Band Sinister

by KJ Charles

  “So do you own a manufactory?”

  “Corvin does, and we’ve a friend—an occasional guest of the Murder, not with us—who is an enthusiast of agricultural innovation and has studied the Silesian model. It can be done, I am certain of it: sugar not flavoured with human blood, as they say, but grown by free men, and sold at a price that more people can afford to pay. This may yet prove a white elephant, but we’re giving it a try. Despite the lack of enthusiasm on the part of my steward, who is unconvinced.”

  “I don’t think anyone quite understands why you’re growing a worthless crop,” Guy suggested.

  “I know. He made that very point to me in explaining why I’m not getting a satisfactory yield.”

  “You could explain. Hold a demonstration, show them the process if you can do it there and then, let them see sugar come from beet. Taste it, even, if it isn’t too beetrooty. I wouldn’t have understood anything of what Mr. Street said about fossils if I hadn’t had the stone creature in my hand. I think you could make people understand what it’s for and believe in it if you took the time. You’re awfully persuasive when you set out to be.”

  “So I hope,” Philip said, with a smile that put all thoughts of root vegetables out of Guy’s head.

  The walk back home felt like part of the fever dream. One simply didn’t agree to commit nameless and unlawful acts and then go for a pleasant country stroll with one’s co-conspirator. But he had, and they were, and as they approached Rookwood Hall, Guy felt the nerves rising. What might be expected of him? What had he agreed to? What if he had, after all, made a mistake, if he found himself horrified, or incapable, or ashamed of his weakness, or ridiculed by the man who had exploited it?

  The panic came on him with sudden, breath-stopping force as they walked up the drive, so dizzying that Guy grabbed at Philip’s arm. He couldn’t walk another step towards his doom, he had to say something—

  And Philip’s hand was on his, warm and gentle. “Guy? What’s wrong? My dear, breathe, please. Just breathe. Do I detect second thoughts?”

  Guy couldn’t say no to that, and didn’t want to say yes. He stared at his own fingers gripping Philip’s sleeve, and the long slim fingers over his.

  “Never anything against your will, your liking, or even your whim,” Philip said. “I did give you my word, you recall. You are not bound to anything at all.”

  “Sorry,” Guy muttered. “I just...”

  “Nerves.”

  “Nerves,” he agreed miserably.

  “I wish I could say I know how you feel,” Philip said, tugging him gently on, but veering off the drive and toward the gardens. “Or rather I don’t, because you look as though you feel rotten. I, by contrast, had Corvin showing me the ropes when I was sixteen or so, which made it a great deal easier. One can’t panic with Corvin involved, he’s too absurd and too warm-hearted. The only problem is that everyone falls in love with him, even when specifically and clearly warned that he won’t reciprocate. I certainly did.”

  That cut through the gibbering in Guy’s brain. “I thought you said—”

  “I got better,” Philip said. “I fell so hard that I feared I might die from what I couldn’t have, and made an absolute copper-bottomed fool of myself for six months in which I tried even Corvin’s patience to the limit—John has none to start with, so he was fairly trenchant about my idiocy—and then I got better. Because that’s how life tends to work in all its aspects. We try things out, and make mistakes, and recover, and learn from our experiences. We live, we learn. There are no lifelong, life-ruining consequences to fear from a little private dalliance in my house, or under my aegis, and you cannot possibly be more absurd about matters than I’ve been in my time. Consider yourself shielded.”

  Guy nodded. “I suppose I’m being ridiculous.”

  “You aren’t. You are, however, making a mountain out of—no, I’m not going to describe myself as a molehill. Let me rephrase that. Can you say ‘stop’?”

  “Stop?”

  Philip stepped away, letting Guy’s arm go. “And there you are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that. You say stop, I stop. It is no more complicated than that.”

  He didn’t sound impatient, or wheedling. He was simply explaining, in much the same way as he explained sugar beet, and it felt like a soothing salve to jangled nerves. Guy took a breath. “Thank you.”

  “Not at all,” Philip said. “Well. Shall we sit out here a while, or would you care to accompany me inside?”

