter than Kingsley ever remembered it holding him.
“Sometimes I dreamed that we’d move to Paris,” Søren said. “You and I. Attended the Sorbonne. Have a garret apartment with a four-poster I could tie you to every night. You weren’t the only having fantasies of us running away together.”
“I would have liked attending university with you,” Kingsley said. “I can only imagine how you’d force me to do my homework.”
“Unfortunately the Sorbonne doesn’t offer a degree in Whoredom.”
“Pity,” Kingsley said. And then, “I love you, too.”
“Go to sleep,” Søren replied.
As ordered, Kingsley fell asleep.
Chapter Ten
Morning came early, too early, but a sharp knock on the door woke Kingsley with a start. Søren, used to rising early, was already up and dressed and reading.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Søren said, closing his book.
“I hate you. Do we have any coffee?”
“I’ll pour you a cup. But hurry. Someone’s in a bad mood again this morning.”
“Ten minutes,” Colette said sharply through the door. “And then you’ll leave. For good this time.”
Kingsley dressed quickly, splashed water on his face, ran his fingers through his hair and swallowed his cup of coffee whole.
Ten minutes later, Colette came for them. Without a word, she ushered them into the hallway.
They followed her through the old wing and into the new, but instead of going to Madame’s bedroom, she led them downstairs and out the front door.
“You’re not going to let me see her, are you?” Kingsley asked Colette.
“You’ve already seen her,” Colette said. “Don’t pretend you weren’t hiding in the bathroom. She knew.”
“Yes, so did he.” Kingsley pointed at Søren who only laughed. Colette did not like that laugh. She didn’t like it at all.
“You think you’re so superior,” she said to Søren. “You have nothing on Madame. You have one little lapdog.” Her chin jutted out, indicating Kingsley. “Madame has dozens. Men from all over the world will throw themselves on her grave when she passes. Madame is an icon, a legend. She’s the Louvre. She’s the Met. You’re nothing but a child’s drawing hung on a refrigerator. You are a shadow in her shadow.”
Kingsley held his breath as Søren narrowed his eyes at Colette. This could get ugly, fast. Faces were about to get slapped. Hair was about to be pulled. Between a six-foot-four sadistic man and a righteously pissed-off French woman... Kingsley really didn’t know who to put his money on.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you, Colette,” Søren said. “Distracted by the mole on your chin. It really does look like a tick.”
Colette took a step forward, murder in her eyes. Kingsley interposed himself between her and Søren.
“We’re leaving. Right now,” Kingsley said. “Let’s go. Car’s just outside the gate. Colette, adieu.”
“Your car is being brought round,” Colette said. “I look forward to watching you drive off in it.”
In the faint gray light of the early spring morning, Kingsley saw their car easing down the drive toward the house. The car pulled up in front of them and the door opened.
Madame stepped out, dressed in an elegant black suit with a crisp white blouse underneath. She looked hardly a decade older than when he last saw her.
And she certainly didn’t look like she was dying.
Kingsley stared at her. Søren stared at her.
From behind them, Colette laughed.
“Adieu,” Colette said.
“Your keys, gentlemen,” Madame said. She handed them to Kingsley, who did and said nothing when Madame kissed him briskly on each cheek. She smelled of lavender water and looked exquisite, healthy, beautiful. “Adieu.” She kissed Søren on each cheek as well. “Adieu.”
Madame followed Colette into the house. The door closed behind them.
“I don’t know what’s more humiliating,” Søren said. “That I didn’t see that coming...”
“. . . or that you enjoyed it?”
Søren laughed. Ah, Kingsley did love that laugh.
“She fakes dying very well,” Søren said as they walked to their car. “That cough of hers sounded tubercular.”
“I thought she was dying, too, I swear.”
“When she touched my face, she was running a fever. I felt it.”
“Easy to fake,” Kingsley said. “Hot water bottle under the sheets.”
“And the pill bottles with her name on them? Those were narcotics.”
“Her husband’s? She could have changed the labels.”
“Makes perfect sense.”
“Don’t feel bad. She was literally married to a spymaster, and she fooled him for years.”
“I don’t feel bad at all. Only amused.”
“You know Colette is laughing at us right now.”
“I’m sure she is,” Søren said. “I don’t mind. Let her laugh all she wants. At the end of the day, one of us has a tick on their face and the other doesn’t.”
“You don’t think it’s cute?”
Søren looked at him, eyebrow cocked.
“Drive,” Søren said. “Take me to Paris.”
They got into the car and drove away.
“Madame beat us,” Kingsley said. “She won.”
; “I wouldn’t say that.”
“Well, we did leave the giant come stain on her rug.”
“I was thinking of the note I left in the room on the fireplace mantel.”
“Wait, what did the note say?”
“It said I lied to her last night. One lie only.”
“One lie? You lied to Madame? About what? Kissing Doctor Jassa? Lifting me into bed? Nora’s blowjob talons? What? What did you lie about?”
“She’ll never know.” Søren looked at him. “And neither will you.”
“Motherfucker,” Kingsley said.
“I anticipate that will be her response as well. Or the nearest French equivalent.”
“You’re really not going to tell me what lie you told her last night?”
“I’ll give you a choice. I’ll either tell you what the lie is or...I’ll fuck you tonight until you forget you ever saw that château.”
“You would have to literally fuck my brains out to make me forget the château. You would have to do unconscionable things to me. I would have to be broken. Laws would have to be broken. God would be offended by what you’d have to do to me. Fuck, Satan would be offended.”
“Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m offering. I’ll tell you my lie. Or I do such things to you to make the devil clutch his pearls. What will it be?”
Kingsley turned from the château drive onto the forest road and headed west to Gay Paris.
“This is so unfair. You are an inhuman monster,” Kingsley said. “A bastard of the highest order. I don’t know how you live with yourself sometimes. Can you please be human for five fucking minutes?”
Søren turned his head and smiled at Kingsley, the sort of smile that made the car windshield steam up.
“What’s your answer?”
Kingsley wanted to say, “Tell me what you lied about.” He did. He wanted to. He really and truly and desperately wanted to be the sort of man who had the self-control and the self-restraint and the dignity to pick the secret over the sex.
The Return (The Original Sinners) Page 7