A King Awakened

by Cooper Davis

  Julian pulled back from the embrace, and gave Arend a tentative smile, his expression brightening a bit. “You do not even know my surname.” In Julian’s expression, Arend glimpsed the first seedling of new hope. A stirring that could be tended into strong saplings and roots and then verdant growth. “Do you wish to know who I truly am?” Julian stared up at him through half-lowered lashes.

  Need you even ask? He wanted to blurt. Instead, he pressed a kiss to Julian’s heated temple. “Well, Alistair concocted that utterly ridiculous iteration of a surname, right? That whole Sapphor-Baribeau business?” He meant the words to be a jest, but the humor sounded strained. As if Arend felt as desperate and miserable as Julian presently did.

  Julian leaned into him, wilted almost. “Baribeau. I am—I was—Lord Julian Etienne Baribeau.”

  “An aristocrat?” The handler at Sapphor had claimed as much.

  “My father was a minor baronet. Not much, really, in the sphere of wealth and privilege.” Julian leaned his cheek against Arend’s shoulder, blowing out a sigh. “Nothing remains of my family now. Thanks to my brother’s betrayal, and his waste of our family wealth and holdings, it’s all gone.” Jules sighed again but nuzzled closer against Arend’s neck. “Suffice it to say that I do not sing any longer. Now you know why.”

  “You sang tonight,” Arend reminded him softly, remembering that pure voice, the crystalline spell of it. “Your voice . . . the performance—was beautiful. I-I’d never heard anything quite like it, to be honest. Certainly not up close, nor so intimately as that. I know now that my repeated insistence that you deepen your voice must have stung. I acted as if it were flawed, that voice, when it is a treasure. Priceless, it is.”

  Julian touched Arend’s cheek, settling into the sofa, out of Arend’s embrace. “My voice is far from ideal. But that hardly signifies.”

  “You’re wrong on that, Julian. And it signifies to me that your voice is so unusual,” Arend insisted. “Shall I explain why?”

  Almost as if by rote, Julian replied, “Because my voice, when left unattended, makes me sound effeminate.” Jules rubbed at his throat. “I sound effeminate, when I speak in my natural timbre.”

  “Yes. But I like that you do,” Arend admitted shyly. “I’ve already told you so.” Then, just in case Julian hadn’t properly heard him this time—believed him—Arend added, “That lilting, delicate pitch does things to me. All the types of things you’d likely wish.” He’d confided as much before, but somehow this time, with Julian so vulnerable and looking up at him like that, Arend flushed deeply.

  Jules chewed on his lower lip. “Then why did you fight it so, this part of me? I do not understand, Arend.”

  Arend leaned forward, bussing a kiss across Julian’s clammy brow. “It was Cordelia, really. Not you. What she . . . ” Arend grimaced, scraping a hand over his face. He’d wanted to explain to Julian sooner. “It was never about you. But about how Cordelia taunted me about our, urm, martial bed. About my longings . . . my very private yearnings.”

  I know just how desperately you long to be buggered.

  Julian sat up taller on the sofa, and cupped Arend’s cheek in his palm. “I want to please you,” he promised, searching Arend’s face. “Whatever it is, the reason behind your concern? I must know. I am your concubine.”

  Arend wrapped Julian in his arms and buried his face against the top of the man’s head. In an unsteady voice, he whispered, “I was incapable of rising for Cordelia. From the very first—even our wedding night—I was . . . flaccid to her touch. Every bloody time.” Suddenly tears bit at Arend’s eyes, shocking him. The dam, so suddenly broken, caused a lashing against his heart. “I was impotent in her arms. I . . . I . . . ” Arend swiped his eyes with the heel of a palm, holding Julian with his other arm. “Utterly impotent. Do y-you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Is Prince Darius your true son?” The question, so gently asked, struck him all the harder for it.

  Arend winced, squeezing his eyes shut. “Yes, of course! Y-you must let me finish.”