  Guy dredged up his courage. “Let’s go in.”

  They walked in silence, a few brisk strides. Guy could hear music from the sickroom, and assured himself, with a twinge of guilt, that Amanda didn’t need him. He followed Philip up the stairs and around, not, to his relief, into the parlour where he’d seen Philip with Corvin, but up the little side stair. A door stood open at the top; Philip knocked anyway, then gestured Guy in to a very pleasant little sitting-room.

  “If you’d care to lock the door, do,” Philip said. “If you’d rather not, don’t.”

  Guy did, leaving the key in the lock. His hands were rather shaky.

  He turned. Philip was standing, waiting, watching him. Guy made himself meet those grey-blue eyes. “I’m, uh, not sure what I should do.”

  “Well, let’s see. You might ask if you can kiss me.”

  “If I—?”

  “You’re doing this too, my dear. And you need my permission as much as I need yours.”

  “What do I say?”

  “I think ‘Can I kiss you?’ would do very well.”

  Guy swallowed. “Can—can I kiss you?” It came out as a whisper.

  “You can,” Philip said. “Come here.”

  Guy closed the two paces between them, and found himself staring at a cravat, which was somewhat dishevelled after the walk and the tree. A gentle finger nudged his chin up.

  “You’ve my permission,” Philip said softly.

  He’d assumed Philip would take the lead. Guy stood on the balls of his feet to make up the extra height, awkwardly tried to move his mouth to the right place and angle, and wobbled. Philip’s hands came up, one steadying Guy’s arm, one applying the gentlest possible pressure to the back of his head, and their lips met.

  Met, and touched, pressing chastely together, and Guy had just enough time to wonder if this was what the fuss was about when he felt Philip’s lips part against his. Guy’s mouth opened in surprise rather than imitation, and then Philip was kissing him, mouth open, not hard but thoroughly. His mouth was moving, and the extraordinary thing was, so was Guy’s, as if he knew how to do this all along. He felt the strong wet stroke of what had to be tongue, Philip’s tongue in his mouth, and the idea sent a shudder directly to his belly. He tried to reciprocate, so strongly aware of his own tongue that it felt three times its normal size, and felt it touch Philip’s. He pushed, tentatively, and felt Philip’s tongue curl against his.

  Guy wasn’t sure how he could be doing this. He’d never kissed, he’d never so much as held hands with a girl, and now here he was with his mouth open to Philip’s, and each slow stroke of lips and tongue felt like Philip reaching into his most intimate, private self. It might have felt like an invasion, except Guy had thrown the gates wide and welcomed him in.

  His mouth opened on the thought, without his conscious intent, and Philip made a pleased noise that hummed in Guy’s lips. He pressed harder, too, his mouth a little firmer, kisses a little hungrier, still slow, but now with an intent behind them that sent a shiver of anticipatory nerves and desire down Guy’s spine. He couldn’t help a little inadvertent sound of alarm. Philip stilled instantly, starting to move his mouth away, and that could not possibly happen now, so Guy grabbed his shoulders and pulled him in.

  There was just a fraction of a second where Philip was completely still and Guy became aware that he might have been somewhat forward, and then Philip’s hand tightened on the back of his head, not gentle at all, and Guy found hi
mself hanging on to Philip’s shoulders for dear life, because Philip was bending him backwards, other arm around his waist, his mouth ravaging and demanding and glorious. Guy was kissing and being kissed as wildly as anything he’d ever imagined, and oh God he was roused. He became aware of it very abruptly indeed, because Philip’s thigh was pressed hard between his legs, and surely he would notice any second. Guy attempted to ease his hips back a little, to reduce the pressure of body contact, and failed.

  Philip slowed, gave Guy one very deliberate open-mouthed kiss more, then lifted his head, not letting go his grip, but looking down with a smile. “Enjoying yourself?”

