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February 4 - February 7, 2024
Turner was looming over him, blast the man. If Oliver were to stand, his shirt front would nearly brush Turner’s, and it wouldn’t do at all to dwell on how that prospect appealed to him.
Jack was dangerously close to being impressed with Rivington, but he supposed he’d get over it.
There he was, eyes closed in obvious pleasure, inches away from a man whose finger he had licked only a few days earlier. This was not a subtle situation.
Lord. Jack had the novel urge to feed this man coddled eggs and pie.
The sight of all those pointless urns and gilded picture frames almost made him nostalgic for the days of the guillotine—even
“God, are you that dim?” “Probably.” When it came to some things, definitely.
also, you daft bastard, because if I blackmailed you for happening to prefer men, you could blackmail me right back. Did you somehow not notice that I nearly fucked you against a building on Piccadilly the other night?”
Except for how even in his more debased fantasies, he hadn’t considered that one innocent kiss could make him feel this way.
Kissing? Lord. He also felt a mortifying but undeniable surge of jealousy.
He suspected that nothing about Jack Turner was hasty or shameful or soon forgotten.
He couldn’t help but feel triumphant every time he saw that blush.
The ridiculous toff in question deftly wheeled the curricle into the inn yard. Jack grimaced. He could now add skill with horses to the list of items he reluctantly found arousing, right behind ludicrously scented laundry soap. Which only went to show that all that time bouncing along in a carriage addled one’s brains.
“It turns out I have a talent for making conversation with ladies.” He gave his walking stick a twirl in the air. “It’s quite wasted on me, of course, but it’s a talent nonetheless.”
He wanted to lay Rivington bare, let him know exactly how exposed he was.
He looked like a supplicant and sounded like a sinner.
At that moment he wanted to hear just about anything Jack Turner had to say.
“I’m an idiot,” he said for the second time in as many days. A pair of wiry arms tightened around him. “Is that what you’re going to say every time you try to push me away?” Every time? Every time? What could Rivington possibly be thinking? Jack ought to get away, say something cutting, something true and ruthless about how there wasn’t going to even be another time, let alone a sequence of events that could be described as every time. But instead, when Rivington leaned in, Jack let himself be kissed. Rivington tipped Jack’s chin back and kissed him and Jack just let it happen, as if he
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“I’m helping you with your boots tonight,” Jack growled after Oliver had set the horses in motion. Oliver was silent long enough that Jack knew he had made his meaning clear. “Is that so?” “It most definitely is.” Jack fixed his eyes on the road ahead. “But what if I don’t want help with my boots?” Jack didn’t need to turn his head to know that Oliver was smiling as he spoke. “What if I prefer a servant to assist me?” Jack snorted. “If after less than two days in a sleepy village you’ve managed to find someone willing to do what I have in mind, I’ll tip my cap to you.”
“For what it’s worth, none of them did half the job you did.” Oliver’s voice was so quiet that Jack could hardly hear him. Jack tried to sound like someone who wasn’t half mad with arousal. “So you paid to have your cock sucked inadequately? That’s even worse.” Oliver laughed at that, he laughed so hard Jack was worried that the horses would startle. Then Jack started laughing too, and by the time they reached the inn it was anybody’s guess which of them was in a greater hurry to get upstairs. “Christ, you’re handsome when you smile,”
“I’m not done looking at you,” Jack growled. Oliver nearly whimpered. He felt shameless, like he had been waiting his entire life to have his body pressed ruthlessly into the mattress by a self-confessed reformed criminal in a Yorkshire inn. And maybe he had, because lying here, exposed and willing, he felt more himself than he had in months.
“If I’d have known it was to be like that, I’d have bent you over my desk the first time I saw you. How the hell am I supposed to get anything done, now that I know?” Oliver turned his face into the pillow to hide his smile.
On the other hand, he wasn’t going to complain about getting to see Oliver spread out, golden and beautiful in the early-morning sunlight. Jack propped himself on his elbow to get a better look. Tentatively, he reached out and smoothed a few pale curls off Oliver’s forehead.
Jack couldn’t have said how it happened, but he was now almost cradled in Oliver’s arms. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been . . . inspected, or fussed over, or whatever this was. He didn’t even know whether he liked it.
Oliver shot Jack an inscrutable glance before gripping the offered arm. Jack felt momentarily triumphant, having won this battle he didn’t want to win in the first place. Likely the amount of discomfort he was relieving was too small for the other man to even notice. But the heavy weight on Jack’s arm felt like it belonged there, as if he had been waiting years for the chance to help the son of an earl across a few yards of muddy ground.
Jack wanted to cross the room, hold him close, swear up and down that he’d be decent and honest and good, all the things Oliver was and Jack never would be. “Oliver”—Jack’s voice held a pleading, desperate quality that he hated—”you must know by now that I’m not an outright villain, even if we don’t always agree.” But Oliver’s face remained impassive, and Jack’s heart felt like it was breaking. So much for sincerity.
“Christ,” Jack growled, and it sounded to Oliver nearly reverent. “You’re beautiful.” Oliver tried to imagine how he looked to Jack—spread out beneath him, naked and wanton. Decadent. He felt a blush tingle its way down his body. “I’m yours.” He meant it.
Oliver groaned, and Jack got out of bed to wash up and throw Oliver a wet cloth. Later, Jack tied Oliver’s cravat and smoothed his hair with a level of care that Oliver tried not to dwell on, and finally pulled him down for a quick kiss. “Tomorrow?” Jack asked, and the note of hopefulness in his voice nearly made Oliver go weak in the knees. “Tomorrow,” Oliver agreed.
“God help me, Jack, but do you have a looking glass? I swear to you, if I put you next to half the gentlemen of my acquaintance there would be hardly any difference in your appearances except that you’re better-looking and more disheveled. I don’t know how you manage to tie your cravat in a way that’s so . . . well, offensive to the very notion of cravats—” “Years of practice,” Jack said dryly.
No, there would be no young ladies clamoring after Oliver when Jack was through.
“You cannot possibly prefer being shot at to being with me.” His voice was withering. Scornful. Jack remained silent. “Oh, I see.” Oliver brought over the washbasin and ewer and began to wash the blood off the uninjured parts of Jack’s chest and arm. “You actually do prefer being shot. More fool me.”
He would take a dozen more bullets, along with some knives and cudgels, if that’s what it took to keep Oliver safe.
“You stubborn, ignorant bastard.” He was speaking through gritted teeth. “I love you. I don’t want you to die for me. I don’t want you to be hurt at all. I want you to be safe, with me. Why is that so hard to understand? What if you had died tonight? What the hell would I have done with myself once I had figured out that you did it for me?” Jack forced himself to look directly at Oliver. “Then you would have known that you were loved in return.”
“God, Oliver. I need you to stop asking me to give up my life.” I love you too much to keep saying no.
Absurdly blue eyes gazed at him, equally absurd golden hair haloed on the pillow. What in the name of all that was holy was a specimen like this doing with a bastard like Jack Turner?
Kisses shouldn’t be this sad, he thought.
He had spent nearly thirty years being beloved and welcomed everywhere he went, and he didn’t relish the prospect of being snubbed. But that still seemed preferable to a future without Jack.
“Don’t make too much of it,” Jack said, his voice a little rough. “I don’t think I am,” Oliver whispered.
“You’re mine,” Jack repeated, dusting kisses along Oliver’s jaw. “I’ve tried being without you, and it’s not any good, Oliver.” “It really isn’t,” Oliver agreed. “Let’s not do that again.” “Never again. Come home with me, Oliver.”
