Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(55)

Randolph exhaled. “No to all. Merely, I, ah—”

“You don’t like to be imperfect.”

“Does anyone?”

“Most of us come to terms with it. Would you please take your shirt off and stop playing silly buggers?”

Randolph pulled off his jacket. “I could have sworn you accused me of being dictatorial.”

“You are,” Saul said. “‘Undress, turn over, bring yourself off.’ Nothing but orders. Mine were, uh, courteous suggestions.”

“They were nothing of the sort.” The bickering helped distract him as he shrugged off his waistcoat and unbuttoned the shirt, so that all he had to do was pull open the two sides of the cloth, but he didn’t.

Saul sat up, naked and intent. “May I?”

Randolph nodded. Saul shifted forward and very gently pulled his shirt off his shoulders.

He knew what it looked like. The scars were a good two inches in diameter, irregular, lumpen, blackish. He sometimes thought they looked more like reptile skin than human.

Saul had that frown between his eyes. “Do they hurt?”

“My shoulders ache in wet weather. Unfortunately, I live in England.”

“Yes, I see where you went wrong. I’d like to touch them, unless you’d rather I didn’t.”

“Do you have a particular fondness for scars?”

“They’re part of you.” Saul skimmed his palms over the rough surface where Randolph could feel pressure, no real sensation. “Not pretty. Nor, I imagine, a terribly pleasant memory to carry around, and you don’t have the choice.”

“No.”

“But still you, for good or ill. To answer your question, it’s not that I have a fondness for scars as such. But I do like a good pair of shoulders to hang on to, scarred or otherwise, and I’m living in hope you might get around to fucking me before we both die of old age.”

“Well, if you’re in a hurry,” Randolph said, and grabbed him.

There was a frantic period of kissing and fumbling at clothes, which ended with Randolph naked and on his back, Saul sitting over him, hands roaming. Randolph had Saul’s arse in a firm grip; he kneaded the flesh, watching his partner’s eyes. “About my dictatorial tendencies.”

“Mmm?”

“Would you prefer me to mind my tongue?”

“Given what you can do with it? No.”

“I’m serious,” Randolph said. “I tend to give orders. You may not wish to be given orders, in which case I’ll endeavour to stop.”

Saul’s hand moved down, fingers skimming Randolph’s prick. “Is that just because you’re habitually autocratic, or do you particularly like to be in charge?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Or does it disturb you not to have control?”

“All of the above,” Randolph told him as lightly as possible. Saul’s eyes were intent and Randolph had an uncomfortable feeling they saw more than a mild preference and a habit of speech.

“Of course. Suppose you carry on as suits you, and I’ll let you know if it doesn’t suit me.”

“Suppose you get your mouth to my cock, then.”

Saul’s eyes widened a fraction, then his lips curled. He moved down in silence and dipped his head. The touch of his lips was perfection, soft but sure, tongue flickering, then snaking around Randolph’s shaft as Saul took him deeper. Randolph got a hand to his fine hair, fingers against his scalp and sliding down to feel the working of his jaw and cheek as he sucked. “Oh yes. Christ, you’re good at that. All right, stop.”

Saul pulled away just enough. “Really?”

“I thought you wanted fucking.”

“Very much.”

“On your back, then.” It wasn’t a huge leap, given Saul’s remark about shoulders, enough that he felt happy to make it a command rather than a question. Something flared in Saul’s eyes, and he moved deliberately to lie as instructed, pillowing his head on his arm again. “Stay there,” Randolph added, and went to get the petroleum jelly from the bathroom. His appearance in the mirror was something of a shock. His usually sleek hair was everywhere, his face flushed, and he hadn’t even known he was smiling.

Saul looked up at him as he returned, one brow raised in something between question, amusement, and challenge. Randolph dropped to his knees, unscrewing the lid of the jar. “Legs apart. Do you always prefer it this way?”

“Either or neither. I’m accommodating.”

“So I see.” Randolph insinuated a slick, probing finger as he spoke. Saul sucked in a breath. “Highly accommodating. I’ve very much pictured myself fucking you. I’m not sure I’ve ever known anyone want it so badly as you did back at the castle.”

“I suppose you prefer to give than receive.”

“You suppose correctly. Legs wider.”

Saul shifted. He was hard again, and Randolph leaned forward, getting his mouth to the straining prick and taking it in slowly even as he worked his finger into Saul’s body. Saul was making pleasingly incoherent noises. Randolph pinned his other arm with his free hand, running fingernails over the sensitive elbow crook, and elicited a yelp.

“Good?” he said, around his mouthful.

“Christ, yes.”

“Excellent. If you’re wondering why you’re on your back, it’s because I intend to make you come till your legs won’t hold you up.”