Page 58 of The Ruin of a Rake
Courtenay tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. “I’d very much like to fuck you,” he said into Julian’s hair. “I’d like it excessively.” Another helpless hum of interest from Julian. Courtenay turned them both around so the bright spring sun shone on Julian’s face and examined him at arm’s length. He really did look well, as if he had never fallen ill. Thank God. He kept one hand on Julian’s elbow and brought the other to cup his jaw, then did what he had longed to do since seeing Julian’s horse approach. He leaned in and brushed his lips against Julian’s, and it felt like the continuation of that tragic kiss in Eleanor’s drawing room, gentle and undemanding, the unhurried touch of two people who had all the time they needed, infinite stores of love, and absolutely no fear.
It was a lie, of course. But it was nice to pretend.
He deepened the kiss, making it into the desperate and urgent embrace that it truly was, the kiss of a man who shouldn’t even take this time with his beloved but who would steal it anyway.
Julian pulled away. “Before we do this, I have to tell you something. If I could go back and choose not to write that book, I would.”
“I know that,” Courtenay said quickly. He tried to pull Julian closer but Julian wouldn’t cooperate.
“I never want you to feel any pain or sorrow. Ever.” Julian sounded both fierce and sad. “Least of all by my hand. But, Courtenay, I also don’t want you ever to believe that I could wish you harm. I want only good things for you—happiness and acceptance and...” He waved his hand, as if unable to find the right words. He looked agonized.
“You don’t have to do this,” Courtenay said, stroking Julian’s cheek with his thumb. “I know you regret it.”
“You deserve an apology, Courtenay. Even if you don’t think you do. Even if you never want to see me again after today, please understand that I wish you only the best and that you deserve the best.”
Julian looked like he’d fight to the death any person who thought Courtenay didn’t deserve all the finest loveliest things. Courtenay had never seen him so angry and so vulnerable. “I...” Courtenay cleared his throat. “Thank you. I accept your apology.” Wordlessly, he led the way up the stairs to the room he intended to make his own in the vague future where this was his home. The windows were bare, so the room was bright with unfiltered spring sunlight. The bed was only covered by a plain sheet, but it was large and soft.
He let Julian shove him onto the bed, relishing the show of strength, the proof that he was wanted, maybe even needed, by this man, now, despite everything. Then he returned the favor, tugging Julian down hard on top of him, so they were sprawled together across the bed.
They made a graceless scramble out of their clothes, hungrily devouring one another with their gazes, as if they both knew this would be the last time they could see one another like this. “I love you,” Courtenay said, because he might never get another chance to say so.
Julian stared at him, an expression of bewilderment on his face. “Really?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow but not pulling away.
Courtenay was certain he had ruined the moment, had destroyed his chances of having even this. “Yes, really,” he said. “Since you came with me to Carrington the first time.” Maybe even before that, but it wasn’t as if these things began at obvious moments. Falling in love wasn’t like a bird hatching from an egg, for all both events were rather messy and fraught with vulnerability.
“That’s what I had suspected,” Julian said, his brow wrinkled, as if Courtenay’s declaration required him to reorganize the contents of his brilliant mind.
“Had you now?” Courtenay shouldn’t be amused when he was worried that at any moment Julian might put his breeches back on and leave him forever, but he couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t find all Julian’s strangeness amusing and adorable.
“You shouldn’t have wanted to be around me after finding out I wrote that book,” he said with the air of man mentally calculating sums, “but you stayed with me when I was sick. I...” And then, in a totally different voice, “I liked that.”
Courtenay’s heart started to pound. “Why did you like it?” He didn’t need to hear that Julian loved him in return. It wouldn’t matter—they’d part company one way or the other, and giving a name to the thing between them wouldn’t change that. But Courtenay was used to wanting things that didn’t make any sense.
“Because you’re my favorite person,” Julian said simply.
Courtenay thought his days of being shocked were over and done with. He thought he had heard everything it was possible to hear, in bed or out of it. But at Julian’s words, he thought his heart might stop beating. There was no other declaration that could have laid him so bare or pleased him so much.
“I think you might be my favorite person as well,” Courtenay said, and felt something like a blush rise to his cheeks, as if this statement cost more than his earlier profession of love. His heart felt near to bursting. “I probably ought to get on with fucking you before you change your mind,” he added, wanting to get back to safer, more familiar ground.
“Do you have oil?” Julian asked.
Of course he had oil. Did he think Courtenay intended to fuck him dry? “In that drawer,” he said, gesturing.
Julian got the oil and put it within reach and then leaned back down so his body covered Courtenay’s, relaxing over him with a sigh.
Courtenay rolled them both over and kissed Julian until he was squirming beneath him. Yes, this was what they both needed. This was what they had, this connection, raw desire and unchecked passion mixed with just enough affection to complicate things badly.
“Yes,” Julian breathed, arching his body to meet Courtenay’s, desperate and pleading.
Courtenay used his knees to push Julian’s legs apart, then bent down to swipe his tongue over the man’s rigid cock. Julian nearly sprang off the bed at that, so Courtenay kept going. The last time—the only time—Courtenay had done this to Julian, Julian had used his mouth with a vigor Courtenay hadn’t ever expected from the polished and urbane Mr. Medlock. But now he was almost docile, lying prone on Courtenay’s bed.
Courtenay understood that. Sometimes it felt right to be the one doing the fucking, the taking, the doing. Other times it was lovely to have all that done to you. For you. He would do anything to, for, or with Julian that the man wanted.
He teased the head of Julian’s cock with his tongue, licking around the crown and into the slit before drawing him down deep into his mouth. He slid his finger into his mouth before stroking lower, finding Julian’s entrance and pressing in. He paused when he heard Julian’s gasp and felt him clench around his finger, but then tasted the salt of his desire and continued on. Everything about this felt right, felt like they ought to have been doing this forever, Julian open and yielding, Courtenay kneeling with something like devotion, both of them giving themselves up to this. To one another.
He added another finger, then curved and twisted them so his fingertips would touch the spot he sought. Julian moaned, and Courtenay pulled his mouth away so he could properly see Julian’s face. How had he ever thought Julian ordinary-looking? He was perfect. Looking at him felt like the answer to a question Courtenay had been asking for as long as he could remember, a question that wasn’t formed with words.
Still stroking Julian, he reached for the oil and slicked himself up. “How do you want it?” he asked, needing to know exactly what Julian wanted from him so he could deliver precisely that. He knew Julian would have an answer and he wanted to know what it was.
