A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (37 page)

Martin was solicitous but said nothing of what had happened, and Henry supposed that was right; he should be the one to bring it up. As he changed out of his dusty uniform, he looked at Martin crouching at his feet, untying his boots, and flashed back uncomfortably to Martin on his knees in the dirt.

Sitting at his desk, Henry made a token effort to do his homework, but frequently turned to watch over his shoulder as Martin cleaned the uniform, brushing at the sleeve of the jacket then bringing it close to his face, scrutinizing the weave with a skeptical frown.

“I’m sure it’s clean enough.”

Martin smiled to acknowledge what Henry had said, but he did not stop what he was doing. Instead, he said, “You should keep that ice on your mouth, Sir. It will help with bruising.” The ice sat in a basin on the desk, cracking and popping as it slowly melted. Henry frowned at the cloth-wrapped lump in its glacial pool, but since Martin had shown such concern, he was willing to follow his advice.

At last, Martin was satisfied with the condition of Henry’s jacket and put it away. Henry thought it would be a good time to talk about what had happened, but he couldn’t seem to find the words, and before he could articulate any of his racing thoughts it was time for Martin to go down for his dinner, so nothing was said. When Martin returned, it was time for Henry to dress for his own dinner, and in any case Henry had no better idea of what he would say, and so said nothing.

At the table, it was quickly established that news of Henry’s fight had made its way through the ranks of the slaves to Father’s ear.

“Timothy tells me you were in a fight today. You don’t look badly hurt,” Father said, squinting at Henry through the candelabra. “Who got the best of it, do you think?”

“I think I did, sir.” Henry was a little proud of this.

Father made a sound that might have indicated approval. “Good for you, son.”

Rousing herself to speak, Mother sighed and offered, “I don’t approve of fighting, Henry.”

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

“The boy has to defend himself, Louisa,” Father said firmly, and Mother sat back in her chair and withdrew from the conversation without further remark.

All during the meal, Henry was distracted. He sat staring into space, fork halfway to his lips, picturing Martin kneeling in the dirt. Obedient but furious, defiant, with anger sparking in his eyes. His beautiful lips pressed tightly together, bloodless white, and his cheek wet with Adam’s secretions. How had Adam dared? What had he said to make Martin get on his knees? To open his mouth? Why couldn’t Henry seem to say those things?

Additionally, he wondered why his friends had not intervened; he had far more friends than did Adam, after all. Was it because he wouldn’t swap Martin? Were they really all so eager to see what Martin could do? Henry blushed;
he
was eager to see what Martin could do, after all. He’d have to say something, let people know he was disappointed that they’d just stood by gawking; he would not have let Adam violate
their
slaves.

Martin served him at table with perfect, quiet efficiency. Henry could feel him standing behind his chair and had to make an effort to not turn around to look upon his face, his astonishing face that could not be defiled, not even by the likes of Adam Pettibone.

While the family sat in the parlor listening to Pearl read
The Wicked Master
aloud, Henry resolved again to speak to Martin about what had happened.

That evening, Henry was put into his pajamas and climbed between the sheets while Martin took their laundry downstairs, and while Martin was gone, Henry fretted about what he ought to say about what Adam had done. He had to say
something
.

Martin returned, his manner brisk. “Is there anything else, Sir, before I go to bed?” He stood at the bedside, his manner expectant and polite. “Is there anything I can do for you, Sir? Anything at all.”

“No, thank you,” Henry said, but then, as Martin turned away, he blurted out, “Wait!”

“Yes, Sir?” Martin cocked his head and looked at Henry, who couldn’t meet his eyes.

Henry cleared his throat and said, “You can get in if you want. Just for a moment. So we can talk.” He kept his gaze averted, feeling so nervous, and worried that Martin would hear the anxiety in his voice.

Henry slid over as Martin climbed up on the high bed and got beneath the covers. He curled on his side, facing Henry, his hair spreading over the pillow.

Henry wasn’t sure how to begin. Luckily, Martin started for him.

“Sir, are we going to talk about the…the incident today?”

“Yes!” Henry said in a grateful rush, then blushed at his inappropriate enthusiasm. “As I said before, I don’t blame
you
. But you didn’t have to…you don’t have to do what Adam says. You don’t have to do what
any
of the others say.”

