by Cooper Davis
Alistair gave him a dimpled, sideways grin—one that was looser than usual. “I missed you,” Alistair admitted, finally entering the bedroom and closing the door behind him.
He braced his back against the heavy door, studying Marcus greedily. The grateful expression on his lover’s face positively melted Marcus’s own heart. Alistair swiftly dropped his gaze. “I truly missed you, Marcus. I fear I’m coming to rely on my time with you.”
“Why is yearning for our time together so very bad? We are lovers, after all.” Marcus moved closer toward the door, where Alistair remained braced, held tight as if he feared losing control.
Alistair swallowed hard, and the vulnerable, bleary-eyed expression on his face caused Marcus’s chest to tighten—and made him want to lighten the mood, to force his darling Alistair to laugh and cast aside this strangely dark conversation. “I am,” Alistair whispered, “impossible with half-measures about anything. Least of all with you, and I don’t like needing you this much. Or wanting you so badly.”
“Which is at least as much as I want you.” He ventured closer to Alistair. “Have you forgotten your mahogany desk and how beautifully I turned you across that polished expanse? Or how I buggered both you and it to splinters?”
“I have not.” That warm flush across Alistair’s face deepened. “I can think of little else. I’ve been utterly useless.” Alistair swallowed once more, then licked his lips, gaze fixed on Marcus’s mouth. “My hand and I have, urm, known some exploratory expeditions these past weeks. ’Twas my sole comfort.”
Marcus arched a brow. “Never thought I’d be jealous of one large, masculine hand. How dare that bloke infringe upon my territory?”
Alistair gave him a helpless smile. “I did not have you.”
“Yes, which is why our two-week separation has left me randy as one of my papa’s spring bulls.” Marcus leaned in closer, bracing a hand beside Alistair’s ear.
“A randy bull?” Alistair barked a laugh, a warm, bubbling sound. “Will you chase me about the town house, stomping at the polished hardwoods and blowing steam from your nostrils?”
“I might take you down upon those hardwoods and lay you utterly bare. As I say, remember your desk.”
Alistair’s formal trousers surged outward, revealing that Marcus’s blunt words had stirred the man.
“We would have to be quiet about it.” It was said in such an offhand way that even Marcus blushed for once. “I am, after all, the king’s conservative secretary. I’ve that reputation to uphold with my servants.”
Marcus leaned in closer, until he could feel his lover’s warm breath fan his cheek. “I doubt you’re fooling anyone, Alistair Finley. Least of all me.”
Finley reached out to capture Marcus’s face, dragging him into a hungry, frantic kiss. It was inelegant, downright sloppy, but full of naked passion. Alistair’s tongue thrust into Marcus’s mouth on a hot demand. The kiss sang throughout Marcus’s body and vibrated one singular word: more. The man wanted much more than a kiss, clearly. Finley skimmed one large hand down to Marcus’s hip, dragging him flush against Alistair’s own body, and holding them both against the closed door.
Marcus braced his forearms against that heavy door, angling for a better kiss, but Alistair groaned, and dragged him closer still. The man’s tongue was tangling with his, the whole of that big body drawing Marcus ever nearer.
Finley thrust his hips, grinding against Marcus and moaning into his mouth. A rolling rhythm passed between their hips. Dear heavens, but Alistair’s girth wasn’t the only plump thing about him: the man’s fine cock had turned hard and heated beneath his trousers. The pressure of it nudged against Marcus’s own groin.
A rolling pressure kicked off that quickly began to simulate actual lovemaking, growing more and more fervent.
Marcus broke the kiss, gasping as he palmed the door behind Alistair. He nuzzled the man’s cheek, inhaling the aroma of shaving lotion and expensive whiskey. He cupped Alistair’s nape, then pulled back until they were staring into each other’s eyes. Finley ducked down and captured his lips again, the kiss sweltering, all suckling and thrusting tongues.
But the opera awaited, and they had all night together.
Marcus pressed his forehead against Alistair’s; they both gasped at the reedy air between them. “We can’t start all that, not till after the opera.”
