by Cooper Davis
“You know,” Marcus said, setting in on Alistair’s boots, “nothing would scintillate me more than looking straight into your eyes when I bugger you.”
* * *
* * *
Alistair shivered at Marcus’s easy murmuring of the word bugger and the equally frank awareness—solid as a man’s shaft between his clefts—that they were on the precipice of joining.
“Buggering. Visceral word, that.” Alistair inhaled sharply as Marcus stroked his thighs, leaning over him slightly. But then Marcus paused, and with a piratical smile, divested Alistair of first one, then his other boot, with impressive swiftness.
“Better. But getting rid of these”—Marcus took hold of Alistair’s trouser leg and began pulling toward himself—“will be best of all.” The pants tangled, then finally fell to the floor in a heap. The kiss of chilly air brushed across Alistair’s thighs and groin; Marcus caressed up along one of his stockinged calves, then gave the garter a playful tug. “Sinful. A man with garters.”
“Fashionable. And wise, as I prefer to keep my stockings aloft.”
Marcus deftly unfastened that garter, rolling the stocking down and away. As he began work on the other, he murmured, “And I prefer you completely bared beneath me.”
Marcus started on Alistair’s linen shirt, lifting it helpfully in an obvious effort to divest him of the last article providing any coverage. “Only once you let me turn over. Not . . . I—“ He never got the complaint out, as Marcus already had the shirt moving over Alistair’s head.
Marcus next stripped out of his own shirt; he pushed Alistair flat upon his back with a firm palm to his chest. Alistair heard the bloody desk creak and groan, and he braced for a disaster, but none came. Marcus smiled down at him sweetly. “I take you as a man who wishes to be tupped hard at first, then gentled, then ridden until you’re no longer sensate. Am I wrong?”
Alistair angled his hips upward, moving his hips and pelvis into a biddable position. His manhood pressed into Marcus’s taut belly, his own body compressing as Marcus levered down onto him. Alistair’s heels slid upward along Marcus’s back, trying—and failing—for purchase against his skin.
Marcus’s muscular, freckled chest pushed against Alistair’s bigger torso and a rivulet of perspiration slid between their nipples. The man’s erection prodded at Alistair’s bollocks, grazing his sensitive entry with an assertive poke. “Let me take you this way,” Marcus murmured, nuzzling Alistair’s neck.
Alistair so ached to be tupped, he was eager to the point of incoherence. He shifted hungrily on that desk, but then a flashing memory arrested him. The image of his enormous, candlelit reflection from last night swam before his eyes. And by God, he’d been clothed then . . .
Alistair shivered at the image. “Marcus, not like this,” he murmured in humiliated dismay. “Not like this . . . I can’t.” He jerked his head to the side, withdrawing from Marcus as much as possible.
Marcus leaned forward, shushing him. “I haven’t even prepared you. Let me savor you. Let us savor this, together. I will never press for what does not please you. Trust me?” he asked, as he’d done once already.
Alistair sighed as his self-consciousness yielded to carnal desire. “I do trust you,” he said quietly, “or I’d not be in your arms at all.”
Taking his time, Marcus outlined Alistair’s upper legs, sculpting the ripe flesh. Marcus was nearly as aroused by that supple bulk as by the man’s cock, likewise plump and heavy. Aching for broader hold, Marcus tried to spread his fingertips wide about the man’s thighs, but they were utterly titanic—rippling beneath his caresses.
Marcus palmed upward, molding his touch about Alistair’s buttocks. That voluptuous arse swelled beneath his touch, overspilling Marcus’s eager palms. He stroked the tensing flesh in approval. “Aye, this,” Marcus murmured, his brogue betraying him. “Oh, aye, so verra, verra much of this.” Marcus lowered his head, kissing Alistair’s midriff worshipfully. “So verra much of ye. So verra delicious.”
Marcus slowly moved up along the man’s form, tongue and lips trailing a firebrand until they were pressed chest to chest anew. Alistair’s heartbeat drummed against Marcus’s own, a matching staccato visible at his temple. Sweat bloomed between their closely pressed pectorals, their hot breaths mingling together. Alistair swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, swallowed again.
Marcus swiped a soothing palm over his lover’s brow. “Ye needna’ fear me.”
