A Gentleman Revealed

by Cooper Davis

Alistair relaxed down into the mattress compliantly. Marcus answered by sliding three eager fingers within Alistair’s arse, stretching as he did so. The painful spasm that stroke elicited allowed Alistair no pride. He clenched his arse down on the man’s digits anew, hissing through clenched teeth. “I . . . I . . . Marcus, bloody living hell, I can’t—“

  Can’t bear it, can’t wait for it, can’t stay composed . . .

  “Ah, sweetheart, but you can.” Marcus pressed his forehead to his, murmuring, “You’re doing it now. Perfectly. Shh.”

  Alistair closed his eyes, leaning back into the pillows, trying to ignore how exposed he felt, his immense body on display. Yet Lord Marcus did not seem to mind what he glimpsed, given that his swollen cock bobbed heavy with lust, and his breathing came in unsteady bursts.

  The first droplets of Alistair’s pre-ejaculate brushed onto Marcus’s abdomen, causing his prick to glide across that smooth belly, leaving a trail in his cock’s blunt wake. Marcus reached between them, and gave Alistair’s weeping erection a rough stroke, lingering the pad of his thumb over the slit until it wept even more.

  Marcus gave him a voraciously satisfied look. “How ready you are, Mr. Finley. Your cock is slippery as a lady’s cunny.”

  “And what do you know of ladies’ cunnies? Bedded many an eager miss, have you?” The thought, oddly, caused Alistair a strange stab of jealousy.

  “Nothing except what my randy brothers have told me.”

  Alistair barked a tight laugh, trying to breathe through the dizzying sensations Marcus was evoking in him. “I . . . can’t believe you just used the word cunny whilst referencing my cock.”

  “Well, Mr. Finley, then let’s simply say you possess a very cunning cock.”

  Marcus grinned devilishly and fit himself atop Alistair’s body until their groins connected. That intimate connection stoked their need even hotter. They began grinding together, shifting their hips until they found a rhythm. That grinding then turned to hungered thrusting, their cocks jouncing together with maddening pressure.

  Reaching between them, Marcus adjusted his erection, feverishly scuffing Alistair’s bollocks with his cock. Alistair drew his knees high, doing his best to line his opening with the heavy, hot cock he craved.

  Marcus bussed a kiss over his sweaty brow. “I’ll be gentle with ye,” Marcus whispered, and then the contact Alistair craved was upon him—was immediate and visceral and right now. The oil and the preparation allowed Marcus penetration on his very first attempt; that nudge breeched the thick band of muscle, backed by enough force to claim full access.

  This moment was far, far more dangerous and intimate than in the royal offices. Alistair turned his head to the side, afraid of the power of everything he was feeling.

  No, terrified.

  Marcus stilled, holding himself like a bow—not moving his lower body, nor seeming to draw a breath. Alistair kept his face averted, but Marcus placed a warm palm against his cheek, slowly turning Alistair’s face until their gazes locked. “Only with you looking at me. No other way. All right?”

  “Yes, all right, my lord.” Alistair swallowed, dropping his arm back to his side.

  Marcus bent down to kiss him swiftly. “Now, that’s more like it, beautiful.”

  Beautiful. Beautiful?

  Alistair’s whole body thrummed at the endearment. The single word turned him to pure flame, caused his taut prick to leap against Marcus’s belly.

  “Yes, yes, I know what you want,” Marcus assured him, sliding one deft hand beneath Alistair’s left knee. Alistair’s arse spread, opened by Marcus’s accomplished handling, as well as Alistair’s own supine position.

  In the space of a heartbeat, Marcus’s throbbing length speared Alistair deeply.

  With a grunt, and a flinch of pain, he gritted out, “Too much . . . too . . .” His words trailed to inarticulate pleas, and that was the moment the pain turned white-hot. His damned arse was naught but the thick, hard length filling the bloody thing, as if Marcus had consumed him. He was overtaking him with his own body and presence and demand.

  “Marcus. Marcus . . .” He twisted his fingers about the headboard behind him, bracing to take more. Marcus slid perhaps one more inch deeper. Alistair wriggled his hips, squirming, hungry.

