by Ava March
He was but a few paces from the open stable door when he glanced to his right. He couldn’t say exactly what made him look to the hill—his thoughts were fully focused on pulling Rutger from his stall—but look he did. And he recognized the man cresting the gently sloping hill. The graceful rhythm of his stride, the lean, elegant figure, the ginger-blond hair.
The stable long forgotten, Max turned and crossed the distance separating them.
Coat slung over one shoulder and cheeks pinked from the sun, Tristan appeared as if he hadn’t a care in the world...when Max had been near frantic with worry. Had been a bloody mess since goddamn dawn.
“Get in the house. Now.”
Tristan’s mouth thinned. Without a word or another glance at Max, he headed toward the house.
“Upstairs. My sitting room,” Max growled as they approached the stone steps leading to the front door, Max on his heels, gaze pinned to the back of Tristan’s neck, unwilling to let Tristan out of his sight. The sitting room wasn’t quite the bedchamber. Servants were apt to pass outside the study. This time of day, there was no reason for anyone to be in or around his rooms.
The moment Tristan crossed the threshold, was safely within the four walls of Max’s home, the ugly mixture of worry and doubt and self-recrimination pounding through his veins eased just enough so when Max closed the sitting room door, he was able to speak in a tone that approached calm.
“Where have you been?”
“I went for a walk.” Tristan draped his coat over the back of an armchair, turned to face him. “Took a swim in your pond then fell asleep for a bit on the bank.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes,” Tristan replied, voice carefully neutral. “There is no one I associate with in Hampshire except you, Max.”
“But you could have drowned.” Worry spiked anew in Max’s veins, clutched his throat. He only had one pond on his property and it was quite deep in places. The possibility he could have found Tristan floating facedown on that pond...
Tristan’s spine went stiff. “I grew up in the country. I know how to swim. I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”
Now was not the time for that particular argument. Tristan was safe. That was what mattered. Max took a moment. A long moment. Bound up the worry and anger and gathered his patience.
“I want to make a point very clear between us. If you do not like something I wish to indulge in, you should not feel compelled to agree. In fact, I do not want you to agree.”
There. He could not have been any clearer.
“I know.”
Tristan knew? All right, perhaps Max had not been clear enough. He tried another approach. “Do you enjoy being paddled?”
“Yes.” The response flowed from Tristan’s lips without hesitation.
“Don’t lie to me!” The words exploded from Max’s mouth.
“I’m not lying!” Tristan shot back, the calm facade vanishing in the blink of an eye.
How dare Tristan deny it? “So I imagined last night? I wasn’t holding your limp cock in my hand?”
Just like that, the bravado vanished as well. Crossing his white-shirted arms over his chest, Tristan turned his head, mouth pressed in a hard line. Refused to answer Max’s question.
And his stubborn refusal to acknowledge the truth, to admit he had performed for Max, hit Max with all the force of a physical blow.
Tristan had worked at the brothel for some time. Had it become ingrained in him to bow his head and submit to another’s wishes? Was he incapable of responding with anything but a yes?
“I don’t relish the notion of being with a man who is only tolerating me. I need to be able to trust you, Tristan. To trust that when you tell me all right, you mean it. To trust you’ll tell me to stop if I cross a line you do not want crossed.”
There was the crux of the problem.
Even if they never indulged Max’s fondness for leather again—and at this point, Max wasn’t certain if he should open up that side of himself to anyone again—they had to trust each other.
Max took a deep breath, the air trembling just the faintest bit on the exhale. “I can’t continue our arrangement unless you give me your word you will be honest with me.”
Tristan’s gaze darted to Max’s, true worry in those green-gold depths.
He took a step toward Tristan, lowered his voice, put as much calm conviction as he could into his words. “I need your honesty, Tristan. Don’t burden me with the fear you’re agreeing out of a sense of obligation. I want our time together to be about what both of us want, not just my desires. A mutually pleasurable arrangement, remember?”
“Yes.” Tristan nodded. “But I’m not lying, Max,” he said, coming damn near close to a plea. “I did enjoy it when you paddled me.”
Max let out a sigh drenched in exasperation. “I would appreciate it if you did not think me that much of an idiot.” How the hell could Tristan persist? They’d both been in Max’s bedchamber.
“No, no, Max.” Tristan rushed to correct him. “Not at all. You’re the most intelligent, hardest-working man I’ve ever met. But I’m not lying. I’ll admit, it wasn’t always my favorite activity, but with you... I knew you cared about my pleasure. That you wouldn’t push me too far. With you, it felt really good.” Dropping his eyes to the floorboards, he lifted one shoulder. “I feel safe with you.”
It sounded suspiciously like Tristan trusted him. Perhaps there was hope for them after all.
Then Max flexed his right hand at his side, the memory of Tristan’s soft flesh imprinted on his skin. “But you did not enjoy it.”
Tristan gave his head a shake, shifted his weight. “It was when you started buggering me that...” Another distinctly uncomfortable shift of Tristan’s weight. “...that happened.” He blew out a breath. “Hell, Max, you rival your damn stallion.” He motioned to Max’s groin, in the event Max did not understand the association. “I challenge any man to take you twice a night for days on end and not feel the effects.”
