Moving back down the slim body, he pulled the waistband of Ainsley’s pants enough that the shiny-slick crown of his cock was exposed. Joachim settled his head on Ainsley’s hard belly and sucked the tip past his lips, tongue pressing the slit open so a sob echoed around his ears.
“Bugger bugger bugger, I’m going to come.” Ainsley thrashed his head most charmingly.
“That’s the point.” Joachim lifted his mouth. “I want you to feel every bit of me when I take you.”
Ainsley bucked his hips and cried out. And filled Joachim’s mouth like a man who’d been repressed for years instead of hours.
And while he was drained and pliant, Joachim pulled off the scrap of cambric and covered himself in the oil. With a scoop, he had the younger man in his arms and he pushed into the still-quivering hole. To the hilt.
“Fu-fu-fuck me harder.” Ainsley stuttered incoherently, but Joachim wouldn’t have understood anything he said, living in the moans and sighs and the grinding of his cock buried inside this beautiful creature who had crawled under his skin and nested.
The gray eyes opened and stared into Joachim’s with an utter longing that thrilled every last nerve ending.
“Good Christ, Cockburn, I think I love—”
Love? Oh God—yes!—he couldn’t hold back for another second and drowned out his ginger with a cry of utter fucking bliss.
When he finished and withdrew and held on to his beautiful ginger for the few minutes he thought he could get away with before the man drew back in distaste, Ainsley let out a small snore.
He cleaned them up with the crumpled pants and molded his form to Graham, who twisted and clung to Cockburn in his sleep, like he wanted to be inside him.
Joachim pushed the tangle of hair off Ainsley’s sweaty brow and kissed it as gently as he wished to but didn’t when the young man was awake. “Dear Christ, Dr. Graham,” he whispered. “I think I love...too.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ainsley
His nose was out of joint when he woke the next morning and Cockburn was not there. Or his cock was. Except his cock didn’t have a joint, so that didn’t work. Trixie was right—his metaphors really needed fine-tuning.
But his nose also had no joint, which made even less sense, because people did say that one.
Lord. His eyes bugged when he read the clock. Already afternoon like he’d been on a tear, when he hadn’t a drink besides ginger beer, which wasn’t even alcoholic, no matter its name.
He’d been sorely disappointed when he was ten and Charlie had dared him to drink it until he got drunk, and then teased for ages because all it did was make him spend the evening emptying his bladder.
Anyway, he was frustrated that he’d slept over-long and wasted the day and that Joachim hadn’t woken him up the way in which he’d quickly become accustomed.
Having no idea when Barley et al. were to arrive—and sure that Joachim would have retained that piece of information because he seemed helpful in that solid, practical way—he made his way downstairs to sweet-talk someone into making him coffee and perhaps something to eat.
A clicking of typewriter keys from his study hijacked his attention. He was quite proprietorial about his desk and his things, and everyone in the house knew better than to touch any of them, ever.
He turned the corner ready to fuss and stopped short. Because it was Joachim, gripping a pencil between his teeth as he plunked away with two fingers on each hand. Christ on a stick—he’d take ages typing anything like that. But he was really adorable and the pencil only enhanced it.
Ainsley draped himself against the doorway. “What are you doing?” What was it about the man that made him want to roll over belly-up like Violet when they were together?
He refrained, but with effort.
The pleased sparkle in Joachim’s eye was darling. For a brief moment. And then the brightness of it blinded him.
“Writing up my reflections about your ghosts. You weren’t stirring and it seemed like a good opportunity. Trixie insisted you wouldn’t mind. I hope you don’t. I didn’t touch any of your things.” Joachim brushed back hair that fell over his forehead.
But not quick enough to hide the glance of naked affection that was like eating the entire bowl of sugar cubes in a go. Delicious at the time but destined to make Ainsley want to vomit later.
He did his best to bundle up his worries and shove them far away. “I was hoping you’d have woken me.”
