by Cooper Davis
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* * *
Alistair stared at Marcus, wishing he could glimpse more than the shadows, hanging between them like a velvet curtain. He peered closely at his lover to gauge his reaction.
There was a shaky exhale just before Marcus leaned forward. Clasping Alistair’s face, he pressed their foreheads together. “You said you”—Marcus paused—“you said you would never lay with me that way. That you were too self-conscious . . . unless you were receiving me.”
Marcus was shuddering within his grasp, his cock hot and slick as it jutted into Alistair’s belly.
Alistair drew Marcus’s palm to that newly trimmed abdomen. “I’ve been working on my issues,” he said. “I’ve dropped some two stone. Or haven’t you noticed?”
Marcus pressed Alistair’s hand between his legs, against Marcus’s own erection. “Clearly, all of me has noticed,” his lover told him coquettishly.
“I am determined to trim down because . . .” A sudden torturous image flashed in Alistair’s mind’s eye, hauntingly vivid. Of the night when he’d gone to the royal offices, and dared take that honest gander at himself. He heard Dryden proclaiming him as grossly rotund.
Alistair closed his eyes against those images. Against Dryden’s accusing taunts.
“I’m still overlarge,” was all he admitted after a moment. “But I shan’t let my size prevent our mutual pleasuring any longer. Nor impede our growing intimacy. I want to know you wholly, Marcus.”
“I hardly know what to say.” Marcus sank back against the bench, as if some long-held tension left him in that moment. “Alistair, I am overcome. Truly.”
“I am, as well,” Alistair whispered. “I’ve never made love to a man. My love, you shall be my first and only. I fear I may bumble a bit, as I don’t know what to expect, but I’ve never wanted anything so much in my bloody life as to tumble you.”
“What’s changed for you?” The question was softly vulnerable, as if Marcus daren’t believe that Alistair had decided to surrender, to rend his fears once and for all.
“Ah, ’tis simple, my Marcus.” Alistair leaned forward until he rested his cheek against Marcus’s belly. He loved the soft tickle of silken hair against his jaw. Closing his eyes, Alistair savored the warm, gentle heat of the other man. And on the softest sigh, he breathed, “I love you.”
The words were out before Alistair could reel them back, and in their wake came a peace he’d never anticipated. Like turning his ship when he’d been sailing into the wind, but now his sails billowed full. He soared, he exhaled, and murmured the words again several more times.
A palm came to rest upon the crown of his head, and beneath Alistair’s cheek, Marcus’s abdomen tensed as if he held his breath.
Alistair slid his arms about the man’s hips, embracing him as he nestled his cheek closer against Marcus’s belly.
“I love you, too, darling Alistair.” Shaky fingertips fanned through Alistair’s hair. “I almost wondered if you’d ever tell me how you felt.”
“But I have told you. Over and over, in dozens of ways, just not with the words. I was afraid of the words,” Alistair replied, pressing a kiss to Marcus’s navel.
“Are you,” Marcus asked softly, his palm cupping Alistair’s cheek, “afraid now?”
“No. I am not. I am bolder,” Alistair explained. “It’s also why I endeavored to be ready for this moment. To be the one who takes charge. I’ve dreamed of little besides sinking my cock deep within your—“
“Alistair, I . . . I can’t breathe.” Marcus laughed unsteadily.
Alistair sat back on his haunches, peering through the shadows, desperate to see Marcus’s expression. “Are you not ready?”
As if in reply, Marcus’s cock gave an urgent leap against Alistair’s hand, where he’d been resting it on the inside of his beloved’s thigh. That velvet-hard length brushed Alistair’s palm eagerly. Alistair let loose a rough laugh. “Someone’s ready; if not you, then that steely friend betwixt your thighs.”
Marcus laughed, a sound that reminded Alistair of bubbly champagne, light and delicate. “I’ve rarely been more ready for a damned thing in my life.” But then Marcus groaned, despairing as he palmed Alistair’s flanks. “But, deuces! We’ve not come prepared.”