  Julian said nothing, but a tender hand reached and clasped Arend’s own, squeezing. The touch emboldened Arend, pulling more truth from him. “My lusts were utterly inflamed for males. That’s what she said. Always with a sneer, always mocking me. There was a footman, once, who would subtly flirt with me. That is, until, she finally noticed the young man’s harmless infatuation. She had him dismissed posthaste, because she wouldn’t”—Arend formed quotation marks with his fingers—“have the lad tainted by royal perversions.”

  “She was bigoted, wrong and cruel, Arend. You know that, surely.”

  Arend shook that off. “Later, she told me that I should dress up in petticoats and crinolines. Since that’s what I so clearly wanted.”

  “Well, there can be great fun in bedroom games,” Julian offered, not knowing how painfully close he danced to the truth.

  “I didn’t want to dress in her clothing.” Arend cleared his throat. “She said all that . . . after dressing as a man for me. She slipped into my boudoir one night dressed in waistcoat, braces, britches, that I might finally give her an heir.” He shook his head miserably, afraid to drop his hands and see whatever horror would surely be on Julian’s face.

  Instead, Jules asked matter-of-factly, “Did it work, her plan?”

  “Oh, but of course! I was utterly heady with desire!” Arend let his hands fall to his lap, meeting Julian’s unflinching gaze. The acceptance in those golden-green eyes ripped even more from Arend. “I was enthralled by the male she pretended to be, for the fantasy she spun in that darkened boudoir. She did become pregnant, from our game. From the gentlemen’s clothing and from . . . deepening her voice.”

  Jules made a knowing sound, a small cluck of his tongue. “Ah, yes. No wonder the delicateness of my voice unsettled you.”

  “No! No.” Arend shook his head vociferously. “Your voice, from the first, only made me want you more.” Arend searched Julian’s face, the image blurred by his unshed tears. “Just as it was, Jules.”

  Julian smiled encouragingly, bobbing his head for Arend to continue.

  “That’s it, honestly. That is”—Arend paused, shivering slightly—“that’s not it. There’s more. There is damnably more.” The tremors in his body had intensified. But the truth, rushing like such a powerful current between them, compelled him to continue.

  Arend said, “After Darius’s birth, Cordelia informed that our little game was done. That we had her heir, and that was that. But that I could take comfort where I belonged—down at the Molly house. That I could comfort myself by going where I belonged: the molly house. It was the only place for men like me.” And Arend drew a breath, terrified, his heart jackrabbiting beneath his ribs.

  Julian stared him square in the eye. “Tell me the rest.” The command, the delicately wielded iron authority of a mate. A husband. A lover. “All of it.” Julian scooped Arend’s hands into his lap, nodding tenderly. “You can do it. It will be freeing, in so many ways.”

  Arend swallowed hard. “She said that she knew . . . just how desperately I longed to be buggered.” He slackened in Julian’s embrace, sagging into his arms. Julian held him close, making soft soothing sounds, stroking his loosened hair. “She said that I longed to be her queen,” he rasped. “That she knew how badly I ached for her . . . to be king.”

  “And she lied about that. She used your honest vulnerability against you. Betrayed your willingness to play a role in the bedroom, so that she might bear children, as she clearly wished. And that you might bear the heir you needed.”

  Arend’s jaw went slack. “You honestly don’t believe anything wrong with it? Or with me? That I . . . I found her playacting so scintillating?” He searched Julian’s expression for any subtle disapproval or revulsion. But nothing shone in Julian’s eyes but acceptance.

  “Nothing’s wrong with you at all.” Julian’s sensual mouth spread into a large smile, his dainty mole lifting along his upper lip. It was the sort of smile
that reached his eyes and wrinkled his fine nose a bit. “You are far, far from unique, Arend. You were forced into a loveless marriage, one where your natural desires found no satisfaction. Cordelia knew that. And that it was likely your only hope of siring an heir.” Julian gave a slow nod, as if enlisting Arend to join in agreement. “She was right in that, even if she was cruel.”

  “She was cruel,” Arend agreed, shuddering. “She mocked me for years after, as well. Always when she knew the barbs would strike me hardest.” Arend blotted his damp brow, pressing his shirt sleeve against his temple. “If I’d given a less than well-received speech, she’d look at me and say, ‘What His Majesty needs is a proper buggering.’ Or that I belonged down at the Molly house. And, sometimes, she’d even”—this admission was the hardest of all—“suggest Temple Sapphor. Never seriously, but the . . . the notion took. It began to fill my daydreams and nighttime ones, as well.”

