Beguiled

by Joanna Chambers

  “I don’t even know why I want this so much,” he breathed against David’s mouth when he released his lips. “I’ve had plenty of lovers I’ve never fucked. I don’t even think it’s the physical thing I want so much as—”

  “As what?” David’s lips grazed Murdo’s as he spoke, and just that brief, brushing caress made Murdo groan and press their mouths together again, and whatever they’d been talking about was purely lost, a half-formed thought that fell away as their kiss deepened.

  Murdo began to strip the clothes from David’s body with the skill of man who’d undertaken the task many times before, his fingers nimble and knowing. Once David was naked, he urged him to lie down on the mattress of the big bed. The linen was cool under David’s naked back, the candlelight casting a warm, dim glow over his skin. Murdo paused a moment to look at him, his gaze eating up the picture David presented, lingering on the hard, aching shaft that rose from the brush of fox-red hair between David’s legs.

  Murdo stripped away his own clothes with no care for their expensive elegance, tossing them aside like rags, his turbulent gaze intent on David. And Christ, but he was a sight to behold. Tall and powerful and dark. He was no fop, this Lord Murdo Balfour.

  Fully naked now, Murdo crossed the room to open a drawer in the armoire and withdraw something. As he turned back to the bed, David saw that he held a small bottle, stoppered with a cork and three-quarters full of something greenish-gold and viscous.

  “What’s that?” David asked.

  “Oil. It makes it easier.” Murdo crawled onto the mattress and straddled David’s thighs. His gaze was hot, his faint smile promising. “I’m going to rub it on you—and in you—and do other unspeakable things to you too.” He grinned, boyishly handsome, carelessly happy. “Things that will have you so ready for me you’ll be begging for my cock.”

  David gave a nervous laugh. Was it possible he’d beg? Given how anxious he felt about what was to come, it seemed unlikely.

  Something about his thoughts must’ve shown on his face. A tiny frown appeared between Murdo’s dark brows.

  “We don’t have to do this—” he began.

  “I want to,” David interrupted, his voice firm.

  Murdo stared at him for a long moment; then he nodded. “All right, but I’ll stop anytime you want. Just say the word if you change your mind.”

  “I will,” David murmured back. “If I want you to.”

  Murdo tossed the bottle of oil onto the mattress—it landed a foot away from David’s hip, within easy reaching distance—and dropped down to cover David’s body with his own. He was heavy and warm, and the faint roughness of his chest hair teased David’s skin. His scent, deliciously male, carried the hint of a dozen aromas, the clean tang of his sweat, wine and woodsmoke, a hint of bitter orange from the pomade he’d dressed his hair with.

  David breathed in, arching his back and pulling Murdo closer.

  “Do we have all night?” Murdo breathed in his ear. “Will you stay till morning?”

  “Yes.”

  They’d have the whole night, and maybe part of the morning too. The hours ahead spooled out like ribbon, endless-seeming.

  “Good,” Murdo said. “Then I can take my time.”

  He began by exploring the hollows of David’s throat with his mouth, moving slowly down, over sternum, nipples and flanks. He traced the deep crescents of David’s lower ribs and dipped his tongue into the shallow indentation of his navel.

  His exploration was tender and slow, and it brought David more than mere pleasure. The touch of Murdo’s mouth made him feel alive, his neglected body given meaning by the attentive desire of his lover. Each kiss saying, you are here, in this world, with me.

  Murdo moved farther down, his soft kiss following the line of David’s hipbone to the deep furrow between thigh and groin. Shifting position, he gently pushed David’s thighs apart, settling himself into the space he made, his big body moving with unexpected grace.

  It occurred to David, distantly, that he should be embarrassed to be opened up like this, Murdo’s broad palms firm against his thighs, holding him ruthlessly open. But he felt no shame as Murdo looked him over, then finally, achingly slowly, dipped his head again.