Next Marcus neatened Alistair’s waistcoat, which had ridden up a bit, then smoothed his lapels for him. “There you go. Now no one shall be the wiser that I nearly had my way with you.”
“It’s not quite time to depart just yet, you know,” Alistair volunteered.
Marcus slid a hand down the front of his lover’s waistcoat. “But we shan’t ever make it, if we tumble into bed just now. Still”—Marcus strolled languidly toward the bed—“let me see what sort of bed you provide your beaux.”
Marcus settled a hip on the expansive, richly covered mattress, giving it a testing bounce. Alistair remained braced against the door, breathless and hardly composed.
Marcus leaned farther back upon the mattress. “That formal wear gives you the look of a devil liberated from the netherworlds, with your black hair and raven eyes.” He bounced on the mattress again, seriously wondering whether it was worth attending the opera at all.
“Are you generally given to buggering devils?” Finley drawled, pushing off the door and moving toward the bed.
“I am when they’re beautiful and mine. I should like to think you are mine.”
“Oh, yes. I am yours tonight.” Alistair settled formally beside him, gracing him with the gentlest smile possible.
Tonight. Marcus winced at the limitation that implied, that Alistair was not yet ready to fully commit to Marcus.
“Then tonight I am yours, as well,” Marcus said tentatively.
“We will be secluded in the royal box during the performance.” Alistair ran a lingering caress down Marcus’s freshly shaven cheek. “I might dare quite a few improprieties behind the velvet drapes.”
Marcus’s body reacted instantly, from his cheeks to his groin. Alistair’s gaze caressed him. “My beautiful Marcus. You spend so much time complimenting me, and rarely allow me to do likewise. You”—Alistair bent his head, brushing a tender kiss to Marcus’s jaw—“are stunning in that jewel-green tailcoat.”
Marcus turned so he could capture Alistair’s mouth in a kiss. “I chose it,” he whispered against the man’s full, sumptuous mouth, “to make you a bit wild. And because it complements my eyes.”
“Which do indeed make me wild.” Alistair traced the outline of Marcus’s jawline. “As does your brogue, my bonny lad.”
“I’m surprised you’re not from the north,” Marcus replied, beaming. “You’ve such love for softly burring accents and laird’s sons.”
As soon as Marcus had said the words, he froze in Alistair’s arms. Such love for.
Neither of them had confessed any depths of love, not yet. And although they were on a path toward betrothal, many of their set married without any notions of love.
Marcus stood and walked across the room, eager to make light of his slip of the tongue. “I don’t expect you to . . . well, many spouses come to love each other in time, but you needn’t worry that I expect it. Not that I would mind, of course, should you love me.” To cover his growing distress, Marcus laughed with forced lightness, staring down at the busy city street three stories down. “The street is bustling down there.”
Alistair strolled to the sideboard and filled a glass from the decanter, splashing amber bourbon into the cut crystal. “I shan’t be frightened of your growing affection for me, Marcus, nor what we share.” Finley moved toward the chaise longue by the window and, holding the glass, settled upon the chair, stretching out his long legs. “You know that I made my intentions clear to your father.”
“Aye, I’m well aware that you and my father
discussed our suit.” With a trembling hand, Marcus poured himself a drink, as well. Staring down into his highball, he wondered just how many times Alistair had already splashed liquor into his own glass prior to Marcus’s arrival. “And yet, at times, you prevaricate here, with our relationship. Or so it feels.”
“Marcus, I am extraordinarily fond of you. It’s just that I never . . .”
“Never what, Alistair?” The words came out sharp, but between realizing his lover was half-foxed already, and the tenor of this discussion, Marcus had begun to despair. And he hurt in a way that he had never expected tonight. “Never . . . ?”
Finley took a long sip of drink. “I never thought to play suitor to a male like you. A fine, beautiful, talented man. It’s a bit dumbfounding, and requires some growing accustomed to, the whole of it. But that doesn’t mean I fear your feelings—nor my own.” Alistair reclined heavily into that chaise, his lovely eyes a bit bleary. “But I want to be the right kind of man for you. I must be that kind of man . . . before the rest.”
