Chapter Eighteen:

“You wanted her.” If the passing world had not made him so sick, René would have turned and let the wind hit his face. Perhaps it would have cooled his skin, dried the streaks of wet that clung to his face even though it seemed hours since he had been dragged from that steaming cave of a tavern.

He frowned for a moment, not at all pleased that Marechal would think so much of himself to have pulled René away from his wine. That would not do, and he opened his eyes, his lips falling apart to realize that his eyes had been closed at all.

That it was not Marechal sitting across from him increased the dizziness in his head, but if he narrowed his gaze it faded, and he thought perhaps his steady glare made James squirm in his place, fearful now that René had seen the truth.

“You still want her,” René hissed to the coward across from him, to the lustful creature who had kept his eyes on nothing but the low line of that girl’s bodice, far too low even for a woman on the streets, indecent on a child of her age. No doubt her youth had also appealed, her flushing skin and eager eyes what James had been searching for, across the Caribbean and back. She was but a few years older than the boy, even if she had displayed her arms and chest like the women James called doxies. The women he had known in England.

He felt the warmth against the inside of his thighs before he realized that he had flung himself across the space between them, straddling James’ legs as though he sought to be as much a whore as that girl.

The world slipped away from him despite his efforts, and René let his head lean back, feeling his body falling but not raising his arms to save himself. Heat instantly pressed at his back, along the shoulder that did not hurt, and he felt himself rising, sighing as he was again face to face with James, and James held him steady.

It seemed something he had done before, in this carriage, stare at James this way, but the memory slipped away to nothing but an itch along his skin and he ignored it, making sure his gaze did not leave the ugly brown eyes watching him.

They were ugly, James was ugly, to have looked upon Mademoiselle Suzette with those same eyes.

“Who?” James asked him at last, his quiet implying that he dared to be angry with René for speaking of it.

Her wrists had been slender and thin, unadorned by jewels and rivaled only in colour by the clear white of her skin. Not once had her pose lost its grace, even when René had shouted out his insults to the house. Her eyes had sparkled at his rudeness, her skin just dusted by a blush’s paint.

In England perhaps it was possible for a noble’s daughter to marry the servant James had been. Maybe it was not, but James would have dreamed of her regardless, working hard to keep his place in her household that he might look upon her everyday.

“Suzette! He spat the word into James’ face, uncaring that James’ eyes widened or that the hands at his back weakened for one moment. “She touched you!” His breath came hard to him now, and René tried to pull away, to ease his breathing, but James’ hands had regained their strength and would not allow him escape.

“A fair lady,” James agreed softly, nodding his head as though considering. A lie, when they both knew his mind had played upon her image since they had left that house. René pulled away, jerking his head away from James and then growing still and tense at the whispering touch to his cheek.

“Pale skin,” James sighed and his breath stayed at René’s lips, would be on his tongue if René opened his mouth. He shook his head to deny the urge but gasped as James’ words teased his ear, sending the earbob tickling across his neck. “Big, dark eyes,” James bent his head and René shivered at the heat on his collarbone, the stroking at his back. “Lovely curls, each one black as night and soft to the touch.”

“Touch?” René could hear himself asking, and his eyes moved upward without his permission, seeking out James’ face and the serious sweep of James’ brow.

“No!” René threw himself back across the carriage with enough force to jar his shoulder, and the sound of shock slipped from him before James could move to follow him. “You will not bewitch me again!” he shouted as he grabbed at his shoulder, holding up his sore arm to warn James away and panting when the pain echoed through his body.

It was not confusion that marred James’ face, though it was what James would want him to think. James with his tricks and charms of prayer would not reveal to him the truth of his woman lust now.

“You want her,” René cried it out so that even his mother’s God would hear him and then waited, counting the uneven sound of breathing from his own chest, watching carefully as James seemed not to breath at all.

“Your sister is quite pretty,” James answered him after an eternity of short breaths, uncaring that each one stabbed the flesh inside René’s arm, that it was James who had caused this pain. But that pain did not matter, and René did not feel his arm at all as he swung it out, hitting James’ face with the flat of his palm.

He nearly fell as the carriage rocked under his feet, his body arched and bent, not seated but not on the bench opposite James. Half-standing, his arm screaming pain, and yet he did not move, and his hand would not pull away from the red mark he had made, hovering just above the horrible thing that still held the shape of his hand.

“I do not have a sister, James.” He could not raise his voice above a whisper, and his gaze remained at the mark of his hand on James’ cheek, unable to move up and stare into James’ eyes.

“You have two,” James spoke low as his fingers encircled René’s wrist and yanked his hand down.

René’s other hand came up to replace the one James had taken away, his fingertips brushing across the red stain with movements that were not trembling, though it might please James to think so. The colour was fading already, and yet it still seemed bright in his mind, as rich and red as the silk shawl hanging from the girl’s arm.

“James.” He licked his lips, startled to find them dry, and James tossed his head.

“I believe we are almost to your home, René,” James told him and leaned forward, pushing René back to his seat with a care that stung. René opened his eyes wide, but James turned from him, his face to the window and the passing world, the wind cold on his cheek.

If they truly approached the house he owned, René could not say, looking at last from James to the view that James studied. Fields, gray and brown and not green as England possessed in stories. The moon’s light did not reveal any of the small homes that would be scattered among the fields this far out of the city. The countryside was all the same. Fields, homes, peasants, perhaps if he saw the heavy roof of the church he would know if they neared his house.

His eyes returned to James before they could seek out the ancient building adjoining his property.

“My house is not in the city.” René murmured the words though the truth in them was evident enough in silence. James’ breathing did not change, slow and careful and too far away for René to feel any warmth.

Why James would follow him and stay away was a question that would only prove the Englishman was mad if it were answered.

The liquor pulsed through his brain, shaping his thoughts like heavy drops of water, and René thirsted for more, glaring at James now for dragging him from the tavern. He had no right to follow; he had no right to anger. He was a pet. Another treasure stolen by the family Saint-Cyr that demanded retribution. He had stood with them, scolded when he should know of their black sins and flay them all alive.

But James…James Fitzroy demanded, and followed, and brought that skinny, milk-faced child, eyes as curious as the pretty mademoiselle’s as he had climbed up to the driver’s seat to learn the handling of a carriage from the driver. That the child had brought René to James was nothing now, the boy had had his own reasons for doing so, and had looked on with amusement as James had dared to touch him, to take his arm and pull him from his drink.

“You will not touch me!” René barked into the silence, his wound twitching painfully when James still did not turn. “I want a drink!” It was his turn to demand, and he waited with a smile, letting his lips curl to show his knowledge of what James would answer. James had no patience with his drink, had struck away his cup with much the same force as another. He did not allow the boy drink either, and René felt his grin twist at the knowledge of James trapped in his weakness, of the arousal at a pair of lips stained dark with the blood of grapes and swollen with the need for water.

“Aye. I want the same,” James sighed his words, great shoulders falling, and René held his breath at the slow motion of James’ hand at his stomach, as though he had a pain.

“Is there nothing you will not ask of me?” René flung out a hand and waited for James’ eyes to turn, but they stayed on the damp, dark fields around them. He issued demands and then sat quiet, his mouth not spewing forth his damned questions, his eyes even empty of them. It was a large house for all that it was old and lost in the country, large and filled with rooms so far from each other that the ocean would not seem so vast.

If he were to leave James alone, he would seek out the narrow cot of a servant and fall to sleep there, and the boy would be pleased, and seek out another cot. One near to his perhaps. The same, and René narrowed his eyes, staring at the fields and wishing for rain. Of his own room, René could recall little. He had slept under that ceiling once only; rooms he had taken in the city he could remember with greater detail. But he had not bought this house for a bed, for all that James cared. And now he was forced to stay here, endangered as they were by James’ foolish actions.

“This house is my own,” René told him, though the man had not asked.

“Bought with pirated gold?” As though he had listened with interest throughout René’s declarations, James answered instantly without bothering to turn in René’s direction. A long breath ended his question, his shoulders sinking even lower.

René eyed the side of that face for one moment and then moved his gaze slightly to the side, hissing as he remembered what he had not asked before.

