Restored (Enlightenment Book 5)

by Joanna Chambers

  Unbidden, Henry felt tears prickle in his eyes. He swallowed hard.

  “Thank you,” he said, thickly. “I’d be wretched if I thought you’d hated it.”

  Christopher smiled then, a sweet curve of his mouth that Henry remembered so well, and that had his heart twisting in his chest.

  Impulsively he said, “How did you want it with me, Christopher?”

  Christopher looked almost comically surprised to be asked. He jerked his head away, lifting his champagne glass to his lips as though afraid Henry might see something betraying.

  When he finally lowered the glass, he said, “I suppose, I wanted it to be real.”

  “Wasn’t it real?” Henry asked sadly. “It felt real.”

  Christopher’s gaze was rueful. “It did, didn’t it? I thought that too.”

  “But it wasn’t?”

  Christopher shook his head. “When you’re a whore, your answer to every question is yes. Even when you want to say yes, you are always aware that you can’t say no. It changes everything. It changes the very nature of who you are.”

  The heaviness in Henry’s chest felt like grief. He blurted out, “I wish I could to be with you without that between us, if only just once.”

  Christopher stared at him for a long time, his green gaze searching Henry’s face.

  “Do you mean that?” he whispered at last.

  Henry nodded. “I do.”

  Christopher considered that for what felt like a very long time. Then, finally, he said, “All right then, Henry. Come with me.”

  15

  Kit

  Kit took Henry upstairs, to his private rooms, where he’d lived before he bought the house in Marylebone. He still used his old bedchamber occasionally, when it had been an especially long night, or he needed to be at the club early the next day, or when he wanted a nap before the evening ahead.

  Henry was quiet as Kit led him into the bedchamber, watching as Kit used the chamber-stick to light the candles by the bed. The flames glowed weakly, then rallied, burning a little stronger and higher, casting flickering shadows against the wall.

  He turned back to face Henry, excitement and fear twisting in his belly. The realisation of how much he wanted this—how much he still wanted Henry—alarmed him. His old feelings were surging up, like a milk pan boiling disastrously over, astonishing him.

  Was it really only this afternoon that he’d first seen Henry again? Henry looked so familiar, standing there in the middle of the bedchamber. Almost as though no time had passed at all.

  But things had changed—everything was, in fact, quite, quite different.

  Now they stood before one another as equals, and Kit had the sudden, heady realisation that he was entirely in charge of this encounter.

  “What shall I do with you?” He mused aloud.

  Henry’s gaze was steady. He said, “Whatever you want, Christopher. I only want to serve you.”

  Kit’s mouth went dry at that assurance, and his cock hardened. “Is that so?” he said breathlessly.

  Henry nodded, and as if to make the point as clearly as possible, he sank to his knees on the rug.

  The wave of lust that crashed over Kit at that sight was almost overwhelming. He tightened his hands into fists by his sides and said hoarsely, “You look very alluring like that, Henry, but I only want you to do it if you want it too. This is not a punishment.”

  “I do want it,” Henry said, almost desperately. “Please, Christopher. Tell me what you want.”

  For several beats, they stared at one another, then Kit stepped towards him and choked out, “Suck me, then. I want your mouth on me.”

  Henry moaned and the sound went straight to Kit’s cock, his already-hard shaft stiffening further in his breeches. Christ.

  Henry lifted shaking fingers and began unfastening the buttons at the placket of Kit’s breeches while Kit stripped off first his coat and then his waistcoat, tossing them aside. By the time he was tearing off his neckcloth, Henry had his breeches undone and was reaching into his drawers to pull out his engorged shaft.

  Henry groaned at the sight. He leaned forward and rubbed his face along the length of Kit’s cock, before kissing the tip and then taking it into his mouth.

  Kit cried out at the immediate pleasure of Henry’s tongue curling over his sensitive shaft, then moaned at the velvety clasp of his inner cheeks as he sucked.

  Henry feasted on Kit’s cock for long minutes, kissing and licking and sucking, before diving deeper, forcing Kit’s cock into the warm, tight tunnel of his throat.

