Bonds of Earth (23 page)

“I
WAS
wondering if you might like to pose for me.”

Startled by the statement, Michael turned away from his contemplation of the scenery to study Seward. After a dinner of thick ham sandwiches, Mary’s coleslaw, and beer, they’d spread a blanket over the grass overlooking the cliff to watch the sunset, which Seward had assured him was spectacular. At Michael’s insistence, Seward had retrieved his sketchbook and had immediately set to work on capturing it. “Switching to nudes, are you?”

Seward smirked. “While the rest of you is certainly inspiring, I was thinking of a portrait to start.” As if mapping out his brush’s course, one of Seward’s hands reached out and stroked gently over Michael’s forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin before coming to rest on his lips.

Michael felt his heart stutter in answer. “I’m not worth the paint,” he murmured.

Seward frowned, then slid his hand into Michael’s hair. “Would you like a professional opinion on that?” he growled, leaning in to kiss Michael thoroughly.

Michael returned the kiss with equal fervor, his own hands busy mapping Seward’s skin. For the hundredth time, he marveled in the strength that met his own and battled it for supremacy. Seward, he realized abruptly, was ready to seek his own independence. Provided he kept up with the exercise regimen they’d developed, there was no need for Michael to continue working as his therapist.

No need,
he repeated silently.
No need for any of this, but God, I still want it.
Shoving the thought aside, he broke away to ask, “Are you a professional, then?”

Seward delivered one final kiss to Michael’s lips before pulling back. “I sold all of three paintings before the war,” he said.

“That means yes.”

“I suppose,” Seward sighed. “Before I left, it was all that I wanted to do. I even moved to the city to become a starving artist, and I almost succeeded—at the starving.”

Michael glided his fingers over Seward’s cheek. “Is that why you and your father had a falling out?”

Seward chuckled hollowly. “No. My father and I had a falling out because he found a series of ridiculously sentimental love letters I’d written to Patrick.” At Michael’s look of surprise, he added, “Never posted, of course. I didn’t have the courage for that. He disowned me, I moved to Hell’s Kitchen, war was declared, and the next thing I knew I was on a troop ship bound for England.” He smiled wryly. “The spring of 1917 was very eventful for me.”

“And now?” Michael asked. “Is it still what you want?”

Seward appeared to consider it. “I don’t know. When I came back, there seemed to be no beauty left in the world. I painted what I remembered of the war instead.”

“The trenches are best forgotten,” Michael murmured, looking away.

There was a pause. Michael could feel the weight of John’s penetrating gaze. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget,” he said quietly. “I don’t know if I want to. Too many things I loved are buried there.” Another pause, and this time Michael felt the touch of Seward’s fingertips on his chest, over his heart. “But there are other things I want to paint now.”

Michael felt the warmth of the words spread over his skin, into his pores. It was arousing and soothing all at once. Having never experienced those sensations together, he had always believed them incompatible. To find so much of what he craved here, in this impossible situation, frightened the life out of him.

“Do you think you might like to show your paintings?” he asked abruptly, wanting to banish the feeling.

Seward’s expression grew puzzled. “I’m a long way from an exhibition,” he said carefully. “At any rate, I have no connections in the art world at the moment.”

“What if you knew someone who did?”

Seward frowned. “Is this a hypothetical question?” Michael nodded. “Then the answer would still be no. I’m not ready.”

You hoped you could hand him this last gift and leave with a clear conscience
, Michael’s inner demon cackled,
but he’s not going to make it easy for you.

“Would you mind telling me what’s going on in your head?” Seward asked softly.

“Yes,” Michael murmured, some part of him hoping to raise Seward’s hackles, create some distance between them.

Seward barked a laugh. “Well, you’re honest, at least,” he said, annoyingly unperturbed. “I never asked you about your trip to New York. Did you see your sister?”

Michael’s jaw clenched. “No,” he lied. “I tried to see her, but she was… away.”

“Next time, then,” Seward persisted. He leaned in and kissed Michael softly, and Michael’s eyes squeezed shut. “And perhaps I could come with you.”

