Chapter 33 #2
Beckett returned his attention to the sketches. He paused at the double-page spread of his own body arching over the viewer. Something dark and satisfied flashed over his face, and he slid Arden a heavy look.
And then he reached the double-page spread of his face, sketched over and over from all different angles but always with the same expression.
He stopped.
Arden hadn’t looked at the stupid sketches since he’d drawn them, trying to shake that expression out of his head so he’d stop seeing it every night before he fell asleep.
Beckett was so still, Arden didn’t think he was breathing.
The sketches were rough. Barely more than a suggestion of a form. The eyes, though, and the cruel, beautiful mouth?
Those were drawn in painful, lifelike detail.
Beckett took a deep, slow breath, and lifted his head to look at Arden.
Arden fidgeted, cleared his throat, rubbed the side of his nose even though it didn’t itch, and finally met Beckett’s eyes.
They weren’t, as he’d expected, indignant, or critical, or even defensive. They were soft. A little sad. Arden blinked.
Beckett nudged him gently. “Reckon you should let me keep these ones,” he said.
Arden tried to take the book off him. “I’ll draw you again,” he said. “I’ll do a proper portrait. A better one.”
“These are good enough for me.”
“No, I…” He tried again to take the book, but Beckett wouldn’t let him. He tugged at it. “Give me that. Beckett. I’ll draw a nicer one!”
“I’d be happy if you would,” he said, then lightly smacked Arden’s hand with an ah-ah.
Arden snatched his hands to his chest and held them there, wide-eyed with astonishment.
Beckett snorted a laugh.
Arden scowled and went for the book again. Beckett fended him off with insulting ease.
“You can draw me ten thousand times over,” he said. “But these, I need to keep.”
“It’s…just…”
“I know, Arden. I’ve apologised. You’ve accepted it. We’re moving on, you and me. I still need to remember what I did.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Good. I’m glad. You don’t have to.” He shrugged. “I do.”
He set the book down and stood.
Arden’s head fell back and he looked up the long length of Beckett’s body as Beckett loomed.
Beckett smirked, well pleased with whatever he saw on Arden’s face.
Awe, probably. Admiration.
Want.
He held out a hand. Arden unthinkingly took it, and found himself yanked to his feet. Beckett didn’t let go. Instead, he wove his fingers through Arden’s and squeezed.
Curious, Arden squeezed back.
“Come for a walk with me?” Beckett asked gruffly.
“Yes,” Arden said at once.
“Leave your things,” Beckett said when Arden went to gather up the book, his coat, and the small satchel he kept his pencils and sketchbook in. “We’ll come back for them.” He set off.
“Where are we going?” Arden took three quick steps to bring himself alongside Beckett.
“Down to the river. You been?”
“No.”
“Haven’t seen much of the place yet, have you?”
“No.” He’d been trying to stay out of the way.
He’d been trying not to peek at Beckett.
Now, he rather thought that Beckett would enjoy being peeked at. There had been a pleased gleam in his dark eyes when he’d paged through the sketches. Yes, Beckett liked being peeked at. Admired.
Arden was happy to indulge him.
Arden was happy to indulge himself.
He was doing it right now. He looked his fill as they strolled through the meadow, the long grass brushing up over their knees—Arden’s knees, at any rate—and filled with wildflowers.
Arden had known that the river was there from the line of willows and osiers, but when they came upon it, he caught his breath at the broad, lazy ribbon of glinting silver with high banks and small, pebbly bays.
“Like it?” Beckett asked.
Arden had stopped at the sight of it; now, he tried to rush off. He didn’t get very far. Beckett held his hand firmly. “Yes,” he said. “I love it!”
“Decent fishing,” Beckett said. “Caught a couple of trout in there myself once or twice.”
Arden turned to walk backwards, pulling at Beckett. He liked that he couldn’t move him. He liked the sensation of straining to try anyway.
“Though,” Beckett continued, “not as like you’re probably imagining.”
“How am I imagining?” Arden gave a grunt and pulled harder. Beckett smiled. Arden grabbed his wrist with his free hand and used both to tug. He got nowhere.
How delightful.
“Think it’s a fair guess to say you’re imagining me standing there, holding my rod, waiting for a bite,” Beckett said.
Arden bit his lip. He hadn’t been imagining Beckett and his rod, actually.
He was now.
“Hah,” Beckett said, a chuff of amusement that sent a thrill through Arden. “Saucy little thing, aren’t you?”
“I am not!”
“No? You’re not thinking about my cock, then?”
Arden stumbled.
“No. Of course you’re not. Anyway, not being a fine lord with time on his hands for that sort of fishing, I do it the old-fashioned way.”
“What’s…? How else can you catch a fish? Oh. A net?”
“Could use a net, I s’pose. I tickle them.”
Arden stopped dead. Beckett bumped into him and kept walking, slinging an arm around Arden’s waist and keeping him upright as he propelled him backwards. “Tickle them?” Arden said with disbelief. “The fish?”
“Yeah.” Beckett skimmed his hands up Arden’s sides to feather over his ribs. “Like this.”
Arden shrieked and writhed.
