by J. A. Rock
Hartwell lifted his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, though apparently it was too much to ask that he wipe the smug grin from his face too. Warry could not stop moaning, which would have been humiliating if it did not clearly delight Hartwell so much. After a moment, the moans became whimpers, and he settled back against the pillow. Hartwell rested his head against Warry’s hip, his palm warm as he rubbed Warry’s quivering belly.
Warry wished he could speak. He did not know what he would say, but it seemed impolite to remain incoherent for so long. Hartwell did not seem to mind, though.
“You are simply splendid,” Hartwell whispered, tilting his head back so he could see Warry’s face.
Warry’s shaking increased. Hartwell’s gaze met his with gentle understanding, and he climbed to his knees and rubbed Warry’s thighs with both hands, the touch heavy and deeply reassuring. “Will you sleep now?” he asked.
Warry shook his head. He would never sleep again; he was sure of it. Though exhaustion threatened him, his desire to see Hartwell come apart as he himself had was fierce. “You have not had your pleasure,” he managed hoarsely.
“Warry.” Hartwell smiled. “I am more than satisfied. I have had everything I wanted.”
“And what about what I want?” His voice gained strength as he pulled himself to half-sitting.
Hartwell frowned. “Did you not like it?”
“I liked it better than I have liked anything in my life. But now I wish to see you just as I was.”
In the flickering light from the fire, Hartwell appeared apprehensive. “You are under no obligation.”
“Do you ever listen? I’ve told you how I feel about you. I have told you what I want. How can you think I wish to undo you out of a sense of obligation?”
Hartwell’s laugh was nervous. “You have already undone me. If you undo me any further, well…I do not know what will happen.”
“Then let us find out. Undress, William.”
Warry did not need daylight to see the combination of awe, terror, and need in Hartwell’s eyes, and it pulled a thread of mischievous giddiness through him.
The man stood slowly, his hands going to the buttons of his waistcoat. He hesitated. “I do not think anything has ever made me feel more naked than hearing you say my given name.”
“William,” Warry said again, loving the feel of it on his tongue. He was only a little anxious, and the nerves were more excitement than anything else. He had never in his life imagined having any sort of command over William Hartwell.
Hartwell undressed in silence, his fingers fumbling with a button or two. At last, he slid his drawers down and stepped out of them, standing naked before Warry, the fire casting shadow in every muscular furrow of his body. Warry nearly lost his reason. How could any sight be so splendid? How could a mere pup such as he be so fortunate as to have a man like William about to climb into bed with him?
He could have remained there for the rest of the night, simply staring. Instead, he forced himself to shift over. He drew back the bedclothes and patted the spot beside him. “Come here.”
“As you wish.” Hartwell stepped forward. Warry could never recall having seen the man so uncertain. To imagine William Hartwell nervous was a strange thing indeed. It was even stranger to know he was the cause of Hartwell’s nerves.
He laughed, the sound genuine and delighted. “What is it you think I mean to do to you?”
Hartwell’s answering chuckle was not quite steady. “I do not know,” he admitted, climbing onto the bed. “I know only that I am your servant.”
“I am the one in thrall to you, my lord,” Warry whispered as he wrapped an arm around Hartwell’s waist and drew their bodies together. His softened prick rubbed against the stiff length of Hartwell’s, and Hartwell closed his eyes and groaned. Warry kissed him, a gesture Hartwell returned eagerly, his hand coming up to cup Warry’s face. Warry ran his own hand down Hartwell’s back, but lost courage when he came to the base of the man’s spine. He stroked the small hollow there with his thumb, relishing the soft sigh Hartwell made into his mouth. Then he gathered his wits and ran his hand over the firm curve of Hartwell’s arse.
Hartwell groaned and pressed himself tightly against Warry, their hips grinding for a moment, Warry sucking forcefully on Hartwell’s tongue. He used his unoccupied hand to trace the muscles of Hartwell’s arm, then his chest. Every plane of Hartwell’s body was as hard as packed earth, and Warry revelled in touching him.
