Chapter Seventeen #2
Lex pushed the tip in. The glass slid past the first ring of muscle, and Barnaby’s breath left him in a rush.
His thighs opened wider, knees bending, feet flat on the mattress, and Lex watched the smooth blue-green glass disappear into his body inch by inch.
The gold threads caught the lamplight as the shaft turned in his hand.
Barnaby let out a full-throated and broken moan, the kind that couldn’t be faked or suppressed, and it made Lex’s whole body tighten. He pushed deeper, angling the dildo upward, and Barnaby’s hips rolled against it, his body pulling it in rather than resisting it.
That was new. That was entirely fucking new.
They’d done fingers quite a bit. Fingers had been good; Barnaby liked them, could relax around them, and could come from them if Lex was patient and got the angle right. But he’d never moved like this. He’d never pushed back and asked for more.
“Good?” Lex asked.
“Don’t stop.” Barnaby’s hand found Lex’s wrist and gripped it to hold him in place. His fingers dug in hard enough to leave marks. “Don’t stop, Lex.”
Lex didn’t stop. He set a rhythm, slow and deep, pulling the dildo almost all the way out before pushing it back in with a twist that pressed the curved head against Barnaby’s prostate on every stroke.
Barnaby’s hips moved, meeting the thrust, his timing instinctive and right for the first time since they’d started doing this.
His back arched, his stomach pulling taut, the muscles of his abdomen clenching in waves.
His cock leaked a steady thread of precome onto his belly.
Barnaby was loud. This was the discovery of the evening.
Barnaby Fitznorman-Bicester, who controlled every expression, who held his composure through injury, orgasm, and emotional devastation with the same locked jaw and level stare, was loud when you fucked him with a glass dildo in his childhood bedroom at his ancestral family estate.
He moaned. He swore. He said Lex’s name in a voice that cracked in the middle, and when Lex increased the pace his hand flew up and gripped the brass railing of the headboard hard enough to make the metal creak.
“Lex — fuck — right there, right there, don’t—”
His back arched off the mattress. His thighs were trembling, spread wide, his heels digging into the bed for leverage.
Lex could see everything: the dildo working in and out of his body, his stretched rim pink and slick around the glass, the wet mess of lube and precome on his stomach.
Barnaby’s face was flushed from his chest to his temples, his lips bitten red, his hair dark with sweat against the pillow.
Lex reached up with his free hand and wrapped it around Barnaby’s cock.
The angle was awkward, his left hand working the dildo while his right stroked Barnaby’s shaft, but Barnaby’s response was immediate.
His hips bucked, fucking up into Lex’s fist while pushing back onto the dildo, and the dual sensation pulled a sob out of him.
Lex’s own cock was straining against his jeans, untouched and aching. He ignored it. This wasn’t about him. This was about Barnaby learning that his body could do this, that it could take something inside it and want it and move with it instead of locking up and enduring it.
“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” Lex said. “Look at you, all opened up for me.”
Barnaby’s hand left the headboard. He covered his face with his forearm, hiding his eyes, and Lex pulled it away.
“No. Look at me.”
Barnaby’s grey eyes were blown wide, the pupils swallowing the colour, and they were wet and overwhelmed. Lex held his gaze and twisted the dildo, pressing it deep and holding it there, and Barnaby came.
His whole body seized. His cock pulsed in Lex’s hand, come streaking across his stomach in thick, white ropes that reached his chest. His back arched so hard his shoulders lifted off the bed, and the sound he made was raw and uncontrolled and loud enough that Lex’s hand faltered on the dildo.
Barnaby collapsed. His chest heaved. His legs fell open, boneless, and the dildo slipped free with a wet sound. Lex set it aside and looked at Barnaby, who was lying in a wreck of come and sweat and lube, his hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes closed, breathing in long, shuddering pulls.
Lex wiped his hands on the duvet, and lay down beside him. He gathered Barnaby against his chest, one arm heavy across his ribs, and pressed his mouth to the damp hair at Barnaby’s temple. They lay there until Barnaby’s breathing evened out. Then Lex said, quietly, “Barns.”
“Mm.”
“You were quite loud.”
Barnaby stiffened against him.
“Not a complaint,” Lex said. “I loved it. Every second of it. But your family’s in the house.”
Barnaby twisted in his arms and looked at him with a flat, steady expression that communicated perfect composure and absolutely no intention of discussing this further.
“We’re in a twenty-six-room manor house.
In our own wing.” His voice was hoarse, which somewhat undermined the authority behind his statement. “Nobody heard us.”
Lex grinned. He pulled Barnaby tighter against his chest, and Barnaby went without resistance, tucking his face into the curve of Lex’s neck, his breath warm against Lex’s collarbone.
Florence’s claws clicked somewhere in the corridor outside, and the old house settled around them, creaking in the wind.