The light had glinted, in that house, on that bit of gold someone had placed in James’ ear. Dim though it had been in the squalor of old nobility, somehow light had found James, illuminated the treasure he wore as much as the pale shade of his hair.

He had not belonged in that place.

René’s teeth came together so hard it wracked his body, causing his shoulder to spasm, and René put a hand to it as the words slithered from his mouth.

“Whose gold do you wear now?”

James started upright, glancing to René before touching the ring with a fingertip, sending it gently back and forth. Then his lips curved, a smile that would have shamed the devil turning into a small laugh before James swung his gaze back outside.

“We are slowing,” he observed with deliberate pleasure. “I would like to see your home.”

“This is not my home,” he told James once more as James stood before the entrance, gaping up at the number of steps to the doors as though someone had struck him. The moment the carriage had halted, James’ face had held such a look, and it was only the silence of the boy that followed James that made such displays bearable.

“’Tis greater than Sir Marvell’s home…” James whispered on a sigh, turning from the house at last to stare at René as though he searched for something.

René turned away from him, heading up the steps to determine whether the old man in charge of the household had drunk up the contents of his cellar or left him something to enjoy as James stared with adoring eyes at a house.

Of course his home was greater; he did not have to maintain the pretense of loyalty to his king as James’ Sir Marvell had. René swept past the door that creaked open and did not stop to examine the surprised face of the servant behind it. He raised one brow to see the number of candles already lit and the large fire glowing at the end of the great hall before him. The servants had lived in comfort in his absence.

He shivered at the unexpected warmth and stepped quickly to one side when that made him dizzy. A sharp glance behind him determined that James and the child now held the servant’s attention, a rosy hue to the man’s cheeks that meant it was not only the old steward who was fond of liquor.

“Rooms,” René barked the order as he might have to Thierry and ignored the quick snap to attention and discontented frown. “Fetch the old man, and bring him to me.”

“René?” James seemed timid, strange for a man with a pirate’s bauble in his ear, and René sneered at the thought, heading in the direction of more stairs. His senses told him he went east, and it seemed familiar enough that feet knew where to go. The stone rail was steady under his hand, and he shared his sneer as a woman ran past him with round eyes, apparent terror making her squeak.

Red carpets lined the floor upstairs, and he recalled the previous owner had been fond of the colour. They were molding now, and full of holes. He would purchase new ones, in the same shade. James would no doubt prefer a more sedate colour, the black that narrow Englishmen had declared more pure than white. He would ask if there were a room kept for priests, and send James there since the Englishman would not leave. There was a church if James desired to see it, cold and damp and full of objects ready to make him bleed.

But of course James did not play the priest today. Today James was pirate, a killer and thief with a bit of shine hanging from his ear. It brushed his skin as he spoke, as he glanced around the crimson hall with eyes that were more careful than they had been only months ago.

If he had learned caution then he had not learned it well. René’s skin itched with James’ stares, with his nearly hidden focus but unasked questions. He shivered and glared and narrowed his eyes as though James were standing in front of him. James thought him stupid and weak. He thought him as much as child as that boy, that he did not remember what James had done to him. The betrayal arched from his shoulder through his chest, making him clutch at his cross, naked and wet again underneath James’ gaze.

“It looks as though the king and his whores live here!” The child spoke from far too close to him, and René frowned, not even amused when the old man appeared before him and took the frown as a sign of his displeasure.

“Do you wish to speak of whores?” He turned so swiftly he did not have time to hide his surprise at the nearness of the boy to him, or cover his own urge to leap back as the child did. James gasped, an angry sound, and René spared a moment to imagine if this new James would murder him for this transgression. He did not think James carried a weapon, but he flinched, smiling to know James’ hands would fit easily about his throat.

René changed his smile to a frown for the wide, watching eyes of the boy, letting it deepen to see how the brown eyes lowered and the cheeks lost colour. Shame did not sit well on the tongue, and he coughed a laugh as the boy swallowed carefully.

The pale cheeks seemed hollow, as though the child did not eat.

He had not, just as he had not spoken to James. Not one word though he had watched James enough, smug to see how James in turn had not spoken to René. But he had not eaten, languishing like a woman for her lost love, and now his face no longer curved with the smooth beauty of a child’s. He would be wise to befriend James again, when the ugliness of his middle years kept all but the desperate away and he had no protector.

The remnants of his wine burned in his stomach, slick and vile along his teeth, and René grunted, bending his head to so he would not see James.

“’Twas me who brought you here.” Spirit lit the boy’s eyes now, and he uttered his words as low as he could, lips trembling as he tried to grin. He had grinned then, standing outside in the street as though waiting for René to appear so he might humiliate him with his knowledge of James’ plans. He had insisted on following, on staying close as they had chased after James to stop his foolishness, but he had not grinned once the house was in sight. The little fox’ smile had been washed from his face along with all the child’s colour at the force of René’s grip on his arm, shoving him back inside the carriage to wait. A few whispered words had done what James’ kindness had never done, made the soft-skinned rat listen and be still.

He would have entered that house only after walking through René’s blood.

“Sir?” It was not James’ stopping their arguing now, but the shaking voice of the old man that brought René’s attention up, dragging his eyes from James’ child and around to the waiting servant.

“Clean rooms.” René did not attempt to remember the man’s name, not when the scent of crushed grapes clung to the man’s hair and dirty livery. He took a step and then stopped, catching the tip of his boot on the pitiful carpet. “Food for those that want it…Wine, for me.”

The world swayed, reminding him how much he had already consumed, and he hissed a sigh between his teeth at the pull of his wound, his stumbling steps as James had yanked him from a tavern as though he held a right to. He held no rights; James Fitzroy was a disobedient puppy, and had yet to have a master cruel enough remind him of his lead.

Again, the carpet caused him to stumble, and René swore loudly, wondering if James would serve and betray once more if he truly felt the pain of ownership. James had liked pain, perhaps he ought to feel more of it.

“Two cups, if you will, sir.” James was nodding to the doddering servant as though it was his place to do so even as René gave him a frown for his presumption. But there was enough wine he could spare a bottle for a weak-stomached Englishman. “We could both use a good rest, couldn’t we, Ben?” James was no longer a pirate as he spoke these words, and his face calmed, some unknown tension fleeing his body and leaving him smiling and beautiful.

James smiled, James dared to smile at the child right there before him, and the child smiled back as any man would when such an angel offered them an embrace.

“Milk for the boy,” René announced with speed, snatching the smaller bit of happiness away and sneering at the look of displeasure that his angel turned upon him. “Do not think you will share my wine, James.”

“No.” James’ smile left him, as though he dared to pretend sadness for a moment. Far too serious, he studied René’s face no doubt seeing many things that René would easily deny.

“But you may share mine, René,” James spoke again, abruptly, and stepped before him, urging the old servant forward with an ease that spoke of an earlier command. Who, on his ship, would have been foolish enough to obey him, René did not know, but his mind gave him the image of Thierry, and worse, the grinning face of Deniau, and he knew he growled into the silence as doors parted to reveal the dusty interior of a bedchamber.

Stone walls had kept the chill in this room, but though René shivered he swept his eyes upward through the dark, blinking to see the ceiling painted in angels. Large windows covered in drapes in the same shade of red were directly opposite him, nearly reaching from the floor to the ceiling and each one cut exactly identical to the one beside it. From one wall to another there were seven and he blinked. He had forgotten the size of this room. The adjoining dressing rooms were the size of his ship’s cabin several times over, and this time his shiver was not for the cold. But this room was not without its defenses.

His back grew chilled, standing on the threshold, and he stepped into the room, wishing for a hat as the quick movements of servant girls passing him created a breeze that tickled his bare head. There was a cot in the dressing chambers, a bed too small but Marechal had claimed it regardless.

“The fire is most appreciated,” he heard James telling the old man, his Parisian suddenly smooth as though he had known it his whole life.

Fire? His mind repeated the word. His shudders had not ceased, but René turned his gaze from the windows to the sparks now rising from the carved marble hearth, smoke or dust making one girl sneeze as she filled a basin with water.

“And perhaps those candles…” James continued talking, and somehow he was obeyed, small glows flaring at the edges of René’s vision, pushing shadows to very corners of the chamber.

