by Cooper Davis
Alistair shrugged. “I—I don’t know how such things play out. I’ve never been a party to them.”
“You’re the master of palace etiquette. You can’t claim you’ve no notion what two gentlemen do when stumbled upon in their ardor, truly?”
“Our king isn’t much for midnight assignations.” Finley resumed staring at his lap, becoming as reserved as ever, despite all the barriers that had been removed from between them over the past week.
Marcus reached for Finley’s gloved hands, gathering them gently in his own. And those long fingers, now threading together with Marcus’s, were trembling.
Marcus gave them a squeeze. “Surely it’s not the worst fate, to imagine being spied holding my hand? Or kissing me? The tongue-wags would never savage you for such a thing—at least not too badly. Not with my father a duke and you being . . . you.”
“I . . .” Finley blew out wintry clouds of breath, his anguish apparent. The gentleman made great study of their clasped hands, turning them slightly against his thigh. He blew out a resigned breath. “It’s ludicrous, the whole problem. I do recognize that.”
“But what is the problem, precisely? I am becoming vexed myself. Our situation is simple, is it not? We’re two gentlemen who want each other, who are . . . suitors. Two fellows who wish to get up to something in the dark, discreetly concealed. Fully clothed. At least thus far.”
Marcus reached and unfastened the remaining button of Alistair’s greatcoat. The fabric pleated open, revealing the man’s finely embroidered waistcoat, and an expanse of his appealing body. Marcus tenderly toyed with the lowest button on the man’s waistcoat, eager to dance his fingertips up the neat row until that garment, too, opened to him.
Finley shoved at Marcus’s hand. “You simply do not understand. How can a gentleman like you ever comprehend?”
Marcus reared back a bit at the arch tone. “I’m not sure that is a flattering statement. If you mean my somewhat tarnished reputation—“
Alistair turned toward him sharply, his face a shocking mask of anguish. “Beautiful. Sought after. Young. Noble. Everything you wish for bows at your feet. Don’t you see? You could have any gentleman in that ball.” Alistair gestured back up the hill, toward the manor home. “You’ve undoubtedly been kissed more times than any decent fellow ought rightly claim. And I know that because you are desirable and eligible and . . . and beautiful.” The last word sighed out of Alistair like a desperate prayer, holding a wrong measure of hopelessness.
Marcus made his reply in quiet, measured tones. “I could say precisely the same of you.” He turned to face Alistair as well, allowing their knees to press together. “If this is a beauty contest, sir, you are the clear winner. All that you claim of me, I can easily say of you, and then some.”
Finley shook his head slowly, staring down at their clasped hands. “No. You cannot.”
“That you’re beautiful and eligible? Of course I could.” Marcus searched the other man’s face, certain that he was missing something crucial, but Alistair’s expression was concealed by shadow.
“What I meant . . .” Alistair’s hand grew tense in Marcus’s own. “What I’m trying to say . . . is that I have not been kissed more times than any fellow ought rightly claim.”
“Well, we both know you overestimate my past exploits.” Marcus laughed awkwardly, unsettled by the tenor of the conversation. Something was awry with Alistair, but Marcus couldn’t pinpoint what they were dancing near.
Finley gave him a long, hard look, then straightened taller. He seemed to choose his words carefully. “You mistake my meaning, Marcus. I am saying that I—I’ve . . . never been kissed. By anyone. Ever.” Alistair made a pained laugh. “I’m a . . . kissing virgin. Ludicrous, but utterly true.”
“What?” Marcus couldn’t help the incredulity of his tone. He’d expected any number of objections, but never could he have dreamed the man would say such a thing. “You must be having a joke at my expense.” Then he felt a sudden surge of outrage. “If you don’t wish to kiss me, you need only say so.”
Finley glanced up in alarm and from the expression in his eyes, Marcus knew the gentleman had spoken true. “I’m not an actual virgin,” Alistair rushed to add, swiping at the errant lock of raven hair, which simply refused to stay put. “The whores just aren’t particularly keen on kissing, you see.”
