Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  “Married?” The crease between Lucas’s eyebrows deepened.

  “He’s got a title and an estate now; got to have an heir.”

  “But . . . but he’s a back door usher!”

  “Oh, Armagh likes women well enough. He just likes men, too.” He paused, and looked at Lucas’s face. How much should I tell him? “And he’s not really a back door usher. He’d rather roger a woman than a man. He used to say that women were more fun for swiving, but for oral congress, he preferred men, because men knew their way around a cock better.”

  Lucas’s frown became quite ferocious. “He was using you.”

  “What?” Where had Lucas got that notion from? Tom reviewed his last words. “You think he trained me up so he’d have a man to suck him? Of course, he didn’t! Armagh always gave as good as he got.”

  For some reason, that made Lucas flinch.

  “He wasn’t using me, Lu. He never forced me to do anything I didn’t want to do.”

  Lucas looked unconvinced.

  “He wasn’t a dirty old colonel exploiting an aide,” Tom said, growing annoyed. “He’s only forty, and dashed good-looking, and clever and funny and brave, and I was in love with him.”

  That made Lucas flinch again, but Tom was too cross to care. “And it was good. It wasn’t filthy or disgusting. It was good.” He took a deep breath, caught his temper, and exhaled slowly. “Armagh wasn’t using me. Trust me, Lu: he wasn’t.”

  “Was he in love with you?” Lucas said stiffly.

  “A bit. About as much as I was with him.”

  Lucas’s lips tightened. “Did you . . . you know . . . do it with him?”

  Tom didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Once. Armagh said I needed to know whether I liked it or not, and it was safer to do it with him than with some molly boy in a backstreet alley. So I did.” He shrugged. “I didn’t like it. Armagh was right: it’s more fun to swive a woman. And as for being swived . . . it was . . .” He tried to find the words to describe the sense of invasion, of powerlessness. “It made me wonder what women think about sex, whether they actually like it.”

  He studied Lucas’s face, and saw the censure there. Fuck it, I’m not going to feel ashamed. “It wasn’t awful—although it did hurt a bit—but I felt as if . . . as if I had no control. I felt . . . I don’t know, helpless. I guess some fellows like that feeling, but I don’t. I was glad Armagh didn’t want to do it again.” Listen to me, Lu. “So, you see, when I say I’ll never ask you to be a back door usher, I mean it.”

  Lucas broke their eye contact.

  Tom stared at him in frustration. The warm sense of intimacy between them was gone. His hot, taut, aching arousal had extinguished. Damn Lucas for being so narrow-minded. “So that’s my sordid past,” he said, trying to keep his voice light and cheerful. “I’ve had sex with half a hundred women, and one man. Two, counting you. What about you?”

  A dull flush crept along Lucas’s cheekbones. He sat up and buttoned his drawers.

  Tom sat up, too. “How many, Lu?”

  Lucas ignored him, and fastened his breeches.

  “What?” Tom said. A hard note crept into his voice. “It’s all right for you to ask me who I’ve swived, but not for me to ask you?”

  Lucas turned his head and looked at him. “No one,” he said flatly. “All right? No one.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” Lucas climbed off the bed. His face was tight again, his lips compressed, his movements jerky.

  Tom caught his wrist and yanked him back down to sit. “What the devil do you mean no one? I was there the first time you did it. I saw you go up the stairs. You and that highflyer you’d chosen.”

  Lucas turned his head and looked at him. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to; his expression said it for him—bleak, bitter, ashamed.

  Tom released his grip on Lucas’s wrist. “But I saw you go up the stairs.”

  Lucas turned his head away. “Well, you didn’t see me in the bedroom, did you? I might as well have been a eunuch.”

  “But . . . you never said anything.”

  “Would you have?” Lucas looked down at his hands, and clenched them together. “She was pretty, I could see that, but I just . . . I just couldn’t . . . it just didn’t work.”

  “Jesus,” Tom said. “So you’ve never . . . ?”

  Lucas clenched his hands until the knuckles whitened. “I’ve tried twice since, and it doesn’t work. I can’t do it.”

  “You did it with me just fine,” Tom said.

  Lucas grimaced, and stared down at his fists.

  “What about, um, tossing off? Can you . . . ?”

  Lucas flushed crimson. He averted his head and gave a stiff nod.

