Jack froze, his head still bent over Rivington’s lap. “Holy Jesus,” Rivington mumbled. He was sprawled in his chair, legs wide, head thrown back. Jack had been telling the truth when he admitted to having dreamt about this for years, the chance to bring Oliver to this incoherent, boneless satisfaction. Jack raised his eyes to the other man’s face. This was what he had seen in the orangery all those years ago: Oliver Rivington stripped of all his fine polish, lips parted, eyes half closed, cheeks pink with lust. He had longed to know how it would feel to utterly undo a man like Rivington. But
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(to take “it” in…)