But, clearly, Martin hadn’t known. “I’m sorry, Sir,” Martin said. “I wasn’t sure I could say no, Sir. I don’t really have that right. I knew you wouldn’t like it, but it’s just that all of the other companions are shared, so I thought maybe…” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

Henry was well aware of what the rest were doing—even Louis, though he was careful to say nothing about it to Henry—but he had never discussed swapping with Martin, and so perhaps Martin hadn’t realized that Henry would never let anyone else use him. Had he really not understood that Henry would protect him from the likes of Adam?

Still speaking with breathless speed, Henry said, “I think I’ve made it clear enough to everyone, to
Adam
, that you are off limits from now on, and they should leave you alone.” He paused for a breath and dared a glance at Martin’s face; Martin watched him, calm and impassive, his face all softened angles in the low light. “I won’t share you; you should know that. If anyone bothers you again, tell me.”

“I will, Sir,” Martin promised. “Thank you for looking out for me.”

“Of course,” Henry said. “You
are
my property.”

A moment of silent acknowledgment of this fact passed, then Martin asked, “Does your lip still hurt, Sir?”

“It’s all right,” Henry said. He thought of Martin trying to fling himself into the fight, Peter and Tom holding him back. “You know, you shouldn’t have tried to get involved.”

“I only wanted to protect you, Sir. Besides, I would have liked the chance to pay Mr. Pettibone back!”

Martin might have appreciated the opportunity for retribution, but Henry hated the idea of Martin being hit. “I can take care of myself,” he asserted, though of course that was also Martin’s job. “Adam’s a lot bigger than you. Fatter.”

Martin lifted his chin, prideful. “But I can fight, Sir. I was ranked second in my class at Ganymede.”

“That’s right; you told me you trained.” With an amused chuckle, Henry asked, “Is there anything they didn’t teach you?”

Martin’s smile was so genuine, so fond and intimate, that it rendered Henry breathless. “I was well-trained, Sir. Anything and everything a gentleman might require.” After a moment, he added, in a confidential tone, “I would do anything for you.”

Henry flushed, a furious burn ignited at the core of his being. “I know you would.”

They shared a few moments companionable silence, during which time Henry’s flaming blush gradually receded, leaving behind a different sort of burn, a seething frustration. It was unfair, unspeakably unfair, that Adam Pettibone had felt no compunction about violating Martin in such a way, yet Henry remained incapable of bridging the gap that yawned between them. Henry’s hand twitched on the coverlet, needful of contact; Martin was so close, so very close.

Martin stirred and Henry sensed that he was about to excuse himself and did not want him to go. “You were on your knees,” Henry blurted, seizing on the idea. “Down in the dirt. Did he push you?”

“He ordered me down, Sir,” Martin said. “He took hold of me by the throat and demanded it.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t my place to question.”

“You needn’t always call me sir, you know,” Henry said. He knew he couldn’t create an ease between them simply by asking for it, but that was what he wanted.

“It’s my training,” Martin said. “An ingrained habit.” Then added, “Sir,” with a smile.

It was a simple thing for Henry to reach out, to cuff Martin’s shoulder in jest, as if he were a real friend. Martin raised a hand to his arm in feigned pain, laughing with an open mouth, eyes squinted to slits. It was a good moment, an easy one.

Emboldened by this measure of camaraderie, Henry asked, “Did he hurt you?” He reached out, watching his hand as if it belonged to someone else, some terribly brave person, and touched Martin’s throat, just a moment’s hesitation before contact. Martin’s skin felt so warm, so vividly
alive
, that Henry gasped—but he didn’t move his hand away. “When he had his hand on you—here.” He spread his hand, thumb to one side of Martin’s neck, fingers to the other, and felt Martin’s pulse speed beneath his fingertips. He was rendered breathless, prick stiff, every cell of his being reverberating with a clangor of lust.

Martin let his head fall back and sighed, something Henry felt more than heard, then put his hand lightly on Henry’s wrist to keep it in place. “No, he didn’t hurt me, Sir.”

“Good. I’m glad.” Henry held onto Martin’s throat for several more beats of his pulse, then reluctantly let go, letting out his held breath at the same time. Martin released his wrist more slowly.

Just that contact, the intimacy of it, had Henry so aroused that he feared he would come from this alone, his hand on Martin’s body. Martin’s skin felt so velvety and fine; Henry had to find a reason to touch him again, however contrived. “Where else did he touch you?” He put his shaking hand flat on Martin’s chest, up high, over the Ganymede tattoo, and swallowed hard. “Here?”

