Page 5 of Moaning Under the Mistletoe
Mr Mardin chuckled underneath him, sending vibrations through his body. “I’ve spent more time off my feet this month, on my back, my front, and on my knees.”
Fuck. He really wanted to see Mr Mardin on his knees with his black hair flopping as he bobbed up and down his cock. He couldn’t suppress the shiver.
“You like that idea, don’t you? Do you want me on my knees for you? Or would you rather watch me on my knees for someone else.” For someone who claimed he’d only been here a few weeks, Mr Mardin certainly understood what went on his club.
He growled. “I don’t like sharing.” Who was this man with such confidence? Ambrose battled these desires frequently, as it didn’t align with his position as Earl. He knew that other men in the ton indulged like this—he wasn’t the only one by a long shot—but it was always done quietly, discreetly. He’d never met someone who spoke so openly about it.
“Goodness. You’ve come to the wrong club then. Our members tend to have a penchant for...”
“I’m not them.” He scraped his teeth against Mr Mardin’s ear to punctuate his comment and grinned to himself as Mr Mardin shuddered under him.
“But you are a member, or Otto would not have admitted you.”
“Yes.”
“And you obviously have a taste for—” Mr Mardin paused.
“Are you fishing for compliments? I’ve already given you one.”
“You’ve certainly given me something, yes.”
The cheekiness was too much, too sweet, and suddenly Ambrose needed to be somewhere else. This had been the strangest evening of his life. He stood up, extracting himself as he cast his gaze around for something to clean himself up with, before deciding to sacrifice his handkerchief. Because he wasn’t a complete cad, he cleaned Mr Mardin too, gently, before dealing with himself.
“Are you leaving?” For the first time tonight, Mr Mardin had an undercurrent of hesitation.
“Most likely.”
“Can I ask you one question before you leave?”
He nodded, expecting to be asked his name, and he wondered if he should say John Smith, but it reminded him that Mr Smithson had stolen his perfect bride. Otto would tell Mr Mardin anyway. There was little point in pretending to be someone else.
“If there was one thing I could do to improve this club, what would it be?”
Mr Mardin wanted business advice? How unexpected. “The food.” It was obvious and had long been a topic of argument between himself and Ismail who didn’t see the necessity of it. ‘People don’t come here to eat.’ And that attitude meant the food here had always been an afterthought, inadequate, and it stopped people from staying beyond the evening entertainments. Or arriving early. It was money being left in people’s pockets, a missed opportunity.
“Thank you. And thank you for tonight. It, you, were marvellous.” Mr Mardin stretched up on his tiptoes and kissed him. A brief peck on the lips. Apparently he’d been dismissed. Again. He didn’t want to go. He’d had quite enough of being rejected for one evening.
“Would you like to discuss the food?”
Mr Mardin smiled, more of a smirk really, with his eyes twinkling. “Now you want to talk?”
“Yes.”
“And are you a food afficionado?”
He pondered the question. “I like to eat and I have memberships to many clubs.”
“Interesting.” Mr Mardin pulled up his pants and sat on the edge of Ismail’s desk. His desk, now, presumably.
“Your uncle wasn’t much interested in food. He said people didn’t come here to eat.”
“From what I’ve seen this past month, he was correct.”
“It’s a missed opportunity.”
“How so? It’s more expense for the club to provide food, and the club is already barely making a profit.”
It was? He had assumed Ismail was doing well.
