Page 48 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
“It does, somewhat.” Barely. Sometimes. On a good day, and only if you squinted your eyes.
“In any event,” Oliver went on, “I don’t think it matters that we differ about whether Montbray’s killer ought to be brought to justice.”
Jack had to disagree with him on that point. It most certainly did matter. Oliver had an utterly misguided faith that anything approaching justice could be carried out in a world where one group of people—men like Oliver himself—had most of the money and influence.
“Why did you even care in the first place?” Jack absently picked up the stack of fabric samples. Black crepe, black bombazine, some dove gray muslin for later on. So fine, so thoroughly a part of the world that Oliver belonged to. Jack was hardly even fit to launder anything so costly.
Oliver was silent for a moment before he spoke, but he didn’t once look away from Jack. “My father bought my commission when I was seventeen, and I stayed in the army until a few months ago. That life was all I knew. I had hoped that life in peacetime would have less . . . moral ambiguity. Less chaos.”
Jack noticed how Oliver failed to mention exactly what chaos his life in the army had involved, but he could fill in the details well enough using his imagination and what he had read in the newspaper. Small wonder Oliver had returned to the country of his birth hoping to find a dreamland where virtue was rewarded and vice punished.
Jack got to his feet to open the cupboard where Sarah kept her secret stash of brandy and sloshed some into two glasses. Handing one to Oliver, he asked the question he needed the answer to. “Why did you come here today?”
Another long pause as Rivington swirled the brandy in his glass. “When you insult a man, you apologize.”
Sodding honor. “What did you think I was going to do, slap you with my glove? Challenge you to a duel? Bugger off, Rivington.”
“That’s not it at all, blast it. I care for you, you stubborn jackass. I did wrong by you, and I want to make it right. And if it’s amenable to you, I’d like to go back to being friends.”
Maybe Jack found him easier to believe when his speech was laced through with profanities, all that expensive polish replaced by frustration and impatience. “Friends.”
Oliver scrubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “Oh, so you’ve heard of it.” He looked up with a smile that made Jack want to sink to his knees.
This was dangerous ground. The safe thing to do was to send the man on his way. Jack was stingy with his trust and affection as a matter of basic self-preservation. Most people were terrifically bad bets. Jack had learned that lesson early and he had learned it well. Like as not, your average bloke would stab you in the back and never have a moment’s regret. With gentlemen the odds were even worse.
He would have liked to think that Rivington deserved the feelings that Jack had tried and failed to suppress, but the plain truth was that the man was too kind, too charming, too utterly indiscriminate with both those qualities for Jack to know exactly where he stood. All signs indicated that Oliver Rivington was looking for an antidote to the boredom that had afflicted him since his return to England, as well as to the loneliness that had probably been with him always.
And Jack didn’t want that at all. If he wanted to minister to the needs of bored aristocrats he could have remained a valet. If he wanted the pleasures of the flesh he knew where to find them and how to proceed so that he didn’t get caught up in anything other than physical release. With Oliver, he didn’t think he could do that. God damn it, he already knew he couldn’t.
“You’re looking at me like you’re trying to turn me to stone.” A faint and irresistible blush spread over Oliver’s cheeks.
“Upstairs,” Jack growled. If the man wanted amusement then that’s what he’d get. “Now.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Somehow they managed to get the door to Jack’s office closed behind them before they so much as touched one another.
Oliver found himself shoved against the door, the solid length of Jack’s body pressing him flat, leaving him almost pinned in place. But his hands were free, so he used them to squeeze and shape the firm muscles of Jack’s arms, the taut flesh of his arse. It had only been days since their last encounter, but evidently Oliver’s fingers needed reassurance that this was truly happening again, because he couldn’t stop exploring Jack’s body.
Jack didn’t seem to mind. His lips were hot and demanding, his kisses so relentless and thorough that Oliver didn’t know if this was punishment or seduction. Both, most likely. He ground his pelvis against Oliver’s in rhythm to his kisses, and the feel of that thick, hardening member rubbing against his own made Oliver go nearly boneless with desire.
When Jack finally stepped away, Oliver thought he might slump to the ground, but he found a strong arm wrapped around his hips, steering him through the rooms to the bedchamber beyond. Jack gently pushed Oliver to the bed and then crawled on top of him to begin tearing off both their clothes.
The sun streamed patchily through the sooty window, giving just enough light to let Oliver see the intent expression on Jack’s face.
“Christ,” Jack growled, and it sounded to Oliver nearly reverent. “You’re beautiful.”
Oliver tried to imagine how he looked to Jack—spread out beneath him, naked and wanton. Decadent. He felt a blush tingle its way down his body. “I’m yours.” He meant it.
Jack’s only answer was a choked-sounding noise. He straddled Oliver’s torso so that the head of his cock was in reach of Oliver’s mouth.
Oliver needed no further invitation. He flicked out his tongue, sweeping it over the broad head. Jack braced one hand on the headboard behind Oliver, his body taut with tension and desire. Oliver slid his lips along the shaft, grasping Jack’s hips to guide his thrusts.
Why had Oliver never contemplated performing this act while lying down? He supposed he’d have to chalk that up to a total failure of imagination on his part. This arrangement accommodated his leg as well as whatever peculiar perverseness made him go wild at the sight of a strong man kneeling over him, thrusting his rigid cock into his willing mouth.
“I’m fucking your mouth, Rivington.” Jack’s voice was nearly a purr, and Oliver was just coherent enough to detect that faint tinge of coarseness that crept occasionally into Jack’s accent. “And then, if you’re very, very good, I’ll fuck your arse.”
