The Ruin of a Rake

by Cat Sebastian

  Medlock exhaled, almost a sigh, as he sank back against Courtenay’s chest.

  “I want you naked this time,” Courtenay murmured into Medlock’s neck as he slid his hands down the man’s chest. “I want to see and kiss every inch of you. Later, after you’ve fucked me”—he felt Medlock’s body jolt to awareness at those words—“I want you to spend the night, and when we wake up I want to do it all over again. You cheated me out of that last night, Medlock, and I won’t have it happen again.”

  Medlock turned then, looking slightly dazed. “After I’ve fucked you,” he echoed. “That’s what you want.”

  “Want hardly covers it, Medlock. It’s all I’ve thought of all damned day.”

  He licked his lips. “Me fucking you.”

  “Do you need a diagram?”

  He slowly shook his head. “I think I can manage.” A filthy grin began to spread over his face as he unknotted his cravat and lay it carefully on the back of the chair.

  That was the last item of clothing either of them disposed of with any care whatsoever. Courtenay took a perverse satisfaction in Medlock’s quickly evaporating concern for the state of his garments, or indeed anything that wasn’t his hardening cock. He pushed Medlock into the wall, kissing him hard and savoring the man’s moan. He tugged off Medlock’s clothes and then his own, creating a pile of coats and waistcoats and then shirts and trousers and boots.

  When they reached the bedroom, Medlock hesitated only the briefest of moments before pushing Courtenay onto the bed, then crawling over his body and pinning his arms over his head. Courtenay groaned in pleasure. He knew Medlock recalled their conversation in the dark of the opera and was giving him exactly what he wanted. When he was with a man, he wanted to be reminded of all the things that made men what they were, or maybe just what made that particular man what he was. Medlock was a half-suppressed smile and an imperious flash in his gray eyes; he was a firm grip on Courtenay’s wrists and the ripple of ropy muscles.

  “What do you want me to call you when I’m fucking you?” Medlock asked.

  Courtenay’s shivered at the words and the dark look in Medlock’s eyes. “You can call me whatever you damned well please,” he said, and he meant it.

  “What’s your given name? I’m not calling you Courtenay while I’m fucking you. That’s absurd.”

  Courtenay had no idea why it was absurd, but if an answer helped Medlock get about his business and start fucking him, he’d give him one. “Jeremiah.”

  Medlock made an exasperated noise and let go of Courtenay’s hands. “What can your mother have been thinking?”

  Courtenay laughed, harder than he would have thought possible with a desperately aching erection and a deliciously naked man kneeling over him. “I really don’t know.”

  “I mean, with a name like that you were either going to become a Methodist preacher or you were going to rebel and become an infamous scapegrace. I rather think you went about things the right way.”

  Courtenay tried to roll away and bury his face in a pillow to smother his laughter, but Medlock wouldn’t let him. He took hold of Courtenay’s chin. “You must have another name.”

  “I have a laundry list of names. You’d hardly even credit it.” Medlock’s fingers were firm and sure on Courtenay’s jaw. “I believe I was christened Jeremiah Lloyd Alexander Cecil Devere Illingham.”

  Medlock sat back on his heels, idly stroking his erection while looking down at Courtenay. He was lean, with more sinew and muscle than Courtenay expected in a gentleman. His chest was covered in pale hair that trailed down his belly. “What do people usually call you in bed?”

  Something about the question—was it the usually, as if this transaction were as routine and unremarkable as having his grate swept or his hair trimmed?—set his teeth on edge. He felt his cock lose interest. “Just call me Courtenay.”

  Medlock tipped his head and looked down at him with an expression Courtenay couldn’t read. “No. You’ve already told me to call you whatever I damned well please.”

  That tone—confident, a bit bossy—spoke directly to Courtenay’s prick. God, that had been the best part of last night, watching Medlock let go, feeling and tasting and hearing him realize a desire he might not have known about.

  Courtenay wanted that again tonight. Not a routine fuck, not a workmanlike grope and tumble. He wanted Medlock to give up some of that reserve he held so dear.