  David gasped at the sensation of Murdo’s mouth on the tender skin of his inner thigh, growing restless as Murdo continued his languid journey, his attention oblique and maddening. Murdo’s agile tongue skirted David’s hard cock, the prickly sac of his scrotum, his aching hole, concentrating on the less direct but still sensitive areas around them, and David shifted under his attentions, moaning, his hips bucking up in frustration.

  “God, Murdo—” he exclaimed, his voice husky with need. “Fuck me, please!”

  Murdo laughed softly, raising himself to his knees between David’s spread thighs to look down at him, his ready smile bright with mischief and pleasure. David’s breath caught in his throat as their gazes met, and for a moment, Murdo’s expression turned oddly serious, the merry glint in his dark eyes briefly softening into something infinitely more tender and affectionate. Then desire took over again, and he reached for David’s nipples, thumbing the tiny peaks before running his hands down David’s flanks with a low moan.

  By now, the sharp nerves David had battled at the start of this had dimmed to little more than a background murmur. Now his body yearned for the attention it had feared, remembering the pleasure Murdo’s fingers had given him once before.

  Murdo took hold of David’s hips, pulling him closer and simultaneously pushing his legs back. David’s pelvis tilted till his knees were almost touching his chest.

  “Hold your legs up for me,” Murdo murmured, and David complied, grasping the backs of his thighs.

  Shame seemed to have deserted him, and he could only watch, breathless, as Murdo reached for the bottle that lolled next to David’s hip, unstoppering the cork with his teeth.

  Murdo poured a thin stream of the glistening oil over David’s groin. The viscous liquid slid over him, warm and slow, like honey. It trickled down his scrotum, past the soft patch of skin below his sac and farther still, right down into the tender groove that led to the entrance to his body. The oil slid slowly all the way to his hole, where Murdo caught it with his waiting fingers, gathering it up and spreading it over the tight muscle.

  His fingertips were blunt, the slippery oil allowing them to tease the edges of David’s hole and dip fleetingly inside, making David twist and moan with the brief pain and deeper pleasure that exploration brought.

  Murdo must’ve tossed the bottle aside, because now his other hand, also slick with the oil, worked David’s shaft in counterpoint to those exploring fingers, while David held back his trembling legs. After only a minute or so, David was crying out desperately, half in protest at the prospect of climaxing so soon.

  “I’m going to come!” he gasped.

  “No, you’re not,” Murdo replied, easing his hand from David’s cock. “You’re not going to come till I’m inside you.”

  That promise alone was nearly enough to finish him off, till Murdo distracted him with a new sensation, his finger entering David’s body, then withdrawing and reentering. The slight pain of the first thrust removed the threat of immediate release, but it wasn’t long before David was growing used to the sensation, then craving it, his hips moving in time to the thrust of Murdo’s hand.

  Then there was more, more heft. David wasn’t sure how many fingers Murdo was using on him but it was more than one, and it felt good. His body was stretching, accommodating Murdo’s demands with an ease that astounded the tiny part of his mind that was still able to think.

  The pleasure Murdo was giving him now was coming from somewhere deep inside him, somewhere unreachable, yet vital, that he was sure he’d never known about before Murdo. He wanted to tell Murdo that, but when he tried to speak, all that he could get out was, “Murdo—God—”

  Murdo’s fierce, glittering gaze did not waver as he watched David writhe.

  “I think
I’m going to—please, you have to fuck me—” he begged.

  Murdo said nothing, but he withdrew his fingers from David’s body and reached for the bottle of oil again, this time letting the greeny-gold stream trickle over his own cock before stoppering the bottle and tossing it aside. He worked the hard, tumescent flesh of his shaft for a few moments, biting his lower lip against the easy pleasure. Then he moved forward, shifting on his knees till his prick was pointed at David’s hole.

  “Keep your knees pulled back and bear down when I press into you,” he said. Then he pushed.

  “Christ!” David gasped.

  The bulbous head of a prick felt very different to a finger—or even a few fingers. Fingers were nimble, flexible. This was brutal and blunt, a battering ram made flesh, and the first sudden stretch was a painful, shocking intrusion.

