Page 26 of Enemies with an Earl
Felix
Felixshookouthishands as he paced his bedchamber. He had no idea what he was doing. Well, he’d requested Thorne for a shave. So, he was about to have a shave. He was about to have that man’s fingers coasting over his skin. About to have the man leaning inches away from him. Body pressed against his.
What in the bloody hell are you doing?
He’d lost his mind. Because there was a very,verysmall chance his body wasn’t going to react to Thorne’s proximity. Not after he’d felt the heat of the man forcing him into the wall, the dominating presence of the man surrounding him. Not now that heknew.
Thorne liked men.
Thorne was everything Felix had ever wanted and never allowed himself to have.
Felix rolled his shoulders twice. Bloody hell, they were tight. He let out a breath. He was going to attempt to confirm his suspicions. That whatever charged moment passed between them yesterday did, in fact, mean Thorne reciprocated Felix’s interest.
His muscles locked tight, and William’s visage flitted through his mind. Visions of their night together swarmed him. His frame shook, sweat building between his shoulder blades.This is not the same.He was purely discerning information. He wasn’t acting on anything. He would keep his own interest hidden. Everything would be well. Purely an experiment. It was…for science. Yes, for science.
A knock came from his door, and he froze.
Oh God.
I am a confident earl.
I am the fucking Earl of Bentley.
Except right now he was feeling a lot more like his perpetually nervous and stuttering brother, Fitzwilliam.
Another knock. Right. He should say something.
“Co-ome in.” His voice cracked. His eyes slid shut. This was so not like him. Was this how Fitzy felt all the time? God, he wanted to go give his brother a hug.
“My lord…?”
Felix’s eyes snapped open, and he was greeted with a furrow-browed Thorne, mouth parted like he didn’t know what to say. Felix didn’t blame the man because here Felix was standing in the middle of his chamber with his eyes closed like he’d lost his faculties.
He hadn’t. He’d just lost his ballocks, apparently.
He strode over to the chair at his dressing table and threw himself into it. “I require a shave,” he drawled. How was that for nonchalance?
Thorne’s lips twitched, and he ambled over, lifting the tray of shaving items meaningfully. “I never would have guessed.” His grey gaze locked on Felix’s. “Considering you rang for a shave.”
Urgh. He wasn’t even managing to act the part of arse correctly. This man was so far under Felix’s skin, he was like that fly Fitzy had seen in an entomology exhibit—the one that laid eggs beneath the flesh, only for the hatched little horrors to wriggle their way from the inside out. Buttfly? No, botfly. That was Thorne. Felix’s personal botfly. And the only way to eradicate Thorne? A tryst. That would flush Thorne out of his system.
That was very sound logic.
Felix cleared his throat. “Is it foolish—willingly putting a knife in your hand?”
“Why would that be foolish?” Thorne tilted his head, soft amusement flickering in the depths of those steely irises.
“It’s obvious you don’t like me, Thorne. One doesn’t usually arm his enemies.”
“I don’t like you,” Thorne agreed frankly. His gaze swept over Felix. “But killing you isn’t my preferred solution.”
Thorne turned to the dressing table, leaving Felix blinking like a nitwit. Because that had been bold, hadn’t it? There haddefinitelybeen innuendo in that sentence. His heart rate picked up. Felix had no idea being the object of someone’s distaste could be so…exhilarating.
The sounds of sloshing water filtered through the chamber, and the scent of spiced soap floated to Felix.
“I see you somehow managed to get yourself into and out of a cravat today without assistance,” Thorne called over his shoulder while whipping the soap into a lather. “Bravo, my lord. But I’d also divest yourself of your shirt unless you want it to get soaked.”
Felix had been able to manage a passable cravat on his own. Nothing he’d feel comfortable wearing to dinner, mind you, but for a casual game of billiards, it sufficed. He pulled his shirt over his head and bunched it up in his lap, hiding his clenched fists in the rumpled fabric.