  But if a commonplace roll in the hay were all that Medlock was offering, he’d take it. Looking at Medlock kneeling over him, wiry muscles tense, incongruously soft mouth slightly parted, a slightly wild look in his gray eyes, Courtenay knew he’d take whatever Medlock had to give.

  Chapter Twelve

  Courtenay sat up, shifting so that Julian was now in his lap, straddling him.

  “What do you want?” Courtenay asked, his voice soft but heavy with an intent that Julian didn’t understand.

  “I think we’ve decided that I’m fucking you,” Julian bit off, confused by their change in positions and at a loss as to what to do with his hands. After a moment of awkwardness, he settled his hands on Courtenay’s upper arms, which turned out to be a terrible choice because he could then feel the flex and ripple of muscles when Courtenay touched him, somehow making the experience twice as overwhelming. And, damn it, Julian was hardly able to keep his want within reasonable boundaries as it was; each additional sensation threatened to send him to a place he hardly recognized.

  “No, I asked what you want.” Courtenay ran his fingers down Julian’s back, and the shiver Julian felt in response seemed so exaggerated as to be a parody of a normal shiver. As usual, his body was in an uproar of sensation where Courtenay was concerned.

  “If you think I wouldn’t enjoy fucking you, you’re a deeply confused man.” Julian indicated his own erection. Which was right there, plain as day, next to Courtenay’s own, and it seemed to Julian a waste of two perfectly good erections to be sitting here talking about want instead of putting them to good use.

  “That’s not what I asked,” Courtenay murmured into Julian’s neck, gently biting the skin where shoulder met neck.

  Julian felt that bite everywhere in his body. It sent trickles of awareness down his spine and tingles of confused pleasure even in his legs. “Yes,” he managed, “I was just thinking how enjoyable it would be to negotiate this experience in bizarre detail like some kind of peace treaty, instead of getting down to the business of fucking.”

  In response, Courtenay threaded his fingers through the hair at the nape of Julian’s neck, tilting Julian’s head back so he could kiss the underside of his jaw. “Mmm,” Courtenay sighed into the soft flesh there. “You didn’t shave.”

  “I meant to,” Julian protested, feeling suddenly defensive, “but somebody accosted me at the fencing studio with an emergency and I didn’t have time to go home and shave before dinner. Besides, I hardly need to. My hair is fair and I don’t grow much of a beard, and—oh!”

  Courtenay was sucking on the tender skin beneath his jaw, then running his tongue along the place he had just sucked. “It feels good,” he said. He rubbed his cheek against Julian’s jaw and Julian could feel Courtenay’s own scratchy new beard.

  It did feel good. Coarse and earthy and nonetheless very good. The polite, clean coupling he sought was becoming a distant memory.

  Courtenay took hold of Julian’s hips and tugged him closer, so Julian’s cock was finally touching Courtenay’s belly. At that slight promise of friction, he pushed forward helplessly and heard Courtenay’s answering sigh. Then Courtenay raked his fingernails gently up Julian’s back. It came as a strange relief, as if Courtenay were scratching an itch Julian hadn’t realized he had, and sent more of those shivers along random, scattered areas of Julian’s body.

  “I like feeling you like this,” Courtenay said, pulling back so he could see Julian’s face.

  “Cranky and overly aroused? Happy to oblige.”

  Courtenay smiled, and Julian knew as an absol
ute fact that nobody ought to look so handsome who was being this annoying. Julian was trying very hard not to think of how excessively attractive Courtenay was, because if he acknowledged even to himself how badly he wanted this man, how the perfect contours of his body and face made Julian almost dizzy with need, then Julian might dissolve into a sad frenzy of desperate lust.

  “You like when I touch you,” Courtenay said.

  “That’s rather the point. I think you’re the one who needs the diagram. I really would have thought you’d have grasped the essentials by this point in your career, Courtenay.”

  In answer, Courtenay trailed an infuriatingly light touch down the outside of Julian’s thighs, making Julian’s cock jump. “Like that.”

  Julian was about to say something snide, when Courtenay’s mouth closed over his own. After all those too-light, infuriatingly diffuse touches, the kiss came as a terrible relief. Courtenay’s lips and gently probing tongue felt like a drink of cool water after a day spent under the Madras sun. The slide of his big hands down Julian’s hips to cup the globes of his arse felt like the answer to a confusing line of sums. His whole body sang with want and relief.