Alistair’s mouth spread into a very wicked grin. “Marcus, dear Marcus. Have you not learned that I am always equipped? ’Tis my job to anticipate every possible contingency; it’s how I manage His Majesty so well.”
“You thought to bring oils?”
“Let’s simply say”—Alistair slowly crawled up Marcus’s body, seizing his mouth in a lusty kiss—“that there’s more in my pocket than that bloody carriage house key.”
* * *
* * *
Alistair hitched Marcus’s muscular legs up about his own torso, cradling him close as he settled between his lover’s thighs. Marcus pressed a foot against the bench behind Alistair, using the seat as perfect leverage to tilt his pelvis upward.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Marcus murmured as their groins pressed together, slick from sweat and desire. “You’re going to make love to me.”
Alistair answered by gently pressing a fingertip against Marcus’s opening. He’d never touched a man this way, never breached another male intimately. Marcus’s immediate moan filled the darkness, encouraging Alistair to slip that finger even deeper. And that earned him a wriggle of pleasure from Marcus, that band of muscle tightening about Alistair’s finger.
“This feels right?” he asked uncertainly, yet hopeful. He’d never wanted to please another person quite like he did Marcus at this moment.
“Yes, love. Yes.” Marcus was breathless, and Alistair carefully pressed a second fingertip.
Marcus’s legs tensed, his other foot coming to rest on the bench behind Alistair’s back. “You . . . you can take me now. I don’t want to wait. I’ve waited too long already.”
“I’ve barely prepared you,” Alistair said, gently massaging Marcus’s opening. It was pliable, and for a wincing moment he thought of how many times Marcus had likely been made love to by others. He’d refused to ask how many men had lain with his fiancé.
Marcus canted his pelvis a bit more. Alistair took that as the only affirmation he needed to claim this man. Angling his cock just so, Alistair found his way against Marcus’s entry. He was oiled up, and so was Marcus; he prayed that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself and fail to gain the access he was trembling to achieve.
“I may make a hash of this,” he whispered, as he made his first thrust. The tightness that engulfed his tip was maddening.
Marcus clutched his shoulders, squeezed him tightly, and moaned, “More. Yes, more.”
Alistair adjusted his grip on the bench behind Marcus, trying desperately not to bear too much weight down upon his lover. His belly pushed down, though, no matter what he did. For a moment, he cringed, feeling awkward and enormous. Marcus seemed to sense that hesitation, for he clasped Alistair’s arse, bringing them closer. Alistair responded by sliding deeper into Marcus. Then deeper still.
Dear God. They were one. He was inside the man he loved, and it felt so intimate, so . . .
“I’m coming apart at the seams already,” Marcus told him, breathless. Before Alistair had even made a first thrust. Alistair was trembling so badly, so overrun emotionally, he feared even moving. But Marcus was so very eager. He palmed Alistair’s arse and urged him on. “Move. Damn it, Alistair, just move within me.”
And so Alistair did, the glide taking him even deeper, and he knew he’d hit that sweetest spot inside Marcus because his lover all but writhed with pleasure, his legs hitching up higher about Alistair, one hand sinking into Alistair’s hair and twisting. For all the pleasure he’d seen Marcus experience when they lay together, none could touch what Alistair was giving Marcus in this very moment.
“I shou
ld never have waited.” He breathed out the words, pressing his lips to the man’s forehead. “I should have given you this the first time you asked.”
Marcus made an inarticulate sound of desire; his hands moved about Alistair, caressing his arse yet again. Alistair pulled back his hips, withdrawing to the edge—he hoped he wouldn’t pull too far—then sank deep inside his gorgeous lover again.
His whole body was afire as the pair of them began escalating the intensity, the thrusting. Alistair felt delicious dampness against his abdomen, where his belly was pressing down upon his lover’s prick. Moving a hand off the bench, he managed to push it between them, and stroked attentively on Marcus’s erection. All the while, the friction between them increased.
He had to move his hand when Marcus lifted his knee higher against him. Alistair hooked a hand beneath that knee, absolutely losing himself and any sense of control.