  Marcus took hold of Alistair’s sides, stilling his resistant gyrations. “Easy, now.” That gentle tone, the command in it, immediately had Alistair turning submissive. “If you don’t relax—“

  “I’m afraid,” Alistair blurted, feeling tears burn his eyes. “Can’t you bloody well see that? It’s why I—I . . .” He clutched the headboard, desperately stretched by the pressure of Marcus’s heat, but that wasn’t why he longed to flee. To hide. To disappear beneath that warm body, the folds of the counterpane. “I . . . I am unaccustomed to this . . . position.”

  “This is the difficult part. You know that,” Marcus reassured, so close, that mouth just feathering over Alistair’s. “But you know, too, the pleasure that waits just beyond this veil, sweetheart.”

  It’s not the pain, he longed to cry. But he also knew that Marcus realized that.

  Marcus murmured against Alistair’s temple, “I am going to give one more firm thrust, and you’ll be beyond this pain. Into the sweetest, most divine pleasure. Remember last time? It shall be at least as sweet.”

  Alistair tried to breathe, unable to find air. Did Marcus not understand the things that drove him and haunted him—at least any better than this? “I . . . cannot let go, Marcus. I can’t do it.”

  Marcus answered those complaints with one forceful motion, driving all the way home. All the way to the sublime spot he’d caressed deep inside Alistair’s arse last time.

  Alistair arched, his body tensing first, then positively writhing in hungered abandonment. Then just as quickly Marcus withdrew to the very edge, forcing Alistair to clasp him hard. “Don’t you dare pull off me now, Avenleigh!”

  Marcus laughed, a bubbling sound light as champagne. The man held his hips suspended at that agonizingly tempting angle, his erection barely within Alistair’s puckered arse. That light, teasing pressure nearly proved Alistair’s undoing. Marcus nuzzled him, playful. “How testy you’ve become.”

  Alistair pawed at Marcus’s arse, prizing it nearer. Marcus smelled of heather and spring rain and expensive coffee. Of sensual congress and laughter-filled mornings. He tasted like forever, the rest of one’s life.

  He held Alistair as if he meant to be that for him.

  Marcus murmured in his ear, growing quiet for a long few heartbeats as he thrust again, then again. Alistair shivered and tensed, and fumbled out to the very edge of orgasmic joy. Then his lover stilled anew, deep within his loins this time.

  * * *

  * * *

  Finley lay beneath him like a fallen prince, dangerously dark and beautiful, firelight glinting across his tousled waves. With every sluicing glide, Marcus became less in control, more frantic to spill his seed, and to feel the warm spurts of Alistair’s own release.

  Alistair matched that intensity, locking ankles around Marcus’s back, their bellies slapping over and over, slick with sweat. A fiery sensation rolled down Marcus’s spine, seized his bollocks. Alistair’s erection kicked against Marcus’s belly, spasming in the tight cleft between their bodies. Alistair became wrung out, undone, as his pulsing, liquid heat coated Marcus all the way to his chest.

  Marcus’s lover had never looked quite as he did just then, clutching Marcus shakily, moody eyes at half-mast, lips swollen. A small rumble of need emerged from those full lips, even though the secretary’s thrashing hips were settling, their frantic rhythm now spent.

  With a half-drunk sigh of satisfaction, Marcus made to adjust his hips, but Finley caught him about the buttocks. “Don’t you dare move.” Then, gentling his tone, he explained gruffly, “I don’t want to lose this connection, not . . . yet.”

/>   “I’m soft as summer butter, love.”

  Finley reached out his big hands, tugging Marcus downward. “I don’t mean your prick. I mean you.” And Marcus found himself tumbling forward, nestled into the other man’s arms as if a bear had captured him in its embrace.

  Finley laughed throatily, nuzzling Marcus’s cheek, then managed to steal a tender kiss. A slow burn of one, full upon Marcus’s mouth.

  Marcus caressed a long, sensual stroke down the man’s bare flank. “Sodding gorgeous, this body of yours.”

  Alistair pulled back, blinking at him as if stunned. “You honestly don’t wish me different.” A statement. A revelation. A wondrously amazed look on that lovely face, as if the greatest fortune had befallen him. “You do not wish me changed at all.”

