Page 21 of The Ruin of a Rake
For a moment they stayed like that, Julian braced on his arms over Courtenay, Courtenay’s hands smoothing down Julian’s back. And then Courtenay grinned wolfishly and really what was Julian to do if not kiss that decadent smile right off his face? He bent down and pressed his mouth against Courtenay’s, expecting to be met with the fierce collision of lips against lips that they had shared at the opera. Instead, Courtenay barely skimmed his mouth over Julian’s, and Julian found himself responding with the barest insinuation of tongue. It was hardly a kiss at all, and Julian thought he might die from lust anyway.
Courtenay tasted of sugary tea, disconcertingly wholesome, and he kissed like he had all the time in the world. He had seemed sufficiently clean-shaven at dinner but now the stubble on his jaw rasped against Julian’s cheek in a way that surely ought not to have been pleasurable. Every lick and nibble pushed Julian farther into a future in which he was a person who went to bed with Lord Courtenay.
Julian, slightly annoyed at being cast in the role of aggressor, pushed up so he had one foot on the floor and the other leg astride Courtenay. He began unfastening his trousers. Freeing his erection, he groaned with relief and heard Courtenay’s rumble of interest. He took his cock in hand, gripping it as surely as he would in the darkness and privacy of his own bedchamber. “The question is, what areyougoing to do with it?” he said, echoing Courtenay’s earlier taunt. Because if one couldn’t be as bold as one pleased with Courtenay, Julian didn’t know when one could.
“Up here,” Courtenay said, and it was unmistakably a command. “Now.”
Julian braced a hand on the arm of the sofa and with his other hand guided his erection just out of reach of Courtenay’s parted lips. He needed to see Courtenay reach for it. He needed to know that this man wanted this, wanted him.
Courtenay’s hands came to rest on Julian’s hips and the same moment his tongue flicked over the head of Julian’s erection. Julian hissed in pleasure. Courtenay pulled him closer, so Julian was now half-kneeling, half-standing over Courtenay’s face when the man finally sucked him down.
“Oh God,” Julian cried out. The warmth and wetness of Courtenay’s mouth was heaven. He felt the man’s tongue doing terrible magical things to the underside of his shaft, felt a hum that must have indicated Courtenay’s own satisfaction. “Yes,” he pleaded.
Courtenay pulled on Julian’s hips and Julian groaned with pleasure and surprise at what that might mean. Tentatively, he eased himself farther into Courtenay’s mouth. He saw Courtenay’s lips wrapped around him, saw his eyes half closed in obvious pleasure. “Do you want me to?” Julian murmured.
Courtenay moaned around him, and Julian, unable to hold back anymore, began tentatively thrusting into Courtenay’s mouth. It felt decadent, to be standing over this man, fucking his mouth, taking his pleasure in such a wanton way. He had never done such a thing. Oh, he had had his cock sucked, but his role in the business had always been passive, which only seemed proper and polite.
At the moment, the idea that there was a proper or polite way to have his cock sucked seemed the height of inanity. This was what he wanted. This was what he dreamt of, even if he hardly knew it himself. And, God almighty, Courtenay seemed to agree. Julian suddenly remembered what Courtenay had hinted at the opera. He liked being manhandled. Well, this certainly qualified.
Julian caressed Courtenay’s head, combed his fingers through the man’s hair, traced the outline of his ear, all the while feeling his pleasure build. When Courtenay tugged Julian’s trousers below his hips and then slid a few of his fingers into Julian’s mouth, Julian knew what to expect and sucked greedily at Courtenay’s fingers. When he felt those slick fingers slide down the cleft of his arse and touch his entrance, he moaned and pressed back into them.
“Please, yes, please,” he begged, and didn’t care that he sounded unhinged, didn’t mind the ragged desperation of his voice. Then he felt the welcome intrusion of fingers, twisting, probing. “I’m going to...” He meant it as a warning, but would have bet half his fortune that Courtenay didn’t give a damn about warnings. When he came, the pleasure feeling almost ripped out of him, it was deep in Courtenay’s throat, and Courtenay moaned and swallowed.
