by Bliss Bennet
But Benedict would not hide what he felt. “Yes,” he whispered, nothing remotely humorous in his tone, only bemusement, and wonder, and perhaps, even a touch of awe. “I could gaze at the perfection of that torso for days.”
A man could grow used to listening to such a voice murmuring his praises.
Or begging to be their recipient.
Dulcie arched his back and cocked a hip. “Like to see more, would you?”
“Lord, yes.” Benedict’s hands fisted at his sides, as if he had to restrain himself from crossing the line from sight to touch. Enjoyed the tension of drawing out his own pleasure, did he? Dulcie would have to remember that when he had Benedict’s prick in his hand.
“Please, Clair.”
With a languorous smile, Dulcie leaned back on the chaise. Reaching down, he slowly drew off boots, then breeches, then smalls, taking as much time as he could at each task, his eyes fixed not on his garments but on Benedict’s face. Watching as his eyes darkened, narrowed, listening as his breath caught when Dulcie’s prick came springing free. Was this how Bathsheba felt when King David’s eyes chanced on her during her bath?
Dulcie drew in a deep breath and raised his arms over his head. Pointing his toes, drawing his muscles taut, he stretched his body over the chaise, nearly growling in satisfaction as Benedict’s eyes traced up and down his length. How could he have not realized how thrilling it would be, to be completely exposed while his would-be lover remained fully dressed?
How long, though, could Benedict stand only to look?
“Drawing me in your mind, are you? I warrant your art would prove more successful if you used your other senses to trace my lines and sinews. Touch, perhaps?”
Dulcie turned on his side, then ran a hand along his own flank in open invitation.
Benedict dropped to his knees beside the chaise, reaching out a trembling hand. “God, Clair, how I want you. Need you. Tell me it’s the same for you.”
The vulnerability in Benedict’s voice nearly made Dulcie flinch. Could he ever give himself completely over to Benedict the way he sensed Benedict was poised to give himself? Not just his body, but his mind, his very soul?
But what was the alternative? Allowing Benedict to prove him a coward?
Or, even worse, losing him entirely?
No.
Even so, it proved surprisingly difficult to utter a few simple words. His voice came out far softer than he intended when he finally said, “I need you, Pen. Please, come lie here with me.”
Before he had even finished the words, Benedict curled his hands around Dulcie’s neck and drew his head to his ear. “How brave you are, Clair. You steal the very breath from my lips.”
And then those lips were on his again, his tongue probing, delving, devouring the overly sensitive flesh of Dulcie’s mouth. And then, after long, drugging moments, shifting to Dulcie’s neck, to nuzzle and nip with lips and teeth as hands wandered his bare skin, raising the tiny hairs all along Dulcie’s body. Searching out all the spots that made him jerk, and moan, and tremble.
He pulled Benedict down atop him, too impatient to remove even his waistcoat. Its buttons rubbed his chest, raising his nipples to painful nubs. But he didn’t mind, for Benedict soon moved to soothe each with a wicked, wicked tongue. Then Dulcie nearly arched right off the chaise—God, did the fellow have the temerity to bite him?
Dulcie groaned. He could not take much more of such devoted attention, not without crying in need. No, going slow would have to wait for another day. Reaching between them, he flicked at the buttons of Benedict’s fall, fingers searching out the root of Benedict’s desire.
He couldn’t see it, not with all Benedict’s clothes in the way, but he could feel it, hot and slick against his hand, the smooth head thrusting out from beneath the wrinkling foreskin.
“Yes, Clair, yes,” Benedict whispered, his hips arching in need. “Touch me, make me spend.”
“Make us spend,” Dulcie answered, bringing his own hard length close against Benedict’s. He clutched his fingers tight around them both, sliding and squeezing until he found a rhythm that made them both groan.
“Want you, Clair. So much.”
Benedict’s hands grasping his shoulders, the musk of his sweat and his imminent mettle, the heat of his cock rubbing, rubbing—Dulcie thought he might drown in the flood of sensations.
And then Benedict’s entire body heaved, his breath catching for an instant as the cock in Dulcie’s hand grew even harder. Benedict’s head flew high, his face radiant as he chased his release.
