The Queer Principles of Kit Webb

by Cat Sebastian

  “What’s the matter?” Percy asked.

  “It’s not locked. I thought Betty would have locked up and gone home, but I guess she waited for me.”

  Percy wanted to say that of course Betty waited for Kit. Betty and Kit worried about one another to an extent that was frankly comical. They were both notorious criminals and accomplished fighters, and yet they each acted like the other was as helpless as a kitten.

  Kit opened the door and called out. “Betty!”

  There wasn’t any answer. Percy saw that the candles and lamps were all extinguished and the fire in the hearth was safely banked.

  “Maybe she left it open for whoever is staying upstairs this week,” Percy suggested. There always seemed to be somebody occupying the garret, and Percy would have bet his new leather breeches that Kit had never once asked for rent.

  “No lodgers this week,” Kit said, and Percy could just tell that he was about to get very boring about checking to see whether imaginary housebreakers were hidden in every corner, so instead he took hold of Kit’s coat and pushed him against the wall.

  “Shut up,” Percy said, and then kissed him before he could argue.

  Kit Webb kissed in a way that was positively unfair. It was an injustice. It was sweet and tentative and totally at odds with the bad grooming and the criminal past. He kissed Percy as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed, as if he were worried about being woken from a dream.

  Percy preferred to keep his lovers at a safe and cordial distance, and that was precisely how he had planned for things to be with Kit, but all this sweetness was ruining his plans. He was sure that’s what was happening as he bit Kit’s earlobe and felt the man shudder gently against him. This was Percy’s plans being ruined.

  “I need to ask you—” Kit started.

  “Shut up and keep kissing me,” Percy snapped. Or, he tried to snap. It came out as a purr, which was definitely Kit’s fault.

  “—what in the name of all the saints it is that you’re wearing. I have never seen so much leather on one person. It’s obscene,” he said into the corner of Percy’s mouth. He cupped his hands around the swell of Percy’s arse, then down lower, where his arse met his thighs.

  “You probably ought to take it off,” Percy said. “I’ll warn you that there’s about five miles of lacing and more buttons than I know what to do with.”

  Kit made a frustrated sound, then ran his hands up Percy’s chest, then back down to his arse again, as if by touching he could make the clothes evaporate.

  “Before we undress, we ought to get to that bed you promised me,” Percy said, sliding a fingernail under his false scar and tearing it off with a wince, then sliding it into a pocket.

  Kit led them in the direction of the stairs. One of them must have got distracted halfway there because Percy found himself being kissed again. They crashed against the wall near the bottom step, Kit’s weight crushing Percy rather pleasantly. Percy was beginning to doubt whether they could make it to Kit’s bedroom, and was beginning to consider whether getting fucked on the stairs was such a bad thing, when Kit changed course and steered them to the back room.

  “My leg’s too fucked for the stairs” was all he said by way of explanation.

  The fact that the back room had nothing approaching a proper mattress, let alone a bed, would ordinarily have been a serious objection, but at the moment Percy could only groan his approval.

  “God, I want you,” Kit said, his gaze raking hungrily up and down Percy’s body. “Can’t stop thinking about it.”

  Percy all but dragged Kit into the back room and kicked the door shut behind them. He was nervy and exhilarated from the prizefight, from his victory, and from the knowledge that Kit had been watching him.

  “How do you want me?” Percy asked. His erection was straining painfully against the unforgiving leather of his breeches. He palmed himself in a futile effort at readjustment and heard Kit hiss.

  “Take it out,” Kit said.

  With fingers that felt clumsy and frantic, Percy managed to undo his laces and comply. He had just enough presence of mind to be mortified by his reaction to Kit’s hand closing around him—a strangled sob. Until that point, he hadn’t realized how much he wanted this, how long he had been craving Kit’s touch. He thrust helplessly into Kit’s fist, his face buried in the warm skin of Kit’s neck, lips moving over stubbled skin, breathing in the scent of him.

  With one hand he began unfastening Kit’s buckskins, finally shoving them down. He almost sobbed again when his fingers reached Kit’s cock, thick and hot in his hand.

