A Private Gentleman (30 page)
Read A Private Gentleman Online
Authors: Heidi Cullinan
of a pub. Wes secured them a private dining room, where they sat close together
and talked quietly as they drank wine and ate bowls of stew.
“Did you go to Oxford?” Michael asked. “You seem so familiar with it.”
Wes shook his head and refilled Michael’s glass. “N-No. I was t-t-tutored at
home until I was s-s-sixteen. Then I took up my p-plants in earnest. But I have c-
c-come here to do research and to h-help with gardens.” He cast Michael a wry
glance. “D-Do I d-d-dare offer to show you the B-Botanical G-Garden
tomorrow?”
“Albert darling, after that library, you could plant me in a pot and I would
be content.” He touched Wes’s arm, his eyes shining. “I shall never forget it.
Never.” He squeezed. “Thank you.”
The door opened to a maid, and Michael drew back his hand, but Wes felt
the burn of it lingering there.
“W-What of y-you?” Wes asked. “Would you h-have liked to g-go to
university?”
He worried that the question strayed into delicate territory, and a shadow
did cross Michael’s face before he shrugged. “It was never a given. I longed to,
yes, but I never let myself get attached, even—before. I had dreams of being a
scholarship boy, but likely those were phantoms as well. Who would grant
money to a whore’s son?” He laughed without mirth. “Honestly, it would have
come to nothing. I longed to be a barrister, but at best I suspect I would have
been a clerk. I would have been one of the lonely souls I service.” He paused, a
different shadow passing over his face.
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There seemed to be a story there, but instinct led Wes to redirect the
conversation entirely. He asked what books Michael had found, what had been
the most interesting, and this let loose a torrent of words, most of which swirled
around Wes’s head without landing, but he smiled and nodded and listened,
being careful to pick up enough detail to press him with deeper questions.
He kept Michael’s glass full as well, letting his companion grow tipsy, but
when he began to
tip
as well, Wes called for his bill and laid out his coin before handing a note of instruction to the innkeeper. Michael listed against him,
looking confused as Wes led him outside.
“We aren’t staying at the inn?” he asked.
“No.” Wes helped Michael into the carriage that pulled into the inn’s drive.
He sat across from Michael as they drove, enjoying the way the streetlights
played across his face, his loosened necktie, his open waistcoat. Michael stared
back, looking relaxed and sated.
“You got me drunk,” he accused without rancor.
“A b-bit,” Wes admitted.
“To have your way with me?” The question was playful, but Wes could hear
the sliver of unease behind it.
He shook his head. “To r-relax you.”
Michael was quiet a moment. “I want you to have your way with me.”
Heat seeped through Wes, but he kept himself neutral. “B-But you are af-
fraid.”
Michael frowned. “I don’t wish to be.”
Wes pushed all carnal thoughts aside and leaned forward to make sure
Michael could see the earnestness on his face. “I expect n-nothing from you,” he
assured him. “N-Nothing need h-happen tonight.”
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This only seemed to upset Michael further. “You don’t want me any longer—
not as a lover? Only as a friend?”
The heat crept back into Wes. “I w-w-want you m-more than I can s-s-say.”
“But you’ll do nothing if that’s what I wish.” Michael considered this. “But—
that makes no sense, Albert. You
should
expect something. You
bought
me.”
Wes drew back. He sputtered for several seconds before he could speak. “N-
N-No! I b-b-b-b—” He drew a breath. “I p-p-paid for your t-time. Your c-
company.”
“My company,” Michael drawled, “implies using me for sex.”
“I would n-never,” Wes said, unable to keep the anger from his tone, “use
you for th-that.”
Michael seemed more confused than ever. He tried several times to speak,
but in the end he could say nothing, only look at Wes with a stunned expression.
Blessedly, the carriage slowed and stopped, and the coachman came around
to let them out at their destination.