  Arend closed his eyes. “But all that jeering of me,” he admitted quietly. “All her mocking—that took hold, as well. I vowed that no male would ever have his way with me. I would not let her win. I would never—ever—be penetrated by another gentleman.” Arend gasped the words out, almost shocked he’d given them voice. “She cannot win,”

  Even though the things she described, suggested, were what you want most of all?

  Julian would be gentle, he promised.

  Yet what filled Arend’s mind, unbidden, was not gentle at all. In a flash, he pictured Julian marching up to him, and spinning him face-first against the bookshelf. Stripping Arend’s britches off him, and down to his ankles. His smallclothes, too. And then that oil—the very bottle that nestled within the desk drawer—Julian’s fingers coated in it. Sliding into Arend, delving, spreading.

  Julian, oblivious to his awakening desire, said, “I want you to hear this, Arend. Look at me. Right at me.”

  Arend dutifully opened his eyes, hoping that Julian wouldn’t notice the bulge that had formed in his britches. It was obscenely obvious, as Arend had grown erect the moment he’d pictured Julian spinning him up against those shelves. Forcefully. And become harder still once Julian began commanding him.

  Julian, apparently satisfied with Arend’s full compliance, continued, “There was nothing wrong with what you did. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with you, either, nor whatever it is you ultimately want in my masculine arms.”

  Whatever you want.

  Oh, Julian, I want to spread for you, flat on my back. I want to buck beneath your rolling hips and give myself over to you.

  I yearn to surrender.

  “Whatever it is you desire with me, Arend? It will only be utterly beautiful, whenever the time does come. There will be no shame then, only completion.”

  “Completion?”

  Julian didn’t explain, only smiled at him with tender understanding. Arend’s heart gave a spasm, seeing that acceptance in Julian’s expression. He’s saying there will be completion when he makes love to you, finally. That you shall be complete, perhaps for the first time in your life.

  Tell him that he’s right. Tell him yes. Yes, yes. YES!

  But, alas, as they stared at each other, breathless and silent, Arend found himself too much a coward for such vulnerability. And far too much the result of Cordelia’s handiwork.

  “Julian, I need to be wholly clear,” he said, struggling to steady his voice. “I don’t think I could ever—I cannot ever—give you that privilege. You wish to bugger me, I know. I’ve seen your eyes flare whenever we speak of it. But I am simply unable to yield myself to you that way.”

  You’re letting Cordelia win. You’re letting her cheapen you and your longings. You’re letting her cage you, much as she did throughout your marriage.

  Only this time, it’s Julian she’s caging out.

  He glimpsed everything in Julian’s gaze—all those admonishments and exhortations his lover wasn’t vocalizing.

  Arend shifted uneasily. “Aren’t you going to say something in reply?” he bit out, far too crossly.

  Julian reached for his hand, squeezing it. “I want you in all ways, in all things, Arend,” he pledged. “And when the time is right, if you are ever ready, I would be so honored to have your legs about me as I claim you to the very hilt.”

  “Oh, Julian,” Arend groaned helplessly, hating himself more than ever for his inhibitions and fears. “You’re being reckless now.” Because if he says much more, you’ll beg him to push you up against the wall or turn you over that enormous bed.

  Julian gave his hand another squeeze, drawing Arend’s knuckles to his lips. “Perhaps, one day, you shall allow me to make love to you, long and slow, taking my time with it,” Jules murmured. “Just as you deserve. I’d be gentle, oh so gentle—but I would unlock the very heart of your passion.”

  “I think you’ve already done that.” He panted raggedly. “I can’t imagine there being much more.”

  Julian draped his arms about Arend’s neck, snuggling near and said, “And before I was finished making love to you? Before you climaxed beneath me? I’d show you a part of me you’d never known before. I would spill inside you, Arend. We would be one.”

  “I want all that,” Arend blurted, stupidly contradicting all his fervent denials. He buried his face in Julian’s hair. “I truly do want what you describe.” The simple admission was an epic one; it had taken Arend years to reach the point of making it. “I want you inside me,” he added, emboldened.

