Page 57 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
Apparently not. “The truth is that I’ve had a trying day.” He gestured casually to his bandage. “And tomorrow is likely to be tedious. I need to speak to all these people and make them behave like good children.”
That was his plan? “God forbid you summon a magistrate over something so trifling as attempted murder.”
“We are not having this conversation again,” Jack said firmly, his smile faltering only by the slightest degree. “The plain fact of the matter is that I would like to forget all about things like blackmail and pistols, and if you could assist in that matter I’d be much obliged.”
Oliver wondered if the plummy accent and the unusual verbosity were Jack’s way of hiding what he really wanted in a cloud of scornful sounding nonsense. The smirk had dropped from his face, replaced with a questioning, hopeful look.
As if Oliver could deny him anything.
“Get in bed, then.” Oliver grasped the hand of Jack’s uninjured arm and tugged him close. Cupping Jack’s face in his other hand, he kissed him as gently as he dared.
Oliver sat on the edge of the bed and unfastened Jack’s trousers, shoving them down. Bending his head, he licked the dab of moisture that had already beaded on the tip of the rigid erection he had exposed, then swirled his tongue around the head.
“I don’t need that,” Jack said, his voice hoarse. “You can go ahead and—”
“Oh, shut up and take what you have coming.” If Jack wanted oblivion via a good hard fucking, then that’s what he’d get, but it would be on Oliver’s terms and at Oliver’s pace. He heard Jack sigh with what sounded like capitulation, and then Oliver felt a hand on his head, sifting through his hair, caressing the outside of his ear.
The intimacy of those gestures felt stabbingly perfect, almost . . . imaginary. Impossible. He had never really dared to think that about sharing something like this with a man he loved and who professed to love him in return.
But the rest of this night felt pieced together out of moments from Oliver’s worst dreams. Gunfire, the sound of his name being shouted in warning, the smell of gunpowder and blood. The ever-present threat of danger and death. He had seen enough gunshot wounds to know that Jack’s arm would be fine as long as infection didn’t set in, but what if that bullet had hit a few inches to the side, what if the pistol had been fired at slightly closer range?
Tomorrow would be no improvement: Jack would sweep violence and blackmail into the shadows, making himself as good as complicit. Even now, his lips wrapped around his lover, Oliver felt the threat of chaos closing in on him. He couldn’t live like this. He knew he couldn’t. He loved this man, but it would cost him his soul and maybe his sanity to face death and danger and chaos again and again. He could give Jack what he needed tonight, but he didn’t know about tomorrow, or the day after that.
He pulled away and pushed Jack backwards onto the bed, then removed both their remaining clothing. “Oliver,” Jack said, panting. He was lying on his back, his injured arm carefully resting at his side and his cock jutting eagerly up towards his belly. “Now.” He sounded desperate, urgent.
“I’ve got you,” Oliver said, wishing it were true.
There was oil in the chest of drawers near the bed. That morning Oliver had watched Jack toss the bottle in the drawer with a shrug and a raised eyebrow. That moment felt a month or a year ago, as distant as life before his injury, even before Badajoz.
“You don’t need to bother with that,” Jack said as Oliver began probing him with one slick finger.
Predictable bastard, resisting anything that looked like caring. “Oh, I’ll bother all right,” Oliver retorted, watching Jack’s face contort with pleasure as his finger reached the spot he had been seeking. He added another finger, never taking his eyes from Jack’s face. This was precious, seeing Jack like this—spread out before him, his eyes glassy with need and his breath ragged. He usually kept such a tight rein on his control, but now he had cast it off like a knight might have cast off his armor. He was strong and fierce beneath those layers of carefully crafted protection, but he was Oliver’s for the taking.
A third finger, a moan of pleasure from both of them, and then Oliver slicked oil along his length and carefully pressed into his lover.
It had been a long time since he had done this. As a rule, this particular act was not his favorite way to seek physical release. But, God above, watching Jack’s face as he accepted the intrusion, the mingled pleasure and tension, it was perfect.
He thrust the rest of the way in, Jack’s legs closing around his back. With a groan, he began thrusting, keeping an eye on Jack’s face to make sure he wasn’t being too rough, giving too much. There was no possibility that Jack would ask Oliver to stop even if he were in pain, so Oliver let part of his pleasure be the thought that he was keeping Jack safe.
He took a moment to adjust his angle, tilting his hips up as much as his bad leg would allow, and Jack shivered in response. There. Now he began thrusting in earnest, a thrill coursing through his body as he watched Jack dissolve into incoherence.
“I love you,” Oliver said, because he couldn’t not. Jack murmured something in response, something that sounded like affirmation.
He kept his pace slower than Jack might have preferred, but there was more than one way to get this job done. Right now, Oliver was choosing the excruciatingly gentle way to drive Jack’s troubles from his mind.
“Damn it, Oliver. Please.” Jack’s fingers dragged along Oliver’s back, then lower, until reaching Oliver’s entrance.
“Please what?” Oliver managed to say as a finger began to probe him.
Jack swore. “Fuck me harder.”
And so he did. Briefly. Each time he slowed down, Jack cursed and begged. Oliver tried to save up the sound of those words coming out of Jack’s mouth, to store them in his heart for some bleak future time, like a squirrel burying morsels to sustain him through the winter.
Oliver bent his head to kiss Jack and was surprised to find tears on Jack’s face. “Are you all right?”
“Goddamn you,” Jack groaned.
Oliver gave him what he needed then, pounding into him relentlessly, unremittingly. He growled in satisfaction when he saw pleasure wash over Jack’s face and then felt the hot and sticky spill on both their bellies. Oliver’s own climax followed, pouring into his lover’s body.
