Then he found himself in the middle of a very unmasterful coughing fit.
Alan’s thighs shook with something closer to laughter as he hastily withdrew, going back to his previous seat astride Jack’s hips.
“Don’t strain yourself, your lordship. We can’t all be as gifted as me.”
Jack wiped at his mouth and looked up. Alan wavered between smug and shivering, his neck gleaming with sweat and the planes of his face sharp as thorns. The pang of awe-soaked need that went through Jack was close to pain, as if he’d hurled himself upon those thorns and let them pierce his skin.
“And what a gift you are. Born to take my cock however and wherever I want to give it to you.”
Alan grinned and leaned down. He whispered, the words a tingle of air on Jack’s lips: “Then we’d better put that cock where it belongs. Before I decide to go in search of a better offer.”
Alan didn’t bother to prepare himself, but took a long, tortuous time about first applying more slick to Jack’s cock and then sinking onto it, letting it work him open in tiny increments, controlling the pace with small movements of his hips. It took horrendous effort for Jack to keep his eyes open and not to swear aloud as that tightness engulfed him—slowly, slowly.
“Get on with it, brat,” he gritted out, when it became clear during Alan’s latest pause that this was now being done for effect rather than comfort.
Alan put his hands on Jack’s stomach and dug in with all his nails. He gulped in air, looking half-drunk, but his grin found even more thorns.
“Make me, you posh twat.”
And that was an invitation. Jack took hold of Alan’s waist and forced him steadily down the rest of the way, watching him writhe, feeling him clench. And oh, the look on his face. One of Jack’s legs jerked involuntarily and his spine fizzed, a wave of almost-release trying to rise. He had to breathe it down again, forcing his muscles to relax into the bed.
His next slap to Alan’s thigh was a lot harder.
“Now. Ride.”
“You do realise,” said Alan, “that I’ve never been on a bloody horse.”
“The activities,” said Jack, “are not exactly compar—” He lost the word to a groan as Alan raised himself halfway and then lowered fully again. One hand was steadying himself on Jack’s stomach; the other he ran through his hair as he gave a breathless laugh. Christ, he was beautiful.
“I’d fucking hope not,” Alan said, and began to move again.
The muscles needed for control were similar, though Jack didn’t point that out. Alan was doing just fine. Jack couldn’t keep from touching him, as if by keeping contact with Alan’s leg—Alan’s heaving stomach—the hard nubs of his nipples—he could distract himself from the blissful coil of pleasure that was tightening within him.
And the temptation of Alan’s cock, too, proved too much. It was as pretty as Jack had said: dark with blood, a single sly vein making a prominent path, the foreskin shifting delicately when Jack took firm hold in the circle of finger and thumb. Alan sucked in air and began to shove his hips more erratically, more strongly, into Jack’s grip.
“I—fuck,” he said, stilted, and came between Jack’s fingers.
Climax seemed to take Alan all at once and by surprise, every time. It was fascinating. Jack wondered what it would take in order to drag it out, how much care and observation would be needed to bring him close to the edge and then hold him back from it.
He intended to find out.
Jack swiped his hand across his stomach and then held it up to Alan. He’d never have done this with another bed partner. But there was a shelf in his townhouse filled by Alanzo Rossi’s purple-covered, filthily creative mind, and Jack had stopped bothering with limits to the things he wanted. If limits existed, Alan would tell him so.
“Your mess,” Jack said, full of drawled contempt. “Yours to deal with.”
A muscle fluttered at the base of Alan’s neck, and another beneath the subtle inverted V of his rib cage. His eyes were solid black as he took Jack’s hand and proceeded to do as he was told.
If nothing else erotic ever happened to Jack for the rest of his life, he would be able to bring himself off to the memory of lying with his rigid prick buried in Alan’s arse while Alan’s tongue curled around his fingertips and explored the webbing between his fingers.
“Christ alive,” said Jack hoarsely. “I won’t share you with a soul.”
“The crew’ll be so disappointed,” murmured Alan into Jack’s palm. It wasn’t a kiss, but wasn’t unlike one.
Jack took his hand, free of mess, back. Alan didn’t move from his seat. He stifled a yawn that might even have been genuine, and laughed when Jack pinched the skin of his leg.
“Did you want something, m’lord? I’ve had mine. You want me fucked any further, you’ll have to do it yourself.”
Jack’s bad leg gave a twinge with how fast he moved, but it was worth it for the widening of Alan’s eyes and the ungainly way he flailed as Jack flipped them over. Too close and impatient for further games, Jack simply shoved Alan’s knees back, lined up, and drove down into him, finding that enclosing heat again. Alan gave a hnnh sound and then a panting exhale as Jack leaned all the way forward, covering Alan’s body with his own.
And then a few more deep strokes, Jack’s hand firm at the top of Alan’s head and Alan’s legs now wrapped around him, Alan’s breath coming in hot grunts at the base of Jack’s throat—
He managed not to collapse entirely when his release took him, a dervish of pleasure both dry and drenching at once, but it was a close thing. His limbs had gone to sand within his skin.
When he gathered himself to pull out and away, he didn’t get far. Alan’s legs tightened, holding him in place.
“I want to feel it,” Alan said quietly. “This all right?”
Jack stared down at him—trapped between Jack’s arms and skewered on Jack’s cock, ravaged and sweaty and lip-bitten, the most arousing sight Jack could imagine.
“Cesare,” he said hoarsely, “I am completely at your mercy.”
One of those expressions like a stone thrown through stained glass passed over Alan’s face. Uneven edges, colour and light. When he spoke, Jack wondered for a blank second if it was possible for a fuck to be so good it destroyed that part of the mind responsible for understanding speech. None of the words were words.
Ah. It wasn’t English at all. Alan was speaking quiet, deliberate Italian.
He’d never slipped into the tongue before: not when Jack was at the Clerkenwell house, not when furious, not when consumed by pain. Not even in the throes of passion. He had utter control over who was allowed to see and hear this part of himself. And now he was showing it to Jack.
“—kiss me,” he finished. “Is what the last part meant.”
Jack’s heart gave a hard thump. “And the rest of it?”
“I’ll translate,” Alan said, and drew Jack down.
Alan’s kiss tasted of something sour and something sweet, and it was flecked with sharpness. Jack’s tongue kept finding teeth, their chins scraped roughly against one another, and every drag of Alan’s lips was as wicked as the way he smiled when he didn’t care to make a good impression. But beyond the sharpness was something dizzying, an abyss of need with no bottom to it. Alan made rough, desperate sounds like he was dying. Like he would die if Jack stopped.