Joachim’s expression settled back into his ruthless one that made Ainsley’s cock take notice.
“You looked too peaceful to disturb.” The older man pushed aside the pile of papers he’d spread on the desk and rubbed his palm along the wood. Raised his brows. “But now that you’re awake...”
Yes, please. His mood soared to the sun.
“Oh, there you are, you lazy lay-a-bed. I thought you’d never get up.” A coil of smoke danced through the air from the long cigarette holder Trixie flourished in her agitation. “Mrs. Mackie is ready to do a walkout.”
Bugger.
He tightened the sash of his dressing gown and followed his sister to the kitchen with a regretful frown tossed to Joachim. Who was already typing again before he’d even left the bloody room.
“I thought you were going to plan everything.” Oh. It came out in a whine.
“I was, but I forgot Barley doesn’t eat meat.” Trixie’s voice had that edge to it that meant she might start wailing with anger or tears at any second. She scrubbed her thumb across the rest of her balled fingers like it was a rosary. Another sign that her panic was accelerating. “Do we skip any meat on the table, or is it all right if we don’t force it on anyone?”
Bugger bugger bugger. That was an actual question he ought to know the answer to.
So he grumbled. “Fuck’s sake, Trix, I haven’t even had coffee.” He couldn’t ring Barley up and ask because his friend behaved as though he was still living in the nineteenth century and didn’t have a telephone.
Ainsley had no desire to offend anyone. Barley wouldn’t mind, but Barley’s object of affection might. As well as the Gentleman Boarder.
And what did vegetarians eat anyway, besides cheese and vegetables?
Mrs. Mackie, the cook who’d worked there since before Ainsley was born—possibly even before Ainsley’s mother was born—had her apron off, and was muttering that this was too much to ask a body, hours before the supper was to be laid.
Fuck.
How had he gotten into this mess?
“Men were made to eat meat, that’s what I say, and not graze like bloody cows, begging your pardon.” Mrs. Mackie put on her hand-knit cloche and Ainsley gripped the table not to fall over in a panic. He waved away the ridiculous cloud of smoke created by Trixie, who puffed like a steam engine.
“Nelson.” God, he’d know, surely.
“Off this morning to see his mam, like every other Saturday afternoon since time began,” sniffed the cook, hand on the door like she wished to be begged not to go.
“Oh God, what a disaster, Ainsley. How could you be so stupid not to ask?” Trixie might be slapped if she didn’t shut up. Not that he’d ever actually slap her, but he’d happily fantasize about it. Had done so for years.
He was not too proud to beg. “Please take your hat off, Mrs. Mackie. It never crossed my mind because Barley only looks mildly reproving when I eat a steak pie in front of him. But it’s because he says he’s chatted to too many cows to eat one. But I know nothing about this Herbert and the Gentleman Boarder or any dietary restrictions they might have. All of his friends are a wee bit odd.”
How did he not know? Wasn’t that what people asked when they were going to have strangers over for dinner?
“Hugh.” Joachim managed to fill up the kitchen—which had been large a moment before—with his shoulders. “And Manish—the strapping
one. Surely if there had been some consideration, your friend Alec would have said.”
Trixie and Ainsley shared a look of disbelief. Barley was the last person—er...besides Ainsley—to think of such things. God, what if Hugh died of an allergy attack at Ainsley’s table? That would be worse than Merson... Mercer?...and his teeth. Barley would never forgive him.
And Hugh had grown up in India—weren’t many Indians vegetarians? Not that they couldn’t eat whatever they wished, it was none of his business, but fucking buggery sodding fuck. He didn’t want to be the reason Barley and his dream man didn’t fall in love and live happily ever after.
Shaking his head, Joachim went into the larder. “Rice, and oats, and plenty of cheese—” He poked his head out. “By the wheel? Good Lord, someone’s arteries will suffer for that.” He disappeared again.
Buying cheese in wheels was practical, thank you very much.
