Page 25 of Once a Gentleman
He continued, “I have not, indeed. You are not at all the sort of man to tempt me. I donotindulge in frivolous, degradingamours, nor do I consort with men who do. And furthermore—”
“And furthermore, you’re a coward, Hewlett. Too afraid to accept the truth of your own desires, your own passions, and the ways in which you’re no better than the rest of us.” Turner’s words sizzled on Kit’s exposed inner self like drops of acid. “If you think mefrivolousanddegradedfor satisfying the perfectly natural urges of my body, then you’re a bloody hypocrite. You want the same things.”
“I don’t act on those urges,” Kit protested. “I—” He could not quite choke out the lie, this time. “I have acted on them in the past, of course. My body is as natural as anyone else’s, thank you. But I have always had some respect for my lovers, some friendship or interest beyond the merely carnal. I did not use and discard them, as I would a newspaper. Or allow myself to be treated so.”
“You really are a coward.” Turner leaned forward, like a hawk with prey in sight. “Not like that, don’t get on your high horse with me. I believe you’d meet me, pistol in hand, if I demanded it. You’re a coward as a man, hiding behind your gentleman’s honor and your pride. Iwantyou, Hewlett. I’m honest enough to admit to it. You can run upstairs with your tail between your legs, and lock your door, and cower under your coverlet and dream of some bloody perfect, dull fellow who wouldn’t bedegradedorfrivolous, but your urges will win out. They always do, no matter what your principles might be. And then I’ll have you, and you’ll be bloody well glad of it.”
Kit opened his mouth to give voice to a scathing, categorical denial—and then closed it again without making a sound. He could not. Not because it would be a lie, although it would, and he knew it now without having to be told; because it was futile. Turner wouldn’t give up. Oh, there would be no coercion, no threats or violent attempts upon his person—there would likely be nothing at all. Nothing but Turner lying in wait for Kit’s scruples to evaporate in the heat of his longing for the touch of another man, for an end, however temporary and however unsavory, to his years of physical isolation.
How long had it been since he was touched, skin to skin, warm and reassuring and real?
He would break. That was a certainty. And Turner would be waiting.
What, then, would be the point in putting it off? The thought appeared in Kit’s mind like one of the Sirens, luring him to certain but lovely doom. He wanted Turner. Oh, God, more than he’d wanted anything in so very long. Those strong arms around him, his own wrapped around Turner’s back, lips meeting and cocks hard and aching. Turner’s mouth on him, the way it had been on that young man in the corridor…which ought to have dampened his desire, but inflamed it instead.
Because Kit truly was no different from any other man, it seemed, when one scraped the surface of his principles.
And so just this once, why should he not have what he wanted? What he truly wanted, a meeting of minds and souls as well as bodies, he might never find. He could compromise, or he could go mad with wanting, and he would hang his capitulation on making it a matter of practicality, so that he could look himself in the mirror come morning.
Kit was hardly a man of extensive experience; Turner might well find their coupling dull and uninspiring. Even should he enjoy it, he never appeared to want a man more than once. His desire for Kit sated, he would go on about his business, and Kit could manage as his secretary well enough, ignoring one night’s folly. Kit would force himself to make it so.
“Let us act on this desire of yours, then, and be done with it,” Kit managed to say, though his throat felt as if it were coated with sand. “If nothing else will satisfy you.”
“This desire ofmine?” Turner recoiled. “Not only mine. If you’re not willing, I’ll wait until you become so—oh, bloody hell, Hewlett,” he gasped, as Kit sank to his knees. “What—oh God help me.”
Kit had taken hold of Turner’s breeches placket, and was undoing buttons as quickly as his shaking fingers would allow. Every night, and several times daily, Kit unfastened his own buttons. The small motions required came as naturally as breathing. And yet these buttons, Turner’s buttons, holding closed the placket behind which Kit would find his cock, might as well have been foreign devices designed to frustrate him, so different did they seem. From this viewpoint, Turner loomed over him, a massively intimidating figure.
Turner’s hands clenched at his sides, and his harsh breaths echoed in the quiet. His cock wasn’t yet fully erect, but as Kit passed his hand across the front of the breeches, his fingertips brushing over the swell beneath the fabric, he felt a tremor run through Turner’s body.
Swallowing hard, Kit drew the last button through its buttonhole and let the placket fall, expecting to see a layer of linen.
Instead, he found himself face to face with Turner’s thick, generous cock. Kit nearly quailed—nearly leapt to his feet and ran after all. He had hoped for another moment to anticipate what he meant to do, and to gather his courage for the attempt.
