A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (9 page)

Henry was instantly concerned. “Did I hurt you?”

Martin laughed. “Maybe a little. I’ll be sore.”

He’d fucked him too hard; he’d worried that something like
this could happen. “I’m sorry, Martin, I—”

“Don’t apologize, Henry. I loved it.” He picked up Henry’s
hand and kissed his fingertips, then pushed himself up to sitting. “I’ll just
go and get cleaned up.”

Henry held him back, hanging onto his arm. “You should rest.
I can do it,” Henry offered. “I can get the basin.”

Martin wrinkled his nose, not liking this idea at all. “No,
I’ll do it. It’s my job.” He got off the bed, moving a little gingerly, and
padded to the bathroom.

Henry listened to the water run, heard Martin splashing, and
lay back on the pillows with a sigh.

He thought again of Martin fondling him while he slept, of
his unselfconscious reactions to Martin’s expert ministrations. How far might
Martin be able to take such play? What if…what if Martin took advantage? What
if Martin touched his hole? He would be relaxed, helpless; he’d moan and spread
his legs, his shameless sleeping self begging Martin to go further. His face
grew hot just thinking about it.

Martin returned with his basin and cloth and sat on the edge
of the bed. Henry let Martin wash his cock, then his fingers. Martin smiled at
him, and Henry tried to put any imaginings about sleeping transgressions out of
mind. Martin wouldn’t do anything Henry wouldn’t want.

“After today, do you have any thoughts about what sort of
party you’d like?”

Henry laughed. “You want to start planning tonight? Right
now
?”

“We could just discuss ideas. We needn’t make
plans
until later, if you don’t want.” He finished wiping Henry’s fingers with the
warm, wet cloth and dropped it back in the basin.

“I don’t know anywhere near as many people as Jesse does,”
Henry noted.

“Anyone you might invite will want to come to your party,”
Martin said with confidence.

“Because I’m a Blackwell, right?” Henry rolled his eyes.

“I think it’s a nice advantage to have built-in popularity.”

“You’re probably right about that,” Henry agreed. “Say, what
would
you
want for a birthday present?”

“Me? Oh, I don’t know. I think I have everything I need.”
Martin seemed perfectly willing to discount the idea of a present entirely, and
Henry didn’t appreciate this.

“Don’t just dismiss the idea out of hand. I’d like to do
something special for you, Martin. Think about it. You must want something.
Anything I can give you, Martin.”

Seeming chastised, Martin said, “Of course. I’ll think about
it.” After a brief pause, he said, “But today…did you like the band? They were
quite good, but I wonder if we could do better.”

“Will we even need a band? How can we have dancing? I don’t
know any girls at all.”

“You’ll meet girls at the ball, and you met those young
ladies today. That Miss Sinclair seemed to like you quite well.”

“She was a good dancer.” Henry thought a moment. “Really,
there were a few who were quite good.”

“I can find out their names and we can invite them. And the
boys, too; you could invite Mr. Wilton’s friends, if you’d like.”

He could have Perry Whitman in his own house! He immediately
felt guilty about how excited he was by the idea; he had, after all, just
shared incredible sex with Martin, who he loved. “Yes…” he said slowly. “I
could. I liked them, didn’t you?”

“I did. Their slaves, too.” He stretched out on his stomach
at Henry’s side and drew little circles in Henry’s chest hair with his
fingertips. “I do enjoy seeing other Ganymede boys.”

“Even if they weren’t in your whatsit, your group.”

“My cohort. It was still nice to see them, though.”

“That Warren was Superior, like you, I guess. Gene told me.”

“Yes, Warren was much admired at Ganymede. He deserved a
good master, and I’m glad he’s so happy with Mr. Vermeulen.”

“How happy, exactly?” Henry asked, thinking of Jesse’s games.

“Talking with the others, I get the impression that Mr.
Wilton’s friends are less concerned with what is forbidden and what is allowed
than your friends are.”

“Did they say anything specific?”

“Nothing outright. Just hints.”

Henry thought on this awhile. “I used to believe that any
boy who would kiss another boy was a fairy, plain and simple, but I’m not so
sure anymore.” He rolled up onto his side, propped up on his elbow, and toyed
with Martin’s hair. “I always thought the abnormal thing about me was that I
wanted to kiss a man, but I’m beginning to suspect that’s actually pretty
common, if not exactly normal. It’s not wanting to kiss a woman that’s
abnormal.”