  “Oh Christ,” Kit gasped. “That’s too good—I’ll be spending in a minute.”

  It was far too long since he’d had a man on his knees for him like this. And he’d never had Henry Asquith on his knees. Kit stared down, tunnelling his fingers into Henry’s dark hair and tugging lightly, making Henry moan and look up. And Christ, the lust and the pleasure in that hazy grey gaze…

  Henry pulled off Kit’s cock and stared at him. His lips were swollen and wet, and Kit wanted to kiss him, but before he could formulate words, Henry was learning forward again, licking another stripe up Kit’s cock that had Kit’s thighs trembling.

  Henry looked up at him again. “Do you want to lay down while I do this?”

  Kit blinked at him dazedly, and Henry added, seeming embarrassed, “In truth, my left knee is getting a little sore.”

  “Oh!” Kit exclaimed. “Yes, of course. Shall I”—he paused—“undress?”

  Henry’s smile was sweet and a little uncertain. “Yes. Please.”

  Kit quickly removed his shoes, breeches, stockings, and drawers. When he was quite naked, he climbed on the bed, watching with rapt attention as Henry completed his own disrobing. And God, but he was a lovely sight. A little bigger in the chest and shoulders than before, Kit thought, and still as powerfully muscled as he’d ever been. His dark chest hair was speckled with grey, as was the nest of hair at the juncture of his thighs. Kit liked it—he liked these signs of maturity and experience in a man. He always had.

  He wondered what Henry thought of him. He knew, without vanity, that he still looked good. His body was as slim and lithe as ever, his hair still mostly fair, the silver threads not terribly obvious, but there had been changes. Everyone lost that easy bloom of youth eventually.

  Henry didn’t seem to have any complaints though. When he clambered up after Kit onto the bed, his grey gaze was hot with lust, lingering on the lines of Kit’s body with unabashed pleasure.

  “You’re so beautiful, Christopher,” he whispered, as he caged Kit’s body with his strong arms and slowly lowered his own down, keeping most of his weight from Kit even as he allowed the whole length of their bodies to kiss.

  Kit made a noise that was not quite a moan and not quite a sigh. Something of both, helpless and needy.

  “You are,” he groaned.

  He was saying too much, being too frank, but he couldn’t hold the words back—never had been able to with Henry.

  Henry’s gaze was burning. “I want to make you feel as good as you used to make me feel when you did this for me,” he said. “I want to turn you inside out like that.”

  Kit wanted to tell him he didn’t even have to try, but the words escaped him as Henry moved downwards, pulled Kit’s cock into his hot mouth again, and began to work him with patient relentlessness.

  Henry pressed Kit’s thighs apart, giving attention to his tight, quivering balls, his sensitive inner thighs, the soft, wondrous flesh between his scrotum and his hole, and then—oh Christ in heaven—then, he kissed Kit’s hole.

  His lips were soft and warm, and the tip of his tongue, when it delicately probed Kit’s rim, was a maddening point of delight.

  Kit melted into the mattress, widening his thighs, giving Henry all the access he needed, and when Henry’s fingers brushed his hole, his groan was deep. “Yes.”

  His whole body was singing with pleasure as Henry patiently penetrated him first with one finger, then a second, his m
outh still teasing Kit’s sensitive rim.

  Kit was only vaguely aware of time passing. No one had ever spent so much time simply giving him pleasure. He was undone, a slave to his own lust and need, torn between the desire for more of this, and the desire to topple over the edge and crash through a climax he knew would be shatteringly intense. He cried out as Henry worked his body, heedless of being overheard, demanding more.

  And Henry gave him more.

  He was plunging his fingers in and out of Kit’s body now, and when he lifted his head again, then bent over Kit’s groin to take his cock once more into his mouth, Kit grabbed him by the hair and thrust into his warm, clasping depths, his seed exploding from him as he cried out his release.

  He came so hard, his vision greyed. Only as the final shocks of it ebbed did he realise he had Henry’s hair gripped tightly in his right fist, Henry’s head held tight against his thigh.