  “Sorry,” Murdo hissed. “Just wait—breathe for a while.”

  David swallowed and did as he was bid, breathing slowly in and out, while Murdo stayed very still, the head of his cock lodged inside David’s passage.

  After a minute, the pain began to ease, though David still felt alarmingly full.

  “All right,” he whispered, though his erection had wilted. “You can move now.”

  “Do you want me to stop?” Murdo gritted out. “I’ll stop.”

  “No. Do it. I’ll tell you if I can’t go on.”

  Murdo began to slowly move again, pushing his hips forward in small increments, until at last he was fully seated inside David.

  “God, you feel good,” Murdo murmured, dropping his forehead to rest against David’s. “I never thought—” He broke off, leaving the sentence incomplete, reaching instead for David’s wilted shaft to coax him back to hardness. As he worked David’s cock with his hand, he pulled back his hips, just a very little, before carefully easing back into David’s passage, making the tiny rocking movement a little bigger each time.

  Slowly, relentlessly, pleasure began to build again. Slowly, David grew more used to the sensation of Murdo’s prick inside his body. And then, after a dozen or so of those careful, searching jabs of his hips, Murdo thrust again, and this time there was a jolt of pure, searing pleasure, as though Murdo had pierced that vital, secret place David had felt earlier deep inside his body. The sensation was so intense it made him gasp and clutch at Murdo’s arms.

  “Jesus!”

  Murdo’s smile unfurled, secret and delighted. Rare and beautiful.

  “There it is,” he said.

  And then he was drawing out farther and pushing back in, piercing that spot again and again with meticulously accurate thrusts. David twisted and squirmed, unable to control the guttural, begging sounds coming from his aching throat. And then, too soon, too soon his body was surrendering to the inevitability of orgasm. He called out Murdo’s name as his climax roared through him, purging him, his seed spattering his belly in helpless pulses.

  Seconds later, Murdo was following him. His powerful hands clutched hard at David’s hips as his rhythmic movements grew suddenly jerky and graceless, an unholy cry on his lips as he emptied himself inside David’s body, then slumped forward to rest his forehead on David’s chest.

  They lay there, silent, for a long time, damp flesh cooling in the night air. At last, one of the candles guttered out, sending out a thin stream of smoke like a prying finger, and Murdo rose, crossing the room to the armoire where he poured water into a ewer and washed himself briskly.

  That taken care of, he dampened a cloth and brought it back to the bed, ignoring the hand David held out for the cloth and sitting down on the mattress to tend to David himself.

  With tender swipes, he cleared away the remaining traces of oil and semen, then rescued the bedcovers from the floor and draped them over David’s prone body. Finally, he snuffed out the last two candles and joined David in bed again, pushing and prodding till David took the hint and turned onto his side, allowing Murdo to curl his big body around David’s back.

  David wanted to say something, to acknowledge what had just passed between them, but he couldn’t seem to find the words. He thought that Murdo must feel the same. The silence between them felt oddly sacred.

  Sleep. He would sleep. Time enough in the morning to talk.

  Murdo’s soft kiss on the nape of his neck was the last thing he remembered before his dreams took him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Saturday, 24th August, 1822

  David woke to birdsong, the smell of morning chocolate...and an aching arse.

  Opening his eyes, he realised he was alone in bed. The tinkle of cutlery came from the adjoining sitting room, and Murdo’s voice, a low murmur.

  Another voice. Obsequious, respectful. The door opening, then closing again.

  Moments later, Murdo appeared in the doorway to the bedchamber, dressed in a dark blue dressing gown that was as elegantly formal as David’s evening clothes.

  He smiled at David. “You’re awake.”

  David offered an embarrassed smile in return. “Only just.”

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  David frowned at that, considering. He’d always been an early riser, the ingrained habit of a born-and-bred farm boy, and his sense of time rarely failed him.

  “Half past nine,” Murdo offered without waiting for an answer.

  When David’s jaw dropped open with shock, Murdo laughed.

