Page 26 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
Jack touched Oliver’s knee with one big hand, sliding it ever so slowly up.
“Oh God,” Oliver said, the words sounding wrenched from his gut. He watched Jack’s hand slide further up his thigh, heard the low rumble of his laugh. Oliver had never done this—whatever precisely this turned out to be—without having to ask, and seldom without having to pay for it. He had wondered so often what it might be like in different circumstances, if he had the luxury of letting physical relief come only after the slow simmer of desire. But now he changed his mind. He didn’t think he could take the suspense.
“You ought to get on with it.” Oliver sounded needy and desperate to his own ears. “Unless you want me to have an apoplexy. Just so you know.”
“No, I don’t think I will get on with it.” Jack slid his hand an inch closer to where Oliver wanted it. “I’m going to take my time with you, Rivington.”
Oliver groaned. “Well, I’ll be dead soon, so you’re going to run out of time.”
Jack paid this no heed. “Look,” he said wonderingly. “You’re so hard and I’ve scarcely touched you.” With that, he let his knuckles graze Oliver’s rigid cock.
As if Oliver needed to be told to look. There was no chance he could look anywhere on earth besides Jack’s hand resting on his thigh. “God help me,” Oliver breathed.
“This is going to be fun,” Jack said, rising to his feet and planting a hand on each of the arms of Oliver’s chair. Oliver made a sound of protest at the loss of contact. “I’m going to enjoy this.” He bent and brushed his lips over Oliver’s. “So are you.” It sounded more like a threat than a promise.
Oliver needed more, though. This faint touch of lips against lips was not going to do. He reached his hands up to tangle in Jack’s dark hair, tugging his head closer and pressing their lips together with greater urgency.
He felt Jack’s tongue slide between his own lips, exploring, touching. Maddening. Oliver responded by drawing Jack’s tongue into his mouth, and felt triumphant when he heard the other man groan helplessly. Good. Two could play at this. Oliver would be damned if he was the only one panting with desire.
Oliver took advantage of the moment by pulling Jack down onto his lap—onto his good leg, really. Jack came willingly, without breaking the kiss, and while his weight ought to have been too much for Oliver’s leg, he relished the solid pressure of Jack’s body so close to his own. The next thing Oliver knew his cravat was gone, simply vanished to God knew where, and Jack was pressing kisses along his neck. He let his own hands explore the other man’s broad shoulders and strong back, his own desire ramping up every time he felt those bulky muscles move and shift. He flicked open the buttons of Jack’s waistcoat and started working on the closures of his shirt.
“No,” Jack murmured into Oliver’s neck. “Not tonight.”
Impossible. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I’m perfectly serious.” His voice was wonderfully rough. “I meant it when I said I was going to take my time with you. I’m not rushing this.”
Time. That was what Oliver wanted too, even more than he wanted immediate relief from the desire that was consuming all his senses. He wanted something that wasn’t hurried and soon forgotten.
“Fine,” he whispered. “Take your time, then.”
Jack leaned back and Oliver could see the pulse throbbing in his neck. “It’ll make it that much better when I finally do fuck you, you know.” He made that word sound like a caress. Oliver felt like he heard it with his cock instead of his ears.
Oliver let out a breath that sounded like a whimper. He only sat still, his erection throbbing in his breeches. “You ought to call me Oliver,” was all he could think to say.
“Hmmm. Maybe I ought to, but I don’t think I will.” And after one more lingering kiss Jack rose to his feet and left the room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jack’s heart sank as the curricle rolled into Pickworth.
“This is quite charming,” Rivington said approvingly. “Very picturesque.”
And so it was. “I know,” Jack agreed glumly. The place was as bad as he had imagined. Passersby stopped to chat with one another. Pinafore-clad girls carried market baskets along the main street. This was likely the sort of village in which everyone knew one another. There would be no way for Jack to safely disappear into a crowd, no network of back alleys that he knew by heart, no trusted confederates or willing accomplices. Well, one confederate, if he could be called that.
He’d been to a hundred such places with former employers or on previous investigations. As far as he cared they were all alike. Even the inhabitants seemed to look alike, with their countrified clothes and pointlessly friendly manners. He missed the whores and the urchins. He even missed the ridiculous toffs, although he supposed he had brought his own ridiculous toff along with him.
The ridiculous toff in question deftly wheeled the curricle into the inn yard. Jack grimaced. He could now add skill with horses to the list of items he reluctantly found arousing, right behind ludicrously scented laundry soap. Which only went to show that all that time bouncing along in a carriage addled one’s brains. After two and a half days of watching Rivington handle pair after pair of horses—which he insisted on referring to by their color, as if their feelings might be hurt if they realized they weren’t any different from all the other stupid fucking horses in the world—he now knew that his pulse sped up every time the man masterfully rounded a corner or avoided a ditch with no more effort than a flick of one elegant hand.
“You all right, Jack?” Rivington asked, and Jack couldn’t tell if he was poking fun or genuinely concerned.
It seemed safe to assume a lack of concern. At least—didn’t it? Jack pretty much took it as an article of faith that aristocrats were not inclined to care whether any mere commoners lived or died, let alone whether they were bothered by a fancy bit of curricle driving. But when Jack looked over at Rivington, he didn’t see a high-handed aristocrat. He only saw the man he wanted to have in his arms.
“I’m bloody fantastic,” Jack responded with as much acid as he could manage, which wasn’t much at all. Deplorable, really.
The other night Jack had barely been able to calm himself down after those shenanigans in Rivington’s room. By all rights that should only have been the first act in a mightily filthy three-act play. Hell, Rivington certainly seemed more than game. It was Jack himself who wasn’t ready yet. But he had a plan and he was keeping to it. He thought he had figured out a way to thoroughly enjoy Rivington, without ever losing the upper hand. First, he’d wait until Rivington was positively begging for it. Second, he was going to remain in total control over the encounter. So, when they had arrived late last night in a hamlet located somewhere between the middle of nowhere and the gates of hell, Jack made sure a servant was sent to Rivington’s room to help him with his boots and then took himself directly off to bed.