Marcus pulled Alistair’s hands onto his own lap, making his tone far gentler. “The whores?” Was that the man’s only conjugal experience, with paid strumpets? “I don’t understand why you’d—“
“Oh, bloody hell.” Finley wrenched his hand free, bolting to his feet, but Marcus caught his arm, anchoring him back in place.
“Be still.” Marcus issued the admonishment as a tender whisper, as he would to a skittish mount. Alistair gave him a scalding glance, stiff and trembling beneath Marcus’s firm hold. “Shh, now,” Marcus soothed, drawing Alistair reluctantly back down upon the bench beside him. “You may tell me anything, you know, and I’ll never judge you. Nor hold you in any less esteem.”
Alistair jabbed a long, gloved finger at him accusatorily. “What sort of fellow reaches the plumb age of six and thirty without ever having been kissed?” The words tumbled out, sharp as broken glass. “I’ll tell you the sort. The ones who found themselves the butt of jokes at university. The sort who were nicknamed ‘the peasant’ by so-called mates, owing to their broad girth and epic size. The shy sort, paralyzed by their innermost desires and inclinations. The sort who—“
Marcus never would know what Alistair had been about to say, for he settled the matter of the kiss once and for all. Cupping Alistair’s face within both palms, Marcus pressed his mouth against Finley’s own. The kiss was swift, a surge forward that Marcus didn’t question or plan, but the moment that tender connection began, everything stilled to long, drawn-out pulse beats. There was only the sensation of the man’s full lips pressing against Marcus’s, his own tongue teasing outward, urging Alistair to allow entry.
Finley gasped, a shocked, awakened reaction that permitted Marcus to urge the other man into a mutual exploration. And at once, it was as if an explosion had occurred, Alistair’s walls crumbling to ash in the space of those heartbeats. He frantically clasped Marcus’s frock coat, gathering and pulling, drawing Marcus closer. The larger man’s breathing became heightened and uneven. Frantic. His hold upon Marcus grew frantic, too—one hand twisting fabric, the other sliding to Marcus’s hip. Alistair’s breathing staggered harder still, escaping in gasping huffs, those big hands grasping Marcus until Marcus’s own breathing was little better than ragged gasps.
They were scrambling together, all reticence gone, falling hungrily into each other’s arms. Alistair made a plaintive sound akin to a whimper and Marcus’s hands wended about the man’s shoulders, up into his hair, back down his neck. They weren’t kissing . . . they were all but becoming lovers there in the dark chill, fully clothed upon that bench. Lovemaking it was indeed, this mingling of tongues and caresses and pure, unadulterated desire. Marcus found himself being hoisted up, practically drawn atop the man’s powerful thighs. Finley leaned into him, wrapping strong arms about his torso.
Alistair had lost every vestige of reserve—as if, now opened to Marcus, he was tumbling forth from his proverbial corset laces. Marcus moaned into Alistair’s mouth, allowing himself to be sidled fully upon the other man’s lap. A hard, large ridge pressed into Marcus’s thigh, and the feel of the intimate pressure nearly proved his undoing.
Marcus broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to Alistair’s. “God help me.” He couldn’t breathe, his cock tight as a bow against the linen and buttons.
Alistair gasped in kind, caressing a fingertip along Marcus’s lightly stubbled jaw. “Marcus.” Finley’s eyes were still closed, and his chest was pumping hard, dragging at quick inhalations of night air. “Oh, heaven save me.”
Finley moaned again, that hand
on Marcus’s hip becoming aggressive, even as it softened to a caress. Then those midnight eyes flew open, the long lashes limned by moonlight. No other male had ever looked at Marcus quite like Alistair did then, naked and vulnerable and so very aroused.
“Kiss me again.” In a whisper, the plea barely passed Marcus’s lips.
Finley gasped softly. “I . . . you kissed me.” Dark onyx eyes opened anew, bright and wide as they gazed at Marcus. “You kissed me.” The tone turned wondrous, as Alistair’s gloved fingertips moved to his own full lips in disbelief. “You . . . kissed me.” His expressions displayed a map of conflicting emotions, the chief of which was kindled lust.
“Yes, and perhaps now that I have done, you might cease chattering about it, and be about the business of kissing me now?”
