It Takes Two to Tumble

by Cat Sebastian

  He had spent days trying to ignore the awareness that flared between him and Dacre whenever they were in the same room. He had walked the circumference of the lake, half in prayer and half in a knotted web of thoughts. And he had decided that it was wrong to ignore what he was feeling. He couldn’t ignore it any more than he could ignore his faith in God. It felt like denying a core part of himself. He believed that it would be here, with Dacre, with a chance to be honest about who he was and what he wanted, that he’d figure out what his next steps must be.

  He took a deep, steadying breath. Dacre still had the challenging look in his eye from when he had asked—dared—Ben to say what lay between them.

  “You know better than I do. You tell me,” Ben said, with more courage than he felt. “Tell me what there is between us.” That tell me felt like jumping into a lake that wasn’t filled with mere cold water but with sea monsters and thorns and perils he couldn’t even name. It wasn’t a question. It was an invitation.

  And Dacre knew it. His eyes opened fractionally wider, as if he had been expecting something else but was caught unawares. “Where to start,” he murmured, his eyes hot on Ben’s face.

  “What I mean is . . .” Ben took a deep breath and searched for the words he needed. “I know about what you called ‘convenient friendships.’ I don’t want that.” He had thrown himself into this lake of dangerous desire, body and soul, and he didn’t want to be the only one there.

  Dacre stood perfectly still, his hand arrested halfway to Ben’s arm. “No?” The word came out on a breath.

  “No,” Ben said firmly, and felt Dacre’s hand settle solidly on his arm. “If I just wanted to bring myself off and then feel unsatisfied afterward, I could do that on my own. Tell me what it would be like if we had something else.” Something more, he wanted to say. “I want everything.” He rested his own hand on Dacre’s hip, feeling the warm flesh beneath the linen of his shirt and the wool of his breeches.

  Dacre groaned. “God help me, Sedgwick. When you say things like that . . .”

  “When we’re together it feels right. I want to go down that path and see what’s there.”

  “With me?” It was a hoarse whisper.

  “Together.”

  Dacre looked at him thoughtfully, as if giving his words the fullest consideration. “It’s private here. We’ll be safe.” Ben knew that. He had locked the door himself, and he knew the servants never bothered their prickly master. “God, Sedgwick, I want to touch you.”

  Ben swallowed. “You’ve touched me already.”

  “I’d touch you more. Everywhere. If you let me.”

  “Yes,” Ben breathed.

  “I’d start with your hair,” Dacre said. “I’d get it out of your eyes so you could watch me. I’d want you watching my every move.” As he spoke, he threaded his fingers in Ben’s hair, pushing it off his face and then brushing a too-gentle kiss to Ben’s parted lips. He steered Ben backward, so the backs of his legs hit the desk. Ben took the hint and sat, pulling Dacre forward to stand between his parted legs.

  He felt Dacre startle under his touch, but only for the merest moment. Then he wrapped his arms around Ben, like he was welcoming him, accepting him, holding him close. Their lips slid over one another’s, soft and searching.

  There was no hesitation. Ben knew what he wanted and he knew Dacre wanted it too. He kissed the captain with perfect conviction that this was good and true and right.

  When he felt Dacre’s tongue touch his lips, Ben opened up to let him in. At the first stroke of Dacre’s tongue on his own, Ben felt desire unfurl in his belly, hot as a brand. Deep within him, a fuse had been lit, ready to ignite something fierce and bright and wonderful. “Yes,” he murmured.

  Dacre moved his mouth across Ben’s cheek to the underside of his jaw, to the soft place right above his collar. Ben felt the rasp of Dacre’s stubble against his own, then gentle, wet suction. He let out an inarticulate noise. Nothing in his life had prepared him for the idea that his neck was a particularly erotic place, but he guessed there were a lot of things his life hadn’t prepared him for. He lifted his chin to give Dacre room to work. Dacre’s mouth trailed lower, and Ben tried to shove his cravat out of the way, but found his hands weren’t steady.

  “Get rid of it,” he pleaded, his voice gravelly and desperate.