“I fear only one thing.” Alistair studied him through moody eyes, breathless and overheated. “That you’ll fail to turn me over my bloody desk and claim me. Be a good man, would you, my lord, and have your way with me at last?”
Marcus gracefully dismounted Alistair, walloping the man’s dense flank. “Over with ye, then, Mr. Finley,” he burred, “and I shall ride ye like the merry wind.”
* * *
* * *
Alistair’s fingers flexed about the edges of the desk, his body levered forward, face pressed against smooth mahogany. Marcus had splayed Alistair’s long legs wide, palming him downward with a gentle pressure at the small of the back. The reverent way Marcus handled him, from thigh to cock to buttock, stripped Alistair of any remaining resistance.
The gambit forfeited to an outrageously beautiful fourth son of a duke.
Alistair pressed his eyes shut, aware that he’d fallen in love. Aware that the emotions swamping his heart were the most dangerous he’d ever indulged in, yet equally shocked to discover he wasn’t one whit regretful of the risk.
Marcus pushed his cock between Alistair’s thighs and, wedging against Alistair’s bollocks, began a rocking motion. As their hips instantly began to piston, a plaintive cry escaped Marcus’s lips. Alistair surrendered to that friction, letting Marcus pummel his arse in an escalating rhythm, and Marcus whimpered again—a sweet, almost delicate plea as he pressed his face against Alistair’s shoulder.
But then that strong-willed male took control again, forcing Alistair back down, pressing him face-first into his greatest fantasy: being taken across this very desk by one auburn-haired, strapping lord.
This time, it was Alistair who whimpered senselessly. A tender palm returned to the small of his back. “I’m having you, darling,” Marcus told him gruffly.
A slicked-up finger parted the clefts of his arse and slid all the way into his opening. Alistair’s belly began pushing and heaving against the formal, antique surface of the office furniture. It wasn’t dignified, but bloody fucking hell . . . Marcus’s fingers, those fingers!
Not just one digit, but now two of them, were massaging Alistair’s taut band of muscle, leaving it puckering, resisting—and yielding, too. The prod of those fingertips charged Alistair’s hips into an answering lunge, as he begged and urged and whimpered. “More. More?” Dear God, please much more.
Marcus brushed soft lips against his nape. “Och, Alistair. I’m only just beginning to pleasure ye.”
Then those slicked-up, oiled fingers—Alistair would have sworn Marcus used three of them—penetrated him anew. Harder. They prodded and played between Alistair’s heavy cheeks. “Spread a little wider, darling mine,” Marcus purred against his nape.
Alistair complied with uninhibited urgency, his thick forearms bearing down upon the desk, hips and arse jutting and surging behind him. Ready. Eager.
Dizzying, the immediacy of it all. So much more overpowering than even his headiest fantasies of Marcus. That’s why it was best this way—with Alistair plunked forward, unable to see. Nor be fully seen by his lover-to-be.
Marcus wouldn’t glimpse Alistair’s eager face, his hungered expressions—nor his hopeful heart. Obvious, no doubt, in his every glance and reaction to the stroking and tupping. Alistair had to appear a giant full moon, brought right down into that small office, shaking and hungry and . . .
Long, long denied the pleasure of a real man.
A
moon brought into the sweetest hands and worshipped. But why should he feel revered, if he was so certain of disappointing his new lover?
Before he could mentally answer that riddle, there came another sweet plunge of Marcus’s fingers into the swelling crevice of Alistair’s arse. Marcus kneaded and squeezed the large muscles with marveling gasps, tenderly delving, in and out—unaware that Alistair required no gentleness whatsoever.
What he required was force and pressure. And what he ached to feel was Marcus’s hot seed inside him.
Today, here, he would finally become what he’d never truly been with any male before.
Their lover.
Another careful finger slid past the firm band of Alistair’s opening. In reaction, Alistair tightened the flex of his hands about the edges of the desktop, pressing his forehead against the mahogany surface.
Marcus hesitated. “Have I hurt you?”
“No! No, Marcus.” Alistair wrestled to find his breath. “It’s just that I . . . I need more, to feel more. All of you. Your cock. I . . .”