  “You’re corrupting me,” David said, sitting up, then felt his cheeks scorch as he recalled just how much corrupting Murdo had done last night.

  Murdo watched him blush, his head to one side. “Do you regret it?” he asked. His tone was careful, those dark eyes watchful.

  “No!” David exclaimed, almost offended to be asked. “Not at all!”

  Murdo looked perfectly relaxed, lounging in the doorway, yet David detected a minute easing of strain in those broad shoulders at David’s vehement protest.

  “I wondered if you’d have second thoughts,” he admitted.

  “No, I’m—” David paused. “I’m glad.”

  “Good,” Murdo said. Then he cleared his throat and turned away. “Why don’t you come and have some breakfast, then.”

  David watched him go before he hopped out of bed to pull on his drawers, shirt and breeches. Thus attired, he wandered into the sitting room. As before, the table was set with snowy linen and fine dishes. Fine food and—yes, his nose hadn’t tricked him—there was morning chocolate this time too. David tried the chocolate, but it was too sweet for his taste.

  “We drank beer for breakfast, on the farm,” he said, setting the chocolate aside and reaching for the teapot. “My father swore by it. Still does.”

  “Not whisky?” Murdo said casually as he dissected a kipper. “I thought that was your favourite tipple.”

  At David’s silence, he looked up, frowning in a puzzled way. “Sorry,” he said. “I was only jesting. And you do drink a fair old lot of whisky, don’t you?”

  Oddly enough, David thought, he’d been drinking less since Murdo had come back. Even at last night’s ball, he’d just sipped at some wine punch. He wasn’t sure precisely why that was. Perhaps it was because it was in the evenings when he was alone with his thoughts that he tended to indulge most freely. There had been fewer of those nights lately, and even when he was alone, he’d had other matters taking up his attention.

  It was good to wake without a thick head and a thicker tongue. Good to feel clear-headed. Perhaps, when Murdo went back to London, he’d try to lessen his drinking. Except that the thought Murdo would soon be leaving, perhaps never to return, made David feel like doing nothing else so much as sinking a bottle of the hard stuff to the very last dregs.

  Ah, perhaps he should regret last night after all.

  “Did I offend you?” Murdo asked, still frowning. “I didn’t mean to.”

  David made himself look at Murdo, at his worried face. “No, not at all,” he said, smiling weakly, and turned his attention back to his coddled eggs, but it was difficult
to eat when nausea ate at him, and soon enough he put his cutlery down and placed his napkin on his plate.

  “Is that all you’re having?” Murdo asked.

  “I’m not especially hungry this morning,” David replied. “In fact, I should really be going.”

  It wasn’t untrue. He had to go and see Chalmers about Elizabeth, and then he had to discuss arrangements with Euan. He would have to see if he could get a ticket for the Theatre Royal performance too. He had a great deal to do.

  And maybe a little distance between him and Murdo would be a good thing.

  Murdo sighed. “David, please don’t go, I didn’t mean—”

  “You didn’t offend me, truly,” David said hurriedly, rising. “But in truth, I have to go.”

  Murdo rose with him. “Listen, wait a moment. When can I see you again?” He shook his head as soon as the words were out, as though annoyed at himself.

  “I don’t know,” David said, adding after a pause, “And I’m not sure if it’s a good idea, to be honest.”

  Murdo’s expression hardened, his lips thinning. “You said you weren’t having second thoughts about last night.”

  “I’m not. I—”

  “You said you were glad, Goddamn it!”

  “I was. I am. It’s just that...” Was he really going to say this? “You’ll be leaving soon, Murdo. Maybe in a matter of days. And I don’t know how I—that is, I don’t want to make this any harder than it needs to be—” He broke off, his chest heaving as though he’d run a mile, to discover Murdo staring at him with a stricken look on his face.

  Turning on his heel, David stalked into the bedroom and began collecting up his crumpled clothes, pulling them on in jerky movements. Behind him, he heard Murdo’s soft footfalls following him into the room, though he said nothing till David turned round, fully dressed.