A Proper Lover (Ganymede Quartet Book 2) (38 page)

He liked everything about Martin. He’d really never understood how much there was to be liked about a person. Flavors and textures, scents and sounds, personality and charm, intellect and essential character. He’d fallen for Martin at first sight, a direct response to his beauty, but what he felt now went so much deeper. Martin had changed his life, had changed him, and all for the better.

He thought about his sister’s question of the prior Saturday. Did he love Martin? He thought he might, but he just didn’t know, and obviously it was the sort of question he had to answer for himself and couldn’t ask anyone’s opinion about. He’d never felt this way about anyone else and couldn’t imagine feeling this way about any other man, not even one of Martin’s handsome friends. Not even Tom.

He slept and dreamed of their continuing efforts, now a competition with other vague bodies writhing to either side of their bed, but they were judged the best and looked handsome in their victors’ crowns.

He woke to Martin stroking his hair.

“Hey.” Henry smiled and stretched.

“Hey yourself.”

“Have you been awake long?”

Martin shook his head. “Not long. We slept almost an hour, though.” He frowned and his brow furrowed.

Henry laughed and reached for him. “You’re worried we won’t set an impressive record in the time we have left.”

“We need to use our time wisely,” Martin insisted. “Have you thought about what we should do next?”

Henry bent and kissed the bright blue of his tattoo. “Hmm, no, what do you think?”

“Well…” Martin thought a moment, lip caught between his teeth. “We could suck each other again, but we could do it together this time.”

“I like that idea.” Despite his agreement, Henry suspected that he did a better job of sucking when he wasn’t distracted by Martin’s mouth on his own cock. However, Martin had never had any complaints.

They kissed, urgent and devouring, and rolled around, limbs entwined, until they were both hard. Martin pushed Henry onto his back and sat astride his hips, leaning forward to brace his hands on Henry’s shoulders, and rubbed his ass along the length of Henry’s cock. He looked down at Henry, seductive and knowing, and sat up and tossed his hair back, still rocking back and forth.

Henry was breathing hard when he asked, “Do you want me to fuck you again?”

Martin smiled and shook his head. “We have a rule, remember?”

Henry took hold of Martin’s hips and ground his cock up against Martin’s ass. “Stop teasing, then. Get in position.”

They arranged themselves in the middle of the bed, head to tail. Henry loved the bitter-salty taste of Martin’s prick, loved the slippery heat of Martin’s mouth. They writhed together, moaning and slurping, lost in sensation, when there came a crisp knock at the door.

Martin jerked away, eyes wide, saying, “Under the covers, Sir!” in a hoarse whisper. He slid from the bed and ran for the dressing gown hanging on the bathroom door as the knock came again.

“Just a moment, please,” Martin called out, shoving his arms into the dressing gown and wrapping it tight around his torso. His prick was still hard, pushing at the heavy flannel and tenting it out from his body. Henry scrambled to get beneath the blankets as Martin unlocked the door.

“Yes?” Martin kept as much of himself behind the door as possible, which he opened little more than a crack.

“Mr. Blackwell’s father is wondering if he plans to come down for lunch,” Paul said. In a lower voice, he added, “I don’t think he’s meant to have a say in the matter, actually, Martin.”

“Oh! Please tell him Mr. Blackwell will be down directly,” Martin said. “Thank you, Paul.”

He shut and locked the door again. “Did you hear that, Sir?”

Henry nodded; he’d also heard the nervous honorifics. “I did. We’ll go down, I suppose. But if I’m having lunch with him, that means you’ve missed yours entirely.” Martin hadn’t taken lunch earlier with the rest of the slaves, and he couldn’t sit down and eat with Henry with Father also at the table.

“Perhaps I’ll eat later, Sir.” Martin did not seem concerned with getting a meal, but rather with getting Henry dressed. “Please, Henry, get up. Don’t dawdle.”

Henry swung his legs out of bed and stood to allow Martin to dress him in the clothes he’d had on in the morning. Martin quickly dressed himself and tied his hair neatly back. It had only taken them a few minutes, but doubtless Father would still be annoyed at Henry’s tardiness, though Henry did not think it fair for Father to judge him harshly when he hadn’t realized there were any expectations of him in the first place.