“What exactly do you do, James?” His own words surprised him and the others with them, for they seemed too loud, or the room too quiet. Smoke stung at his eyes, made his voice rough, and that was the fault of James too, and his presumption, but James answered him quickly, and René easily imagined the way he would duck his head, the pretense of obedience.

“My apologies.” As though it were nothing to him, James humbled himself, and René tore himself around, staring at the other man with eyes he knew to be large.

Not even a servant, James had said, whispering as though a grave were under his feet. James had declared himself to be a free man and now played at the role under the watchful eyes of strangers. Heat slid down René’s veins, up to his face, driving the cold away, and he licked his lips until they were slick, wet with angry words he could not yet speak.

Sheets grew cold without James in them, and he had woken to shivers this morning, his wound paining him and his body raw with its washing.

“Is any one else expected, Master?” The old man spoke as though wishing René to remove his eyes from James, and René felt his lips twist to think of the desire to protect that James had inspired on such a short acquaintance. But if the old servant thought James in need of a guardian, than he was more a fool than René had already thought him.

“Whom do you miss?” René lowered his head to hiss the question into befuddled eyes, watching the shapes of departing servants blur and straighten behind the crooked body of the old drunk.

Spittle dried in his mouth the moment the words were out, and he inhaled through his nose, smelling the sour stink of clothes too long unwashed, not even a dunk in the sea to rinse out the smears of shit. Wine, rum, and Mirena’s herb, ancient meat left sitting in the sun before it had been eaten.

His belly clenched, and only when a cup full of wine was pressed into his hand did René realize he had been coughing, hacking dryly as though he longed to vomit into the old man’s face.

“There will be no one else!” The man stepped back before the heavy cup hit his foot, but he could not escape the wine that spilled across his pantalons. Dark and purple and fragrant, and René regretted its loss even as he was turning away. He was done with the nosy old man, with all them, watching him so carefully as though he was mad or ill and one step away from collapse. “Leave me, everyone!”

He did not move, not one step toward either the bed or the dressing chamber, even when James gasped and the boy protested. He was still when bodies slipped from the doorway at last, when the small voice grew fainter but his room grew larger, swallowing him down easily.

“My mouth is dry,” he spoke only when the light from the door was a thin line and hinges no longer squeaked.

“Then you should not have thrown your cup away.”

He twitched at the return of James’ voice, scowling at how his surprise had shown, his fear momentarily obvious. James wished to be calm now, wished him to be calm, and he was a coward for wanting it.

“I did not invite you to my bed, James.” He did not turn his head, but watched with slanted eyes as James crossed over to a table, dipping his hands in the basin and wiping them quickly on the towel beside it. As though it were ritual only, James wiped his face as well; not displacing any great amount of dirt if that had been his intention.

For the first time, René wondered if James had bathed the previous day, or that morning. He did not look as unwashed as most sailors returned home, and if it was only his hands that needed washing then it could only have been because of contact with the dog Saint-Cyr called his eldest son.

“But I invited you to share my wine, René.” James would not smile so if René struck him again. But strangely he did not move as James poured more wine into a silver cup to match the one still rolling on the floor. His good servants had brought two, just as James had wanted. “And now you have need of it.”

“You will not smile so,” René dropped his bad shoulder and placed one hand on his weapon, startled to find he still wore it. James had not removed it before dragging him from the tavern. That had been foolish. He had not removed it before straddling James’ body in the carriage, and his face heated. A bit more wine and both memories would be gone.

He stalked over to James and took the cup from James’ relaxed fingers, feeling ugly eyes on him as he swallowed several large gulps.

“You will not smile at me as you smiled at…” Wine choked him as he hurried to swallow more, and the cup was snatched away. For a moment James’ gaze left him as James drained the cup, growing as dark as berry-stained lips when it returned.

An empty cup did his greedy mouth no good. René pulled the cup away and leaned over the table to pour more wine. It fell in careless droplets on his hand and he licked those away, smacking his lips when they seemed to grow numb. One long drink and he handed the cup back, glaring when James pretended strength and emptied that cup too. The fool would be drunk soon, and it was all he deserved, a night of drooling on a hard floor instead of the cot he should have found himself.

“I will pour this one,” James offered, though he had not been asked, and René shook his head at yet another liberty.

“There are many rooms here,” René told him. James would find one to his satisfaction, of that he was certain. Had not James shown himself able to find comfort in any situation? Like the boy, he found protectors in the harshest of countries.

“The child will be afraid, in a strange place,” he added when James only nodded and handed him back the cup of liquor. The stem was warm now, the wine nearly hot as it passed his lips, and René tossed it back, letting the burn close his eyes to the sight of James.

“He has strength in him, René.”

He opened his eyes again and saw James smiling, so sharp it looked as if it hurt. He dragged one hand through his hair and left it resting at his forehead, pushing against the dizzy ache there no doubt brought on by the wine.

But René returned the cup to him, watched it filled once more and watched again as James placed his lips on the stinging silver rim and drank deeply from it. Muscles moved in the strong column of James’ throat as he swallowed, René’s blood heating and his mind slowing to just the trickle of wine running from James’ lips. It seemed James had a great thirst, and René sighed to feel the cup in his grip once more, warmed from James’ hands and James’ mouth. It seeped into his fingers, as though his arms ended with the cup of wine and not his hands, his feet melting until they were part of the floor, stone and heavy and pulling him down.

So warm it thickened his blood, his body singing with sweetness and heat, his thoughts sluggish as he parted his lips for more and allowed the taste to roll on his tongue.

“James…” he whispered as the cup was taken away, and remembered his shivers on awakening.

How was it that he was so warm now, when he had been left alone to face the cold?

It was red behind his eyes, the hot, bright red of the sun, and even as he had the thought he was aware of a glowing heat pouring over his face and neck and down through the rest of his body, creeping into his bones.

His heart jumping, René opened his eyes and jerked his head up, taking in the sight of his bedroom at his house outside Paris without any lessoning of alarm; his eyes had expected to see the scarred walls of his ship around him. One hand reached out and found the loaded pistol he had stuffed long ago between the feathered mattresses even as he shifted his gaze carefully from the paned glass of the windows to the curtains on either side of them and then on to the painted cherry cabinets at the opposite end of the room. The morning light shining through the glass sent a stab of pain through his head and he narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the sudden ache.

Something was not right. His fingers curled around the pistol’s wooden grip and he held his breath, listening carefully for any sound that would give away who had dared to try to take him by surprise like this.

He could hear it now, the slow, regular breath of his enemy, hiding himself somewhere, thinking him as helpless as a small child in a dark room. A small child locked in with those offering protection—he cut himself off there, gripping the pistol fully now. For a moment there was only rage burning fiercely inside him, hotter and brighter than the sun still caressing his skin. He was no helpless child and he needed no protection.

A quick movement in the standing cheval-glass jerked his attention there and he blinked to see himself reflected in the mirror, still in his clothes, with one hand on his weapon. Then he saw the movement again and turned, staring down at the man next to him in the bed in complete confusion.

His heart gave another violent lurch to see James lying there and he did not relax his hold on his pistol, though he was not entirely sure why. James Fitzroy was not a threat to any man’s life, except perhaps his own. That he had survived so far was the only sign René had yet to see that the God the other man so fervently believed in might actually exist.

Desperate prayers whispered through his ears as if he was hearing them at that moment and not in his memory, and he frowned until he banished the pleading words but released the pistol, knowing he had nothing to fear here.

His frown did not disappear at the thought, deepening instead as he switched his gaze back to the mirror and to his appearance. The bright light made his eyes water and he squinted, feeling another spearing pain that was a sign of too much wine.

A sweet, sickening taste in his mouth confirmed that, and René wet his dry lips with a small sound of displeasure. He had no recollection of what had transpired the previous evening, only a scarlet haze of anything but the warmth that had woken him this morning, wrapped around him tightly like the lover’s arms in a painting.

Without thinking he glanced down at the man sharing his bed, his displeasure increasing.

James was dressed as well, above the bedcovers as René himself was not, as if his sleeping there was a matter of chance only. It was the other man’s regular breathing that he had heard, a peaceful sound now that the danger had passed. James saw no threat here and slept on, had even fallen asleep with his narrow spectacles still in place, pinching his nose.

