The Gentleman’s Guide to Getting Lucky (Montague Siblings, #1.5)

by Mackenzi Lee

He’s got this little bit of softness at the base of his stomach that stops my heart, and his dark skin is speckled with sand, making a starry sky of his bare chest to match the freckles beneath his eyes.

“Come have a swim with me,” Percy says, pressing his face into my arm and biting affectionately. “No thank you,” I say, for not only do I loathe putting my head beneath the water, but also there are several reasons why I had best not remove my trousers at this moment. Though I’m not sure they’re doing much good to hide the fact that I am very much enjoying the sight of him slick and salty from the sea.

He makes the walk with such deliberate slowness that I’m almost sure he knows just how fantastic his ass looks in those wet breeches and is trying to use it as a siren song to lure me in after him. Be strong! I command myself. Odysseus resisted the Sirens! Did he? I don’t remember. I slept through most of my literature lessons at Eton. But I am almost positive none of his Sirens had an ass that fantastic.

God, I was so happy just to be with him, but also, God, I really wished we were doing this oiled up and with no clothes on, and I could not understand how those two things could exist so equally weighted inside me.

“Monty . . . are you flexing?”

“What?” Thank God it was dark, for I felt myself go red to my toes. “Of course not.” “Christ, you are shameless.” “Well, I’m trying to impress you!”

His eyes flit over my shoulder to the tray. Dear Lord, I am sincerely competing with food for his attention? Am I doing that poorly already? “May I have another pastry while you talk? Or are you going to give me something else to do with my mouth?”

I have never in all my born days been this clumsy about getting tangled up with someone. Perhaps it’s because it’s Percy, the first person with whom I’ve ever made it this far that mattered. Or perhaps it’s because in the shadowy corners of my heart, I know I’m the sort of person you romp with for one wild night and then you climb out the window before I wake. The sort of person no one wants to be around unless there’s some kind of reward involved, preferably of a sexual nature. Not the sort you bet all your chips on a life with. How long before he realizes that?

And it’s going to be a disaster. But that’s all right, because we’ll have each other, and there’s no one on this goddamn planet I’d rather be a disaster with than you.”

I want to be the only thing touching him. I want to be the only thing that ever touches him again. I will be envious of every shirt he ever wears, the cuffs of his coats, the trousers going soft with wear where they rub his inner thighs. Every snowflake that ever falls upon his lips, every piece of bread upon his tongue. I want to breathe him, let him fill up my chest until my ribs strain and I break open like ripe fruit beneath a paring knife. I would be raw. I would freckle and blister in the sun. I would teach my body to regrow my heart each time I gave it to him, over and over and over again. Heart after heart after heart—every one of them his.

I could write a goddamn opera in honor of his ass draped in thin cotton and the sea.

Percy starts to laugh again, loud and heady. I could drink that sound forever and never again touch a bottle of spirits.

“Just . . . slowly, yes? Maybe not . . . a full game of backgammon just yet.” And then every inch of him goes red. “Percy Newton.” I sit up over top of him and cross my arms. When he looks back at me with his eyes wide and innocent, I parrot, “A full game of backgammon? What erotic leaflet did you pick up that filthy vocabulary from?” “None!” he protests, but his mouth twitches. “Some.” “Some?” Impossibly, he goes redder. “Some erotic leaflets.” “May I have their titles? For purely academic purposes, I assure you.” “Stop it.” He pokes me in the stomach. “I wanted to prepare.” “Well you get top marks on that homework, darling,” I say, letting myself tip forward onto his chest with my chin resting upon my stacked fists. “So if you’re not ready to play backgammon quite yet, do you prefer playing something else? Bagpipes, perhaps?” I expect a laugh, but instead his pupils dilate, turning his eyes almost black. I feel his breath catch beneath my fingers. Clearly we’ve been reading the same leaflets. “Yes, please.” “Lucky for you, I know a few songs.”

“I’m just assuming you wore your best underthings for me, and I’m quite keen to see them.” “Fooled you,” I say as I slide off him, “because I’m not wearing any.”

Someday, you little twat, I’d tell him, it’s going to be more. It’s going to be better, and so will you. Where we start doesn’t have to be where we end up.

When our lips meet, I swear I feel my ribs strain from how full I am with loving him.

“If you thought I was ignorant as to the nature of your relationship with Mr. Newton, you may need to reexamine your concept of appropriate physical fondness between friends.”

“We aren’t that obvious,” I say, and when Scipio gives me a pointed look, I add, “I know plenty of lads who are fond without being unchaste.” “But it’s clear you’re not those lads.” I’m not sure if he hears the way my breath hitches, for he adds quickly, “Which is fine. Who gives a fig for chastity anyway?” He laughs at his own joke, glancing over at me like he’s hoping I might join in. I wonder suddenly if this is what it’s meant to be like, with a father and a son and a first real love.

“You could have told me. I know it’s been chaotic, but we could have given you two some time to yourselves.” I laugh—one short, humorless burst. “What would I have said—could you vacate the apartments for a while so Percy and I can engage in illegal activities?” “Not illegal.” “They are where I come from.” I shake my head, staring down at my feet. “I couldn’t have. I’ve been struck too many times.” “Then maybe I should have said it to you sooner—you needn’t hide around us,” he says. “I’m sorry you ever felt you had to. And that the world makes you feel as though you have to.” I finally manage to look up at him, and he smiles. I almost start to cry.

We are still for a moment, the courtyard quiet but for the mumbling of the waves below us and the wind sighing through the trees. The island in conversation with itself.

“I love you,” I say quietly. “You know that?” “And I you, my darling boy.”