Page 49 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
This was filthy language of the sort a man might expect to hear during an anonymous coupling in a foul alleyway, not in his lover’s bed. But the sound of those words fueled Oliver’s desire. He moaned again, letting the sound vibrate against Jack’s cock.
Remembering their last encounter, he thought he had a fairly good idea of what “very good” entailed. Making sure Jack was watching him, Oliver pulled away long enough to deliberately suck one of his fingers, and then traced it down the cleft of his lover’s arse.
“Holy God,” Jack said as Oliver eased that wet finger inside him, so very slowly. “God help me, Oliver. I can’t hold back with you doing—oh fuck.”
Oliver didn’t know why there was this talk of holding back—that would seem to be entirely beside the point of the exercise. He only sucked harder, using his finger to find the spot he knew would send his lover over the edge. When Jack came—with a groan and a shudder that sounded like the climax was being forcibly torn out of him—Oliver greedily licked up every drop of spend.
“Fucking hell,” Jack breathed, still kneeling over Oliver, his powerful chest heaving with each breath. He leaned down to kiss Oliver slowly but deeply, gradually lowering himself onto Oliver’s body. They rested that way for a moment, hearts pounding against sweat-slick skin, Jack’s face buried in Oliver’s neck.
“Roll over,” Jack ordered gruffly as he climbed off Oliver.
Oliver complied, and allowed Jack to tug his hips up, leaving him entirely exposed. He felt strong hands caress his hips, his lower back, his backside.
“Is that all right?” Jack asked, his voice low and hoarse. “For your leg, I mean?”
It hurt—it always hurt, but now it hurt in a good way because he knew this meant he was about to have Jack. “It’s fine,” he murmured. “You can’t be hard again already, can you?”
“Oh, I will be.” Jack laughed softly, the puff of air cooling the damp skin of Oliver’s shoulder. “And when I am, you’ll know about it.”
Oliver felt Jack press a gentle kiss at the nape of his neck and then a line of deliriously soft and wet kisses leading all the way down to the small of his back. Jack’s mouth lingered there before trailing soft kisses all the way down to his entrance. Oliver pressed his face into the pillow to muffle his cries of pleasure. Jack’s hands firmly gripped his hips, and then—oh Christ—Jack’s tongue was doing unspeakable things. Surely he ought to object—this was a degree of lewdness he hadn’t even allowed himself to consider.
“Jack,” he managed, but he couldn’t form the words to complete the request. He couldn’t even form the thoughts. His entire existence had collapsed into Jack’s mouth and hands. Instead he let himself sink into the pleasure, filthy and lovely and theirs.
When Jack stopped, Oliver nearly sobbed with dismay.
“I’m right here.” Jack smoothed a rough hand over Oliver’s shoulder.
Oliver heard a bottle being uncorked and then felt slick fingers inside him, and then finally, oh God finally, Jack was there, the blunt head of his cock pressing into him. Oliver accepted the invasion, inch by inch, until he felt Jack’s hips settle against him.
They stayed like that for a moment, Jack still except for his hands stroking Oliver’s back and shoulders. Oliver shivered, savoring the feel of Jack inside him, thick and hard, too much and so right all at once.
“Please.” Oliver turned his head to see Jack. The look on his face was fierce, intent. A lock of hair had fallen onto his forehead and his jaw was clenched with determination as he began to thrust.
“It’s all right, love,” Jack murmured, so softly Oliver thought he might have dreamt it up. And then he felt calloused fingers wipe wetness off his face. Had he been crying? This afternoon he was doomed to die of either shame or arousal, it would seem. He turned his face into the pillow to hide his tears and smother the sounds of whatever he was about to say. Because he was almost certainly about to say something mortifying in the extreme.
“No, don’t do that,” Jack said, his voice gruff. “I want to see you. I want to hear you.” He carefully pulled out despite Oliver’s sob of protest. Gently, he rolled Oliver over and positioned their bodies so they were face-to-face.
Oliver complied, wrapping his legs around Jack’s hips. This arrangement was not ideal for his injured leg, but he was well and truly beyond giving a damn about that leg, or anything else really, besides Jack and pleasure.
“Touch yourself,” Jack said once they were joined again. Oliver took his cock in hand and stroked it while Jack looked down at him.
Oliver didn’t know where to fix his gaze—the dark expression on Jack’s face, Jack’s glistening chest and perfect arms, or the place where their bodies met. So he squeezed his eyes shut and focused on his mounting climax, the almost unbearable tension that was finally going to break.
“Yes,” Jack urged. “Do it.”
Oliver came, pleasure shaking his body in wave after wave, spilling hot and sticky over his hand and belly. Jack thrust a few more times and then groaned, collapsing on the bed, his head resting on Oliver’s shoulder.
“I’m dead,” Oliver said, his voice ragged. His whole body felt ragged, for that matter—well-used and ridden hard. “I don’t know how the hell I’m going to walk. It’s enough of a hassle as it is, to be honest.”
Jack laughed, giving Oliver a rare chance to see how a smile transformed the man’s face from stern to radiant. “Well, we’d better manage something, because your curricle and groom are still in the street.”
Oliver groaned, and Jack got out of bed to wash up and throw Oliver a wet cloth. Later, Jack tied Oliver’s cravat and smoothed his hair with a level of care that Oliver tried not to dwell on, and finally pulled him down for a quick kiss. “Tomorrow?” Jack asked, and the note of hopefulness in his voice nearly made Oliver go weak in the knees.
“Tomorrow,” Oliver agreed.
Everywhere they went they drew attention. Rivington simply didn’t look like the sort of fellow to take his pot luck at an inn off the Ratcliffe Highway. He ought to be dining with the Chancellor of the Exchequer or a Russian princess, not Jack.
But this tavern had the best eel pie in the kingdom and Jack was determined to tempt Oliver’s appetite, so here they were. It would take more than a curious innkeeper to deter him from seeing Oliver decently fed.
