Objects Of His Obsession (7 page)

It was good. It was so good,
even with that burn lingering. Evander massive inside him, wickedly large,
those heavy bollocks slapping against his arse with every oiled thrust, but
with it, Benedict’s cock was crushed between their two bodies and the friction
was enough. More than enough. And Evander seemed to know exactly that
incredibly sensitive spot to drag the broad head of his cock over as he drew
back, angled, thrust deep, again and again.

Hell, he was being fucked by an
expert. A glance at Evander’s flushed, sweat darkened face told him the man
knew exactly what he was doing with each drag, thrust over that spot–

Benedict’s slightly calloused
fingers clutched at Evander’s driving arse and he arched, swearing, as the
orgasm barreled down the length of his own thick cock. The semen shooting,
slicking between their bodies.

Evander gave some guttural
sound, pausing as Benedict’s inner flesh pulsed, gripped his cock like a vise.
It triggered him. His body slammed hard into Benedict’s. Any restraint gone.

Benedict felt the hot seed
filling his passage. Evander’s last powerful, ramming thrusts sliding through
that slickness, his head thrown back, the line of his throat muscular, slicked
with the rush of sweat that had broken out over his chest, bloomed over that hair
dusted, pale olive skin.

With a groan, Evander’s head
fell forwards as he stilled, panting, opened his eyes to stare into Benedict’s.

“Well, you can be curious no
longer,” he murmured finally, muscle bunching up harder in his shoulder as he
bent, bit at Benedict’s neck. The pleasure of that simple yet animal act made
the man beneath him shudder, his arse tightening around Evander’s softening
prick. Turquoise eyes narrowed at the sensation. “You liked it?”

Benedict felt the flush across
his cheekbones. His inexperience made him feel like a fool, even if it was
scarcely to be surprised at.

They had just committed an
illegal act. He felt no guilt or shame at that but knew discretion would be an
integral part of his life from this point forward.

For illegal or not, condemned
by society or not, it was an act he intended to commit, over and over again, in
the future.

Even if not with Evander St
John.

His mouth slanted in a smile.
“I think I made my enjoyment more than clear.”

“That you did.”

Grinning, Evander drew back,
his semi-erect cock slowly easing from Benedict’s body. His gaze dropped to
Benedict’s smooth, muscular chest, his hard abdomen. He dragged a fingertip
through the semen smearing that silken sun-darkened skin and lifted that
fingertip to his hard, sexual mouth.

Fascinated, Benedict watched as
Evander licked his finger clean of that cream, blue, blue eyes gripping his.
“You taste good,” he remarked casually, and just as lazily, slid away from
Benedict to stroll across the floor towards the adjoining bathroom. “I’ll clean
us up. Give me a minute.”

Benedict lay back on the back,
head cushioned deliciously by the massed pillows, the scent of them clean,
fresh. He could hear a tap running in the bathroom. From the splashing guessed
that Evander was attending to himself, washing up.

Benedict stared up at the
moldings of the ceiling above his head.

His arsehole was throbbing.
Humming with sensation, still. And he guessed he’d still be feeling this
tomorrow. But in the best of ways.

And God, it had been worth it.
Suddenly he wanted to yell his joy into the air.

At last, all those questions
about himself answered. And he didn’t give a damn that they led him down a road
away from society and a conventional life.

To be true to himself, his
passions, his obsessions, was all he had ever believed in.

Once, that had just meant his
work. Now it also meant … this. And the pleasure he had just shared with this
man … this man he had been so obsessed by, for years. The fact that it had
surpassed all he’d thought, well, that just somehow…

Evander had been everything he
had dreamt of, and more.

Fuck, if he’d had to pick a man
he could not get out of his mind, he could not have done better. His hand had
strayed down to his cock, his calloused fingers stroking its length.

“Couldn’t wait for me to get
back?” Evander grumbled.

His lover was standing in the
doorway of the bathroom, damp washcloth in his hand, eyeing Benedict as he
stroked himself.

Benedict’s hand slowed but
Evander grinned, that predatory prowl bringing him over to the bed. “No, don’t
stop. I was enjoying the view.”

Provokingly, Benedict’s hand
kept pumping as Evander seated himself on the bed, dragging the warm, wet washcloth
over his chest, his abdomen. A strong hand stroked up over his sweat-damp
ribcage as he felt the swipe of the cloth between his buttocks. Evander tossed
the cloth to the jewel-toned, antique silk Persian carpet the bed stood on and
returned his attention to Benedict’s pumping fist. The magnificent, thick prick
swelling with hot blood with every movement.

“You’ve got one hell of a cock,
Yeats,” he growled, shifting to push away Benedict’s hand, replace it with his
own, gripping the thick base, his hot, expert mouth closing hard over the
blood-flushed head.

Benedict’s spine arched at the
rough, demanding sensation. Would he ever grow used to it? Impossible to
believe.

Just knew he wanted more.
Wanted to give more.

Greedily his hands reached for
Evander. To drag him closer. Wanted to put his mouth around that thick flesh
that had so recently taken him, wanted to suck the man off and drink him down.

“Let me,” he protested. “I want
your cock. And you’ve done all the work.”

Evander gave a strangled laugh.
“Hardly work.”

Still, Evander paused, and with
a businesslike air, twisted around to grab at most of the pillows Benedict was
leaning against, yanked at them to throw them aside. He twisted back, and
Benedict found himself straddled by the other man. Even as he realized that
already steel hard cock was exactly where it needed to be, close by his lips,
the head and then shaft of his own cock was engulfed by wet heat once more.

