Chapter Twelve #2
Mickey’s mouth crashed onto Valentin’s. To hell with “you cannot speak of caring or missing.” And to hell with whatever Valentin was hellbent on stealing.
It mattered not; if this was the end, then Mickey would ensure that every minute of it was strong enough to be carried with him for all time.
Kissing him back, Valentin let loose a hungry sound for evermore dividing Mickey’s life into two halves: before and after.
His arms came up around Mickey’s neck, and as Mickey’s lips parted, Valentin pushed him backwards, then up onto the table.
Papers slid to the floor, a mug of ale sploshed after it as tongues collided.
The kiss turned into a hot, fast carriage ride Mickey never wanted to end.
He felt unhinged, weightless, as if he were melting, devoured by it.
Heat licked over his skin, his body thrummed as he lost himself to the intoxicating sweet nectar of it.
“You kiss as if it is your last,” he gasped when they finally sought air.
Valentin swept his palm across kiss-bruised lips, his expression caught between restlessness and want. “And you kiss as if it is your first.”
“It is. And it was worth the wait.”
Again, Mickey pulled Valentin close, kissing haphazardly across his lover’s face. Kissing away the fear. Kissing away the sorrow of impending loss. Kissing Valentin as if everything now made sense.
They stripped urgently, hungrily devouring each other around discarded cravats and linens.
Bare arsed on the table, Mickey had one boot off, the other still stubbornly attached to him, his trousers and drawers bunched low around it.
Valentin’s firm hand around the back of Mickey’s neck pulled him impossibly closer; his skin tingled a fiery heat where each fingertip pressed against it.
“I’m sorry I’ve waited until now to kiss you,” Mickey panted around Valentin’s mouth. His lover was parting his thighs, dragging Mickey’s arse to the edge of the table, hoisting his free leg high. “I’m sorry for all the time that I’ve wasted.”
Valentin drew away from him for the time it took to spit on his hand.
Then his lips returned to Mickey’s again as his wet fingers worked at Mickey’s entrance.
“And I’m sorry I must depart when I’ve only just found you.
When I’ve only just found the exquisite pleasure of being as one with you. Like this.”
Mickey perched propped up and open on the edge of the table.
Valentin pushed inside him, probing and stroking, thrusting deeper and harder as tender threads of pleasure and pain intertwined.
The pleasure sent Mickey soaring into the firmament, to a place where time dissolved.
And the pain, a weight, pulled him back down to earth, to a place where time was miserly, counted in days, minutes, hours.
Mickey would try to remember Valentin like this—above him, shimmering with pure bliss as he made hot, turbulent love, as every thrust wrenched Mickey’s heart wide open.
Already, the unearthly image was carved into Mickey’s soul, sharp and vivid.
In years to come, he’d be reminded of it—a simple sturdy table would provoke the memory—like an unexpected rainstorm on a day too warm for the weather.
But Mickey would also remember him in other ways.
Valentin asleep across Mickey’s chest, their mingled stale breath the very opposite of sex.
The confluence of the twin blue veins at the crook of his right elbow.
How his brow creased as he arranged two slices of cheese on a plain hunk of bread.
How he looped his ring finger through the handle of a tankard, leaving the smallest one free.
The pride in his voice as he described his blessed fields of lavender.
And in those years to come, Mickey would know the man had loved him deeply, though neither would say it.
It was the beginning of goodbye, but bloody hell, what a good send off.
*
MUCH LATER, DRAGGED into bed, Mickey spreadeagled across his lover, wanting every bit of himself touching every bit of Valentin. He nuzzled into the warm fold behind Valentin’s ear, breathing in the scent of them both, trying to commit it to memory.
“Under that ridiculous accent, you speak English like a native.”
The Frenchman huffed a laugh. “And under your smart one, you mangle it like a drunken sailor.” He pressed his lips to Mickey’s forehead and whispered, “Never more so than when I am deep inside you, and you are in the throes of spending.”
Outside the window, the grey London afternoon was a distant hum. Mickey should be at his desk or patrolling Squire’s main salon or trotting out to Ascot with Sidney. But, for once, he was doing none of those things and cared not a jot.
“My father is English,” Valentin offered into the cool quiet air.
Surprised, Mickey lifted his head. “He is still alive?”
“Yes.” Valentin sighed. “Though his health is declining. I do not know how many years he has left.” He chuckled, his expression turning fond.
“As a child, I learned to speak French from my mother and English from my father. His atrocious command of the French language is amongst his proudest achievements; he hates the country and everything to do with it.”
“Is it love that keeps him there?”
“No, though he cared for my mother very much.” Valentin carded his fingers through Mickey’s short hair. “She died many years ago.” He sucked in a breath. “My father has no choice but live in France. He had to escape England. He…was hounded by the law for a crime he vows he did not commit.”
Mickey had heard such stories before. Tommy swore there wasn’t a single dishonest man inside Newgate. “You believe him?” Mickey tried not to sound too suspicious.
“Yes,” answered Valentin vehemently. “With all my heart. He was a good father to me, and he’s a good man. He has been greatly wronged, and my biggest fear is that he shall die without ever coming back to England. Without ever seeing his home or his family again.”
“What was the crime?”
Valentin tutted, burying the sound in Mickey’s hair. “You ask too many questions. But after my business here is finished, I have vowed to return to him and secure him safe passage to England.” He plopped a kiss on Mickey’s nose. “And then, maybe I shall…ah…retire. A rich and happy man.”
“Your thieving days will be over?”
“Tsk, hush your mouth, Mickey.” Valentin’s hand smoothed a path over Mickey’s bare behind. “I told you we wouldn’t speak of it again. My time as a man of business will be over.”
“Shall you ever return?” Mickey was unsure whether he wanted to hear the answer.
“That depends.” The hand exploring Mickey’s behind became a little more inquisitive. “Maybe I’ll have no need to, not if I have everything precious to me at Verdille.”