Blast but he couldn’t last. “I can’t . . .”
“Neither can I,” Marcus blurted, and at that precise moment, Alistair’s stomach became coated with silken spurts. The man’s seed creamed up almost onto his chest, and that was what sent Alistair over the edge himself.
When they were at rest, Alistair tried his damnedest not to collapse atop Marcus. He caressed his beloved’s cheek, his forehead, showering him with kisses. “I love you. God, but I love you, Marcus. I never imagined . . .”
“I did. Endlessly.” Marcus shifted slightly beneath him, and Alistair slipped out of the man’s entry. Cool air kissed his slick cock, and he resented the separation, as he still longed to be inside his fiancé.
Marcus slid his legs down, his feet finding the floor of the sleigh. “I love you, too, by the way. Now, come sit beside me, and I’ll do my best to put clothing back on your person, for once.”
“I don’t know about that. Perhaps we could walk back to the palace naked. I could chase you down to the beach.”
Marcus chuckled at that, but then as Alistair settled beside him, he became serious. “How do you feel? Now?” The tone was uncertain, and Alistair all but seized the man by his shoulders.
“How do you think I feel? I’m so in love, it’s turned me into a muddle.”
“No. No, I mean . . . do you know how handsome you are? Have you come to realize it?”
Alistair grinned, pulling Marcus close. “If I didn’t know that? I could never have taken the step we just did. You make me feel . . .” Alistair hesitated over the word, almost afraid to try it out. But then closing his eyes, whispered. “Beautiful.”
And for the first time in his life, he was beautiful. Lord Marcus Avenleigh had made him so.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Alistair was happy—so deeply, jubilantly happy—in a way he’d not known throughout the full of his life. It settled upon him, that happiness, filling his belly, quenching his thirst; it snuck upon him like a thief, robbing any remnants of self-control.
His resistance to Marcus—that need to hold himself apart emotionally—had at last given way. And even though his appetites were satisfied, he let control give way, as well. Those final vestiges of restraint, the shaky ramparts that he’d hid behind, crumbled.
Thus, as the days of the party progressed, and he glimpsed love in Marcus’s lovely green eyes, Alistair felt free to reach for just one more glass of champagne. This was their betrothal celebration after all. He likewise felt free to reach for an extra canapé or two. And to take a second helping of the buttered scones served with cream and tea each afternoon. He filled himself. With happiness, with delight, with the act of finally letting go.
He gave naught a care to the fit of his trousers, nor his carefree behavior whilst at Arend’s table. He roared a laugh or ten, tossing his head back, even though when he did so, Samuel stared at him with quizzical confusion.
Even so, his cousin also let more of his guard down, becoming warmer than Alistair had ever known him to be, although still peppering him with typical barbing insults, although even those conveyed a hint of grudging warmth. And when Samuel Tollemach turned his affection toward you? It was quite as if the summer sun had dared peek from behind clouds for the sole purpose of warming you.
In truth, Alistair felt as if he’d won a cousin for the first time in his life, and that camaraderie loosed his restraint even further still. That was, until one of the last nights of the house party, when he and Samuel wound up sharing some late-night port in the library. They’d been laughing, although Sam seemed more subdued than usual.
Suddenly, after they’d dueled their way through a full bottle of port, Sam turned to Alistair and muttered, “I thought you were a pompous prick.” Then he gave Alistair a vaguely friendly smile. “But I must say, Finley, that love, betrothal, and all things conjugal clearly agree with you.”
Alistair blinked, suddenly finding himself on uncertain ground. Sam had been warmly agreeable with him all week, but this remark danced perilously closer toward more familiar belligerence. Or was it simply more of the man’s irascible humor?
“I’m quite happy, yes.” Then, as an instinctive afterthought added, “Aren’t you? With Lucy?”
“Lucy. Oh-so-familiar. Years as the palace bootlick have clearly caused you to forget your place.”
Carefully, Alistair said, “I’m your cousin, for all intents and purposes.”
“Except bloodline.”
