by Jamie Craig
“I know you do,” he murmured, his lips on Micah’s jaw. “Have you ever been this close to anybody?”
His instinct was to shake his head, but as soon as he did, it brought him into more direct contact with Jefferson. Micah felt the fresh growth of beard like a kitten’s tongue, and shivered, prompting Jefferson to force the brush again. Jefferson’s grip on his shoulder was still tight, but he was terrified that the trembling that had taken root in his knees would make him crumple at his friend’s feet. Unbidden, his hands clutched at Jefferson’s waist, drawing sharp breaths from both of them.
“Is this…is the spirit forcing me to feel what you are?” he whispered, desperate for some logical explanation. “Because this is not…I’m not in pain.”
“It’s not the spirit, Micah. It’s you. This is what it feels like when…this is what passion feels like. This is why I can’t sleep. Because being near you is enough to make me feel this way. Just being near you…” Jefferson’s words stopped as his lips connected with Micah’s jaw. The caress was brief, but pointed. Then Jefferson found another bit of skin and did it again. And again.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Micah fought to control the breath that wouldn’t stay even. His head spun. Each touch of Jefferson’s mouth sent a fresh shudder through his muscles, like he was taken with fever, and his fingers tightened where they gripped Jefferson’s shirt.
“I’ve never…I don’t…” He cried out when he felt the sting of teeth, then sighed when Jefferson soothed the spot with his tongue. “Every time you do that, it drives me mad, Jefferson. Please.”
“I don’t want to drive you mad.” Jefferson lifted his head and Micah almost whimpered in protest. Micah studied his face for a moment, looking for something, a sign perhaps. Then Jefferson tilted his head again, bringing his face within centimeters of Micah’s. “You’re the best person I’ve ever met.”
Micah opened his mouth to respond, but Jefferson stopped the words with his lips. Micah froze, but Jefferson didn’t seem deterred. He moaned softly, cupping the back of Micah’s head, gently holding him in place as his tongue traced the curve of Micah’s bottom lip.
He had never kissed anyone before. Or had anyone kiss him. He’d almost thought he was just one of those people who didn’t respond to physical attraction, who didn’t find the need for it.
But Jefferson’s narrow mouth was unlike anything he had ever felt before. He caressed Micah’s like it was something to be treasured, something to savor, like he’d seen Jefferson savor the brandy that first night they’d met. It tickled where his tongue touched the corner of Micah’s lips, and they parted automatically, taking in the hot breath laboring from Jefferson’s lungs.
Jefferson deepened the kiss, gradually seeking out more and more of Micah’s mouth with the tip of his tongue. He didn’t increase the pressure against Micah’s lips. Everything about the kiss was tender, deliberate. Jefferson had complete control of himself, and complete control of the caress.
Micah’s blood rushed from his head. His fingers tingled. The bottoms of his feet tingled. Jefferson’s gentle mouth seemed relentless, the passion he spoke of limitless. The air around him warmed like he was standing over a flame, a whole pit of flames.
The hard line of muscles beneath his palms enticed Micah to explore further. Though his hands were damp with perspiration, he smoothed them upward, learning the shape of his friend through touch as well as sight. He felt Jefferson’s gasp as he skimmed over his chest, and he heard his moan when he massaged the hard knots at the base of Jefferson’s neck. He had never felt so empowered and so cosseted at the same time before. And it was all because of Jefferson.
Micah responded to Jefferson’s kiss, dipping his tongue into Jefferson’s mouth, mimicking Jefferson’s slow, thorough investigation. Jefferson’s hands drifted down Micah’s body until they reached his hips, and he gripped Micah firmly, holding him in place. He felt something hard against his thigh, and realized it was Jefferson’s erection, the undeniable proof of his arousal. Jefferson shifted his weight, grinding the bulge in his pants against Micah’s body.
Micah froze.