“But it’ll be a long time before anyone will expect you to
kiss a woman,” Martin said soothingly. “And you might meet one you want to kiss
someday, don’t you think?”

“No,” Henry said flatly. “You’re what I want, Martin. I
don’t want any other man—” and yet he thought guiltily of Perry Whitman “—and I
definitely
don’t want some woman.”

Martin smiled and rolled onto his side, his knees bumping
into Henry’s. “You have me, Henry. I’m yours. I belong to you.”

Henry smiled back and put his hand flat against Martin’s
chest. “In your heart?”

Martin’s smiled broadened. “Yes, in my heart.” He ducked his
head and kissed Henry’s chest and let himself be drawn close. After a few
minutes of contented quiet, his stomach gurgled and they both laughed.

“Henry? I’m quite hungry. Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” Henry reminded him. “Let’s go
downstairs.”

They put on pajamas and dressing gowns and went down the
back stairs. It was late and all was dark in the kitchen.

“I’ll just wake Ruby, Sir,” Martin said in a loud whisper.
“Wait here.”

Henry stood in the dark and waited. The slick, gleaming
surfaces of the kitchen were highlighted with glowing smears of illumination
from the scant available light. Henry heard footsteps in the hall, talkative
Ruby conversing with Martin.

As she entered the kitchen, she pushed the buttons for the
lights, flooding the room with brilliance.

“Good evening, Sir. Martin tells me you’d like something to
eat?”

“Yes, thank you, Ruby.”

“I can heat up your dinner for you, if you’d like, Sir, or I
can make you something from scratch. Eggs? An omelet?”

Martin said, “Ruby, could you tell Mr. Blackwell what the
slaves had for dinner tonight?”

“Certainly, Martin, but whatever for?”

“Mr. Blackwell has simpler tastes than his parents,” Martin
told her. “He might prefer the slaves’ meal.”

The slave menu was, in fact, to Henry’s liking. Ruby made
them plates of pot roast, boiled potatoes and green peas and put them in the
oven to warm along with a few yeast rolls.

“There’s also devil’s food cake, Sir,” Ruby offered. “You’ll
be needing the cart to take this all upstairs.”

“I’ll bring the cart down when we’re through,” Martin told
her.

“Oh, there’s no need,” Ruby assured him. “I’ll let them know
where it is in the morning.”

They took the cart up in the elevator and Henry leaned over
their food to kiss Martin as the car rose.

It was a lingering kiss, and Martin laughed against Henry’s
lips. “Sir…we shouldn’t risk it, Sir.”

“We’re the only ones up and awake,” Henry countered.
“There’s no one to see.” The elevator came to a stop on the second floor with a
small jolt.

The dishes rattled on the cart as Martin rolled it down the
hall and Henry winced a little as they passed his parents’ rooms, half
expecting Timothy to come out into the hall to scold them, but no one emerged
from any room and they made it down the hall to Henry’s room without incident.

Before he would sit down and eat, Martin insisted on stoking
the fire with a fresh log. It wasn’t really cold enough to necessitate a fire,
but it made things cozy, and Henry felt Martin looked especially lovely in
firelight, his skin gilded and his hair full of red sparks. Henry shrugged off
his dressing gown, sat down cross-legged on the carpet before the hearth with
his plate, and buttered a roll.

“Is your food hot enough?”

Henry shrugged. “It’s hot enough to eat.” It was good,
whether it was hot through or not. Martin was sitting closest to the cart.
“Will you pass me the pepper, please?”

Martin handed him the grinder. “Do you want the salt, as
well?”

The flavors of his food sufficiently enhanced, Henry cleaned
his plate in short order and then waited while Martin ate, increasingly
impatient but wanting to eat his dessert in concert with Martin.

“Do you know why it’s called devil’s food?”

Martin finished chewing and swallowed. “No, I don’t. Maybe
because it’s so rich and that makes it sinful?” He nodded at Henry’s empty
plate. “Do you want your cake now?”

“I’m waiting for you,” Henry told him. He unfolded his legs
and stretched his feet toward the fire, leaning back against an armchair.

“I’ll eat faster, then.”

