by Ava March
“My pleasure.” And it had definitely been Max’s pleasure. It had taken all his self-control to keep the groans inside as Tristan had sucked him dry.
The snick of a knob turning cut through the silence, tearing Max’s thoughts from those full lips, the decadent feel of Tristan’s throat caressing the head of his cock. A maid entered the room bearing the requested brandy.
Tristan pulled his gaze from Max, to the shelves upon shelves lining the walls. “You certainly have a lot of books. Have you read many of them?”
With a light clink of crystal against silver, the maid set a tray with the brandy on the side table. A short curtsy, and she left the room.
“Yes, years ago. My tutor used the library as a source for teaching materials.” He used to dread when the man would walk into the schoolroom, arms full of new finds from this room’s shelves. Max reached for the decanter, poured two glasses of brandy.
Tristan took the proffered glass with a murmured, “Thanks.” The candlelight picked up the pale blond strands in his ginger hair. Max flexed his free hand, the memory of those silken strands still fresh on his skin.
“But not recently?” Tristan asked.
“No.”
“Too busy in your study?”
Max tipped his head and took a long swallow of brandy.
“Do you spend every day behind your desk?”
“With the exception of this afternoon, yes. Unless I’m in London to attend Parliament or to deal with business matters there.”
“Don’t you enjoy hunting or shooting or some other pastime? You have a stable full of prime horseflesh. Do you ever take one out just to go for a ride, enjoy a sunny summer’s day?”
“A dukedom does not manage itself,” Max said, repeating the phrase he’d heard too many times to count.
What would his father think if he knew Max had turned his back on the dukedom in favor of an early afternoon orgasm?
His choice of a bed partner would most assuredly raise an eyebrow. Though his father wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest to learn Max had neglected his responsibilities. Was continuing to neglect them at that very moment.
Yet tonight... Tonight he wasn’t of a mind to dwell on it or let guilt weigh him down. The way Tristan had dropped so eagerly to his knees in that narrow, dark corridor had turned his attention to the locked trunk beside his writing desk. The one he had yet to open since arriving at Arrington Park.
He took another long swallow of brandy. “Shortly before we left London, and after I’d played footman for you, I stopped at a shop off Bond Street.”
“What sort of shop?”
“One for discriminating gentlemen.”
Tristan’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t familiar with that particular shop, hadn’t a clue as to the variety of merchandise sold there. Yet the way Tristan held his gaze indicated he suspected there was a meaning to Max’s words that he didn’t quite catch.
He’d become familiar with a few of the shop’s goods soon enough.
Max set his glass on the side table and stood. “I believe I shall retire a bit early tonight.”
* * *
Tristan watched as Max’s broad-shouldered back disappeared into the corridor, the library door left open behind him. He sat there, half-empty glass in hand, as the rhythmic sounds of Max’s footsteps on the marble floor faded into nothingness.
With a quick shake of his head, he jolted himself to his senses. If Max was retiring early, then so should he.
He made his way up to his bedchamber. As he turned at the top of the stairs, he caught sight of a servant in a plain black coat opening one of the double doors leading to Max’s rooms. Likely the man’s valet, which meant a good half an hour or so until Max opened the door at his end of the passageway between their rooms.
Plenty of time for Tristan to get ready for the night and rumple the sheets on his own bed. He’d spent one of the hours before supper soaking in the tub, which had worked wonders—his arse hadn’t objected to the lengthy formal meal. As he went into his dressing room, he unbuttoned his coat. Discriminating gentlemen...
A shop that sold objects of an erotic nature? Including, perhaps, leather goods?
He shook his arms free of the coat sleeves, tugged at his cravat. He’d never had need to look for such a shop, hadn’t a notion where they were in London, yet he knew the drawers in the chests at Rubicon’s hadn’t filled themselves. There had to be some places in the City that dealt with such goods, and it appeared Max might know the location of at least one of those shops.
