by Cooper Davis
* * *
“I cannot believe you actually asked my papa for permission to take me on a sleigh ride. I am a grown man, or haven’t you noticed?”
“And the son of a duke? Or haven’t you noticed?” Alistair mimicked a brogue. “Besides I dinna ask. Yer papa simply lent his approval of my plan.”
Marcus swatted his leg playfully, and Alistair ducked sideways. Then he spread the fur throw more evenly over their knees. The press of masculine hipbone, as well as softly supple flesh and muscle tantalized Marcus. He shivered at the intimacy, recalling the sensation of that same large body spread beneath his own.
“Are you over-cold, my lord?” Alistair glanced at him solicitously, and if Marcus weren’t mistaken, his beau held the look of the devil to him. Bastard! He knew how arousing he was to Marcus, just by his very presence, there beneath the shared fur.
“You mean to distract me from the point at hand.”
“I thought this sleigh ride was the point at hand.” A rough, raspy laugh rumbled forth from the man’s burly chest.
“You needn’t have approached my papa, Alistair; or did you seek permission to continue tumbling me, as well?”
“No, my Marcus, I did not, but I can’t imagine he’s not aware that we’ve been sharing intimacies. I don’t hide my emotions particularly well, and he did peer at me repeatedly. As if he suspected.”
“Dear God.” Marcus wanted to cringe down beneath their fur blanket.
“Oh, don’t be alarmed.” Alistair laughed, adjusting the reins, sitting taller with a sniff. “Marcus, I called upon your father today for one reason. Your reputation and safeguarding it. I needed him to see that I recognize that you’re eligible and young.”
“I am of an age where a daylight sleigh ride need not pose issues of decorum. Duke’s son or not.”
Beneath the blanket, Finley reached for his hand, squeezing it briefly within his own gloved one. “But I do wish to be extremely dignified as I make my suit fully known. To your family and to society itself. That said, I do not mean to keep our courtship a secret. Only”—Alistair inclined his head sideways, eyes still tracking the horses’ forward progress—“what we do in our own private time. Such as sledding.”
“Sledding?” Marcus burst out laughing and snuggled closer. “Is that our new euphemism? Because surely you didn’t ask Papa’s permission to fondle my thigh.”
“Hardly. In fact, I was firmly acquainted with his ownership of a perpetually loaded pistol, one he wouldn’t hesitate to use to defend his fourth son’s honor.”
“Bollocks and bother, that bloody thing is so ancient it probably wouldn’t fire at all—except possibly in a manner that would harm Papa. I was certain Ethan hid the blasted thing a few years ago.”
Alistair shook with mirth beside him. “I did pledge to comport myself in the most gentlemanly manner any papa could hope for. Of course, as he is a male like me, he surely must have imagined I’d purloin a boon or two from you on this sleigh ride.”
To illustrate that point, Alistair swept bold fingertips across Marcus’s extremely erect cock, tracking the outline. His prick had been standing firm ever since Alistair settled beside him, smelling of fresh air, and pines and . . . tea. There was no aroma of liquor on his person at all, only a lingering, faint scent of cigar smoke. That scent alone was so masculine, it intoxicated Marcus. Alistair caressed him briefly once more, a mere glancing touch, then took the reins back in both hands.
Marcus was tempted to take that big hand and put it right back where it had been, squarely between Marcus’s legs. Then again, it wouldn’t do for Alistair to lose control of the horses. Besides, Marcus was absurdly happy, just sitting beside his new lover, treasuring their time together.
Marcus smiled, staring heavenward as a dazzling sun glistened across the snow-draped trees. He drew in a deep breath of fresh, awakening air, then slowly exhaled.
“What is it, my lord?”
Marcus turned to find Alistair studying him quizzically. “It’s a gorgeous day and I’m so . . . happy. ’Tis all. I barely ever dreamed of a morning like this.”
Alistair nudged a little closer, and softly asked, “Could you dream of more? Many more mornings much like this one?”
Marcus stared at his lap, shy and overwhelmed. “Now that there’s been a first? I can fathom most anything magical and romantic—so long as you’re the one at my side.”
