Page 28 of The Ruin of a Rake
He slowly shook his head. “I think I can manage.” A filthy grin began to spread over his face as he unknotted his cravat and lay it carefully on the back of the chair.
That was the last item of clothing either of them disposed of with any care whatsoever. Courtenay took a perverse satisfaction in Medlock’s quickly evaporating concern for the state of his garments, or indeed anything that wasn’t his hardening cock. He pushed Medlock into the wall, kissing him hard and savoring the man’s moan. He tugged off Medlock’s clothes and then his own, creating a pile of coats and waistcoats and then shirts and trousers and boots.
When they reached the bedroom, Medlock hesitated only the briefest of moments before pushing Courtenay onto the bed, then crawling over his body and pinning his arms over his head. Courtenay groaned in pleasure. He knew Medlock recalled their conversation in the dark of the opera and was giving him exactly what he wanted. When he was with a man, he wanted to be reminded of all the things that made men what they were, or maybe just what made that particular man what he was. Medlock was a half-suppressed smile and an imperious flash in his gray eyes; he was a firm grip on Courtenay’s wrists and the ripple of ropy muscles.
“What do you want me to call you when I’m fucking you?” Medlock asked.
Courtenay’s shivered at the words and the dark look in Medlock’s eyes. “You can call me whatever you damned well please,” he said, and he meant it.
“What’s your given name? I’m not calling you Courtenay while I’m fucking you. That’s absurd.”
Courtenay had no idea why it was absurd, but if an answer helped Medlock get about his business and start fucking him, he’d give him one. “Jeremiah.”
Medlock made an exasperated noise and let go of Courtenay’s hands. “What can your mother have been thinking?”
Courtenay laughed, harder than he would have thought possible with a desperately aching erection and a deliciously naked man kneeling over him. “I really don’t know.”
“I mean, with a name like that you were either going to become a Methodist preacher or you were going to rebel and become an infamous scapegrace. I rather think you went about things the right way.”
Courtenay tried to roll away and bury his face in a pillow to smother his laughter, but Medlock wouldn’t let him. He took hold of Courtenay’s chin. “You must have another name.”
“I have a laundry list of names. You’d hardly even credit it.” Medlock’s fingers were firm and sure on Courtenay’s jaw. “I believe I was christened Jeremiah Lloyd Alexander Cecil Devere Illingham.”
Medlock sat back on his heels, idly stroking his erection while looking down at Courtenay. He was lean, with more sinew and muscle than Courtenay expected in a gentleman. His chest was covered in pale hair that trailed down his belly. “What do people usually call you in bed?”
Something about the question—was it theusually, as if this transaction were as routine and unremarkable as having his grate swept or his hair trimmed?—set his teeth on edge. He felt his cock lose interest. “Just call me Courtenay.”
Medlock tipped his head and looked down at him with an expression Courtenay couldn’t read. “No. You’ve already told me to call you whatever I damned well please.”
That tone—confident, a bit bossy—spoke directly to Courtenay’s prick. God, that had been the best part of last night, watching Medlock let go, feeling and tasting and hearing him realize a desire he might not have known about.
Courtenay wanted that again tonight. Not a routine fuck, not a workmanlike grope and tumble. He wanted Medlock to give up some of that reserve he held so dear.
But if a commonplace roll in the hay were all that Medlock was offering, he’d take it. Looking at Medlock kneeling over him, wiry muscles tense, incongruously soft mouth slightly parted, a slightly wild look in his gray eyes, Courtenay knew he’d take whatever Medlock had to give.
Chapter Twelve
Courtenay sat up, shifting so that Julian was now in his lap, straddling him.
“What do you want?” Courtenay asked, his voice soft but heavy with an intent that Julian didn’t understand.
“I think we’ve decided that I’m fucking you,” Julian bit off, confused by their change in positions and at a loss as to what to do with his hands. After a moment of awkwardness, he settled his hands on Courtenay’s upper arms, which turned out to be a terrible choice because he could then feel the flex and ripple of muscles when Courtenay touched him, somehow making the experience twice as overwhelming. And, damn it, Julian was hardly able to keep his want within reasonable boundaries as it was; each additional sensation threatened to send him to a place he hardly recognized.
“No, I asked what youwant.” Courtenay ran his fingers down Julian’s back, and the shiver Julian felt in response seemed so exaggerated as to be a parody of a normal shiver. As usual, his body was in an uproar of sensation where Courtenay was concerned.
“If you think I wouldn’t enjoy fucking you, you’re a deeply confused man.” Julian indicated his own erection. Which was right there, plain as day, next to Courtenay’s own, and it seemed to Julian a waste of two perfectly good erections to be sitting here talking about want instead of putting them to good use.
“That’s not what I asked,” Courtenay murmured into Julian’s neck, gently biting the skin where shoulder met neck.
Julian felt that bite everywhere in his body. It sent trickles of awareness down his spine and tingles of confused pleasure even in his legs. “Yes,” he managed, “I was just thinking how enjoyable it would be to negotiate this experience in bizarre detail like some kind of peace treaty, instead of getting down to the business of fucking.”
In response, Courtenay threaded his fingers through the hair at the nape of Julian’s neck, tilting Julian’s head back so he could kiss the underside of his jaw. “Mmm,” Courtenay sighed into the soft flesh there. “You didn’t shave.”
“I meant to,” Julian protested, feeling suddenly defensive, “butsomebodyaccosted me at the fencing studio with an emergency and I didn’t have time to go home and shave before dinner. Besides, I hardly need to. My hair is fair and I don’t grow much of a beard, and—oh!”
Courtenay was sucking on the tender skin beneath his jaw, then running his tongue along the place he had just sucked. “It feels good,” he said. He rubbed his cheek against Julian’s jaw and Julian could feel Courtenay’s own scratchy new beard.
It did feel good. Coarse and earthy and nonetheless very good. The polite, clean coupling he sought was becoming a distant memory.