“Heavens, Ainsley—is he suggesting we eat cheese and oats for a dinner party?” Trixie didn’t know how to whisper. Her stunned expression almost made him laugh. Would have if the situation wasn’t so fraught.
“I am not. Only an inventory. Who eats this many beans?” Joachim held an armful of cans, which made the point but was a wee bit sarcastic to toss into the present dilemma.
No one’s mood was lightened.
And apparently it wasn’t the time to confess to Cockburn that he survived on cheese toasties and beans. He had a vision of serving platters of his two favorites to Henry and the Gentleman Boarder and shuddered.
Ainsley took Trixie’s cigarette and ran it under the sink. “I can’t think with that thing in my face,” he said, rubbing his temples.
She replaced it with a new one and lit it. “You can’t think anyway, so what does it matter?”
“The two of you ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”
“Not now, Mama,” said Ainsley and Trixie in unison.
Cockburn emerged again with a ten-pound bag of rice and piled it on the table. Along with handfuls of vegetables and a freshly plucked chicken. Ainsley was very glad he didn’t hear animals speak or he’d never be able to eat that.
“Maisie, you scared me. I can’t think why I hadn’t expected you to pop up.” Joachim smiled toward the wall. Voice dryer than dust. “Such perfect timing and all.”
Mrs. Mackie threw her hands in the air. “I’ve always known you two were mad, but now you’ve brought in a new lunatic? My heart can’t stand it. Take this as my notice, Mr. Ainsley.” She pulled the back door shut with a bang.
Bugger bugger bugger. He scratched his arms until Joachim made him stop by holding his wrists and staring into his eyes until his heartbeat slowed. Which was the opposite reaction than Joachim usually provoked, so perhaps it was a sign he was already bored?
It would be a relief since he was leaving.
Ugh, he was leaving.
He hacked once, his throat unable to swallow properly.
Trixie slumped at the kitchen table. Right over it like it was a prop in a theater, and she rested her chin on her fist. Spoke off to the distance like delivering a soliloquy. “Hell’s bells—I suppose we can pass around plates of cheese and fill them up with so much wine they don’t notice we forgot to feed them food?”
“Cheese is food.” Ainsley fought the urge to pull her hair. “I mean, it isn’t the food, like it is all that any food could aspire to be, but—” No clue where he was going with that.
“Yes. Hmm. Did your cook quit?” asked Joachim, humming as he loaded more things on the table. Leafy things from the herb garden that Ainsley had no idea the names of. Thyme? Tarragon?
Mrs. Mackie. Shite. But really, she’d done it multiple times before.
“She’ll be back tomorrow or the next day. Temperamental, cooks are.” Ainsley found a pot of cold coffee and added enough sugar to make it palatable.
Trixie winced as he drank it and gagged.
“Cooks, yes. They’re very temperamental.” Joachim rummaged and found a large dish and arranged the chicken, smothering it with butter and sprinkling some of the herbs over it along with a dash of salt and pepper.
The gas clicked on the range and whooshed as Cockburn lit a match.
“What was that smug look about?” Trixie’s nostrils flared, as did Ainsley’s.
“Do you truly believe that Mrs. Mackie is the only temperamental one?” Joachim sighed and found a large knife and hacked away at some of the bigger green leafy things.
“I say, that’s a bit unfair,” said Ainsley, hoping that Joachim wouldn’t chop off any fingers as fast as the knife was going. Hypnotically fast. Chop chop chop chop chop.
And done.
Cockburn uncorked a bottle of white wine.
“This isn’t the time to get drunk. It’s not even half three, you heathen.” Trixie snatched the bottle from Joachim’s hands, disgust evident in every feature. “Put this away. We must think what we’re going to feed our guests.”
Joachim took the wine carefully from Trixie’s grasp. “I’m not tippling—I’m cooking a risotto.” He dropped the green stuff into a large pot he’d been filling with water in the sink. Sliced some more things.
All the while, singing. Had he told Joachim that singing helped him pay attention? Must’ve, as the Geordie sang so often. And gracious—it was so helpful.