He squeezed Hartwell’s arse hard enough to elicit another groan, then broke the kiss, placing his fingers in his mouth and wetting them. If The Maiden Diaries had taught him anything, it was that the act he was considering was enjoyed by both men and women to a degree that was borderline alarming.
Hartwell stared at him. Warry removed his fingers, slick with spit, from his mouth. “Is it okay?” he asked.
Hartwell gave a half laugh, half groan. “I’ll not last more than a second if you try it.”
Warry grinned. “That is certainly all right by me.” He stuck his fingers back in his mouth, then slipped them out again and reached around behind Hartwell. He trailed his smallest finger down the cleft of Hartwell’s arse, attempting to familiarise himself with the territory. When he found what he dearly hoped was the right place, he stroked it with the wet pad of his middle finger. Hartwell whimpered encouragingly, throwing his leg over both of Warry’s and spreading himself open. Warry pushed inward, barely containing a gasp at the tightness and heat. Hartwell grunted tersely, his body going rigid for an instant. Warry could imagine this part was uncomfortable, and he despaired at the thought of causing Hartwell even a moment’s pain when he wanted nothing more than to give him pleasure. Hartwell’s chin dropped to his chest, and on an impulse, Warry kissed the top of his head, hoping to reassure him.
Then the tight muscle gave way, and Warry’s finger slid all the way inside. Hartwell buried his face in the crook of Warry’s neck, moving himself on Warry’s finger, emitting a series of soft cries and sharp pants. Warry attempted to thrust in a way that complemented Hartwell’s movements until Hartwell’s cries became barely coherent pleas against Warry’s skin. With his other hand, Warry rubbed Hartwell’s arse, squeezing and kneading. He gripped one of Hartwell’s cheeks and dug his nails in, and at the same moment thrust his finger as deeply as he could. Hartwell clenched around him with a force that startled Warry. The other man sank his teeth into Warry’s shoulder to muffle a fierce cry, his fingers gouging Warry’s side to the point of pain. He seemed to sob, his spine arching then dipping, and Warry’s prick was suddenly slick with Hartwell’s spilled seed. The sensation was delightful, and Warry could not help rubbing against Hartwell, wondering for a moment if his own prick might get hard again.
“Warry,” Hartwell begged. “Warry, please, I cannot bear it.”
Warry took pity on him and slowly withdrew his finger, moving his unsoiled hand up to rub Hartwell’s shoulders. Hartwell collapsed on him, still breathing hard against Warry’s neck.
They remained like that for some time; Warry lazily stroking Hartwell’s slick skin as the man’s breathing gradually slowed. His mind began to race with future possibilities. What would it be like to enter Hartwell with his prick? To hear how Hartwell would beg him then? And what if Hartwell did as he had done earlier, but this time worshiped every single inch of Warry’s body with his lips before taking him to the very height of pleasure?
The fire had died to embers. Hartwell emitted a puff of breath, and Warry heard him lick his lips, then try once to speak before finally gaining his voice. “Are you all right?”
“I have never been better in the whole of my life,” he replied honestly.
Hartwell lifted his head and gazed at him. “The same is true of me,” he whispered. He rested his head on the pillow, stroking Warry’s chest with his fingertips.
“How soon until we can do it again?” Warry asked.
“You must be joking. I shall not be able to move again for hou
rs.”
Warry sniggered. “I thought you were my servant?”
Hartwell’s eyes caught the last flickers of firelight. “Come here.”
Warry tipped his head toward him. “I am already here.”
“Come closer. I need to tell you something.”
“You’re going to belch in my ear, aren’t you?”
“What?” Hartwell cried. “How can you even think I would—”
“You’re going to belch in my ear.”
“No! We have just shared something beautiful. I can’t believe you would think so poorly of me.”
Warry relented, feeling a jab of guilt at assuming the worst of Hartwell. They had just shared something beautiful. He shifted his head a bit closer, and Hartwell leaned down, lips to Warry’s ear.