The small cottage was completely dark, which was to be expected, but the
door, happily, was unlocked and waiting for him, which meant the larder was
filled as well, and the coalbin—yes, he saw, peering into the sitting room—filled
to the brim. He tried to decide if he should bother lighting a fire downstairs or
simply show Michael to bed when Michael spoke behind him from the foyer.
“What is this place?”
Wes gestured around the front rooms. “A c-c-cottage. Belongs to an ac-c-
cquaintance at the gardens. I b-b-borrow it when I’m in Oxford.” He tried to read
Michael’s face in the dark, but it was impossible. Too many shadows. “W-Would
you rather w-w-we return to t-t-town?” He wondered if he could still catch the
coachman.
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“Oh—no!” Michael said quickly. He rubbed his hands over his arms as he
glanced around the room. “No. It’s charming. And there are no servants, I
assume? Just the pair of us?”
“Y-Yes,” Wes confirmed, watching again.
Michael said nothing, only continued looking around. Abruptly, he turned
back to Wes.
“What do you mean, you would never use me for sex?”
He seemed upset, and Wes couldn’t figure out why. He also had no idea
how to further explain himself, so he simply shook his head.
“You
have
,” Michael pressed. “You’ve used me twice. Once at the party, and
once at Dove Street.”
Wes frowned. “N-No. At the p-p-party you emb-braced me. I th-th—” The
truth was, it had been a delightfully spontaneous moment, a sort of celebration
of…life, or something equally, beautifully daft. But he could hardly say that. He
swallowed. “And at D-D-Dove Street you as-as-as-asked for me. I n-n-never used
you.”
“What were you doing then?” Michael demanded. He wasn’t angry, but he
seemed…oddly agitated. “What do you call that, if it isn’t using me for sex?
Making love?”
He spat the last two words with such derision that Wes couldn’t speak for
several seconds, until at last he was able to overcome his stammer and say, “Y-Y-
Y-Y-Yes.”
Michael stared at him. Outside the rain beat down on the cottage roof,
relentless. Inside it was cold and dark, but Wes could see Michael’s face, the wine
leaving him bare. Confused. Upset. Doubting, almost angry. Wes began to shake.
He’d taken a pill, quietly, at dinner. He’d taken one as well in the library, when
Michael hadn’t been looking. He longed for one now. He felt jagged and raw, no
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A Private Gentleman
envelope of calm. He needed one. This was too much. He didn’t know what to
do. He was too weak. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t—
“You were making love to me.” Michael took a step forward. His eyes bore
into Wes. “Even that first time. Not hot release with the confessed whore who
wanted to thank you. Making love.
Love.
”
Wes couldn’t answer. He wanted to reach for his notebook, to let it give him
his words, but it was too dark for Michael to read them. He nodded instead, his
breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He pressed his back to the wall, hating
himself, hating his weakness. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this!
Michael closed the distance between them, his eyes drunken and wild. “Do
you love me, Albert?”
Wes’s breath caught. He stared at Michael. He gripped the wall.
He nodded and closed his eyes, too terrified to look any longer. The words
burst from him, driven out by the fear. “Y-Yes,” he whispered. “Y-Y-Yes, I l-l-
love you.”
Michael’s hands pressed against Wes’s chest, and he startled.
“No you don’t,” Michael whispered back. He sounded terrified too.
Wes nodded again. “Y-Yes. I d-d-do.”
Fingers curled into his chest. “When? When!”
Panic—Michael was panicked. Wes wanted to laugh. He wasn’t alone in that.
Michael gripped him tighter. “When? When did you fall in love with me,
Albert?”
Wes tried to think. When? He searched back, trying to find the moment. At
the gardens, when he asked for a kiss? No. Before that. In the blue room at Dove
Street? No. He’d been gone before then. When? When—
He did laugh, then. He opened his eyes, trying to speak, but he only
sputtered. Claiming Michael’s hand, he moved it, slowly, down to his groin.
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“Th-Then,” he whispered.
