Bound Forever (2 page)

All thoughts of resisting, of keeping his lover poised on the knife-edge of anticipation, flew out of Vincent’s head.

Leaning right, he quickly reached into the bedside table and grabbed the glass bottle of oil. His hand shook the slightest bit as he slicked his cock. Gaze locked with Oliver’s, he positioned the head at his entrance and pushed inside. Hot, clinging heat engulfed his prick, almost pulling the orgasm out of him, as he sank to the hilt. Clenching his teeth, he fought off the climax. He planted his hands on either side of Oliver’s raised arms and picked up a rhythm of slow, purposeful strokes, his ballocks pressing against the smooth skin of Oliver’s arse with each downward thrust.

Oliver’s head tipped back, his eyes drifting closed. Indecipherable moans of pleasure escaped his lips, wet from their kisses. The man was so goddamn beautiful, all flushed with desire, his body still relaxed from sleep, compliant and lax beneath him as he gave himself up to Vincent.

Crouching over his lover, he rubbed his jaw against Oliver’s, against the stubble of his morning beard, then dropped his head to Oliver’s neck. He sucked hard enough on the hot, delicate skin of his throat to leave a mark, one easily hidden by a cravat. Then he dragged his mouth over Oliver’s chest, captured one hard nipple, and sucked.

“Ah yes,
please
.” Oliver gasped, arched, pushing his chest upward, wanting more.

Vincent gave it to him. Rolled the tip between his teeth, tugged, and then released it to blow across the wet surface before shifting to the other nipple.

With each thrust of Vincent’s hips, Oliver’s erect prick bumped his lower belly, leaving a smear of wetness on his skin. The urge to taste him once again rose up—an urge too strong to deny. Abruptly he pulled out. Broke free of Oliver’s legs wrapped around his waist, scooted down, and took Oliver’s cock in his mouth, turning the man’s groan of protest into one of absolute gratitude.

Sucking hard, he brought Oliver right to the cusp of release. To the point where he was squirming beneath him, tugging on his bonds, breaths hitching sharp and fast. Then he quickly shifted up to slide back into his arse.

Oliver shuddered, moaned. His bound hands were clenched in white-knuckled fists, every line in his body drawn tight, sleek muscles pronounced beneath golden skin dampened with sweat. Vincent pulled all the way out simply to hear that moan rip from his lover’s throat again, and couldn’t help but watch his cock disappear as he glided back in. A damn erotic sight—the glistening crown stretching Oliver obscenely wide, his body yielding so sweetly against the intrusion as Vincent sank to the hilt, the oil-slicked hole constricting in greedy need when he pulled free. He repeated the motion. Once, twice, the tension visibly coiling within Oliver, and on the third plunging stroke, a hoarse shout shook Oliver’s chest. Pearly white seed shot from his cock, painting his abdomen. His muscles gripped Vincent’s prick so tightly it took considerable effort to thrust through the man’s climax. The heat, the tightness, the slick tug of Oliver’s body along his length…

The orgasm ripped through him. He pounded into Oliver, the sound of flesh slapping flesh filling the room as he poured deep within his lover.

With the last tremor from the release shaking his body, he slumped down to rest his forehead against Oliver’s chest, which rose and fell as quickly as his own.

Panting for breath, he gathered his sated muscles, levered up, and tugged on the end of the cravat, releasing Oliver. His lover let out a low, lazy purr as Vincent gently massaged his sweaty wrists. The cravat hadn’t left any marks—he hadn’t tied him too tightly. Just secure enough so he would not slip free when he tugged on his bonds. Something Oliver had a fondness for. Each tug akin to a shout for more.

The moment he flopped down next to Oliver, the man rolled into him, nestling against his side, arms wrapping around him and holding him close. They were both slightly sticky with sweat and needed to clean up—with Oliver plastered to his side, the remnants of the climax on his abdomen was now smeared on Vincent’s skin as well—but it mattered not to him. He pressed a kiss to the top of Oliver’s head and let out a sigh of complete and utter contentment.

What a bloody fantastic way to start the day. A chuckle tickled in his throat, but he felt too sated to give it voice.

By the time his breathing returned to normal, the chill morning air had begun to nip against his rapidly cooling skin, a reminder he shouldn’t dally overlong.

“I should get dressed.”