Joachim handed him a peeler and some carrots. And then some peas to shell. Each time he finished a task, Joachim set him a new one, whisking away whatever his project had been and dumping it into a pot or pan or casserole. He peeled what felt like the hundredth potato and nicked his thumb. Dammit.
After a while, there were any number of pleasant smells filling the kitchen. Onions in butter and roast chicken and something with wine. Cauliflower cheese, which seemed sneaky—he detested cauliflower and he’d be sure to forget and eat some. Scalloped potatoes with green onions and too many things he hadn’t properly paid attention to as he was mesmerized by the to-ing and fro-ing of Joachim’s arse at eye level.
His stomach growled. He hadn’t even had breakfast.
And then, like magic, there was a plate of toast and eggs in front of him with a warm cup of coffee. He caught Joachim looking at him over the table a little too moony and it was hard to swallow that particular bite. The next too, but then the older man said something about eveningwear and disappeared.
Ainsley wanted him to come back as soon as he’d left, dammit. But without that look. He didn’t want that look. It promised nothing but boredom like a straitjacket.
Trixie clicked across the floor in her Louis heels, dressed in a froth of sheer navy with an opaque sheath. “Dear Lord, you’re still in your dressing gown, Ainsley. They’ll be here soon enough.”
He glanced at the clock and realized he’d whiled away his entire day—all three hours of it—doing menial labor. He was grumbling under his breath down the hallway and clutched the curve of the bannister at the bottom of the stairs. Looked up and saw stars.
Dizzy. Dizzy dizzy fuck.
“Are you all right?” asked Joachim, concern and sophistication wafting off him as he hurried down the stairs in a tuxedo that looked like it had been custom-made, but that couldn’t be, could it? Fit like a fucking glove in all the right places. Yes—each one. Sparkle.
With perfectly combed hair and his trimmed beard. Twinkle.
He exhaled. Stammered a bit. “It’s...yes. Very nice.”
Ainsley had to run his fingers under Joachim’s lapels. To make sure it wasn’t a believable dream.
Joachim smelled of arms holding him by the river at high tide. In the moonlight. A very specific scent that he wished to drown in all of a sudden.
But that treacly-sweet gooey look passed over Joachim’s face and Ainsley’s stomach churned.
Then it was gone and the wolfish one came back.
Sodding whiplash, wasn’t it?
Until Cockburn broke away and winked.
“A...a kilt?”
Cockburn slid his hand up the dressing gown and stroked the inside of Ainsley’s thighs. “I’d like to know I could do this, if the opportunity presented itself. If I wished to do it.” He disappeared around the corner.
And left Ainsley more befuddled than he’d ever been in his life, if that were possible.
Oh, and breathless. Completely fucking breathless.
And cataloging which of his kilts was the most appropriate.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Joachim
Joachim had never been in love before, but he was sure that the target of his devotion wasn’t supposed to look as though they’d accidentally drunk putrid milk every time he forgot to mask his attachment.
But there was no denying that Ainsley was as choleric as a Persian cat stuck in a rain shower.
He was nearly finished arranging all of the food for the party into table-appropriate dishes, and hoped there was someone who could at least serve, because he wasn’t going to play footman on top of the rest of it.
“What on earth are you doing, Mr. Cockburn?” A voice dripping with outrage startled him and he nearly had a jacket drenched in wine-soaked rice.
The butler Nelson. Thank goodness.
The man clucked and flapped like a perturbed hen. “Let me do this...er... Sir. What’s happened to Mrs. Mackie?”
Joachim sketched out the sudden—though it seemed unsurprising—departure of the elderly cook hours before a supper.
“She likes to cook for small batches of people, you see,” said Nelson, folding the cauliflower cheese into a silver dish and sprinkling parsley on top.
Well then. No harm that she’d gone. Walked out and left Joachim to take over the dinner party, eh?
Best Laid Plaids (Kilty Pleasures) Page 17