Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(54)

Saul was flushed, eyes shut. He looked transfigured, ecstatic and agonised at once.

“Christ, you’re beautiful,” Randolph said, voice catching with desire. “I want to do everything to you. Get your trousers off.”

Saul leaned back, lifting his hips in silent surrender, kicking his shoes off. Randolph shifted off his thighs to strip him bare, working around the hard press of Saul’s prick, which sprang free delightfully as he drew the drawers down. He skimmed his hands over the lean body exposed to him, running his nails down a long thigh, then drew them across the underside of Saul’s knee and watched him jolt. “Oh, yes. Lovely.”

“Why are you still dressed?”

Randolph stroked the curve of Saul’s calf. “A better question is, how do I conveniently reach the backs of a man’s knees. For some reason, the problem has never presented itself before. Why don’t you lie on your front?”

Saul gave him a look, then rolled over, moving with some care to accommodate his rigid erection. Randolph inhaled sharply. His back should have been—was—lovely. The wings of shoulderblades, the curved line of the spine, the irresistible swell of arse, with that dip of muscle to either side that you found in men who used their legs as God intended—although, that said, surely God actually intended Saul’s legs to be wrapped around Randolph’s hips; he was positive they’d fit. It was a perfect back except for the thin diagonal white stripes of an old, cruel flogging, and Randolph had a sudden and overwhelming urge to throw up his duty. Let the bastards have their endless war, let them choke on it. He hoped it would hurt before they died.

He forced the rage back, and instead ran his finger down Saul’s spine, feeling each vertebra, then, very lightly, along the cleft of his arse. Saul’s breath hitched in a highly satisfactory manner. Randolph took his time, letting his hands roam, and finally arranged himself on the floor so he could get his mouth to the back of Saul’s knees. The skin there was soft, quite hairless, and tasted of Saul, and Randolph nuzzled at it, feeling the flesh quiver under his ministrations.

“Christ,” Saul said, muffled by the rug. “Christ.”

He was jerking under Randolph’s mouth, muscles twitching, hips working. Randolph had sucked men off to less erotic effect. He didn’t think any part of his body could reduce him to this whimpering helplessness, and he almost envied Saul’s abandon.

Envied it, perhaps; certainly wanted to use it. He was over Saul’s prone form now, licking at one knee and pushing at the other with his thumb in a thrusting motion that wasn’t intended to be subtle. Saul’s legs were spread and slack, and his groans of pleasure were everything Randolph had imagined.

“Quite extraordinary,” he said, lifting his mouth away. “On your back.”

Saul rolled over, sluggishly. His face was reddened from lying against the rug; he looked dizzied with arousal, and his prick was dark with the fill of blood. Randolph moved between his legs, pushing them up to bend a little, getting his thumbs back to work in the crooks of the knees. Saul whimpered.

“Why don’t you stroke yourself,” Randolph suggested. “On your back with me doing this.”

Saul tipped his head back, hand moving like an automaton, taking hold of himself. On shameless display, entirely lost. Randolph watched, eyes flicking between the earthy pleasure of a fist on a cock, and the painful ecstasy of Saul’s fine agonised features. “Yes. Sweet Jesus, you’re lovely. I want to see you come. Harder. Work yourself more.” He was digging his thumbs into Saul’s knees. “I want to see you spill all over yourself. And to suck you and fuck you until you’re a whimpering shell of a man, make no mistake, but first you’re going to bring yourself off while I watch. Faster.”

“I’ll come.”

“Good.”

Saul’s head went back. His face spasmed, the bone structure standing clear under the skin and he gave a strangled cry as he shot, two, three times, cream onto pale flat stomach, coating the dark hairs.

His head dropped back, the expression of anguish relaxing, and Randolph didn’t think he’d ever been so hard in his life. “Dear God. That was something.”

“I did say.” Saul blinked his eyes open, a slightly hesitant smile curving his lips. “It’s nice to be taken seriously.”

“I shall pay the closest attention to any further advice.”

“My best advice is to come here and kiss me. And take your shirt off first,” Saul said. “I’d hate to cover you in spunk—what is it?”

Randolph didn’t think he’d reacted at all. “Nothing.”

Saul’s brows went up. “Problem?”

“No.”

“Is it the scars?”

Of course it was the scars. They were one of the many reasons Randolph liked to fuck fully clothed, standing up, preferably with men he didn’t know. “No,” he said and then, “Yes. They’re ugly.”

“I expect they are. My back was a vile sight for a long time, and I scar well. You obviously don’t.”

Saul had felt the lumpy mess, Randolph reminded himself; he knew something of what they’d be like. “No. Or, at least, in this case I didn’t.”

“And do you think I’m going to recoil from you in disgust? Are they so bad? Am I so feeble?”