“Already?” Oliver asked, his voice a low, slow rumble that vibrated Vincent’s chest.

“Yes. It’s getting late.”

With effort, he pulled himself away from Oliver and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He crossed to the washstand, stepping over the clothing Oliver had discarded before climbing into bed last night. He had long given up hope his tidy habits would have any influence on Oliver. His lover was distinctly his own man, and Vincent preferred him just that way—clothing littering the floor and all.

After pouring water from the pitcher into the basin, he grabbed a couple of cloths from the shelf below, dropped both into the water, and wrung one out. Stealing himself against the cold, he swiped the cloth over his face, down his side, and between his legs. Quick and hasty, but it would suffice for now.

He tossed the cloth into the bin beside the washstand and grabbed the other from the basin. The wrung-out cloth clutched in one hand, he returned to the bed. Oliver was sprawled on his belly, arms holding the white pillow beneath his head, one leg drawn slightly up toward his side, exposing delicate skin that still faintly glistened with the sheen of oil.

With a light touch, he brushed the stray strands of Oliver’s hair from his closed eyes. “This will be cold,” he murmured before reaching down to wipe the oil from his backside.

The man twitched, the muscles of his back contracting, as he let out a grunt in protest.

“My apologies.” Not much to be done for it. He didn’t have a live-in servant to deliver warm wash water in the morning. A small price to pay to awaken in bed with Oliver.

The task seen to, he dropped the cloth into the bin. He had just finished lighting the fire when the faint sound of a door shutting reached his ears, announcing they no longer had the house to themselves. Vincent grabbed the clothes he had left folded on the chair last night, but before leaving the room, he stopped by the bed again to nudge Oliver. “Mrs. Hollister has arrived. Breakfast will soon be waiting.”

Oliver’s response was a sleepy grumble.

Likely the man would sleep a bit longer. Vincent coasted his hand down the sleek lines of Oliver’s back and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Oliver’s mouth barely moved, the words a mere thin, raspy whisper, but Vincent heard them nonetheless.

A smile on his lips, he snagged the rumpled coverlet from the other side of Oliver and draped it over his back, and then crossed to the narrow door next to the washstand. As he passed through the small dressing room, he dropped the clothes into another bin so his housekeeper, Mrs. Hollister, would see to them. He selected a fresh shirt and a pair of trousers from a shelf, grabbed a waistcoat and coat from the hooks on the wall, and went through the other door and into his bedchamber.

He tugged open the draperies, letting the full force of the morning sun stream into the room. A beautiful day, but judging by the chill seeping through the windowpanes, a decidedly cold one. Fortunately he had no plans to leave the house. The stack of paperwork on his desk needed his attention.

The water in the basin on the washstand proved just as cold as in Oliver’s room, but he used it nonetheless to wash up and shave and did not bother Mrs. Hollister with a request for warm water. As he dressed, he paused to pull back the navy coverlet and rumple the white pillows on his bed. A simple enough task, and all it took to keep his housekeeper unaware of the fact ages had passed since he’d laid his head on one of those pillows. Leaving his valet behind when he traveled helped as well. Vincent found keeping the full extent of his relationship with Oliver hidden surprisingly easy while at the country estate. They rarely went into the nearby village and did not mix with the local society, preferring to keep to the house. The last thing he needed was for any marriage-minded young misses in the area to brand him an eligible bachelor. London posed a bit more of a challenge, so much so the worry of discovery still resided, lurking in the back of his mind. Still, he had to admit Oliver had been correct. He was “
goddamn Lord Vincent Prescot
.” A man no one would ever suspect would bugger another man.

A self-deprecating chuckle rumbled his chest as he lifted his chin to form the long length of white linen into a neat Mathematical knot. God forbid if anyone knew just how…unique his preferences ran.

The cravat seen to, he slipped his arms into the sleeves of his bottle green coat. A few nights had passed since he and Oliver had indulged in more exotic play, and Oliver needed to return to London soon. Though the companion they had hired for his grandmother would not protest if they remained in Rotherham for an additional week, as a business owner, Oliver should not be absent from his bookshop for much longer than a fortnight. And in Rotherham, under the cover of darkness and surrounded by acres of grassy fields, he needn’t worry Oliver’s shouts of pleasure would rouse the suspicions of any neighbors.

