My True Love Gave to Me (5 page)

He deserved this. Deserved every bit of Sasha’s disdain. He couldn’t deny it hurt, but he also would not let Sasha push him away.

Resolve in place, he opened his mouth, took Sasha inside and was rewarded with a hitch in Sasha’s breaths. So faint he would not have heard it if his senses were not fully focused on the man. As it was, he heard it loud and clear. A sign Sasha wasn’t as unaffected as he appeared.

He didn’t linger. Didn’t take even a moment to savor his first taste of Sasha’s silken skin. He sank all the way down until the dark blond hair on Sasha’s groin tickled his nose then drew back. Gripping the base, he pumped in counterpoint to the strokes of his mouth.

Everything he had ever denied Sasha, he’d now give him and more. Whatever the man wanted he could have. Anything. If it stood him a chance at earning Sasha’s forgiveness.

Sasha’s cock hardened, lengthened. The head of his cock bumped the back of his throat. Thomas swallowed down the impulse to gag and, sucking harder, worked the length in and out of his mouth. A hint of salt and bitter sweetness teased his tongue, flooding his senses.

His heart clenched as desire flowed through him, heating his skin and settling in his groin. He wanted to pull Sasha into his arms, strip the man bare, have him beneath him as he should have been four years ago. Yet he stayed on his knees.

Pulling back a bit, he glanced up. Sasha’s jaw was set in a hard line, his eyes closed tight, arms locked to his sides. Thomas suckled the crown, flicked his tongue against the sensitive underside. Sasha’s breaths stuttered again, but those long lashes stayed pressed against his cheekbones.

No, he would not allow Sasha to block him out.

Determination pushed him to his feet. He unbuttoned his navy coat and waistcoat, shrugged them from his shoulders.

“Obviously you’re in need of more practice—” frustration rode behind Sasha’s voice, “—if this is how you leave your unfortunate partners.” His lashes swept up. Sasha’s eyes flared, then he went utterly still as Thomas pushed his own trousers down his hips.

Thomas whipped his cravat from his neck, whisked his shirt over his head, kicked his trousers and shoes free of his feet. Bare as the day he was born, he met Sasha’s gaze. “You can have anything you want from me.” He fought the urge to clench his hands, to give away any trace of the nervousness that gripped him. “Anything, Sasha.”

The shock vanished. Sasha’s eyes narrowed, the light blue depths hard chips of ice. “Turn around.”

Swallowing hard, Thomas did as Sasha commanded. A hand pushed on his back, nearly shoving him toward the bed. He reached the side but just as he was about to lift a knee onto the mattress, Sasha grabbed his hips, held him still.

“Right here.” That hand pushed on his back again. “Bend over, Bennett.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Sasha reach into the bedside table drawer. His fingers clutched the white sheet. He had a fair idea what Sasha was after in that drawer. He shut his eyes and focused on trying to calm his pulse that skittered frantically through his veins.

“Anything? Even this?”

Oil-slicked fingers swept over his most intimate flesh. Somehow he kept from jerking away. If this was what Sasha wanted from him, then he would do it. And he couldn’t deny it was more than fitting Sasha would be his first.

He bowed his head. “Yes, Sasha. Anything you want from me.”

“Gained a fondness for buggery, have you, Bennett? I should send the Americans my thanks.”

One finger breached his entrance. A wince flickered across his brow at the strange sensation. Sasha worked his finger in and out, paused to rim the perimeter and then plunged back inside.

Not at all how he had imagined this night would end. Bent over the side of Sasha’s bed, fully exposed to the man’s gaze, limp cock dangling between his legs. Not a single kind word from Sasha’s lips. He felt distinctly used, as if Sasha were punishing him. Felt the anger in the hard push as a second finger joined the first.

The stretching lance of pain brought him to his toes, his body instinctively tightening against the intrusion.

With those two fingers buried deep, Sasha pressed on his lower back with his other hand, pushing him back down. Kicked at one of his ankles. “You’re too damn tall,” he grumbled.

