Page 36 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
He was rewarded with another growling sound and a stronger grip on his hands. Jack’s murmurs of desire and approval were nearly enough to bring Oliver off. But he was damned if he was going to let another night pass him by without seeing what was under Jack Turner’s clothes. He had been thinking about it for weeks. Every hint of solid muscle had ramped up his desire.
In one swift movement, Oliver reversed their positions so that Jack was beneath him. He grabbed both Jack’s wrists in one hand and started untying the cravat with his free hand.
“How in hell did you do that?” Jack breathed. “I have two stone on you and you have a lame leg.”
Oliver laughed into the soft skin and rough stubble of Jack’s neck. “I was trained in hand-to-hand combat, you know.”
“Right, but I grew up on the streets of St. Giles, which amounts to much the same thing.”
“Then you ought to be able to do better than that,” Oliver said when Jack made an ineffective attempt to wrestle him back over. “If you’re holding out on me because of my leg, I’ll never forgive you.” He was only half kidding.
Oliver wasn’t sure if he slackened his grip or if Jack stopped going easy on him, because an instant later he was flat on his back once again. He couldn’t suppress his sigh of pleasure.
“You like that,” Jack said, almost wonderingly. “That’s what you wanted all along. Hold onto the bedpost.”
“Mmmm,” was all Oliver would say, admitting nothing, but he raised his arms to take hold of the bedpost.
“I’ll remember that for next time.”
Next time. Yes. Oliver watched in fascination as Jack pulled off his cravat and started unfastening his shirt, all the while never letting his dark eyes stray from Oliver. That gaze alone was more than Oliver had ever hoped to find in a bed partner. He looked like he was barely holding back, like he was ready to eat Oliver alive.
Heaven help him, but Oliver wanted that too.
Jack pulled his shirt over his head and rose to his feet long enough to tug off his boots and breeches, before kneeling over Oliver.
Oliver groaned, tightening his fingers around the smooth posts of the bed frame. The man was muscled like a Greek statue of an angry, brutal god. Not Apollo or anyone half so well-behaved, but rather the sort of god who spent his time at a forge or smiting enemies. His shoulders were broad and his arms were thick, thoroughly corded with muscles. His powerful chest was covered with a dusting of dark hair that led down to an impressive erection. Oliver licked his lips and heard Jack groan in response.
The sun was low in the sky and in their haste to get their hands on one another they had neglected to light a candle or a lamp. Oliver strained his eyes, trying to memorize every sinew, every furrow, in case next time never materialized.
Oliver let go of the bedpost and sat up, placing his hands flat against Jack’s chest. He kissed the soft skin below Jack’s collarbone and felt the other man’s shiver of response. But Jack didn’t make any move to stop him, so Oliver continued to explore the planes and furrows of Jack’s chest with his mouth and hands, letting his lips drift over to a hard nipple and his hands skim down to brush against Jack’s cock.
Jack grunted in—what? Protest? Approval? It didn’t matter, though, because Oliver found himself flat on his back, his body covered by Jack’s, their limbs tangled and their mouths joined. The feel of Jack’s arousal rubbing against his own nearly pushed Oliver over the edge. “Jack,” he said, desperate.
In answer, Jack turned him over onto his stomach. Oliver could hear the sound of a bag being rummaged through. “Jack?”
“Right here.” Jack said, and kissed him first on the neck and then at the top of his spine. “I’m not going anywhere.”
There was the sound of a bottle being uncorked and a thrill of anticipation sizzled along Oliver’s spine, along with the gratifying realization that Jack had packed his valise in London with the intent of doing exactly this. Jack’s oiled fingers slid along the cleft of his arse. Oliver pushed back in answer, wanting more, needing more.
Jack kissed him again on the neck, sucking in counterpoint to the slow slide and thrust of his finger. Then there was another finger and Oliver helplessly bucked against the mattress beneath him, trying to give his cock some pressure while also thrusting onto Jack’s fingers.
“Please,” he begged.
“What do you want?” Jack’s voice was pure gravel.
“I want you inside me.”
“But I am.” He moved his fingers inside Oliver, as if to prove the point.
Oliver shivered. Oh, this was malice. “Bastard.”
Jack laughed, soft and low. “Is there something specific you want?”
Oliver took a deep breath. “Your cock. Inside me.”
“Say it,” Jack rumbled.
“Fuck me. Please, God, fuck me, Jack.”