Jefferson’s arousal. Rubbing against…
The heat of his blood doused as quickly as snuffing out a candle. His shaft was as hard as Jefferson’s, throbbing with its own life. Because he was kissing Jefferson.
Kissing. Jefferson.
Panic raced through his veins. Letting go of Jefferson’s neck, Micah braced his palms against Jefferson’s chest and pushed, grateful when it broke the connection between them and left him panting against the wall. “What are you doing?” Was that raspy voice his? “Why?”
Jefferson looked as confused and afraid as Micah felt. “Micah…I’m…Oh. Oh, God.” He kept moving back, as though he could still feel Micah’s hands pushing against his chest. “I’m sorry.”
The front door swung open. The wintry chill drifted in, curling around his ankles before licking a path up Micah’s legs. In spite of his desire to run, his desire for explanation was greater. Micah matched every step that Jefferson retreated, his eyes fixed on his friend’s. “Don’t apologize. Tell me why. Explain it to me. I don’t…Just why?”
“I told you to leave me alone. I told you not to come in here tonight. Why didn’t you listen to me? Why did you insist on coming here?”
“Because you’re my friend.” For the first time, the words felt awkward on his lips, though Micah suspected it was a symptom of his mouth being so swollen from the kissing. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”
“I’m the only friend you’ve ever had, Micah. And I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for your friendship or for your concern. The only thing I ever asked of you is to leave me alone.”
Micah halted in mid-step. Jefferson had never said such a cutting thing to him before, never given any indication that he felt affronted by Micah’s advances. The events of the night cast an entirely new light on why he’d accepted the attention. He’d desired Micah. He was…Micah stopped the label that wanted to spring to his tongue. If he placed it upon Jefferson, he had to place it upon himself as well, for he had responded to each and every thing Jefferson had done to his flesh. He had been a willing recipient, and worse, he had enjoyed it. More than enjoyed it. Nothing he had ever experienced before held a candle to how Jefferson had made him feel.
He licked his lips. Slowly, he reached for his coat draped over the pew, his hands shaking. “Consider it done,” he murmured, and fled the church.
* * * *
Jefferson’s stomach churned and his hands shook. The heat in the church suffocated him, and the effort of each breath made him weak. He sunk, his knees utterly useless, and missed the pew to land on the floor.
He didn’t know which upset him more. Kissing Micah had been wrong. Horribly, devastatingly wrong. And it only took one look at Micah’s shocked face to realize he knew it too. Unfortunately, his sin was greater than the kiss. Far, far greater.
The inappropriate contact could be explained away. He could claim he was drunk. He could claim he had lost his senses. He could claim the ghost possessed him. He could beg for Micah’s pardon. He could spend the rest of his life demonstrating that it had been a mistake he’d never make again.
But what he couldn’t do was explain the need to hurt Micah. And he had. There was no question of that. He had unerringly found the younger man’s most vulnerable spot and stabbed at it with his words. He had made Micah feel unwanted. Alone. No apology could rectify that. What could he possibly do to repent?
Jefferson ran his hand over his face. He had no idea how to extract Micah’s forgiveness, but he knew he had to try. Maybe Micah could never forgive him. He’d accept that. But he would do everything in his power to prove he was sorry. It would be easier to talk to him the next morning, in the daylight, away from the church.
If Micah never wanted to speak to him again, Jefferson would accept that as a proper punishment. Perhaps the only punishment he deserved.
Chapter 8
He was still disheveled from the journey. When he had returned to the inn, he had woken Ewan from a sound sleep and demanded he start packing immediately. An hour later, Mrs. Ruark was paid, looking very sleepy and disappointed in her kerchief, and they were on the road for Boston. Micah had attempted to sleep on the way, but images of Jefferson had plagued him the entire course.
How he’d smiled when he heard Micah’s first recitation.
How he’d frowned when he heard about Micah’s family.
How he’d gazed at him with those burning slate eyes as he pinned him to the church wall.