Thomas shifted, widening his stance and bending his knees a bit to accommodate the differences in their respective heights. Sasha’s hands abruptly left him. A thin stream of cool, viscous liquid hit the crease of his arse. He gave a start then locked his muscles, kept himself still. Sasha swiped up the oil, pushed two digits back inside. In and out, stroking deep. A slick, wicked glide. The strange sensation shifted to oddly intriguing. The urge to push back, to get…
more,
like a need to scratch an itch just out of reach, rose within.

Then those fingers were gone again, leaving him aching for more. A proprietary hand settled on his hip. A blunt pressure pushed against him, hard and insistent.

He clenched his jaw, stifling the grunt before it could work its way out of his throat. Holy…
hell
that hurt.

Cold sweat pricked his bare skin. Pain swamped his senses as what could only be Sasha’s cock pushed inside him.

Sasha abruptly went still. The hands on his hips briefly tightened, fingertips digging into his skin, and then gentled. Sasha shifted behind him. Soft linen tickled his back.

“Relax for me.” The words were whispered against his shoulder blade.

He curled his toes against the cold floorboards, then tried his best to will the tension from his body. He could do this. He
would
do this for Sasha.

“That’s it. Let me in, Thomas.” Sasha’s murmur was low and intimate, more breath than sound.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Sasha pushed forward, until the hair on his groin pressed against Thomas’s arse, until he filled him completely.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

He felt the barely perceptible tremor in the hands on his hips. The sounds of his own rapid, pulling breaths beat against his ears. Bloody hell, had the man’s cock tripled in size? Thomas concentrated on slowing his breaths, lengthening each exhale. The sharp sting began to recede, giving way to a tiny hint of pleasure so small he wasn’t sure if it was truly there or if he wanted this to feel good so badly he conjured that trace of pleasure from will alone.

Lips brushed his shoulder blade, pressed light kisses to his skin. “All right?”

Thomas nodded once.

“Are you certain?”

At his second nod, the tickle of linen left his skin as Sasha pushed upright. Then Sasha pulled back. The overwhelming sense of fullness eased only to return again as he began a rhythm of short, slow strokes that approached gentle, tempting Thomas to believe Sasha was showing him some care. A tiny bit of hope sparked. Hope that perhaps Sasha understood, that he grasped the significance behind his willingness to give the man his very self.

With each thrust, the pleasure built, seeping into his veins, drawing his ballocks up tight. His world narrowed to the cock in his arse and his own hardening between his legs. Before he was aware of it, he bumped back into the next thrust. “More,” he gasped.

With a groan, Sasha met him and then some. Each hard thrust made him beyond desperate for another. And another.

Sasha shifted, changing the angle of his strokes. Thomas’s eyes flew open and he let out a grunt as intense pleasure shot through his body. A compact, wickedly potent burst that shook his knees. Followed by another and another, as the head of Sasha’s prick repeatedly hit that spot inside him.

He felt the heat from the man’s body a second before Sasha covered him. Harsh, whisky-soaked breaths puffed past his shoulder. One of the hands on his hips slid down, wrapped around his hard cock. Sasha’s grip was firm and achingly familiar, fingers closing securely around his length. Two strokes, and the orgasm rushed through him, engulfing his senses.

A shout filled his ears. His own, Sasha’s? He hadn’t a clue. He could only gasp against the near blinding surge of sensations as Sasha came inside him.

Sasha slumped against his back. His arms wrapped around Thomas’s waist, cheek pressed against his shoulder blade. Hot panting breaths fanned his sweaty skin.

Hanging his head, Thomas struggled to catch his breath. “Oh…
Christ,
Sasha,” he murmured, barely able to form his mouth around the words.

Abruptly the heat and comforting weight of Sasha’s body left him. He winced as the man pulled free, leaving him acutely aware of the throbbing ache in his arse. Definitely going to be sore tomorrow.

He heard the
creak
of floorboards, the
clink
of glass against glass, the splash of liquid. Trepidation tightened his gut yet he forced himself to look over his shoulder, to not be a coward.