Alistair kissed Marcus on the forehead. “Then set to dreaming, dear one. I dreamed of this.” The gentleman’s hand roved more scandalously between Marcus’s legs.
“Careful, Finley. My papa would have rooted for that pistol if he’d known you planned to caress my manhood in broad daylight.”
Alistair’s thumb worked across the front fold of Marcus’s trousers. “I would consider this a private arrangement between two gentlemen. But I do wish to observe propriety with your family.” Marcus wilted in disappointment when Alistair’s hand vanished, and he resumed holding the reins within both gloved hands.
“And that started with express permission to take me sledding?”
“It actually started with the chat your papa and I had by the fire this morning.”
Marcus turned in the seat, almost aghast, more than a little embarrassed. “Are you . . . Was it one of those talks?”
“I sought his permission to court you for an appropriate time. For as long as it took to satisfy polite society. Before . . .” The rest of the unspoken sentence buzzed between them, warmed Marcus’s cheeks. A longer term, a life together, was all Alistair hadn’t said. But it had been more than implied.
“I . . . I hardly know what to say.”
“That you’ll allow me to formally press my suit? That answer would please me to no end. I have your father’s approval of this courtship. I should love to hear your own.”
Marcus laughed. “You’re ridiculous. You know that, right?”
“I’m now as determined as you’ve been. But I want to go about things in the most upright manner.”
Marcus nudged the other man, still laughing. “This is a dream come true for you, isn’t it?” he said. “A chance to be traditional, buttoned-up, and practical, all in one fell swoop.”
“You forgot romantic,” Alistair told him with a tentative smile.
“Oh, quite so, Mr. Finley. Quite so. But also very starchy. As you ever are. No wonder you and my father were both laughing when you left his study. The pair of you managed to pen me into an old-fashioned courtship.”
“He was pleased, I think. I am pleased that he was so.” Alistair gave him an endearingly shy glance. “But I shan’t truly find my pleasure till you formally concur.”
“I’ve all but begged you to pursue me. Of course I approve!” Marcus reached over and looped his arms around the man, embracing him briefly. “But I hope we shan’t be too old-fashioned. That you won’t say we should wait until . . . well. That you’ll still tup me?”
“Oh, Lord Marcus. I’m not that old-fashioned. I had a taste of your offerings and one taste—for a man with my appetites—won’t possibly do.” Alistair leaned back in the sleigh, and damn, but the man looked self-satisfied. Downright puffed up, chuckling to himself and grinning broadly. He also looked more handsome than Marcus had ever seen him, the cold air having brought beautiful, high color to his cheekbones. To see his face flushed from the outdoors, and the snowy day—not from liquor—nearly made Marcus’s eyes prickle. “You are beautiful today, Alistair.”
The man beside him turned, surprised by the compliment. “I barely slept all night,” Alistair admitted, then tapped the reins, guiding the horses around a branch ahead. Alistair sat taller, alert. Clearly the fellow knew his way around horses, which meant he would fit in perfectly among the brood of Avenleigh brothers. “You like to ride.” Marcus observed softly, his mind swimming with images of Alistair and his brothers riding together, over the moors of the
ir family estate up north. “You are clearly a confident horseman.”
“Yes. Well.” Alistair’s cheeks turned ruddy and he hesitated to say more, seeming to consider his words. “I grew up astride horses and craved time in the saddle like my next breath, to be honest.” His happy expression slipped softly. “But life changes things. I became ungainly, too overlarge to comport my way about the saddle. At least comfortably. And so . . . I eventually gave up. The riding, I mean. I’m now most comfortable manning a desk.” With a low laugh, Alistair continued, “Well, we clearly proved I’m extremely comfortable upon a desk, and even that didn’t support me so well. Which should tell you why I won’t force a fine mount to endure my heft.”
“Alistair.” Marcus turned to him, caressing his forearm, stroking the heavy wool of his coat. “My brothers could easily find a great stallion for you.”
“Oh, good lord, Marcus. Can you picture it? No. Definitely not.”