  It would be best not to rush. He wanted to take off Kit’s clothes item by item and touch every patch of skin that he exposed. He had been thinking of this for so long that he wanted whatever followed to do his imagination justice.

  But he also knew he wasn’t going to last. This, at best, would just take the edge off. They could go about things more sensibly next time, with more leisure and fewer clothes. Next time could be in half an hour. Right now, he just needed to come, and judging by Kit’s erratic breathing and throbbing cock, he was in much the same state. Rutting against Kit’s hip, while still stroking up and down his length, Percy grasped Kit’s arse with his free hand and pulled him close, hoping he’d get the idea.

  Kit thrust back, groaning and swearing. “Wait,” he said, and turned around so his back was to Percy, his hands braced on the wall. “Fuck me,” he said, his voice raspy and ragged. “Please.”

  It was the please that did Percy in. He very much had his heart and other parts set on getting fucked this evening, but who was he to deny a politely phrased request, especially one delivered by a gorgeous man with his breeches around his thighs.

  “You certain?” Percy asked, thinking of Kit’s leg.

  “Christ. Please. Can’t stop thinking about it,” Kit said, sounding desperate. “Oil’s in the cupboard by the door.”

  Percy threw open the cupboard, uncorking the bottle with an overheated hand. He returned to Kit, crowding him against the wall. He let his cock slide against Kit’s arse as he kissed Kit’s neck. He was rapidly becoming obsessed with Kit’s neck.

  “Like this?” Percy asked.

  “If you don’t stop asking questions and fuck me, I’m never speaking to you again,” Kit said, pressing back against Percy.

  “All right,” Percy laughed. “Calm down.” He poured some oil onto his palm and slicked up his fingers. Once again kissing Kit’s throat, he slid his fingers along the crease of Kit’s arse, lingering over his puckered entrance.

  Kit swore and rested his forehead against the wall. “Please,” he said, and Percy breached him with the tip of a finger. Lord, the man was tight. Percy couldn’t press in any further, let alone add a second finger.

  “Let me in,” Percy said, and Kit’s only response was some garbled profanity. “Right,” he added after a minute, “we could stand here like this all night, with my finger barely up your arse, or you could let me fucking in, Christopher.”

  Kit laughed at that, rich and deep and not at all what Percy expected at that moment. “I knew you’d be like this.”

  “Like what?” Percy asked.

  “Impatient. Talkative. A little mean.”

  “Christ. And you like that?” Percy asked, the words escaping his lips before he could think better of them.

  “Something’s very wrong with me.”

  Percy did not know whether to be affronted or not, but then something gave way inside Kit and Percy’s finger slid in further. “Yes,” he said rubbing circles onto Kit’s hip with his free hand. “That’s it. More, now.”

  “I told you,” Kit panted. “I’ve never done this before.”

  “You’ve— I beg your pardon?”

  “I don’t fuck men. Or, I haven’t. I told you that.”

  “Yes, but men often tell me they don’t fuck other men, often right before—or after—we’ve fucked, so you’ll excuse me if I take those proclamations with a grain of salt.” Percy pressed his ches
t flush against Kit’s back and took Kit’s erection in hand. He stroked it slowly, lazily, while carefully moving his finger inside Kit.

  Percy tried to remember the last time he had been someone’s first in this way, and thought it was probably when he was still at school. In all likelihood, he had been careless and ignorant, and he didn’t want to be that way with Kit. He wanted to take care, wanted to make this good, wanted to make it something Kit would feel good about when he remembered it.

  He whispered praise and gentle instruction into Kit’s neck and only after a while did he realize he was speaking in the way Kit had during their fighting lessons.

  “You sure you don’t want to get on the floor?” Percy asked when he had another finger inside Kit.

  “Can’t,” Kit breathed. “My leg. Oh fuck. Please, Percy, just do it.”

  Percy slicked himself up and tugged Kit’s hips back to make him bend at the waist a little. Then he pressed the head of his cock against Kit’s entrance. Kit went tense—of course he did, Percy had been expecting that—but then visibly forced himself to relax.