  “Sedgwick,” Dacre said, pulling back. He threaded his fingers in Ben’s hair, pushing it off his forehead, as if he needed an unimpeded view of Ben’s face.

  “I need to hear you say my name,” Ben said. “My Christian name.” He needed to know—he didn’t know what. That they were friends? Friendship seemed a minimum condition for what they were doing, and Ben required it.

  But when Dacre spoke it was with what sounded like relief. “Benedict,” he said, and Ben felt the way he had when those strong arms had closed around him. And then his mouth was again on Ben’s, more urgent this time.

  Ben tried to press closer, and wound up sliding back and pulling Dacre on top of him. He groaned in pleasure at the weight of the other man on top of him, the promise of friction if he tilted his hips up, the other man’s hardness jutting against his belly.

  Ben slid his hands up the captain’s back, feeling in vain for flesh. “Capt—Phillip?”

  “Mmm?” he murmured into Ben’s neck.

  “Show me. Everything.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Hearing his name on Sedgwick’s lips did something peculiar to Phillip. It made his heart feel like it was about to crack into pieces, and it made Phillip think that would somehow be a wonderful thing to happen. He could have spent all night and well into tomorrow like this, Sedgwick in his arms, kissing as if they had all the time in the world.

  Instead he pushed Sedgwick back onto the desk. Finally, something the desk was good for. He propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at Sedgwick beneath him. “That all right?” he asked. The way they had landed settled their chests flush against one another. Phillip was as hard as an iron rod, and at the sensation of the other man’s answering hardness, Phillip nearly groaned.

  Sedgwick buried his face in Phillip’s neck and ground his hips against him. “Yes.” He kissed Phillip’s jaw in much the same way Phillip had done. Phillip nearly mewled. Lord, it had been a long time since he had had an encounter like this, touching and kissing and exploring, rather than an efficient meeting of bodies.

  Perhaps the other night in the boathouse had been more, but Phillip hadn’t wanted to admit it then. It had felt safer to cling desperately to the fiction that this was casual, normal, fine. But then he thought of McCarthy, who had gone to the bottom of the sea without knowing how Phillip felt, and without Phillip knowing if his feelings were returned. He never wanted that again. Sedgwick wasn’t letting Phillip hold on to a single convenient pretense; he was giving no quarter. Phillip was at once grateful and terrified, and the sight of Sedgwick open and willing and utterly honest beneath him was almost more than he could take.

  Phillip was old enough and sufficiently accustomed to the relief afforded by his own hand to at least pretend something like restraint. He didn’t want to scare the man off. He didn’t want to go too far. He didn’t want—and this was the crux of it—he didn’t want to do this, whatever this turned out to be, and then discover that it was yet another meaningless encounter, yet another night to be dismissed and brushed aside. “Are you certain you want—”

  “Pay me the compliment of trusting that I mean what I say.” If he hadn’t been grinding his cock into Phillip’s, he might have sounded very stern indeed, and Phillip thought he might even like that. “And that I know what I want. This is what I want. You’re what I want. Now.” His voice was low and gravelly, more urgent and commanding than his usual easy tones. Phillip somehow got even harder at the sound.

  With that, he began tugging Phillip’s shirt off. Soon they were both bare to the waist, and Phillip was damned grateful for the lamp that sat on his desk. Because here was Sedgwick, half-naked and in his a
rms, and Phillip would have lit the curtains on fire if that was what he needed to do to get a good look.

  “You have freckles on your chest,” Phillip said. He also had a dusting of sandy hair there, and down his belly leading to his breeches. Phillip skimmed a hand over one pale, flat nipple and saw the shudder pass through the vicar’s body. Good. Phillip closed his mouth over the other nipple and Sedgwick bucked beneath him, his hands tangled in Phillip’s hair. Phillip licked lower, feeling hard muscles and coarse hair beneath his lips. He tasted of salt and smelled like summer, like the warm lake, and trees in leaf, and home.

  He had never used his mouth on another man. God, he had wanted to. He had let other men do it to him but had always held back, feeling like it would expose some fragile and secret part of himself to admit that he wanted another man’s cock in his mouth, that he wanted a man beneath him, inside him, panting and needy and hard, and to know that he had done that.

