A Private Gentleman
Page 21
Michael seemed to consider this a moment. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” He lifted his head to smile at Wes and place a kiss on his chin. “I didn’t take you for such a sage.”
Wes felt himself flush, and he shook his head with a wry smile. “N-Not my w-wisdom. I’ve b-borrowed it from a f-f-friend.”
Michael leaned back to rest in the corner of Wes’s shoulder, staring up at Wes’s face. His fingers drifted up to trace delicate trails as he spoke. “Even that frightened part wants to make love back to you, and be made love to.” His face clouded. “Rodger told me this morning that I don’t make any decisions for myself. Said, essentially, that I’m waiting for someone to rescue me. That I can’t care for myself.” His fingers circled Wes’s lips. “The sad truth is that I think he’s right. It makes me feel so ashamed. I’ve harbored this image of myself as so above what my mother made me, told myself I’m better even than what I would have been had she limited her exchanges to selling her own flesh.”
He laughed sadly. “I felt so independent and smug. But I’m not. All I do is hide in my attic, in my books, and I whore for who Rodger picks out for me. He even told me”—another laugh, this one quite black—“that he ended our affair all those years ago because he didn’t want me to attach to him nor he to me, that he wanted to be able to keep objective and protect me within reason and that he didn’t want me to fixate on him. Then he said it hadn’t worked, that even with that I’d turned over my life to him. No, it’s true,” he said, when Wes grimaced and sputtered angrily over an objection. “He wasn’t polite about how he said it, but I know what he means, and it’s true.” His expression grew fierce, though still crowded by desperation and futility. “I want to change that, Albert. I want to conquer that fear—both how it manifests between us and how it has, I’ve come to see, ruled my life ever since that night my mother sent me up the stairs. I just don’t know how.”
“B-Begin with me,” Wes said.
Michael frowned at him, and the truth was Wes wasn’t sure himself exactly how this would work, but he didn’t try to form the words, just let them flow as easily as he could manage directly from the germ of the idea in the back of his mind.
“Ch-Change it with m-me. Y-You say you w-want me.” He stroked Michael’s hair. “You may h-have anything of me you d-desire. If y-you wish to m-make love with m-me, you may make love t-to me. I w-will lie quiet, or wh-whatever you wish. I w-will serve y-you, or d-deliver y-you. S-Support you.” He drew Michael’s hand to his mouth and brushed his lips over his lover’s knuckles. “Y-You are s-safe with m-me. Always.”
He liked that Michael seemed to consider him, that he didn’t just dismiss him out of hand. He liked the way Michael’s eyes sharpened and darkened, the way his frustration and weariness seemed to bleed away, replaced by the beginnings of eagerness and desire.
“Make love to you,” Michael repeated. He blushed just a little. “I am so used to being the object of sex. I feel ridiculous for not thinking of it myself, to reverse the roles.” He stroked Wes’s cheek a moment. “The truth is, I think I might like being the object. I think, sometimes, the shame of that is where the fear starts.”
“It isn’t sh-shameful,” Wes countered gently. He kissed Michael’s fingers again and threaded theirs together. “W-Work up to that, however. D-Don’t begin there.”
Michael’s thumb traced the side of Wes’s hand. “Yes. I suppose that makes a sort of sense.”
“P-Perhaps I should light a fire and get us some t-tea while you p-plot your course.”
“No.” Michael sat up, disentangling himself. He turned to straddle Wes, his now-soft sex resting against Wes’s thigh. There was a look of determination on his face.
“No?” Wes echoed.
“I think,” Michael said, his voice growing stronger with each word, “I think, my lord, I should like you to keep still and quiet, for I’d like to make love to you right now.”
Michael loomed over Wes like a conqueror, moonlight making his pale face and hair shine blue-silver in the dark. He was beautiful. Confident.
Powerful.
Wes smiled. “As y-you wish, sir.” He pinned his arms to his sides and waited to be told what to do.
Michael didn’t do anything at first, but Wes didn’t rush him. He had a great deal of patience, an appreciation gleaned from years of people impatient for him to complete a sentence and speaking over him to hurry things along, guessing his intent or disregarding him entirely. Michael could stammer over lovemaking as long as he cared to. Wes certainly wouldn’t hurry him along.
