He tensed up, and that was all the warning I had as his cock spurted cum onto his abs. Hard and fast, thick and wet, it poured out of him, agonized groans spilling free from him at the same time as his head rocked back, throat arching, sinews clearly visible as the pleasure of the moment was clearly painful for him.
As he came back down, his ass clenching around me rhythmically, his eyelids were almost closed as he watched me, and that was why I’d held off from coming.
For this.
I knew he loved this shit, knew it and wanted him to be happy with me, to give him everything he craved.
My fingers dabbed his cum like it was finger-paint, and I swirled it around his upper abdomen, moving it up to his pecs, before I loomed over him, my cock pushing in so deep he let out a sharp cry, and I started to lap up his seed.
He groaned, long and low, his hands coming up to grab my hair, to hold it taut in his grip, to maneuver me around.
Between us, his cock hardened again, and though I smiled, he rasped, “I’m too fucking old to be this hard again.”
I snorted, unable to help myself, and carried on lapping, tasting him, tasting the only cum I ever wanted to taste again for the rest of my fucking life.
I didn’t care that he was my first. I just wanted him to be my only.
His hands dug into my hair, to the point of pain, and I knew why. He guided me higher, not stopping until my lips surged over his throat and up to his.
As our mouths collided, his cock sandwiched between us, I made love to him.
Rocking and thrusting, slowly and carefully, taking him higher once more because I needed that, I needed him.
When his hips began jerking, his cock twitching, I knew he was close, and thank God for that, because so was I.
He swallowed my cry just as I swallowed his, our lips devouring the other’s agonized sounds of bliss as we both came, simultaneously, wrapped up in one another, entangled in his arms as much as he was entangled in mine.
Knotted together.
Tied.
God, I wanted forever with this man. Forever and a day.
But I didn’t tell him that, just sighed into his mouth before pulling back and pushing my forehead onto his.
Still wrapped up in him, the words I wanted to tell him unable to pour free, I whispered, “What the fuck am I supposed to do with you?”
And he laughed.
I knew why.
Because he felt the same.
So I smiled, feeling his confusion and his love even if neither of us was ready to say it yet, and settled into him. Knowing I’d sleep and that he would too.
Right now? That was all I wanted.
Him.
Thirty-One
Devlin
I woke up to a lot of banging.
Not the good kind either.
Not Micah’s lips wrapped around my cock or anything like that. Just a lot of moving about downstairs.
I frowned at the noises, and gave Micah a kiss when he moaned, “What the fuck are they doing down there?”
“Servants are supposed to be seen and not heard,” I said grimly, “unless the Duke and Duchess make an appearance.”
He tensed. “Your parents are here?”
I grunted. “I think so. That’s the only reason for all the noise.”
We were still wrapped around each other, arms and legs all tangled up and I bitterly resented having to move when I was so fucking comfortable in a bedroom that had housed more misery than happiness.
Nothing about this house made me happy, but having Micah in it, watching him finger a tchotchke here and there, answering his questions about a tapestry or a painting, it made my heart feel full.
I might hate my heritage, but it was clear that he was fascinated by it so maybe it was worth something after all.
Pursing my lips at the thought, I made use of them and brushed them over his brow again before I started to pull free of our embrace.
A jaw-cracking yawn escaped me as I picked up my trousers and started to step into them, just as I heard my father’s booming voice declare, “Where’s my heir?”
“Jesus, he calls you that? Like a nickname?”
“Consider it a family joke,” I grumbled.
“Funny. Not.” He sniffed, then, “Aren’t you going to shower?” he asked warily, his eyes on me as I proceeded to pick up my shirt and button it up again.
“Nope.” I even popped the ‘P.’
Bending over the bed, I gave him another kiss, then pulled back. I hesitated for a second, unsure of what to tell him. To brace himself? To hide in here?
I had no real idea what to say. So I didn’t bother. He was a grown-assed man, he’d make his own decisions. I wasn’t about to tell him what to do.
With a final kiss, I stormed toward the door.
“Devlin?” he called out as I pulled it open.
“Yes, Micah?”
“What—?”
I cut him a look. “Whatever you choose to do, is fine with me.”
Then I left him, pissed as I heard Father’s barked orders.
I should have known that he wouldn’t let me have more than a few days to find my feet in the UK again. The bastard always had to push.
It was easy to feel like the teenager I’d been when we’d last shared this house.
Before he’d tossed me out on my arse, shipping me off to my uncle in the States to finish off my education when I’d been expelled from Eton for ‘misbehaving.’ Of course, that had involved a sheep, the principal’s Rolls Royce, and a lot of black paint, but that was neither here nor there.
It didn’t matter to Father that it hadn’t been me, but a friend, Augustus—yes, that was his name, the poor bastard—who’d been behind the prank.
A dirty shirt covered in black paint had been found in my room, so I’d been the one to take the blame. Of course, it had been planted. And I hadn’t snitched either.
Secrets—they were a stock in trade of old Etonians.
Gus had made me a small fortune on short-selling stocks by way of apology when he soared up the ranks of his father’s hedge fund company. I considered that enough of an apology for my ass being, metaphorically, reamed.