After stripping off the rest of his clothes and putting them in the basket for a maid to see to, he went into the washroom, anticipation building in his veins. Max was a damned tease, but he was a very good tease and one who always followed through, never disappointed.
Oh hell no, Max never disappointed when it came to activities in the bedchamber.
Clad in a fresh pair of trousers and a white shirt, he was surprised to find the door at the end of the passageway open when he peeked inside. He’d expected it to still be shut, for Max to leave him in suspense a while longer. Though Tristan certainly wasn’t going to object if Max wasn’t in the mood to allow his valet to dally.
He found Max not in bed waiting for him, but in an armchair situated near the fireplace and wearing a pair of trousers. Reaching behind him, Tristan shut the door to the passageway.
“Remove your clothes,” Max said, voice lusciously deep.
Shirt and trousers were soon on the floorboards. Arms at his sides, he waited for Max’s next command.
“You were a very naughty man this afternoon.”
Tristan nodded. He couldn’t argue the statement. Sucking Max off when there could have been a maid just paces away did indeed qualify as very naughty. It had also been a fun way to keep Max from behind his desk and to spend some time with him before nightfall.
Standing just inside the bedchamber, he swept his gaze over Max. He was sprawled in the chair, one leg casually stretched before him, the other bent. A man at his ease, yet an erection pushed against the placket of his trousers. His dark eyes were intent, pinned on Tristan, chin tipped slightly down and... Max’s hand tightened on the chair’s arm, fingers briefly gripping the brown leather.
Tristan sensed the change in Max. The undercurrent of heavy anticipation, the extra layer of determination, and also a touch of nervousness. Whatever was about to come was important to Max in a way their other nights hadn’t been.
“Stand at the foot of the bed,” Max said, breaking the silence between them.
With a nod, Tristan crossed to the foot of the bed. On the coverlet near one of the posters were two leather cuffs, a bottle of oil and a wooden paddle, the type he’d image a headmaster would favor. And tied to the top of that poster...a leather line, one end brushing the carved wooden post, just waiting to be tied to the steel rings adorning those cuffs.
Tristan’s breaths stumbled as lust shot through him. Max had decided to indulge his fondness for leather with him.
When he’d engaged in such play in the past, he had endured it more than anything else. Yet with Max, he felt more than merely wanted for his submission. Max wanted Tristan’s pleasure just as much as the man wanted his own. He wouldn’t be left tied to the headboard after the client had finished with him. Wouldn’t have to hold back the plea to stop. With Max, he’d be begging the man for more, and only receive as much as he could take and not one smack of the paddle more.
Bowing his head, he did his best to stand still. Max most assuredly liked it when he begged and pleaded, but he knew Max wanted patience from him at that particular moment.
He heard the creak of leather, then the soft sounds of bare feet against floorboards. It took all his willpower to keep from glancing to Max out of the corner of his eye as the man approached.
Every
thing went quiet. He could sense Max standing directly behind him, could almost feel the heat pouring off his strong body.
A large hand coasted down his back. A shiver of delight raced over his skin. He wanted to push back, push into Max’s touch, get more of it, yet he stayed still.
That hand skimmed over his hip. Instead of grasping his erection, Max reached around him for the leather cuffs.
“Turn around.”
Another jolt of anticipation rocked through him. Keeping his gaze averted to the floor, he turned.
There was a light clink of metal against metal.
“Look at me.”
Tristan pulled his gaze up Max’s body, didn’t pause to admire the hard arch tenting the placket, the thin line of dark hair that disappeared behind the waistband of his trousers or the broad expanse of his bare chest.
“Any objections?” Max murmured, holding out the cuffs in one hand.
“None at all.”
Cupping the back of Tristan’s head with his free hand, Max brought their lips together. The kiss fierce while at the same time gentle. And kept much too brief for Tristan’s liking.