Max’s jaw dropped. For a moment or two or more, his mind went completely blank. “You were sore?”
Tristan’s sun-pinked cheeks turned red. “Yes,” he said, lips barely moving.
Oh God in hell. He hadn’t hurt Tristan with the paddle. He’d hurt him with his own cock.
If he had felt nauseous before, it was nothing compared to now.
I’m a goddamn selfish brute.
How had that fact never occurred to him before? It should have. Hadn’t Jonathan complained about Max wanting his arse most every night? At the time, Max had chalked up the complaint to Jonathan using any means available to strike at him, to wound him. A jab at Max’s pride. But had his ex-lover had similar issues and never told him? Or had Max simply not noticed?
But all Jonathan had been interested in was getting at his bank account, so of course he’d hold his tongue. Do whatever necessary to stay in Max’s good graces...until he had realized Max wasn’t ever going to give him free access to his fortune. Then he’d resorted to that letter.
But Max paid Tristan. That was why he was there.
It was for the best, though. Max’s only option if he didn’t want to go back to night after night in a lonely bed. And after a handful of nights with a man in his bed again, with Tristan beside him, the steady rhythm of his breaths lulling Max to sleep, he really did not want to lose him.
Therefore, they needed to figure out a way to manage their current predicament, ensure it was never repeated again.
“You were in pain and you encouraged me to continue? Did you think I wouldn’t notice you weren’t enjoying yourself?”
“I knew you’d eventually notice.”
“So why did you continue to beg for more? What the hell did you hope to accomplish?”
“I don’t know. That you would cl
imax? And then... I don’t know.” Tristan shrugged. “Last night was different. I knew it the moment I walked into your bedchamber. It was important to you. And when I realized the soak in the tub had not worked the wonders I had hoped, I...” He dropped down into the armchair behind him, bowed his head, scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I rather panicked. I didn’t want to disappoint you but I knew I was going to and I didn’t know what to do.”
“You could have just told me to stop.” How had the obvious answer so eluded Tristan?
“And you would have asked why.”
The discomfort in his tone, in the hunch of his shoulders, said louder than words Tristan had been too embarrassed to admit the truth. He’d chosen to lie to Max rather than expose a vulnerability. To admit he was merely a flesh-and-bone man, that Max had pushed his beautiful body past its limits.
He wanted Tristan to feel comfortable just being honest with him. Wanted that closeness between them, the level of trust that came with a willingness to admit a weakness to another. Of knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt the trust would be held safe, never thrown out later to be used against him.
Dropping to his haunches before Tristan, Max reached out, cupped his shoulder. “Of course I would have asked why. I would have wanted to know. Sometimes a situation might not be the most comfortable...” He rolled his eyes at himself. Poor choice of phrase. “...to discuss, but trust me with it, please? I would never get upset with you for being honest with me.”
Head still bowed, Tristan looked up through his lashes, met Max’s intent gaze. “All right.”
Max raised an eyebrow.
“Really. All right.” The barest hint of a smile touched the edges of his mouth. “I wouldn’t say there will always be definite enthusiasm involved, but yes, I’ll trust you. Completely.”
An immense wave of relief washed through Max. “Thank you. And I apologize for being so demanding of late.” For being a selfish bastard. “Please trust I will not be so demanding in the future. I was rather gorging myself with you. It’s been...a while since I’ve had a man in my bed.”
“How long?”
“Ten months.”
“Your extended houseguest?”
Max nodded. “He lived at the Park for a good year.”
“Did you love him?”
“Yes,” Max admitted. “He claimed he loved me, but he was merely saying what I wanted to hear.” The old pain rose up. Stabbed him square in the heart.
“Was he like me?”
Did you pay him? “No. Though he tried to force me to. Four weeks after he walked out my door, he sent me an unsigned letter, tried to extort a ridiculous sum for silence on my preferences. Suffice it to say, I made it clear to him that it was not in his best interest to pursue such action.”
“I’m sorry,” Tristan said, eyes weighted down with compassion, as if he suspected the toll that entire situation had taken on Max. As if he knew Jonathan had broken his heart. Ripped it to shreds.
Max cleared his throat. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. It’s in the past. Over and done with.” He gave Tristan’s shoulder a squeeze and stood. “I’m more concerned about you. Do you need to see a physician? I can have Mr. Jenkins at the house in a thrice.”
Tristan jerked upright, scarlet rushing to his cheeks, tingeing his ears. “No. No, I’m just a bit...sore. The swim did me good. In any case, what would I tell him? That I fell on a fence post?”
Very valid point. “Still, if you need to see a doctor, I can ensure Mr. Jenkins’s silence.”
“Please, don’t, Max. I’ll be fine in a day, or two. Honest. It didn’t hurt. It was more me, worrying and fretting that led to...” He glanced to his own lap. “...that issue.”
Max considered for a moment then nodded. “If you insist.” Tristan had offered him his trust. He needed to believe the man was being honest with him. “But not two days. A week.”
“What? No. I don’t want to have to sleep in my own bed for a week. I really like being with you.”