“But you’re terribly tight.” Marcus released a soft breath against his nape. “Dearest Alistair, you’re tight as a virgin.”
“Not a virgin, assuredly. And I can take it. All of it—all of you.” Alistair cantilevered his hips, pushing up slightly on his forearms so he could glance over his shoulder. “My first . . . true lover.” He panted, barely able to find his voice. “Not paid. Please. Now.”
Marcus’s lovely green eyes grew bright, and with a single nod, he pressed his narrow hips forward, his entire form a delectable athletic presence. The initial penetration was hot and fiery, branding Alistair’s arse. Piercing him with demanding intensity. Alistair bowed beneath the forceful pressure, fighting the urge to clamp down. Hard.
“Dear God, but you’re beautiful,” Marcus murmured in a tone of wonder, caressing Alistair’s soft flanks in appreciation. “My Adonis, brought to earth for me.”
Shaking, Alistair gripped the desk, his fingers like banded steel. The structural joists groaned even louder than he, but Marcus surged inside Alistair again, harder and deeper this time. The whole of Alistair’s body quaked as his lover penetrated him full-hilt—stroking Alistair in that rare, tender place. One so deep within his plump arse, few paid companions had ever bothered reaching it.
“Oh, bloody hell.” Alistair nearly sobbed, arching and pushing his hips into a harsh grind upon the mahogany. The impact ached and hurt his prick, but he was beyond control. Another thrust, another pull of his arse as Marcus speared him wholly.
Alistair pumped hungrily in reaction. His thick belly smacked the wood beneath him; his cock bumped and bruised its way against the oiled surface, until Alistair whimpered.
“Shh.” Marcus slid a hand beneath Alistair’s groin, pillowing Alistair’s straining manhood within his palm. “Softer for ye. Gentler,” Marcus explained sweetly, his breath a heated purr in Alistair’s ear.
Then, his lover’s hand was gone, and for a moment, Alistair winced when his erection glanced off mahogany again. But soon Marcus was back and something satin-smooth began sliding against Alistair’s fevered length, encasing it, pleasuring him. He gasped. “Is that—?”
“My silk necktie,” Marcus murmured, along with other sweet assurances that Alistair’s pounding blood rendered impossible to hear.
Alistair squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his arse as Marcus took him to the hilt, as the satin slid and wrapped him like an exquisite sword sheath. “Oh, God help me . . .” The cool fabric, the heat of his aching prick, the thrusting. More of it, harder, and Alistair’s whole body crashed down upon that desk.
More caresses against his erection again, sweeping the ever-slickening dampness of Alistair’s seed about the blunt tip. Marcus released him then, right as Alistair shifted—ready to beg the man to pull the fabric tighter, to make it hurt, to cinch it roughly.
But the roughness came from the motion of Marcus’s loins, and with his hands splaying firmly about both sides of Alistair’s waist, pinioning him to the wooden slab. Marcus’s muscular, sweat-slicked chest pushed into Alistair’s broad back.
“Is this all right?” Marcus inquired huskily, bussing a kiss across Alistair’s shoulders. “Me upon you, like this?”
“Yes, Marcus.” Alistair gulped, bucking eagerly, all but begging for even more. “God, you must surely know how beyond fine this is.”
“Are you absolutely certain?” Marcus laughed, trailing his tongue along a rivulet of sweat that trickled down Alistair’s spine. “I would not wish to be too aggressive.”
“Not . . . possible.” Alistair grunted and then cried out as Marcus withdrew his cock almost completely. “Please,” he whimpered achingly. “Do not pull away nor stop, not now. Please.”
The sturdy mahogany gave a wavering reply all its own, the damned structure creaking, moaning beneath them. The bloody contraption seemed ready to collapse with the very next lunge of their hips. Yet Alistair didn’t give a fig if the very floor of King Arend’s offices fell through.
With the increasing push and pull of their slickened loins, with each thrust and slap of their bodies, Alistair only gripped the wide edges of the desk even harder. Until his knuckles turned white, until his big fingers dug into the underside of his desk, meeting drawers and brass.
Ah, but young Lord Marcus Avenleigh was quite the persistent fellow, always had been. He keened a sweet cry in Alistair’s ear and burred, “How hard shall I take you, over this mighty desk of yours, Finley?”