“Pen,” Dulcie cried as his lover jerked and spurted against their stomachs.
His hand slippery with Benedict’s ejaculate, Dulcie squeezed once, again, and then yes, his balls tightening, his back arching, he, too, reached for the bliss—
Merciful heavens. Dulcie closed his eyes, panting, waiting for his senses to drift back into his body. Such relief, to finally spend with another, after so many months alone. He’d certainly never felt such pleasure from his own hand, such shuddering, overwhelming waves of bodily satisfaction.
And had he ever felt such peace in the aftermath? Even with waistcoat buttons digging painfully into his chest, and the chaise’s bolster cushion about to slide out from under his arse, he had no desire to get up and rush off to the next good thing. Because this thing, this person right here in his arms, was a very, very good thing indeed.
He laughed as he ruffled his fingers through Benedict’s dark hair, luxuriating in the softness of its waves. The poor boy would soon get a crick in his neck, lying with his cheek pressed to Dulcie’s chest that way. And his fine linen shirt, damp, no doubt, and reeking of their combined spend…
“Did I satisfy you, sir?” Dulcie whispered, greedy for Benedict’s praise.
Benedict raised his head from Dulcie’s chest, his eyes glassy, a peculiar smile flitting about his lips. “It’s not how I imagined it. Not at all.”
“What?” Dulcie exclaimed before he could hide his dismay. But he quickly assumed a teasing tone. “Did you not take pleasure in the act? I am mortified!”
Benedict reached out a hand and drew it across Dulcie’s cheek. “No, Clair, no. It’s only that I don’t think I’ve ever even imagined such a physically pleasurable sensation in my entire life. Or felt such a welling of emotion in my heart. This, you—it means the world to me, don’t you see?”
Something in Dulcie’s chest gave a small quiver. Whenever any other man had begun to prattle on about his finer feelings, Dulcie had always shrugged them off, stifled by the demands they made on him, the expectation that they must be returned in kind. Oh, Dulcie could always find some sweet words to mumble in response, but he only used them to get what he wanted from the other, not to reveal anything deep or true of his own self. But somehow, the earnestness of Benedict’s declaration did not fill him with indifference or disgust, but with something far different. A tentative, unfamiliar lightness at his very core.
Lord help him, was he actually developing a sentimental streak at the ripe old age of two-and-thirty? If he began spilling his budget, burbling endearments to this man in his arms, now that would truly be mortifying!
He closed his eyes, abashed by the intensity shining in Benedict’s.
But instead of pressing him to say something equally revealing, Benedict just laid his head back on Dulcie’s chest. “What saint did you invoke, to bring such a cataclysm about? I’ll have to remember to pray to him myself next time.”
“Next time? There will be a next time, then?” Dulcie asked, hating the way his jaw clenched with uncertainty.
The muscles of Benedict’s face shaped into a smile against his bare chest. “I’d like that, if you would.”
“Yes. Yes, I would.”
His entire body softened in relief. Benedict, who was lying half atop him still, must have noticed. But he didn’t laugh, or even mention Dulcie’s ridiculous reaction. He only hummed a tuneless lullaby as he combed soothing fingers through the sparse curls on D
ulcie’s chest.
He remembered, then, whenever something important or upsetting happened when they were at school, Benedict had always needed time and space to come to terms with it. Usually by himself, alone in the quiet of his own mind. He still obviously had the same need as an adult. But that he felt safe enough with Dulcie to retreat to that space while lying in his arms—it said far more about his feelings than any sentimental words would ever reveal.
Dulcie had almost fallen asleep when Benedict finally spoke. “I know you don’t like it, Clair. To talk about what you feel, I mean. But as long as you don’t hide from me, or pretend to be someone you’re not, I don’t need any fine speeches or florid pronouncements. Just never disparage my own feelings, even if you can’t understand them. Because I feel so much, so much for you, Clair. And I think I would die if you ever ridiculed me because of it.”
With a shaking hand, Dulcie stroked down the back of the vulnerable head burrowing into his neck. “I’ll try,” he said, shocked by the earnestness of his own words. “I’ll try my damnedest not to hide from you. Or to hurt you.”
