Indulgence 2: One Glimpse (23 page)

“Ah, yes. Let us place sharpened spears in his hand. That sounds like a fine idea,” Fletcher quipped.

John made a noise like a raspberry, then turned to Mosley. “Darts, old boy? I’m in a mind for some heavy wagers.”

As John looked for agreement from the others, it pained Sam to note John never looked at him. John had been avoiding Sam all evening, which made his heart ache with guilt. He should have told John about himself. If he had, the man would not be tormented himself with fears about assaulting a supposedly
normal
man. Sam had no doubt that was the source of John’s distance.

“I’m for a game if you’re wagering,” Sills said. As he stood, Sam could see that he was much more stable on his feet than John, and his smile suggested that he knew it. Surely the man would not fleece his friend in his current state?

Mosley was already opening the board case hidden in the wood paneling. He pulled two leather boxes free of their holders and came back. “Aye, I think I’m done in for cards too. What’s the game, then?”

“Let’s make this simple,” Sills said as he came to stand in front of John. “Three throws each and highest score takes the bounty. All in for, shall we say, a hundred pounds?”

“A hundred pounds!” Sam balked. On a hand of darts? Sam doubted if John was capable of getting the dart to stick in the board, let alone make a strategic show of it.

“Too rich for you blood, Sir Samuel?” Sills sniffed. “I was under the impression men in trade didn’t lack for funds.”

“And I was under the impression that you did,” Sam retorted.

Rather than feel the old flush of anxiety as he always did when provoked, he smiled at Sills’s angry glare. Oh, yes, if Sills was going to break decorum and begin making overt insults, he would do the same. He may not move in their circles, but Sam was not wholly ignorant. He knew that Sills’s gaming debts were legend.

“How about a practice throw?” Mosley suggested, casting a curious look between Sills and Sam. “Come on, then. Let’s see how well your aim is, Darn.”

John made the childish raspberry sound again, which sent Sam’s card partners into new fits of laughter. John took a dart and held out his hand in the stance, then paused to reposition his feet with the careful focus of a drunk.

“Ho! This is too much,” Fletcher bellowed, wiping his eyes. “I say, Michael, if you’re so keen for a bet, I’ll wager you five pounds he doesn’t even make the board.”

“Shut up, I’ll… Bloody board,” John drawled. He pulled his hand back till the quivers nearly touched his eyes, then flung his arm forward to shoot. Unfortunately, he did not release the dart until his upper body went with the motion, and he stumbled headlong to the floor.

Sam leaped to his feet as the others nearly collapsed in mirth. Sam managed to smile and run his hand through his hair. Anything to keep from rushing to John’s side.

“A’right,” John mumbled as he rolled to a sitting position on the floor. “Can’t shoot darts of port. I mean, can’t shoot darts because of port, had too much port.”

I’ll be damned, he’s an adorable drunk.

“I’d say so,” Mosley agreed. “But you look to be having too much fun, Darn, and I have a mind to join you. Where’s the screw? I’m for another bottle.”

The others added their agreement while John remained on the floor as if there was nothing amiss about it. Sills gave Sam a despising look as he crossed the room to join Mosley at the sideboard. While the others saw to replenishing their drinks and sampling the cold dishes left by the servants, Sam moved toward John.

“Don’t. Oh, don’t.” John rolled on his knees and began struggling to get up. “Don’t help me up, Sam. You don’t have to. I won’t make you.”

Sam looked to see if the others had heard him, but they didn’t seem to. He ignored John’s protests and took his arm.” Don’t be ridiculous. You can barely stand.”

“But you don’t have to touch me.” John still did not look as Sam as he shook his head. “Don’t be kind, please…know you’re angry.”

Sam shot another worried glance at the others as they were coming back to the tables. John was too far gone. It would only be a matter of time before he said something too revealing to be ignored. Sam leaned in fast and whispered, “You’re too foxed to stay, you need my help getting to your room. Understand? Pretend.”

“No need.” As if to prove his words, John stumbled forward and fell against Sam’s shoulders.

“He really is done in,” Farnsworth said around a mouthful of bread. “Best to sit down before you fall and addle your brain, man.”

“S’all right,” John said with a laugh. “Gotta lie down my bed.”

