Page 29 of The Ruin of a Rake
Courtenay took hold of Julian’s hips and tugged him closer, so Julian’s cock was finally touching Courtenay’s belly. At that slight promise of friction, he pushed forward helplessly and heard Courtenay’s answering sigh. Then Courtenay raked his fingernails gently up Julian’s back. It came as a strange relief, as if Courtenay were scratching an itch Julian hadn’t realized he had, and sent more of those shivers along random, scattered areas of Julian’s body.
“I like feeling you like this,” Courtenay said, pulling back so he could see Julian’s face.
“Cranky and overly aroused? Happy to oblige.”
Courtenay smiled, and Julian knew as an absolute fact that nobody ought to look so handsome who was being this annoying. Julian was trying very hard not to think of how excessively attractive Courtenay was, because if he acknowledged even to himself how badly he wanted this man, how the perfect contours of his body and face made Julian almost dizzy with need, then Julian might dissolve into a sad frenzy of desperate lust.
“You like when I touch you,” Courtenay said.
“That’s rather the point. I think you’re the one who needs the diagram. I really would have thought you’d have grasped the essentials by this point in your career, Courtenay.”
In answer, Courtenay trailed an infuriatingly light touch down the outside of Julian’s thighs, making Julian’s cock jump. “Like that.”
Julian was about to say something snide, when Courtenay’s mouth closed over his own. After all those too-light, infuriatingly diffuse touches, the kiss came as a terrible relief. Courtenay’s lips and gently probing tongue felt like a drink of cool water after a day spent under the Madras sun. The slide of his big hands down Julian’s hips to cup the globes of his arse felt like the answer to a confusing line of sums. His whole body sang with want and relief.
Courtenay squeezed and spread Julian’s arse ever so slightly, almost absently. Julian found himself squirming, pushing back into Courtenay’s hands. He had the sudden notion that it was he, not Courtenay, who was going to be fucked, and—worse—that he really wanted that to happen. But no, Courtenay had been quite clear on his intentions, and thank God, because Julian didn’t think he could handle turning his body over to this man in that way.
“Come here,” Courtenay said, pulling away from the kiss only long enough to speak. He lay down, taking Julian with him, still kissing and touching and stroking. Julian felt like a fire that had been built up with too much fuel, dangerously hot and bright, something that could easily become a disaster.
“Look at me,” Courtenay murmured, and only then did Julian realize that his eyes had been squeezed shut. And they must have been closed for a while, because when he opened them, even the faint light from the candle Courtenay had lit dazzled his eyes. Even more dazzling was Courtenay himself, sprawled beneath him, his black hair spread out on the pillow and his eyes dark with want. Julian, against his better judgment, let his gaze travel down Courtenay’s body, savoring the taut lines of his muscular chest, relishing the sight of Courtenay’s cock resting dark and thick against his belly.
“Christ,” he said, shaking his head. “Why do you need to look like that? You could look half—no, a quarter—as good and still get the job done.” He knew he was being irrational, but he didn’t care. He was so occupied with keeping his lust within acceptable parameters that he was genuinely exasperated by Courtenay’s extravagant beauty.
“Moderation is not one of my virtues,” Courtenay said apologetically, as if taking responsibility for his excessive good looks. “I’m very sorry.” Only the faint quirk of his lip betrayed that he wasn’t serious.
Julian did the only thing he could in the circumstances, which was to shove Courtenay’s legs apart with his knees and pin his hands above his head with one hand. “You ought to be. Look what you’ve done to me.” He thrust against Courtenay’s hip, letting him feel the hard press of his desire. “I’m panting, for God’s sake. If I don’t get inside you I feel like I might die.”
“Do it,” Courtenay said.
It didn’t sound like an order. If it had, Julian might have found a way to disobey, just to reclaim the upper hand or prove that he wasn’t in total thrall to his baser longings. But the way Courtenay said it, low and urgent, jaw clenched and eyes wild, made it sound like a plea. A prayer. Like Julian had the one thing Courtenay needed.
Courtenay couldn’t help but grin stupidly when Medlock shoved his knees apart harder than strictly necessary. This was the Medlock Courtenay had wanted to see tonight, the man without the filter of restraint or correctness. Pure, raw desire.
He felt triumphant knowing that he had chipped away at that blasted reserve.
Medlock’s eyes were reflected firelight, lit with the same quicksilver glints as Eleanor’s paperweight. His gaze, hot and seeking, traveled over Courtenay’s body. Courtenay knew what he looked like and rather took for granted that people generally found him attractive. But Medlock always looked at him with the hunger of a starving man seeing a table laid for someone else. There was always something almost resentful about the heat he sometimes caught in Medlock’s eye, as if Medlock were angry with Courtenay for making him feel the way he did.
Not now, though.
Medlock’s hands were now on Courtenay’s thighs, sliding down, ignoring his prick, skimming over his bollocks, and finally resting on his entrance. Courtenay shivered at the touch.
And then he froze. It had, he belatedly remembered, been rather a long time since he had engaged in this particular act. There was no way he was going to ask Medlock to play the part of the careful lover—that would be quite at odds with the tableau he had envisaged.
As usual, Courtenay had failed to plan ahead in even the most rudimentary way. It was the same story, over and over again. It was too late to do anything about it now—Courtenay believed in seeing his bad ideas through to the very end. Reaching to the table next to his bed, he fumbled until he found what he needed. “Here,” he said, handing the bottle of oil to Medlock.
Perhaps something in his tone gave away his stupid fit of nerves. Or perhaps it was the way his entire body tightened when Medlock’s touch became more intent. Whatever the cause, Medlock gave him a quizzical look as he poured some oil into his hand. But that expression vanished as soon as it had appeared, and when he returned his fingers to Courtenay’s body, his touch wasn’t hesitant. Not in the least bit careful or guarded, thank God, because Courtenay didn’t think he could bear it. The whole point of this encounter was that he wanted to see Medlock become unhinged, and that wasn’t going to happen if the fellow made a great show of solicitude.
But Medlock was only looking at him with unchecked lust as his slippery fingers slid over Courtenay’s entrance. Courtenay grinned despite his reservations.
“See something you like, Medlock?”
“Yes, damn you,” Medlock said without rancor, and then pushed a single finger inside.
Courtenay shivered and heard Medlock swear.
“More,” Courtenay demanded, despite knowing he wasn’t ready. Medlock complied, stretching him slowly and... carefully? No, it couldn’t be that. The expression on his face was barely reigned in wantonness. And then Medlock twisted his fingers and brushed against that spot inside that made him feel like he might dissolve into a puddle of sensation. Oh, God, it really had been a while. He had forgotten what that felt like. “Fuck,” he ground out when Medlock did it again.
Medlock kept at it, bloody inexorable, his silvery gaze fixed not on where he touched Courtenay, but on his face, with an intensity that made Courtenay want to either crawl under the covers or pounce on the man. He kept stroking until Courtenay thought he might sob with need.