He reached up, one hand
grasping the base of Evander’s prick as he took him into his mouth, the other
hand sliding around that beautiful arse. Fingers digging into the powerful
muscle.

It took a few moments to get it
right. The rhythm of his mouth sucking, sliding up, taking Evander’s cock as
deep as he could, his tongue working, fingers gripping Evander’s hip as
Evander’s own rhythm matched his own.

Damnation
, wonderful, but bloody difficult to
concentrate when the man’s mouth was so skilled on his own rigid flesh, taking
him deeper than Benedict could, his throat muscles working the head.

Fuck– the only thing he
could do was concentrate on the thick cock in his mouth. The stretch of his
jaws so good. The salty, clean taste of him addictive.

But it wasn’t enough to stop
the orgasm he could feel building. Fought against. Evander’s tongue probed the
slit of his cockhead before sliding down and Benedict roared around the silken,
steel hard flesh in his mouth, the orgasm slamming through him.

Even as it did his release
triggered Evander’s, his mouth flooding with hot, pumping seed. Desperately he
swallowed it down, wanting every drop of it, every drop of the essence of the
man even as his lover growled his pleasure.

When finally Evander drew away,
twisted, like the sleek, predatory beast that he was, gracefully lazing by
Benedict, he could not stop himself from turning towards the man. Almost
boneless now with the effect of having been well and thoroughly fucked, that
last orgasm having drained him beyond anything but the desire to curl up and
sleep, he ran a hand over the smattering of dark hair across Evander’s chest,
his warm brown eyes heavy lidded as they met Evander’s enigmatic turquoise
ones.

Evander drove lean, well
manicured fingers through his streaky brown hair. Those fingers tangled in the
long strands as his mouth took Benedict’s in a hard, commanding kiss.

One that tasted both of
Evander, and of the seed he’d so greedily swallowed.

But when he drew back his
slight smile gave away nothing but his understanding of Benedict’s state.

“Sleep. I’ll wake you in a
while. But for now, sleep.”

Damn, the man could read him.
But Benedict couldn’t say that he minded.

His cheek cushioned on his
muscular forearm, one hand still resting on Evander’s warm chest, he gave in to
the exhaustion flooding him.

~~***~~

When he awoke, he glanced over
to Evander’s profile. Clear cut as a coin, black hair tumbled against the white
linen pillows, his half lidded eyes were clearly studying the flames now died
down to masses of embers in the fireplace, their warm, soft light the only
illumination in the room.

Benedict swallowed, torn
between a desire to repeat the acts that they could only have committed, what …
an hour or two back … and a feeling of awkwardness.

The man was an enigma to him.

They may have come from similar
social backgrounds but there the implicit understanding ended.

Benedict had been drawn into a
life of academia, and then gone into archaeology with all the single-minded
passion that one gave to a true love.

Evander … Evander navigated
social seas, the vicious waters of London society with an ease that stunned
him. Even with his mothers scandalous disappearance to the Continent decades
ago now a dim memory.

For there had been some
scandal. For some reason she had left her husband, deserted their sole child,
Evander, and taken up residence in… Hell, Benedict couldn’t even remember.

Italy?

He could only assume Evander’s
father, his very dead father, had been violent.

Why else would a woman desert
her child if not to escape such a home?

Hell, he should have paid more
attention to the drunken sot at Oxford telling him the tale, sensing somehow
his interest in Evander.

Instead any encouragement he
might have shown would have seemed an invasion of the man’s privacy. And so
he’d cut the gossiping talk short.

But either way…
 
Regardless of being a motherless son,
the man had a sense of entitlement… And why not? His family had been one of
England’s wealthiest for centuries. Had properties both in Kent, London, and
mines in the North. Not to mention overseas holdings bringing them in a
fortune.

Rumor was that Casterwell was
not quite the indifferent aristocrat when it came to maintaining the health of
his family’s financial dealings. In fact he had something of a reputation as
being both astute and cut-throat. And that was in ways that had nothing to do
with his racing stable.

Benedict could only think of
his own eldest brothers near-incompetence in managing their family holdings
since their father’s death and wish Ranulph was also less aristocratically
indifferent and more involved. Prepared to sully his hands with business
matters.

Every visit back home to the
family seat in Buckinghamshire was a reminder of that incompetence, with
paintings, antiques, freshly disappearing on a regular basis into the auction
houses to wind up in the mansions of the newly rich in both Britain and
America.

It was gutwrenching and yet he
was in no position to halt it.

Benedict made some sound under
his breath, shut his eyes briefly.

What the hell was he doing
allowing himself to think on these things when these were, certainly, the last
moments he would be spending with Evander in this manner?

“Mmm, awake?” Evander turned
his head from his study of the fire and looked into Benedict’s shadowed face.
He raised himself on an elbow. “For a man who has been well and thoroughly
fucked, you look damned serious, Yeats.”

Benedict frowned. “How did you
know that–”

“You were awake? I think that
grunt you made gave you away.”

Evander sounded amused. He
lifted a hand as if to run it over Benedict’s chest.

He shifted away. Too tempting.

“I’ve got to go.”

Already Benedict was sliding
across the wide bed and away from the potent, erotic lure of Evander’s sleekly
muscular body, the sheets tangled low around his hips.

“Of course,” Evander said
coolly.

“I don’t want to– to–”

“Attract any notice?” That low,
controlled voice was edged with contempt. “No, it wouldn’t do for one of the
others stumbling around this place after a good fucking to bump into you,
having indulged in just the same. But you are right. Buggery of course, is a
very different matter.”

Country house weekends were
notorious for their games of musical beds. And as Evander had made clear
earlier, this portion of the house was actually discreetly separate from the
wing the guests were housed in.