  “You do want it.” Julian repeated the statement as if he, too, were equally amazed at Arend’s capitulation.

  “Yes, but that’s as much as I can own just yet?” Arend gave the other man a shy smile. “But it’s something.”

  Julian positively beamed, throwing his arms about Arend’s neck. “It’s more than something, darling. It is . . . ” He shook his head wondrously. “It’s everything. Everything. And I can wait until you’re ready. I’ll force myself to wait patiently, even.”

  That was when Arend realized something truly profound. How the devil had it taken him so very long to see the full truth? “You want it at least as badly as I do,” Arend said, laughing in disbelief. “That’s it. You crave it just as much.”

  Julian, a worldly man who’d trained for a decade as a pleasure servant, blushed. From the roots of that golden hair down to his neck, that Agadirian’s tawny skin reddened. “But of course. Whatever else did you think?”

  Arend’s cock flooded anew then, hardening instantly. “Bloody perfect, Jules. Now you make it damned difficult to wait.”

  “I won’t rush you.” Julian gave him a careful smile. “I won’t ever push you to the point of breaking.”

  “No. But, for now? Would you . . . would you mind so very much if I unfastened my britches?”

  “Only if I can fall onto my own back.” Julian made a purring sound that was, likely, intended to be a laugh. “For now, of course.”

  “Only if you swiftly unfasten your britches, Jules. Cooperation and fair play are expected in this arrangement.”

  And then they both burst into uproarious, joyous laughter, as Julian reached and began undoing Arend’s front fall and they collapsed into a heap upon that sofa.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sam walked quietly in his stockinged feet down the hidden passageway that connected his own chamber with Thomas’s. It was a path he could take blindly, after so many assignations with his lover these past two years.

  The pathway’s privacy had always sufficed, but tonight—with that vile Vincent skulking about—Sam knew to be extra cautious. With a glance in each direction outside the entry to his apartment, Sam raised his candelabra high. Illumination fanned out and long, until—there. In the distance, Sam caught sight of a familiar, beloved form. He quickened his steps, a pace to match his own heartbeat.

  Thomas surged forward, matching Sam’s urgency. As the light spilt over the other man, his brown hair gleamed like copper, red highlights shimmering to a burnished sheen. Thomas lifted a fingertip to his li
ps, and then they were face-to face.

  Sam hurriedly placed the candelabra on the outcropping above his head, a slot covered in wax drippings from assignations of decades past. Then he reached with both hands, pulling Thomas into his embrace. He nuzzled the other man’s neck, drawing in a long inhalation of that familiar scent of lemons and tobacco smoke. “I’ve burned for this,” Sam murmured, not bothering to hide his desperation. “Burned.”

  Sam couldn’t lie; not about this. Not to Thomas.

  Thomas clasped Sam’s upper arms, pushing him to arm’s length. “We can’t,” he whispered achingly. “We mustn’t, Sam. Not . . . not now.”

  “Then when?” Sam asked, voice cracking. He understood what Thomas meant, but he refused to acknowledge it. “Thomas, I-I’ve waited for tonight. Weeks, we’ve all waited. Lucy’s waiting for you now, in our bed. Your bed.”

  “Sam, this must end. It should’ve ended long before now.” Thomas shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was still here, enmeshed in a painful ménage. Sam began to reach for him, but Thomas withdrew as if burned. “I cannot be touched by you. Please, just”—Thomas made a shaky gesture toward where Sam stood—“stay there, in that precise spot.”

  Sam held both palms up, determined to reason with his skittish lover. “Sweet love,” he said, “you are forever reaching this decision, and you start off meaning it. Until whatever daft guilt’s been eating at you passes, and then you rush right back into our arms. Usually even more eager than your last turn in our bed.”

  Thomas frowned. “I’m a married gentleman, Samuel. It’s not ‘daft guilt’ to realize I’m not much of a husband, carrying on with—”

  “It is love. And well you know it.”

  Thomas gasped, a palm going to his cheek. He stood, eyes bright, but said nothing.