How he’d spat out that final comment, stabbing Micah in the gut.
Much of Jefferson’s actions made more sense now. All the touching that had happened under the cover of dark in the church, and the story he told about why he had to leave Boston. It would likely take little effort to dig up the scandal that must have plagued Jefferson, but Micah knew he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to hear how Jefferson had had a male lover, how he’d been declared a deviant and driven out of town. He couldn’t bear it.
Just like he couldn’t bear to face Jefferson one more time. He had fled in the dark of night like a coward. If Jefferson had kissed him once, he might try again, and for as much as Micah didn’t wish to succumb to it, he could not guarantee that it would not happen.
He jerked when the knob turned, immediately standing up as the door opened and Richard Yardley strode into the room. In many ways, Micah took after his father. They were the same build, the relative same height, with the same straight nose and dark hair. Where Richard had dark blue eyes, however, Micah had inherited his mother’s light brown ones, as well as her full mouth. He had her general disposition as well, which only served to frustrate his father even more.
“You disturbed the whole house,” Richard said, by way of greeting. “You couldn’t return at a more reasonable hour?”
Behind his back, Micah clenched his hands together. “My apologies, sir. I was anxious to come home.”
“How anxious could you have been? We didn’t hear from you once this week.” He crossed the room to the large fireplace and reached for the pipe resting on the mantel. “A letter would have sufficed for your mother, at least.”
He winced. It had never even occurred to him to assure his mother he was well.
“I’ll beg her pardon for my rude behavior when she rises,” Micah promised. “I did not mean to worry anyone.”
Richard did not look convinced. He regarded Micah skeptically as he lit his pipe, and the rich smell of tobacco began to fill the room. “You never mean to do anything. That’s your problem. Did you at least have a successful trip?”
“Quite. Meeting with Mr. Dering was most instructional. My professors will be pleased.”
Richard harrumphed. “I’m glad somebody will be pleased with your excursion. Well, it’s just as well you came home now. James will be arriving from New York tomorrow with Gretchen. He claims he has important news for the family.”
Important news for the family meant one of two things. James had done something fiscally rewarding, or, and this was more likely since he was bringing his wife along, he was going to announce the first grandchild to Richard and Margaret Yardley, the next generation to carry on the family name.
Micah sighed. With his luck, it would be a boy. One who loved sport. And tobacco. And wouldn’t cast shame on the Yardley heritage by being a potential sodomite.
“It will be nice to see them,” he said as politely as he could muster. “Does that mean special preparations?”
“James did not give us a great deal of notice, so your mother is planning a small dinner party for their arrival. There will be a much larger gathering later in the month. I told her all of that wasn’t necessary, but you know how much your mother loves to invite half the city to the house.”
Yes, he did. All too well.
Micah pretended to stifle a yawn, and affected his best guilty look when his father frowned at him. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m quite tired still from the journey. Might I excuse myself to get some rest?”
“Yes, if you must. But I want to see you tomorrow over breakfast. An associate of mine, Mr. Buckley, recently informed me he has a position for you in his office as a scrivener. I think we should discuss the opportunity in more depth.”
His heart sank, but he murmured his agreement anyway before fleeing the room as quickly as he could. A scrivener. He hadn’t endured all these years of education to spend the rest of his life copying documents. Writing other people’s words. Other people’s boring and mundane words. He’d sooner cut all his fingers off than sell his soul like that.
Not for the first time since leaving, Micah felt a palpable ache for Wroxham. Life had been so much happier there. Jefferson had never attempted to force him to be anything other than what he was. Until the kiss.
He banished the rest of his thoughts. He was exhausted. His head would be much clearer after he got some solid sleep.