Panting and delirious with spent pleasure, Julian stayed there, not moving, as his cock softened in Courtenay’s mouth. Courtenay licked and sucked and Julian only pulled back when the sensitivity of his organ outweighed the tender, filthy thrill of seeing his cock ministered to in such a way, by such a man.
Finally, he stood, tucking his prick away and fastening his trousers. He looked down at Courtenay, still sprawled on the sofa, his mouth red and his hair spread out beneath him, the picture of decadence. When Julian knelt beside the sofa and opened Courtenay’s trousers, finally putting his mouth to Courtenay’s own rigid cock, he did so with the intention of performing every fancy cocksucking trick he had ever learned, and maybe some he had only dreamt of, as a way to pay the man back for the pleasure Julian had just received.
But instead, when Courtenay’s hand settled on Julian’s head, idly stroking, all his grand plans went out the window. His brain turned entirely to mush, all thoughts replaced by the scent of Courtenay, the hot presence inside his mouth and throat, the garbled sounds of pleasure Courtenay was making.
Courtenay tried to tell himself that this was all perfectly normal, that gratified lust and simple exhaustion had muddled up his feelings and created the illusion that Julian Medlock, kneeling on the floor with his head resting on Courtenay’s thigh, was a sight of uncommon loveliness.
Medlock was not asleep—Courtenay could see the moonlight reflecting off his colorless eyes. But he wasn’t making any effort to move, either. He seemed stunned. Regretful and ashamed, in all probability.
“It’s very late,” Courtenay began.
“I ought to be going,” Medlock interrupted, rising to his feet and fumbling with his trousers.
“Nonsense. It’s past four in the morning, and as you pointed out, this is just the sort of neighborhood where bands of footpads roam unchecked.”
“It isn’t really. I only said that to be difficult.” He cast a glance around the room, as if he were searching for something, but he was fully dressed. They hadn’t even taken their coats or boots off, which seemed at odds with how utterly naked Courtenay felt. “You do need to find better lodgings, though.”
A few hours ago, Medlock had offered to deal with that himself, but now he looked like he wished he had never come here in the first place, let alone offered to involve himself further in Courtenay’s affairs. “Spend what remains of the night here,” Courtenay said. He had confessed how little he liked being alone, and Medlock had admitted to the same. That’s all it was, a convenient arrangement for both of them, and any silly notion Courtenay had about wishing it were otherwise was just his cock talking, surely.
Medlock shifted from foot to foot and ran his hands through his hair, which the moonlight had bleached to gray. Courtenay stood and took off his coat and waistcoat. When, after another minute, Medlock still had made no move toward the door, Courtenay took his hand and tried to lead the way towards the bedroom.
“No,” Medlock said, pulling his hand swiftly away. “In the morning I’ll send a servant to collect your records and I’ll get everything in order. Or—no—I’ll have my man of business attend to it.” The longer he spoke, the closer his voice got to his usual peevishness, further and further away from the man who had given in to lust and tenderness. “That coat,” he said, gesturing to the garment Courtenay still held. “It’s Weston, isn’t it?” He was referring to the tailor half the gentlemen of thetonpatronized.
“Of course,” Courtenay said. “I had to replace most of my wardrobe after coming to England.” All his clothing had seemed foreign and strange, the attire of a different man.
“You can’t afford any of it,” Medlock said, now fully returned to his irritable self. “Your boots too. Everything of the latest fashion and highest quality.”
It was a reproach. Courtenay had received worse, and surely should not have felt ashamed. “I’m very vain. And profligate. You knew that already.”
Medlock sighed. “Good night, Courtenay.” He grabbed his hat off the hook by the door and was gone before Courtenay could fully appreciate how disappointed he was.
Chapter Ten
When Julian got back to his lodgings—proper lodgings, not a hole in the wall on the outer fringes of civilization, he was pleased to remind himself—he didn’t even bother trying to sleep. He had no interest in being alone in his bed with nothing but fevered memories of the previous few hours. The sun was nearly up, or at least it would be soon enough, and, for the first time in months, he had work to do.
