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A Seditious Affair(3)

By:K. J. Charles


“Don’t,” the Tory said, staring at Silas in the mirror. He looked hopeless and desperate and agonizingly needy all at once. “Stop. Please.” Fingers still tight on the rail.

Silas climbed onto the bed behind him and reached for the oil, supplied by the house, of course. He’d used a lot worse in his time. He poured it onto his own thick, calloused fingers, ran a dribble over the Tory’s arse, and followed it with a slick, slippery touch that won a violent shudder from the kneeling man. He pressed a finger in.

The Tory gave a ragged gasp. Silas pushed harder. “Don’t want it?”

“No!”

“Going to get it, though, aren’t you?” He turned his hand, probing into the Tory’s tight heat and feeling him squirm against the invasive fingers. He didn’t like this, the preparation, didn’t like to be cared for, and sometimes Silas indulged that. He’d push in with no warning and see tears of pain starting in the Tory’s eyes, and that was probably what he’d expected now. Which was all the more reason to do it different.

Silas could see the clear thread of liquid running from the Tory’s cock to the sheets, glistening in the candlelight like a spider web in winter.

He moved his fingers around, taking his time, enjoying the view. The Tory’s bare thighs and arse, the beautiful line of his back. His head, down again so that he couldn’t see himself. That wouldn’t do.

Silas pulled his hand away, reached for the oil again. He straightened up, so the Tory would be able to see him in the mirror. “Look at me. Look up.” He waited for the dark head to rise with painful reluctance. “Look. See this?” His big rough hand, stroking and sliding over his big rough prick gleaming with oil. “That’s what you’re going to take. Every inch. And thank me for it.”

“No.” The Tory’s lips were red and open with arousal.

“Thank me,” Silas repeated. “Say, ‘Thank you for your cock, sir. Thank you for making me look.’ ”

“Go to hell.” The Tory’s shoulders were rigid, hands clamped on the rail. “Don’t you dare—don’t—”

“Watch me.” Silas pushed in and heard the Tory’s stuttering gasp like kisses on his skin.

“Oh God. No. Stop!”

Just words, Silas reminded himself, glancing at the hands tight on the rail. “I want you to see this. Watch your face.”

The Tory didn’t. His back was arched, hands clawed, head back, and his eyes were locked on the other man in the mirror. On Silas, fucking him.

“Fine Mary-Ann you are,” Silas whispered. “You want this, don’t you?”

“No. No. Ugh.” A grunt of effort as Silas bore down on him, the Tory taking everything he had. “Please. I can’t.” Muscles tensing in his shoulders as he pushed back. “Oh God, God…”

The Lord’s name in vain, from the Tory. Oh, he was breaking hard tonight. Silas ground down, forward, through the Tory’s involuntary resistance. Grabbed those shoulders, digging fingers in. “Watch me fuck you. Watch your face.”

The Tory twisted under him, as if trying to get away, hands still clamped on the rail. Silas grabbed his hair, one-handed, pulled his head up. His eyes were shut. “Look.”

The Tory’s eyes snapped open. He stared at himself, impaled, ridden, overpowered.

Silas pulled back slowly, thrust hard, slamming his hips in so that the Tory shuddered at the impact. “What do you say?”

His lips worked. No sound. Silas moved again, starting a rhythm, still gripping his hair, pulling his head back, exposing that beautiful column of throat. He wanted to worship it, kiss his way up from collarbone to those pleading lips.

All the things he could do to the Tory, and he wanted the one thing he couldn’t.

So he didn’t. He fucked the man like a dog, brutal as he could, until the Tory was crying out wordlessly with each thrust, almost sobbing, and Silas could tell that surrender was close.

“Let go.” He wrapped his arm around the man’s heaving chest and pulled him to an upright kneel, straightening himself, keeping their bodies locked. He behind, broad thighs splayed wide. The Tory between his legs, untouched prick weeping with need, skin marked red from Silas’s fingers, nipples tight, the face of a fucked and fallen angel. Lost or found in lust, you couldn’t tell, but he turned his head away, closing his eyes.

“Look,” Silas whispered in his ear, saw him shudder. “Look at yourself.” How can you not see what I see? “Tory whore.” My Tory.

“Please.” That sounded urgent. “I can’t.”