Alistair rumbled a deep, rasping laugh, slowly touching Marcus’s cheek. He stroked a thick fingertip down the jaw, to the tip of Marcus’s chin, as if memorizing the feel of him. “I wouldn’t have the foggiest where to begin.”
“You have me all but upon your lap.”
“Indeed, you are upon my lap.” Alistair studied Marcus as if he were a fantastic discovery, a miracle wrought there within Alistair’s arms, stroking his knuckles along the edge of Marcus’s jaw.
“Kiss me,” Marcus begged, the raw words pulled from his heart and throat.
Finley’s hands remained all over him, grasping, clutching him close. Even so, he softly began to argue. “I’m not sure if—“
“Alistair.” Marcus’s tone was firm, yet combustive as the need building in his loins. “I just demonstrated how one goes about seducing another fellow on a shadowed garden path. So please be about kissing me in kind? Deeper. Longer. Hold me even closer and savage me like you don’t ever mean to stop.”
One large gloved palm came down atop Marcus’s head, stroking downward along his nape with exquisite tenderness. “You . . . are a wanton.”
“No, but I’m certainly proud to have turned you into one.”
Alistair’s hard cock jutted up eagerly into Marcus’s thigh, the turgid pressure nearly too much for Marcus to bear. “I fear that,” Alistair argued softly, “should we carry on much longer, someone shall surely see.”
Marcus trailed a hand along the front of Alistair’s waistcoat, a subtle caress of his palm along finest silk. The fabric gapped at the buttons, straining slightly—a fact Marcus took advantage of. He deftly popped a button free.
“What if they observe this?” Marcus unfastened a second button. “Hmm, would you worry about the chin-wags in this case? It’s not”—Marcus slid another button through its hole—“kissing.”
Alistair drew in a taut breath, his husky body vibrating at Marcus’s touch. “No, at this rate what they’re most likely to glimpse is me in my altogether.”
“Now that’s a proposition I like even better than a kiss.”
“And what if”—Finley wrapped both arms about Marcus, pulling him flush against his chest—“I have no intention of granting either boon?”
Marcus stared, unblinking, a dozen emotions rioting in his mind and body. For belying Alistair’s words was the way he’d levered Marcus into a most damning position, with the man’s hard erection pushing into Marcus’s lower thigh. Their breaths and heartbeats mingled, groins oh-so-achingly close. “Then by all means,” Marcus replied, barely able to find his breath, “unhand my person.”
“No,” Finley said after a considering moment, “I don’t think I shall. In fact, I’m not letting you go anywhere, you stunning rakehell of a lordling.”
“The reticent, slow-to-ignite types . . .”
“Burn the hottest,” Alistair finished ravenously, and then the gentleman did kiss Marcus. And not very gently, at that. Those full lips pressed to Marcus’s, overeager at first, a little too aggressive and forceful, with a press of teeth. Alistair seemed to realize because he paused, then moved in again. And this time, that awkwardly innocent kiss absolutely melted Marcus. Little nips and tastes transformed into a deep, languorous exploration. Finley growled low and hungrily, as if a massive bear had been roused into a state of erotic need, and hauled Marcus closer upon his lap.
Marcus slid his hand up and along the man’s lower back, beneath his frock coat, feeling the pull of satin waistcoat. He wedged the hem of the garment upward, until his fingertips ghosted over the fine linen of Alistair’s shirt beneath. With a thrill of pleasure, he savored the play of the gentleman’s suspenders along the back of his trousers, dizzily imagining himself unfastening those braces just as he’d done the man’s waistcoat.
Marcus skated his caress along the man’s waistband, coaxing a trail along the back of those trousers, then dared the truly audacious. He palmed the crest of Alistair’s buttocks, lingering, and was rewarded with a rippling play of supple flesh and masculine strength. He delved lower, emphasizing the crease between the man’s cleft of arse, fondling him even as cursed wool separated him from his dearest objective.
“Ah! Ah!” Alistair cried against Marcus’s cheek, trembling all over, quaking as if he meant to spill his seed. His cries become inarticulate grunts and barely audible pleas, but if the man wanted Marcus to relent, he only egged the pleasuring on further.