Martin shuddered and arched ever so slightly under the weight of Henry’s hand. “No…” he said. “Not there, Sir.” He met Henry’s eye, lip held between his teeth, and let his gaze drop, lids falling closed in a slow, liquid blink.

Scarcely believing that he was doing it, Henry moved his hand lower, crisp cotton and a button beneath his palm, feeling the thud of Martin’s heart. Martin’s eyes were on him again. “Here?”

“No,” Martin insisted, shaking his head back and forth. “No, Sir. Not there, either.” Again, he put his hand on Henry’s wrist, and for a moment Henry thought he might direct his touch, but again he let go.

Henry slid his hand lower, his trembling fingertips on Martin’s belly, jumping muscles hot under the scrim of Egyptian cotton. “Where else did he touch you?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Martin shook his head, swallowed. “Nowhere else, Sir,” he admitted reluctantly. “He only touched my neck.” He shivered under Henry’s fingers and Henry pulled his hand back, blushing.

One last time, Martin caught his wrist, though Henry was startled and jerked free, and then could not contrive a way to put his hand back in Martin’s grasp. Martin looked at him from beneath heavy lids and wet his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. His hair was in glorious disarray. “Is there anything else you’d like to ask me, Sir?”

There was an elastic feeling to the air, a sense of expectation which too soon dissipated. “No,” Henry said, disappointed in himself. “That’s all for now, I guess.”

Martin said, “If you’re sure, Sir.” But he was already up, already smoothing the sheets where his weight had disturbed them.

Henry stayed on his side and watched Martin neaten the bed; he could not roll onto his back because his cock was hard as iron and Martin would see it tenting the blankets, and would know that Henry wanted him more than he’d ever wanted anything else in his life. Even if Henry were brave enough to ask Martin to get back into the bed, he didn’t know what he’d do with him once he was there. He didn’t want Martin to
submit
; he wanted Martin to desire him in return, and he’d seen no clear indication that this was the case. He needed things to be very clear, unequivocally so.

Martin now stood facing him, hands clasped. “Will there be anything else, Sir?” He seemed sad somehow, and it was probably Henry’s fault.

Henry felt the furious bloom of a fresh blush color his face. “No. Thank you, Martin.”

“Goodnight then, Sir.” Martin turned to go.

“Goodnigh—” Henry’s voice died in his throat. As Martin turned away, Henry saw it, the proof he’d been wanting.

Martin was hard.

Henry had not realized it when Martin was lying beside him, or even when he stood facing him, but as he turned to walk away, his erect cock could be plainly seen tenting his baggy pajamas. Henry caught only a fleeting glimpse of this astonishing evidence before Martin had turned away and left the room.

This was momentous news, astounding news.

Martin was hard. Henry had put his hands on him and now he was hard. He’d been aroused by Henry’s touch. Did that mean…did it mean he desired Henry? Did he feel the things Henry felt? The same pull, the same longing? Henry lay back with a dry mouth, shaking hands, his eyes open wide. His own raging hard-on throbbed beneath the blankets and he touched it with trembling fingers. He wanted so badly to come. He wanted to know all of Martin’s methods, all the things they might try.

What he’d seen was only a hint, really, an idea of size and shape, but he wanted to see Martin’s cock bare and exposed. He wanted to put his hands on it, and his mouth. If Martin was hard because Henry had touched him, then maybe he’d
want
Henry to do those things; he wouldn’t just
allow
it, but he’d
desire
it.

What was Martin doing right now? Henry listened in the dark but could hear nothing but the pounding of his own pulse. Was Martin touching his prick, too? Henry wanted to see him do it. He wished he’d been brave enough to call Martin back to the bedside, to suggest that he expose himself for Henry to admire, for their
mutual
pleasure.

His hard cock was leaking against the palm of his hand, so wet because of Martin, and he had to do something about it or he’d explode. He had nothing to catch his spunk in, no handkerchief at hand. If he got one from the dresser, Martin would hear, and he might come to render assistance, and he would see Henry in this desperate, needful state, and Henry didn’t know if he could bear that. He eased out of bed and padded to the bathroom, holding tight to his cock. He hesitated at the door, looking down the hall to Martin’s open doorway. He could see the edge of Martin’s bed but not Martin. He would be well within his rights to go inside, to stand over Martin with his hard cock in his hand and say,
Show me yours
.