Chapter 4
Four
The night with Howard Bradford was every bit as glorious as the rumors said it would be.
Yves did not know if it was the specific skills and sixth sense for pleasure that Bradford had gathered over the years or whether it was his complete lack of inhibition in employing those skills, but the heights of passion that the man took him to, three times throughout the night, were like nothing Yves had ever known.
He'd been worried at first that Bradford would be put off by his eagerness for things that he had once considered depravity. Yves knew enough to know that not every man of their type actually enjoyed having another man’s cock pumping away inside them.
He loved it, though, and Howard seemed more than happy to indulge him.
He did not so much enjoy performing fellatio, but Howard seemed to understand that, and evidently, he did not share Yves’ qualms. He’d woken Yves up after a few hours of sleep by sucking him to orgasm while he was still in a dreamlike, half-sleep state, then had flipped him over and pounded him into the pillows in a way that was sure to leave Yves walking strangely for a week.
Then, after another sleep, they’d woken up again, and Yves had straddled Bradford and ridden his cock like he was galloping toward the gates of Elysium while Bradford closed a fist around his erection and used Yves’ own momentum to bring him to climax at just the right moment.
It was a night Yves would never forget as long as he lived, but as the first fingers of dawn poked through the heavy curtains shielding Bradford’s bedroom window, Yves knew it was over.
After all, Bradford had gotten exactly what he wanted.
He’d had Yves every which way, bringing them both unimaginable pleasure.
But everyone knew that when Howard Bradford bestowed his favor on a man and claimed him for bedsport, it was merely a temporary thing and he would move on to the next man.
Knowing that did not ease the sadness in Yves’ heart. He awoke for that final time before Bradford and took a moment for himself to simply lie nestled against the man’s side, dreaming about what had been and what might have been.
The aspect of his relationship with David that he’d loved so much was feeling that he was not alone.
He craved sexual congress like it was a glass of cool water after a voyage through a desert, but he loved simply being with a man, sharing his time and the heat of his body, just as much.
He missed having a companion whom he loved to pass his days with.
He missed laughing with someone who shared his heart and feeling completely at ease in another man’s company.
Sleep had well and truly left him, but he sighed and pressed closer to Bradford, imagining what their life might look like if they lived the rest of it together.
Bradford was the older and far more experienced of the two of them, so he would naturally assume the more dominant role.
Yves had no qualms at all about letting his lover lead him and learning about the world and the delights of the flesh under his tutelage.
But perhaps there were things that he could offer as well.
Was Bradford versed in accountancy? He mentioned that he had amassed something of a fortune, but did he have someone who knew money as if it were a game he had mastered and who could make that money increase for him?
Did he have a sense for feelings and interactions with others?
Could he use someone who might check his bullish tendencies now and then or whisper in his ear that he needed to be kind as well as attractive?
Yves sighed. He could imagine a beautiful scenario for the two of them, but he did not think it was wise. A leopard did not change its spots, and it was more or less a given that Bradford would be done with him now. It was well known that that was how Howard Bradford conducted himself.
Because he did not wish to linger where he was not wanted, Yves slowly pulled away from his one-night lover. Bradford grunted and shifted a bit in sleep as though he were searching for him to bring him back into his arms, but Yves carefully moved out of his reach.
He paused for a moment at the side of the bed, watching as Bradford sank back into a deeper sleep.
The man truly was gorgeous. His well-toned body was capable of amazing things.
Despite his white hair and beard, Yves was uncertain how old Bradford actually was.
Many men turned grey at an early age. Bradford certainly had the stamina of a man half his age.
The lines on his face spoke more of merriment and happiness than the weight of maturity.
Yves sighed again before slipping out of bed entirely and padding to the screen in the corner that held the room’s chamber pot.
He used it carefully, trying not to make too much noise.
Once he was done there, he took up the sponge that rested on the small table beside the chamber pot and, using the pitcher and basin that were already there, he gave himself a quick clean so that he would not sully his clothes from the day before when he put them on.
