Page 31 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
“I’m going to show you that I’m not cold.”
Understanding dawned across Radnor’s face. His eyebrows flew up, but he didn’t come any closer. “Are you, now?”
Peeved, Georgie folded his arms across his chest. “Well, if you’ll let me.”
“Over the last few days you haven’t acted like someone who wanted me within ten yards of him, let alone—”
“I’ve been awful, I know.” Georgie ran an anxious hand through his damp hair. “I don’t have my head on straight when it comes to you, to be frank.”
“I see,” the earl said, his voice a trifle hoarse. He clenched his fists, his body rigid.
“Come here,” Georgie repeated, knowing he was on the verge of disaster and proceeding anyway.
The room was small and Radnor crossed it in two strides. Georgie could feel the heat coming from the bigger man’s body. And then Georgie was being hauled against the earl’s chest, and he had never felt as safe and totally imperiled as he did at that moment.
So Turner liked being pressed against trees and walls and what have you. Lawrence could do that. He could and would press the man into any surface the fellow pleased. He shoved Turner against the closed door of his shabby, drafty bedchamber. Turner’s mouth opened for him, or maybe it was his own mouth opening for Turner, but regardless, the end result was a hot slide of tongue over tongue, and a whimper from the other man’s mouth.
But that whimper didn’t mean pain, or if it did, Turner didn’t seem to mind, because he kept on.
Lawrence let his hands roam over the other man’s back, tugging Turner’s shirt up by the handful to reach cool, smooth skin. The sight of his secretary in a rare state of dishabille, an elegant hand on one slim hip, arguing with a sleeping dog, had charmed Lawrence to the core of his being. He wanted to touch and admire every inch of the man, and was about 90 percent certain that this was exactly what Turner wanted as well, that what they were doing was right and sane and good. But that remaining 10 percent was terrifying.
That balance of uncertainty was where Lawrence’s madness lay, whatever wires in his mind were prone to short circuits. But Turner seemed to understand that, because a second later his shirt was simply gone, and he tilted his head to the side, presenting Lawrence with an expanse of soft neck to kiss. Lawrence complied, pressing his lips against the curve where neck met shoulder. Turner sighed, and Lawrence let his mouth drift upwards, to the soft underside of the other man’s jaw, surprisingly rough with stubble. He licked the place where the stubble began and heard a faint gasp.
Against his own hip, he felt the pressure of Turner’s erection. Oh, thank God. He had been feeling like a rutting dog, walking around with a full cockstand scarcely concealed by his dressing gown, but if Turner was in the same condition then it could hardly be objectionable, could it?
Lawrence lowered his hands, cupping Turner’s arse and pulling him higher and closer, letting him feel how hard Lawrence was. Then Turner’s legs were wrapped around Lawrence’s waist, and he was pinned between the wall behind him and Lawrence’s own oversized frame in front of him. But he seemed to like it—he was responding to Lawrence’s tentative thrusts with his own.
“Just like this,” he gasped.
Lawrence felt his dressing gown being pushed out of the way, and then the press of skin against skin, chest against chest. Turner’s deft hands were everywhere, as if he were trying to learn the topography of Lawrence’s chest by touch alone. He felt his secretary’s efficient fingers trace the outline of muscles in a way that sent desire spiraling down to his cock. Then—oh Jesus—Turner’s index finger drew a circle around one of Lawrence’s nipples.
“Fuck,” Lawrence ground out.
Turner let out a breathy laugh that Lawrence felt against his neck.
Lawrence pulled Turner away from the door, intending to steer him towards the bed. But without the door to hold them up, they both sank to their knees. Turner pushed him down to the ground and kissed him, hard and sweet.
The bare floor bit into Lawrence’s shoulder blades as Turner’s fingers dug into his biceps. Lawrence felt a hot mouth press a line of kisses from his jaw to his neck to his chest, and then—
“Holy God!” He arched off the floor when he felt the light press of teeth on his nipple.
“Good or bad?” Turner murmured, looking up at Lawrence with dark, dark eyes.
Goodhardly seemed adequate, so inadequate as to almost be dishonest. He took hold of one of Turner’s hands and dragged it to the bulge in Lawrence’s breeches.
Turner grasped Lawrence’s cock through the fabric. Lawrence bit back a curse.
“Radnor,” Turner said, and to Lawrence it sounded like a plea.
“No,” Lawrence said abruptly. Hearing his title—his father’s and Percy’s title—from a man whose hand was wrapped around his cock was altogether wrong. “Call me Lawrence.” He watched as a look of surprise flitted across the other man’s face, as if he hadn’t expected the intimacy. “Or don’t . . . ”
“Lawrence,” the secretary agreed. “You’ll call me Georgie?” Without waiting for an answer, he began unfastening Lawrence’s breeches and tugging them off. At the first touch of fingers—fingers that werenot his own, after so long—curling around him, Lawrence’s eyes flung open. This he had to see. Georgie was kneeling over him, black hair tumbled over his forehead. With his thumb he spread moisture over the head of Lawrence’s throbbing prick. And with his other hand, he—God help him—he was unfastening his own trousers. When Georgie bent his head and flicked his tongue over the tip of Lawrence’s cock, Lawrence thought his heart might actually stop.
“I want . . . ” Lawrence started, before realizing he couldn’t reach the right words. “Come here,” he tried, pulling Georgie up and then reaching for the fall of the other man’s trousers, where he could just see the head of the other man’s cock. “Give it to me,” he managed, his voice hoarse. The man’s cock, when Lawrence touched it, was silky and hard and already wet at the tip. Experimentally, he stroked it the way he would stroke himself, long leisurely pulls, rubbing his thumb along the slit.
The noise Georgie made, a desperate and shuddering sigh, made Lawrence’s cock jump. Then Georgie bent over him, taking one of Lawrence’s nipples in his mouth, and Lawrence groaned. It was too much, too good. He was feeling too many things at once, but he still wanted more.
He twined his fingers in Georgie’s still-damp hair, pulling him up, seeking out the relative familiarity of Georgie’s mouth. Georgie kissed him back, hard and urgent. When Georgie took both their erections in one hand and began stroking them together, Lawrence bit him on the lip. He was ready to apologize, but Georgie moaned into his mouth and kept kissing him even harder, so he figured he hadn’t gone too terribly amiss.