“You won’t be sleeping anywhere but in my bed. So no worries there. But I won’t touch your arse for a week.”
“But—”
“A week.” He would entertain no debate on his decision. “Rest assured, it’s not meant as a punishment in any way.” If anything, he’d be punishing himself for being so thoughtless with Tristan.
Head tilted slightly to one side, Tristan pursed his lips. “But we can still do other things?”
“Of course.”
A smile spread across Tristan’s mouth. “Good.”
Chapter Twelve
Seven nights of Max’s mouth and his hands and his body rubbing against Tristan’s, teasing him, taunting him with what he could not have was the very definition of exquisite torture. And when that week was over, when Max finally—thank you, God above—buggered him again, Tristan had to stop himself from begging Max for more. He’d read the determination on Max’s face the prior week. Read the worry, the concern, as well. So he didn’t push for Max to take him a second time. He simply followed Max’s lead, rested his head on one of the pillows, and with Max’s arm slung across his waist, he let sleep overtake him.
Max proved himself once again a man of his word. Not one night passed without play of some sort, but it became not uncommon for that play to exclude the sort of orgasm that came from being thoroughly fucked. While Tristan would admit to the occasional twinge of disappointment when Max did not reach into the bedside table drawer for the bottle of oil, a part of him reveled in Max’s restraint. His consideration for him. Tristan had never had that before.
Even though their nights weren’t as vigorous as they once had been, Max’s desire for him was still a potent force, perhaps even more so. It was as if Max was incapable of keeping his hands to himself when they were in bed. Tristan fell asleep with his senses humming with the aftereffects of a climax, and he was awakened each morning with decadent touches. Though Max did not mention his fondness for leather again. Neither the cuffs nor the wooden paddle made a reappearance.
The pattern of their nights might have changed a bit, but the pattern of their days remained unchanged. Max worked in his study, and Tristan was left to his own devices until supper was served.
He took to going into the village when the weather cooperated. Had luncheons at the tavern, frequented the shops and became acquainted with Max’s neighbors who were a friendly lot. They were, of course, curious about him, but thankfully not overly so. He mentioned his mother was of the Campbells of Lincolnshire and he knew Max from London. That seemed to be enough. No questions at all about what Tristan did with himself in London or if he had an occupation. It wasn’t uncommon for young gentlemen of good families to be without a profession, and Max’s neighbors seemed content to lump him into that group. He was a good friend of the Duke’s, and therefore he was welcomed into the neighborhood’s small society. One of the older ladies even mentioned at the haberdasher shop how it was so nice to see His Grace had a friend to keep him company again, as there had not been a visitor to Arrington Park since Mr. Peterson returned to London almost a year ago.
Tristan could only assume Mr. Peterson was the ex-lover who left and betrayed Max ten months ago. Even if Max had not admitted to keeping an empty bed before he’d given in to his friend’s shove to visit Rubicon’s, Tristan would have known by the pain lingering in the depths of Max’s dark gaze that the end of his relationship with Mr. Peterson had not been pleasant. Max had been very specific when he’d laid out the terms of his offer to keep Tristan. Now Tristan knew the reason for some of those terms.
When the weather chose not to cooperate, when rain fell upon the countryside keeping him from riding into the village, Tristan filled the hours between breakfast and supper with books from the library and games against himself in the billiard room. It was tremendously difficult to go an ent
ire day with only his own company, so he broke up the monotony with a visit to the study. Short and limited to one per rain-filled afternoon.
Bent over the billiard table, Tristan pulled back the cue stick then took the shot. The sound of ivory smacking against ivory cracked through the billiard room, briefly drowning out the early September rain splattering the windows. He was getting quite good at cannoning. Perhaps one day he could entice Max into a game, and then he could test his newly honed skills against someone other than himself.
The thought of Max pushed Tristan to glance to the clock on the fireplace mantel. Almost half-past two. That fit with Tristan’s definition of afternoon. Supper wouldn’t be for a few more hours. He put the cue stick back in the wooden rack hanging on the wall.
His light knock on the study door was answered with a “Yes?”
The shortness of Max’s reply caused Tristan to hesitate before turning the knob. Still, he entered the room. It would have been rude to knock and leave, and Max might assume it had been a servant. Tristan did not want any of the maids or footmen to get in trouble for something he had done.
He took a step into the study, closed the door and waited for Max to look up from the ledger.
Perhaps he should not have disturbed Max. The man had never appeared irritated at Tristan’s interruptions before, but the deep V between Max’s dark eyebrows and the stiff set of his shoulders shouted his displeasure with the midday visit.
Maybe Max had received unpleasant news in the morning’s post. Or maybe his ledgers were proving troublesome. Or maybe the dreary sky and heavy rain had dampened his spirits. There could be a lot of possible reasons for Max’s distinctly distant air that had nothing at all to do with Tristan’s knock.
Yet that morning’s nudge to leave Max’s bed was suddenly fresh in his mind. There had been no decadent touches to rouse him from sleep, no hard pulls of Max’s mouth on his cock. All he’d received was a nudge to his shoulder accompanied with an “almost dawn” from Max.