* * * *
Gritting his teeth, Micah smiled as the last of the guests pulled out of the courtyard. Dinner had been as excruciating as he’d anticipated, worsened by the fact that his mother had invited not one, not two, but three families with available daughters all near his age. He had been forced to sit opposite Abigail Stewart and listen to her prattle on about her recent trip to Philadelphia. Then afterward, Father had insisted he accompany Sarah Lafayette on the piano as she entertained the guests with a song.
It might not have been so bad if she could actually sing. He had been attempting all night to find favor with any one of the girls Mother thought might interest him, but each time he focused on their features, searching for a grain of desire, he saw Jefferson’s lean face.
All in all, it had not been a good night. The only thing that had come of it was now he had a plan.
Micah waited until everyone had retired before ringing the bell for Ewan. His steward arrived swiftly, though he was still tucking his shirt in as he entered Micah’s bedchambers.
“I need you to do something for me,” Micah said without preamble.
“All right. What do you need?”
“A woman.”
Ewan blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.” Micah took a deep breath. “I think a professional would be best, of course. I was hoping you’d know how I could get about hiring one.”
“Micah, of course I’m always happy to do anything you ask me to do. But I don’t understand. You’ve never…With all due respect, do you even know what to do with a woman?”
Irritation bubbled inside him, though he knew Ewan had more than a good point. “Well, I won’t learn if I don’t try, now will I? Can you think of a better way?”
“No, in fact, I cannot. Do you want…would you like to have the meeting tonight?”
It was Micah’s turn to blink. “You can arrange it that quickly?”
“Of course. Professionals don’t make appointments with their clients days in advance. It might take a little time to find a suitable one for you, but it is hardly an endeavor that will take all night.”
“Oh. Then…yes. Tonight.” He glanced furtively around his room. “We don’t do it here, do we? If Mother found out…”
Ewan smiled for the first time. “I’ll arrange for a room as well. You’ll have all the privacy you need. As for the girl, do you have any preferences?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say, “Not a redhead.” But Micah quelled the impu
lse.
“Demure,” he said instead. “Or at least the façade of such.” It was asking a bit much, but he was already so nervous about proving his sexuality, the last thing he wanted was for a brazen woman to terrify him from performing. “With curves.” He made a helpless gesture in front of him that was supposed to resemble a woman’s figure but he was afraid looked nothing like the kind.
Ewan inclined his head. “I’ll see to it. I will need some money, though.”
Practical matters stirred Micah into action. Going to his desk, he unlocked the bottom drawer and pulled out a small sack, the coins it held jingling loudly in the room. “Will that be enough?” he asked as he handed it over. “If it costs more to get a pretty one, I’d rather spend the money.”
“It’ll be enough,” Ewan assured him as he accepted the money. “I’ll see to it that you’re not disappointed. Watch for me. I’ll try to be back within the hour.”
Micah nodded and watched him leave. An hour. An hour was a lifetime. How on earth was he going to be able to wait?
His gaze lit on the book sitting on his nightstand. For two months, Jefferson’s first volume had occupied that spot, but he had locked it away in the same desk drawer he’d retrieved the money from the moment he’d reached his room. He didn’t want to read it; he didn’t want any reminders at all of Wroxham. In its stead was now a collection of Keats, a reliable favorite before he’d even known Jefferson Dering existed. He sat down with it now, in hopes of getting lost in its familiar cadences.
Forty-five minutes later, when Ewan rapped at his door, Micah hadn’t read a single word. He was too tense, too nervous about what he had planned. He sincerely hoped Ewan had found a soft-spoken girl. His nerves couldn’t take much more.
Ewan merely gestured with his head that Micah should follow him. They moved quietly down the stairs, Micah keeping a watchful eye for any sign of life in the dark house. But everybody had long since retired. There weren’t even any sounds coming from the servants’ quarters.
Ewan held the coach door open for Micah, then stepped up into the driver’s seat. The coach lurched into motion, and Micah’s stomach leapt to his throat. He pulled the blinds closed, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to avoid showing his face, or if he simply wished to be ignorant of the actual location of the meeting.