Page 48 of Once a Gentleman
Chapter Nineteen
For a long time, Kit stood precisely where Andrew had left him, staring at the door he had closed behind him. He ought to wash. Andrew’s spend ran down his thighs, soaking his smalls and leaving him shivering with a horrid mixture of disgust and arousal. He still could not quite believe what he had allowed Andrew to do. He felt open and strange between his legs, loose and wet and debauched.
And amidst all the new and startling physical sensations, his mind kept whirling, returning again and again to Andrew’s passionate declaration.
I love you. Andrew had claimed—and Kit nearly groaned aloud, holding it in by force of will. Of all the cruelties Andrew could have inflicted upon him after Kit had yielded to him, that had to be the most dreadful.
I love you. The words rang in Kit’s ears. Even if Andrew were capable of love, it would be shallow and fleeting.
And yet it made him sick to his stomach, squeezed his heart painfully in his chest, how very much he wished it could be true. He was himself more than half in love, something he had attempted to deny and to ignore and to push down deep inside where it would never see the light of day. What else could explain the way he’d agreed to remain another week, both last night and again this morning? And what else could account for the shameless way he’d behaved when Andrew lay on top of him, kissed him, pushed into him a second time? It had hurt, of course it had, but that pain had been swallowed up by excruciating pleasure and the overwhelming desire to yield to Andrew’s strength and ardor.
I love you. I am entirely yours. I adore you.
Kit did let out a little sound of misery, then, and at last turned to the washstand. He must be clean of the physical remnants of what they had done, at least.
He claimed to love Kit, and yet had been so quick to remind him, moments after Kit’s surrender, that he had triumphed. That he had won, had persuaded Kit to his will, that Kit had given in.
That he had accomplished what he set out to do, and that he was done with him.
Perhaps he hadn’t meant it quite that way. But it was true nonetheless. He might imagine himself in love for the moment, enough to want Kit more than once. But he had already had what he wanted, and soon enough any lingering desire would fade.
Kit had to do anything necessary to keep Andrew at arm’s length. He would fulfill his remaining duties as Andrew’s secretary.
AsTurner’ssecretary, for he must return to thinking of his employer in that way, no matter how the center of his body ached from Andrew’s possession of him, and ached all the more for wanting him again.
Kit gave the towel he had wetted a vicious, frustrated twist, wringing out the excess water into the basin.
Damn it all. He would do his duty as Turner’s secretary.
And he would not allow himself to be so weak again.
I love you.
Kit winced, squeezed his eyes shut against the unbearable wave of longing that swept over him, and began the process of removing any trace of Andrew from his skin. That, at least, he could wash clean, unlike his heart and mind, upon which he feared Andrew had imprinted himself indelibly.
It took him longer than it ought to have to wash and dress, and when he looked at himself in the mirror he nearly lost any courage he’d managed to gather up. He looked, bluntly, as if he’d been well-fucked twice over: pink cheeks, wide eyes, swollen lips, hair that would not behave itself no matter how he prodded at it. And a reddened mark on his throat, peeking out from beneath his cravat.
But he had to face the world.
I love you. Kit drew a deep, shuddering breath and ventured forth.
He met no one on the way downstairs, and let out a sigh of relief as he unlocked the study. Upon entering, he nearly stepped on a sealed note that had clearly been pushed under the locked door. He raised his eyebrows and opened it on the way to the desk.
It had been written in a copperplate hand neat enough to rival Kit’s own.
Mr. Hewlett:
My sincerest apologies for the way I spoke to you this morning. I will keep this brief, as I am in haste and preparing to depart Portsmouth, but I beg you to believe me that my humor was intended to be at Turner’s expense, though I ought to have held my tongue. That is a besetting sin of mine, the inability to hold my tongue. Should we ever meet again, I will be deeply in your debt if you will forgive me and allow me a second opportunity to make your acquaintance.
Yours, James Rowley
Kit’s heart sank. Rowley had perhaps not made a good first impression, but Kit had begun to hope he would act as a buffer between Turner and himself. With another gentleman in the house, perhaps Andrew—Turner—oh, good God. Keeping the proper distance would be impossible, since he could hardly maintain it even in his own mind.
Without thinking, he dropped heavily into the chair behind the desk.
And popped back up again, leaning over and bracing himself on his hands, a little whimper escaping his mouth.
Oh, God. Andrew’s prick had filled him, thrust inside him over and over and stretched him open—twice. His tongue had been in his arse. Histongue. And Kit would not be able to sit down and lose himself in reports and contracts; he might not be able to sit down at all.