“Before the rest of what?” Were they not headed for betrothal already? Was that not where everything had been leading? Marcus tried to stymie the panic that swamped him, the nervous shaking of his hands.
Alistair smiled fuzzily into his glass; oblivious to Marcus’s fretful reaction, he drawled, “I’ve stayed off the alcohol, as much as I could, these weeks. The past month. But it has a hold on me that I can’t shake. You know that.”
“No, my darling, what I know is that you’ve been endeavoring to change, and I believe you’ve done so for me.”
“It’s entirely for you.” Alistair took a long, desperate draw from his glass. “But I won’t ever give up drink entirely.”
“Love accepts all things. Our spiritual teachings say that. But love also hopes—and I hope for your very best nature to win, Alistair.” There. He’d admitted love, but had done so in an elevated way, as if it were a scriptural teaching, not a confession from the depths of his own heart.
Alistair blinked at him, then drained his glass dry. He stared into the emptiness that remained and blinked again. “Did you just profess your love for me?”
Damn. Marcus might be a tad heady himself, so rarely did he drink. But, no, he’d wanted Alistair to know the depth of his affection, even as he feared pushing the gentleman away. “I suppose that I did.”
Alistair rose and moved to the sideboard, where he set his glass down and braced his big hands along the edge until his knuckles turned white. He was breathing heavily, his shoulders practically heaving with those desperate gulps. “You love me,” he said, voice rasping.
Marcus brushed at his brow. “Alistair, don’t make a fuss.”
“You love me,” he repeated, as he gripped that blasted sideboard as if it were his salvation. Slowly, Finley turned to face him. “Tell me again,” he said, his breathing ragged.
Marcus stared him in the eye. “Alistair, I love you. You are precious to me,” he murmured. “Of course I love you. How could I not?”
Finley’s expression darkened, and he spun back to the sideboard, sloppily refilling his glass. “Oh, I daresay I can think of many reasons why you shouldn’t love me.” Alistair shook his head, adding sternly, “I laid no claim to permanently changing. And I must change before I can give you the things you want. And I need you to see that.” Alistair lifted the glass once more, then took a long, urgent draw, his expression reverent, as if it were a sensual act, something sacred and rare.
Marcus wanted to take the glass and rip it from the man’s big hand; he was swimming in fury and heartache. “And so, Alistair, that’s why you shan’t profess your own love for me?” he managed in a sharp tone. “Because you prefer your liquor?”
Slowly Alistair shook his head, keeping his back to Marcus. “I want to master myself—more—before I experience everything I’m on the brink of here. I’m . . . in a swan dive. It’s dangerous, the way you’ve brought me tumbling. I am dangerous when I’m with you and equally dangerous when I am not. I must regain some kind of control, find that control within my character, before I truly let myself go with you.”
“You’re a stronger male than I, then, if you’re able to keep such tight restraint upon your heart.” Marcus felt his eyes sting. “Especially as you are admitting you have no control whatsoever over other aspects of yourself.”
Finley took a long, searing study of him; those devilish eyes darkening; his black lashes fanned downward, until he looked so very wicked. They’d been courtly and flirting only minutes earlier. How had things turned so fractious? Because Marcus had blurted his love for the beautiful, haunted man? Marcus turned to face the window, lifted a curtain back, and saw that it was nearly dark. “I should like to leave now, so we have enough time to settle ourselves for the performance.”
He stared out into the square below, keeping his back to Alistair, and never heard the man steal behind him. Strong, warm arms encircled him before he could object. “I am sorry, my love.”
My love. So close. Almost. Practically the words Marcus ached to hear.
“It is fine.”
Alistair pressed his face against the top of Marcus’s head, whispering, “No, it’s not. You’re peevish with me when I wished so very much to give you a magical, romantic evening, as you deserve.”
“I wish you were an easier man to care about.” Not a near-impossible man to love, especially as much as I love you. But no, he would not profess those emotions again—and especially not now.