“Well, come along, then,” Sam said, sighing as if burdened. “If you try to get there alone, you’ll fall down the stairs and break your neck.”

“Ah, see what you’ve done, Darn?” Mosley teased. “Turned poor Shaw here into a footman. I say you get him for that tomorrow.”

Sam nodded as if he planned on it, then guided them both to the door as John threw an arm over his shoulder. The weight and heat were instantly pleasing, but Sam rolled his eyes for the others to see, giving them one last reason to laugh before he kicked the door closed behind him.

The hall was dark but for the light cast by oil lamps at the top and bottom of the stairs. John leaned on him more as they walked up, his head hanging in a purposeful way. He was once more avoiding Sam’s eyes, and Sam could no longer take it.

“John,” Sam whispered, for the empty hall echoed. “John, it’s all right. I’m not angry about anything. “

John shook his head and mumbled something unintelligible. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, Sam was breathing heavily and his back ached. John was really leaning on him, and the fact that he stood over Sam by a good four inches did not make it easier.

“Let’s go. We need to get you to bed before you pass out in the hall.”

“Bed.” John sighed. “That’d be nice.”

The lamp at the top of the stairs cast enough light down the hall for them to make their way, but Sam took it in case there was nothing lit in John’s room. Balancing him on one side and the lamp on the other, Sam stumbled along until John sniffed loudly.

“Don’t hate me,” he whimpered.

“I don’t hate you. Stop being stupid.” Sam forced a laugh. “You were just afraid you’d killed me, is all. Would scare anyone, I imagine.”

“You’re not angry?” John’s words pitched up hopefully.

“No. It’s all right. There are, um, some things I need to tell you, but that will wait for tomorrow.” Sam cringed. He had hoped to get through the week before admitting his lie, but John’s worry over what had happened was probably not going to fade. He would have to do it tomorrow and suffer the consequences.

“Sam, you’re too…you’re good.”

“If you say so.”

“No, no.” John pulled up, halting their progress. “No, listen. You’re good, Sam. You accept so much, you
accept
.” He made another loud sniff. “You’re a good friend. Only friend.”

Sam swallowed hard against the ache in his chest. He schooled his voice as best he could and said, “That’s just silly. You have many friends, everyone knows you—”

“They’re not my friends!” John cried. He lifted his head, and Sam was shocked at the sight of his eyes glazed with tears. He grabbed Sam’s shoulder. “If they knew about me, any of them, they’d hate me. Never talk to me again. They’d maybe…maybe even hurt me.”

Sam bit his tongue till he tasted blood.

“But not you.” John made a watery smile. “You’re not like that, like any of them. You’re a good friend, good man. You’re a
good man
.” He fell forward, as if collapsing back into their awkward shoulder hold again, then pressed a lazy kiss to the side of Sam’s neck.

Sam flinched, unprepared for the jolt of heat that raced down his limbs and pooled in his groin. John leaped back and almost stumbled over the bench against the wall. He had his palms up in front of him.

“I’m sorry! Oh, God, Sam, I’m sorry!”

Sam rushed forward and cupped his hand over John’s mouth. “Shh. If they hear you shouting, they’ll come to investigate.”

They both stood still and waited in the dark hall. The sounds of laughter could be heard far off, but nothing else. John’s wide eyes wavered, and then he dropped his head back against the wall and closed them.

“Damn, don’t pass out now.” Sam tucked himself under John’s arm again and pulled him down the hall.

Once inside John’s room, they headed toward the large four-poster bed. Sam released John next to one of the posts, then went to set the lamp on the nightstand. He closed the door, being sure to turn the key in the lock. If John was going to say or do anything else revealing, it was best to not have unannounced witnesses. And if Sam’s pounding heart and heated skin meant anything, John might not be the only one to do something stupid. Sam was so damn hard it hurt to walk.

“Feel like I’m falling,” John said, rolling his head back against the post. “Slowly. It’s not scary. Feels good.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve been foxed before.” Sam rubbed both hands over his face as he tried to decide what to do. He should do nothing. He should go to bed, confess tomorrow, and somehow manage to get through the rest of the week without falling to pieces. Yet he found it impossible to move his legs toward the door, and the side of his neck still seared from where John has kissed him.

John began yanking at the buttons on his waistcoat. “Stupid shirt. Don’t wanna sleep in this.”

