Bound Forever (12 page)

Were the hands even moving at all? He stared hard at the clock, and after what felt like an exceedingly long moment, the larger black hand moved forward.

Letting out a short, frustrated grunt, he replaced the clock on the mantle.

Next time, definitely eleven. Well, perhaps half past eleven. The kitchen staff had a tendency to linger overlong in their duties. And the footman stationed in the entrance hall would not retire until midnight.

No, no. Midnight was the most prudent time.

He glanced over his shoulder to his bed, the coverlet already turned back courtesy of his valet. Only the fire lit the room. He had extinguished the bedside candle a good half hour ago lest any servants travel by his door and wonder if he’d fallen asleep with it lit. Everything was at the ready, down to the bottle of oil he had stowed in the bedside table drawer.

Nothing at all for him to do but wait.

He grabbed the glass of brandy from the mantle and downed the last splash within. Did he really need a footman to watch the front door after his butler retired for the night? He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a late-night caller.

Nope, no need for the footman to remain on duty so late. Tomorrow he’d have a word with his housekeeper and have the man’s schedule adjusted.

He shifted his weight. The floorboards creaked faintly beneath his bare feet, the sound filling the quiet surrounding him. He reached for the decanter of brandy on the mantle, but stopped before his hand closed around the bottle. The last instance he had partaken more than he should before bed, the night had ended with Oliver’s prick in his arse. Not that there was any worry of a repeat tonight. Definitely not. He needed the man under him.

An ice-cold prickly sensation tightened his gut, threatened to flare up his chest. With effort, he tamped it down.
Oliver didn’t leave me
. The knowledge offered considerable comfort, but if his lover scared him like that again, Vincent would not be responsible for his actions. He swore his heart had stopped when Oliver had made to leave the study. A trace of that all-encompassing panic still lingered in his veins.

Yes, that was it. Not nervous at all. He just still hadn’t fully recovered from watching Oliver walk away from him in an eerily similar manner as he had done a good year ago…when his lover had actually left him. He tugged on the fabric belt of his navy dressing gown, righting the tie at his waist. In any case, there was no logical reason to be on edge. He had shared a bed with Oliver countless nights.

Tonight was just one more night to add to a long list of many, many more to come. No need to worry Oliver would keep his concerns bottled up until they exploded in a repeat of their argument in the study. And above all, the man had accepted the will and the account.

Vincent nodded. Yes, indeed. Everything was in order. Or would be, if the clock would just hurry the hell up.

A hand settled on his lower back. Vincent started, then relaxed as the heat from that hand seeped through his dressing gown. He knew who he would find behind him before he turned around.

Oliver gave him a sheepish smile. “Didn’t mean to startle you, but you did say to be quiet,” he said in an undertone. “Four times, I might add.”

He tipped his head in acknowledgment. No use denying the truth. Once in the study before supper, and by the time they had departed the study after their meal, he had managed to work three more reminders into their conversation.

Oliver’s lips quirked. “I like your bedchamber.”

“I like you in it.” He swept his gaze over Oliver’s body. He had come to Vincent’s bedchamber dressed in only brown trousers and a white shirt, the collar open and exposing his throat. No shoes, no waistcoat, not even his spectacles. The untidy waves of his dark hair framed his face. An erection tented the placket of his trousers. Oliver flexed his hands at his sides but otherwise stood perfectly still, his full attention fixed on Vincent and his eyes filled with undeniable love.

The most beautiful sight Vincent had ever beheld.

He took a moment to savor it; then the impatience that had built over the past hour got the better of him.

His arms shot out to tug the shirt from Oliver’s trousers and whisk it over his head, not caring in the slightest where it landed. A quick tug on the placket and he shoved the man’s trousers down his slim hips. His erection sprung free, jutting from his body.

A shiver racked Oliver. A shiver that Vincent knew had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

Oliver’s agile tongue darted out to swipe across his full bottom lip. Unable to resist, Vincent gripped the back of Oliver’s skull and drew him in for a kiss. Slanted his lips over Oliver’s, swept his tongue into his mouth, drank up his sigh. Oliver sagged against him, his body pliant and willing in his arms.

He pulled back, breaking the kiss. With his fingers still gripping Oliver’s hair, he stared down at his lover. The quick pants of the man’s breaths fanned Vincent’s lips. “But I would like you better in my bed.”