  Percy moved slowly, slower than he had ever done anything in his life. And he kept talking, coaxing and soothing Kit through it. He couldn’t help it, even though he knew Kit was going to laugh at him later for not being able to shut his mouth. He told Kit how good he felt, how gorgeous he was, how well he was taking it, how much he wished Kit could see. Kit’s palms were flat against the wall, his fingers curled as if looking for something to hold. Percy put his own hands over Kit’s, lacing their fingers together.

  When Percy was fully seated, Kit rested his cheek against the wall, and Percy could finally reach his lips for another kiss. Percy kept babbling—Christ, fuck, look at you. He spoke the words into Kit’s lips and ear, into his neck, turned his words into kisses and his kisses back into words.

  They were too close and too badly angled for anything more than grinding together, Percy sliding his length over the spot that made Kit’s swearing take on a desperate edge. It was all too much for a backroom fuck, for a quick stand up against the wall. It was too much for who they were to one another.

  And throughout it all Percy couldn’t stop talking, could not stop saying things that were lamentably true and just as ill-advised. He ought to be concentrating on making this better for Kit instead of nattering on about how beautiful Kit was, how lovely Kit was being for him. A voice inside Percy’s head told him to stop being like this—weak, needy, desperate—but at the same time he saw the way Kit was responding to all of that, and thought that maybe it wasn’t so bad.

  He extricated one of his hands and brought it to Kit’s cock. Kit gasped at the contact, clenching around Percy’s length in a way that made Percy almost sob. A few strokes later and Kit was coming, Percy’s name a strangled sigh, his body hot and grasping around Percy’s. Percy pulled out and came into his own fist, his climax so hard it nearly knocked him off his feet. He collapsed against Kit and could have stayed there if he hadn’t remembered Kit’s complaints about his leg.

  “How’s your leg?”

  “How’s my leg? You’ve just had your cock up my arse and you’re asking about my leg?”

  “It was meant to be more of a general inquiry as to your state of well-being, but if you wish to give me an itemized list of your body parts and their various conditions, please don’t let me stop you,” Percy offered graciously.

  Kit’s shoulders started shaking, and Percy realized the bastard was laughing.

  “Oh, who even cares about your leg. Or your arse, for that matter. You can all go straight to hell,” Percy sniffed. But he stepped away only long enough to take a blanket from the cupboard, throw it to the floor, and urge Kit down.

  “What—”

  “Oh, shut it,” Percy said, tucking himself away. He ducked into the shop to fill a pitcher with still-warm water from the kettle and to grab a few cloths. He wet one and brought it to Kit, who he found propped up on an elbow.

  “This is for whichever of your body parts you feel most requires it,” Percy said, primly holding out the cloth. “Or you can use it to polish furniture, for all I care. Please don’t feel constrained to—”

  Kit pulled on the edge of Percy’s boots in a way that caused Percy to trip. Percy caught himself in time to land on the blanket beside Kit.

  “Ugh, I don’t know why I like you,” Percy said, and then immediately regretted it. And then immediately after that, he allowed himself to briefly wonder why it was a bad thing to admit. In addition to the past half hour—which admittedly could be explained by a host of other things besides anything so tender as liking—there had been weeks of laughter and conversation. Admitting it shouldn’t even be significant.

  Happily, he was spared further reflection on this boring and fruitless topic by Kit’s mouth sliding over his own. It was different from their earlier kisses, slower and less urgent. Lazy, even. One of Kit’s hands sifted through Percy’s hair and Percy arched into the touch. Right when Percy was starting to wonder if this might be the time to take off the rest of the clothing that they both still, unaccountably, wore, Kit went still.

  At first, Percy didn’t realize what had happened. He thought, perhaps, that Kit had hurt his leg. Then Kit climbed to his feet, shoving Percy behind him. He took out the knife he kept on his belt and snarled, “Show yourself,” at a figure that had emerged on the threshold of the door that Percy had left open.

  Percy was calculating how long it would take for him to reach the case of weapons he had stupidly abandoned near the front door.