Beckett’s eyes flew comically wide, then narrowed with delight. “That’s quite a reaction, ain’t it?”
“Beckett! Beckett!”
He did it again, digging his fingers in this time.
Arden surprised them both by twisting free. They stared at each other for a second before Arden yelped and set off running.
Beckett had him in two strides, and hefted him clean off his feet.
“Don’t tickle me!” Arden yelled happily. “I hate it!”
Beckett set him down and turned him around by the hips. “I think you like it,” he said, and set his hands flat to Arden’s ribs. He tensed his fingers teasingly.
Arden grabbed hold of his forearms even as he swayed closer. “Noooo.”
Beckett laughed. “All right, all right. I won’t do it again.”
“Promise?” Arden smiled up at him.
Beckett’s laughter faded and his voice was heavy with meaning when he said, slowly, “Yes, Arden. I promise.”
To break the unsettling tension, Arden boldly popped up onto his toes and pressed a quick kiss to Beckett’s warm neck.
He’d been aiming for his mouth, but he was standing on a downward slope and couldn’t quite make it.
He dropped flat, took hold of Beckett’s hand, and resumed tugging him towards the water.
“So how did you really catch the trout?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder and giving another encouraging tug.
“Tickled it,” Beckett said. “Told you.”
Arden rolled his eyes for Beckett to see.
“You never heard of trout tickling?”
“No. You’re making fun of me.”
“Am not. You telling me you never went down to the river with your friends?”
Arden glanced away, blushing. “No, Jack was more Lassit’s friend than mine. And we didn’t have a river at Dalbryn. We had a lake.”
“Got a couple of those here too, as well as this river, a little one that goes through the forest over there, and plenty of streams besides. But this river’s the best for trout tickling.
And what you do is, you go walking along the riverbank, and you keep an eye out for a nice shady overhang, a ledge or a rock where a trout might be resting. ”
Beckett turned them to follow the direction of the current.
“Mm-hmm,” Arden said.
“And you settle yourself down on the bank, nice and quiet, somewhere comfortable. Somewhere you don’t mind settling for a while. It can take time, you see.” He stopped walking, and drew Arden down to the grass with him.
“Have you spotted one?” Arden whispered.
“No,” he whispered back. “But if I had…”
“What? What would you do?”
Beckett contemplated him, then made a soft sound. He reached out and pushed Arden gently backwards.
Arden fell to his elbows. When Beckett continued to exert gentle pressure, he lay flat.
Beckett’s shadow fell over him. “You’re the trout,” he said with a flicker of amusement.
Arden stared at him, heart pounding. Then he sucked his cheeks in and pursed his lips like a fish.
Beckett blinked and burst out laughing. “Mm. Prettiest fish I’ve ever seen.” He knelt down and cupped Arden’s jaw, squeezing gently to exaggerate the pout. “Now. Tickling a pretty little trout like you isn’t the same as tickling a pretty little omega.”
“No?” Arden’s lips were buzzing. Sadly, just from his silliness and not from being kissed.
Beckett shook his dark head. “No. It’s more stroking than tickling. Point isn’t to make it squeal.”
Arden scowled. “I don’t squeal.”
Beckett smiled and slowly, watching for Arden’s reaction, rested his hand on one of his thighs. At Arden’s emphatic nod, he let his index finger drift up over Arden’s groin, and—
He snorted.
Arden had curled up at once, his stomach shivering and his breath catching.
Beckett waited for him to straighten himself out before trying again. “See, it’s a gentle touch to lull them, like this, and—”
Arden curled up again. “I can’t help it!” he said, throwing an arm over his eyes and pushing his hips up.
Beckett hauled him up to sitting and they stared at each other. Beckett’s eyes were dark and his cheeks showed that telltale flush over his cheekbones that Arden had come to learn was arousal, not anger or embarrassment. Beckett sighed and stood, drawing Arden up with him.
Arden did a terrible job of hiding his disappointment.
He’d thought…
For a moment there, he’d thought that perhaps…
Beckett kissed him, hard and fast. “All right,” he said, curling over Arden to rest his cheek on top of Arden’s head. “I want to fuck you, Arden.”
Arden tensed in his arms. “I want that, too.”
“Here’s what I want more, though. You and Jack together, first. I want to be there when he takes you. I know he wants that.”
“Have you talked about it?”
“Yes.”
Should he be offended? He really wasn’t. He felt relieved, if anything.
“Do you want that, Arden?” Beckett eased Arden away to gaze down at his blazing-hot face.
“I do,” Arden said shyly.
Beckett ran the backs of his fingers over the curve of Arden’s cheek. “So we’ll hold on until he gets here. Yes?”
Arden nodded.
Beckett took his hand and they resumed their walk along the riverbank.
“I still don’t believe you about the trout, though,” Arden said.
“I’ll show you one day. It’s easy as anything. You just have to be gentle and patient, and stroke it sweet, and it’s yours.”
“Like me,” Arden said, and tried his best not to laugh when Beckett tripped.
His best wasn’t good enough, which was how he ended up getting chased all the way back up to the chestnut tree where he’d left his sketchbook, as if he was a young omega in love for the very first time rather than a staid old thirty-something omega who should know better, and didn’t care.