“Tell me again how you don’t want this,” Jack said, filling it with disdain. “Against your lofty principles, I’m sure, to be reduced to a toy for a lord to play with.”
“Fuck you, fuck you,” gasped Ross. “No—please—”
His hands were gripping Jack’s arms. His cock was pushing back in little shoves, eager to be handled. He smelled like ink and wine and damp skin, trapped here where Jack wanted him. When Jack ran a thumb over the tip of that rigid prick, it was wet with need.
Pleasure rippled through Jack to know that he could easily bring Ross off like this, standing up and clothed, with another minute and a few more carefully chosen words. And even more pleasure to know that he could stop.
So he did.
He released Ross’s prick without warning. Ross made a guttural noise of complaint. He reached out, and Jack’s prick throbbed with anticipation of a similarly rough grip. As if reading his mind, Ross merely traced with two fingertips the line where Jack was uncomfortably pressed against his own trousers. A thin skewer of fire sank deep into Jack’s belly. He managed to hold back a grunt.
Ross’s fingers traced back again. The motion was calculatedly wary, almost shy. “So, my lord. I suppose you want me to do something about this.”
“I saw that face.” When Jack took hold of Ross’s jaw again there was nothing shy about it. He made his grip rough, grinding skin against sharp jawbone. “I saw your tongue flick out, there. I think you’d like nothing more than my prick in your mouth. But I’m not interested in what you want. Don’t forget that.”
Pushing his thumb between Ross’s lips was a calculated risk. It got him a bite, painful but well short of breaking skin, and a warning of a look. Jack drew his thumb out fast enough to catch on the corner of Ross’s mouth, and moved before Ross could react. He drew Ross with him across the room, not slowing when Ross stumbled, back to the desk where he’d been sitting.
“Clothes down, and bend across the desk.” The scene from the book, read on the train, landed in his mind as if seared there. “Or do I need to hold you down and do it myself?”
Ross exhaled. It was the moment in which he stopped second-guessing. Jack could see it as if it were being narrated for him on a page. And Ross—miracle of miracles—did exactly as he was told, shoving his trousers and drawers down to bare himself from waist to knees. Jack caught only a glimpse of Ross’s rigid cock, and the thick line of black hair leading down to it, as Ross turned. He moved Jack’s blotting pad aside with a fastidious motion before he bent himself across the desk.
Just like that. Jack could have done anything to him.
He did nothing. He looked at the cheeks of Ross’s arse and swallowed past a dry mouth. He waited until the thud of blood in his own ears settled. In the quiet he heard one of the clocks of the house, somewhere, striking a quarter hour.
“If I’m only here for the view, I’ll go elsewhere,” said Ross unsteadily. “I—” He cut off, with a sudden ripple of muscle, as Jack set a deliberate hand just above his buttocks. Ross hadn’t the plush flesh of some men, but his skin was hot and smooth.
“Even if you’re only here for the view,” said Jack, “you’ll stay where you’re put.”
He unbuttoned his own clothes and pushed them down a similar amount. His cock was as hard as if he’d been stroking himself for half an hour, and he allowed himself one torturous brush of the tip down the tight cleft of Ross’s arse.
“Fucking hell,” said Ross, his accent thick. “The only devil here’s you.”
“Beg me for it.”
“In your fucking dreams.” Ross’s back was an arch, his elbows planted squarely in the leather writing surface of the desk, and he gripped the opposite edge. “You want it, take it. I won’t make it easy.”
“But you’ll love it all the same.” Shadows sang under Jack’s skin. It felt like a dream. He’d fucked plenty of people in his life, women and men both, and nothing had ever reached this level of heated unreality. He wouldn’t have been surprised to wake up hard and gasping in his own bed, having conjured this entire scenario from sheer want. “And I believe I made it clear. You’re here for my pleasure, not your own. So hold those legs together, good and tight.”
Not often had he wished he was closer to the truly dissolute old-fashioned rake that his reputation suggested. Perhaps that rake would keep oil in every room in the house, instead of only the bedroom. Jack hadn’t even planned to enter his study tonight, let alone fuck someone’s thighs in it.
Edwin would have a spell for this situation. Jack swallowed inappropriate laughter at the thought, and simply spit a few times in his hand instead. He was wound so tight that he wouldn’t last long.
The feeling of pushing his cock between Ross’s legs, right up against the drawn-up heat of the man’s bollocks, was incredible. He didn’t bother to take it slowly. He was playing at selfishness, after all. He went as hard and quick as he wanted, keeping firm hold with both hands on Ross’s hips. Ross jerked and cursed, his shoulders shaking.
“Tighter,” Jack growled. “If you can’t do it, I’ll use a belt to hold them together, and perhaps I’ll use it on this pert arse first. To remind it who it belongs to.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Ross, almost conversationally, and came on the desk.
Jack almost didn’t realise it had happened, except that Ross’s body shook and clenched in a way that dragged him even closer to his own release. And then he realised that the shake was turning to ragged laughter.
“Look at that,” said Ross, muffled. The dark head had dropped further. “Made a mess of your fancy desk.”
Jack dug his fingers tighter. Every slide was agony now. Suddenly he, too, wanted to burst out laughing. He felt light and far too warm.
“Don’t—worry. I intend to make you clean it up.”
Ross made a strangled hiccup of a sound and Jack’s orgasm raced through his body. When the roar of pleasure had burned itself out, he came back to himself, curled like a parenthesis over Ross, and took two awkward steps back in order to haul his clothes back into a semblance of order.
Ross also pulled up his clothes and refastened them. Colour darkened his cheeks and a large hank of curls fell over his forehead as if it, too, were bloodlessly limp with the aftermath of pleasure.
Jack was ready for more insults, or for obvious regret. But Ross met his eyes, and what passed between them landed on Jack like … recognition, perhaps. A deeper version of it than before. Jack had the unfamiliar urge to say something to prolong this encounter, even though it had obviously reached its proper end.
Ross looked at the doubled mess on the leather surface and then back at Jack, who did laugh, now. He located a handkerchief in his pocket and handed it to Ross.
“You should do your own bloody cleaning,” said Ross. “Work’s good for the soul.”
“Only for the poor,” said Jack. “I read that in the Morning Post, so it must be true.”
Ross made an obscene gesture and then cleaned off the desk. He considered the damp, crumpled ball of the kerchief, and Jack braced to have it tossed in his face, but Ross made bold eye contact and slid it into his own pocket. A sluggish surge of leftover desire filled Jack at the sight.