He would bathe much more thoroughly once he returned to his room, where he had the proper equipment.
He was halfway through dressing when Bradford rolled over, reached across the bed, then grunted when he found it empty. He sucked in a breath when he found the bed beside him cold, then turned to his other side and sat up slightly so he could watch Yves.
“Good morning,” he mumbled, still groggy with sleep.
“Good morning to you,” Yves said softly in reply. His heart beat faster, and a small part of him hoped and prayed that Bradford would order him to remove his clothing and come back to bed with him, even though parts of him were far too sore for more of the night’s endeavors.
Instead, Bradford flopped onto his back, stretched like a bear after hibernating, and said, “That was lovely.”
Yves smiled, but something in his core wilted. Yes, it had been lovely. He had enjoyed every moment, every sigh and gasp, and every jerk of his body as it accepted and released pleasure. He did not want any of it to be over.
“How are you faring this morning?” he asked, carrying his shoes over to the bed and sitting within Bradford’s reach so that he could put them on.
“Very well,” Bradford answered with a lazy smile. He rolled to his side again, half curled around Yves, and rested a hand on Yves’ thigh with his fingers dangerously close to parts of Yves that still wanted to play. “Very well indeed.”
Yves smiled even as his heart clenched. Ask me back to bed.
Ask me to stay with you, now and always, he thought to himself.
There was so much more he wanted to know about Bradford, so many stories he wanted the man to tell, and that he wanted to confide in Bradford in return.
It was uncanny how his soul just seemed to trust Bradford when he trusted so few people.
Bradford said nothing, though. He closed his eyes and for a moment seemed to drift off to sleep again. Yves worked slowly to put his shoes on and to fasten them, then, when there was nothing left he could do to delay the moment of parting, he gently shifted off the bed.
“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” he said quietly, then bent to kiss Bradford’s cheek.
Bradford hummed in his sleep and smiled, then half opened one eye, “I should be thanking you,” he said. “You were glorious, my angel.”
Those words tugged hard on Yves’ heartstrings. There was so much finality in them. It seemed inevitable that the moment had come for their interlude to be over.
Yves stood and tiptoed to the door. In their haste to get into bed the night before, they’d never shut the door between the bedroom and the suite’s main room.
Yves shut it now as he crept away. It physically hurt to do so.
He did not want to close the door on something that had been so beautiful and held such potential.
He would have been a fool if he’d pursued things, though. Bradford’s reputation was well-known. Yves sighed as he left the suite, then hurried through the quiet halls of The Chameleon Club and down one floor to his own humble room.
He did not need to worry about being quiet or slow once he was safe in his own sanctuary.
He stripped out of his clothes, gave himself a much more thorough bath, though he was sad to remove every trace of Bradford in or around him, then dressed for the day in fresh clothing.
He took a moment to simply sit at the vanity near his window, which looked into the club’s frozen back garden, thinking over everything that had happened.
There seemed no point in sitting there regretting something that could never be, though, so he got up and went downstairs.
Of course, everyone would know what he and Bradford had been up to.
He did his best not to walk or sit gingerly, once he made it to his usual table in the dining room, but the light abrasions around his mouth and on his neck where Bradford’s beard had scratched him would be glaringly obvious to all.
As was the beauty of The Brotherhood, nobody said a thing to Yves. He received some sly, approving looks, to be sure, but none of them came with censure or teasing. At least, not the vicious kind Guillame had always been prone toward.
As if thoughts of his brother had brought that part of his world flying back at him, one of the club’s footmen approached his table as he was cutting his sausage with a letter in his hand.
“This came for you quite early, Mr. Clermont,” the page said with a smile, setting the letter by the side of Yves’ plate. Yves thought nothing of it until the footman continued with, “It was delivered by hand with a request that the sender receive a reply today.”
That piqued Yves’ curiosity. Partially because he recognized Yvette’s handwriting in the way the envelope was addressed.
“Thank you, Giles,” Yves said with a tight smile.