Rite of Summer: Treading the Boards, Book 1 (20 page)

“Did you say something?” Stephen teased, and he lunged forward to seize Beaufort’s mouth, suck at his bottom lip, already red from being bitten. Beaufort kissed him back just as fervently, running his tongue along Stephen’s teeth and— God, he would be tasting himself on Stephen’s lips.

The notion coiled flames in Stephen’s gut and he rutted up against Beaufort’s stomach, leaving a damp streak of his own.

Beaufort nudged him up and kissed his way down Stephen’s throat, detouring to suck and lick at Stephen’s nipples. He bent his head and worked them, laving and biting each in turn, nibbling until they were hard and erect. They ached as Stephen’s prick ached, throbbing in time to the beat of his heart.

Stephen pulled back, raised Beaufort’s hands back over his head again and licked a wide, wet stripe up the underside of Beaufort’s arm. He tasted of salt and soap, the thin layer of sweat from their exertion prickling on Stephen’s tongue.

“Please,” Beaufort groaned, and he seemed shocked at the rasp and rawness of his own voice, lust-hazed and thick. “I need more, please.”

He raised his leg between Stephen’s and rocked his hips up to chase the pressure, but Stephen pressed his hand flat against Beaufort’s stomach and held him gently in place.

“I want—” Stephen began, then Beaufort’s thigh brushed against his prick and the shock stopped him dead. He
needed
, more than ever, and he took the invitation, rolling down against Beaufort, his hands gripping Beaufort’s wrists, still pressed up above his head.

“Tell me,” Beaufort urged, lifting his hips, arching his back, thrusting up to meet Stephen halfway.

Their cocks slid against each other, hot and slick from precome and sweat, the back-and-forth motion almost enough. Almost, but not quite.

“I want to fuck you,” Stephen gasped. He sat up again, gripped his prick at the base and squeezed
hard
until the urgency flagged and he could think a little more clearly. “I want to make you feel as good as you make me. I want to take your cock in my mouth,” he promised.

Beaufort’s eyebrows went up and his tongue flickered out to wet his lips.

The pink flicker and the gleam on his lower lip drew Stephen in, and he couldn’t look away. “I’m going to suck you until you’re sated,” he continued, gripping himself tighter and trying not to look down at his cock or at Beaufort’s, mouthwateringly fat and straining for him. “Then fuck my prick into you and learn the way your body feels from the inside.”

“Yes,” Beaufort said instantly, almost before Stephen had finished speaking. “All of that, yes, now, please.” He laughed, and there was an edge of nervousness to it which vanished when Stephen let himself fall forward.

He caught himself on his arms, balancing above Beaufort, hands on either side of his head.

Beaufort’s arms still rested easily above his head, the linen wound around each finger as he held on to his bindings in a loose grip.

Stephen seized the middle of the shirt, between Beaufort’s wrists, and held it down against the pillow. He kissed down the length of Beaufort’s arm, licked the muscles of his forearm, the vein that ran down from his elbow to his armpit, nuzzled into the clean-smelling tuft of hair where his arm joined his body.

Down then and farther still, only letting go of the shirt when his arm could no longer reach. He licked and suckled at Beaufort’s skin, his nipples in turn, delved the tip of his tongue into Beaufort’s navel and laughed when the man squirmed beneath him.

“Ticklish?” he asked, amused, and Beaufort groaned.

“Only when being mercilessly teased by a minion of the devil himself,” Beaufort grumped from where he lay. Anything else he was about to say died in a groan and a gasp when Stephen took his cock back into his mouth.

Beaufort’s prick was velvet and marble, harder than Stephen had ever felt him, angled so high and so firm that he barely seemed human.

Stephen ran the flat of his tongue down along that solid shaft, the foreskin where it lay below the crown. He toyed with the ring and tugged it, licked through it, teased the places where it broke Beaufort’s skin with the barest tip of his tongue.

Beaufort groaned and cried out, writhed and pleaded, and still he kept his hands in place. Stephen flattened his own hands out over Beaufort’s hips to hold him steady and took him in entirely. Beaufort arched, pushing his hips up against Stephen’s hands in vain attempt to thrust in.

He sucked, opening his mouth and throat and dropping his tongue to take Beaufort as deep as he could, the scent and taste of him filling Stephen’s mouth and nose with sweet musk.