A moan shook Oliver’s throat. “Yes.
Please
.”

Need shot through him. Without giving it a moment’s thought, Vincent grabbed Oliver by the waist and tossed him on the bed. With a faint little sound of surprise, Oliver landed in the center of the mattress, his prick slapping his stomach, the ropes beneath creaking in protest of the abrupt movement. Oliver pushed his hair from his eyes, then went still, his dark, fathomless gaze pinned on Vincent.

Vincent unclenched his hands at his sides and took a moment to rein in the almost unstoppable impulse to leap onto the bed. To cover Oliver. To have the man beneath him.

But that wouldn’t do at all. At least not yet.

He had, in essence, issued a challenge to Oliver in the study. Far be it for him to not see it through, and he was quite looking forward to testing the limits of Oliver’s ability to remain quiet.

When he felt somewhat in control, he crossed to the side of the bed. The fire from the hearth just reached the mattress. The soft golden light played happily across Oliver’s bare skin, highlighting sleek, compact muscles and the glistening drop of fluid beaded on the head of his hard cock.

His lover was exactly where he belonged. In his bed.

The last lingering thread of fear finally vanished, leaving only lust and need and pure, true love.

Oliver was his. Would remain his always. Just as Vincent would always remain Oliver’s.

“Love you,” he whispered, forcing the words past his suddenly constricted throat.

“Love you too.”

His heart swelled, nearly filling his entire chest. He couldn’t stop a mirror of Oliver’s content smile from curving his lips. Then he let the haughty mask fall over his features. “Now be a good boy and raise your arms over your head.”

A full-body tremor shook Oliver. Another swipe of his tongue over his bottom lip, then he did as Vincent bid, lifting his arms over his head without a trace of hesitation. With one hand clasped around his other wrist, he laid his body out for Vincent in a silent offering.

Intent on giving Oliver everything he desired, Vincent remained where he stood. Let the anticipation build. The fire behind him warmed his back, but it had nothing on the lust drumming through his veins, heating his skin. Oliver’s nipples had hardened into tight buds that seemed to scream for Vincent’s attention. He watched as a bead of fluid dropped from the tip of Oliver’s prick, landing on his flat abdomen. He would get to that soon enough, but first…

He tugged on the belt of his dressing gown, shrugged his shoulders, and let the garment slip from his arms. Leaving the dressing gown pooled on the floorboards, he placed a knee on the bed.

The creak of the ropes beneath the mattress cut through the silence, unnaturally loud. He fought to keep the wince from crossing his features. He swore his bed wasn’t normally so noisy, but it wasn’t as if he had ever shared it with another or had reason before to be concerned about the creak of ropes. So much for any plans to pound Oliver into the bed tonight. Fortunately he didn’t need brute strength to keep Oliver on the cusp of a climax for hours.

Moving slowly, he made his way up Oliver’s body. The man immediately spread his legs, knees coming up to bracket Vincent’s hips in undeniable welcome. His eyes drifted shut as his chin tipped up, exposing the lines of his throat and the rapid beat of his pulse, in a glorious display of willing submission.

Crouched over Oliver, Vincent bent his head and pressed a reverent kiss to his lover’s throat. Then worked his way down: the delicate hollow at the base of his throat, the curve of his collar bone, and directly over his heart. Each press of lips to skin light and delicate, containing not a trace of the desire clamoring within him to be set free.

“Remember. Quiet,” he whispered against Oliver’s flawless chest. Head bowed, he felt Oliver’s nod in the trace movement of the mattress. “And don’t move. Nor are you allowed to climax until my cock’s buried in your arse.”

The absolute lack of movement of the man beneath him, down to the chest that had gone momentarily still, was akin to a sweetly sighed
yes, milord.

Reassured Oliver would try his best to do exactly as Vincent bid, he captured one nipple between his teeth and began to torment Oliver. He tugged on the sensitive tip, sucked hard, plied it with his tongue, then shifted to the other and lavished it with attention.

Oliver’s quickening pants filled his ears, the slight hiss behind each breath a telltale sign his lover had clenched his teeth in his fight to hold back his pleas for more. Vincent pushed harder, determined to take him right to the edge and hold him there. To make it a night the man would never forget.