  “Not physically, no. Not remotely.” He gave Alistair a tender smile. “In time, I hope you’ll adjust some habits. But, no, I adore your body precisely as it is. You’re handsome and sensual and erotic, whether in spectacles or your secretarial costume—and particularly without any clothing upon your person whatsoever.”

  He felt, more than heard, Finley hold his breath, then, “You truly do find me . . . beautiful.” Alistair began to laugh, a deep, throaty sound so rich that Marcus’s soft cock began to stir anew against the other man’s thigh. “And what if I, enthralled with my noble lad from the moors, endeavor to slim down?”

  “Then I shall raise my cock for you, just like now,” Marcus assured, which only elicited more laughter from within Finley’s broad chest. He wrapped those burly arms about Marcus, and squeezed him close.

  Marcus could have stayed there, just so, for the rest of his life, the rapid staccato of Finley’s heart beneath his ear, the ongoing soft rumbles of delight vibrating through his lover’s thick chest. But sleep, that siren-singing vixen, was luring Marcus into her depths, and so he nestled closer against the man he’d already come to love, and floated away on a tide of satiation and happiness.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When Marcus awoke, his thoughts were drifting. The sound of carriages and clomping horses and bright voices transported him back by a few years. He blinked, wondering if he’d overslept his first call at the symphony hall. He blinked again, shivering in his nakedness. He blinked a third time, then his eyes went wide in wonder. The burgundy velvet drapes about the bed, parted slightly, revealed a cheery, masculine bedroom of dark walnut paneling, a blazing fire in the hearth, and one remarkably striking gentleman reading his morning newspaper.

  The man who had tupped him in the sweetest, most satiating fashion only hours before.

  The man he loved with all his heart.

  Marcus didn’t dare stir; he wanted to watch Alistair unnoticed for as long as he possibly could. His lover squinted slightly, even with his spectacles, as he read the paper, lifted his coffee cup to his lips, took a slow draw. Paused as he read, leaned a little closer, squinting harder. Damn, but his Finley might rely on those spectacles far more than Marcus had suspected. That, or he was reading something that had him troubled.

  Marcus’s own brows furrowed, as it seemed to be the latter, judging by how Finley set his coffee cup down with a slosh, crisped the paper, and angled his head slightly as he read. And then the devil blushed worse than Marcus had ever seen him do. He blotted fingertips against his brow, shook his head disbelievingly, and settled back into the chair with a raw sigh.

  “What the devil has you so frothy, darling?” Marcus called out softly and his lover jolted. Good thing that coffee cup was moored steadily on the table beside him.

  Finley chewed his lip, gave him a guilty, shy smile. “I fear we made the morning’s society pages, Lord Marcus.”

  “Mr. Finley,” he retorted, matching the jocular formality, “is that so very bad? You did escort me to the opera whilst wearing black velvet and looking like some demon prince born of midnight hell. You can’t gad about town so handsomely, not when you’re clearly attached to another beau, and not expect to get noticed.

  “It says I . . .” With a rueful, adorable shake of his head, Finley simply held the paper in his direction. “I can’t bring myself to render any sort of delivery of the salacious scandal.” Finley wagged the paper. “Come take a gander. I’ll pour you coffee.”

  “I am unclothed.”

  Finley’s smile transformed into a flat, eyebrow-raising glance. “Yes. I am aware.”

  “You aren’t going to bring me the bloody scandal sheet, are you?”

  “Not on your life.”

  “You do realize that you”—Marcus swung his bare feet onto the floor, draping the counterpane about his hips—“look almost as dangerous in your morning coat as you did in your tailcoat? Is that a touch of brocade, inlaid upon satin that I spy?”

  “Is that a naked length of extremely muscular leg that I spy?” Alistair folded the paper upon his lap. “Seems I recall that masculine leg paired with its twin and straddling my hips only a few hours ago.” The darkest, most smoldering glance roved upward from Marcus’s calf, trailing to the exposed jut of his hip, where the counterpane parted. “And”—Alistair slid his spectacles down his nose, narrowed his eyes, and leaned forward—“I could not see all those lovely freckles by the firelight. However does a lad like you accumulate freckles upon his bare hip bone?”

