Rite of Summer: Treading the Boards, Book 1 (19 page)

It would be so easy to forgive, pretend that nothing at all had changed with the shattering of the third leg of their triangle. “We all say things when upset that we are ashamed about in the light of day,” Joshua offered as his concession. “You’ve been under great strain.”

“Nevertheless,” Ashbrook insisted, “you were offering counsel and I closed my ears.”

He glanced behind them again, and then cautiously to each side, before stepping in closer. Not touching, but enough so that Joshua could see the fleck of green in his brown eyes, the faint stubble coming in along his jaw that he would have to shave off before dinner, the wrinkles in his cravat where it had been hastily and carelessly tied. He moistened his lips with a quick flicker of his tongue.

“Allow me to apologize,” Ashbrook murmured, his voice like molten honey. And like honey could be, it was too sweet, too cloying to be believed.

Joshua’s body, on the other hand, seemed to think otherwise, reverberating to the timbre with desperate yearning. He was a moth and Ashbrook the flame, the compass needle drawn inexorably to the magnet.

Damn him, anyway.
Joshua shook his head. Things could not go back to the way they were.

“I’ll come to your rooms no more,” he said, and there was a small part of him that took immense satisfaction in the way that Ashbrook faltered and his face fell.

And then, naturally, the wave of guilt and need that overrode his common sense.

“I have no wish to duel with Cade over your honor,” he added gently. The flash of surprise that blanked out Ashbrook’s expression was his reward, then the sour and vaguely exasperated frown that followed.

“Come to mine.” He extended the offer impulsively, regretting his weakness as soon as he’d made the decision. “But only if you come alone. I’ll have no truck with Cade after the hurt he’s done you.”

I would have had it like this in the first place, though there was beauty in seeing you throw your head back in pleasure as you fucked. I only wish it had been my prick buried so deeply inside you, my hands on your cock, watching us in a mirror that reflected our unique and private passions…

He was a mess, a disaster of a man, and bringing Ashbrook back to his room would only compound it.

“I’ll have as little as possible to do with him myself,” Ashbrook promised, his eyes bright and his color high in his cheeks. “You were right yesterday, and that is what I came to tell you. Surely he and I can be adults about this business, continue to play music as partners, without sharing a bed. We can each do as we please. And what pleases me is you.”

One more look around and then he turned those eyes on Joshua again, the heat simmering deep in those dark depths. “Please,” he said, “let my body speak where words fail me.”

Joshua was helpless, hopeless, sunk. “Midnight,” he replied, his mouth gone dry. “I will wait for you then.”

Chapter Fifteen

When was the last time Stephen had been the one to sneak to another man’s room under cover of darkness? He couldn’t remember.

Leaving had been easy, Evander locked in his own bedroom since they’d returned from dinner. The small bottle of oil, mostly empty, hung heavily in his pocket. His hair, still damp from bathing, clung to the back of his neck.

There was a thrill to it, a rush of freedom, lightness in his feet; he did not need Evander for this. Beaufort wanted him, him
alone
, and that knowledge went a long way toward easing the tender bruising around the edges of his soul.

He knocked, waited only for a moment until he heard a murmur of assent. He opened the door.

Beaufort stood by the low-banked fire, his jacket off, his cravat hanging loosely around his neck and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had a book in his hands, and his expression when Stephen entered—joy, surprise, trepidation mixed—softened the strong lines of his face.

He didn’t expect me to come.

And that thought was enough to send the guilt spiraling up through him.
My fault, for making him doubt.
He knew how to fix this, how to make Beaufort understand just how beautiful, how
necessary
he was.

He closed and locked the door behind him as Beaufort set his book aside. The warmth of the room suffused him, thick over his skin, or was that from the heat sparking in Beaufort’s eyes? His strawberry-blond hair sat tousled, spiking and tumbling as though he’d been running his hands through it, and even now his fingers drummed nervously on the mantelpiece.

“I promised I would be here,” Stephen said, and Beaufort’s shoulders relaxed.

“So you did.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And here you are.” The firelight traced shadows on his skin, played in flickers over the curve of muscle in his arms. The hollow of his elbow beckoned, the skin there soft, easy to mark and turn red-purple from kissing and biting, yet easy to hide under a coat in the light of day. There, or the divot at the base of his throat below his Adam’s apple, a pool of shade nestled in the parted placket of his shirt.

Stephen swallowed against the dryness in his mouth, the anticipation beginning to curl below his stomach. He crossed the room in easy strides, and before Beaufort could speak, Stephen cupped his face in his hands.

Their lips met in a crush, fierce and thorough, and he swallowed any words of protest Beaufort might have let out.

Beaufort’s hands came around Stephen regardless, gripped his waist, his fingers splaying out over Stephen’s hips and clutching tightly enough to leave marks. He kissed back, the tip of his tongue tracing the edge of Stephen’s lips until Stephen opened for him.

Beaufort tasted of cognac and smoke, the thick, dusky flavor of a pipe, the bright and fresh cut of soap and underneath it all the scent of leather and oil, paints and thinner. Stephen could live inside that potent masculine scent, wrap it around himself, drink it in—drink
him
in. He would contain and embody him, kiss him just like this forever, until their lips were bruised and bleeding and nothing lay between them but skin.