Sasha stood before the dresser. A flush stained his high cheekbones. He had repaired his trousers though his clothing was distinctly wrinkled. The ends of his tousled forelock just grazed his eyes but couldn’t hide the absolute lack of warmth in those light blue depths. A chill swept over Thomas.

Sasha took a long swallow of whisky. His gaze settled on Thomas’s arse. “Mighty nice view.”

Acute embarrassment washed over him. Heat rushed to his face. He quickly pushed up from the bed and turned around.

The cold, lascivious glint left Sasha’s eyes. His features hardened. “I trust you can find your way to the door.”

Thomas cringed. Now
that
was pain.

“Sasha, please, if you’ll but—”

“The door, Bennett.”

“Just grant me a moment—”

“Leave.”

“Please, I beg you—”

“Damn you, leave!”

The shout smacked against Thomas’s chest, pushing him back a half step, his calves bumping into the bed. Frustration threatened to overwhelm him yet he pushed it down. No use at all getting into an argument with Sasha, and especially not now. It would only serve as fodder for the man’s anger and push him farther away.

Without another word, Thomas quickly gathered his clothes from the floor. Though it was the last thing he wanted to do, he left the bedchamber, closing the door behind him, and went out into the corridor to dress. Thank heaven Sasha’s servants had gone home for the night. The last thing he needed was for a maid to find him tugging on his clothes right outside her master’s bedchamber.

He let out a sigh as he pulled on his trousers. Perhaps sex had not been the best idea, but he’d been desperate to do something to prove he had changed. He had hoped that if words could not sway Sasha then perhaps intimacy could.

Obviously it hadn’t done a thing to breach the wall Sasha had erected against him.

He put on his coat and did up the buttons. He’d give the man some space. Fall back on time. In a few days, he would seek out Sasha again. And he wouldn’t stop until the man heard him out.

The very faint
click
of the front door closing reached Alexander’s ears. He flinched. The old pain that had once almost destroyed him began to well up inside. But if he hadn’t practically shoved Thomas out the door, the man would have soon left of his own accord. Would have walked away from him, just as he once had done.

Hand curled tightly around the glass, he brought it up, downing the remaining whisky in one swallow.

“Goddamn him!”

He flung the tumbler toward the marble hearth. Glass shattered, the sound cracking through the room. But it offered not even a drop of relief against the brutal riot within.

He crossed the short distance to the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress, the sheet on either side of his hips still rumpled from Thomas’s hands. Bowing his head, he speared his fingers into his hair. Squeezed his eyes closed tight.

“You’re a bloody bastard.” A bloody selfish, cold bastard.

Self-disgust and shame clashed with the anger churning through his veins. Anger not only at Thomas but at himself.

He let out a low growl, the sound the embodiment of frustration. Of course Thomas would have been a virgin. A part of him had known it the moment the man had stood bare before him. The slight waver in his voice as he had offered himself to Alexander had all but confirmed it. Yet what the hell had Alexander done?

Hard and sharp, he shook his head. A wave of dizziness flooded his mind. He gripped his skull tighter, willed the lightheadedness away. If only he could lay the blame on the copious amount of whisky he’d poured down his throat that night, but he knew better. He knew exactly where the blame lay.

Always fucking pushing for more than he should.

Teeth gritted, he punched the mattress at his hip then let out a heavy exhale. His shoulders slumped.

So bloody be it. Thomas would have left anyway. Better now than later. He had not meant anything to Thomas then, and all tonight proved was Thomas’s need to assuage his guilt.

That was all. Nothing more. Took four years, but the guilt had finally caught up with Thomas. Still…

The sounds of Thomas’s gasps for more, the memory of warm bare skin beneath his hands, the aching vulnerability in those dark eyes, the soft press of his lips against Alexander’s…

Need tugged at his chest, pulled at his heart, whispered that those apologies had been far more than mere words. That Thomas had, in fact, returned to London for—

No!

He pushed up from the bed and whipped the shirt that still held the faint scent of Thomas’s body over his head. He might not be proud of himself, but he had done the right thing. Thomas had once almost destroyed him. He severely doubted his ability to survive a repeat. And if nothing else, at least he needn’t worry about having to face the man again. Tonight had effectively assured that Thomas would not come knocking on his door again.