Michael frowned. Then he frowned harder. “When I thought you were
Rodger?” He pursed his lips together and tried to push away. “Be serious,
Albert.”
Wes held him in place. Wes’s cock was soft, but at their combined touch, it
started to stir. “Then,” he insisted. He fought for his words. “S-So bold. S-So b-
beautiful.” He steadied himself with a breath and made himself look Michael in
the eye. “S-So f-f-fragile. L-Like a f-f-flower.” He pressed Michael’s hand closer.
“And th-then you k-k-kissed me. I was l-lost.”
Michael was like a flower now. A beautiful, travel-weary orchid, petals ready
to fall. “But I was just a whore.”
Now Wes frowned, and he shook his head. “B-Beautiful. You were b-
beautiful.” He let go of Michael’s hand and reached up to touch his face. “Y-You
are b-beautiful. Always.”
Michael’s eyes were shining again, and he was very still. “You love me,” he
whispered.
“I l-love you,” Wes agreed. Michael shivered, and Wes stroked his cheek.
“It’s c-c-cold,” he said. “We should m-make a f-fire.”
“Yes.” A tear ran down Michael’s cheek. “Yes, we should.”
Leaning forward, Michael pressed his body hard against Wes’s own as he
swallowed him in a kiss.
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Chapter Twelve
After several wonderful, disoriented minutes, Wes decided it would be best
if they went upstairs.
Kissing and touching until Wes’s hip hit the rail, they stumbled upward,
stopping on occasion to fall against the stairs as hands and lips had their way. By
the time they reached the top, Michael had Wes’s jacket halfway off his body and
his own necktie dangled around his neck.
Inside the room, things immediately became more intense, more desperate.
Jackets and waistcoats fell away completely, and when the lawn of shirts opened
to reveal skin, they both tried to attack each other at once. Michael won that
round, pressing Wes back upon the bed and keeping his arms prisoner as he
made a feast of his lover’s chest, kissing the line of hair, teasing nipples with his tongue. Wes gained some ground when Michael stood to divest himself of his
trousers—he leaned forward and caught his lover’s waist, holding him in place
as he dove straight for the proud, erect root before him and drove it deep into his
own throat. Michael cried out and gripped Wes’s hair—Wes groaned and urged
those slim hips forward to fuck him gently. He tasted the salty, bittersweet tang
of Michael, just a tease, but enough to spur him on.
And then Michael pulled back, grabbed Wes’s shoulders and straddled him.
They moaned and shouted and grunted as they fought to pleasure one
another. Managing to lose all clothing save their socks, they wrestled across the
bed. Wes thought he had Michael good to rights, gripping his lover’s bottom
from beneath, sliding into place to take Michael’s cock back into his mouth again,
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but Michael, after more gasping and breathless thrusts, bent around Wes’s hip
and applied his tongue directly to Wes’s bunghole. Electricity shot through Wes,
and he went weak—weak enough for Michael to flip him to his stomach,
straddle him, pry his cheeks apart and feast on that dark entrance until Wes was
incoherent.
Michael rolled him back over, rested on his knees and presented his own
backside for the same.
Wes went to the job eagerly, his cock throbbing at the whimpering sounds
Michael made. He slicked his lover well, pushing his tongue into the flexing
opening before carefully inserting a finger.
Michael arched back and pressed down to swallow the digit deep.
Soon Michael was bent over the pillows, knees spread wide as Wes slicked
him with spit and speared him over and over, making him sigh and plead and
shudder. Wes wanted more. He wanted to go downstairs and find the satchel
and the salve he’d tucked inside so he could drive himself home. He wanted it
more than he had ever wanted anything in the world. But even lost in passion,
even with the wine and his confession—perhaps because of it—he knew
Michael’s panic could return.
Eventually it did.
At first Michael thrust back against Wes’s fingers, but then he slowed, and
then he stilled. Wes withdrew, returning to kisses, trailing them over Michael’s
backside and up his spine, but by the time he got to Michael’s collarbone, his