The hard nudge against his hip suggested that Beaufort had no objections. Stephen sank his fingers into Beaufort’s close-cropped hair, held him in place while he kissed his lips again and again, thirsty as a man dying in a desert. Beaufort gripped his arse and pulled his hips in closer, locked his body tight against Stephen’s and ground them together.

Stephen bit along the line of his jaw, his ear, his throat, nibbling and suckling at the tender skin his cravat and collar would normally hide.

“You seem to be feeling better,” Beaufort said breathlessly, pulling back for a moment, his hips still tight against Stephen’s and his prick a heated weight against Stephen’s thigh.

“I panicked last night—I didn’t know what to think or how to feel,” he confessed.
Useless, hopeless, a wayward child in a man’s body
…except now he had Beaufort to give him hope.

“And now?”

He was hardly about to admit the deprecations that had been pulsing through his mind. “I’m feeling you.”

Beaufort snorted out that laugh that meant
“I’m putting up with you because you’re beautiful”
. He squeezed Stephen’s arse through the fabric of his trousers, his fingers roving down to press into the cleft of his buttocks, massage the space between. The sensation was muted through the layers of wool, but Stephen rolled into it anyways, and everything burned.

He would lose his tenuous sense of control over the situation if he allowed that to continue, and tonight was supposed to be
his
apology.

“Let me,” he asked and ordered together, stepping back half a step and pulling Beaufort’s hands up to his hips again. “Let me show you how much I care for you.”

Beaufort’s eyes flashed with uncertainty again, and Stephen kissed the look away.

Believe me.

He stroked his hands down Beaufort’s sides, the linen warm from body heat, and tugged until his shirttails came free. Beaufort hummed approval against his lips, gasped when Stephen grazed his teeth across the plump lobe of his ear. It only took a second to drag Beaufort’s shirt up and over his head, and tangle it around his wrists.

“What are you doing?” Beaufort tensed, but didn’t pull away.

“Trust me?”

Oh, he looked beautiful like this, the creamy linen tangled around the gorgeous muscles of his forearms, his stomach taut and nipples tight. Stephen bent his head to suck one of those rigid pink nipples into his mouth and flick at the tip with his tongue. Beaufort’s hips canted toward Stephen, and he could just drop to his knees right now, undo his trousers with a flick of a button and suck that gorgeous prick into his mouth—

“Fine,” Beaufort relented, a smile in his voice. He pulled against the linen binding his wrists, and Stephen caught it to hold him steady. “But no biting anything off,” he cautioned with a short and nervous laugh. “I am overly fond of all my parts.”

“I solemnly swear. I’m also very fond of your parts.” Stephen nodded, keeping his face as serious as he could in front of the laugh that pressed against his lips.

Stephen stroked Beaufort’s chest, ran his fingertips lightly across the smattering of red-blond hair that gave brilliant texture to the warmth of his skin.

Beaufort’s shoulders shook, his lips pressed together, but the laugh escaped him anyway. He arched his neck for Stephen’s touch, his skin warm and inviting. He rolled his shoulders forward to drop his bound hands between their bodies.

Stephen set his hands against those shoulders, pushed him experimentally.

Beaufort rocked back a step, then caught himself. “What are you doing?”

A few more steps like that, Stephen following, and they made it to the bed. One last push had Beaufort sitting down on the edge. His knees dropped apart as he sat down, and Stephen stepped between them.

“I like this view.” Beaufort laughed softly. He pressed his lips to Stephen’s groin, mouthed at the aching hardness of his prick through the layers of fabric. Stephen thrust reflexively into the pressure and the faint heat of his mouth. Beaufort pulled against the linen binding his arms and slipped his hands between Stephen’s legs to toy with him.

“Not yet.” Stephen stooped and slid his hands beneath Beaufort’s shoulders and knees, like a groom carrying his bride. Beaufort yelped in surprise when Stephen tipped him backward, struggled in Stephen’s arms. “Careful or I’ll drop you!”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Stephen set Beaufort down in the center of the bed.

He landed laughing, missing the pillows and the shirt still binding his hands at his chest. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.” Beaufort snorted. “What am I, a damsel about to be ravished?”

Stephen grinned. “If that’s a game that pleases you,” he offered without much interest of his own. The scornful look back from Beaufort gave him all the answer he needed. “On the contrary, tonight I am entirely devoted to your pleasure.” He knelt on the bed, the mattress denting underneath him as he sank into its luxurious softness.

Beaufort sprawled on the white sheets, acres of bare skin crying out to be tasted. Stephen straddled Beaufort’s hips, resisting the urge to grind down against him and sate the throbbing ache in his cock that was begging for pressure, friction and release.
Patience.

He smoothed his hands along Beaufort’s arms, lean lines of solid muscle that tensed beneath his fingers, and pressed Beaufort’s charcoal-stained hands up above his head. He went willingly, his hips rocking up against the air as Stephen leaned over him. The small, taut nub of his nipple slipped easily between Stephen’s lips, and he rolled it over his tongue

Beaufort gasped and arched his back, tangling his hands in the fabric. “In that case, that’s an excellent start,” he said, his breath catching as he spoke. “Keep doing that.”