Still, I stomped down the stairs much as I had stomped as a seventeen-year-old, a year before graduation, only this time, my shoulders weren’t hunched as I came face to face with my bear of a father. If anything, I was the one scowling and growling as I took in the chaos before me.
The front hall was a large space, forty by forty feet, and it was jam-packed with cases and luggage. My mother stood in the middle of it all, in her element as, like a conductor, she encouraged this particular orchestra into some semblance of order.
Sporting a pair of slim-fitting jeans and a tight blouse, some Converse trainers too, she looked about twenty years younger than she was. Her bright red hair was tinted, but not vulgarly so, and her face was pristinely made up so that any guy my age who saw her going, would be pleased to see her coming as well.
Why she’d never been enough for Father, I’d never know. She was beautiful. Gorgeous. Yet he’d never stopped cheating on her for as long as I’d been alive.
She looked to be in the fit of health, which I was glad for, because Father looked terrible. He was slouched on an antique side chair, watching as staff brought cases in. His shoulders were hunched, his back rounded, and his skin was gray and sickly as Hendry, his ever present valet, danced attendance on him which he wafted away with an irritable scowl.
“What the hell’s going on?” I growled under my breath, annoyed to see his face light up with joy when his head whipped around to look at me.
Mother’s did as well, her eyes bright with delight as she skipped around the boxes, her arms open wide to encompass me in a hug.
How hard she squeezed was the next surprise. I knew I could count on one hand the number of hugs either parent had ever given me, so I murmured in her ear, “Relieved to be back in London, Mother?”
“You’ve no idea!” sh
e crooned with a wide grin that had me shaking my head as I laughed.
“You’re as incorrigible as ever.”
Her eyes twinkled. “No, just not ready to molder away in Cumbria. It’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but every day there is like a living death.” She shuddered as she reached up to pat my chin, tilting my head this way and that as my father grumbled:
“Let the boy alone, Clarice. I want to see him too!”
That was news to me.
Although, he’d definitely been different since the diagnosis, and this was the first time I’d seen him in person for two years.
“Be kind,” Mother whispered. “He’s been in pain all day.”
I scowled at her. “What are you doing here?”
She grinned at me like she was about to share a joke. “You won’t like it.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Father groused.
“Oh, do be quiet, Harold,” Mother retorted, before she pinched my cheek and murmured, “I’m quite looking forward to the show.”
I narrowed my eyes at her, before I headed down the stairs toward my father. The sheer number of boxes was indicative of one thing—they were moving back here.
Permanently.
Which meant I had to move out, because no way in fuck could I live with either of them again.
Jesus, I hadn’t lived with them permanently since I was a child—I wasn’t about to break the habit now.
“Devlin, my boy,” he declared—like it was a declaration, “it’s bloody good to see you!” His nose crinkled. “I’d get up but the legs aren’t cooperating.”
My mind whirled with plans as I murmured, “No, you shouldn’t have traveled so hard.”
He sighed. “Clarice was right. My plan to die up there was a stupid one.”
“That you planned to die at all was stupidity itself,” Mother intoned like Astleys could cheat death itself.
I had to laugh though. “Plan on living forever?”
“You bet I am,” was her cheerful retort. “When Harold dies, I know my quality of life will improve immeasurably. I intend on haunting you for a good three decades, Devlin.”
“Something to look forward to, I’m sure,” I said wryly.
“Charming,” Father grumbled. “I am here, you know?”
“Oh, I know, but I don’t think you’ll be living for long, not when you tell Devlin who’s also coming to stay.”
I twisted around to glare at him, discomforted to see he was pulling at his collar like it was too tight. Wearing his usual tailored trousers, and a sweater over a custom-fit shirt, he looked the same as always save for his pesky coloring and leaner appearance. He had the same wild hair as I did, but his was gray now, not a lock missing though, and he wore a beard that covered his lips it was that bushy.
The wilds of Cumbria had nothing to his beard.
“What have you done?” I snapped, hands falling to my hips as I glowered down at him.
“Well, her father was only telling me the other day how she missed you,” he sputtered.
“Who?” I growled.
“Catherine Fairweather,” Mother sang out, cackling when I tensed.
“Are you crazy?” I boomed, just as loud as Father, because I’d inherited his pipes. “You invited that insane bitch to come and stay?”
“You didn’t think she was insane at the time—”
I shoved aside his sputtering, “She was good in bed, Father. That was the best of it. But as for the rest, Jesus Christ.” I slid my hand through my hair, agitated to the last, before I growled, “Cancel the visit. Tell her not to come.”
“Can’t do that, dear boy,” Father grumbled. “She’s all excited. We can’t disappoint a lady.”
“And you need your goddamn heir and his spare?” My nostrils flared as I rumbled, “Don’t worry, Father, the second she lands at the front doorstep, I’ll send her away. Don’t worry about offending her father, I’ll do it for you.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort! You and she will make a brilliant match—”
“We won’t,” I snapped, and even as the tangled web of the Astley lineage clutched at me, I felt Micah cutting through them all, forcing through them like he was a cleaner armed with a feather duster. “I’ve already made my decision about who I’ll be spending the rest of my life with, and it isn’t Crazy Catherine Fairweather!”