For what must have been the tenth time that evening, Thomas looked over his shoulder to the tall clock in the corner of his mother’s drawing room. In a matter of minutes the butler would announce that supper was served. All of the guests would proceed into the dining room in a particular order arranged by his mother. All of the guests save the one who had not yet arrived.

He’s not coming.

The last thread of hope slipped away.

Thomas kept the disappointment from rounding his shoulders. He had known the possibility of Sasha accepting the invitation had been more than slim. Downright nonexistent.

Yet he had not been able to resist asking his mother to send an invitation to his old friend from Oxford. He had done his best to hide the significance of the request, to act as though it had merely just occurred to him at that moment. Clearly he had succeeded more brilliantly than he could have hoped, for his mother had not even felt the need to inform him of Sasha’s refusal.

And Sasha had been sent an invitation. He knew it without a doubt, for he had lingered in his mother’s sitting room, feigning interest in a book by Cooper and watched from the corner of his eye as she’d sealed that invitation and written
Mr. Alexander Norton
on the outside.

A supper party to celebrate his return to London, and the sole reason why he had returned had refused to attend.

He turned his attention back through the window of the drawing room. Cold seeped through the panes. Small raindrops from the recent light rain still clung to the glass, partially obscuring his view of the street outside his parents’ town house. But the view didn’t matter. Nor did it seem to matter to his mother or father or his two brothers or their vaunted guests that he’d stood alone at this window for the past ten minutes. Their idle chatter washed over his shoulders. He had endured their questions, their polite inquiries into his time in New York and their false pretenses of happiness to have him back in London in time for the Christmas Season. He knew he himself meant little to them. He was merely a prop, an excuse for the evening’s gathering, and he’d already served his purpose. If he left now, he doubted anyone would notice.

Tempting notion indeed, to silently slip out the door, but if nothing else he couldn’t fool himself into believing they would not notice his empty place at the dining table. At least one person would remark upon it, and then he would have to endure his mother’s ire over the embarrassment.

He was stuck at this house for the next few hours. Stuck sitting through inane conversations and countless courses when he had absolutely no appetite at all. When all he wanted was to seek out Sasha.

The light tinkle of a bell cut through the chatter behind him.

He kept the resigned sigh inside. He knew his duty and was well acquainted with what was expected of him. The ability to bow his head and fall into line was a skill mastered long ago.

Pasting on a polite smile, he turned and stepped from the window.

His mother moved about by the open double doors leading to the dining room, organizing her guests into pairs before proceeding into supper. Clad in a deep amber gown, her smile was gracious and accommodating as she led a young lady—he couldn’t recall her name—to his younger brother’s side. The young lady seen to, his mother swept her gaze over her remaining unpaired guests. She caught Thomas’s eye. At the little flick of her perfectly coifed dark brown head, he crossed to her side.

“Thomas, would you please do Miss Miller the honor of escorting her into the dining room?”

He tipped his head. “It would be my pleasure to have the company of such a charming young lady.”

Miss Miller batted her lashes as she placed her hand on his proffered arm. Her little giggle grated across his nerves.

He kept the smile in place and gestured toward the dining room with his free hand. “Shall we?”

They followed the other guests and took their places at the long mahogany table, the silly Miss Miller seated at his right. The chit immediately launched into a discussion of the weather. Thomas did his duty, nodding every time she paused to take a breath, and tried not to reach too quickly for his glass once a footman filled it with Bordeaux.

He had stayed away from Sasha the entire week following their…encounter at the man’s town house. Gave Sasha time to get acquainted with the notion that he had returned for him. Time for the man’s anger to recede. An absolutely wasted effort, given the way Sasha had cut him at every available opportunity since. For the past week, he had tried to get Sasha alone. White’s, various balls, three different gambling hells and several calls to the man’s town house. No doubt about it. Sasha did not want to speak to him.

How unfortunate for him, because Thomas would not announce defeat. At least not yet. The time lingering along the perimeter was over. He refused to let the Christmas holiday come and go without having an honest-to-God conversation with Sasha. Tomorrow he’d seek out Sasha and force the man to acknowledge him.