Warry shot upright, yanking his pillow out from under him and mashing it against Hartwell’s face just as Hartwell let out an enormous belch.
Hartwell’s laughter was muffled by the pillow.
“I knew it!” Warry exclaimed, forcing Hartwell onto his back, keeping the pillow over his face. “I knew it, Hartwell, damn you!”
“Stop trying to smother me!” Hartwell begged plaintively. “Warry!”
“You deserve it.”
“No, listen—” Hartwell groped blindly with one hand, catching Warry’s arm and tugging him off balance, then sitting up. The pillow fell into his lap. “Let me say what I really wanted to say.” He tried to pull Warry closer.
“William!” Warry jerked away, laughing.
Hartwell got hold of him again and brought his lips to Warry’s ear once more. “Listen. Shh, Warry, just listen.”
Warry went still except for the occasional fit of sniggers that set his body shaking. “Don’t…” he moaned.
“No, listen.” Hartwell drew a breath, and then whispered, “You are my heart.”
Now Warry went entirely still.
“You are beautiful. I care for you. I love you.”
Warry sank back onto the bed, his heart pounding. Hartwell lay beside him again, gazing at him.
“You too,” Warry whispered.
The silence that followed was comfortable. Familiar.
Eventually Warry sighed, not wanting to speak the next words, but knowing he must. “I should go home. My parents will worry if I am out all night.”
“I imagine Becca will make any excuses that need to be made should you wish to stay here and sleep.”
Warry studied what he could of Hartwell’s face in the darkness. “I fear what she might tell them.”
“She will do nothing to betray your trust. That I know.”
It was horrible to imagine what his parents might have already heard of the gossip. If Lady Agatha had spread the word that he had been discovered in a state of undress in Balfour’s bedroom, locked in Hartwell’s embrace, Balfour lying on the floor with his cravat undone…
Hartwell seemed to read his thoughts. “There is nothing to be done about it for the moment. I will retire to my own room if you wish to sleep alone, but I do not think you should attempt to go home now.”
“Do you think my parents would believe that I was helping you organise your father’s library?” His attempt at humour was met with a sympathetic snort. Hartwell’s hand smoothed his hair. “I think your parents love you and want what’s best for you.”
“And what of yours?”
“They have always tolerated me. I imagine they will continue to do so.”
“Even if we wed?”
“Now that,” Hartwell said, and Warry could hear the smile in his voice, “you are in no state to decide tonight. Go to sleep, and things will look better in the morning.”
“Things are so nearly perfect right now,” he murmured.
Hartwell made a small noise of assent and nuzzled Warry’s jaw.
Warry lingered another moment in the embrace, then with a soft groan, got out of bed and went to clean his hands at the washstand. When he climbed back in, Hartwell’s breathing had slowed such that Warry wondered if he was asleep, but Hartwell shifted at once, wrapping both arms around Warry and pulling him against his chest once more. “Sleep,” Hartwell growled in his ear, “or I shall have to do a more thorough job of tiring you out next time.”
Warry smiled and let himself be lulled by the steady beat of the man’s heart.
Chapter 19
“Demme!” George, the Duke of Ancaster exclaimed.
“Language,” the duchess said mildly from across the table, sipping her tea.
“Language?” Ancaster demanded. “Language? What, a man can’t even say demme in his own house nowadays? The world has gone mad!”
“Oh, pish,” the duchess said and waved her hand in his direction as though she were trying to shoo away a fly.
“Pish?” Ancaster roared. “Pish?”
His wife sighed and ignored him.
Hartwell watched the exchange from the other end of the table, looking from one parent to the other like it was a game of battledore and shuttlecock. He’d have a crick in his neck very soon if they didn’t call a truce.
“He’s ruined, of course,” Ancaster said at last, settling into his chair and deflating like a bladder. His gaze landed on Hartwell. “Warry, I mean. Half the ton already knows he was caught in a compromising position with you last night at the ball, and the other half will know by luncheon. Really, William, what the hell were you thinking?”
