Page 37 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
The noise Jack made was fierce, and Oliver instinctively turned his head to see the man’s face, which looked as desperate and unhinged as Oliver felt. His jaw was set, his chest heaving, his eyes so very dark.
Oliver whimpered at the loss of those fingers, but then was distracted by the feel of strong hands on his hips, tugging him up and back. Then he felt Jack shove some pillows under his hips. He was momentarily confused by that, then realized Jack was trying to accommodate Oliver’s injured leg. If Oliver had any sanity left, he might have been able to explain that his leg was the least of his concerns at the moment. But he didn’t, and besides, the unasked-for kindness of the gesture made his heart turn over. Then was more oil, and Oliver shivered at the sensation of Jack’s cock brushing against his entrance.
“Is this all right?” Jack had begun to push in.
“Yes,” Oliver begged. He needed this—his body stretching, Jack’s grunt of satisfaction when his hips were flush against Oliver’s body. “More.”
“God, I’ve been wanting to do this,” Jack murmured. He pulled back and entered him at a different angle, hitting that spot inside Oliver that felt like it was connected to his cock.
Oliver wailed in pleasure, then heard Jack’s breathless laugh at the same time he felt Jack’s hand clamp down over his mouth.
“Do it again,” he pleaded against Jack’s hand. “Don’t stop.”
“Why the hell would I stop?” And he didn’t stop. He pounded relentlessly into Oliver, murmuring words and phrases that Oliver was too out of his mind with pleasure to comprehend. This was what Oliver had wanted, this feeling of shared pleasure. They hadn’t been brought to this point by mere convenience. No, this moment now, the sweat and swearing, the grasping hands and frantic rhythm, was the only possible outcome of the past few weeks.
“Can you come like this?” Jack’s voice was rough, hoarse. It was the voice of a man who had spent too many minutes uttering profanities into his lover’s ear.
“Almost,” Oliver whispered. Jack slipped a hand under Oliver’s body, grasping Oliver’s cock in one strong hand. That was all it took, that single stroke, and Oliver felt his climax bearing down on him.
He cried out into the pillow as the pleasure overtook him. A moment later he heard Jack let loose a volley of expletives, felt the man’s body go stiff on top of his own, and then felt the rush of warmth inside him.
For a moment, the silence was only broken by their ragged breathing.
When Jack spoke his voice was raspy. “Christ, Rivington. Fuck.” He dragged that last word out into several more syllables than it rightfully deserved. “If I’d have known it was to be like that, I’d have bent you over my desk the first time I saw you. How the hell am I supposed to get anything done, now that I know?”
Oliver turned his face into the pillow to hide his smile.
Jack didn’t know whether he was relieved or irritated to find Oliver still in his bed at dawn. On the one hand, the man ought to have finished the night in his own bed. A servant might notice that Oliver’s bed hadn’t been slept in and it wouldn’t take much to figure out where he had spent the night. On the other hand, he wasn’t going to complain about getting to see Oliver spread out, golden and beautiful in the early-morning sunlight. Jack propped himself on his elbow to get a better look. Tentatively, he reached out and smoothed a few pale curls off Oliver’s forehead. Asleep, he looked young. Or, rather, he looked his actual age—not quite thirty—with his face at rest, stripped of its usual mask of well-bred manners.
Jack loved that he held the power to strip away that mask, to reduce this fine gentleman to embarrassed blushes or lusty incoherence. And unless he was mistaken, Oliver wanted that as much as Jack did.
Jack trailed his hand down Oliver’s arm, which was flung out on the mattress beside him. Oliver was stronger than he looked. His muscles were lean and wiry but powerful. He realized that Oliver’s eyes were now open, regarding him from beneath sleep-heavy eyelids.
“Hush,” Jack said. “It’s not time to wake yet.” Which was a stupid thing to say since hadn’t he just decided that Oliver belonged back in his own bed? But the fact was that Jack wanted a few more minutes to appreciate the man’s frankly excessive beauty without having to hide his admiration behind a veil of grumpiness or displeasure. Stupid, stupid.
He made a move to get out of bed, only to find that one of those wiry arms had wrapped itself around his waist, dragging him back to the mattress.
“Wait.” Oliver pressed Jack’s back against his own chest and held him there.
“I should go downstairs,” Jack protested, his voice gruff. “I need the local gossip about the Durbins and Lewises.”
“Later.” Oliver kissed Jack’s shoulder while trailing his hand down Jack’s abdomen.
“What are you doing?” he asked, because he felt like he ought to make some effort to wrest control of this situation.
Oliver ignored the question, which was only right because it couldn’t be clearer what he was doing. “You have scars too,” he said, to Jack’s surprise. More surprising was the way that too made Jack’s heart clench.
Jack most certainly did have scars, though. He had never had what he would call a serious injury but nonetheless had a good half dozen marks on his chest and arms and likely a few on his back as well. “I wouldn’t have survived as Georgie’s brother without seeing myself through a few friendly knife fights.”
“Your brother stabbed you?” Oliver sounded shocked and his hand went still.
Jack smiled at the idea of Georgie stabbing anyone. “No, it was other blokes trying to stab Georgie, and having to deal with me instead.”
“Ah.” Oliver said, almost breathing the sound into Jack’s neck. “You have bruises too, but I suppose that’s what happens when a man falls out of windows.” He was fingering a jagged scar that ran the length of Jack’s forearm.
Jack couldn’t have said how it happened, but he was now almost cradled in Oliver’s arms. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been . . . inspected, or fussed over, or whatever this was. He didn’t even know whether he liked it. “You don’t need to—” But he couldn’t even finish that thought, and Oliver paid him no heed, instead reaching his hand lower to stroke Jack’s already-hard cock, spreading the wetness from the tip along the shaft. Jack groaned, trying to remember why it was so important that he not lose the upper hand, and that he not let this man take any more than Jack was willing to give. Which was not much at all—a tumble, a fuck, maybe a little flirtation. No more.
When Oliver gently bit Jack’s earlobe, all those worries scattered like spiders, retreating to the dark and safe corners of Jack’s mind. Helplessly, he thrust into the other man’s hand and felt the answering press of Oliver’s cock against his hip.
