Page 28 of Two Rogues Make a Right
“Any of those things. I want a chance for us to make one another feel good, and any of those options would do that, I think.”
Martin raked his gaze down Will’s body, from his untidy hair to his red mouth down to the extremely obvious erection in his trousers. “Go for a walk, indeed. I’d like to see you try in that condition.”
“What would you suggest, then?” Will said, adjusting himself so casually Martin had to catch his breath.
“Trousers off,” Martin whispered.
Will had his own off in about two seconds, and then lay a hand on Martin’s waistband, his fingers curling suggestively under the fabric. “May I?”
Martin nodded, unable to take his eyes off Will, fully naked now, kneeling beside him, his cock jutting up toward his stomach. Then he felt his trousers sliding down his hips, cool air on his exposed skin.
“Oh fuck,” Will whispered, looking down at him with something like reverence. Martin almost rolled his eyes, but then he felt Will’s hand wrap around him. It was too much, the feeling of someone else handling him when he had tried so hard not to even handle himself.
“Wait,” he choked out, and Will withdrew his hand immediately. “Let’s go back to kissing.” Kissing was good. Will seemed to agree. They were in perfect accord. As they kissed, he could feel Will’s hard length against him. Martin wanted to touch him but didn’t know if he was allowed—and he knew he was being incredibly stupid because Will had just touched him as if it were a perfectly normal and expected thing to do while naked and in bed with someone, which was compelling evidence that he would not mind his own cock being touched. And yet—
“You all right?” Will murmured.
“It’s. Um.” He waved a hand in the general direction of their pelvises. “You,” he added eloquently. “My hand.”
That was probably the moment Will realized he was in bed with a lunatic. Something crossed his expression like sudden understanding. But instead of scrambling to get dressed and beating a hasty retreat, he nodded. “Will you touch it for me?”
Fuck.Martin went utterly still.Fuck, fuck, fuck.How did he know? How could he possibly know that Martin needed to be asked? Martin himself hadn’t known he needed that. He put his palm on Will’s stomach, then slid it down until his littlest finger was near the head of Will’s prick. He glanced up at Will, whose gaze was flickering between Martin’s face and his hand.
“It’ll feel good for me if you touch it. I’d really like it.”
On the one hand, this should have been obvious. On the other, hearing it from Will in that gentle voice made all his thoughts turn into warm syrup. It was like the Shaving Incident all over again, Will’s gentleness and praise working like witchcraft on Martin’s warped mind. Or maybe it was just that Will was so good; if he was asking for something, praising something, then it must be good too. He wrapped his fingers around the silky skin, heard Will let out a breath.
“That’s it,” Will said as Martin stroked. “You’re doing so well.” And he pulled Martin in for a kiss. Kissing was good, already familiar, a reminder that this was Will he was touching, Will he was pleasing—and there his thoughts went dissolving into treacle again. Will was pushing tentatively into his fist and Martin realized he was rocking his own erection into Martin’s hip.
“You could bring it alongside mine,” Will whispered. “And hold us both together. That would feel good for me.”
It was a testament to how far gone Martin was that he did it without hesitation. It took nothing at all after that—well, it took a steady stream of praise from Will, and the usual kissing and hair petting and general coddling, but very little in the way of actual touching—and Martin was spending onto Will’s stomach, followed promptly by Will.
They lay there for a bit, still kissing, Martin feeling simultaneously very clever and like an absolute dolt, Will in some kind of post-orgasmic fugue state during which he could do nothing but pour utter nonsense into Martin’s ear. Will eventually cleaned them up and drew the covers to their chins, and then they slept.
Chapter Eleven
Will was going to make Martin comfortable or he was going to die trying. In general he was happy go to along with whatever his lovers wanted. If they wanted to boss him around, he was game. If they wanted him to tie them up, he could do that too. Every now and then he encountered something he didn’t care for, but even then if his partner enjoyed it he’d give it a try. Martin wasn’t the first lover he had who needed to be fussed over and showered with praise.
But Will didn’t even have words to describe how it felt to watch Martin figure it out, right in front of his eyes. He was already more fond of Martin than he was of anybody else he’d ever known; that fondness was not exactly increasing, but growing more tender—tender, but in the way a wound was tender. He wanted the best for Martin with a fierceness he could hardly understand.
He got out of bed before Martin, thinking that lingering in bed together would lead in the obvious direction, and wanting to give Martin a bit of space before he was confronted with more. As silently as he could, he built up the banked fire and slipped out to the pump to fill the kettle.
“What’s this?” Martin asked blearily, sitting up in bed. “You’ve already made tea? Is this what I get for successfully fondling you?”
Will almost spit out his tea. He grinned over at Martin, glad beyond belief that there wasn’t going to be any awkwardness. “It’s the traditional gift,” he said. He carried a cup over to the bed, having already stirred in a frankly silly quantity of sugar and milk, which was how Martin seemed to think tea ought to be prepared.
“Good to know.” Martin took a sip of the tea, a strand of hair falling into his face as he did. Will brushed it away.
“I suppose you’ll be getting another haircut when we go to London,” Will observed.
“Is this your way of telling me I look too much like a stowaway to be seen with you?”
Will rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m famous for cutting a dashing figure. I like your hair.” It had grown out a bit since Daisy’s haircut, and now the ends skimmed Martin’s cheekbones when he didn’t tuck them away. They had been spending so much time outside that the dark blond had lightened in places to a pale gold. “I suspect your aunt will feel otherwise, though.”
Martin went still, both hands wrapped around the teacup. “I don’t intend to come within shouting distance of my aunt while we’re in town to see your play. I don’t want to deal with any of that until after.”
“After— Oh. After we leave here.”
