Chapter 22 #2
The way he knew, deep down, he never would.
The kisses slowed, heated, deepened, until he sighed and blinked up into the wicked black eyes now above his, and tensed. “Godsdammit.”
“Ah-ah.” Jack had Beckett’s wrists pinned either side of his head. That wasn’t what kept him immobile. It was the knee tucked between his thighs and pressing into his heavy, swollen balls that did it. “That’s more like it.”
Beckett glared.
“You,” Jack told him, “are about a thousand times more perfect than I even dreamed you’d be.”
Beckett’s face stung with heat and he made a disgruntled sound at the back of his throat.
“Oh, you don’t like compliments at all, do you?”
“Don’t need no sweet-talking.”
“What do you need?”
“Orgasm would be nice.”
“Yes?” He shifted the thigh between Beckett’s legs. The pressure was too hard and too much of a warning to be pleasurable.
He liked it anyway.
“How do you want it?” Jack said.
“My dick in you.” Worth putting it out there. He could have changed his mind since they discussed it in the library.
“No.” Jack shook his head.
Ah, well. He’d tried.
“My dick in you?” Jack said.
Beckett gave a short laugh. “Nah.”
“How about this then?” Jack resettled himself between Beckett’s spread legs and wrapped a hand around both of them. As far as he could, anyway. Neither of them were small.
Beckett huffed.
It was odd. It was odd.
Jack gave them a long slow pull and Beckett groaned. “Have you been with an alpha before?” Jack asked.
“What? Yes!”
“Not used to being on your back, then?”
“No.” Not used to being in a bed, either.
Jack stared at him for a moment. “All right.” He let go of their cocks and rolled Beckett, dragging him over on top. “You can get used to it another day. We can start here.”
Beckett moved against him in one quick, hard thrust.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Jack demanded.
It really wasn’t. And, Beckett thought smugly, he proved it, fucking hard against Jack as Jack thrust back up against him.
They were both gasping by the time he tipped his weight onto one elbow, stuffed a hand between them, and grabbed both their cocks.
He worked them as best he could while they were both humping each other for all they were worth.
As for Jack, he did his part by shoving his tongue into Beckett’s mouth and kissing the breath clean out of him.
There was nothing left in the world but that beautiful, erotic slide in his body, against his body. Beckett’s growls pitched higher and faster. He tore his mouth away, just to get enough air in.
Jack started talking then, his voice rough and low. Beckett didn’t hear a word of it. Probably more compliments or some such nonsense, going on the tone. He liked it, though. You wouldn’t think it, but he liked it.
Liked knowing that he wasn’t the only one who couldn’t believe how good this was, how easy, how perfect, how—
Jack bit his lip, hard, and came beneath him.
His release ripped Beckett clean over the edge with him, and he fell.
When he woke, he did it slowly and with the languid satisfaction that typically weighted his limbs after coming spectacularly hard.
He smiled dreamily. His entire body was still so sensitised that the sheet beneath him and the cover draped over his legs felt as light and soft as silk.
His eyes popped open.
It was silk.
He’d been lying on his side, and at the sudden realisation of where he was, he shoved up to an elbow and immediately regretted it when his lower back twinged. He hissed and flopped back to the mattress. Shit.
A heavy arm landed on his waist and curled him backwards and into the cradle of a long, hot body. “Not yet,” Jack murmured. His deep, rich voice was huskier than usual, the words blurred and soft.
There was no order or authority in his words. He wasn’t asking, either; it was pure complaint.
Beckett reached back and pushed the arm off him, scooting himself to the edge of the bed and up.
Jack groaned behind him. He’d flopped to his front when Beckett moved, and had his face mashed in the pillows. He muttered something.
“Eh?” Beckett said, hands on hips, staring at that round, fine arse draped in midnight blue silk.
Jack lifted his head all of an inch. “I said, you’re going to be the death of me. I hope you are, anyway. Stay the night?”
Beckett snorted and stalked around the room, picking up his clothes. “Thank you, Your Grace, I will not. Some of us have to be up and workin’ in a matter of hours.” He pulled his breeches up and slipped his shirt over his head.
“I meant to sleep.”
Bollocks he did. “Better in my own bed.”
“Suit yourself.” Jack yawned and dragged the covers down, exposing his naked arse and making Beckett stagger. He’d been standing on one foot tugging on his shoe. The prick had done that on purpose.
Beckett moved over to the side of the bed, sat on it to get his other shoe on, then leaned over Jack, bracing an arm over him and sliding fingers beneath his chin, turning his face to Beckett.
He looked younger. Not young. Younger. His black eyes were slumberous, and he smiled widely. A small dimple flickered at the side of his mouth. Beckett touched it with his thumb.
Jack just watched him.
Beckett leaned down and kissed him. “I’m at your service,” he said gruffly, surprising himself.
Normally, he’d have phrased it differently. Something along the lines of, You want some more of the same, you let me know.
He stood, and glanced back with surprise when Jack caught his wrist. “And I am at yours,” he said
Beckett gave him a small nod, and left.
And that, Beckett realised almost four years later as he lay on the rough but clean sheets of the posting inn, lazily stroking himself and thinking of his beloved, was Jack for you.
It had been the perfect thing to say. Sidestepped the chip on Beckett’s shoulder before he could go and let his pride get in the way of a good thing.
His hand now was moving fast, making noises in the quiet of the inn room.
As he continued to work his way towards climax, he indulged himself in more memories of him and Jack together. Their encounters were always rough and exciting.
He thought of Arden—how different it had been with the shy omega, how that unwanted, unknown tenderness had risen in him.
How he’d tempered himself. How he’d set aside all the aggression and demand that he and Jack both delighted in, to coax Arden towards pleasure, protecting him while he reached for it, holding him and soothing him while he came down from it.
At least…Beckett’s hand stuttered and the smile on his face fell. He’d been that way the first time.
The second time, he hadn’t been kind.
He hadn’t coaxed Arden. He’d held himself back. He’d given him what he needed, but since he hadn’t managed to make Arden command him, he’d made Arden beg instead. Over and over. Made Arden be the one to reach for him.
He’d been a right arsehole, hadn’t he? Cruel bastard.
Well. His sensual grip turned workmanlike and he jerked himself briskly, no longer in the mood to draw it out. It wasn’t as if he could go back and rewrite things. Good job he was on the way to fixing it.
Instead of thinking about the shock of Arden’s hot tears against Beckett’s fingertips as he’d asked to be held before he ran away, Beckett thought instead of laying Arden down on a soft, warm bed, in a gently lit room.
He thought about reassuring him before guiding him into Jack’s arms. He thought about watching his lovers together.
Beckett came with a grunt of satisfaction. Yeah. He’d been Arden’s first. He’d be there when Arden was Jack’s first.
It would all be perfect.
He’d get them there.
See if he didn’t.