That was as much as Michael could stand. Wanting nothing more than to stop thinking, he took Seward’s mouth, thrusting his tongue into its depth with unmistakable intent. “You can come right now,” he growled, sitting up and attacking Seward’s shirt buttons.

“Michael, what the hell are you—” Seward began, irritation finally evident in his voice. Michael ignored him, continuing with his task until Seward’s hands bracketed his face and forced him to meet his gaze.

“Slowly,” he murmured, thumbs stroking over Michael’s cheekbones. “We have time. Please.”

It was that gentle “please” that was Michael’s undoing. With a soft noise, he allowed Seward to lean in and kiss him as he wished, with deliberation and focus and a passion so deep that Michael was shaking by the time Seward drew back and began to undress him. Each patch of skin bared was a revelation, the setting sun bathing it in warm, silken light that made it seem to glow from within, made it seem a crime not to pause to touch and kiss every inch of it. When they were finally naked, they maintained the same gradual pace, caresses avoiding the obvious terrain, instead striking out into the uncharted regions of hipbone and inner elbow and small of the back. They remained strangely silent throughout, as though a word or sigh would break the spell that had been cast.

They moved together, as if reading one another’s minds, and Michael found his arousal building more gradually than it ever had, its progress more astonishing than anything he had ever experienced in another man’s arms. As soon as he thought it, his gut knotted unpleasantly, reality coming crashing in again around his ears. God, he was in imminent danger of losing his way, of surrendering every fortification he’d worked so hard to construct, and if he lost this battle, he would lose the war.

Summoning every bit of his tattered resolve, he closed a hand around Seward’s shoulder and pressed down gently but insistently. Seward resisted for a moment, looking up at him with a question in his eyes. Michael had no idea what answer he found, but in any case he followed the direction, rolling over on the blanket so that he was lying prone facing the setting sun.

Taking a deep breath, Michael sat up and positioned himself between Seward’s legs, then nudged them further apart. Seward shivered, then seemed to forcibly relax, resting his head on his folded arms.

Slowly,
Michael reminded himself, fanning his fingers over the globes of Seward’s ass and sliding his thumbs down the crease, then spreading him gently and breathing hotly over his center.

Seward jerked under his hands. “You—y-you,” he spluttered, and then Michael’s tongue followed his breath and Seward produced a soft, surprised noise.

“Yes?” Michael asked archly.

Seward’s answer was to grip a fistful of the blanket in each hand.

“Don’t let go,” Michael whispered into Seward’s skin as he parted him once more. It was a sure bet that no one else had ever done this to Seward, and even odds that he hadn’t even known men did this to one another, and the thought that Michael was in some respects exploring virgin territory excited him far more than he was willing to admit. Forgetting the injunction to proceed slowly, he breached Seward’s body and was rewarded with a gasping, hitching moan. After that, it was all madness and musk and heat, Michael lapping, darting, advancing, and retreating until Seward’s pride was gone and he was reduced to pleading for release in a harsh, broken voice.

With a force of will, Michael pulled away, tearing a sharp cry of loss from Seward’s throat. Michael slapped his ass. “Up,” he grunted, and nearly laughed aloud as Seward scrambled to obey. Guiding him to his knees, Michael spit liberally into his hand and coated his cock, then used the other hand on Seward’s hip to direct him to sit back.

At the first blunt pressure, Seward twitched, then settled back into Michael’s lap with a ragged, relieved sigh. Michael pressed his forehead to Seward’s shoulder as Seward’s tight heat enveloped him. Christ, it had been less than a day, and he craved it as though he had been without it for months.

When Seward’s ass was flush against his groin, Michael bit his earlobe and growled, “Do it.” He licked the spot he’d bitten. “Fuck yourself on me.”

Seward shuddered again. “God, you’re vulgar.”

Michael chuckled lowly. “And you love it.” He wrapped an arm around Seward’s chest to steady him, then withdrew slightly, teasingly. “Take it.”

Seward shook his head. “I’m not—strong enough.”

Michael pressed in to the hilt. “You are. You don’t need me.”

Unexpectedly, Seward chuckled at that. “What’s so funny?” Michael demanded.