There, down,
there
— He sucked as he came up again, his cheeks hollowing out and tongue curling around the ridge, then into the slit, then back down again to play with the jewelry.

Everything ached, his hands, his mouth where his lips stretched around Beaufort’s gorgeous girth, his balls, the coils of desperate fire in the back of his spine, building with no release in sight, and his cock, leaking against his stomach and throbbing more with every minute that he refused to spend himself on Beaufort’s belly.

Beaufort writhed under him, made little whimpering pleas and abortive thrusts up, his whole back bowed and toes curled tightly into the sheets. “More, more, more,” he chanted, and Stephen flicked the tip of his tongue lightly over the crown of Beaufort’s cock. It was meant as a tease, until he saw the tears in the corners of Beaufort’s eyes, the panicky rush of his breath and the way he scrabbled for purchase to get deeper inside.

“You utter
bastard
,” Beaufort gasped out, and Stephen took him deep.

He grabbed Beaufort’s buttocks, lifted them up as he sucked him down, buried his nose in the thatch of red-gold hair, opened his throat and swallowed around Beaufort’s prick, the head pressing against the back of his throat. He would choke on it and die fulfilled.

He slid off, back down, off again.

He tugged at the ring one last time in passing, twice, again—

Beaufort came with a desperate and muffled shout, dropping his arms and biting hard into the linen stretched between his hands so that he would not wake the next rooms. He came, his entire body shaking with it. His emissions spurted, hot and white, over his own stomach, his chest, between Stephen’s lips, his eyes squeezed so tightly shut that wrinkles creased his cheeks and tears spotted his temples.

Stephen had tasted a mango once, a fruit from a distant shore. This was like that first unguarded rapture, burst full across his tongue, ambrosia, thick and heady. Pure and distilled essence of
man
flooded Stephen’s senses, bitter and salt in his mouth.

He swallowed, laved Beaufort’s stomach with his tongue to clean him, capture his taste and the smell of it, take him in so completely that he could never, ever forget it.

“Holy God,” Beaufort muttered, his eyes wide as he watched, his head propped up on his hands. He stared at Stephen, his tongue darting out to wet his own lips, his pupils still blown dark and wide and his skin gleaming faintly with sweat. “Do you have any idea what you look like?” He shook his head in answer to his own question. “No, you couldn’t possibly. I will paint you like this one day,” he promised, breathless. “As the image of Lust, or some figure from myth. Bacchus. Patroclus. Cupid.”

Stephen bit his nipple, and he squirmed.

His own cock was screaming for attention. He pressed the heel of his hand against his prick, rolled against the pressure. Good, but not good enough, Not nearly.

Beaufort untangled his hands and flung his shirt over the side of the bed. He ran his fingers through Stephen’s hair, the dark curls sweat damp and tangled, and drew him up close to kiss him.

The oil sat on the night table where Stephen had dropped it, and he grabbed for it as Beaufort released him. He stole another kiss from those plush, kiss-reddened lips, then settled back on his heels between Beaufort’s legs.

The view here was magnificent, Beaufort’s cock, still half-hard and spent, against his muscled thigh. The flat plane of his stomach extended way above that, a few pearling drops of come gleaming on his skin. His chest flushed red down to his nipples, the color only barely beginning to recede. His lips were open, his eyes bright and his hair a tousled mess sticking up in all directions. He was beautiful, utterly, spectacularly beautiful.

Something inside Stephen expanded sideways and upside down, before tangling into a knot so tight he could never unpick it.

“I need to—” he began, and Beaufort nodded, breathless.

“I want you to,” he replied, though whether they meant the same thing Stephen would never be sure.

He tipped the bottle over his hand, smeared the clear, sweet-smelling oil over his fingers. He leaned in and kissed Beaufort again, slow and deep, and slid his hands between Beaufort’s legs. He circled the sensitive skin at the entrance to his hole, pressing in gently as Beaufort shuddered, spread his legs wider.

This wasn’t entirely new to him, being on this end of the proceedings. Evander had let him, once, and sometimes liked to watch Stephen take one of their guests while he stroked himself and gave direction. But this—pressing his fingers, first one, then a second, deep inside Beaufort’s body, sliding slowly past the tight ring at the entrance, a little more slack now from satiation and relaxation than it might have been before, watching the way Beaufort bit his lip, teeth making white dents against the red—this was utterly new and delightful.