Marcus took two fingertips, and slid them beneath the waistband of Alistair’s trousers, right above that delicious cleft of arse, then dared to plunge lower. Only linen smallclothes separated that stroke from the man’s truly intimate place. There was a straining reaction in reply, the braces pulling taut, the waistband tight as a bow string.
Finley broke the kiss, pressing his cheek against Marcus’s, rough exhalations coming in heavy bursts. “If you don’t cease, I shall find myself in great trouble. You’ve nearly brought me into the bedchamber—on this path.” Alistair buried his face against Marcus’s shoulder. “I can’t resist you. This. I’m far too . . . too . . .”
Marcus knew the words that Finley couldn’t bring himself to utter—that he was far too inexperienced. Untried. And very close to spilling his seed.
Marcus’s answer to that argument was simple: he slid both arms about the man’s waist, and silenced his concerns. “I’m happy just doing this,” he said, nuzzling into that bountiful body.
Alistair responded wordlessly, planting a desperate kiss against Marcus’s lips. Their tongues began a warring, serpentine dance, and once again, fingertips went roaming. Gloved hands were all over the other man’s body, as that hunger between them grew overwhelming.
Marcus had never been more pleasured or stirred than at that precise moment—driven by the knowledge that he was delivering this man his very first kisses. And by the sounds of innocent, awakening need coming forth from such proper lips.
Alistair’s tongue swept into Marcus’s mouth as one hand found its way to Marcus’s thigh. Gloved fingers skated his upper leg, then moved dangerously inward, as all the while Alistair kept deepening their kiss.
Marcus broke away long enough to gasp, “You ceased worrying about propriety or discovery,” at the precise moment Alistair caressed Marcus’s erection through his trousers.
“Who gives a deuce,” the gentleman declared and resumed kissing him. And then delivered Marcus’s cock a punishingly firm stroke that became much tenderer at the tip, lingering until Marcus felt dampness gather inside his drawers. He pushed the exploring hand off, for it would not do to re-enter the ballroom with a damning stain upon the wool.
Marcus cupped Alistair’s beautiful face in both palms. They stared at each other while a slow smile appeared on Finley’s face. There was pride in it, a light of triumph and freedom. “My lord,” he said, grasping Marcus by the shoulders and making a great show of inspecting him. “I must confess that you look quite thoroughly, resoundingly kissed.”
“Aye. As do you. Very kissed, indeed.” He returned the smile, feeling unexpectedly shy, for all that had just happened.
Finley glanced toward the
house, and the music grew louder as doors swung open. “Just in time, then.” Alistair eased Marcus off his lap, settling him gently on the bench beside him.
Alistair buttoned his waistcoat with a shiver. “For a moment, there,” he announced, “I didn’t feel the chill.” Then Alistair glanced at him, bashful. “I’d even declare myself quite properly heated.”
“Properly?”
Finley lowered his voice conspiratorially. “At times, my lord, impropriety can be quite proper.”
“Yet how very unlike you to admit that.” Marcus burst into a wide smile, his heart thrilling at the freedom he glimpsed in his beau’s expression.
He was given a devilish smile in return. “Well, this evening has proved . . . transformative.”
“You don’t even wish to bark at me about royal decorum or public image or—”
“Thank you.” The words were whispered with a dear smile and a tip of the man’s head. “That’s all I wish to say. Six and thirty was quite a lengthy dry spell to endure. Especially for such a simple, yet profound thing, as my first kiss. Thank you, my dearest Marcus.”
Chapter Eleven
Beneath the wavering torchlights outside the manor home, Marcus paused and smiled up at Alistair before they made reentry to the ball. He ran his fingertips down the front of Alistair’s waistcoat, neatening it, then gave the jacket lapels a tidy tug. “There. Unflappable and gorgeous as ever.”
Gorgeous? Alistair blinked, experiencing the strangest fluttering within his belly. A sensation not quite akin to arousal—perhaps more like pride. He thrust both shoulders back as Marcus gave his waistcoat one final adjustment, a downright spousal touch.
“You managed to do a lovely job of disheveling me.” Alistair drew in a breath, hoping to steady himself. “Whatever is to be done with you and your garden trysts, Lord Marcus?”