  Courtenay squeezed and spread Julian’s arse ever so slightly, almost absently. Julian found himself squirming, pushing back into Courtenay’s hands. He had the sudden notion that it was he, not Courtenay, who was going to be fucked, and—worse—that he really wanted that to happen. But no, Courtenay had been quite clear on his intentions, and thank God, because Julian didn’t think he could handle turning his body over to this man in that way.

  “Come here,” Courtenay said, pulling away from the kiss only long enough to speak. He lay down, taking Julian with him, still kissing and touching and stroking. Julian felt like a fire that had been built up with too much fuel, dangerously hot and bright, something that could easily become a disaster.

  “Look at me,” Courtenay murmured, and only then did Julian realize that his eyes had been squeezed shut. And they must have been closed for a while, because when he opened them, even the faint light from the candle Courtenay had lit dazzled his eyes. Even more dazzling was Courtenay himself, sprawled beneath him, his black hair spread out on the pillow and his eyes dark with want. Julian, against his better judgment, let his gaze travel down Courtenay’s body, savoring the taut lines of his muscular chest, relishing the sight of Courtenay’s cock resting dark and thick against his belly.

  “Christ,” he said, shaking his head. “Why do you need to look like that? You could look half—no, a quarter—as good and still get the job done.” He knew he was being irrational, but he didn’t care. He was so occupied with keeping his lust within acceptable parameters that he was genuinely exasperated by Courtenay’s extravagant beauty.

  “Moderation is not one of my virtues,” Courtenay said apologetically, as if taking responsibility for his excessive good looks. “I’m very sorry.” Only the faint quirk of his lip betrayed that he wasn’t serious.

  Julian did the only thing he could in the circumstances, which was to shove Courtenay’s legs apart with his knees and pin his hands above his head with one hand. “You ought to be. Look what you’ve done to me.” He thrust against Courtenay’s hip, letting him feel the hard press of his desire. “I’m panting, for God’s sake. If I don’t get inside you I feel like I might die.”

  “Do it,” Courtenay said.

  It didn’t sound like an order. If it had, Julian might have found a way to disobey, just to reclaim the upper hand or prove that he wasn’t in total thrall to his baser longings. But the way Courtenay said it, low and urgent, jaw clenched and eyes wild, made it sound like a plea. A prayer. Like Julian had the one thing Courtenay needed.

  Courtenay couldn’t help but grin stupidly when Medlock shoved his knees apart harder than strictly necessary. This was the Medlock Courtenay had wanted to see tonight, the man without the filter of restraint or correctness. Pure, raw desire.

  He felt triumphant knowing that he had chipped away at that blasted reserve.

  Medlock’s eyes were reflected firelight, lit with the same quicksilver glints as Eleanor’s paperweight. His gaze, hot and seeking, traveled over Courtenay’s body. Courtenay knew what he looked like and rather took for granted that people generally found him attractive. But Medlock always looked at him with the hunger of a starving man seeing a table laid for someone else. There was always something almost resentful about the heat he sometimes caught in Medlock’s eye, as if Medlock were angry with Courtenay for making him feel the way he did.

  Not now, though.

  Medlock’s hands were now on Courtenay’s thighs, sliding down, ignoring his prick, skimming over his bollocks, and finally resting on his entrance. Courtenay shivered at the touch.

  And then he froze. It had, he belatedly remembered, been rather a long time since he had engaged in this particular act. There was no way he was going to ask Medlock to play the part of the careful lover—that would be quite at odds with the tableau he had envisaged.

  As usual, Courtenay had failed to plan ahead in even the most rudimentary way. It was the same story, over and over again. It was too late to do anything about it now—Courtenay believed in seeing his bad ideas through to the very end. Reaching to the table next to his bed, he fumbled until he found what he needed. “Here,” he said, handing the bottle of oil to Medlock.