He opened his fingers and Beaufort groaned, pressed his feet down against the bed to lift his hips. A pillow had fallen to the floor and Stephen slid it beneath them, lifted him up so that Stephen could kiss his inner thighs, the insides of his knees, lick and suck at his balls. Stephen drew his fingers out, then pressed them back in and curled them forward. Here, somewhere, was a spot that gave more pleasure than he had ever dreamed possible as a young man, and Beaufort rocked up into his fingers as he found it.

“All right?” Stephen asked, though finding breath was difficult. He trembled with the effort, his body shaking with the ache of going slowly, preparing him carefully, when all he wanted was to push in, to break him open, to take and take and take until they were both reduced to nothing but quivering wrecks upon the bed.

“Good.” Beaufort rocked his hips up again to take his fingers deeper. He was tight, so tight, slick and hot inside, and relaxed even as Stephen tried to add a third. “It’s good,” he repeated and, “I’m ready.” He made to turn over, his hands braced against the bed, but Stephen stopped him.

“Don’t,” he begged, his hands on Beaufort’s thighs. “Don’t become a body for me, stay yourself. I need to see you.”

“It’s easier this way—”

Stephen shook his head, trembling with the effort of finding the words. He settled for “I want to see your eyes”, as though that made sense, but Beaufort seemed to understand. He settled again, let his knees fall apart so that Stephen could place himself between them.

It would work better if… Stephen slid his arms beneath Beaufort’s knees, lifted them up and onto his shoulders. He seemed to catch Stephen’s meaning and raised his hips in easy invitation.

There was no way he could wait any longer, his hands already trembling. Stephen dropped a hand from Beaufort’s hips to take his own cock and guide it to the cleft of Beaufort’s buttocks. He slid easily along the channel, skin on skin, so desperately good, and Beaufort rocked up to clench around him. And yet it was not enough, not nearly enough.

He pressed against the tight circle of muscle at Beaufort’s entrance. He had to go slowly, draw out the gorgeous thick slide as Beaufort’s body opened for him.

Heat, so hot, so slick with oil and tight around him, and to think he had been letting all of this go by in search of the pleasures that came from
being
fucked. He would—he would never be able to choose from here on in. This was beyond perfection, cleaving Beaufort in two, watching the white dents of his teeth dig into his bottom lip as he breathed in, feeling his pulse and the way his body shuddered when Stephen bottomed out.

Beaufort was perfect inside, opening for him with only a little pressure. Stephen drew back, slid partway out, and they groaned together. Even slicked with oil and opened with three fingers, Beaufort’s body was snug around him, every movement and roll of hips zinging along his bones and muscles, pushing his hips forward, making his skin sing with need and want and pleasure.

Nothing would ever be as incredible as this, the way Beaufort pulled him in, clutching at Stephen’s forearms and his ankles pressing down on his shoulders to spur him on. Their bodies slid, slick with sweat, Stephen’s fingers gripping Beaufort’s thighs and hips as though this all might vanish in an instant. The room was silent but for the harsh rasping of their breathing and the wet slap of skin on skin, bodies undulating and Stephen’s guttural groans of pleasure.

He turned his head to muffle the sound, pressed his lips against the inside of Beaufort’s knee.

He pushed inside, slid out again along that tight, sweet glide, Beaufort’s skin burning with fire against his own. Lightning flickered along his limbs, sparking in his fingertips and toes.

Stephen fell forward again, let Beaufort’s knees down, and Beaufort clasped his legs tightly around Stephen’s waist. He got tighter yet, merciful God in heaven, and each drag back and almost out of his body sent a million little flames licking up the inside of Stephen’s thighs and his groin.

He thrust faster, harder, pushed himself inside like he could bury himself under Beaufort’s skin and become a part of him.

Beaufort pulled him deeper inside with every thrust, his feet crossed behind Stephen’s buttocks, urging him deeper, his hands buried in Stephen’s hair and his tongue dancing, tasting Stephen’s lips, his mouth, fucking into it as Stephen’s cock fucked into Beaufort’s arse, a tangle of limbs and privates and precome from Beaufort’s prick slicking their stomachs with wet. Joshua’s cock was a rigid line between their bodies, the ring rubbing solidly against Stephen’s skin as they moved.

Too soon, too soon and this would be over if he wasn’t careful, the steam rising inside him like a kettle on the fire, an imminent explosion that would mean pulling out, losing the connection that meant everything.