  “Yes, well, I plan to, Kit,” said the stranger. “Keep your hair on, will you.”

  A funny thing happened to Kit’s face, then. He went so pale that Percy thought that maybe he really had been injured. And he dropped his knife hand to his side at the same moment that his jaw went slack.

  “Rob?” Kit breathed.

  Chapter 33

  “Isn’t this an interesting sight to come home to,” Rob murmured, glancing between Kit and Percy. “I want to know all about this.”

  “He’s not important,” Kit said. “What I want to know is where the bloody fuck you’ve been and why you let me think you were dead for a year?”

  “I missed you, too,” Rob said, stepping into the back room and letting his gaze travel around the place. “Home sweet home.”

  “I asked where the fuck you’ve been,” Kit repeated.

  “It’s a long story, darling, and I think it’s best saved for when we’re alone. Speaking of which, I’m dreadfully sorry to have interrupted you. It seems you’ve learned all manner of interesting things while I’ve been away.”

  “It’s not what it looks like,” Kit said.

  “It looks like you’ve been shagging a lordling.”

  Kit knew that Rob was trying to distract him, but he also couldn’t stand the idea of Rob coming back and thinking that Kit had abandoned all his principles and gone to bed with the enemy. “Shut up about that. Where were you?”

  “I’ll take myself off,” Percy said, casting an acid glance at Kit. “Enchanted to make your acquaintance,” he said to Rob, executing a graceful bow. “And you can fuck yourself,” he said to Kit. He shouldered past Kit, stopping only long enough to grab his coat and his bag. “It’s been illuminating, gentlemen.” The door slammed on his way out.

  Kit knew he should go after Percy. He had said something wrong, something that would no doubt occur to him much later and for which he’d feel appropriately contrite, but at the moment all he could think of was Rob. And he was, truth be told, slightly annoyed with Percy for having been there to distract him.

  “I reckon you bungled that,” Rob said, shaking his head ruefully.

  “That is not what we’re talking about. For Christ’s sake, Rob, it’s been an entire year.”

  Rob sighed as if this were all terribly boring. He sauntered over to the hearth and grabbed a fire iron, then used it to prod the fire back to life. “Do you know, I had forgotten you had a wood fire here?
I’ve thought of this place a thousand times over the past year and completely forgot about your baseless prejudice against coal.”

  “It ruins the beans,” Kit said automatically, as he had every other time they had had this argument over the years, and then looked away so he wouldn’t see whether Rob was smirking.

  Rob peered inside the kettle, presumably to check that there was enough water for two cups of tea, then hung it on the hook over the fire. “I was injured on that last job.”

  “You were shot in the chest. I saw you fall.” There had been so much blood. The last thing Kit had seen before losing consciousness was all the blood. After Kit escaped from jail, Janet and Tom explained that they had fled the scene as soon as shots were fired, and that when they went back, there was no sign of Rob’s body. They had all assumed their friend was in a pauper’s grave.

  “It went through my shoulder. A remarkably clean shot, and it doesn’t bother me in the least anymore. I see you weren’t as lucky,” he said, frowning at Kit’s walking stick. “I had to lie low for a few days, though, and when I returned to London, there was a message waiting for me from my mother. It took me several months to, ah, deal with that.”

  “Your mother knew?”

  “No, God no.” For the first time, Rob looked distressed. “I was furious with her. Trust me when I say it was better for me not to be in the same country as her. I didn’t plan on faking my death and vanishing for a year, Kit.” His jaw set. “Believe me when I say I had to leave. I hope you know me well enough to trust that I wouldn’t have done it unless I was left with no other choice.”

  Kit wanted to believe that, he truly did. “Exactly what did this letter say?”

  “I wish I could tell you.” Rob sounded sincere, damn him. “There are some things I don’t want to saddle you with, my friend.”

  Kit ran a frustrated hand through his hair and sat in one of the chairs by the fire. “You’re going to need to say something, all right? I thought you were dead.” Kit had grieved this horse’s arse. “Betty cried.”