They were crooked, due to his ridiculous position, his head half buried in one pillow, his body twisted around another as if he were a babe. They would break if he was not careful, and then James would have no way to read his precious books.

A sliver of amusement made René curve his lips into a quick, little smile. Those brown eyes would be full of fury at that, no matter how much his James tried to hide it. His cheeks would be red with the force of it, and then on fire with shame once he realized how he had lost control of himself once again. But then, he tricked no one but fools with his appearance of reason and piety. René had seen him forget both on more than one occasion.

Unexpectedly, his mind traveled back to the last such time, yesterday, in fact. A flushed heat that had nothing to do with the sun filled him, bringing pricks of sweat to his skin that he relished. He had been dotted with perspiration yesterday in the coach on their way back from the heart of the city, shivering and yet hot in the air thick with rain, unable to control himself as he had looked everywhere but at the Englishman across from him speaking ridiculous things.

And then he had, only for a moment, but that had been long enough. He had been on James before his next heartbeat. There had only been his hard, aching cock and the welcoming heat of James’ arms. It had shocked him, just as in Jamaica, how quickly he had wanted him, but his shock had been nothing to the memory of James’ pure, soft mouth on his, and the light, rough hair of James’ chest under his hands.

He was a treat, James, a lovely pet for him to enjoy until the time came when he would leave. René thought that he should laugh at the thought but did not, feeling instead his heart suddenly renew its frantic pumping. He did not think it had slowed at all, in the past days, the day before, in that home, and yet it must have. He had slept with James for the second time, now in a way where James could not leave and pretend otherwise.

Disregarding both the mirror and the pistol, René turned so that he faced the sleeping James. The early morning sunlight seemed to hit precisely where James lay on his bed, and René studied the look of peaceful innocence on James’ face for a long moment. He could also remember when that look had been replaced with tight anger and then proud triumph, something that made his scowl return. He remembered silence on his ship and then words, too many of them, calm words that James knew would wound him and yet had continued to say them.

Before the memory could fade away, René threw aside the sheet covering him and slipped one leg over James’ body. He used his hands to turn James smoothly onto his back at the same time, and then placed each hand over James’ arms so that he could not move just as the first signs of waking crossed the square, strong face beneath him. He leaned over then, waiting patiently, and was rewarded when his eyes blinked several times and then opened, staring at him through the clouds that dreams created, dreams that James would not share.

Deliberately, René pushed his throbbing prick between James’ legs, feeling the soft length of James and nearly smiling when a faint pounding followed his move. Befuddled brown eyes started up at him, filled with his earlier confusion at first, and then widening.

“René…” The touch of breathlessness in the way James said his name did make René smile. Just as the brief tightening of muscles in James’ arms as James tested his hold on him but did not offer any other resistance pleased him. A sweet, sour scent floated up to him, the scent of the vine on James’ breath as well. Were his lips equally dry? René’s felt his gaze drop to the uncertain, trembling lower lip and then felt himself shake slightly. It had trembled like that before, in Tortuga.

“James.” He could not stop himself from saying the name but quickly smoothed his frown. He had not felt James’ mouth on his cock since Turtle Island and his body was only demanding a similar pleasure now.

“I was dreaming,” James told him thickly before René could state his desires, startling and irritating him at the same time. But he arched one eyebrow and waited.

“Were you?” he asked and then sharpened his gaze when James did not stop there.

“Yes,” he answered, a grin curving his mouth. He did not blush or look away or even stammer, and René found himself waiting again, waiting for more. “Have I been here all night?” James both wondered and demanded and René felt his mouth twist angrily.

“Yes,” he snapped though he truly did not know. “Enough talk, James,” he went on and bent down so that his mouth hovered above James’, knowing this would silence the other man.

“Did you dream, René?” James seemed not to hear him, and René went still at the intimate question. For moments he simply stayed where he was, breathing shallowly through his nose. Below him was James, staring back at him with clear, defiant eyes. Defiant, René repeated to himself and then pulled away the slightest bit, pleased to see the trace of fear enter the other man’s expression. But James did not turn his head as he should have. He did not turn anymore, now that he had seen the truth.

“I do not dream.” René admitted at last, flicking his eyes to the vein in James’ neck and the younger man’s racing pulse.

“Yes, you do.” The response was quiet but echoed through the room regardless, or perhaps it only seemed so. René knew his eyes grew large and kept them on James’ throat, suddenly unable to meet those eyes. Anger made him grip the strong arms in his hands forcefully until it had to have hurt. But though James tensed, he did not move, and only let out a small sigh. “I have seen you,” he finished.

René could not help raising his eyes at that, something he had not felt in a very long time sliding along his spine. Fear. It squeezed his heart, making him shake.

“James.” Why he said it he did not know, but it brought the smile back to James’ face. And then his strong body rose to rub against his, breaking free of his hold as if it were nothing.

Taken by surprise, René tightened his grip as James rose up, and then fluttered his eyes briefly at the sudden, soft kisses along his neck. No, he breathed the words even in his mind, taken by surprise in a way that happened all too often with James.

Warm fingers reached around his waist and then dug into the skin firmly, not tight enough to hurt, merely hold. René opened his eyes at the sensation, wary, but James was already shifting, moving to sit up and still holding him in arms that were well muscled beneath his borrowed coat.

James kissed like a woman, René thought with vague amusement, letting his mouth turn up at the silken feel of the other man’s lips, at how light the touches truly were. They traced along his neck until James pushed aside his coat to reach his shoulder and collarbone. Just below, where the shirt and coat still covered it, were his wounds, the signs of Marechal’s—René jerked straight abruptly as James’ caresses slipped into roughness, a fraction of pain that the he welcomed.

The mouth that had uttered prayers for him was suddenly hungry, opening to suck hotly on that much too sensitive area, no longer gentle and woman-soft.

“James.” For the second time in only moments, the name was drawn from him. He was warm, hot, burning, sweat pricking along his skin as it had done yesterday, and he could feel James’ tongue darting out to taste it. He was exquisite, his James, embracing him with such eager, innocent lust, and René allowed a small sound of satisfaction to escape his throat, wanting James to go on, but James continued his slow pace until René was forced to wonder if James was attempting to tease him as he had done in the bathing tub.

Impatiently, René curled his hands around the fine material of the rumpled coat James was wearing and tugged himself closer, until he was straddling the other man’s lap, much as James might have done with some tavern girl back in his England, with those women he had spoken of so brazenly.

Bending his head, René closed his lips around the soft flesh of James’ ear and then sank his teeth in to the point of drawing blood, only stopping after becoming aware of the small, growl-like sound he had made. But he did not pull away, in fact pressing his body tighter against James so that he could feel the warm flush of arousal radiating from the other man. A moment later, after James had stilled at the pain and then shuddered with desire and leaned into it, he sucked on the bit of skin soothingly, moving on with an upsetting amount of reluctance.

He ran the tip of his tongue around the raised, pink walls of James’ ear and then probed the center delicately, nearly purring like a kitten when James’s body shook violently, and the hands holding him clenched and then unclenched in bursts.

Shifting so that only the linen of their pants kept James from feeling his hard cock pressing against his sweet, stiffening prick, René plunged his tongue into the little cave of his ear. James’ mouth, still pressed into his shoulder, fell open, and his tiny groans echoed and rumbled through René’s chest, sending waves of pleasure down below his waist.

“You…are…mine…” he heard someone whispering in the rough Parisian of his childhood, biting out each word with his mouth still pressed to James’ wet, flushed ear. It was only when the body under his froze that René realized what he had muttered, and that he had followed it with one word in English. Forever.

His body tightened until breathing was painful, until even his heart’s beating seemed unnatural, and René could not move. They were words he had spoken before, to many captives who became his crew. Mine until you die, or I release you. It all equaled the same thing.

A measure of calm returned to him at the notion, and let out one slow, breath, pleased when James shivered. But his small smile of triumph was stolen from him when James pushed himself off the feather stuffed mattress. Before René had time to do more than swear, he was on his back on the bed with James staring down at him, his eyes half closed as if he were trying to hide whatever might be seen in their dark depths.