“I’d say you’re—fairly essential—for this activity,” Seward retorted between gasps. “Nevertheless, I don’t think—”

“That’s right.” Michael slid his free hand down Seward’s belly to his cock, where he trailed his fingers up the length. “Don’t think.” Seward bucked in his hold, giving the lie to his supposed frailty. “Just do it. Now. Look at that damned sunset and think of soaring out to meet it. Think of running without worrying if your leg will betray you. Think of painting the most beautiful picture you can imagine.”

Seward groaned, then reached up to grip Michael’s arm as he began to move. His motions were tentative at first, increasing in range and intensity as he gained confidence. As a reward, Michael kissed his neck and whispered praise and encouragement in his ear until the intimate clasp of Seward’s body stole his breath and his words, until he was as undone as Seward, his chest heaving against Seward’s sweat-slick back.

“Oh, God, touch me,” Seward panted, and Michael was compelled to obey, wrapping his free hand around Seward’s cock and circling his thumb over the slit until Seward groaned and spurted into Michael’s hand, spilling his seed onto the earth as the sun dipped below the leaf-soft mountain peaks. As for Michael, he felt the first tug of Seward’s body and followed it like a siren’s lure, dashing himself to pieces on the rocks below.

I
N
ALL
, Michael spent twelve days in the curious dreamland that he inhabited with Seward, three of them at the cabin in the woods he was certain had been enchanted. He had no notion that it would last that long and every expectation that they would suffer a rude awakening at any moment. He considered doing the job himself on a number of occasions, but when it came down to it, he lost his nerve every time. While he did not wish to admit it to himself, he was swiftly losing his preference for harsh reality. Dreams, he was learning, were much more pleasant, as long as one conveniently forgot they were utterly impossible.

As for their daily therapy routine, little actually changed. Michael still pushed Seward, Seward still complained of being pushed, and they argued over nearly everything. But at night, when the house was quiet, Michael would come to Seward’s bed and they would stay there for as long as they could. Seward might be all bluster and sharp angles in the daylight, but in the wee hours of the morning, he had considerably fewer defenses, and in his presence, Michael abandoned a few of his own.

He did his best to avoid thinking of the vague plans he’d articulated to Castleton. The prospect of a rootless life spent in the pursuit of mindless, anonymous pleasure would have seemed as good as any other a few months ago, but now it merely seemed desperate and pathetic. It shocked him when he could no longer summon the same contempt for those who led a more stable, meaningful existence, but he could not deny that late at night, when Seward was a warm, living weight in his arms, he caught himself wandering through fantasies of a home that he could never have. For it was ridiculous to think that this could last, that he and Seward could simply live happily ever after. A fairy tale, in more ways than one, he thought viciously.

“Michael!” Mary’s clear, strong voice carried across the lawn, interrupting his musings. Sighing, he obeyed her summons, practically jogging to the kitchen. When he arrived, her expression was troubled, and for a moment his heart leaped crazily. “What is it? Is Abbott all right?”

She nodded. “He’s fine. There are two… gentlemen here to see Johnny. They say you asked them to come.”

Michael stared at her, momentarily at a loss. After his conversation with Seward that evening at the cabin, he’d planned to go into town and send a wire to Castleton withdrawing his request but had never gotten around to it. In his defense, he’d never expected Castleton to send his friend so soon, and certainly not unannounced. “Has Seward seen them yet?”

“He’s in the parlor with them now,” she said.

“Wonderful,” Michael muttered, stripping off his gloves and heading for the door to the hall. The parlor was the place where Seward had been storing his latest paintings.

As he approached the room, he pricked up his ears, listening for any conversation, any signs of how Seward might be reacting to his uninvited guests, but heard none until he was nearly at the door. The voice that emerged wasn’t one he’d been expecting. It was Castleton’s, and the words it uttered made his stomach lurch.

“Yes, Michael is an extraordinary creature. So good with his hands. It’s no surprise you want to keep him all to yourself, but you know those Irish. They’re a nomadic people at—”

Fists clenched, Michael stepped into the room. Three faces turned toward him, one fat and placid, one darkly amused, and one furious.

“Oh, my,” Castleton breathed, “how your ears must be burning.”