Kindred Hearts (23 page)

Tristan looked up into those dark, warm eyes and felt something shift inside him. The fear was, if not completely gone, at least diminished to tolerable levels. He essayed a grin. He knew Charles wouldn’t expect more than he was capable of giving—his friendship with the man over the last month had shown him that. “Whatever you want, Charlie. I’m yours.”

“By God,” Charles said, and his eyes went strangely bright, “by God, Tris, you
are
mine, and I
will
take care of you.”

“I trust you,” Tristan said, “but you’re going to have to be patient with me. I’ve never done this, you see.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Charles said, frowning. “Why would you?”

“Well, there were boys at school who did, who, who
forced
it on other boys, but I always had Gibs and Berks with me, and it never happened to me. And I fought a lot too.” He grinned up at Charles. “I still fight a lot.”

“Don’t fight me tonight, all right, Tris?”

“I won’t. I want this, Charlie. I
want
it.” It didn’t matter any longer if it was wrong, or if it was illegal, or if it was against everything he’d ever been taught. It was what he wanted, and what Charles wanted. And that was enough.

Charles kissed him. “Trust me,” he said against Tristan’s mouth. He drew Tristan’s arms up again, pressing his hands against the spiraled posts of the headboard. “Put your hands around the posts and hold on. Don’t let go.”

“All right,” Tristan said cautiously. “Why?”

“I want you to feel safe, to give you something to hold onto. Besides,” he said, his voice turning dark and sweetly wicked, “this way I get to touch you all I want, and you can’t stop me unless you make the effort.”

Tristan shuddered, not in fear, but in arousal. “My God,” he whispered raggedly.

“Do you trust me?” Charles asked again.

“I do.”

Charles picked up a length of black silk and bound it around Tristan’s head, blindfolding him. The silk smelled like Charles, that warm and strange woodsy-herbal scent, and Tristan, who’d tensed at the beginning of the blindfolding, relaxed again.

“Are you all right?” Charles asked, his voice close to Tristan’s ear.

“Yes.” He was. It was so strange; he was blind, and even though he could move his hands easily enough, he didn’t
want
to; he wanted to do what Charles told him, wanted to be helpless under his hands, and that should have frightened him but it didn’t. The fear was gone completely. It was as if he’d given it over to Charles, trusting that those strong, competent hands would hold him safe. “This is odd. Why are you doing this?”

“I don’t want you distracted,” Charles said. “I don’t want you to think. You think far too much, Tris.” Then Charles kissed him again, a soft, warm kiss; undemanding, but Tristan felt himself rising, yearning toward that invisible mouth. He caught Charles’s lip in his teeth, tugging gently; Charles laughed and pressed him down into the pillows, the warm mouth turned suddenly hot, the searching tongue demanding. Tristan pulled hard against the headboard, needing desperately to touch Charles, to hold him, but subconsciously obeying Charles’s instructions not to let go.

Charles broke away, his breath harsh and loud. “You try my will, love. You don’t know what you do to me.”

“Is it anything like what you do to me?” Tristan shot back, frustrated by his own restraint and the blindfold. “Damn it, Charlie, let me
see.
”

Charles laughed, but the sound was joyous, not mocking. “Oh, no, love. Not yet. Tonight is all for you. Just remember—if it gets too much, if you get uncomfortable or frightened—just tell me to stop.”

Heart pounding, Tristan lay still in the darkness, his other senses straining. He heard the faint rustle of cloth, then the soft
clink
of a bottle being opened, and suddenly smelled the woodsy scent he associated with Charles. The mattress sank as Charles sat at the foot; then warm, slippery hands settled on his right foot, the fingers strong and gentle as they worked the oil into the sole. “This is eucalyptus oil,” Charles said softly as he rubbed. “From Australia. And rosemary oil. An old woman in Portugal told me that the combination relaxes the body and clears the mind. I just like the scent. Do you?”

“It smells like you,” Tristan said.

Charles chuckled. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

“You smell good,” Tristan admitted. “I like it. It’s… warm, somehow. It makes me feel….”

“Feel?” Charles prompted gently when it became apparent Tristan wasn’t going to finish the statement.

“Safe,” Tristan whispered.

Charles was silent a moment, then said in a husky voice, “You’re safe with me, Tris. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Tris let his tension go in a long sigh, letting his body lay limp on the sheets. It was the strangest feeling, being blind; it was as if suddenly all his other senses were that much more acute. His attention focused on where Charles’s fingers kneaded his foot, then moved up to gently caress his ankle before working their way up his calf. When he reached Tristan’s knee he released him; then Tristan felt his hands on his left foot. The silky warmth of the oil, the gentle strength of Charles’s hands: he felt as though each touch reached far beyond the place where Charles’s fingers made contact, so that when Charles rubbed his calf, Tristan felt it in his fingers and throat and groin, and when he stroked his knee, he felt it in his toes and shoulders and neck.