That was almost as shocking as his forcefulness, and René frowned and dug his hands into the silken sheets to try to push himself up. A heavy body was pushed back down on top of him as he did, and he glanced up into those drooped eyes furiously, no longer amused. He reached for his pistol, not taking his eyes from the Englishman’s face, and had his arm pinned down in a matter of moments.

James’ arms were strong, stronger than his, René thought much as he had the first time he had called James’ to his cabin on his ship. But his heart still lurched, skipping beats as it frantically pounded, and he jerked his chest up as much as he could, baring his teeth threateningly. He was no sweet bit of meat.

The eyes above him opened wide, showing clear, clean brown through the scratched surface of the glass lenses, full of surprise and concern, lessoned only by something hot. Desire? Or anger? He knew each just as well. But the voice that spoke was gentle.

“René?” the other man wondered softly, bending down so that the air was moist on his face. René shivered at the lightness of it, once and then again when the buttons of his coat and waistcoat were undone slowly and his shirt pulled up to expose his stomach. “René?” that voice was pleading now, and René blinked and then frowned at James’ ridiculous expression of worry.

“What?” he snapped in English and watched the hurt creep into James’ expression before he lowered his eyelids again. Where had the man learned that? It did not please him to see James hiding his heart, as much as it displeased him to be forced onto his back like this. But he arched one eyebrow and waited, still aware of James’ arousal pressed against his thigh. He even shifted, taunting him by touching his prick to that hard length until James’ face flushed. It only took half a moment of the contact for James to lock his jaw and harden his expression.

Now it would come, René reflected knowingly, even curving his mouth in a bitter smile. Now James would take him like so many others.

The breath locked in his chest tightly when James touched his lips to his neck, and René moved his eyes upward, surprised to see the fat, ugly angels painted on his ceiling. He narrowed his gaze to one plump, gilded form and then let his breath out evenly.

“May I?” Someone murmured in French. Awkward, halting, thickly-accented French, the kind the English nobles in Jamaica spoke, and his brows drew together curiously though he did not take his eyes off the hideous angel. When he did not move, the question was repeated.

How stubborn James could be, René thought with a small burst of irritation, and then something like amusement. His lips even twitched with a strange urge to laugh.

Shocked, he dropped his eyes and focused instead on the honeyed strands of James’ hair. It was all he could see of James, aside from broad, velvet covered shoulders and anxious eyes peering at him over the top of his spectacles.

His arms were free, he realized, his mind working as slowly a fly in barrel of molasses. He lifted them cautiously without taking his eyes from James and then went still. James had moved himself so that his arms were one either side of his hips and was now stopped with his head only a small distance from the cock still trapped inside his red pantalons. René’s body burned to see him there and he felt his mouth fall open.

James tilted his head up to study him, and René took in his blushing face eagerly, unable to look away from the trembling lips and naked eyes. What he had first thought in Tortuga returned to him, and this time he allowed the thought to linger, sliding his hands through the soft waves of James’ hair with a smile he was only partly aware of. What God’s servant should be, he sighed inwardly, and then dropped his head back onto the pillow when a shaking hand opened the front of his breeches.

How he trembled, shaking like a leaf in the wind. Fear made a boy’s hands so unsteady, but James was a man. Perhaps it was not James that was shaking, but him. The thought brought with it a new wave of anger, and René shifted his head irritably, turning from one side and then to the other, so that he was looking into the streaks of morning light from the window. It was then that James touched him, freeing his cock from hot, sweat-soaked linen with cool, gentle fingers.

Blinking at the painful brightness before his eyes but not turning from it, René lifted his hips slightly. He could not move much, not with the heat of James surrounding him, and he tested the limits to his freedom cautiously. The motion brought the head of his cock in contact with something warm, something that made James gasp, and René shivered as the air traveled down over his tingling prick. Before he could do more than jerk his head from the pillow and then firmly return his eyes to the sun, wet lips slid over the tip, enveloping him.

The suddenness of it was what tricked him, beguiled him into turning his head and looking upon James as he began to pleasure him, nothing more, not even the warm, exclamation muttered against his cock at that moment. But he continued to stare straight ahead, watching with wide eyes as James’ full, rosy mouth covered part of him, and then twitching uncontrollably when a curious tongue tasted the liquid leaking steadily from him.

It hurt, that simple little touch, and René’s lips fell open the slightest bit, expelling air in small, heated amounts. Fire rushed through his veins and under his skin, filling him to bursting with hot, wicked flames the gathered in his stomach and then lower. They licked him sweetly, teasing as much as James was doing unintentionally now.

James had been both clumsy and eager in Tortuga, closing his mouth around his cock and sucking wantonly, with little attention paid to finesse and pace. But…René would not allow himself to dwell on the drunken pleasure that had filled him, just as he had not allowed himself to watch James on his knees in the dirt then but had closed his eyes to the sight. He frowned for watching it even now, for wanting it from such an innocent, and he looked out again into the sunlight until it burned his eyes and water trickled from them.

That he said nothing did not seem to matter to James, his careful exploration continued, just as slowly as he had done months ago on the ship with his hands and a few days before in the tub of cool water. His lips tightened around his shaft’s hardness and then relaxed, the tip of his tongue skimming along and around and then under with the same innocent curiosity, until René clutched fistfuls of the tangled sheets and nearly tore them out from under himself.

His body seemed to leap upward at the same time, pushing itself further into the mouth he so often thought of as pure, wanting to be inside of it until he could go no further, wanting to be inside of James no matter how wrong it was. He wanted to fuck him now, put off this moment and take James as he should have when he had first seen him here. He ached at the thought, a shudderingly pleasurable agony building around his balls.

James grew motionless at his action, surprise reverberating through his body to René’s underneath, but it only lasted a bare moment, and then slowly, almost anxiously, he lowered his head, allowed more of the shaft inside his mouth, until René could feel the head of his cock against the back of the younger man’s mouth. Then James stopped, breathing heavily through his nose, his tongue twitching against the vein along the base of his cock, sending more waves of pleasure roaring through him until René’s hands in the bedding could no longer stop him from releasing a tortured breath.

It hovered in the air, his half-strangled moan, mingling with the smooth sounds of James moving on the silken sheets, rubbing the ends of his velvet coat against the whispering fabric as he shifted his position slightly.

René went still as well, heart pounding and body flushed, feeling only the warmth of that mouth and the soft wet pressure of muscles moving against his cock as James swallowed nervously. He was not inside much at all, not as much as René could have taken, but it felt like enough, too much, and yet not close to enough at the same time. He hesitated, hanging onto himself for as long as he could, and then jerking, almost imperceptibly, moving his hips upward when he could not take anymore.

It pleased him, René realized with a dizzy rush of pleasure before repeating the action; it pleased him to be attended to by James like this. Sweat ran down from the line of his hair at his forehead, stinging into his eyes though they were already wet, and he let it. The feeling did not disturb the sensation at all, enhancing it instead as he compared it to the sweetness of James’ mouth. He reveled in both, arching his lower back from the bed. The pain to remind him it was real, and James…James to consume him like hellfire, the sun beaming down on him. So hot and blinding that even closing his eyes could not hide him any longer.

He arched up again, flinging out his hands until they were buried in long, thick hair and then wrapping around it as it were a collection of golden rings not to be lost. Treasure, his mind whispered quietly, and then as if in reply, James moved at last.

A strong hand urged René’s hips back to the bed while another curled around his shaft and held it firmly enough that the blood already throbbing there seemed to pound like thunder. Lightening speared through his middle and then coiled so tightly that it hurt, making him shove against the bed toward James, over and over until sweat made his skin slick and his hands lose their hold on the mattress. René did not stop the groan that was pushed from him this time, did not even think to try.

“Yes, James,” he murmured in any language, he did not know which, and pulled demandingly on the other man’s head as his lips tightened and slid back up. His tingling, aching, wet prick left cold and wanting where James’ mouth no longer protected it, and he shuddered savagely and thrust his body back up.