Alistair trailed his fingertips around the rim of his glass, unseated by the return of a more acerbic Sam. Something was clearly off and bothering his cousin. “Are things not perfectly fine with Her Grace?”
“Oh, fucking bollocks and hellfire. That hoity-toity moniker doesn’t sound right on your lips, either. Lucy. Luce. Call her by her bloody given name. She’s so absurdly fond of you anyway. They all are.” Sam waved about the library, all loose limbs and slurred speech. “The glorious lot of the palace are ensorcelled by the tight-arsed spinster, my almost-cousin.”
“I thought that you and I had found some common cause these past months.”
Samuel made a miserable sound, slumping down in his club chair, and his expression turned miserable, too. The man’s consumption of spirits tonight had been excessive even by Sam’s standards.
Samuel had never been easy to handle, especially since Alistair maintained control of Arend’s schedule. And Sam, for his part, wished to come and go as he pleased, becoming irritated when Alistair resisted the duke’s attempts at demolishing royal protocol and formal plans. But Alistair had thought the resentments mostly gone by now—Sam had even talked him through his early nerves about Marcus.
“Have I . . . offended?” Alistair tipped the bottle sideways, ensuring it was truly drained dry.
“You’ve sopped it all up, Finley.” Sam waved at the footman on the far side of the room, summoning more port. He didn’t answer Alistair’s question, however.
Everyone else had wandered off to bed, including Marcus, who’d been weary from a long ride with Julian and Arend that afternoon. Alistair settled back into the leather club chair, feeling his waistcoat tug tightly across his abdomen. He’d trimmed down so well recently, the unfamiliar sensation gave him pause. He fiddled with the front of the snug garment, neatening it downward.
Sam gave him a bleary-eyed look, gaze moving to Alistair’s belly. “Dear God! How did you ever attract that lovely fiancé of yours?”
“Pardon?” Alistair felt his face turn hot, then his neck warmed beneath the edge of his collar.
“Come, now, don’t play the innocent. Hulking spinster like you with a pretty young duke’s son?” The other man gazed into the barrel of the empty bottle with a squint. “Lord Marcus is too handsome for the palace bootlick. Big sod like you, that waistcoat about to pop three buttons even now. Plus, you own a good decade on the lad.”
Alistair leaned forward, across the card table, eyeing the duke feverishly. “Eight. Years.” His fury flashed in his tight gut, a stretched-th
in sensation that matched the overstuffed fit of his waistcoat.
Samuel shuffled his long legs indolently beneath the table. “Pshaw! Point is, you’re untitled, Finley. You’ve no provenance beyond having been raised here at court.”
Why had Samuel turned so churlish tonight? Again, Alistair thought of the sadness in his cousin’s eyes, and something made him say, “But it isn’t me, is it? Sam, whatever’s the matter? Is it Lucy? Are you not well? You’re drinking quite overmuch lately, and although it runs in the—“ Alistair caught himself just in time, wincing. Dear God, but he was likely just as soused if he’d almost slipped up and mentioned their shared familiar connection.
The duke slumped back in his chair, eyes dazed. Black brows knit together as an expression of deep thought overcame the man’s countenance. “What,” Sam finally said, “did you mean to say? Finley, what did you just begin to say?”
Alistair shook his head, rushing to cover his fumble. “I said I’m concerned with how foxed you are and how troubled you seem. You are someone I care about.”
“Me? Dash that. I’m an arse to you, always have been. You shouldn’t give a fig about me.”
“I . . . I always thought us something of friends when we were lads. You’d take me fishing, along with Arend.”
“I was saddled with you because Arend pitied you. Surely you realized that, even then?”
Alistair’s eyes prickled, and he despised himself for it. Samuel was—even if the man did not know it—his cousin. His only cousin, at that, and the words struck him sharply. Besides that fact, Sam owned a wicked tongue, but he’d never turned it so cruelly upon Alistair.
Alistair drained his own glass dry. “I don’t believe you.” It was a bald statement, but a true one. “You came to dislike me in our adulthood. But as lads, we were friends.”