  “Sorry,” he gasped, letting go.

  Henry raised his head and blinked at Kit dazedly. He was a mess—lips swollen red and eyes wet from tearing up as Kit had fucked his face.

  “Bloody hell,” Henry said hoarsely. “I’ve spent all over your bedcovers,”

  Kit stared at him for a moment, then slowly grinned. “Have you?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Henry muttered, his cheeks hot.

  “Don’t be,” Kit replied. “I think I’m flattered.”

  “Are you?” Henry breathed, blinking at him slowly. He rose up on his knees and repositioned himself over Kit, straddling Kit’s deliciously relaxed body, leaning down till their lips barely touched, and Henry’s broad, hairy chest skimmed Kit’s mostly bare one.

  Kit squirmed a little, the intimacy feeling raw again, now that he’d spent and his mind had cleared. But Henry didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable. His grey gaze moved over Kit’s face hungrily.

  “I can’t think why I never did that before,” he whispered. “It was glorious. Making you feel like that, watching you come apart.”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t done that before,” Kit scoffed, though his voice was a little breathless. “You knew what you were doing.”

  Henry’s mouth kicked up in a rueful half-smile that Kit remembered too well. He felt even more breathless seeing that smile.

  “Yes, of course,” Henry said diffidently. “But not with you. And not with me—” He broke off, flushing red.

  “Not with you what?” Kit asked.

  “Not like that… on my knees. Serving you,” Henry whispered.

  Kit blinked. “Oh,” he said slowly. “I see.”

  They stared at one another for long moments, till Kit began to feel awkward. He was lying here with Henry—the man who had broken his heart so thoroughly, he had never allowed anyone else near it again.

  Was he quite mad?

  Kit shifted. He forced himself to smile at Henry—though it felt like a very stiff sort of smile—and said, “Do you mind if I get up?”

  “Oh—sorry—yes, of course,” Henry said quickly, clambering off him.

  Kit immediately rose and went to the wardrobe, pulling out a dressing gown—an outrageous saffron yellow one with black trim—which he pulled over his nakedness. He felt suddenly shaky. He wanted to wash and to be alone for a while.

  He turned back to face Henry, who was now sitting on the side of the bed watching him with wary eyes.

  “Well,” Kit said, with a smile that felt horribly stiff. “I think we can agree that you’ve thoroughly made amends now.”

  “Christopher—”

  “It’s been really quite an odd day, hasn’t it?” Kit said, speaking over him. “I certainly didn’t expect it to go like this. I daresay you didn’t either. But I don’t suppose it’s turned out too badly, all things considered. Perhaps we can say goodbye properly this time. And part as friends—or as near to friends as a duke and a whore can ever be.”

  He thought Henry might smile at that. But he didn’t. He looked troubled.

  “You’re not a whore, and I didn’t do that to make amends,” he said thickly. “Any more than you did it to punish me. I wanted to do it. God, Christopher—I spent all over your bedcovers, just from touching you. If that doesn’t—” He paused and took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. I’m making a mess of this.”

  Kit stared at him. He couldn’t think how to respond.

  Softly, almost inaudibly, Henry said, “I didn’t want to leave you. But Caroline was dying, and I had promised her I would give you up if she asked me.” He swallowed. “It was cowardly, sending Parkinson to tell you. I regret that more than I can say.”

  The sudden prick of tears in Kit’s eyes surprised him—irritated him, even. This had happened lifetimes ago. It was ridiculous to weep over it now.

  And yet, when he looked at the defeated slump of Henry’s shoulders, he wanted nothing more than to do just that.

  What was Henry’s crime, after all? He’d agreed to his wife’s dying request. A woman he had made promises to, the mother of his children. Someone he’d always told Kit he truly loved. Would Kit really have wanted Henry to deny her request?

  “Did she know about me?” he asked. The question was out before he could second-guess himself.

  Henry met his gaze. “Yes. You might remember, we had stopped sharing a bed some time before I met you. She had given me carte blanche to take a lover. But…”

  “But?”