“No,” he said, contradicting himself though he did not hear it or care. He trembled when James just continued to pull away until just the tip of his cock remained between his welcoming lips and then jerked his head from the pillow when James moved the hand holding him and increased the pressure slightly. His mouth returned, sliding slowly back tortuously, the only thing that let René fall back onto the feather stuffed silk, gulping for breath.

He could see images in the sunlight now, shifting, wingéd phantoms, and a small cry worked its way through his lips, making him sound as afraid as a child. He pushed his body up to meet James’ descent, thrusting his way further inside of him until James grunted. He tossed his head at the same time, turning from one side to the other, searching, trying to fix on something. The angel on the ceiling was beyond him, too far away to see now, and when James grunted against his prick again, this time something greedy in the sound, René lifted himself up to stare at him. As he had been dying to do.

His own hands and arms blocked most of the other man’s face. But René could see enough, and could feel what he could not see, something making him shiver despite the sun.

James was strong, this stubborn force laving his cock with careful, studious attention and then drawing on it fiercely in the next moment, as though he had had enough of study. Why, some part of René still questioned, but whatever the answer could be was nothing when James looked up over the rim of his narrow glasses and met his gaze.

René’s breath tangled in his throat and he threw his head back though his eyes remained caught by the warm desire in the young eyes before him. He watched his body push up and down, his cock pumping in and out of James’ flushed mouth, and saw as he did that the heat in James’ eyes never faded.

“James,” he whispered without being certain why and then gasped at the sudden fierce pull on the head of his cock, the possessive grip that stroked up so firmly that he moaned. His whole body tightened, lurching frantically off the bed to be closer to the hard, dragging suction of James’ lips and tongue. Why? René asked himself again as his thoughts splintered east and west and all that was left was a frantic, feverish pleasure. His want stabbed through him like a saber, and he yanked hard on James’ hair as his body jerked still.

Hot streams of his spunk seemed to tear out of him, pouring into James’ waiting mouth in painful spurts that left him weakened, and the floating spirits teased his vision with each and every shudder of release just as the sun still burned his eyes, making the other man seem like an image of delirium.

René closed his eyes at last and fell back, still haunted by the colored angels. For a few moments, he only laid there, unable to do more than watch them as they slowly melted into the light. His throat was dry and scratching, though it was nothing to the ache and hurt in his mouth where he had nearly bitten through his bottom lip to hold in his words.

But of course they faded, he thought dimly when his mind had cleared enough at last for him to think. Of course they would be gone, he reaffirmed slowly and coughed to ease his hoarse throat. A small cough followed his, and he flung up his heavy eyelids to stare at James in confusion, pressing his head back into the pillows at the same time.

James was used. Traces of his seed still hung from his lips-his red, swollen lips, and his throat was working with his efforts to swallow the rest. Blooms of crimson coloured his cheeks, shame, René imagined darkly, or humiliation. But there was a brilliant sparkle in the brown eyes that met his, and a hesitant smile before James wiped his mouth with his hand. His lips still moved, as if tasting his spunk, and René remembered Tortuga, and how James had spit back up into the dirt, his whole face twisted with disgust.

Why, Rene wanted to ask as he tried to slow his breathing. Why had James done this now? But he could not, the word caught in his throat and when he opened his mouth only inanities came out.

“You are all right?” he asked slowly, his tongue as thick and clumsy as most Englishmen’s. James let out one breath, nodded, and then adjusted his spectacles before responding.

“A...and you?” The stumbling René had not heard from him in months had returned, and his cheeks flushed even darker as he spoke. “I mean to say…was it…good?” A frown marred James’ face at that and he did not seem to notice how René blinked several times. Then he grinned, unable to hide the pleasure this foolishness gave him. Confused and embarrassed, James was looking to him for guidance, and he pushed his body up with a new energy to answer.

“You mean you cannot tell? Not with my seed still burning down your throat?” He raised one brow in cool inquiry and saw the spark of anger light the other man’s eyes. His smile disappeared as well, and René felt his pleasure dim, though he continued to grin mockingly. James was off his guard and could not hide his thoughts anymore.

“I…” James choked and turned his head away. It was shame René saw now, shame and fury that would turn James sick inside until eventually his insides would be as rotted as a corpse in an iron gibbet. His own stomach turned and clenched until it pained him but he merely pressed a hand to it, curling his fingers at the spot where James had kissed the skin.

“James,” he called out softly and then whispered it lowly once more when James did not answer. A brief look, tight with strong emotion was all the reply he received, and then James moved to get up from the bed.

His blood coursing through him so furiously that his heart seemed to skip beats, René leapt up; startling James he was sure, since the younger man froze and turned to look at him with wide eyes. On his knees, René hesitated for the barest moment in time, and then pounced, taking advantage of James’ surprise and throwing him back onto the mattress. He leaned over him in the next moment, and tore the linen of his pants in order to sink his hands under the smooth fabric and touch James more intimately.

He was aroused, thick and hard against his hand and René let out a small, relieved breath before glancing into James’ sparking, furious gaze. The other man had landed awkwardly; his head was only a handsbreath away from the edge of the bed, and his knees were bent where he had been kneeling before. One of his hands was on the bed beside him, the fingers spread widely. The other, James brought up and slapped around the wrist of the hand René had stroking his prick steadily. It forced him to stop, though he did not remove his hand, and René frowned back up at James, frustration making him curse.

James glared back with his damned English stubbornness and tightened the grip on his hand, until René narrowed his eyes. James was demanding an explanation and René was disconcerted to realize that he did not have one. He searched his mind for a reason and then wrapped his fingers around the firm warmth of James’ cock until James shifted the smallest amount underneath him. Then he made himself smile.

“You have not yet had your pleasure,” he murmured lazily and saw James’ eyelids flicker. The shaft under his fingers twitched. Oh yes, James knew that he offered him pleasure. But he still did not move, and the muscles of his legs and stomach remained hard and unforgiving.

He did not like that, both that James was upset and that James was resisting him and he scowled in irritation. More than irritation, anger, rage, that James was asking things of him, defying him. He did not have to give pleasure, it was his choice. His choice.

“I do not have to please you!” René shouted at him, biting back other words with an effort that left him shaking. James’ eyes grew round, his mouth gaping slightly and René recalled how it had tightened around his cock in those first few moments with an innocent desire to taste him. His body tingled painfully at the memory, the blood stirring and rushing between his legs in a throbbing flood until he was stiffening for the second time in the few moments they had been awake. The sweet mouth that had prayed for him had pleasured him and he wanted it again now, to hear it call his name and say that it wanted him.

“I want you.” The words were hoarse and quiet, and he uttered them with his eyes on the cloth of James’ still-buttoned waistcoat. It was only so that he might continue; ease the ache that James had once again created in him. But James did not seem to hear, or did not wish to respond, and the silence was like the needle pushing into his torn skin to bind it together with thread.

“Do you seek to cozen me, Mistress?” James wondered finally in a hushed voice, and René raised his head with a frown of bewilderment. James was watching him intently with one raised eyebrow and René’s displeasure increased to see it. There was a secret amusement in James’ eyes, as if he had spoken something clever and full of wit, and it was most certainly a jest at his expense.

“Que signifie-t-il, cozen?” he demanded immediately, ignoring for the moment the female title that James had given him. He fisted the hand resting on James’ stomach until the fabric filled his palm and mangled it. The hand still wrapped around James’ cock tightened as well, making the blood throb more insistently against his fingertips. James shifted his hips slightly and pulled in small gasping breath before speaking.

“Do you seek to…” James stopped there, his gaze dipping down to his chest and René’s fisted hand, seeming to search for what to say. René narrowed his eyes; the sudden smile to curve the other man’s lips could not mark anything other than scorn to answer his mockery before. A flush stained James’ cheeks, the colour of ripe berries, and then James raised his eyes. “…Lie with me?” he finished softly, the same embarrassment that coloured his face making his voice a whisper.

His eyes were warm, bright. Laughter and desire melted together in them like the sweet sugar and spiced chile water in Spanish chocolate. René stared back at him without blinking, trying to think or understand the strange English phrase. Instead his mouth only thirsted for a taste of the drink now. Strange, he had never cared for it before. He felt as if he would die for some at this moment he wanted it so badly.

He licked his parched lips and then blinked at last, focusing again on James.