Breaking the kiss, Max dragged his hand down Tristan’s arm, lifted his wrist. First one then the other, Max buckled the cuffs in place, his dark brows lowered, expression focused and intent. The leather was thick and substantial but soft enough to not leave marks if he tugged a bit while restrained.
As Max did up the buckle on the second cuff, a thought occurred to him. Tristan glanced up, to the ceiling overhead. A paddling wasn’t a quiet endeavor, and they weren’t the only two individuals in the house. “Will anyone overhear us?” He tipped his head to the paddle on the mattress.
“No.” A flick of Max’s fingers, and the leather was secured beneath its keeper.
“But aren’t servants’ quarters usually in the garret?”
“Yes. On the other side of the house. There’s only storage above our rooms. I doubt the trunks and old furniture will much mind a bit of noise.” Max palmed Tristan’s hips, turned him slightly to the side. “Back now.”
Following the pressure of Max’s hands, Tristan stepped back until his shoulder blade touched the wooden post. He knew what the next command would be before Max spoke.
“Arms up.”
Crossing his wrists, Tristan lifted his arms above his head. Fingertips brushed his skin. Tristan looked up and watched as Max threaded the leather line through one steel ring then the other.
The line tied in a simple loop knot, Max met his gaze.
“All right,” Tristan replied, in answer to the question in Max’s eyes. He’d never had an issue with being restrained. He just hadn’t particularly cared for the men who had done the deed in the past. Max though...
A need to please rose up within. He wanted to please Max, to give himself over to the man. To make tonight the night Max wanted with him.
A growl rumbled from Max’s chest. And then Max’s lips were on his again. The kiss longer, deeper, pulling a moan from Tristan. Max’s tongue swept inside his mouth. Tristan tugged at his restraints, wanting to wrap his arms around Max, to pull him closer. But the simple knot held tight.
Pulling back, Max dropped to his knees and glanced up at Tristan. The question was long gone from those dark eyes and replaced with desire so potent it knocked the breath from Tristan’s lungs.
Wrapping a hand around Tristan’s cock, Max took him inside his mouth. Oh God, could Max suck cock. Within no time at all, Max had him roused to a fever pitch. Arms stretched over his head, Tristan arched his back, unable to stop his hips from thrusting, from seeking more, from fucking Max’s mouth.
And Max allowed it.
Hell, Max even sucked harder, the suction intensifying around his length. Tristan’s ballocks lurched up. Every muscle in his body drew taut.
Max’s biceps bulged as the hands on Tristan’s hips stilled him, and that generous mouth pulled free of his prick.
“More, Max, please.” He was already begging, but at some point over the past few nights, he’d lost whatever pride or self-consciousness he possessed when the situation involved Max and a bed.
Max shook his head. How could a man radiate so much control when he was on his knees? “Turn.”
Tristan eagerly did as bid. There was enough length to the line to allow him to pivot on the spot. His erection, wet from Max’s attentions, bumped the wooden poster. Hands splayed over his arse cheeks, pulled them apart. After the hard pulls of his mouth, Tristan expected quick stabs of Max’s tongue, the press of fingers pushing inside him, forcing him open. Instead Max teased. Light, almost soft, his tongue played over Tristan’s hole, danced over his skin. Then Max licked him. Long, slow licks from his ballocks to just below his entrance.
Tristan gasped, groaned. Tugged at his bonds. Tried to push back but Max held him still. He wanted more. He wanted so badly he ached with it. “Fucking hell. Goddamn you, Max. Please. More.”
To which Max reached between Tristan’s legs, pulled down his erection. Soft hair brushed his upper thigh and a mouth covered the head of his cock.
A whine vibrated Tristan’s throat as Max sucked on the crown. He didn’t think he could get any closer to climaxing without actually spilling his seed, but bloody hell, Max shoved him right to the very edge, had him dangling over the precipice.
Max released him, his mouth and his hands leaving Tristan’s body.
