Page 67 of Enemies with an Earl
It was clear—despite Bentley’s previous adamance this wasn’t his first time, that he’d had his fair share of sexual encounters—he wasn’tcomfortablewith this particular act. Sam refused to push the man to do something he didn’t truly want.
Some of the lust cleared in those amber irises, determination reflecting back at Sam. “Yes. I’m ready this time.”
But that gaze spoke volumes. The man was hell-bent on this happening, regardless of if it was good for him. Which meant Sam needed to be the one to make sure things only moved forward if Felix was enjoying himself.
Sam’s fingers fell away, and he settled himself between Felix’s thighs. He dumped a generous portion of oil in his palm and slicked it over his length before pressing himself against Felix’s entrance. The man instantly tensed.
Sam bit his lip to prevent his growl of frustration. He wasn’t frustrated with Bentley. Not in the least. It was all at himself. The man went from practically begging Sam to be fucked, to closing off to him completely. Sam’s gaze swept over Bentley’s—Felix’s—tightening features.How do I make this better for you?Because right now, making this as pleasurable for Felix as possible felt like the most important thing in the world.
Sam gently rocked against Felix, fingers kneading the man’s thighs, coaxing him to relax. No luck. Sam wrapped his oil-slicked hand over Felix’s cock and stroked in a quick-steady rhythm, the one he knew had made the man fall apart during their prior encounters. He curled his palm over the tip with each upstroke, all the while grinding himself slowly back inside.
Felix was definitely ready for him, his hole plenty stretched, but no amount of stretching could combat a body going rigid, a body determined to fight off the intrusion. Sam’s hips finally met with Felix’s arse, and he paused, breathing deep as he tried to get his own lust under control. Being surrounded by this man was near painful in its pleasure. It didn’t help that Felix’s arse was practically strangling Sam’s cock. But Sam needed a completely clear head so he could figure out what Felix needed. Whatever it was, Sam would give it.
He slid a hand under Felix’s thigh and swung it around his hip, palming the man’s muscled arse. He slid in and out slowly, rotating his hips, trying to find that spot, knowing if he did, he’d finally have this man coming undone. But with every slow rock, lust slowly bled from those amber eyes. Felix’s jaw pulled taut, all tension back, one cheek sucked in like he was biting on it, like this waspaininghim. Sam’s heart sank.
He dropped down to his forearm, his other hand going back to stroke Felix’s shaft while keeping his hips still. He trailed a path of kisses over that stiff jaw, but it only had Felix tensing more. Sam lifted until he met Felix’s gaze.
“What can I do?” Sam searched those hypnotic honey irises. Trying to find the answers somewhere lost in their depths.
Sam brushed his lips over Felix’s, but Felix didn’t kiss him back. Sam pulled back to see a pair of eyes squeezed shut, amber brows pinched tight. Even with his slick strokes, Felix’s length continued to soften. Sam’s chest caved, a vacant emptiness settling there, and he gently let go of the man’s waning erection.
Felix turned away from him, empty stare locked on something in the distance. “I don’t think this is going to work.” The words were said so faint, they were barely audible, but there was so much embarrassment, so much dejection in them, it was as if the man had yelled them.
Sam pushed up, still seated inside Felix, and settled his hands on the man’s hips. He studied Felix, studied the blotchy crimson patches blooming on the man’s cheeks, the increasingly rapid and ragged lift and fall of Bentley’s chest.
Sam’s thumbs gently coasted over the man’s protruding hip-bones. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do?” He did his best to infuse some sauciness in his tone, though inside he was flat, dull, and defeated. “I’m up for anything.” No change in Felix’s expression.
All right. That was loud and clear.
Sam slowly eased from the man. God, he couldn’t leave like this. Everything about this was wrong. “Do you want my mouth?” No response. “Felix,” Sam said softly, and that finally did it.
Felix turned to Sam, a pair of glassy amber eyes clashing with his. Their hue was impossibly vibrant, as though the unspoken torment had pooled to create a deeper, richer burnished red. And something inside Sam’s chest fractured at the sight.
“You don’t need to do anything in return,” he said hoarsely. “I just want to make you feel good…”
Sam could feel Felix’s torment inside his own body, bleeding from the man into him. This was the opposite of what shagging was supposed to do. He and Bentley had never had this…this despondency between them. Even at their worst, there’d been something magnetic between them. Now, they’d finally come together, and what? Sam had…destroyed whatever had been between them, and left a broken man in its wake?
“I think it would be best if you l-left,” Felix said, his voice catching.
Sam nodded numbly. Not that Felix was looking at him.
Sam silently and swiftly shrugged into his clothes. He reached the door, and the strangled sound of a man trying to keep his torment locked inside—and failing—echoed through the chamber. The pain in that noise rent through him like a crack in an iced over pond. He wanted to say more, do more,do something. But his throat was too thick, clogged with something he didn’t even understand.
Blood pounding in his ears, he opened the door and slipped from the room. But just before the door clicked shut, he saw it. He heard it. Felix’s fist slamming into the mattress, an anguished cry, and then silence, just the man’s body quaking violently with soundless sobs.
Sam quietly shut the door and rested his forehead against the cool wood, his shaky exhale bouncing off the oak. His insides balled, a corrosive burn filling his lungs and gut. He was the cause of that. He may not know why or how, but it was his fault.
Sam was a big man. But in this moment, he’d never felt smaller.
34
Felix
Felixtrackedthegleamingebony coach marked with the Bentley coat of arms as it rumbled closer from where he stood outside Devonford Castle. He drew in a shallow breath—tight and stifled. Each inhalation was a forced effort, a battle with lungs that seemed as though they no longer wished to serve him. There wasn’t enough room in his chest for those vital organs, not with the heavy, thick clouds of despondency pressing inward. Not with the shadows of his demons hovering close, murmuring in his ear:
Pathetic.
Inadequate.