  Guy didn’t think he’d ever blushed harder. “I, uh, I’m—that is—”

  Philip lowered his head, pressing his mouth to Guy’s neck, sending exquisite shivers across his nerves. “You’re meant to enjoy it,” he murmured, moving his mouth up but not away, so the words vibrated against the skin. “You’re meant to respond.” A deliberate press of his thigh. Guy gave a sharp gasp, and another as Philip’s tongue traced curves and lines on his neck. “You’re meant to want me, and ache for me, and long for more, as I am quite, quite desperate for you. Am I pleasing you, Guy?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  Philip’s thigh shifted, rubbing against his trapped stand. “Do you want more?”

  Guy had no idea what more would entail and wanted it anyway. “Yes. Please.”

  Philip smiled. “So polite. Let me know when you’re desperate.” He kissed up Guy’s jawline, and then his teeth closed gently on the earlobe and Guy almost cried out with the shock of pleasure.

  “Oh! Oh.” Philip’s mouth was doing extraordinary things, and Guy’s skin was more than tingling, the excitement almost overwhelming. He squirmed against Philip’s thigh, setting off another wave of sensation, and heard himself whimper aloud.

  “Christ, yes.” Philip sounded ragged. “Oh, you beauty. I thought you were ripe for picking. My God.”

  “Please,” Guy whispered.

  “Anything. What?”

  “I want—” He wanted Philip to keep doing what he was doing, and he wanted him to do the unnamed more, because his body was straining for it, and he wanted very much not to spend in his drawers, and that was an urgent concern. “I, uh...”

  “I’m going to teach you to speak,” Philip assured him. “It will make life a lot easier. I’ve my tongue in your ear and your cockstand against my leg. You can share your thoughts too. How may I serve you?” That wicked smile again. “Are you desperate yet?”

  “I’m afraid I might spend,” Guy blurted out, because that was slightly less humiliating than doing it. “Sorry. I don’t want to stop, but—”

  “We’re not going to stop, dear heart. I’m going to please you till you can’t stand up, starting here. May I touch you?”

  Guy nodded. Philip moved his hands down, and then they were at the buttons of his breeches. He screwed his eyes shut.

  “You don’t have to watch,” Philip said softly. “But I’m planning to commit the sight of you in my hand to memory. Let’s get you out. Oh, good heavens. Lovely.”

  Guy half-looked, through half-shut eyes. He’d always found the sight of his member aesthetically displeasing: puny when flaccid, ungainly and undignified when roused. The Greeks had considered a large member a sign of low character and limited intelligence, and he could see why.

  But Philip—cultured, sophisticated Philip—was looking down with a hunter’s smile and no sign of distaste, and as Guy watched, he wrapped his manicured fingers around the straining shaft, sliding them up and down as though Guy’s part was his own. Philip was touching him, there, and his other hand came around Guy’s waist before he’d even realised his knees were like to give way. “You lovely thing. Hot in my hand. Ripe and ready and aching for pleasure, and waiting all this time for me to give it to you.” His fingers were moving faster now, commanding Guy’s pleasure, owning it. “Are you desperate now?”

  “Yes! Philip, please—”

  “Spend for me, beloved. I need to watch you spend.”

  Guy couldn’t have stopped himself. The glorious sensation of Philip’s sure fingers on his quivering piece, the outrageousness of those murmured words, the wetness still on his ear, which caught the faintest air current and tingled under it, most of all Philip’s certainty that this was good and right, which was so overpowering that Guy simply let himself be told: all of that came together in an overwhelming rise of need that burst out of him, jerking and shuddering in pulse after pulse, until he collapsed, gasping, against Philip’s strong shoulders.

  All over the carpet. He’d self-polluted, or had Philip self-pollute him—no, that wasn’t right—well, whatever you called it, he’d done it all over what looked like an old and fine carpet.

  Which belonged to Philip, and he surely wouldn’t have asked Guy to do it if he hadn’t meant it. Although Guy wasn’t quite sure why he’d wanted to watch that. Would he want to watch Philip spend, and hold him as he did it, even stroke that helpless response out of him?

  Christ, yes, he would. He truly would.

  “Thank you, Guy. That was beautiful.” He felt Philip’s lips brush his hair. “And thank you for trusting me with your pleasure. Could I persuade you to trust me a little more?”