Tristan rested his forehead against the poster, senses shimmering with an impending orgasm that was so very, very close he could taste it. “Please, Max, fuck me. Please.”
“All in due time.” Max reached for the paddle on the coverlet. “First though, I’m going to turn this naughty arse red.”
Like a total wanton, Tristan thrust out his hips, presented his arse to Max.
The first blow was a mere tap with barely a hint of a sting behind it. First one cheek then the other. Back and forth. The pressure increasing with each pass. The sting building, shifting to fiery-hot pleasure. Until the sharp sound of wood against skin cracked through the air. Until Tristan was gasping for breath, hands clutched in tight fists, his cock jutting stiff and achingly hard between his legs.
And then there was silence.
His smarting skin throbbed, but it felt ridiculously, wonderfully good. Oh hell, good didn’t come close to describing it. He felt wicked, sinful, and utterly wanted by Max.
The heat from Max’s body warmed his back an instant before Max pressed up against him, wrapping an arm around his waist. Hot panting breaths scorched across his nape.
“What do you want?” The words were whispered against his skin.
“You, Max. You.” Far beyond the point of desperation, he lifted up onto his toes and wiggled against Max, rubbing against the arch of his erection. Satin-soft skin backed by iron pressed against his crease. Fresh jolts of lust shot to his cock.
Tristan glanced under a raised arm, to Max’s bare leg, a pile of black wool near his foot. When had Max divested himself of his trousers?
A nip to his shoulder followed by the soft press of lips. “Since you asked so nicely.”
Max released him to reach for the bottle of oil on the coverlet. And then slick fingers were probing between his burning cheeks, finally pushing inside him.
Startled by the pinch of true pain, Tristan blinked. Quickly gathering his wits, he took a deep breath, forced his muscles to relax.
But it did no good.
Oh hell.
A breathy moan slipped passed his lips before he could give it thought, the habit ingrained after two years at that house.
Max grabbed his hip and then it wasn’t Max’s fingers but his cock pushing inside of him, demanding entry, forcing still-sore muscles to accommodate the thick length.
Dread washed over him.
Contrary to h
is earlier assumption, the soak in the tub had not worked wonders.
Pulling back, Max picked up a familiar rhythm. All the while, Tristan’s mind raced.
It wasn’t so bad as to fall into the realm of solid pain. Uncomfortable but not intolerable. He’d endured far worse. But Max wasn’t like all the others. And tonight wasn’t like his and Max’s other nights. Tonight was important to Max. And Tristan wanted it to be perfect for him. For them. But no way would he be able to climax with only Max’s cock in his arse. Not tonight. And he was restrained. He couldn’t stroke his prick, couldn’t try to coax his orgasm on his own.
Once the worry gripped hold, it blanketed every thought, killing his erection. Even the little sizzle of pleasure from Max bumping Tristan’s just-paddled skin with each thrust couldn’t keep the worry at bay. Max would want Tristan’s climax, and Tristan wouldn’t be able to give it to him. Max would wonder why and...
Mortification slid over him. What whore worth even a farthing admitted to being sore? Sex was why Max wanted him. If he couldn’t give Max everything the man wanted of him...
His heart slammed against his ribs, quick and shallow. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on Max, on the man’s large hands clutching his hips, the grunts scraping Max’s throat. Tried to will Max’s desire for him to sweep him back into the moment where nothing but pleasure and lust and Max saturated his senses. But...
Try as he might, he couldn’t turn his mind from the hard, very thick cock in his protesting arse.
Grasping Tristan’s shoulder with one hand, Max rammed deep.
Tristan couldn’t keep the wince from squeezing his eyes closed tighter. Bowing his head, he bumped back, forced a moan of pleasure. “More, Max. Goddamn it, more.”
* * *
Releasing his hold on Tristan’s slim hip, Max made to reach up to grab Tristan’s other shoulder, to give Tristan exactly what he begged for.
But...Tristan had never before begged while Max was buggering him.