  “By bathing under God’s blue sky with one’s brothers for most of his youth.”

  “I should have liked to be part of that.”

  “Aren’t we a bit crowy this morning?”

  Alistair reached for a cup, smiling with his gaze cast away. Those long, thick lashes fanned across his handsome cheeks, and there was something so . . . youthful about him. So thoroughly lovely in his face that had never been there before. “I like you crowy,” Marcus told him.

  “And I like you,” Alistair said, voice all gravel, “the morning after.”

  “Och! Now what’s a bloke to say to that? You’ve rendered me without a clever retort.”

  Alistair smiled down at his lap again, then murmured so softly that Marcus almost missed the words. But not quite. He made out enough of the rumbling reply to catch, “ . . . rendered speechless last night.”

  “No, Mr. Finley, I was rendered loud and boisterous and like that spring bull of my papa’s we mentioned previous.”

  Marcus stood, tugging the draped counterpane about his waist, and trailed his way across the carpeted hardwood toward his lover. The morning sun filtered through the drapes, revealing Alistair more plainly than Marcus had perhaps ever seen the man. For the first time, he glimpsed the tiny lines at the edges of his eyes and in his forehead. Subtle, but there, revealing the years he had on Marcus. He also noticed the tiniest scar at the edge of his right eyebrow, and wondered how a proper, downright snobbish fellow like his Finley had ever accumulated even one such scar, much less the second that was a bit farther into his hairline.

  “You’ve a pair of scars. How the deuce did I never notice before now?”

  Alistair set the paper upon the side table, and extended both hands toward him, dragging Marcus down upon his lap. The other man nuzzled his cheek. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he murmured against Marcus’s cheek. “I could become accustomed to beginning my days much like this.”

  “With me naked and shivering?”

  “With you in my bed, rosy-cheeked and recently tupped.”

  “I’m not in your bed. I’m on your—“

  “Extraordinarily bountiful lap. Yes, I could grow accustomed to that, as well.”

  Marcus made to reach for the scandal page, but Alistair steadied him closer before handing over the paper. “Don’t move. Remain right here. At least for the next”—Alistair reached into his waistcoat and retrieved his pocket watch, then released a disappointed sigh—“well, I’m due to the office in half an hour. Duties await. But till then, I don’t wish to let you out of my arms.”

  Finley kept flirtatiously
murmuring in his ear, and had begun to nibble that lobe, with one large hand roving dangerously low about Marcus’s abdomen—a series of facts that only barely played upon Marcus’s mental strings, for he was too absorbed in the column. He snapped the paper sharply, studied it closer, then reared back upon Alistair’s lap. “Did you actually read the whole of this, Alistair?”

  “The bits I could make out. Was smudgy, the ink.”

  “Not particularly. Have your spectacles checked, as I cannot fathom why you would be so . . . blasé about—about . . . Oh, sodding hell, man. Did you even read the bloody sheet at all?”

  “It says something about you, former violinist for the royal symphony, being seen upon my arm . . . and me being King Arend’s chief secretarial advisor and—“

  “It says that we are betrothed, that’s what it says! That I am your affianced, husband-to-be.”

  Alistair recoiled in dramatic disbelief. “It does not.”

  “Oh, darling mine, it most certainly does say the very thing.” Marcus’s gaze flitted over the column, but when he read the words summer wedding, he crumpled the pages against Alistair’s broad chest. Bounding to his feet, he began to pace. “Oh, bollocks and bollocks! Alistair, how could you have missed something so crucial? Did you not truly read the whole of the article?”

  “You interrupted me with that golden length of bloody gorgeous leg. I can’t help that you were distracting.” Finley snapped the paper, folding it back for a closer look. “And the print is indeed quite smudgy.”

  “Not in the slightest. Please, darling, stop by the damned oculist on the way to the royal offices today!”

  Marcus kept pacing the room, barely aware of the fact that the counterpane was now long-abandoned, nor even concerned with his blatant nudity. His mind was in a whirl of anxiety and agitation, as he imagined his brothers and Papa poring over the self-same paper this morning at breakfast. Good God, would it be delivered to the province as early as it had been here in the city? No, it would not. Thank heavens, he had time. They had time.