  But with Sedgwick he felt almost safe, as if there would be no shame in any way they came together, no embarrassment in their pleasure. He slid lower, so his lips were level with the waistband of the other man’s breeches, where his cock was straining against the fabric. He pressed his face against the hardness and heard Sedgwick’s groan.

  And then strong hands were on him, pulling him up, bringing him down for a kiss that was clumsy and frantic and perfect. Phillip held himself up on one forearm so he could unfasten his breeches. “I’ve got to take it out,” he muttered, as if he needed to explain or apologize, but then Sedgwick’s hands were there, too, opening his own breeches, and his mouth was on the muscles of Phillip’s upper arm, kissing softly.

  At the first touch of their erections together, Phillip swore and Sedgwick gasped. Phillip bent his head down to see—he needed to see this—and watched his fingers close around the silky hardness of the other man’s cock, thick and already wet. Sedgwick let out an inarticulate sound of pleasure and need.

  “You like this,” Phillip said, gliding his hand along the other man’s erection. That much was obvious, but he wanted to hear it. He wanted to know exactly how much Sedgwick wanted this, wanted him.

  “So much,” Sedgwick breathed, thrusting helplessly into Phillip’s fist.

  “I want you in my mouth,” Phillip whispered. “I want to suck you.” He had never said those words, never thought he would. “Will you let me?”

  A shudder of a breath. “Yes, yes, please.”

  Phillip got to his knees, occasionally pressing haphazard kisses along his way. He tugged Sedgwick’s breeches a bit lower to give him better access. For a moment he sat on his heels and admired Sedgwick’s body, golden and strong, his erection arcing towards his belly. Then he leaned closer, wrapping his fingers around its base and bringing it to his lips before licking the head with the flat of his tongue.

  Sedgwick’s hips bucked towards him. Phillip could see him half leaning on the desk, his head bent down to watch.

  “Steady,” Phillip murmured. “I haven’t done this before.” He hadn’t meant to admit that, but this was Sedgwick, this was Benedict, this was a man who played with ducklings and sang lewd songs to the elderly, and Phillip didn’t need to worry about dignity, or whatever it was that usually hampered his desire. He knew in his heart he could tell him everything, anything, and it would be fine. He was safe. His heart was safe, or as safe as it ever would be.

  At the feel of Phillip’s lips closing around his cock head, Ben had to stuff his fist halfway into his mouth to muffle any noises he might make. With his other hand he gripped the edge of the desk, never taking his eyes off Phillip.

  Phillip lifted his head away, and Ben nearly cried out at the loss of sensation. “Are you planning to watch me?” he asked, his voice husky.

  “Yes?” He had to watch. There was no other option. “Please?”

  Phillip huffed out a laugh and swiped his tongue across the underside of Ben’s shaft.

  Ben put his fist back against his mouth and stifled a moan as Phillip slid his mouth down lower, carefully, almost tentatively. He said he had never done this before, which surprised Ben, but then again it wasn’t as if Ben had ever done this either.

  And now Phillip was working Ben’s cock with his fist and his mouth, his eyes half-closed. It was all Ben could do to keep still, to not thrust up into the wet warmth of Phillip’s mouth. He looked so intent, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration as he took Ben’s cock deeper. But he also looked like he was enjoying himself, and when he raised his eyes to Ben’s, all Ben could see in them was pleasure. Ben imagined what it might be like if it were he kneeling on the floor with Phillip’s cock in his own mouth and he felt his climax beginning to bear down on him.

  “I—soon, Phillip.”

  Phillip didn’t pull away, but he shifted, and Ben realized he was stroking himself. Oh, hell. He really was enjoying this, then. He moaned around Ben’s cock, and that was what finally sent pleasure crashing through Ben’s body.

  At the last second, Phillip lifted his head and Ben spilled onto his own belly, his entire universe dissolving into sparks of pleasure.