“Language,” the duchess murmured.
“I shall say hell if I wish!” Ancaster muttered like a petulant child.
“He’s not ruined,” Hartwell said, lifting his chin. “Not if I marry him.”
“Marry!” Ancaster spluttered. “You will not!”
Hartwell lifted his chin and drew a deep breath. “I shall. I have every intention of doing so, Father, and there is nothing you can say to dissuade me. I know that for some time it has been your greatest wish that I marry, and the reason I have dragged my feet on the subject has recently become apparent to me. I do not wish to marry Becca, or any other woman, no matter how dear she may be. I wish to marry Warry, and nobody else, and so I shall. And while I hope to have your approval on the matter, I intend to proceed whether or not it is forthcoming.”
His father’s jaw dropped. “But your title!”
“Your title, you mean,” Hartwell said. “I would be honoured if I were to one day inherit it and become the Duke of Ancaster, but you must know that if you force me to choose between the title and my heart, I will choose my heart, and my Warry, every time.”
“Oh!” His mother clutched her hands to her bosom. “George, he is in love!”
Confusion twisted his father’s features into a comical mask. “But you don’t even like Warry! Your contempt for him of late has been palpable. And you tried to shoot him!”
“I have acted like a fool,” Hartwell said, “in an attempt to deny my own feelings. But I can no longer deny that I care deeply for Warry. I love him, and I will marry him. And the shooting,” he added, “was an accident.”
He had spent so long fearing a conversation like this one that now it was happening he was surprised his voice didn’t waver. But the memory of Warry’s bravery last night—and his boldness in the bedroom—steeled his nerves. And this morning, when Warry had left in the dull, grey hour before the dawn, Hartwell had kissed him and confessed to him again that he held his heart. Warry, braver and bolder last night but perhaps a little more jaded too, had only smiled and kissed him back and murmured a caution against making any promises. Hartwell had wanted to grab him by the shoulders, shake him, and demand to know where the closeness and affection and, yes, the love they had shared the night before had vanished, but he had not. Instead, he had suffered a stab of guilt in the guts because if Warry was suddenly hardening his heart against the hopes of a happy resolution, then Hartwell had played a part in that process. Because Warry hadn’t wanted to hear any promises at that moment, Hartwell had made the promise to himself instead, silently. He would marry Josep
h Warrington and make everything right between them.
It wasn’t Warry’s fault that he was once bitten and twice shy, and Hartwell refused to take it as a slight against his pride. No, if Warry had been hesitant this morning to repeat the things they had said last night—both the promises to always say what they were feeling and their talk of marriage—then it was up to Hartwell to prove himself better than Warry’s doubts. He had to show he was worthy of Warry’s heart. And the first step in that, he knew, was to declare his intentions to his father, even at the risk of being cast out.
Gale might have claimed the duke would never do something so drastic but, holding his father’s gaze, Hartwell wasn’t as certain.
“But he is ruined,” Ancaster said helplessly.
“He is not,” Hartwell said firmly. “Not if I marry him.”
“And if I do not give my permission for such a thing?” Ancaster asked, his gaze narrowing.
“Father,” Hartwell said, gentling his tone. “I do not need your permission. I am telling you that I am determined to marry Warry. You may disown me if that is your wish, but that has no bearing on my decision.”
The duke passed a hand over his eyes. “Good Lord. But you will have no son, William. What will become of the title?”
“This is not a decision I make lightly,” Hartwell said. “I swear that. If I am to be the Duke of Ancaster in due course, then I also swear I will do everything I can to preserve that legacy and make Cousin James the heir, just as he would be if you disowned me.”
“Oh!” his mother exclaimed suddenly. “He has you there, George, doesn’t he? James is a good boy. We like James. Do you remember when he was three and got a pebble stuck up his nose and almost died? I thought his mama would bring the ceiling down with all her screaming. Well, fortunately he’s not so silly anymore.” She popped a piece of honey cake into her mouth and added, thoughtfully, “I suspect Elizabeth still is, though.”