  So, Lucas could have sex with his own hand, but not with a woman.

  Tom tried to imagine what it would be like to select a courtesan, to strip naked in front of her, and be unable to perform. He winced inwardly.

  The lightskirt wouldn’t have laughed at Lucas; she’d have tried to coax him to arousal—sex was her trade after all, and she’d have wanted Lucas for a customer. Any whore would. Among a clientele of paunchy, middle-aged men, Lucas would stand out like a gift from the gods. His golden good looks, his physique, his wealth . . . whores would line up for his patronage. The three women he’d selected wouldn’t have given up easily. They’d have fondled his balls, teased his cock, stroked and licked and sucked and nibbled—until finally they admitted defeat—and Lucas would have dressed again, mortified and humiliated.

  No wonder he didn’t try a fourth time.

  Tom felt slightly sick. Sick with guilt. All these years he’d been jumping in and out of women’s beds, and Lucas had been alone and celibate and thinking there was something was wrong with him—and he hadn’t noticed. “Christ, Lu, you should have said something.” He hooked his arm around Lucas’s neck, pulled him close, kissed his cheek.

  “How could I?” Lucas said, and he sounded close to tears.

  Tom tightened his grip. He must have been very lonely. Very unhappy. “I’m sorry. I should have noticed.”

  Lucas didn’t relax against him; he stayed stiff, tense, miserable, his head slightly averted. “You weren’t here most of the time.”

  No, he’d been off soldiering, while Lucas had been back in England, without any lovers, without a best friend—and for the past sixteen months, without a twin sister.

  Tom’s sense of guilt increased sharply. “I’m sorry,” he said again. He remembered their first kiss, rough and fierce and clumsy. “In the mews . . . was that the first time you’ve kissed someone?”

  Lucas nodded, and inhaled a hitching breath, and rubbed his face roughly.

  He’s almost crying.

  “You do it very well,” Tom said, pressing his mouth to Lucas’s cheek again.

  “No, I don’t,” Lucas whispered.

  “Yes, you do—better than Colonel Armagh, and I used to think no one could be better than him.”

  Lucas shook his head.

  “But if you disagree, we can practice some more.” He laid his lips to Lucas’s cheek a third time. I love you, Lu. “Come on, Lu, make up for lost time . . .”

  Lucas inhaled another hitching breath.

  “Take pity on a poor soldier . . .” Tom said, in a quavering voice.

  Lucas huffed a faint laugh, and then sighed. Some of the tension drained from him.

  Tom kissed the very corner of Lucas’s mouth. After a pause, Lucas turned his head and kissed Tom back, hesitantly, almost shyly.

  They kissed sitting up, and then, after several minutes, Tom drew Lucas down to lie on the bed again. He kept the kisses light; this wasn’t about sex, this was about reassurance and comfort. Slow, tender kisses. And he could scarcely believe that Lucas had never kissed anyone else; he was so good at it.

  He told Lucas that, when they came up for air. “You’re way better than Armagh.”

  Lucas blushed, and shook his head.

  Tom leaned in and caught
Lucas’s lower lip between his teeth, nipped lightly, nipped a second time, then turned his attention to Lucas’s throat, nibbling his way downwards, pushing the collar aside, tasting the salt on Lucas’s skin with his tongue, testing his shoulder muscles lightly with his teeth. He opened the buttons of Lucas’s shirt, found one of his nipples, pinched it.

  Lucas inhaled a short, sharp breath.

  Tom laughed. “Like that?” he asked, and pinched again.

  Lucas groaned low in his throat. “Yes.”

  Tom spent some time on Lucas’s nipples, licking, biting, sucking, teasing. Each twitch Lucas made, each stifled moan, stoked Tom’s own arousal. It was always a powerful experience to give pleasure to someone and this time it was more powerful than it had ever been before, because it was Lucas—Lucas whom he’d loved for years but not dared to touch.

  Finally, he abandoned Lucas’s nipples and returned to his mouth. This time their kisses were urgent, fierce. They gripped each other close, mouths clashing, and then Tom found himself on his back and Lucas was kissing his throat roughly, licking and nipping, nothing gentle or leisurely about it at all—hungry, burning kisses—and then Lucas dug his strong teeth into the curve where Tom’s neck met his shoulder, and Tom jackknifed on the bed, pleasure searing from his scalp all the way to the soles of his feet.