“You’re going to pop the buttons. Here, l-let me.”
What are you doing, Sam?
He stepped in front of John and reached for the buttons. It was a wonder his fingers were not a trembling mess, for his heart was pounding so hard he could feel the concussions in his skull.

John dropped his hands to his sides and slumped farther back against the post. Sam was too cowardly to look up and meet his eyes as he managed to slip the buttons free one at a time, slower than was necessary.

“Sam?” John whispered.

“Mmm?” Sam kept working at the waistcoat.

“Can I touch you?”

Sam’s finger froze on the last button. A wave of heat started at his scalp and seemed to wash down over him like water. “John, I…” He fumbled with the last button.

“Please?” John’s voice was barely audible. “If you can’t be my friend anymore, I just want to touch you. Just once. Just for a minute.”

God, yes.
Sam wrangled the last button free, pulling it as it snagged on a loose thread. As his hand came down, he caught the chain of John’s watch fob on his thumb, causing the watch to fall to the floor, the loose chain going with it.

“Oh. My watch,” John said flatly.

Sam pressed a hand to his mouth, stifling a stupid laugh. What a perfect moment to be clumsy. “Here,” he said, and knelt down to retrieve it. He had it in his hand and was opening the face to check the glass when he felt John’s fingers in his hair.

“Soft. Thought it would be.” John mumbled something else, but Sam didn’t catch it. He kept moving his fingers, running them slowly over Sam’s scalp, then grazing the top of his ear. He seemed to be floating in his own world, for he began humming some aimless tune, interrupted with an occasional giggle.

Still kneeling on the floor, Sam looked up and gaped at the molten bronze eyes looking down at him. It was as if John was seeing him and yet not seeing him. His expression held no anxiety, no awareness of the insanity of their situation or the panicked apologies he had made only a minute ago. Sam knew it was the wine coursing through his veins, but he did not care. He wanted that look. He wanted that focused, hungry gaze, and—damn it to hell!—he wanted it for himself.

“You shouldn’t sleep in your clothes.” Sam slowly laid the watch on the edge of the bed.

“Mmm.” John nodded, and his lids drooped over those heated eyes. He tugged at his shirt and pulled the tails free of his waistband in a few places, but he wasn’t making much progress.

“Here.” Sam tried to swallow, but his tongue had turned to sandpaper. “Let me help you.” He reached up to John’s torso and felt the soft linen folds of his shirt. At the waistband, he skimmed his thumb along the worn wool until he met the first button on the fall of John’s breeches. He slipped it free. Then another, and another.

John continued to stroke Sam’s hair, oblivious, and for once the self-chastising voice in Sam’s head was silent. He wanted John. He had for years but knowing him now only intensified it. If this was all there was, if John would hate him tomorrow for his reticent lies, then he would have something. He remembered the decision he had made yesterday, to enjoy the week no matter what might come after, and he was going to do it.

He brushed his hand over the front of John’s breeches and sucked in a breath. In the dim light of the oil lamp, he had not been able to see that John was already hard.

John lifted his head away from the post. “S-Sam?”

“I’m here.” Before John could say anything else, Sam unfastened the last button and pulled down the fall of his breeches. John wore no drawers, allowing his cock to spring free. He was beautiful. Long and flushed, the end swelling just a bit thicker than the base. Sam wanted to gaze at him, take in every detail, but he would not risk hesitating. Sam gripped him with one hand and took him into his mouth as far as he could. A pearl of salty liquid coated his bottom lip, and his mouth instantly watered.

“Ah! Sam!” John’s legs shook as he pressed himself back against the post.

Sam moved his hands to the back of John’s thighs, reveling in the hard muscles trembling under the thin wool. He pressed down farther until he felt the swollen head against the back of his throat, then pulled back to tease the underside with his tongue.

It had been so long since he had pleasured a man in such a way. The act was too vulnerable, and he rarely trusted anyone enough, but he loved it. He loved the hot weight in his hands, the feel of the slippery soft head against his lips, almost spongy beneath the warm skin. He fantasized about it when he pleasured himself, but never had he imagined it being as good as it was now. He moaned as he took John deep again, this time relaxing the back of his throat so that he could take him just a bit more.

“Ugh! Sam…
f-fuck
!” John cried as he sank both hands into Sam’s hair.