He dragged his lips down Oliver’s chest. Deftly avoiding the man’s prick, he lapped up the proof of Oliver’s desire from his lower abdomen, felt the taut muscles quiver beneath his tongue. Then Vincent rocked back onto his knees, splayed his hands over Oliver’s inner thighs, and pushed.

Oliver instantly yielded, bringing his knees up to his chest and putting his ballocks on display. An invitation Vincent could not refuse.

He dropped down, drew one testicle into his mouth, and gently sucked. Oliver’s breaths hitched, the muscles beneath Vincent’s hands tight as an archer’s bow. The musky scent of Oliver’s arousal poured off him. Yet still, not one threadbare whimper passed his lover’s obedient lips.

Pulling free with a crude, wet sound that seemed to smack against Vincent’s aching erection, he cupped the round globes of Oliver’s arse and lifted his hips from the bed, fully exposing that tight, perfect hole. The muscles there briefly contracted, as if Oliver could feel the force of Vincent’s gaze. Vincent’s cock instinctively jumped at the memory of his lover’s body wrapped around his length, eager and needy to experience it again. Yet he held back and stayed focused on Oliver. On cranking the pleasure to unbelievable heights. He knew just how amazingly good it felt to have a man lick his arse—Oliver had introduced him to that particular pleasure. Beyond time he repaid the favor.

He bowed his head. A jolt shot through Oliver, briefly shaking his limbs, at the first touch of the tip of Vincent’s tongue to the smooth expanse of skin behind his lover’s ballocks. Vincent fought back the smug grin and traced a path down to Oliver’s entrance.

With each flick of his tongue over the puckered skin, he could hear the force of his lover’s need. Each pant hitching sharper. Each hiss of air between his teeth harsher, louder.

The moment Oliver’s body opened for him, he stabbed his tongue inside.

Absolute silence suddenly pressed against his ears. He lifted his head.

Oliver’s eyes were clamped shut, bottom lip held tight between his teeth. Pure, unadulterated need was written all over his face. Obvious proof Oliver was doing his damnedest to hold back a climax.

While behind closed doors, his lover would do anything for him, expend every bit of effort within himself to follow Vincent’s orders. Oliver’s willingness to please him humbled him like nothing else could.

He shifted up his lover’s body. Pressed a light kiss to that poor abused lower lip.

“So good. So perfect.” Consumed with awe, it was all Vincent could do to give voice to the praise, the admiration, filling his entire being.

The sweat-slicked chest beneath his own expanded on a greedy gasp of air. Oliver blinked his eyes open.

The plea, the shout for more, the sheer desperation in the man’s gaze, struck Vincent square in the chest, the force more potent than a prizefighter’s blow. It radiated throughout his body, ratcheting the lust to a fever pitch.

He leaned back, broke the contact of their bodies, and reaching into the bedside table drawer, grabbed the bottle of oil.

Oliver’s desperate gaze tracked his movements, the weight of his need a physical force prodding Vincent to quickly slick his cock. Urgency pressed against him. He could feel the man teetering on the brink—one touch, one kiss could push him over the edge. And by God, he did not want Oliver going over that edge without him. He needed to be there with him, joined with him. Needed to experience that exact moment when the ecstasy claimed him.

He closed the bottle, let it drop to the rumpled sheet, and shifted back between Oliver’s still-spread legs. Holding his prick steady in one hand, he braced his weight on the other and crouched over Oliver.

“It’s yours,” he murmured as he pushed inside his lover. “All of it, all of me, is yours.”

Oliver’s arms shot out, fingers tangling in Vincent’s hair and hauling him down for a passionate kiss that threatened to pull the orgasm out of Vincent.

Buried only halfway inside Oliver, he stilled his hips. Instinct screamed to break out of Oliver’s hold, to pull back from Oliver’s delicious mouth, to give himself a moment to regain control so he could keep each thrust slow and quiet.

But the heat and exquisite tightness gripping his cock, the feel of the man beneath him, the blistering need in Oliver’s kiss…

He met Oliver’s kiss and then some as he slammed deep within his lover. Oliver arched beneath him, taking everything Vincent gave him and greedy for more. The lines between them blurred. He swore he could feel everything Oliver felt. The desire saturating his lover’s senses, the way the lust coiled tighter and tighter, stringing his nerves taut, the fight to hold off and savor, the silent pleas for even more, the all-encompassing depth of his love.