  Guy almost laughed. “I think you could persuade me to do anything.”

  “Oh, don’t say that,” Philip said. “Keep a critical mind at all times, that’s my advice. Could we get this coat off?”

  Guy found himself bare to the waist in short order, coat and waistcoat and linen all discarded, breeches still hanging open, sprawled on a couch as Philip stripped off his own shirt. He was pale, chest sprinkled with sparse golden-brown hair, much leaner than Guy’s own compact build and thick muscles that betrayed his domestic work. Philip was all refinement, except for the way he spoke, and behaved, and thought.

  He dropped to a knee by the couch, gently running a finger over Guy’s chest, curving around the swell of muscle, then tapping lightly up to the nipple. “You may touch, if you like, or you can lie back and let me touch you. Do you think you could speak?”

  “What should I say?”

  “What pleases you. What you think you might like. What you’re hoping I’ll do, if you care to say it: you won’t shock me, and I’ll let you know if it’s impractical. You could start with how this feels.” He leaned forward, and licked Guy’s nipple.

  “God!” Guy yelped, the blasphemy coming to his tongue without volition.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Philip’s lips closed over the nub, which hardened almost painfully, tense with sensation. His head was bowed over Guy’s chest; Guy dared to put his hand on the fair hair, running his fingers through it, felt Philip’s purr of pleasure against his skin, even as fingers went to the other nipple, rolling it gently to hardness. He could feel his piece stirring again, which seemed implausible. Philip’s hands and mouth were roaming and Guy let himself explore in return, wanting to touch more. “Philip?”

  Philip raised his head. He was flushed, lips reddened. “Mmm?”

  “Could—could I kiss you?”

  “Yes,” Philip said, with emphasis, rising to get a knee on the couch, which was of the sort without a back for most of its length. He more or less crawled over Guy, bracing himself with an arm, so they lay against one another, bare chest to chest, lips gently closing together, Philip’s arousal a hard presence against Guy’s thigh. He’d never been so close to another person in his life, and it seemed only natural to rock his hips forward.

  Philip grunted into his mouth. “Christ.”

  “Was that wrong?”

  “The opposite. If you squirm under me like that, you’ll have me begging.”

  The very idea of squirming under Philip’s weight went straight to all the over-sensitised areas of his body. Guy wriggled experimentally, heard Philip’s deep groan, and could have shouted for triumph.

  “I want to debauch you as thoroughly as any virgin has ever been debauched,�
� Philip whispered. “I want to lick every last shred of innocence off you, piece by piece. Will you touch my prick?”

  Guy nodded. Philip fumbled at his breeches; Guy reached down with tentative fingers, and found Philip’s—prick, he supposed he should learn to call it, a rigid length encased in oddly soft skin, and stickily wet to the touch already. He moved his fingers as Philip had, and felt a thrill of power as his lover’s face convulsed. “Is that good?”

  “Very. Up and down. A little harder. Christ, yes.”

  “But mightn’t you spend on me?” Guy blurted. There would be nowhere else for Philip’s seed to go but between them, on his skin. His chest tingled at the thought.

  “I might indeed, my sweet, and joyfully too. Or would you rather I didn’t?”

  Guy had no idea at all. Furtive nocturnal stickiness had always been a regrettable necessity, to be hastily concealed. To have Philip do that, deliberately— “I don’t know. Um, do you want to?”

  “Oh, I want to, very much indeed. I don’t have to if you’d rather not.”

  “It’s all right.” Guy had no idea if it was anything of the kind, but he could hear the urgent desire in Philip’s voice and the thought of pleasing him outweighed all else. “If you want, then do. Please do. I’d like it.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Philip’s voice was rather high. “Say that again. Ask me.”

  Guy couldn’t previously have imagined himself asking that of anyone, but then, he hadn’t imagined this business would involve nearly so much talking. He’d always heard coupling described as men having their way with their partners. The idea that one sought permission to do things, that one asked other people to do things to one...

  It meant this was up to him, in his control. It meant that he could give pleasure to Philip, rather than Philip taking pleasure from him. He could say the words and let, make this thing happen.