  Lucas stopped biting. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Christ, no,” Tom said hoarsely. “Do it again.”

  Lucas hesitated, and then obeyed, finding the muscle, biting.

  Pleasure jolted through Tom again. A strangled sound came from his mouth. His cock gave a huge surge. I’m going to spill in my breeches. “Stop,” he said frantically, and Lucas did.

  Tom sat up hastily. “Sorry,” he said, unbuttoning his breeches with fumbling speed. “Just need to take care of this.” He practically tore the buttons off his drawers. His cock lunged out, deep red, straining. Tom grabbed it and pinched hard beneath the head.

  His eyes winced shut. He pinched even harder.

  His urgent arousal slowly dwindled to more manageable levels. He found himself able to breathe again, able to open his eyes.

  Lucas was staring at him.

  “Sorry,” Tom said, flushing. “Just about spilled all over myself.”

  Lucas didn’t say anything. Tom tried to decipher his expression. Shock? Revulsion?

  Great, he told himself. Just when things were going so well you’ve managed to disgust him. He shoved his cock inside his drawers—still hard, but not in imminent danger of disgracing him.

  “No,” Lucas said.

  Tom stopped, and looked at him. “You want to see me?”

  Lucas blushed scarlet and didn’t meet his eyes.

  Tom revised his assessment of Lucas’s expression. Not shock or revulsion, but curiosity.

  He stopped trying to cram his cock into his drawers. He opened the plackets wider and let Lucas look at him.

  Chapter Eight

  Lucas’s breath seemed to choke in his throat. He felt slightly light-headed. The beat became louder in his ears: Tom, Tom, Tom.

  Tom was quite different from him. Not just the black hair at his groin, but the shape of his balls, the shape of his cock. His own balls were round; Tom’s were oval. Tom’s cock was as long as his, but not as thick and its angle was different, jutting upwards rather than outwards. Its color was a deeper shade than his own cock ever achieved, berry red rather than salmon pink, and the crest was conical rather than blunt, shaped like an ancient Greek helmet. Corinthian, a little voice said—irrelevantly—in his head.

  Lucas’s throat choked even tighter. He swallowed and struggled to breathe—and felt craving clench in his belly.

  He wanted to touch Tom’s cock, wanted to feel the silky skin, the hard muscle, the heat.

  He could see the slit clearly—and see the bead of clear liquid oozing from it.

  The craving became stronger.

  Lucas jerked his gaze from Tom’s cock, and looked at Tom’s eyes instead.

  Tom was staring at him. “Want to touch it?”

  Lucas swallowed. Vaguely, dimly, at the very back of his mind, he was aware of panic; but foremost was craving. Yes, he wanted to touch Tom’s cock.

  He swallowed again, tried to breathe, and gave a tiny, stiff, ashamed nod.

  Tom made a help yourself gesture and said, “Be my guest.”

  A lump grew in Lucas’s throat. He had to swallow twice this time. Slowly, he reached out. The drumbeat of Tom’s name was loud in his ears and beneath it was a faint whine of panic—and then he touched that ruddy helmet, and the whine of panic died and the drumbeat became deafeningly loud: Tom, Tom, Tom.

  Lucas inhaled a shallow breath and slowly traced the contours with his fingertips, following the helmet-like rim, catching the bead of moisture with his thumb, smoothing it over sleek, burning hot skin. When he’d thoroughly explored the crest he slid his hand lower and wrapped his fingers around the strong shaft. Tom’s cock seemed to pulse in time with the drumbeat in his head. He glanced at Tom’s face—and discovered that Tom wasn’t watching his hand; he was staring intently at his face.

  Lucas felt himself blush hotly. He looked back down at Tom’s cock, red and straining in his hand, and saw another bead of moisture leak from the slit. He’s almost ready to climax.

  His craving intensified, clenching tightly in his belly. At the back of his brain, he was aware he should be horrified—but the craving was too fierce. Lucas experimentally stroked his hand down that hot, throbbing shaft and back up. Once. Twice. He glanced at Tom’s face and did it a third time—down, then up—and watched Tom tremble and catch his breath.

  Lucas gripped more tightly and picked up speed. This was power: pumping Tom like this, making him gasp and shudder, making him lose control.