Stephen swiped at his nipple, bit down lightly and laved his tongue over the spot to soothe the sting.

Beaufort groaned, his fingers curling. His chest heaved as he drew in a deep breath, his muscles defined by the faint golden hair scattered there, leaving faint swirls on his skin. Thicker hair ran down from his navel to vanish beneath the waistband of his trousers, the fall front tented obscenely at the groin.

Stephen could almost make out the shape of Beaufort’s cock, the curve of the ring pierced through the head. Stephen nuzzled the rigid line, ran his nose along the solid length of it. The wool of Beaufort’s trousers was soft against his skin, the thick smell of his lust heady, musky and dark.

He dropped his feet to the floor and stood. Beaufort propped himself up on his elbows, a cry of protest on his lips that died away as Stephen grabbed his own shirt by the back of the neck and hauled it off over his head.

Beaufort settled against the pillows, and watched with half-lidded eyes and a gaze so intense that Stephen all but forgot what he was doing.

Turning his back, he took longer to undo his trousers, threw in a sway of his hips for Beaufort’s benefit. He was rewarded with a low chuckle that had more need in it than mirth.

Stephen turned back to face him, his prick jutting, hard and red-tipped, from the thatch of dark curls between his thighs. The look of desperation on Beaufort’s face only made the moment better. Stephen gripped his cock and stroked it, only once, all he could allow himself. The contact burst over him in a wave of pleasure so intense it was almost pain, and Beaufort made a noise that sounded halfway between a whimper and a whine.

“Come here,” he begged, the rasp in his voice making it husky. “I need to touch you.”

“Not yet,” Stephen decided aloud, forcing himself to drop his hand away. The cool air hit the hot skin of his cock and it almost hurt to let go, but it would be worth it. It would. In the meantime—

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he said with a grin, and Beaufort lifted his hips obediently. He took his time on this as well, gliding his fingers over the brass buttons of Beaufort’s fly. His cock jerked under Stephen’s touch, his hips riding up to chase it, and Stephen grabbed him solidly, gave him a squeeze through his trousers.

“Yes,” Beaufort hissed, and Stephen could wait no longer.

He opened the buttons with an easy flick of his thumb and drew the pants down Beaufort’s thighs.

His cock popped free to slap against his stomach, red-purple at the head, the gold ring that ran through it heavy and bright and wet with precome. It left a gleaming trail between the head of his cock and the flat of his stomach, a thin line of fluid that Stephen lapped at.

The salty-sour taste spread over his tongue, the pure and distilled essence of Beaufort’s lust for him. He breathed over the fat head, ran the tip of his tongue down along the slit, gathering more of Beaufort’s precome as he went, then tugged gently on the ring with his lips.

Beaufort gasped and keened deep in his throat, his cock jerking again. “What are you going to do?”

“What God gave us mouths for,” Stephen replied cheekily, blasphemy in his heart and in his prick, alike. “And hands big enough to span your girth.”

He wrapped his fingers around Beaufort’s cock, let him thrust up into his fist. The sight of it was enough to set fire to his spine, the dark crown of Beaufort’s cock sliding up between his fingers, the gold ring between his thumb and forefinger, only to vanish, then reappear again.

Beaufort’s breathing grew ragged, his eyes dark as he watched. Stephen bent his head and licked the crown as it appeared again, opened his mouth and let Beaufort thrust inside. It was easy enough to control his depth like this, with Stephen’s fist wrapped securely around the root of Beaufort’s prick. Beaufort thrust again, his hands tangling and clenching in folds of his shirt, sliding deep between Stephen’s lips.

His cock was heavy on Stephen’s tongue, a thick and solid weight that pinned him down, grounded him, made him forget everything but the slick slide through his hand and between his lips. The ring caught on his bottom lip with every push, holding there long enough for Stephen’s tongue to play at the underside.

He pressed his tongue against the place where the ring vanished into Beaufort’s cock, licked it and sucked at it, the contrast between skin and gold the most amazing textures.

Up and off, then squeezing his lips at the end. He breathed along the damp skin until goose bumps appeared on Beaufort’s thighs, then sucked him in again.

Stephen could easily spend an hour like this, lost in the rhythms of sucking and kissing, tracing circles on hot, wet skin with the tip of his tongue. He ran the flat of his tongue down the base, around Beaufort’s balls and up the strip of skin between, felt them begin to draw up into Beaufort’s body. Beaufort’s breathing came in short, fast puffs, his head tipped back and his body tight.

Stephen stopped and sat up, pressed his thumb to the base of Beaufort’s prick in an old trick he had learned once when he was rather more…impetuous in his lovemaking than he was now.

Beaufort groaned, long and low, and his body shuddered, but he did not come. “Bastard,” he cursed when he had enough breath back. He glared at Stephen venomously, a posture made somewhat less threatening by the solid and almost-purple erection rising to sit hard against his stomach.