Page 8 of The Ruin of a Rake
“I daresay you’d have a point if none of my lovers had been gentlemen, but—”
Julian lost the rest of the sentence to the sound of blood rushing in his ears.
Manhandling. Julian dragged his thoughts away from that word, that concept, that sudden and startlingwant. Gentlemen.A wave of awareness traveled through his body, and he had to force himself to remember that he was at the opera. He was only sitting beside this infamous reprobate as a favor to his sister, not to gratify his own suddenly deranged prick.
He was here as a favor toEleanor, who was this man’slover. What in heaven’s name had come over him, and why in hell could his cock not understand that this waswrong?
He ought to have known better than to trust himself anywhere near Courtenay.
They could say what they wanted about Courtenay’s mental faculties but he knew a cockstand when he saw one, and Medlock most certainly had one. Well, to be fair, it didn’t take much intelligence to figure it out: there it was, an erection, plain as day, straining against the fabric of Medlock’s breeches, even though he tried to cover it with the novel.
And he looked none too pleased about it. Courtenay had a moment of fellow feeling for the man. Misplaced desires were a plague. Nor was Courtenay a stranger to being the recipient of unwanted lust. Nobody wanted to want a man such as he. Or, rather, plenty of people wanted him, but only for a couple of tumbles, a feather in one’s cap, a story to tell later on.
If Courtenay were any kind of decent human being, he might have pretended not to notice Medlock’s state.
But Courtenay was not decent, and sometimes being a reprobate had its advantages.
After confirming that they were safely in the shadows and out of view of the rest of the opera-goers, he took his feet off the seat where he had propped them—really, he may have gone too far in trying to bait Medlock—and hooked an ankle around the leg of Medlock’s chair, tugging him into the dark privacy of the corner.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Medlock whispered, but he didn’t stand and go back to the seat he had occupied earlier.
Courtenay took the book out of Medlock’s lap, letting it slide unceremoniously to the floor. Then he traced a single finger down the length of Medlock’s erection. “Impressive,” he said, and was conscious that this was the first compliment he had ever paid Medlock.
Medlock’s only response was an inarticulate growl. Courtenay liked that. Hadn’t taken Medlock for the growling type. What he liked even more was that Medlock still didn’t move away, or even so much as swat Courtenay’s hand. Instead his fingers were wrapped tightly around the arms of his chair.
Courtenay drew his finger back up the rigid line of Medlock’s cock, lingering at the tip.
This wouldn’t be the first time Courtenay had gotten up to no good at the opera. Nor even the second. It wouldn’t be the first time he had dallied with a person he wasn’t terribly fond of, nor the first time he had turned lust into a kind of revenge.
There was, objectively speaking, nothing new here.
So when he cupped Medlock’s cock, and Medlock responded by pressing ever so slightly into his palm, and letting go of the chair not to push Courtenay away, but to fling a hand over his mouth, muffling an oath, Courtenay really shouldn’t have felt anything beyond the predictable stirring in his breeches. Workaday lust, nothing to worry about.
He certainly shouldn’t have taken hold of Medlock’s fussily knotted cravat and pulled him close for a hungry kiss.
But that’s what he did anyway.
It was a savage collision of lips and it was Courtenay doing all the kissing, but Medlock brought his hand to rest on Courtenay’s shoulder and that really oughtn’t to have made a difference but it did. He wouldn’t have guessed that Medlock tasted like chocolate, would have thought he tasted like very correct after-dinner port or maybe tooth powder. But Courtenay had always felt that kissing and groping and flat-out fucking were perfectly good ways to get to know somebody.
Not that he wanted to get to know Medlock.
But still, now he knew the man drank chocolate and that felt disconcertingly relevant.
He had Medlock half out of his chair and onto his lap when he drew one of those soft lips into his mouth. Christ, but those lips belonged on somebody else. Somebody Courtenay actually liked. Medlock, prim and stuffy, ought to have a stingy little mouth.
When Medlock pulled away—Courtenay knew he would before they got to anything more interesting than kissing—he wiped that incongruous mouth with the back of his hand.
“What the devil iswrongwith you?” Medlock was safely back in his own chair now. “Are you mad?”
“It’s an open question. I prefer to think I’m indolent and hedonistic but you can draw your own conclusions.”
“We’re in public. For God’s sake, do you think being exposed as a”—he lowered his voice from a whisper to something even quieter—“sodomite will help your cause?”
It didn’t escape Courtenay’s notice that Medlock objected to the location rather than the activity. “I’ll be sure to find a more private place next time.”
“There won’t be a next time.” Even in the shadowy dimness, Courtenay could see Medlock’s eyes go wide with outrage at the suggestion. “I don’t know what came over me. I must be coming down with something.” He looked most gratifyingly flustered.
“Interesting illness that gives one a hard cock,” Courtenay mused, letting his gaze drift to the placket of Medlock’s breeches. “You seem to have recovered, though.”