“Whyever did you stop with the riding? It obviously made you happy, I saw how delighted you just became talking about it. This sleigh, your handle of the reins and the team. You’re happy now.” He squeezed Alistair’s forearm tenderly.
Alistair tapped the reins again, then cast him a sideways smile. “Because I’m with you, Marcus. I’m overjoyed at present.”
“We can find you a proper mount, whenever you’re ready. We can ride these hills together, side by side.”
Alistair’s expression became troubled, and he gave a single shake of his head. “Too large.” It was all he would say, and Marcus knew the man well enough to realize he’d get no further.
The saddest part was that had Alistair continued riding, he would likely have kept his weight more managed. Resolved, Marcus decided to press just one more time. “Alistair, I was on a horse before I could toddle properly. Trust me—you’re by no means too large to enjoy riding. My papa isn’t so very much smaller than you. And Ethan? He’s strapping and sturdy and rides like the wind.”
“Hopefully not like the merry wind.” Alistair murmured wickedly, repeating Marcus’s words just before they’d made love. “I reserve that for when you are astride me.”
“Oh, aye. But the thought of you astride a mount? Dear heavens, but it’s rousing.”
Alistair smiled, his cheeks pink from the cool air. “Well, in that case, perhaps your brothers will see me in a saddle, after all.”
Marcus’s heart soared, especially when his lover gave him a sideways glance. “I should wish to become as fit as possible now, you must know. To . . .” He dropped his voice quite low. “Be worthy of note.”
“You never need work to be worthy of me.”
Dimples appeared and Alistair shifted closer. “I wish to make you mad with lust, then.”
“Done, already.” Marcus felt a powerful thigh press against his own, arousing him instantly.
“I wish to . . .” That brightness to the man’s eyes, the slight flush, all of it intensified, and he inclined his mouth to Marcus’s ear. “I wish there to be less of me, that I might tup you beneath me some day. I should be several stone fewer before then.”
“No. I am capable of looking after myself.”
“I would wish to be cautious, in any case. Not do something . . . ill conceived. Thus, I’m giving it quite a bit of thought.”
Marcus gasped, sitting tall and staring straight ahead. The hand upon his thigh ventured into the crevice between his legs, then light fingertips squeezed. “For what I wish, I need to have less heft, be more agile,” Alistair said. As the sleigh rounded a bend in the fields, they were suddenly in a concealed thicket. Far out of view from the manor home, far from any lane or avenue of discovery. And Alistair Finley, newly minted rake, drew the sleigh to a halt.
Marcus was hard as heated stone, flexing against his trouser buttons to a painful extent. Alistair lay the reins neatly across the bench and turned to him. “I want to practice kissing some more.”
Marcus’s throat went dry. Alistair was gorgeous, his dusky skin flushed, his black eyes bright. He reached out and cupped Marcus’s face in his palms. “I want, honestly, to make love to you right here, in the frigid cold. But that’s clearly a fantastical plan.”
“You could make love to my mouth.”
“Pardon?” Alistair tipped Marcus’s face upward, so gentle and tender.
“I’d like to suck you off, Finley.”
The other man leaned in, brushing his lips over Marcus’s own. “I’ve never experienced that,” Alistair confessed. “Which shan’t surprise you, as you’ve discovered that I am, really, barely experienced at all.”
“I’ll keep ruining you, bit by bit.” Marcus slid his hands about Alistair’s hips, pulling him closer. “Indulgence by indulgence.”
“Umm.” Alistair nuzzled him, moving his warm mouth along the column of Marcus’s throat until he found the pulse point. “You’d do what with your mouth for me?”
“If you let me unfasten these buttons,” Marcus said, trying to work at Alistair’s front flap, “I can show you.”
Finley’s top button popped open and then Marcus found the rest of the row much more compliant. And discovered another exquisitely made set of smallclothes, this pair tied off with a black satin ribbon. It looked wicked, especially in the sharp morning light. “Black?” he gasped, fondling the oddly delicate ribbon.
“You’re so fond of my hair . . . I thought perhaps the color would suit?”
