Page 39 of The Magpie Lord
“Well, if I’m going to get talked about and screamed at and accused anyway... You can have me. Now. If you want.”
“Out here?” Crane said incredulously. “Did they change the law without telling me?”
“There’s nobody within a quarter of a mile.”
“How can you possibly— Do you actually know that?”
“Yes,” Stephen said. “For God’s sake, do you want to do it or not?”
Crane grabbed the back of Stephen’s head and tilted it back as he bent to force his mouth onto the smaller man’s, hard, feeling him gasp. They stumbled to the side of the road and a few yards into the woods, lips awkwardly locked, and Crane pushed Stephen up against a tree. Stephen pulled at his shirt, and Crane grasped his wrists and shoved them back, either side of the tree trunk, pinioning him, feeling the shudder of response.
“I’m in charge,” he said.
Stephen nodded, closing his eyes. His lips were reddened, but his face was rather pale.
Crane’s hand slipped to Stephen’s waist, unfastening buttons rapidly. Stephen was only semi-hard, but that changed rapidly as Crane went on his knees and took him in his mouth.
He licked and sucked with well-honed skill, using teeth and lips and tongue, and Stephen gripped his scalp desperately. Crane felt the prickle of those magical fingers as Stephen’s arousal built. He brought him off quickly, not allowing him time to think, ignoring Stephen’s warning groan and taking the magician’s come in a salty rush to his mouth as Stephen jerked and spasmed against him, his electric fingertips sparking in Crane’s hair.
Stephen slithered down the tree trunk and ended up sitting on the moss, mouth open, eyes shut.
“God,” he said eventually. “You’re very good at that.”
Crane wiped his lips. “Practice makes perfect.”
Stephen was still for another moment while his breathing returned to normal. He squared his shoulders slightly as he opened his eyes to meet Crane’s. “How do you want me?”
“Uh-uh,” said Crane. “Another time.”
“What?”
Crane leaned over and kissed him, deep but gentle now, letting Stephen feel his own salty sweetness on his tongue. At last he pulled away and rubbed Stephen’s swollen lower lip with a light thumb. “When I have you, sweet boy, it will be because you want me to. Not against your better judgement, not in spite of my surname, and definitely not to annoy your aunt.”
Stephen went red, but his voice was defiant. “Well, what was that, then?”
Crane shrugged. “You seemed tense.”
Stephen gave an incredulous choke of laughter. His head whipped round. “Blast. Stay still.”
His hands gave a quick jerk in the air, and he gripped Crane’s arm, holding him steady, as two labourers strolled round the bend. They walked together, chatting idly, completely ignoring the two men sprawled together a few yards from the road, and disappeared up the lane. Crane stared after them until Stephen released his arm.
“Thatis useful,” Crane said. “But, rather than using it again...” He got to his feet and pulled Stephen up, gently brushing his cropped hair for bark as Stephen rearranged his clothing.
“Look, Crane—Lucien—are you sure—”
“Yes,” Crane said. “Don’t worry, I’ll take it out on you soon enough. Come on.”
Chapter Twelve
Stephen contemplated himself in the spotty mirror with a sense of quietly impending doom. There were several reasons for this. The most trivial but most obvious was his clothing.
Merrick had done impressive work on his black suit, but there was no getting away from its age and cheapness: it was ill fitting; the black was rusty; and the elbows were worn, as always happened to his jackets because he always ended up propping himself on his elbows, often in pools of various liquids. He’d definitely leaned in something in this one.
Usually the issue wouldn’t have crossed his mind, but two days of Crane’s sartorial perfection were getting to him. The man wore the best-cut suits Stephen had ever seen, of magnificent, understated quality, setting off the elegance of his long, rangy frame. Stephen couldn’t imagine what he—or rather Merrick—did to his spotless linen to prevent the tattoos showing through like black stains across his chest. An image of Crane’s muscular, magpie-etched torso flashed into his mind and he blinked it away, aware that he could have drawn a freehand map of the man’s skin decoration based on those few seconds of fascinated attention a week ago.
Stephen was, had to be, realistic in his expectations. He didn’t have either the height or the wealth to wear suits like Crane, even if he’d cared enough about clothing to try, and he would never be physically impressive. Normally he was unconcerned by that. Butnormally he was a stone heavier and able to tap into the etheric flow. As it was, looking at the cheap suit hanging off his starveling frame, his thin, pale, worried face and horribly short hair, he was conscious of a wish he’d taken another month’s convalescence as his doctor had attempted to order.
Well, too late to worry about that now. A larger concern was what he’d find at this dinner.