He held still and watched as Michael considered Wes’s body, looking uncertain and charming as he bit absently at his bottom lip and surveyed. After several minutes, he ran his left hand down the center of Wes’s chest, a delightfully soft touch that ended just an inch above his belly button. At this point, Michael looked up at Wes’s face and frowned.
“I feel ridiculous,” he confessed.
“You d-don’t look it,” Wes assured him. He shut his eyes, deciding he would keep them closed. “T-Take your t-time.”
Michael did. For many, many minutes all he did was touch Wes’s chest, exploring tentatively at first and then more boldly. His touches became strokes. When he strayed too close to a ticklish or sensitive area, Wes would spasm, and Michael would stop, but when Wes only continued to remain still, Michael would resume again.
The hands departed, Michael’s weight shifted, and Wes felt the soft, damp press of Michael’s lips on his skin.
It became harder and harder to remain still, and so Wes gave in to the urge to shiver, to arch, and he suspected most importantly, to moan. It wasn’t difficult for him to play the passive role. In his amorous encounters, he’d largely split the difference between giver and receiver. Sometimes the arrangements sorted themselves out, and sometimes he’d negotiated his preference. But never had he been with someone where pleasure was so shared. Where he knew his gasps and tremors would be received not as fuel for further ardor but as an acknowledgment of Michael’s power over him, of his trust for Michael. It made him feel vulnerable, but in a very good and safe way. He hoped the reverse was true for his lover.
It seemed to be. Michael used both hands and mouth upon him now, tweaking his nipple as he licked at the pit of his elbow, kneading his shoulder as he trailed his mouth down Wes’s abdomen. When Wes’s weeping erection nudged Michael’s throat, Michael laughed, a soft, playful sound that made Wes’s heart tumble over itself. When Michael took Wes’s cock in hand and laved his way up to a nipple where he sucked and nipped in concert to his long, tight strokes, Wes clutched at the bedsheets and gasped, thrusting mindlessly as he gave himself up to Michael’s pleasure.
Michael’s erection poked his thigh, and his mouth teased Wes’s throat. “Would you let me fuck you?” he whispered, his voice rough with passion.
“Yes,” Wes rasped, no hesitation at all.
Michael nipped at Wes’s jaw as his strokes on Wes’s cock became more intent. “I don’t know that I’m ready to do that,” he confessed. “I never have. But I’d like to, someday, with you.”
For some strange reason that made Michael falter. Wes longed to quickly affirm his eagerness for such an event. “Wh-Whatever day you wish.” He bucked and gasped as Michael’s thumb pressed in just the right spot at the base of his cock.
“I want you inside me. I want to feel you pounding hard inside me.” His hand that didn’t hold Wes’s cock gripped desperately at Wes’s shoulder. “I want you so much that I ache, Albert.”
Wes ached as well. His cock, long past ache and well into blind yearning, took over most of his thinking and gained control of his mouth. “M-Mount me,” he rasped. “H-Hold me down and f-fuck me w-with your body. T-Take me. I am h-helpless beneath you.”
Michael shivered and thrust against Wes’s leg. “I want to. I want to fuck you so desperately.”
“Use me,” Wes urged him. “Use my b-body. I am y-your slave, M-Michael Vallant.”
Michael’s
grip in both hands became tight. “I have no unguent.”
“Use all of m-me.” Wes drew his right hand to his mouth. He sucked hard on his fingers, then withdrew them, letting the saliva drip onto his neck. “I am y-your s-slave,” he repeated.
Michael shuddered again. Wes’s eyes opened, slowly, heavy with lust. He watched as Michael loomed over him, his hair falling like a silver curtain around his face as he bent to take Wes’s mouth in a carnal kiss.
“Then prepare me, slave.” Michael rose, turned and placed his spread hole before Wes’s mouth.
