And then he did what he’d wanted to do since approximately ten minutes after first laying eyes on Lord Hawthorn, pistols and hatred and deadly peril be damned. He leaned in and took the very tip of that prick between his lips, savage pleasure filling him at how warm and vulnerable the flesh was as it filled his mouth.
“Now then, you little tart,” said Jack. “I am going to use you, and I’m going to enjoy it.”
A strangled moan parted Alan’s lips and Jack took swift advantage of it, forcing them wider. Alan took him deep, eager, and gave a few hard sucks with his fingers still wrapped around half the length so he could control how much he took. Those few sucks were all he managed; then Jack tugged him off again. Alan shot a look up in silent query.
Jack looked merciless. He sounded parched. “I said use.”
Because Lord Hawthorn was better than a psychic on a stage. He was something carved to Alan’s specifications; hell, Alan had practically carved this man himself, with his pen, page after page and fantasy after fantasy. Jack had read them all. He knew exactly what Alan wanted. He was exactly what Alan wanted.
So Alan slackened his mouth and released his fingers, and let Jack move him back and forth as though he really were nothing more than a tool for Jack’s pleasure.
Some people fucked to feel more present in the world; Alan, when he let himself fuck, did it to be less present for a while. To allow his grim grip on the world to loosen. He had to concentrate on being careful with his teeth, but the rest of him was lost in a dreamy web of painful pleasure—breathing raggedly around Jack’s thrusts, his chin increasingly wet, his own cock rigid when he pressed a hand against it.
It seemed like no time at all before Jack was spilling into his mouth, with no warning beyond a thickening of taste and the palm behind Alan’s head flattening out to hold him firmly in place.
That was definitely on the side of things that might be labelled perverse.
Alan finished swallowing. The pressure behind his head went slack and Jack’s fingers were slow to unwind from Alan’s hair when Alan pulled away. Pride struck a match in Alan as he tucked Jack’s cock back into his drawers and did up the trouser fastenings, feeling oddly tender and finicky about it. Then he stood. He brushed at carpet dust on his knees.
Business concluded, Alan expected Jack to step back, but he was as close as ever. There was a thick, thoughtful pause while they looked at each other.
“To be fair,” said Alan, “that is more or less why I followed you in here.”
Jack’s lips twitched. “Filthy whoreson brat.”
“Overbred shit-sucking prick.”
Jack laughed.
Some time ago Alan had tripped over the word zephyr in a book. By context it seemed to be a kind of gentle ghost, breathing both hot and cold at once. He felt that, now, in the minuscule space between them. He felt it when Jack ran his thumb over Alan’s tingling mouth.
No kissing. Alan’s own rule. Alan was a cup with water trembling at the brim, his senses were so full.
“How do you smell so fucking expensive?” he muttered.
“I’d tell you how much this cologne cost, but I’m worried we’ll be back at guillotines.”
Alan indulged himself, leaning forward and taking a deep breath. No flowers. Nothing sweet or edible. The layered, complex scent drifted smugly down his airways and made a permanent footprint for itself on his nerves.
“I don’t even know what any of these scents are. It smells like a room in a palace where someone’s just held an orgy.”
“Your narrators stumble into orgies at a rate much higher than the average. The British aristocracy is not running around holding them at the drop of a hat. I myself have only been invited to—oh, four or five.”
Alan stared, then realised he was being teased.
“Fuck off.”
“I did think I’d been invited to one once,” said Jack musingly. “It turned out to be a house party where we were all trapped in a room while the host’s brother-in-law tried to convince us to invest in a terrible business venture.”
“Sounds as though some fucking would have livened things up.”
“It couldn’t have made it worse.”
Alan stopped fighting his grin.
“Speaking of which,” added Jack. “I’m not done with you yet, Mr. Ross.”
Alan’s resigned prick became abruptly unresigned.
“I thought I was here only for your pleasure.”
“And so you are.” Jack’s eyes crawled down him, and back up. “It will please me greatly to watch you bring yourself off right here against this door.”
Blood filled Alan’s cheeks. That—was not what he’d expected. But he found his own hand already squeezing himself urgently through the fabric, the other fumbling at buttons. Hm. Putting on a show was one thing, but getting spunk all over his precious work suit was another.
“Got a handkerchief?” he demanded.
“Oliver will harangue me if I keep losing them like this.” Jack handed one over. It matched the one Alan still had at home: a wide square of fine cotton with embroidered initials. Alan took pleasure in crushing the impeccably folded creases, tucking it between his fingers and at the ready.
His breath skittered as he set his bare hand to his cock and gave the first stroke. This, he was going to manage with his eyes defiantly open.
“Of course you’re hard already,” said Jack. “I should have made you stay down there—I’m sure you would have loved rutting against my leg.”
It was the disdainful Lord Hawthorn, who looked at Alan as if he wanted to kick him to the ground or eat him alive. Any thought of putting on a show flew out the window. It was all Alan could do to keep his knees from buckling as his lordship’s arrogant voice washed over him, lingering on how much Alan enjoyed being used and all the other ways his lordship would enjoy using him—
Alan was gone, loose from the world, and a braid of pleasure wove itself with vicious speed down his spine. He gave a wrenching gasp and spilled into the handkerchief.
He’d kept his eyes open after all. The effort was worth it for the way Jack’s hands unfolded from white-knuckled fists at his sides, and the look on Jack’s face. There were clouds of dust and desire in Alan’s skull, mingling with that damn expensive cologne. To be wanted this intensely, by a man who could have anything he bothered to beckon for, filled him with a hot jubilation beyond anything he could have imagined. And Alan was so very good at imagining.
It took him a moment to collect himself.
Then he wiped himself properly and, on impulse, held out the handkerchief.
Jack gave a crack of laughter. It had a note of relief in it, which punctured some of the tension and brought Alan the rest of the way back into his own body. His gut clenched, reminding him. Just this. Just this and they were done.
Jack took the handkerchief, folded it with delicacy, and pocketed it.
They got their appearances back in order before leaving and parted on the street with a mercifully non-awkward nod, as if between colleagues.
Which was what they were, now and for a few more days. They had never been friends, and were lovers only in the technical sense. No: pay attention to the clarity of your words, Alanzo. They had been lovers. Twice. Past tense. And done.