Benedict’s hand stroked his whiskers in silent acknowledgment.
“Promise me the same?” he whispered across Benedict’s curls.
“I swear.”
Dulcie sighed, and slipped back into sleep.
“Have you heard Henry Bone’s opened his rooms for an exhibition of those Elizabethan enamel miniatures he’s been working on all these years?”
“Haughty Queen Bess, and her lovely cousin Mary Stuart, and the courtiers who swanned about each of them—lord, you wouldn’t catch me kowtowing to a mere female, not even if she were the queen.”
“But will you kowtow to Bone’s genius? I hear that’s the real price of admission.”
Benedict let the hum of Clair’s chatter with his fellow members of the British Institution eddy over him, a comforting background to his own far more enjoyable musings. He would have far preferred lazing in bed all day with his new lover, as he and Clair had done every day now for nearly a week, than rushing out into company. But he wasn’t so foolish as to imagine he could keep Clair forever to himself. Not if he wished his new lover to remain content.
He might prefer to spend time alone, or closeted with one special person, but Clair, for whom sociability was as necessary as water, would soon grow restless if he did not venture out into company. Clair might claim to prefer being alone with Benedict, but he’d not protested overmuch when Benedict suggested a visit to the British Institution this morning. Benedict himself hardly expected catching up on the gossip of the few men of Clair’s artistic set who still remained in town would do anything to advance the cause of a national art museum, or Clair’s own quest to be named a Director of the Institution’s Board, but the suggestion had been more than enough excuse to persuade Clair. Socializing might not be Benedict’s greatest enjoyment, but he’d do almost anything to make his lover happy. Even spending time in this stuffy room surrounded by men who thought their wealth and lineage made their aesthetic judgments more sound than those of an actual artist.
But even if he’d chosen to accompany Clair here, he needn’t participate in the conversation between Clair, George Norton, Sir Charles Long, and several other of Clair’s fellow art connoisseurs. He could still retreat to the privacy of his own mind, daydreaming of lips and hands and nose and tongue exploring every inch of Clair’s elegant body, discovering each spot that drove him mad with longing. Of visiting each spot, one after another, over and over, until his lusty angel’s flashing blue eyes tipped back into his head and he shouted with exultation as he spent in Benedict’s arms.
Indeed, a part of Benedict could hardly believe the past week hadn’t all been just a dream, fever-visions inspired by his long-unrequited want for a Clair forever out of reach. Yet whenever his sense of reality faltered, he only had to glance at his lover to be reassured. Others might not be able to see it, but Benedict saw well-deep contentment in the contained animation of Clair’s face, the greater ease with which he held his body. Hard not to take pride in bringing such peace to the ever-restless Clair.
A bustle from the library door, though, too soon shattered Benedict’s own contentment.
“Leverett!” George Norton jumped to his feet. “I thought you were still out of the country!”
Benedict’s entire body stiffened as Lattimer Leverett strolled into the British Institution library. Norton, he saw, looked as little pleased by the sight of the new arrival as did Benedict. Had the young man, too, discovered how heartless the fellow could be?
Benedict held back a grimace as Leverett jerked off his gloves and tossed them with little care to a footman. “Don’t be so womanish, Norton. I told you I’d only remain in Antwerp until the end of the sale.”
“The sale of M. Stier’s pictures? Oh, how I envy you,” Clair exclaimed as he gestured to Leverett to join them. “So many van Dycks and Rubens, all in one room!”
Clair couldn’t cut the fellow dead, not in a club they both belonged to. But it still stung, his overly warm greeting. Why did his lover have to be so welcoming, especially after Benedict had hinted at how poorly Leverett had once treated him?
But perhaps he’d forgotten their conversation back in Lincolnshire. Clair did tend to live in the moment.
“Please tell me it was an Englishman who purchased Rubens’ famed Chapeau de Puille,” Clair said with a glance in Benedict’s direction. “I’d love to see that work on British soil.”
In a soon-to-be established national art museum, perhaps? In spite of his unease in Leverett’s presence, Benedict couldn’t help smiling at the idea. Clair might focus on the present, rather than the past or the future, but he did not forget Benedict’s new place in that suddenly brighter now.