  Tom reached out and caught his hand, stopping him.

  Lucas looked at him, his mouth open to protest—and the words dried on his tongue. Such hot, hot eyes.

  “You’re hard again,” Tom said hoarsely. “I can see it in your face.”

  Lucas didn’t need to ask what that looked like; he could see for himself: the hectic flush along Tom’s cheekbones, the dilated pupils.

  Tom fumbled at Lucas’s waistband. “We’ll do this together.”

  Lucas held his breath while Tom unbuttoned the breeches, unbuttoned the drawers. His cock lunged out, thick and blunt-tipped, eager for Tom’s hand.

  Tom captured it, wrapped his fingers tightly around it.

  Lucas’s breath strangled in his throat. He groaned. His gaze jerked to Tom’s face—and was caught.

  Time seemed to slow, almost to stop. Never had he experienced a moment of such profound, heart-stopping intimacy: his cock in Tom’s hand, Tom’s cock in his hand, and Tom’s eyes, hot and dark, staring into his soul.

  The drumbeat in Lucas’s head became so loud that it felt as if his skull would explode—and then Tom looked down at their hands, and Lucas was able to breathe again. He inhaled raggedly.

  Tom tightened his grip and pumped once, hard.

  Pleasure jolted through Lucas. His eyes squeezed shut. Jesus.

  “Lie down, Lu.”

  Tom had to say it twice before the words penetrated the fog of arousal. “Lie down, Lu. It’s better.”

  Lucas obeyed, and Tom was right: it was better, stretched out on the bed. He’s done this before, with that damned colonel of his. But there was no space in his head for jealousy, not now, not while they were stroking and squeezing each other, pumping each other, and his heart was galloping, and he was hot enough to burst into flame.

  “Lu, let go,” Tom said breathlessly. “I’ll do us both together.” He peeled Lucas’s fingers open and took them both in one grip. Their cocks pressed together, hot and slick and taut and throbbing.

  Lucas’s heart kicked in his chest. His balls tightened painfully. Breath hissed between his teeth.

  “Like that?” Tom said.

  Lucas opened his mouth to say Yes, but only an inarticulate groan came
out.

  Tom laughed, and leaned closer, until his mouth touched Lucas’s. “Kiss me.”

  Lucas did, fierce, bruising kisses, his fingers buried deep in Tom’s hair, while their cocks clashed in Tom’s hand and their bodies strove against each other. Not long. Not long now.

  Tom’s hand moved faster, the kisses became more frantic, and then the moment came—a vertiginous orgasm, like plunging over a cliff—and they bucked against each other for endless, endless, endless seconds.

  Finally, the spasms faded. Lucas lay panting and exhausted, half-dazed.

  Tom released their cocks, and stretched lazily. His eyes were dark and drowsy and his lips looked almost bruised, bee-stung.

  If Tom’s lips looked almost bruised, his left cheek definitely was bruised.

  Lucas felt a sharp pang of remorse. He reached out and touched Tom’s cheekbone, traced that purple mark. “I’m sorry I hit you.”

  “That? Lord, it’s nothing.” Tom smiled sleepily, and pulled Lucas close and hugged him.

  Lucas pressed his face into Tom’s shoulder. The drumbeat in his head was a slow, low beat: Tom, Tom.

  They lay silently together, while the fire mumbled in the grate and rain pattered against the windowpanes. Lucas felt Tom’s arms around him and listened to Tom’s quiet breathing and knew that this was the most purely happy moment of his life.

  * * *

  When Lucas woke, Tom was sitting by the fire, a large sketchbook propped on his knees. Lucas stretched and yawned and rubbed his face. “What’re you drawing?”

  “You.”

  He yawned again, and buttoned his drawers and breeches, and climbed off the bed. “Lemme see.”

  Tom held out the sketchbook. Yes, that was him all right, sprawled on the bed, fast asleep, with his breeches unbuttoned and his cock peeping out.

  Mortification heated his face, and then he looked again. Tom hadn’t made him look comic or foolish—he’d made him look beautiful, like a fallen angel.

  Lucas looked more closely. This wasn’t one of Tom’s two-minute sketches. This had taken time. Hours. The shading, the way light fell across the planes of his face . . . Jesus, he could practically see every hair on his head. “How long was I asleep?”