Down in the breakfast room, Father and Timothy were seated at the table. Timothy gave Henry a smile; Father gave him a long, hard look, quite critical.

“You’ve found something engrossing to do on this dismal day, I take it?” Father asked.

Henry flushed with mortified dread. “Uh…yes, sir. I’ve been…reading.” He did not sound confident of this, however, and he suspected Father did not believe him.

Father scowled at him until he felt his face was on fire.

“Aren’t you going to have Martin prepare you a plate, son?”

“Oh! Yes, please, Martin, will you fix me something?”

“Of course, Sir.” Martin went to the sideboard and began to select sandwiches.

Looking at Timothy serenely eating his lunch, Henry wished he could follow his father’s example and ask Martin to sit down, but he was not at all sure his father would allow it and did not want to ask and have Father deny Martin the privilege outright. He resolved that he’d make sure Martin was properly fed as soon as possible.

“It’s been some time since I’ve seen you on a Saturday, Father.” Henry’s voice went up a register at the end of his sentence, making him sound shamefully unsure of himself.

Father dabbed at his mustache with a napkin. “Is that a question?”

“Er…no, just an observation, sir.”

“I had a rare free hour,” Father said. “I expected I would see you at table at noon.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I-I don’t come at any set time.”

“You might consider keeping to a schedule,” Father remarked. “It’s a form of discipline, and you could certainly use more of that.”

Sullenly, Henry said, “Yes, sir,” and began to eat his lunch.

“Does your mother ever join you?”

Henry swallowed. “Almost never, sir,” he admitted. He didn’t feel compelled to cover for Mother; after all, Father knew what she was like.

“Hmph. Another person who could use some discipline.”

“Now, really, Sir,” Timothy said, his tone amused and slightly admonishing. No one else would dare speak to Father in such a way.

Father did not mind Timothy’s mild scolding. “Are you almost done, old man?”

Timothy coughed behind his napkin. “Yes, Sir. I’m quite full.” He stood and went to help Father out of his chair.

Martin also hurried to pull out Henry’s chair so he could stand to shake his father’s hand.

“Discipline, Henry.”

“Yes, sir.”

Father gave Henry a doubtful look and shook his head before leaving the breakfast room, Timothy at his heels.

Henry sat quietly and listened to the sounds of Father and Timothy preparing to leave the house echoing down the marble-floored hall. When the front door had shut behind them, he turned in his chair and looked up at Martin.

“They’re gone. You can eat now, don’t you think?”

Martin nodded. “It should be all right, Sir.”

After Martin was seated with a full plate before him, Henry leaned close and in a low voice asked, “Do you think my father knew?”

“Knew what, Sir?”

“Knew what we were doing.”

Martin thought a moment. “He couldn’t possibly know the specifics, Sir, but I’m sure he had some idea I was helping you achieve release.”

Henry felt heat rise up from his collar, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He’d rather hoped Martin would say otherwise, but Martin wasn’t a liar.

“But, really, Sir,” Martin said, “it’s an entirely respectable activity. You needn’t be ashamed. It’s a large part of what young gentlemen have slaves for, after all.” He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed.

Henry wished he could be relaxed about it, just as Martin was.

“You’re a very private person, Sir,” Martin continued. “It
is
important to keep—” and here he lowered his voice “—
some
things secret, but not anything any of your friends might do without concern.” He thought a moment, then added, “It might even be a good idea to share a little more with your friends, Sir. Just things you have in common with them. You’d stand out less, Sir. It’s something to consider.”

Martin was probably right—no, Martin was definitely right—but Henry couldn’t countenance relating any of the intimacies he shared with Martin to his friends, even a heavily-edited version. He did not trust himself to get it right, to share just the right amount, and felt quite certain he’d give too much away.

They ate their sandwiches, followed by yellow cake with chocolate icing, and left the dining room. Upstairs, Henry pushed Martin up against the door and kissed him hard and thoroughly, enjoying the sugary sweetness of his mouth. They undressed on their way to the bed, leaving a straggling trail of clothing on the floor behind them. Martin insisted on straightening the bedding that Henry had earlier put into disarray, but then they climbed up onto the bed and picked up where they’d left off.