  Henry sighed. “She didn’t want it to be someone I had feelings for. I think… I think Caroline saw physical passion as very different from married love.” He paused, considering. “I think she was pleased, in a way, that you were a man. She couldn’t really imagine what I had with you being anything other than—bestial, I suppose.”

  Kit recoiled. He couldn’t help it. There was something so offensive about that. The way it reduced what he and Henry had had. Which really was pretty ridiculous. It wasn’t as if there had been anything so pure about him and Henry, was there? He’d been a whore. Henry’s kept boy. He’d entered into their arrangement knowing full well Henry was married.

  Tentatively, Kit said, “I always assumed she didn’t much enjoy the marital bed.”

  Henry sighed. “Neither of us did.”

  “Oh,” Kit said. “I’m sorry, Henry.”

  Henry offered a weak smile. “I don’t know if it was my fault or if she would have been uninterested even if I had desired her. She said it would have made no difference, so I try to take comfort from that. But sometimes I wonder.”

  “That’s natural,” Kit said. “But for what it’s worth, there are some people who just don’t want that sort of intimacy. I’ve known one or two in my time.”

  Henry looked so hopeful at that, Kit could have wept.

  “You always spoke very fondly and respectfully of her to me,” Kit said quietly.

  “In all other ways we were well suited,” Henry said. “The best of friends—that’s what we always said.”

  Hesitantly, Kit crossed to the bed and sank down next to Henry, careful to keep a bit of space between them. “You did love her then,” he said curiously. “Despite everything?”

  Henry nodded. “When she died, I would have gone to pieces if it hadn’t been for the children. Caroline was a loving mother. The older ones in particular took her death very hard. When she passed, they needed me in a way they hadn’t before. And I needed them too.”

  “They’ll all be grown now, I suppose,” Kit said. Henry hadn’t mentioned his family a great deal when they were together, but Kit had known he had four children, two boys and two girls—two young men and two young women now—and it had been obvious that Henry adored them.

  When Henry said nothing, Kit glanced at him, worried. Had he misspoken?

  “Three of them are grown,” Henry said at last, staring down at his loosely linked hands. He took a long, steadying breath before adding, “My youngest, Alice, took scarlet fever and passed away when she was five.” When he finally raised his grey gaze to meet Kit’s, the grief in his eyes was unbe
arable.

  “I’m so sorry, Henry,” Kit said, his voice cracking on the words.

  Strange how, every time Kit had thought of Henry over the years, he’d imagined him living a golden life in his stately pile in the country. Even when he’d heard about Caroline's death—many years after her actual death, it transpired—he had not, to his shame, considered how much her loss would have hurt Henry. He’d simply imagined Henry casually selecting another wife for himself, siring a second brood of children.

  When had he begun to think of Henry in such an ungenerous way?

  He'd never had reason to doubt that Henry had loved his family. The fact that he did not cherish such feelings for Kit did not mean that he was incapable of them. After all, why would a man like Henry Asquith think of a paid whore as anything other than a servant? Kit had chosen to sell his body for money. He’d put a price on himself, body and soul. He could hardly mind when his customer took him at face value.

  It hurt, yes, but it only hurt because Kit had let himself feel things he ought never to have allowed. He’d been foolish, and he only had himself to blame.

  Kit glanced at Henry, who was was staring down at his hands, his expression still wrecked. Kit wished he could touch him, offer some comfort, but he didn’t know how, or if Henry would even want that.

  Perhaps he would prefer some privacy, to collect himself again?

  Kit stood and stepped away from the bed. “I’ll let you get dressed in peace,” he said quietly. “I’ll be in the parlour when you’re ready.”

  Henry looked up, blinking, as though Kit’s words had just reminded him where he was. Without waiting for a reply, Kit left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  He padded through to the parlour, curling up in one of the armchairs to wait. He felt oddly shaky after the intensity of what had just happened with Henry. Stripped, somehow, of his usual self-possession. He wished he could wash up and put his clothes back on. Restore his elegant armour before Henry came into the parlour. But he’d have to wait for Henry to be done now.