Charles kissed the inside of his knee, and the brush of lips startled Tristan, the brief warm, damp pressure shooting directly to his gut. He gasped faintly, and Charles chuckled but said nothing. Instead, he smoothed his hands up Tristan’s thighs, sliding down around his hips and over the curve of his buttocks to slip down the backs of his thighs to his knees again. His hands passed so close to Tristan’s erect shaft that Tristan felt their warmth and arched his back, anticipating the touch of those warm hands, but it never came. Then the hands went away, a brief kiss touched his hip, and then the sound of the bottle again.

This time it was Tristan’s arms that got the attention, from his forearms down to his shoulders. Charles took each hand, one at a time, and gently rubbed the oil into his palms and fingers and wrists, then he lifted and stroked Tristan’s arms thoroughly, but again, no farther than his shoulder, first one, then the other, so that his hands and fingers were limp when Charles put them back and closed them again around the posts of the headboard.

Then Charles kissed him, one slick hand curving along Tristan’s jaw and slipping down his neck, his fingers stroking, teasing sensation from Tristan’s skin. He smoothed along the curve of Tristan’s shoulder, then down over his pectoral muscle and paused. Drawing back, he whispered, “Do you like it when you’re touched here…?” and his fingers brushed Tristan’s nipple.

Tristan’s body arched in response. The touch was gentle, but the sensation of the warm, slick fingers was too much. He cried out softly, then went limp again as Charles’s hand moved away. “I’ve never… no one ever….”

There was a moment of stillness, then Charles said in disbelief, “No one’s ever touched you there? No one?”

His face burning, Tristan shook his head, his hair scrubbing against the linen of the pillowcase. “Sometimes, when I’m making love, they rub against the woman’s skin… it feels good.”

“Then why don’t you let them touch you there, if it feels good?”

Tristan let out a long sighing breath. “No one ever offered. Besides—my responsibility is their pleasure—it’s just a bonus that I take my own.”

“My God,” Charles said flatly.

Tristan’s face grew hotter. “Let me go,” he said dully, embarrassed. This wasn’t what he wanted. He’d looked for oblivion, not having all his failings thrown in his face. He didn’t feel safe anymore; he felt humiliated and trapped. He released the spindles of the headboard and reached for the blindfold.

A pair of hands caught his, and the fingers were each kissed gently before Charles placed them back on the headboard. “Not yet, Tris. Please.” Then Charles’s palm came down gently on his breast, and his mouth settled on Tristan’s again, licking into his and stroking in rhythm with Charles’s palm against Tristan’s nipple, and he sobbed softly, confused and hurt and hungry.

Charles drew back, resting his cheek against Tristan’s. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to bring up anything uncomfortable. I just wanted to please you, not hurt you. But it hurts
me
to know that you’ve missed out on such a simple, pleasant thing.” His palm slid away and his fingers toyed with the stiffened nub, circling it, teasing it.

Then he shifted again and his hand was gone and his cheek; and then Tristan felt the warmth of Charles’s breath on his chest and Charles’s mouth took the place of his fingers, and this time he wasn’t content with stroking, though he was doing that, with his
tongue
, for God’s sake. But then his lips closed on the nub, sucking gently, and Tristan bucked again, moaning in pleasure.

Charles’s mouth shifted to the other side, playing and suckling there, too, a moment before moving away. “Did you like that?”

“Oh, God…,” Tristan moaned helplessly.

Charles chuckled, and bent his head again, his mouth traveling over Tristan’s chest and abdomen, tasting his skin. Tristan lay with his hands fisted around the spindles, his body quivering as Charles explored him with hands and mouth and tongue. “So beautiful,” Charles murmured, “my Tris, so beautiful….”

His hand trailed down Tristan’s hip and over his thigh, curling up to brush between Tristan’s legs and cup his ballocks gently. Tristan hissed softly and Charles chuckled. “Never tell me you’ve never been touched there?”

“No—I mean, yes, of course, but only”—he hesitated—“never by
ladies
. Only….”

“Only whores?” Charles supplied. “Tristan, love, you can say it. I know you don’t mean anything by it.”

“I don’t. I mean, I know I don’t, but I don’t know what you would think I meant. I don’t mean to, to, to say anything to make you think I think….”

Charles chuckled again. “I’m not a whore, Tristan, and I know it, so don’t worry about what you say. I’m not going to take anything wrong, and if you say something that
is
wrong, I’m sure enough of myself that I’m not going to be hurt by it. I’ll just correct you. Besides, didn’t I say this was about you, not me? Don’t think about what you say. Just say it. I won’t be hurt.” His fingers moved over Tristan’s testicles and stroked the skin behind them. “So soft,” he mused, before shifting his attention back the other direction and taking Tristan’s cock in his hand, curling his fingers around it gently. Tristan hissed again in pleasure.

“Wait,” he gasped as Charles’s hand started to move. Charles stopped, just holding him, and Tristan breathed rapidly, trying to stave off the desire to spend. After a moment, he let out a long, slow breath and said, “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Charles said softly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. It’s just… this blindfold makes everything so much more intense.”

“That’s the point of it, but we haven’t even got to the intense part, yet,” Charles said in amusement.

“What do you—” Tristan started to ask, but then his cock was surrounded by wet warmth and a stroking tongue and the faintest brush of teeth, and he drove his head back into the pillows in pleasure. “Oh, my God….”