“To match the silken curls down below, hmm?” Alistair’s heavy, large prick nudged outward through the parting linen. The erection bobbed weightily onto Marcus’s gloved palm, streaking the pale-colored leather at once. “I might ruin my gloves. That won’t do, for my papa would guess what we’d been up to.”
“Tell him we played in the snow. I relish the feel of that soft leather on my length. It’s wicked and cool and maddeningly fine.” Alistair’s velvet lashes drifted downward, a mixed expression of pleasure and agony wincing across his features. “Arousing as hell.”
Marcus slid off the bench, and knelt in front of Alistair. He nestled the fur throw about Alistair’s lap, and moved closer. “You look tortured, fine sir.” Marcus slipped a gloved fingertip over Alistair’s slit, until a stain formed on the kidskin while Marcus fondled the man’s weeping cock.
“It is”—Alistair inhaled sharply when Marcus ran that fingertip down to the root of his prick—“delicious torture.”
“Not too tormenting I hope?” Marcus slid a few fingertips down to the man’s bollocks. “I wouldn’t want to agonize you.”
Alistair lolled his head back against the leather bench, and murmured, “My lord? Please torture me more.”
And Marcus set about doing that very thing.
Chapter Seventeen
Their courtship, as it turned out, did not progress as quickly as Marcus had anticipated. Then again, he should have guessed that with Alistair hell-bent on proceeding as a true gentleman, he might well take his time about things. Marcus watched for the post every day, and groaned inwardly as only a couple of brief notes arrived, each of them reserved in their affections.
He was sorely tempted to send a note of his own, one that inquired, “Whenever are you going to make your next move, you adorable toff?” But Alistair had made his intentions clear: he wished to be the one to make pursuit, now that they were courting. So, Marcus waited. And waited. And spent quite a great deal of time alone with his thoughts—and his lust.
But after the most endless two weeks of his life, a beautiful vellum note arrived, sealed with the royal crest. The handwriting was flourishing—Alistair’s own hand, but somehow particularly elegant. He imagined Alistair taking intricate care to make the correspondence beautiful. Special. That, much more than any words the missive itself might contain, made Marcus feel treasured.
Standing in the front hallway, he tore into the envelope—nudging Ethan aside when he tried to read over hi
s shoulder. “Let me guess,” Ethan said, “he wishes to see you in three months. The fellow is costing you the whole season, brother. You could be out, waltzing and chasing tailcoat.”
“Hush,” Marcus said, moving down the hall and poring over the letter. His heart began to pound wildly, his breath became uneven. Alistair had invited him to be his guest at the royal opera in a few days, with a further invitation to stay at his townhome overnight! His mind raced with images of velvet drapes and stolen liberties whilst in the king’s own box.
And just like that, his impatience was forgotten, his frustration with his cautious lover vanishing like a morning mist. Because clearly Alistair was not cautious. He was inviting Marcus to stay the night in his bed. Not overtly, of course, but what else could be the outcome of a night at his home?
He pressed the invitation into the pocket of his morning coat, and quickly brushed past Ethan and into the dining room.
Everyone else was seated already, and Ethan stomped along behind him, announcing, “Marcus seems to have finally seen movement from the elusive Mr. Finley. I daresay there’s an invitation of sorts in his pocket.”
Marcus shot him a look, taking his seat. “You don’t know absolutely everything.” Marcus instructed the footman to serve him, as he was too shaky to fuss with the buffet, then said, “But, as it happens, yes, I did indeed receive a very special invitation from Mr. Finley.”
He couldn’t help utterly beaming. Reaching into his pocket for the note, he said, “Papa, you read it. He wishes to take me to the opera, to share the royal box, no less!” He widened his eyes significantly at Ian, who’d been snickering under his breath, and then they all waited.
His father adjusted his spectacles and quietly read the note. Then he read it again, studying it with a furrow in his brow. Very slowly, his father removed his spectacles and looked at Marcus with concern. “’Tis also an invitation to spend the night at Mr. Finley’s townhome.”
Marcus bobbed his head jubilantly. “Yes, yes, I know. He’s finally making more of a move. Isn’t it thrilling?” Marcus leaned back in his chair, amazed that he hadn’t floated to the very ceiling.