Page 3 of Moaning Under the Mistletoe
“Dancing?”
“Yes. Would you like to try it?”
The man glanced at a trio of men who were kissing. “There is one type of dance I’ll do with you.” It was the most words that the man had said, and yes, Oscar understood the implication and he wanted it. Very much. Oscar leaned closer. The man was taller than him—most people were—and broader and sterner. Exactly his type. He’d spent the first week staring naively at everyone and everything, and the last three weeks exploring and learning about himself. And he’d discovered the one thing he liked most of all; being fucked by someone much bigger than him. Not that it was difficult to find someone taller than him since he was short like the rest of his family.
“Yes please.”
The man’s nostrils flared. “Not here.”
“You don’t like an audience?”
“No.”
Rather than bat his eyelids and say something about how the audience would appreciate seeing this man’s long ... limbs, he lifted his chin. “I know just the place.” From the way the man’s shoulders relaxed, just a tiny bit, Oscar knew he’d made the right decision. There was something private about this man, and Oscar suddenly didn’t want to share him either.
“Come with me.” He slid his hand down the man’s arm and held his pinkie finger for a short moment before turning on his heels and waltzing towards his office. The space was exactly as his uncle had left it with a sumptuous chaise lounge covered in green velvet and walls lined in bookshelves. It was elegant and warm and rich in colours and his uncle’s desk was covered in piles of paper. Oscar had slowly been organising the room, focusing first on the accounts and the membership records. Otto could run the club’s daily activities and deal with problem members, but Oscar had to take over the paperwork now he was the owner. Thankfully being a bank clerk had prepared himself for the task because his uncle’s paperwork was not in a good state.
“This is Mardin’s office.”
“And now it is mine.”
“Who are you?”
“Oscar Mardin. Nephew of Ismail Mardin, the previous owner.” A month ago, he hadn’t even known he’d had an uncle. His parents had come from the Dutch East Indies in 1804, with his three older siblings, escaping the Padri war, and he’d always assumed they’d travelled without any other family or friends. He’d been born on the ship only a few days before they’d docked in London, growing up here with other merchant’s children. His father had worked as a clerk at the port, using his ability to speak several languages to advantage, and he’d helped Oscar get a job as a bank clerk. It’d been a simple life ... until now when he could finally stop hiding. He hadn’t realised that he’d needed this freedom and he’d jumped into this life, balls first so to speak.
The man nodded. “My condolences.”
“Thank you.” Curiosity flooded Oscar’s veins with a warmth that wrapped around the prickly excitement of anticipation. This man knew his uncle’s name and that he’d died. What else did he know? And more importantly ... What would it take to make this man talk?
“Let’s ... dance.” The man stepped towards him, large and deliciously overwhelming, and Oscar reached up to tug at the man’s neatly tied cravat. He wanted to see the man’s throat. For his whole life, he’d dreamed about men like this but knew he had to hide that desire ... until the last few weeks when he’d finally been able to explore and indulge himself—he may have gone a little overboard at the sheer variety and freedom of being here—but he’d never had someone hold his gaze with such intensity.
“Yes.” He barely managed to get the word out before he was thoroughly kissed. The man put his arms around Oscar, lifting him easily, and backing them both until Oscar’s spine hit the wall. If the kiss hadn’t stolen his breath, the knock against the wall would’ve. He used the wall as leverage and wrapped his legs around the man’s waist. The kiss was hungry, deep, and had the sharp remnant of champagne on the man’s tongue. Oscar tasted it again, knowing he hadn’t consumed it here, and he wanted to taste more about this man. If he could plunder his history with his tongue, he would. He wanted to know everything—what he liked, how he sounded when he came, if his cock was big like the rest of him—everything about this man who was kissing him like this. It wasn’t sweet or nice. It was passionate and pushy, and Oscar wanted more. He thrust his tongue along the man’s tongue and drank in the groan that reverberated through his skull, heating him to a fever pitch.
“You want me?” The man asked with a growl.
“Yes.” He wanted everything this man could give him and so he tilted his hips and thrust against him, while kissing him, and clutching at his shoulders with his hands. The man groaned into his mouth and together they started to pull off each other’s clothes. Oscar had never had a valet, growing up as a lowly port clerk’s son, but in the last few weeks, he’d toured many a man’s clothing and had a solid understanding of the fastest way to find his way under shirts and trousers to access someone’s skin. He was impressed by the way this man continued to hold him up, one arm tucked under his backside with the other grabbing at his shirt buttons, and he kept his legs gripped around the man’s waist.
“Down.” The man dropped him and Oscar slid down the wall, barely managing to get his legs under him in time, and he gasped as he held onto the man’s arms for balance. Before he could protest, the man bent his head and kissed him again, surrounding him, while stripping off his clothes. Well, he could play at that game too, and he tugged the man’s shirt from his trousers before focusing his attention on getting his trousers down. The buckskin was tight on his thighs, so he didn’t bother to do more than free the man’s cock. He wanted to see, but the man kept him pressed hard against the wall, making it a challenge to get his hand between their bodies. When he wrapped his fingers around the hard length, the man hissed, and he smiled. Yes! His size did match the rest of him.
“What?”
“You like that?” He asked, even though it was obvious.
“Yes.” There was that hiss again, the word squeezed out of the man’s mouth as if he wasn’t quite willing to admit it. Oscar stroked the man’s cock, positioning himself so his own cock nestled against the man’s balls. Being a lot shorter meant the man’s cock was a piston—like one of those newfangled steam engines—ramming into his stomach as the man thrust with each of Oscar’s strokes. The man kissed him again, this time with his hands spread through Oscar’s hair, clinging on tight.
“Stop.”
Oscar stopped. “Too much?” He smirked for a half-second before the man wiped it away with another kiss.
“I want to fuck you.”
“Yes please.” Oscar wanted that very much. “Shall I lean over my desk? I have some oil in the top drawer.”
The man frowned. “Do you do this often?”
“It is the benefit of owning a club like this.” He wasn’t going to hide himself, not after years of hiding.
The man growled again. “You want me fast?”