  Perhaps something in his tone gave away his stupid fit of nerves. Or perhaps it was the way his entire body tightened when Medlock’s touch became more intent. Whatever the cause, Medlock gave him a quizzical look as he poured some oil into his hand. But that expression vanished as soon as it had appeared, and when he returned his fingers to Courtenay’s body, his touch wasn’t hesitant. Not in the least bit careful or guarded, thank God, because Courtenay didn’t think he could bear it. The whole point of this encounter was that he wanted to see Medlock become unhinged, and that wasn’t going to happen if the fellow made a great show of solicitude.

  But Medlock was only looking at him with unchecked lust as his slippery fingers slid over Courtenay’s entrance. Courtenay grinned despite his reservations.

  “See something you like, Medlock?”

  “Yes, damn you,” Medlock said without rancor, and then pushed a single finger inside.

  Courtenay shivered and heard Medlock swear.

  “More,” Courtenay demanded, despite knowing he wasn’t ready. Medlock complied, stretching him slowly and . . . carefully? No, it couldn’t be that. The expression on his face was barely reigned in wantonness. And then Medlock twisted his fingers and brushed against that spot inside that made him feel like he might dissolve into a puddle of sensation. Oh, God, it really had been a while. He had forgotten what that felt like. “Fuck,” he ground out when Medlock did it again.

  Medlock kept at it, bloody inexorable, his silvery gaze fixed not on where he touched Courtenay, but on his face, with an intensity that made Courtenay want to either crawl under the covers or pounce on the man. He kept stroking until Courtenay thought he might sob with need.

  And when, finally, Medlock slicked himself with oil and pushed inside, there was only the slightest burn of intrusion. Then there was only pleasure, spiraling blindly out of control.

  God, yes. This was what he had wanted. Medlock’s grip punishingly hard on his shoulder, Medlock’s breath heavy and ragged and interspersed with garbled oaths. Courtenay reached for himself, only to find his hand slapped away. Medlock wrapped his own hand tight around Courtenay’s cock, stroking to the rhythm of his own thrusts. Courtenay wanted it to go on longer, wanted to watch Medlock abandon himself like this for the rest of the night, but he felt his climax bearing down on him. He let himself go, let the pleasure build up where Medlock filled him and touched him. He brought his hands to Medlock’s hips and held on as he was shattered by his climax.

  Spent, Courtenay watched Medlock lose his rhythm and abandon himself to furious thrusting, finally shuddering and collapsing on top of Courtenay. And when he mumbled something into Court
enay’s neck that sounded like, “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Courtenay stroked his hands up and down his spine and murmured reassuringly, as if Courtenay weren’t the one in need of reassurance.

  Medlock eventually pulled away, leaving Courtenay damp and quickly cooling in the night air. But he returned, cleaned them both with a wet cloth, and then, just when Courtenay was getting used to the idea that Medlock was planning to leave so soon, he crawled back into bed. Courtenay folded Medlock into his arms. Or maybe it was the other way around.

  “Bring me the pistol you used,” Medlock said after a while, when they were lying side by side and Courtenay was beginning to wonder whether Medlock meant to stay the entire night, and whether that was something Courtenay wished for slightly or very much indeed.

  “What? Why?” Courtenay supposed Medlock meant to take it away, to dispose of it as he had disposed of the brandy, in order to prevent Courtenay from doing anything stupid.

  “Just give it over.”

  Courtenay dragged himself out of bed and got the pistol out of the bottom drawer of his clothes press. Holding it by the barrel, he extended his hand to Medlock. “It’s loaded,” he cautioned.

  In the gloom, Courtenay watched Medlock turn the weapon over in his hands and then narrow his eyes, focusing on some point across the room, through the open doorway. He held it out as if aiming it, one eye shut. “You’re positive it doesn’t pull left?”

  “Positive,” Courtenay said, still unsure where this was going.

  “Don’t move,” Medlock murmured, sitting up against the headboard.

  Before Courtenay knew what had happened, he heard the pistol’s report. “What the devil are you doing?” he choked out, too stunned to even get out of bed. “You’re mad.”

  “Go check and see if I got it.”

  Courtenay could smell the acrid smoke and his ears were ringing from the blast. The downstairs neighbors were shouting, and rightly so. “What you’ve got is some kind of brain fever, Medlock. You can’t fire a pistol in somebody’s lodgings.”