“One Mr. Smith, reportedly of London, was the purchaser,” Leverett answered as he pulled a chair close to Clair’s. “But it is rumored he bought it on speculation, and will now dispose of it to the best bidder in any country.”
“I heard that it had been purchased on behalf of Mrs. Coutts, and was immediately shipped to London,” Benedict said, sitting up straighter in his seat. Foolish, that urge to jump up and push Leverett from his chair to take up guard beside Clair.
“A woman? I believe you are mistaken.” Leverett’s cold eyes rested for a quick moment on Benedict, then shifted away to the older man beside him. “But what news from the King, Sir Charles? Has he accepted Lord Leicester’s offer of his paintings to serve as the foundation for an English art museum?”
“Leicester made a formal offer?” Dulcie exclaimed. “But his collection only includes paintings by Englishmen.”
“Yes, he did offer,” Sir Charles answered. “But Liverpool and I persuaded His Majesty to refuse. Despite what certain Royal Academicians may argue, a gallery need not exclude foreign painters to be truly national.”
“And it need not include such eccentric works as Hogarth’s modern moral subjects, or Mr. Turner’s quasi-historical landscapes, either, even if they were created by Englishmen,” Leverett said with a delicate shudder. “If we must attempt to improve the taste of the public by means of a government-funded art museum, it should at least cultivate a proper appreciation for the highest genres.”
“And will you, in turn, develop an appreciation for the low?” Clair asked, crossing a leg over his knee. “Visit the waxworks in Fleet Street, or the Panoramas in Leicester Square, and learn what you can from them?”
“Is that how you’ve been spending your time of late, Dulcie? Mixing with the masses?” He cast a dubious glance at Benedict, then gave an audible sniff, as if Benedict’s social standing were far lower than his own. “Instead of summering in the country as is your usual wont? And here I thought you intended to make good on your promise to finally take on a leg-shackle.”
“A leg-shackle?” Clair’s swinging foot suddenly went still.
“Yes, a leg-shackle,” Leverett continued, with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Did you not wager, in fr
ont of nearly every gentleman here today, that you’d steal Adler’s granddaughter and her dowry right out from under Pennington’s very nose? And Norton, did he not vow only a few days later that he would wed and bed her before Michaelmas?”
What a look of triumph on Leverett’s face! The damned blackguard obviously expected his revelation to upset Benedict.
As did everyone else in the room, if the evidence of their quick glances in his direction were any indication. Even Clair’s blue eyes jerked to his for an instant before immediately shying away.
But discovering that Clair had been flitting about Polly Adler not because he wished to scuttle Benedict’s museum plan, or to steal Adler’s paintings for himself, but simply because he’d been goaded into to a bet—the revelation nearly made him smile. How like the silly scoundrel, to accept such a ridiculous wager. And then, if Benedict had the right of it, to forget all about it as he hared off to Lincolnshire in pursuit not of Polly Adler, but of Benedict.
He stifled the affectionate laugh that burbled up inside him.
With Michaelmas only a month away, Clair had little to no chance of winning such an ill-considered wager. Not that Benedict believed he had any real intention of trying now, even if he had been at all in earnest when the bet was first made.
He only hoped the sum Clair had wagered would not put too big a dent in his finances. He’d not enjoy begging his father for additional funds.
When Benedict roused from his internal musings, he found Leverett staring at him with narrowed eyes, waiting with eagerness for some angry outburst. But Benedict would not give the lout the satisfaction. He leaned back in his chair, trying to match Clair’s nonchalant air.
“Sir Charles, have you heard anything from Beaumont?” George Norton, kind boy, attempted to divert the conversation. “Is it true he has secured Michelangelo’s exquisite group in marble of the Virgin—”
“But instead of courting the chit, Dulcie’s here, whiling away the summer in town,” Leverett continued, raising his voice over Norton’s. “Unless he has already secured her hand, and is keeping their agreement a secret, so as to draw out the suspense? Or perhaps to give himself the chance to conduct another clandestine romance with a pretty chit in the interim?”