But damn it all, he was no coward. One man’s prick was hardly worth running from, even if Kit doubted he could fit it into his mouth. This was Turner! Dissolute, debauched Turner, who would hardly remember this moment, or the moments that followed, within hours or days at the most, lost in an endless parade of similar experiences. Kit surely meant nothing to him except as an object of unsatisfied, passing desire, a shiny trinket he wished to have only because it had been denied him.
Kit leaned in, firming his resolve, and wrapped one hand around Turner’s shaft. It firmed too, in his grasp, immediately going from partially erect to as hard as velvet-wrapped iron. Above him, Turner shuddered and let out an incoherent oath, and his hands twitched at his sides. The carpet cushioned Kit’s knees, but the awkward position still strained his thighs and made him tremble. It was not the feel of Turner that shook him. It could not be; the mere warmth and weight of Turner in his hand could not possibly move him. That would be madness.
No, madness was leaning in, his breath brushing warm over the head of Turner’s cock, and darting out his tongue to follow. Turner tasted salty and sweet, hot and delicious, the worst kind of temptation. Instinct took over. Kit parted his lips and slid them down over Turner’s length, taking as much as he could at once.
“Hewlett,” Turner whispered. “Bloody fucking hell…”
The sound of his surname in such a moment was wrong, horrifyingly wrong, as were Turner’s hands remaining at his sides. He wanted to hear his Christian name in that tone of wrecked wonder, and feel those hands sliding through his curls.
But he couldn’t have that sweet intimacy. That was for lovers, not for…whatever they were to one another, in that moment. Kit forced down his instinctive unhappiness and redoubled his efforts, sliding his lips down and then up again, stroking with one hand, bracing the other on Turner’s tensed thigh.
Oh, God, but he had forgotten how it felt to have the hot weight of another man on his tongue, pressing up against the roof of his mouth, almost choking him but not quite. Just enough to remind him of what he was doing. In general, Kit preferred to receive this act, but this time, this once, he was glad he wasn’t the one left unmanned by Turner’s ministrations. It would have been far too much to bear.
Turner’s cockhead swelled in his mouth, and the man’s breaths went shallow and ragged. The muscles of Turner’s leg bunched beneath his fingers. Kit shut his eyes tightly, drew a deep breath, and plunged down as far as he could go, lodging the head of Turner’s cock into his throat. Above him, Turner shook, and groaned—and Kit swallowed desperately as Turner spent into his mouth, pulse after pulse of liquid heat.
At last it ended, leaving Kit gasping for breath himself, his head swimming and heart pounding. Kit’s own cock pressed neglected and desperate against the placket of his breeches, all but begging to be stroked and sucked in its turn.
No chance of that. Even if Turner would reciprocate, Kit could not andwouldnot allow it. He knew what would happen, how he would lose himself in any hint of a lover’s kindness. His pride would scatter to the winds, leaving him vulnerable to Turner’s indifference, which would flay him to the soul.
He could rest his sweaty forehead against Turner’s thigh, close his eyes, let the fizzing, simmering pleasure of his arousal and Turner’s repletion hum through him, hope that one of those big hands would bury in his hair, stroke him, gentle him like a skittish colt.
Persuade him, and soothe him, allow him to yield, until Turner pulled him to his feet and whispered in his ear…
Before he could allow further temptation to overcome him, he pulled back, letting Turner’s cock fall from his lips, and staggered to his feet. He could not bring himself to meet his eyes, to even glance at him. What would he see in that handsome face? A sneer? Smug pleasure at having had his way? Or worse—nothing at all.
Kit fled, nearly tripping over his own feet, turning the knob with the sound of his blood rushing in his ears almost drowning out Turner’s protestations. He flung the door open and pelted across the hall and up the stairs, not caring that he’d left the drawing-room door swinging in his wake. Turner could see to himself. The hall was empty of servants, anyway, with no one to see Kit racing upstairs as if the very devil were after him.
Once within his bedchamber, Kit locked the door and looked about him wildly, wishing he could hide in the wardrobe or escape out the window or—no, it was no use. There was nowhere to go. He had the flavor of Turner’s release on his tongue, salty and bitter and sweeter than honey, and an aching cockstand in his breeches, and Turner would in all likelihood be pounding on his door within moments—which was the last thing he wanted. The very last.
Except that Turner did not. There were no footsteps in the corridor, no sound at his door. Turner did not follow.
Kit climbed into bed at last, his every bone aching with disappointment, self-recrimination pounding in his blood. Because he couldn’t prevent himself, he brought himself off, biting his lip and holding back tears.
He had failed himself, failed at the one resolution he had made upon joining Turner’s household. He had no one but himself to blame.
And Turner had not followed him.