His eyes glittered. “You’re engaged?”
I scowled at him. “No. I’m not. But I’m with someone.”
“Is she here?” Mother cried, her hands fluttering around like butterflies as she peered around like my imaginary girlfriend would fly into the hall.
“In my room.” I looked up at the staircase, half expecting to find Micah watching me, but he wasn’t.
Which meant he’d chosen to stay in my bedchamber.
And who could blame him?
I’d made him no real promises.
He probably was sneaking into the room my Viscountess should use, about to play the role of a lifetime as my ‘friend’ from work.
The thought had anguish soaring through me, because I could only imagine how he was feeling, and I was the direct cause of that. Even when I’d told him that he could do what he wanted, it could have been misinterpreted. Why hadn’t I just said that I loved him? Told him that I felt no shame in introducing him to my parents?
My heart in shreds, I started toward the staircase, intent on bringing him down, but Father grabbed my hand. “Is she an American? It’ll dilute the lines, boy, but I can deal with that. Do you need the family emeralds from the vault? I can arrange for that immediately—”
Jaw tense, everything inside me wanting to scream, I snapped, “I highly doubt my partner will want to wear the family emeralds—” Although I knew, point blank, Micah would look fabulous in green.
“Not want to wear the family emeralds?” Mother repeated. “Is she mad? Oh God, you’ve got a tree-hugger, haven’t you?” she wailed.
“Not a Vegan?” Father groused.
“No, I haven’t. And no, not a Vegan,” I retorted, irritably, like that’d be the end of the world. My hands furled into fists at my sides as I sought patience and failed to find it. Blowing out a breath, I murmured, “His name is Micah.”
For a second, there was silence in the hall.
The staff, the chauffeur, Hendry, not one of them said a word, none of them even dared to breathe as I recognized that this was not the best place to come out to my parents. Not when the front door was wide open and anyone could overhear me, but I didn’t care.
Didn’t give a fuck.
I just wanted them to stop talking about heirs and family jewels and— Fuck. I just needed them to shut up.
It worked.
My mother’s eyes were round, and Father looked on the verge of apoplexy as he rasped, “Did you say ‘his?’”
“He did,” Mother confirmed. “His name.” She frowned. “Isn’t Mika a girl’s name?”
“I suppose it might be,” I retorted. “But Micah is most definitely not a girl.”
Her mouth formed a perfect circle before she whispered, “Is he in fashion? I’ve always wanted a gay friend in fashion. They’re always so perfectly on trend.”
“Am I in fashion?” I growled, wondering why I was surprised that she’d think of herself at a time like this.
“Well, no, darling, but you’re not gay, are you?” She beamed a smile at me. “You’re one of those—” She wafted her hand again. “You know, those inbetweeners. What do you call it? Bisexual?”
“Bisexual? My son is not bisexual!” Father growled.
“I am,” I ground out, glaring at him.
“You’re not.” He grabbed my hand. “What about the line?”
“Goddamn the bloody line,” I snarled, pulling my fingers from his. “I don’t care about the fucking Astleys. I never have and never will.”
“How can you say that? It’s your duty!”
“My duty is to myself. Your wife just told you she’ll b
e happy when you’re dead and that she’ll live a longer life once you’re gone—do you think I want a life like that? Fucking other women behind her back, well aware she’s fucking anything in a pair of trousers to get back at me? Do you think I want to snipe at her over breakfast, and have a child I don’t know and don’t care about because I’ve done my damn duty? NO!” I shouted. “I don’t want that. I want him.” I tipped my chin up, then a slight movement caught my attention.
He was there.
Listening.
A soft, frightened, wary smile on his face, but his eyes were incandescent.
With joy.
I’d done that.
Me.
My throat felt thick as I raised a hand. “Micah, darling?”
“Yes, Devlin?” he rasped.
“Come and meet my parents.”
Thirty-Two
Micah
“Are you aware, Harold, of how boring you are?”
My eyes flared wide at the insult, but it appeared to roll like water off a duck’s back when Harold merely ignored Clarice to boom, “I need more claret.”
“I need an Australian firefighter in my bedroom,” was her retort, “but we both know neither the claret nor the firefighter would be good for either of us.”
A tic started flickering in Devlin’s jaw, but it was the way his hands tensed around the cutlery that had me really on edge.
I could easily see Devlin hurling the damn thing at his dad, which was a blood bath none of us needed to witness.
“Are you supposed to drink with your treatment?” I asked quietly, trying not to get involved but pretty sure the atmosphere around the table couldn’t take another bout of Harold’s pomposity.
“Not exactly doing much, is it? A man needs his pleasures.” Harold squinted at me, before he raised a hand and jabbed a finger in the air—pointed at me. “You’re American.”
My lips twitched at the statement. “I am.”
He hummed, but eyed me warily. “Americans and the nobility never do well together.”
Clarice grumbled, “This isn’t the 1900s.”
The Intern: An MM Office Romance Page 23