The blunted steel tip of a blade briefly touched his chest. Alexander immediately took a step back, dropping his foil to his side.

Robert Anderson had bested him again. Ah well. At least he had lasted a good ten minutes. Quite an accomplishment, given Anderson’s skill with a foil and the fact the man was almost a half a foot taller than himself.

With a tip of his head, Alexander saluted his opponent. “Good bout.”

“Indeed.” Anderson passed a gloved hand across his brow, swiping at a bead of sweat. “Your feints have become mighty good. Almost had me there a time or two.”

He arched a brow. “Perhaps someday I will have you.”

A short chuckle rumbled Anderson’s broad chest. A rare smile tipped the edges of his mouth. “I think not.”

His confidence that Alexander would never have him—in any fashion—came through loud and clear. Anderson might not prefer men, but Alexander knew with certainty that Radcliffe did. Preferences aside, the two rakehells were the best of friends, and as such, Alexander never braced for a blow if he made a comment that could hold another, far cruder meaning. Not that he held that sort of interest in Anderson, but it was entertaining to prod him every once in a while.

“Anderson,” Radcliffe shouted from the other side of the fencing hall. “Have you finished playing over there?”

“Impatient whelp,” Anderson murmured, though the smile still tipped the edges of his mouth. With a shake of his head, he rolled his eyes. “I’ll be there momentarily,” he called back to his friend. Then he turned his attention back to Alexander. “What do you say to spending Christmas evening with some friends? Radcliffe’s decided to host a small dinner party tomorrow complete with plum pudding, roasted goose and perhaps a game or two after.”

Alexander doubted any games played at Radcliffe’s would include the typical holiday variety of Shoe the Wild Mare or Bob Apple. At any other time of year, he’d jump at an offer to attend a party at Radcliffe’s. But a holiday dinner party? He made it a point to avoid those, regardless of the host. Though he enjoyed the balls and routs prevalent in December, he preferred to ignore the fact they were given in celebration of the holiday season. “Thank you for the invitation, but I regret I must decline. I have other plans for the evening.” Plans that included spending the Christmas evening alone, avoiding the dinner his family usually hosted and drinking himself into a numb stupor, as he had done for the past four years.

“Ah well. You will be missed. If your plans change, feel welcome to stop by the house and join us. The usual lot accepted. Should be an interesting night.” With that, he went to join Radcliffe.

The back of Alexander’s neck pricked with awareness. His pulse picked up a gait. He made to look over his shoulder but stopped himself just in time. If Thomas was in the fencing hall, as Alexander was fairly certain he was, then so be it. Didn’t matter one whit to him.

But damnation, Thomas was persistent. At first Alexander had thought he had succeeded in driving him away, but starting a week ago, the man had shown his face at least once a day. And so far, Alexander’s maid had reported three separate calls from Mr. Thomas Bennett. He suspected there had been a fourth and fifth call, both after his servants had left for the night, but Alexander had chosen to ignore those particular knocks on his front door. Just as he would ignore Thomas now.

Slashing his foil through the air, he glanced about the hall. Anderson and Radcliffe had started their bout. Perhaps he’d join the small group of onlookers. He scowled. No, he wasn’t of a mood to stand idly by. Tension gripped his muscles, stringing them taut. He gave his wrist another quick flick.

“Are you in need of a sparring partner?”

Thomas’s deep voice washed over him, so close Alexander almost started. He had to be but a couple of paces behind him.

Annoyance surged through him, and under it was a trace of…satisfaction? He scowled again. No, he could not possibly be pleased that Thomas had tracked him down at the fencing academy.

Holding tight to his anger, he dropped his arm to his side and turned to face Thomas. “Are you offering up your services?”

“Yes, if you’ll have them.”

“Are you certain you’re up to the task?”

Thomas nodded. “Quite certain.”

“Been engaging in a bit of sport with the Americans, have you?”

“No.” He met Alexander’s gaze, the dark depths of his eyes somber yet determined. “But I remember how to wield a sword. Not something one tends to forget, amongst other things.”