With that tantalizing thought fresh in his head, he made his way downstairs. First breakfast and a hot cup of coffee, followed by the post and the stack of paperwork on his desk, and then perhaps later he’d have the pleasure of hearing the full force of Oliver’s need.

Chapter Two

Eyes closed, Lord Oliver Marsden reached out a hand, palm coasting over rumpled sheets. Cool, without a trace of warmth from Vincent’s body. It seemed like just a second ago when he heard the faint creaks of the floorboards as Vincent left the room, but he must have fallen back to sleep.

He should get up. Not laze away any more of the morning. But his bed at Vincent’s country house felt so much more comfortable than his old bed at his bachelor apartments in Town. Even the sheets were softer, and though no longer as warm, they still carried Vincent’s scent.

He took a deep, full breath, letting the air slowly fill his lungs. The distinct scents of Vincent’s skin and male sweat and…sex. He let out a low grunt. By God, Vincent excelled at sucking cock. Not a surprise—Vincent excelled at everything he put his mind to. And he had clearly put his mind to mastering all the options he could have at his disposal to render Oliver senseless. Unbelievable to think a time had existed when Vincent refused to even consider touching his lips to Oliver’s prick. The once hard, remote man, the one who insisted on keeping Oliver at arm’s length the moment they stepped into the bedchamber, was long gone. Vincent still held the reins of control—never let them slip completely through his fingers—though Oliver had yet to attempt to tug them free. Even when he was sucking Oliver off, the man held him in the palm of his hand. But now, even when they played their more extreme games, an undeniable current of true intimacy rode behind every touch, every command, every kiss from Vincent’s whip. An intimacy that said louder than words that Vincent loved him.

Hearing the words felt quite nice as well.

Smiling, he tugged the coverlet higher to cover his shoulders, seeking its warmth. Perhaps if he drifted back to sleep, he’d awaken again with Vincent’s mouth on his prick. Lovely thought, though highly improbable. Unless he remained in bed until nightfall, after the housekeeper left.

Still, a very nice thought. Sleep began to tug heavily at his mind. Vincent would be tucked behind his desk until at least midafternoon. And today was… He scrunched his brow, trying to orient his sleep-fogged brain to the correct day of the week…Wednesday. Nowhere he needed to be—

Hell.

He flung off the covers and forced himself to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. Hanging his head, he scrubbed his hands over his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

The Widow Middleton. He was due at her home that afternoon. He should get up now to avoid running the risk of falling back to sleep and missing the appointment altogether.

Shielding his eyes as he passed through the rays of sunlight cutting through the breaks in the drapes, he padded over to the washstand. He splashed water on his face and grabbed his straight razor. Chin tilted up, razor poised over his jaw, he paused. Leaned closer to the mirror. Brushed a fingertip over the bruise on his throat, over Vincent’s mark.

Chuckling to himself, he set the razor to his jaw. After seeing to the shave, he dragged his fingers though his hair, doing his best to tame the unruly waves.

He pulled trousers, drawers, cravat, and a white shirt from the dresser drawers, tugged them on, and then went into the small dressing room. He snagged a cream waistcoat from a hook along the wall and slipped it on. The brown coat? Definitely his favorite but, well, a bit worn about the edges. His gaze fell on the black coat hanging on a peg beside the brown one. For an appointment, the black would be the better choice. Better fit and never worn, so no chance of frayed cuffs. It would make him appear more creditable. Like he actually had cause to own a bookshop.

He reached out, then paused, hand hovering an inch from the fine black wool. A frown pulled his lips. Vincent had purchased the coat for him two months ago. What was to have been a simple outing on St. James Street to pick up Vincent’s repaired pocket watch had ended at a tailor’s shop. Caught unaware, he had allowed Vincent to herd him into that shop, and once there, he could only silently relent to Vincent’s whims lest he give the tailor reason to wonder about the source of his protests.

But however much Oliver did not agree with it, the deed was done. Past time he got over his reluctance to wear the thing. He had brought the coat with him, hadn’t he? Yet he could not forget that uncomfortable feeling as he had stood for Vincent’s tailor, never mind the fact that Vincent had never once asked if he even wanted a new coat. The man had simply taken the matter into his own hands and expected Oliver to bow his head and do as he bid. Expectations Oliver relished behind closed doors. Outside of a bedchamber though…