“I have never been easy. And I did try most persuasively to warn you off me, Marcus. I pushed and tried, but now we are here, together.” Alistair brushed a kiss down across Marcus’s nape. “And we both know where we are heading.”
“But are we? You cannot even allow yourself to . . . fall for me, not completely. You keep yourself held apart from me. You have just said that you shan’t love me, nor offer your hand—not unless you can change.”
Another kiss burned across Marcus’s nape, while large hands slid down his abdomen, caressing him. “I have failed miserably in guarding myself from you, or withholding my regard and my . . . affection.”
“I know you love me.”
“Shh,” his lover murmured huskily, drawing Marcus back into his arms. Finley’s lips pressed against his ear. “Shh, darling.” Alistair’s open palms skated up across Marcus’s waistcoat, flexing against his chest. “Give me time.”
Marcus pressed his eyes shut, aching—in his heart and his loins. Why not take what was offered and accept the situation?
“Can you be a bit patient, lovely Marcus?” The man sounded halfway foxed and it absolutely broke his heart. These past several weeks, he’d been quite aware that Finley had set aside his imbibing, just as he’d said. Marcus supposed tonight had felt festive, celebratory, and that had sent Alistair uncorking the decanters. But he’d wanted Alistair himself this evening, the truest version of him. Not the one who lived in his cups—or had done, prior to their courtship.
“Would you mind so terribly not drinking any more this evening?” he asked before he could stop. “At the opera? And later, back here?”
Finley released him with an angry groan and a sharp gesture. He blew out a blustering, harrumphing breath. “For God’s sake,” the man muttered, having shifted moods like a mercurial wind. Next his heavy footfalls plowed about the room. “Bloody males. Why could I not prefer the feminine gender? At least their stock owns the simple decency to let a man be a man. Then again, you henpeck me like a female already, and we’re not even married.”
Marcus spun, jaw slack. “I truly cannot believe you just insulted my masculinity so rudely,” Marcus spat, then he did what he’d wanted to do for several minutes. He reached down, wrenched the gentleman’s glass from his hand and hurled it, and its contents, into the hearth.
The fine crystal smashed loudly, and Alistair only stared at him in slack-jawed wonder.
> “There! Is that better? It’s not henpecking, it’s blunt honesty!”
Alistair appeared dazed, his inebriation more obvious than ever. “That,” he finally muttered, “is a damned expensive piece of crystal you just ruined. That’s what it is.”
“Sod you, Finley! And know this—I am a man. Every bit of me is masculine, and if you want a fucking female, you best look elsewhere. But you said it to incite, to push me away. Not because you’ve any doubt that this lad from the north, a duke’s country-born son, is anything but a man—raised among a bevy of masculine men.”
Marcus tossed him one last glance, shaking with fury so badly that his teeth nearly chattered. “Have a bloody brilliant night at the opera.”
* * *
* * *
Alistair’s restless fingertips disheveled his valet’s careful work with his naturally unruly waves. Why the blazes would he not simply have told Marcus the truth—that he was besottedly, stupidly, irrationally in love with him? Once Marcus had claimed him as lover, Alistair had only fallen harder still. He’d known then that he’d passed any point of sensible return. His love for Marcus had engulfed him entirely.
And with realization of that love, Alistair had become, on some lurking, dangerous level, terrified of having fallen for the man. Marcus deserved a proper suitor. Marcus deserved a sober, adoring husband who could fulfill his desire for a family and husband and children. Marcus deserved a man of pedigree, with title and immense fortune—who likewise had a family of his own, one who would embrace Marcus with open hearts.
Unfortunately, Alistair could fulfill none of those things. He was the by-blow of a dead king, a monarch who’d only acknowledged him posthumously. And who’d left Alistair seething in secret, serving a half brother to whom he could never reveal their shared bloodline.
He left the room and went searching for Marcus. He did not find his lover at first, nor did any of his servants know his beloved’s whereabouts. With a rising swell of panic, Alistair plundered about his townhome, hating the dwelling’s somewhat grand size; apparently, his home’s vastness allowed certain lovers to become inconveniently hidden. Finally, he headed off into the dark streets, desperate to find his beloved.