Alexander didn’t think on the decision. He simply made it. With his own weapon, he gestured toward the row of foils hanging at the ready on the nearby wall. “Let’s see if you’re still any good, shall we?”

The instant the question left his mouth he wished he could snatch it back.
Hell,
he turned into a bloody bastard whenever he was around Thomas. Fortunately, Thomas didn’t appear the least discomposed over the reminder of Alexander’s poor treatment of him. With his chin up, Thomas moved toward the foils, stoically bearing Alexander’s abuse, yet again.

Thomas removed his brown coat, hanging it on an empty hook, and rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows, exposing his strong forearms. After a moment’s consideration, he selected a weapon. Testing its strength and flexibility, he pushed the tip to the wall, the blade curving in an elegant arc. Then he slashed into the air.

Seemingly satisfied, he stepped from the wall, stopping a couple of paces before Alexander. “Best of five touches to the chest is declared the victor?” Thomas asked, citing the rules they had used at Oxford.

Thomas’s fawn waistcoat stretched across his broad chest as he lifted his sword and moved into en-garde stance, knees slightly bent and weight rocked back onto his left foot. The image was a vivid reminder of the many times he and Thomas had tested their skills against each other during those two months at university.

Alexander snapped himself from the memories. “Yes, best of five,” he replied, saluting Thomas and moving into position. He would
not
think about the boon the victor had claimed, or how many times he had happily allowed Thomas to claim it. In any case, given the number of hours Alexander had spent in this hall, he knew his skills had progressed considerably since then. If they were to play by
all
of their old rules—not that Alexander wished to in any way, he did not want anything more to do with Thomas, after all—then he felt confident he had a fair chance of Thomas dropping to his knees in celebration of Alexander’s victory.

Someplace Thomas had been but a fortnight ago, his mouth sliding up and down Alexander’s prick for the first time. Hot and wet, a luscious drag along his length… But Alexander had had to ruin it, hadn’t he?

A fresh wave of self-disgust slid over him.

Jaw clamped together, he forced his attention back to the present. He took a deep breath and on the exhale tried to will the anger and shame and frustration from his body. If he wanted a shot in hell of besting Thomas, he needed to remain coldly in control, every sense focused on the weapon in his hand and the movement of his opponent’s blade. And carelessness could lead to injury.

Another deep breath. His gaze narrowed to the length of steel in Thomas’s hand. Then he nodded, signaling to Thomas that he was ready to begin.

The moment Thomas advanced, Alexander lunged forward, aiming for a low-inside attack, hoping to use Thomas’s height against him. Thomas’s blade whooshed through the air, knocking Alexander’s aside. Refusing to retreat, Alexander pressed forward.

Steel clashed against steel, again and again, each blow lightning-quick. Thomas’s eyes were narrowed in concentration, his muscles bunching and flexing with each efficient movement. Yet his speed didn’t quite match Alexander’s memories. His reflexes were a hair’s breadth slower, the confidence in his blade not as pure as it once had been. Perhaps their years apart weren’t all for naught.

No!

Nothing good had come out of those years. Nothing at all.

The blunted tip of Thomas’s foil touched his chest.

Damnation!

Alexander kept the growl inside and immediately dropped back. With a tip of his head to Thomas to acknowledge the point, he moved back to en-garde position.

He didn’t wait for Thomas to advance. As soon as the man was ready, Alexander moved toward him. Smacking his blade against Thomas’s, he tried to use a beat to force an opening. With a deft counter-parry, Thomas deflected the attack. Before Alexander could recover, steel touched his chest yet again.

A growl rumbled his throat.
Bloody hell!

They both moved back. Thomas wasn’t even winded, yet Alexander’s breaths came hard and fast, muscles fairly vibrating with tension, with the need to spring into action and vent this…this
riot
within.

A curt nod from him, one from Thomas, and Alexander sprang forward, fully on the attack. He feinted, low and to the inside, as if going for a repeat of his opening attack. But Thomas’s foil was already there, up high, to block his. Steel clashed. Their blades locked together, Thomas’s face mere inches from his.