“Lie with me,” he repeated slowly, and felt his heart swell and pound in his chest when James nodded. “No,” René shook his head instantly and slid his hands away from James’ cock, lying next to the other on his stomach, knowing that he still did not fully understand. He smoothed the wrinkles he had created and then flicked a look upward into James’ confused eyes. The move brought him down closer to James, though he was not yet lying down.

They were very different from the words James usually chose to describe passion, and he could not quite grasp the meaning of the phrase. Two people lying together seemed a thing of peace, for children and old married men and women. Yet it also made him remember when he had woken to see James next to him, and had wanted him. He still wanted him; he burned with it. The English, he decided at last, would come up with a thousand ways to talk of fucking instead of simply fucking. But the words would not leave his mind.

“Lie with me,” he said again, forcefully, meaning it now, and when James nodded his consent, slid quickly down over the length of James’ body until they were face to face and his body could not get closer. He only vaguely realized that he had asked, and forgot the matter completely when James crushed their mouths together hungrily.

René opened his mouth in a sigh and leaned in further, guided by strong hands at the back of his neck. Fingers curled into his hair and angled his head, and he allowed it, groaning his approval when James’ pushed his tongue into his mouth. James’ lips were hard now, insistent, and René panted against them as the kiss went on, bolts of pleasure streaking down his spine until he was shifting rapidly on top of James’ body in an effort to dispel them.

With each desperate movement the growing hardness of his cock brushed against linen that was hot and slick from James’ sweat and the aching prick under it, and another flood of blood down to his belly left him weakened and dizzy. He broke off the kiss and sucked in a breath, only to find his hands reaching around James’ head to pull him up for another. He slid his tongue easily between James’ shocked lips and then slid it back out, tracing their tasty firmness curiously. He had not truly kissed James before.

“Doux,” he murmured into them, shivering when James echoed the word back at him and his breath left warm trails on his face. Before him was James’ smooth skin, flushed with heat, and beneath him was his sculpted, equally heated form, hidden only by two paltry layers of fabric, and when James again cried out into his mouth, his hands jerked away from the throbbing pulse on either side of the man’s neck and wrapped themselves around his embroidered waistcoat.

One quick pull and the expensive garment was torn open. René did not bother to look for the lost buttons, merely shoved the stiff material to the side and snuck his hands under the loose linen of the shirt James wore underneath.

James pushed up from the bed as René’s questing fingers found his nipples, bringing their bodies even closer together and it was difficult for him to control the way his cock rubbed against James’. A low, wanting sound came from James and René tasted it with pleasure as he closed his thumb and forefinger around one nipple and pinched it slowly, increasing the pressure until James yanked his mouth away to pull in several hoarse breaths.

Wide eyes found his and René smiled before rolling the sensitive bit of skin between his two fingers. James jerked up from the bed again, crushing his hands between their forms for a moment and René punished him with a sharp tug on the now sore flesh. It ought to be rosy from his caresses, and René moved his body so that he could better lean over James’ chest, and then pushed up the bottom of the shirt so that it was bunched up at the other man’s neck and he had an unimpeded view of his James.

“René.” James was shivering, his muscles feeling as taut as the skin of a drum, and René lowered his head slowly, running his hands over his quivering flesh to soothe it and then opening his mouth to trail his tongue up from James’ firm stomach to his hard chest. James was salty with sweat and still smelling faintly of oranges as though from a bath, and Rene lingered when he should not have, testing James’ patience when he pushed his tongue into his navel curiously. The hopeful, excited catch in James’ throat told him how much James enjoyed that, even if the cock poking into his stomach had not.

He moved so that his own prick throbbed under James’ ass and then pressed himself fully between James’ legs, closing his eyes at the intense wave of pleasure that took hold of him. James gasped and René opened his eyes to see a white knuckled hand grinding into the mattress beside them. A rough laugh was torn from him, one that brought James’ hand back from the bed to grip his shoulder, but he ignored that, and closed his mouth around the sore, used nipple and licked until it was dripping.

Aching, raspy sounds burst from James, as if he were trying to form words and could not, and René slid his hands down over warm muscle until he reached his waist and the edge of James’ pantalons. There, James was trembling, but his hands also dug into his shoulders and forbade him from moving away. Not that he could have; René was buried in as close to James’ heat as he could get without being actually inside of him and every little jerk of passion James made teased his aching prick until he found himself pushing back into James, sliding and rubbing against his willing, hard cock in order to torture them both.

He smoothed down the breeches over James’ hips with unsteady hands and then climbed clumsily over the pants as he pulled them down to where they would no longer bother him. Then he returned his attention quickly back to James, who was still sprawled out and eager on the bed, his cock as stiff and pointed as a pikestaff. René stared at it for one long moment, inhaling sharply, and then dropped his head to kiss the tip of James’ little staff, smearing the glistening liquid there with his lips and then pulling away. He met James’ eyes as the other man lifted his hips from the bed, then darted out his tongue to wipe his lips clean, delighting in the way James’ body seemed to flush anew.

He was back down between James’ legs in the next moment, idly skating his fingertips around the base of his shaft and over his balls, making sure that James could see what he was doing. His other hand he used to torment the head of his cock, running his thumb back and forth over the very tip and then underneath in slow, steady circles.

“René!” James must have caught his breath enough to shout, his pleading probably reached the ears of the fat angel on the ceiling. “Now, please, I want you.” The words tingled through him but René twisted his mouth; he wanted to go on longer but recognized that James had been wanting release for some time now. Still, to please himself he lowered his head again to suck gently on the leaking head and then dropped his hands to please James.

Pushing James’ legs further apart, he moved his hands from shining, hairy thighs to the soft flesh of his ass, and then circled his forefinger over the puckered skin, pressing slightly as he did.

“René,” James panted, turning his hips to the side and pushing against the mattress with a loud groan. The action forced René to take his mouth from his cock, and he glared at James with vexed annoyance. “Shall I turn now?” James did not seem to see his anger as he asked that and so probably did not see his confusion either.

“Turn?” René wondered if his pet had lost his mind to speak so, and then suddenly understood when James again made a move to roll over. His irritation melted into amusement that only further excited him, and René stroked a finger over James’ tight hole until James stopped moving and turned his head to the side to murmur feverishly into the blankets, something in English that René could not understand. He looked beautiful, with his hungry, gasping mouth and stretching body, covered with a sheen of sweat and his kisses, trustingly waiting for his release.

Something took the breath from René’s lungs, and he froze, blinking back his spinning thoughts. Then he ducked his head, not wanting James to see his bewilderment. “No, James,” he said finally, shaking from his head to his feet. “You do not have to do anything, only be very still.”

James did not seem to understand any more than he did, for he suddenly ceased to move and lifted his head from the bed to study him. But the dazed, dreaming look was still in his eyes and his body was quivering with inflamed lust, it was clear that he could not hold on to himself much longer. René sucked in much needed air and shook his head before running one hand soothingly over James’ middle, wishing that someone would calm him as well.

A hand closed over his as he had the thought and René immediately snatched his hand away, lifting his head defiantly.

“I wish to see you,” he said boldly, scowling so that the words would mean nothing. James’ eyes, already wide, grew even more round, and then, disconcertingly, brightened with interest.

“We can do that?” He did not even have the grace to look afraid or embarrassed at his ignorance, only eager. For some reason, this created a new sense of annoyance, and René muttered viciously in French under his breath and shifted so that the head of his cock brushed against James’ asshole, smearing it with his own juices. James lifted his hips instantly in response and René watched intently, recalling the times he had taken James and had only felt that eagerness. James was so hungry for possession he could not hide it. And from his words, he had not wanted to.

Streaks of hot delight burned through his body, spearing to his balls, and he jerked, pushing himself toward James. Filling with heat, Rene again lowered his hands, impatiently running his wet thumb over the small circle of muscle and gritting his teeth when even that made James tense. It had been months since he had been inside of James, and he suddenly was not sure he could stop himself from thrusting in rawly. He would be so close and tight that René groaned aloud to think of it. He hurriedly pushed his thumb inside the constricted flesh until it could go no further and looked up in time to see the pained wince cross James’ face.

