Page 30 of The Ruin of a Rake
And when, finally, Medlock slicked himself with oil and pushed inside, there was only the slightest burn of intrusion. Then there was only pleasure, spiraling blindly out of control.
God, yes. This was what he had wanted. Medlock’s grip punishingly hard on his shoulder, Medlock’s breath heavy and ragged and interspersed with garbled oaths. Courtenay reached for himself, only to find his hand slapped away. Medlock wrapped his own hand tight around Courtenay’s cock, stroking to the rhythm of his own thrusts. Courtenay wanted it to go on longer, wanted to watch Medlock abandon himself like this for the rest of the night, but he felt his climax bearing down on him. He let himself go, let the pleasure build up where Medlock filled him and touched him. He brought his hands to Medlock’s hips and held on as he was shattered by his climax.
Spent, Courtenay watched Medlock lose his rhythm and abandon himself to furious thrusting, finally shuddering and collapsing on top of Courtenay. And when he mumbled something into Courtenay’s neck that sounded like, “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Courtenay stroked his hands up and down his spine and murmured reassuringly, as if Courtenay weren’t the one in need of reassurance.
Medlock eventually pulled away, leaving Courtenay damp and quickly cooling in the night air. But he returned, cleaned them both with a wet cloth, and then, just when Courtenay was getting used to the idea that Medlock was planning to leave so soon, he crawled back into bed. Courtenay folded Medlock into his arms. Or maybe it was the other way around.
“Bring me the pistol you used,” Medlock said after a while, when they were lying side by side and Courtenay was beginning to wonder whether Medlock meant to stay the entire night, and whether that was something Courtenay wished for slightly or very much indeed.
“What? Why?” Courtenay supposed Medlock meant to take it away, to dispose of it as he had disposed of the brandy, in order to prevent Courtenay from doing anything stupid.
“Just give it over.”
Courtenay dragged himself out of bed and got the pistol out of the bottom drawer of his clothes press. Holding it by the barrel, he extended his hand to Medlock. “It’s loaded,” he cautioned.
In the gloom, Courtenay watched Medlock turn the weapon over in his hands and then narrow his eyes, focusing on some point across the room, through the open doorway. He held it out as if aiming it, one eye shut. “You’re positive it doesn’t pull left?”
“Positive,” Courtenay said, still unsure where this was going.
“Don’t move,” Medlock murmured, sitting up against the headboard.
Before Courtenay knew what had happened, he heard the pistol’s report. “What the devil are you doing?” he choked out, too stunned to even get out of bed. “You’re mad.”
“Go check and see if I got it.”
Courtenay could smell the acrid smoke and his ears were ringing from the blast. The downstairs neighbors were shouting, and rightly so. “What you’ve got is some kind of brain fever, Medlock. You can’t fire a pistol in somebody’s lodgings.”
“Says the man who started this whole business by firing a pistol in his lodgings. Fine. I’ll check myself.” Still naked, still brandishing the weapon, Medlock crossed to the curtained window and touched the wall. “You were quite correct,” he called. “It does not pull left.”
Only then did Courtenay realize what had happened. An instant later he was beside Medlock, examining the wall, which still bore only the single bullet hole. He touched the divot in the plaster, and it was hot to the touch.
“Holy mother of God,” Courtenay muttered. Medlock had hit the bullet hole Courtenay produced earlier. “I wasn’t expecting you to be a sharpshooter.” There was barely any light, and the fellow had been in bed. Hardly ideal conditions for accurate shooting.
“It’s just a knack.” Medlock blew the residual smoke away from the pistol. He looked damned smug, though.
“Like hell it is.”
Then Medlock adopted an entirely different tone, the brisk and businesslike register that meant Courtenay was about to get ordered about. Courtenay couldn’t say that he minded. “I’m afraid I’ve made an awful mess of your wall, though, Courtenay.”
“You know perfectly well I’m the one who put the hole there in the first place.”
Medlock waved this concern away. “I’ll settle matters with your landlord tomorrow.”
Courtenay shook his head in bewilderment. Medlock was a madman. Courtenay had just been fucked ragged by a madman. A sharpshooting lunatic. And he wanted it again, as soon as possible.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Medlock snapped. “It’s much better that I’m thought to have had target practice in your lodgings than it is for anyone to think you were attempting murder or that you might have been drunkenly playing with your pistol.”
“I see,” Courtenay said slowly.
“Now let’s go back to bed.”
Julian hadn’t meant to spend the night, but he must have fallen asleep, because when he opened his eyes the sun was streaming brightly through the gap in Courtenay’s tatty curtains. The room was silent except for the sounds on the busy street below. Courtenay was nowhere to be seen.
He made use of the ewer and basin and dressed himself as tidily as he could. Thank God he hadn’t had time to change before dinner last night, or he’d have to make his way home in what was blatantly the previous day’s evening clothes.
Upon further reflection, that was the least of his problems. He glanced at the bed out of the corner of his eye, as if looking at it head on would be too harsh a reminder of what had transpired there. He had been utterly lost to all sense of perspective and proportion. He had vague, disjointed memories of Courtenay’s hands on his body, stroking and touching and coaxing him on like the devil he was.
The oddest thing was that Julian had the sense that Courtenay had been nervous. Julian had taken care to be... not gentle, but cautious. And now he felt strangely embarrassed about that, as if the care he had taken of Courtenay had exposed something he didn’t wish to think about. Another night like that and Julian might not be able to pretend that he wasn’t getting a trifle attached to Courtenay. How lowering to develop a tender for Courtenay. How cliché. Julian had thought he was made of sterner stuff than that.
