Chapter 38 #3
“Yes,” D’Arcy said sheepishly. He shook his head and set the pistol down whence it came. “Always.”
“I’m sorry,” Vitaliy said, “for startling you.”
“Not at all,” D’Arcy said. “You’d do the same.” He sidestepped out of the way so that Vitya’s blue-hot gaze fell right upon Everard.
“Yes,” Vitaliy said.
Another man might have mistaken Vitaliy’s state for rage, or jealousy. Not him. No—Vitya was burning with sheer, untethered desire. After the past few weeks enduring its presence, Everard would’ve thought himself slightly more inured.
But he wasn’t. Not at all. His mouth had gone dry, his lips numbed.
Vitya came closer, steps heavy and sure. Everard remained seated. Vitya had never used his bulk to intimidate him, and certainly didn’t now. Furthermore, Everard wanted him. Like hell was he moving.
When Vitya was within a breath, he bent over the armchair, lifted Everard’s chin. He placed trembling hands on either side of Everard’s face, pulled him even closer.
“He’s had you?” Confirmation, not accusation.
Distantly behind them, D’Arcy snorted. “Such faith.”
“Er. Yes,” Everard said.
Vitya kissed him, sudden, fierce, and encompassing. Everard moaned against it, overwhelmed. It was the first hard, thorough kiss Vitya had bestowed upon him since before Galveztown; the rest had been soft, cautious, sweet. The contrast was dizzying.
Vitya broke off, forehead on Everard’s. “Good. I’m sorry. I waited as long as I could bear.”
“You waited quite a bit longer than that!” Everard protested. If Vitya would only keep kissing him—Everard was tired, but surely he could be hauled to the cot and kissed some more—“You can’t just pass me off, you know.”
“I’m sorry,” Vitya said again. “I trust the lieutenant. He is yours. And,” he whispered, “I want too much. I want everything.”
Everard shook his head. “You needn’t have waited to come in, at least. Right, Preston?”
Best to have it out there, really.
“A-men,” D’Arcy said. He was going round, locking the doors to the companionway, the printing parlour. All things considered, it was a smart move. Rather considerate. Forward-thinking. Everard dearly hoped it was forward-thinking. That there would soon be something worth locking a door for.
“I will keep it in mind,” Vitaliy said, “for the future. Thank you. But for tonight…”
He looked up over his shoulder, found what he wanted.
Which… which…
I want everything.
Oh. Oh.
D’Arcy laughed when he caught Vitya’s gaze. “Oh, hell. Really, Vee? Now? I should’ve gone, shouldn’t I?”
Despite this declaration—whatever it meant—he sat at the desk and began to remove his boots.
“No,” Vitaliy whispered. His eyes were back on Everard; it was like being in a corner, stalked and waiting to be eaten. “Your place is here, Lieutenant.”
D’Arcy made a skeptical noise. “Happy to oblige, in any case.”
“I beg pardon,” Everard said, “But I am well and truly lost.”
D’Arcy laughed again, slightly brittle. “He wants me as proxy, Everard.” He removed his shirt, tossed it aside. “So he can wreck you. Without wrecking you. Yes, all right, Vee.”
Vitya nodded his acknowledgment.
“What?” Everard exclaimed. “That’s not… Is that quite fair? I don’t need a bloody… proxy. And what… what d’you mean by wreck?”
Vitya didn’t look away. He smiled.
What did he mean, indeed.
“In better world,” Vitya said patiently, “I’d have you both. But I cannot. I have only this one. These circumstances. And you”—he pointed—“do not argue, matelot—you are still recovering. So. Do you want to watch me fuck him until he cannot stand?”
Everard stared. Behind him came a soft curse.
“I… Jesus. What a question, Vitya.”
Of all the things they’d done… he tried to imagine it.
Vitaliy waited, slightly withdrawn, rapt but patient.
D’Arcy was muttering to himself and hauling drawers off his hips like a resentful youth; the prick that sprang free was all man. The urgency of it seemed to find Vitya’s question a foregone conclusion.
Everard swallowed.
“It is too much.” Vitaliy withdrew more, expression shuttering.
Everard grasped frantically to keep him close.
“No, no—it isn’t. Yes. God. Do. Do fuck him.
I’d love to watch that. I really would. If this is how you want it, please.
Preston’s said yes. He clearly wants it too.
So yes. But—” He palmed his face. “Put— The sun’s going? ” he muttered. “Maybe put a lamp on?”
D’Arcy laugh-groaned. By now, he was lying on his back in the cot, and had a hand going steadily over his stand, up and down; his other hand was ringless once again, fingers deep inside himself.
Vitya smiled. “Good.”
He kissed Everard once more, long and thorough, then pushed back and indeed lit a lamp—two lamps. He approached the cot, not even bothering to undress.
D’Arcy was naked to skin that glowed tawny gold in the lamplight. Vitaliy kept everything on except boots, undoing only his breeches fall. The contrast was thrilling, especially as he climbed up and knelt, shuffling forward, coat and stiff prick swaying alike with the movement of the cot.