His eyes snapped shut, squeezing at the corners as if the act had hurt him and René shuddered to recall just how much it could, how the skin often tore and bled. He had not spared James that before. He had enjoyed hurting him. He would enjoy it now.

“What are you waiting for?” James growled up at him furiously and René opened his eyes, startled to realize that he had closed them. But it was no surprise that a man would want pleasure in spite of the pain, and such pleasure… His heart refused to slow its pace however, as he wondered at how he had never given James pleasure alone, as James had given him just now.

Flushing with what his mother would have called guilt-if she could have ever seen him now, sinning like the Devil he was-René pushed off the bed and away from James’ warmth with a harsh cry. He could hear an expression of shock and loss behind him and ignored it, focusing only on the door to the closet room next to his, and then on the small table against one wall, lined with many glass bottles and clay jars; if he turned around to look at James he would not be able to do this.

He seized on two brightly coloured bottles instantly and held them up. One quick flip and the corked lids fell to the floor, allowing him to catch the differing scents of the lotions inside. Soft hands for courtly visits, he reflected with his usual bitter laugh, and then tossed the one filled with his favourite sweet scent of violets back onto the table. The other he clutched desperately as he ran back into the room, hoping distantly that James would appreciate the less flowery smell of rosemary.

James was sitting up now, staring at him as if he had gone mad, and René supposed that he had as he slowed his pace to a walk and crossed the rest of the way as calmly as he could.

“Lay back down,” he ordered in an uneven voice and cleared his throat. When James only looked back at him blankly, blinking through his damned crooked glass lenses, he bit it out again, and reached out one hand to push his hard body back onto the bed as he climbed back over him. “James…” he warned breathlessly when James opened his mouth to speak, then smiled grimly when James closed it. But his brown eyes were watchful and wide as René poured some of the lotion into his palms and slapped them together quickly to warm it.

The sound excited his blood again, and it roared between his legs and created new aches and needs. Swearing, he plunged his hands between their bodies, sliding the cream over his prick with one hand and smoothing it over James’ ass at the same time. The lotion was not fully warmed, and he gasped as the coolness touched him and heard James do the same. But there was only a moment to absorb the sensation, and then he was pushing one slick finger into James’ opening and massaging the tense muscle.

He watched his finger slide in to the knuckle and then dragged his gaze up look at James, his mouth drying to see the wonder lighting up his serious eyes. James’ head fell back just as the tip of René’s finger brushed the swollen spot that made him shiver, and René pulled himself free, only to add another finger.

James lifted his ass from the bed without urging, the action pushing his fingers further inside, and then moaned as René moved them in a slow circle, loosening the little passage so he could take him. It had to be soon, he could not wait much longer to have him.

“What are you doing to me, René?” James breathed, almost reverently, and tossed his head once when René stroked that spot again. Sweat dotted across his square face and his lips were parted in his need for air, and René studied him seriously, noting each and every detail. He touched his fingertips to the spot once more, to make James leap from the bed and let out a ragged cry for release, then he moved at last, withdrawing his fingers and shifting his body.

Underneath him, James bent his knees without being told, seeming to know. Rene let the head of his cock just push against the relaxed ring of muscle and then clenched his hands into the blankets before raising his head and meeting James’ gaze. He was not prepared for the fire blazing in those pure eyes. It swallowed him up, and for a moment he forgot everything and only stared back. Then the urgently twitching cock beneath him was thrust upwards in a silent plea.

A deep breath steadied him enough to place his hands on James’ hips and then with an excruciating slowness that made him bite his lip, slid his cock inside of the other man.

James stilled, perhaps expectantly, and then seemed to relax a little as René continued to push inside. René barely noticed that, concentrating on the feel of the tight passage enveloping him, and the muscles adjusting to his shaft. Then he grunted heavily when he could go no further and went still, savoring it.

A spiky, warm scent reached his nose, the rosemary lotion that had eased his way, and he slowly shifted his hips so that his head would touch more upon the place inside James that would make him moan. And James did, opening his mouth to let out a loud sound of agreeing pleasure without shame. Then, with the same slowness, René pulled back out part of the way.

“Why?” James panted so lowly that René almost did not hear. Flicking his eyes up, René saw James with his head turned to the side though his eyes were steady on his. “Why now, René?” he asked in a dry whisper.

René stilled, his hands gripping the skin at James’ hips tightly.

“Because you have not yet had your pleasure,” he said again, since he did not have anything else to say, and saw James smile. He thrust his body up, drawing René’s attention to his need, and René slide back down into him, trembling at how slow he was keeping this. James cock pushed into his stomach and he let out a hissing breath to feel the wet trail it left when he again moved.

“But…life…is…pain,” James murmured knowingly before squeezing both eyes shut and sighing deliriously. His hands were flat on the mattress, the fingers curved whitely into the softness.

That made René blink in a dizzy sort of shock, hearing his own words. But James kept his eyes closed and did not add to his statement, only raising his hips again to meet his slow pushes, seemingly troubled by nothing though of course he could not be.

“You are unsatisfied?” René managed at last, licking his lips in disbelief and narrowing his eyes when James did not respond to that at all. A sound burst from him, low and rough and furious, and he lowered his hands to the bed and leaned over James, then he slammed his mouth down onto James neck and sucked hard on his skin for a moment. When James cried out his name in surprise, he thrust into him fiercely, pumping in and out with all his strength.

Shocked exclamations filled the air, and then strong hands clawed into his back, holding René over James and pushing him on at the same time. They tore through his clothing and clutched him greedily, sliding down over the muscles in his back as he moved, driving his cock in to James again and again.

James’ prick was hot against his middle, throbbing insistently and slick, and René slid over it with little grunts, desire tracing a line from James’ cock to his own and pulling so sharply that René had to swear.

“James,” he called out in his fever, focusing his eyes only on the other man’s face, sure that to look anywhere else would destroy him. James frowned and turned his head, though his eyes did not open. “James!” It was more of cry this time, but James’ lids flew open and swirling brown eyes were revealed to him. A thousand delights and torments for him to see and something heavy pounded in his chest and in his cock to know how James did not hide them from him.

He dropped his head and captured James’ mouth, needing to, and inhaled James’ surprised breath, letting out one of his own. They mingled warmly, still scented of wine, and he murmured into them as he had before, before touching his tongue and pulling it between his lips to suck hotly.

Underneath him, James shuddered violently and then arched up away from the bed as René drove into him again. Pleasure ripped through his body so strong that James broke off their kiss to shout his name, his head thrown back into the mattress and his voice hoarse. The force rippled through his body in waves, sending a spray of hot seed against René’s chest and stomach.

René closed his eyes as the waves seemed to pound over him too, but the muscles of James’ ass clenched tightly around his cock and spasmed until the pain was too great to deny. He fell forward as the pleasure tore through him, pulling from his balls and splitting him in half, pushing liquid fire from him, dragging it from him in agonizing bursts of release.

He called for James shakily and felt his seed spill from him until there was only a tingle and a small ache between his legs. His blood continued to throb but he could only breathe and wait for his heart to slow, keeping his eyes closed and letting his cheek stay where it rested. Something pounded just as fiercely under that cheek, but he could not seem to care, and merely flexed one hand into the satin bed coverings when his body had one last little tremor.

“We will need more water.” James spoke without moving, and the words shivered through René’s skull, louder than he wanted. Opening one eye showed him an expanse of James’ chest, blond hair matted with sweat, rising and falling rapidly as James sought his breath.

Their legs were still tangled, heavy on the blankets they had disturbed with their passion, wrapped together as lovers, and René opened his other eye, lifting his head slightly from James’ heat. His body was hot, a sticky itch between his legs that would soon be a great irritation. James no doubt felt the same, yet the man did not move.

“Wash if you are dirty,” René hissed into James’ skin, salt at his lips, left to frown in confusion when this made James laugh.

“Would you care for another bath, René?” The brush of a hand on René’s head followed James’ amused question, the soft laugh ending abruptly as René pushed himself up. He stared down at James with a look that did not erase the foolish smile carving James’ face in two, letting James’ hand touch him as it fell slowly back to the bed.

Copyright R. Cooper with all rights reserved

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