  For a moment they stared at one another, Phillip produced a handkerchief, and Ben had the horrified notion that they were going to get dressed and walk away as if nothing had happened. He didn’t think he could bear it, not after this. So he grabbed Phillip’s arm and pulled him up.

  He reached his hand between them, feeling for Phillip’s erection. “Let me touch you,” he pleaded.

  “You don’t—”

  “Please.” His mouth met Phillip’s as his hand closed around Phillip’s hardness, and he stroked him the way he would stroke himself, and when it grew even harder he knew it was his doing, his hand and his body that had made it happen. He dropped to his knees without a second thought, and licked the bead of moisture that had gathered at the tip of Phillip’s erection. Phillip mumbled something incoherent that sounded like Ben’s name and dragged Ben up for a kiss. Ben kept stroking Phillip’s shaft with his fist, rubbing his thumb along the head, as Phillip kissed him hungrily, almost desperately. Soon Phillip was swearing a warning, one hand twisted in Ben’s hair and the other braced on the desk behind Ben’s back. Then Ben felt Phillip’s body go taut and still, followed by the warmth of his release.

  “Ben,” Phillip said, his hand still combing through Ben’s hair, his expression bewildered and ravaged. “Benedict.”

  Ben didn’t know how long they stood there, Phillip’s head buried in Ben’s neck, their heartbeats finally returning to normal and their breathing becoming less ragged. Ben stroked his hand up and down Phillip’s back, as if soothing him, as he would soothe a crying child or an injured animal, because something about the way Phillip was almost clinging to him told him that he needed whatever small comfort Ben could give him.

  “Thank you,” Ben said, long after the lamp on the desk had burned out, leaving them with only the scant light from the banked fire and the waning moon. He kissed Phillip’s forehead. He wanted to ask whether Phillip was all right, but didn’t know how to do it in a way that this prickly, proud man didn’t interpret as interfering or condescending.

  Phillip raised his head. “Still no penance?” His voice was gruff.

  Ben smiled, and hoped Phillip could see it. “Not a chance. Not for this. Never for—” He had nearly said love, but that was rather putting too fine a point on the thing. “Never for friendship or affection.” And since that sounded both mawkish and inadequate, he added, “Or for whatever this is.”

  Phillip let out a breath that might have almost been a laugh, or might have been a sigh of relief. “Good.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was with a headache and an ill temper that Phillip walked to Lindley Priory the following day. He had spent the afternoon closeted with his land steward, listening to tales of that blasted Easterbrook’s poor treatment of his tenants. Strictly speaking, Easterbrook could do whatever he pleased on his own land within the limits of a law that strongly favored landowners, but
in practice Phillip’s tenants were stretched thin by having to provide food, money, and sometimes even shelter for family who were or had been Easterbrook’s tenants. Phillip felt badly equipped to manage this problem, and resented Easterbrook for having brought matters to a point where Phillip couldn’t ignore them. He heartily wished Easterbrook to the ends of the earth.

  Lindley Priory was much older and grander than Barton Hall, but the gardens were overgrown and there was no sign of the army of servants that would be required to maintain a place like this. A surly footman opened the door, and after some confusion, showed him into a dusty, sparsely furnished parlor. It suddenly struck him that he’d be glad to return to Barton Hall. Barton Hall was as properly run as his ship, and he felt a pang of belated appreciation for Caroline, that even two years after her death the household still operated like clockwork. At some point in the past week he had gone from loathing the place to being almost comfortable there. It wasn’t the dark home of his childhood, but rather a place where his own children were happy. And there was Sedgwick, radiating joy and making Phillip almost believe that he could perhaps deserve some happiness of his own. Almost.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door. Sir Martin Easterbrook stood there, plainly annoyed. In the light of day, Phillip could see how young the man was. He was closer to Ned’s age than to Phillip’s.

  “How can I help you, Dacre?” Easterbrook snapped impatiently, and any sympathy Phillip had been feeling for the young man entirely evaporated.

  “I came to offer you the use of my land agent. If you’re in need of ready money, Smythe can help you figure out better ways to get some than strong-arming your tenants.”

  The young man sneered. “I have my own land agent.”