Alistair held his breath, nearly saw stars, waited out the very fact that Marcus remained inside him. Tell him. Tell him what you crave.
Endless moments passed, with Alistair drowning in vulnerable, terrifying need. Marcus nuzzled his nape, the brush of hot breath stirring Alistair’s hair. Alistair’s fingers curled inward, and he cursed himself a fool for his reticence, his fears.
How hard shall I take you . . .
Alistair ground out his reply in a surrender, an unmasking of his hidden self. Slamming his fist on the desk twice, he cried, “Until the bloody thing breaks beneath us. Please, Marcus. Take me all the way down.”
* * *
* * *
Marcus nearly wept. There could only have been a few men to ever know this pleasure; Alistair was alive to every sensation Marcus built in him. And yet it was Marcus the handsome man was surrendering to; Marcus to whom he was yielding with utter abandon.
Pushing down onto Alistair, Marcus felt a rippling crescendo build in his groin, his bollocks constricting. He was only a mere second or two from going off inside his lover. “Fin. . . .” he moaned. “Finley . . .”
The tautness grew more aching, the need unstoppable, and he pressed his forehead between the center of his lover’s shoulders, feeling those muscles ripple and flex. Alistair jolted beneath him, that sweet, thick cock suddenly giving a big leap within Marcus’s grasp. The man’s buttocks seized about him, the tight cleft growing much tighter.
And with an ursine roar, hot, silken spurts doused Marcus’s hand, shot up over his wrist and forearm. Together, their bodies beautifully joined, they heaved and moaned and murmured dear, almost inane words of pleasure.
Marcus’s own seed spilt with such ferocity, he all but collapsed atop the other man. But he managed to brace his forearms upon the table, so as not to weigh Finley down overmuch. “I am . . . senseless.” And Marcus truly was.
“How extraordinary,” Alistair said, breathing heavily. “As I’ve never felt more alive, nor more fully aware than at this moment.”
Neither moved; they simply lay atop that damned shivering desk, cradled together, slickened and bare. In the hearth, a log popped, shooting sparks onto the rug.
Alistair, always concerned about nearly everything, only laughed. A lovely, low sound. “How utterly perfect,” he said.
“Why so?” Marcus rested his cheek against Alist
air’s sturdy shoulder; never wanting to part, never wanting his limp prick to slide free from Alistair’s arse.
“Sparks of fire, darling. Wild and free. That would be . . . you. You, and how you make me.”
Marcus’s mouth spread into a huge, beaming smile, and then he kissed Finley’s nape, leaning forward just enough to do so. And damn but his cock did slide free and met cool, brisk air. “Not yet,” Alistair murmured. “Don’t move from me.”
“I shan’t ever leave you, not lest you ask me.”
Alistair didn’t reply for a long moment, and Marcus wondered if he’d somehow said too much. But then his lover shifted slightly, just enough to relax a bit more on that desk, and turned his cheek, resting it against his own forearm. “I shan’t imagine I’d ever ask you to leave. Not now.”
Alistair turned his head slightly, so he could smile up at Marcus. And that smile? It was the most carefree expression he’d ever seen on Alistair’s face. Utterly charming, it took a good decade off the man.
Marcus was captivated by that transformation, lost in it, when the bloody desk suddenly gave a cleaving crack. It wavered beneath them, shifting like falling timber to one side. Marcus moved swiftly, rising to his full height, pulling Alistair backward and against his chest to protect him.
“Oh, dear,” Marcus cried, arms still braced about Finley’s bearlike chest. “I fear I truly did quite break that beautiful antique. I’m so very sorry—“
Alistair moved out of his embrace, strode forward and with his bare foot, gave the damned thing a powerful kick. The colossal desk tipped toward the side with a slow dive. Alistair, absolutely shaking with mirth, nudged it with his knee. And down the thing went, folding right over onto its side.
“There,” Alistair proclaimed with a firm nod, then grinned devilishly back at Marcus. “Perfect work, my Lord Marcus. Well done!” Alistair slowly turned toward him, naked as the day he was born, head high, flushed and gorgeous. “We buggered that stodgy table to pieces! What could be more fabulous than that?”