“Ever?” D’Arcy croaked. He wanted confirmation.
“Yes, Preston. As long as you want it.”
D’Arcy huffed. “Does it look like I don’t? I want to know that you do.”
“I want it,” Everard said, roughly; and that was enough for both men.
Vitaliy straddled D’Arcy, and leaned in, hips forward, body covering body. D’Arcy gasped, and Vitaliy kissed him, as thoroughly and totally as he had just kissed Everard.
Had he seen the two of them truly kiss before? Everard couldn’t, couldn’t remember, his brain was clogged screws and gears just then, but surely not; just as surely, the sight of it was seared into him forevermore.
In kissing Vitaliy, D’Arcy didn’t fight or claim; he melted, groaned, and softly reciprocated. Did Everard look like that? Was D’Arcy playacting his place, mimicking Everard, or were his gasps truly, honestly sincere?
They looked sincere.
“Sweet,” Vitya murmured, pulling back. “Like fruit. Both of you. You made him eat?”
D’Arcy scowled, only half-successfully. “Sod off and fuck me, Vee.”
Vitaliy grunted, but he sounded pleased.
Then he licked down D’Arcy’s neck, the whole length of it, and bit sharply at a bare, shining collarbone; and proxy, Everard’s arse, he’d never done such a thing in making love to Everard.
This was all for D’Arcy, who liked a bit of sharp, who gasped and writhed now. “Vee.”
Vitya sat back and pulled fuzzed thighs wide; D’Arcy was pliant and moveable, undemanding, pending.
D’Arcy had said, Just he and I together, it isn’t.
Everard whispered, “You’re such a liar, Preston.”
D’Arcy laughed, panting. “I tried,” he said, sounding slightly strangled. Vitya had apparently decided D’Arcy’s preparations insufficient; his fingers worked steadily inside, curving. “Thought it would hel— Oohh. Fu-uck, Vee.”
Vitaliy shook his head, amused. “What did you tell him, Lieutenant?”
“That you aren’t a very good…unh… lover.”
“No, that isn’t— Preston.”
Vitaliy laughed softly, unoffended.
“Well,” Everard corrected, “he perhaps implied you and he were... incompatible.”
Vitaliy raised an eyebrow that said, Truly?
“And said that you and he… hadn’t. Since before York.”
“Oh, yes,” Vitya said. “That’s true.” He twisted his fingers, and D’Arcy bucked. “But before then…” He pulled his idle hand through his hair, smiled the tiny, knowing smile of a benevolent god. “Much, before then.”
“Christ.” D’Arcy clutched at sheets. “I think he’s gathered. Vee, would you just—” He groaned, threw his head back, sheen on his top lip and all over, the day’s stubble sparking in the flickering light.
“Yes. I will.” Vitya glanced up once more. “How do you want him?”
Everard startled. “Hmm?”
“Ever,” D’Arcy breathed. He raised a shiny hand and gestured in a way that’d previously meant, Which way should he like to take him?
“Oh.” Good God. The options fanned before Everard in a spread—most of them memories of D’Arcy himself—impossible to choose from.
Almost. Luckily, the way he preferred to receive and the way D’Arcy did were the same.
“On your stomach. Arse—” He cleared his throat, “Arse up. Off the end of ’er. He’ll want a steady base.”
“Fuck,” D’Arcy muttered; but he flipped, shimmied, stacked pillows, and arched, and— “C’mon, Vee.”
Vitaliy climbed off the cot. He pushed knees wide, leaned forward, hands spreading, and sank in straightaway, no hesitation.
Then D’Arcy was his usual impatient self: he pushed back, writhed up, demanding, until Vitya put both hands on shoulders and pinned him, arms taut, and rasped, “No.”
“Oh, lord,” Everard said.
With an almighty breath, Vitya thrust once, brutally, sheathing himself totally.
D’Arcy went boneless and shuddering; Vitya drew back and did it again.
And again, and again, slow and powerful and merciless.
Then, with D’Arcy panting and encouraging in whispers, he leaned, pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, flung the coat up out of the way—Everard staggered at the sight, at the reminder that he was meant to watch—and let himself to the abandon of thrusting.
And strangely, the most erotic part of it wasn’t the actions, or the pants and the staccato groans D’Arcy made into the bedclothes, nor Vitya’s taut arms, nor even the slaps of flesh on flesh as Vitya let him have it as hard as he could give it.
It was the trust. Trust these men were giving to each other, and to him.
Him, Everard. D’Arcy gave his body over totally and completely, giving Vitya freedom to go as hard as he would for the sake of Everard, but without fear of actual harm.
Vitya gave his utter abandon of dignity, held the weight of knowledge that D’Arcy could take it, gave the trust of that fact right back. Safe. Safe.
And both of them trusted that Everard could take it—would see it all and understand and want it and encourage it. Safe.