Wes obeyed. Leaning forward, he made sweet love to Michael’s hole once more, kissing it, spearing it, easing the muscles and filling him with slick spit. He held back none of his groans and cries at how much he loved his task, and when Michael’s hands began to torment him, he twitched and shuddered in happy helplessness. When Michael turned back around and positioned himself over Wes’s straining cock, he tried to open his eyes, but he couldn’t, he was so lost in passion.
“Fuck me, Michael,” he rasped, thrusting his hips into the air. “Fuck me, p-please.”
He felt Michael positioning over him, teasing the tip of his penis, rubbing it ruthlessly against his opening. “Tell me you love me, Albert,” he demanded.
“I love you,” Wes said obediently.
“I love you too.”
Michael drove them both home.
Wes forgot everything. He forgot to worry for Michael, to soothe his fear—he only cried out and fucked, chasing as Michael rode him. He shuddered and gripped at Michael’s legs, begging and pleading, so helpless, so wild with need as he sought that tight heat over and over again. But when he came toward the edge, he stopped, not letting himself cross over, determined to wait for Michael to find his release first. And he did—bucking hard and crying out, jerking hard on his own cock and calling out to Wes, “Albert, Albert, Albert!” He spent hard against Wes’s chest, shooting cream all the way up to his neck, a few droplets landing on his chin. He wanted to let go then, but he still held back, not wanting to take even this from Michael, not without his permission.
Michael slid off, collapsed beside Wes on the bed and drunkenly pushed one of Wes’s own hands to his cock. “Come, Albert,” he whispered wearily. With three sharp strokes, Wes did, sending his own seed up to mingle with Michael’s against his chest.
They lay there a long time, heaving for breath.
I love you too.
Wes shut his eyes and turned his head to place a kiss on Michael’s hair. Michael drew himself closer and snuggled against Wes’s side.
Wes reached down without displacing him, drew up the covers and nestled in close to his lover as they both settled into sleep. They lay together without moving until morning was high and a chirping bird outside the cottage window woke him.
Opening his eyes, Wes felt Michael hot and close beside him, their sticky spendings dried and cold against his chest.
He smiled.
Michael had no nightmares, and when he woke, it was to find himself in Albert’s arms.
Several times that day he wondered if he’d stumbled into a dream. After making lingering, sweet love in bed until they could stand it no longer, they made breakfast together out of the supplies they’d foraged from the cottage larder and enjoyed quiet conversation peppered by comfortable silence over this and their morning tea. After that Albert took Michael on a walk through the neighboring countryside. It was as picturesque as a painting—indeed, everything about Oxford seemed carefully crafted to be exquisitely charming and beautiful.
They meandered all the way back into town, where they shopped once more, this time not just in bookshops but anywhere that caught their fancy. They revisited the bakery and the inn. They wandered down the narrow streets and passages around the campus—Michael couldn’t get over how close everything felt, like dangerous alleys in London that weren’t dangerous any longer.
The only part that brought him any pain were the boys. The bright, happy boys laughing and joking with one another between classes. It didn’t matter that he knew many of them weren’t happy at all. That the smaller ones were probably fagging, both literally and metaphorically, for the bigger ones. That they had overbearing or disinterested fathers, that they had nightmares of their own. He couldn’t stop yearning after them, wishing he had been one of them. Because much as their lives weren’t perfect, he also knew none of them would end up whoring for a living. He’d told Albert he’d rather his life than that of a boring clerk, but as he watched the boys, he admitted that boast was a lie.
He hated his life. Rodger was right—he wanted out of it. But where on earth would he go?
Albert. I can go to Albert. Yes, he could, because Albert loved him. Albert would do anything for him. In fact, he thought Albert often looked as if he were working up to asking him serious questions, possibly ones that revolved around spending much, much more time together on outings like this. In cottages like the one they’d slept in the night before. Yes. Albert would take him in.
Until he learned about Michael’s connection to his father.
As Albert’s satchel and Michael’s purchases were loaded onto the train, Michael tried to reassure himself that his confession might not go entirely awry. Certainly Albert would be shocked, yes. But he’d hardly refuse to see Michael any longer because of it. It wasn’t as if it was Michael’s fault. Nor was it Albert’s. It was just a gruesome, unfortunate fact that it was Albert’s father who had bought and raped him.