Martin let Henry’s cock slide out of his mouth. “Henry, Henry
please
.”

“What is it?”

“Put your fingers in me,
please
, Henry.” He sucked Henry’s cock back into his mouth and moaned around it as Henry did as he’d asked. Henry crooked his fingers inside Martin’s body and Martin was shuddering still and spilling down his throat in short order.

It didn’t take long for Henry after that; he felt he could come at will once Martin was satisfied. Martin lay with him a few minutes enjoying the afterglow but soon became restless.

“Henry?”

“Yes?”

“While you’re resting, could I play my violin?”

“Naked?”

“Would you like that?”

Henry loved the idea of watching Martin play nude, dipping and swaying with his pink-and-white skin bared and tawny hair hanging loose. “Yes, of course. I’d love that.”

“I’ll just go get it, then.”

Violin held ready, Martin stood naked a few feet from the bedside, elegant and poised, and began playing the first movement of the partita, the
allemande
. He quickly lost himself in the music, eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration. Henry lay back amongst the pillows and took full advantage of the opportunity to admire Martin at leisure, appreciating the play of lean muscles beneath pale skin. As Martin shifted his weight from side to side, the fans of tendons across the tops of his feet were in fleeting evidence; likewise, the cords stood out on the back of his bow hand, and the muscles tensed and relaxed in his forearms as he played. Sharply-defined muscles were taut in his long thighs. Eyes still closed, his handsome face was shaped by effort into something almost saintly, suffering beautifully as his fingers formed the notes. His pretty cock lay limp in its nest of curls at first, but began to thicken as he played, and surely this was because Henry was watching him.

Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed while Martin played the first four movements with surety and skill, the music leaving his bow in silvery, sparkling ribbons. Over the course of these few months, Henry had become very familiar with this music, but he never tired of it. Martin’s love of the partita was exalted, spiritual in nature, and Henry’s was just dumb, animal pleasure, but it was love all the same. He didn’t know one note from another, but he knew the tunes and recognized the movements, and this knowledge made him feel sophisticated and allowed him to feel closer to Martin. The partita was definitely something they shared now, something of theirs.

Martin hesitated a long moment at the end of the
gigue
and then began the difficult
chaconne
. He played only a minute or so before he lifted the bow from the strings, and smiled at Henry. “Do you remember when you touched yourself? While I was playing?”

Henry reddened. Of course he remembered! How could he possibly have forgotten? But all he said was, “Yes, I remember.” It had been mortifying and exhilarating in equal parts.

“We could do that next.” Martin’s half-hard cock lurched toward vertical at the idea.

Henry looked at him quizzically. “While you play?”

Martin laughed. “No, we could just touch ourselves. And each other, too, if you’d like.”

“We could…” Henry agreed slowly. He felt a little shy of doing it but was unwilling to give in to this reticence. He could do this with Martin, to make Martin happy.

Martin beamed at him. “Let me just put away my violin.” He hurried into his own room and returned a few seconds later with a stiff prick and a look of happy anticipation on his handsome face. He got up onto the bed and sat close at Henry’s left side, their shoulders and hips rubbing, back against the headboard and legs stretched out before him. His prick stood upright, close to his belly, slick at the head. He reached for Henry’s prick, still soft, and Henry was embarrassed of this.

“I-I feel a little shy,” Henry admitted. He’d really only let Martin see him do it the one time.

“You know you don’t have to be shy with me,” Martin reminded him gently. “You can show me anything, anything at all.” He touched his own hard prick with a graceful gesture. “If you want, you can just watch me for now. Just until you feel in the mood.”

Martin put on an appealing show. His left hand stayed busy on his prick, but the right ranged over all his skin, all his body, touching his nipples and throat and ticklish sides. The little noises Martin made as he petted and stroked himself were like a muted version of the sounds he made when Henry touched him, when Henry was inside him, and the timbre of his voice went straight to Henry’s prick, which bobbed drunkenly upright from his lap.

Henry determined to act like a man and took up his cock with resolve and purpose, though his stomach was fluttery with nerves. He started with a few firm strokes, setting a pace, very aware of Martin’s eyes on his moving hand.