The right thing to do would be to tell Martin to take his time,
but Henry wanted cake and so said nothing. He watched the flames and listened
to the tiny clicks and scrapes of Martin’s fork against the china. It seemed to
take forever for Martin to finish, and then to put their dirty dishes back on
the cart.

“Here’s your dessert, Henry.” He handed Henry a plate with a
generous square of thickly-iced cake, the dark chocolate looking nearly black
in the low light.

The cake was delicious, of course, and Henry savored every
morsel, eating it more slowly than he’d eaten his meal. He noted that Martin
closed his eyes as he relished each bite, occasionally making little greedy
noises that weren’t unlike the sounds he made while sucking Henry’s cock.

Henry laughed. “Do you like it?”

Martin laughed, too. “It’s very good, don’t you think? We’re
so lucky to have Cook making cakes for us.”

Henry thought Martin was right. He finished his cake,
picking up the last moist crumbs with the back of his fork, and set the plate
aside. He slumped back against the armchair feeling pleasantly stuffed, his
mouth still full of the taste of chocolate. He let his eyes close and mind
drift, and was dimly aware that Martin had collected their cake plates and put
them on the cart.

“I’ll just put this outside the door.” Faint rattling as the
cart rolled across the carpet, the door opening and closing again.

When he spoke again, Martin’s tone was hushed and intimate.
“Can I sit with you, Henry?”

Henry opened his eyes to Martin crouched beside him and
smiled. “Of course.” He held his arms open for Martin to come close.

Martin moved to sit between Henry’s spread legs, leaning
back against his chest, and Henry wrapped his arms around Martin’s body and
held him tight. He bent his head to press his face against Martin’s neck,
smelling vetiver on his skin and hair. He slid his hand beneath the hem of
Martin’s pajama shirt and spread his fingers flat against Martin’s hard belly,
silky skin and a soft trail of hair. He wondered if Martin would want to come
again, if he’d let Henry make him.

“I wanted to ask you …” Martin began. “All the slaves I met
today were so eager for you to participate in swaps, Henry, and I know you
don’t want to do that, but it reminded me that you had said you might consider
playing your cousin’s games…did you think about that anymore?” He sounded a
little hopeful.

Henry hadn’t thought about it, actually. “You want to do it,
don’t you?”

“I-I’m just curious.”

“But you’d like to.” He slid his hand a little lower, his
fingers beneath the waistband of Martin’s pajama pants, and kissed the side of
his head, just to show he wasn’t angry about this desire of Martin’s.

“Well, I do like the idea that another slave would see your
cock and feel jealous of me. I like that another master would see me with it in
my mouth and feel jealous of you.”

“You’re so sure everyone would be jealous?” Henry chuckled
and nuzzled Martin’s neck.

“Oh, yes,” Martin said with conviction. “We’re so good
together, and so good to one another. Don’t you think we have what everyone
wants?”

As a matter of fact, Henry did think that, but he was
perfectly content for them to keep it to themselves. “I do, but I’m not sure I
want everyone to know we have it.”

“I’m sure Mr. Wilton would be appreciative.”

Henry didn’t doubt this either. “I-I don’t know, Martin. I’m
just not sure I’m comfortable with the idea that he’d have seen us like that.
He’d know a lot of private things about us.”

“He’d show you just as much, don’t you think? He already
did, after all, at your uncle’s party.”

There was something about showing off, about sharing such
private things, that made Henry feel a little desperate. He cringed at the idea
of Jesse seeing Martin on his knees, Martin naked and hard, Martin with Henry’s
cock in his mouth. Henry didn’t have a real problem with Jesse seeing
him
,
only seeing him where he intersected with Martin.

“If you want someone to watch,” Henry said slowly. “If you
want someone to be jealous, or to admire you, does it have to be someone you
know?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” Martin turned in Henry’s
embrace to look at his face, quizzical, and Henry held onto him tighter, not
wanting him to move.

“If Jesse sees us together, then the next time he saw us,
he’d still have that memory—”

“Well, of course.”

“That bothers me, though, Martin. It bothers me a lot.”

“What’s so bad about it?”

“It’s so
intimate
,” Henry said with emphasis, wanting
so badly to be understood. “It’s almost as bad as if he’d actually fucked you.
He’d know exactly what you look like when you come.”

Martin said nothing, and Henry imagined that this was because
that was precisely the point for Martin, to be seen in detail, to capture some
observer’s attention and imagination.