Of course, it was possible that Albert wouldn’t believe him.
Also possible that he would be so disgusted he couldn’t stand to see him.
Truth be told, there were many unpleasant outcomes possible.
He barely noticed anything on the train ride home, he was so preoccupied with how, even when, to tell Albert. Two days. He could put it off until tomorrow. Or he could get it over with tonight. Instinct told him now was good. Now when Albert was so soft and affectionate. Now when Albert kept holding his hand beneath the lap blanket. Obviously not that very second, he shouldn’t tell him, not on the train. But he knew men, and he knew Albert. He had the feeling Albert would try to stay the evening with him. Perhaps that would be best. Perhaps they could go back to Dove Street, and he would take Albert up to his room. Show him his books. Ply him with wine. Light candles and open the windows so the music from the ballroom drifted up. Tell his tale slowly, carefully. Explain.
But when Albert looked at him all soft and in love, he said, “W-Would you c-come to m-my ap-partment?”
Albert’s apartment. Ah.
Michael gave him as seductive a smile as he dared in public. “I could make you quite comfortable at Dove Street. In my room.” He squeezed Albert’s hand surreptitiously. “I would love to show you where the lovely books you bought me go.”
If anything, Albert seemed more upset. He stammered incoherently for several seconds, then managed to get out his words. “Ap-p-pologies. I h-h-h-have r-un out of m-m-medicine.” He paused for breath, glancing around at the crowd.
Michael’s spirits sank. Yes, this had been quite the public airing for his recluse. Which meant he shouldn’t even go home with him at all, let alone tell him horror stories about his father.
Before he could say anything, Albert took his arm, maneuvering him against a wall behind a crowd of people lining up for a food stall. He leaned in close so his lips brushed Michael’s ear as he spoke.
“St-stay with me.” His hand squeezed on Michael’s shoulder. “Please.”
Michael dared a brush of his lips against his collar. “Of course.”
Wes loaded them into a fine black carriage, Michael’s books and parcels carefully packed inside too, and the coachman drove them into the heart of Mayfair. As they made their way up the stately walk to Albert’s front door, a smart-looking butler came out to greet them.
“Good evening, Lord George.” The servant bowed. “You have had several visitors, and much correspondence has been left for you.”
A fire waited in the sitting room, lighting his way as he fumbled to a side table. It was burned down to embers, but they were hot coals and would rise back to life with just a little fuel. As Albert fumbled with a wooden box and Michael hovered off to the side, a mob-capped maid ducked into the room, built up the fire and exited again without a word.
Now the room was brightly lit, allowing Michael to watch as Albert withdrew a small glass bottle. His hands shook as he held a dropper over an empty glass tumbler, measuring out seven drops with care. After replacing the glass vial in the box, he produced a bottle of wine from the cupboard below, pulled the cork and splashed a bit of red on top of his drops. His hand shook mightily as he brought the glass to his lips and tossed the liquid into his mouth, but when the tumbler came down again, he sighed in ragged relief.
“M-my ap-pologies.” His voice was ragged and tinged with shame. “I l-let it go t-too long.” His back still to Michael, he ran a hand through his own hair. “I am t-t-trying, but I am st-still d-dependent on the st-stuff.”
Michael wanted to reach out and reassure him, but he wasn’t entirely sure how. “It’s all right,” he said, feeling pat, but it seemed to work regardless, for Albert came over and brushed a kiss against his cheek. Michael could smell the sweetness of the wine and the laudanum when Albert spoke.
“I m-must go s-see to our b-belongings and h-hear my c-c-correspondence from Rawlins. I w-won’t be long. P-please, make yourself at h-home.”
He left, and for a few moments Michael simply stood at the side of the room, looking about idly, trying to decide what to do. He took in a simple set of chairs, a desk, a cabinet.
The wooden box with the opiate inside.
Michael walked toward the box without meaning to. He didn’t open it, but he ran his hand over the top. Then he meandered around the room, hushing his footfalls.
He wandered down the hall and into Albert’s lavatory.