A Free Choice (Ganymede Quartet Book 4.5) (18 page)

Whimpering, Martin reached for his own cock, but Henry batted his hand away.

“Not until I say.” But now Henry touched him, light pressure, maddening strokes. “Some filthy alcove smelling of piss, and you with your trousers around your knees, sticking your ass out and begging for it.”

“You’d want it, too,” Martin managed, his voice hoarse. He squirmed, trying to get more pressure from Henry’s hands.

“Oh, I’d feel very lucky,” Henry assured him, pulling out his thumb and putting fingers in its place. “Meeting a boy like you, some dirty fairy tramp who’d beg for my cock, that’s my dream.”

“Who wouldn’t beg for your cock?” Martin gasped, in full confidence that anyone who chanced to see it would want it. The way Henry was touching him, inside and out, rendered him breathless, heart pounding.

Henry smiled, liking the flattery. “I’d fuck you up against the bricks,” he said. “I’d have my hand over your mouth, remember? But I’d know you were saying my name. You’d be
begging
.”

Martin’s groan was full of impatience as he hitched his knees higher.

“Say it,” Henry said. “Let me hear how you’d do it.”

Martin said Henry’s name all the time, but it seemed so deliciously shameful to say it on command. “Henry,” he said, his voice small. He tried again, louder: “Henry,
please
.”

“Dirty boy,” Henry said fondly. His fingers moved with purpose, finding the spot that made Martin’s eyes roll back in his head. “I’d show you you were meant to be mine,” he promised. “I’d make you come with your hands flat against the wall.”

The idea of his cock jerking untouched, spunk on the bricks, made Martin shudder and he groaned with frustrated arousal. “Enough, Henry, please.” He reached for him, but Henry evaded capture.

“Enough what?” Henry sat back on his heels and let go of Martin’s cock, let his fingers slip from Martin’s ass.

“Enough teasing, Henry,
please
.”

Henry laughed and reached to get the oil out of the drawer.

Martin knew Henry would not agree to using just spit, as in his scenario, but perhaps he would go light on the oil. He watched Henry oil his cock, but when he made to pour some on his fingers for Martin’s hole, Martin said, “Please, Henry. Don’t worry about prep. I want it—more like your story.
Please
.”

Henry raised an eyebrow at this, seeming amused. He put a little more oil on himself, and wiped his slick fingers against Martin’s pucker, but otherwise did as Martin asked.

Martin was more than ready, relaxed and eager, but he still sucked in a sharp, hissing breath as Henry’s slick cock pressed inside his dry hole. Sting and tingle with the stretch, a burning chill raising the hairs on his skin, nerves sparking. He felt overfull, the breath forced out of him by Henry’s cock, and his muscles spasmed as his body struggled to adapt and accept. He liked it when it hurt like this, because it never hurt for long, and the pain made the pleasure sweeter. When he had breath to spare, he moaned, soft and low, and reached for Henry with both hands.

Henry met him halfway, kissing hard and deep. Martin slung his arms around Henry’s neck and tilted his pelvis to meet Henry’s hard thrusts, letting out little grunts as Henry’s hips slammed into his ass.

“Harder.” He breathed the word into Henry’s ear. “
Please
, Henry, harder.”

Henry did as Martin asked, his brows angled together in concentration, hips like a piston, bodies meeting with fleshy smacks. Henry was a machine perfectly calibrated to make Martin come. Henry’s cock never stopped rubbing the place inside that made Martin feel like some dirty little animal driven crazy by the urge to mate, and it felt so good that he couldn’t stop himself from sobbing his pleasure, tearless and so very happy.

Henry was breathing hard through open lips, pupils wide, cheeks flushed. He shook his head impatiently, tossing his hair back off his forehead, and gripped the backs of Martin’s thighs.

“Martin,” he said. “
Martin
, I can’t last, it feels too good.”

He was a beautiful, apologetic god, and he’d said Martin’s name. Hearing his name from Henry’s lips was too arousing, and for a moment his senses went blank and all he felt was Henry’s desire, Henry’s desire for
him
.

When he could make words, he begged, “
Harder
, Henry. Make me come.”

A few more thrusts, feeling every inch of Henry’s cock. Slick, sliding pressure that never let up, making him feel desperate and exultant. The pressure wound up tighter and stretched long, and it felt like he spent forever at the sharp, exquisite apex of overwhelming sensation before he went crashing over, plummeting from on high.

“Oh god, Henry!
Henry
!”

His body went stiff and still, his hands tight on Henry’s arms, and his cock jerked against his belly, striping his shirt and necktie with slick white.

Henry had the awed expression of a man seeing something beautiful, something wonderful. He said a hoarse, “
Martin
!” and thrust in deep, cock pulsing hot.

Martin shuddered through the aftershocks, feeling emotional and embarrassingly inarticulate. He reached for Henry and drew him down into an embrace. “I love you,” he whispered, unaccountably confessional. “I love it when you say my name.”

“Oh! I did say it, didn’t I?” Henry nuzzled his neck. “You like that? I’ll try to say it more often, then.” He smoothed Martin’s hair back from his forehead, their faces very close. “You know that I love you, too, don’t you?”

“I do know that,” Martin admitted. He hugged Henry tighter, wrapped his legs around him. He didn’t want to let him go just yet.

They clung together, full of both drama and contentment. After a few minutes, Henry’s cock slipped out of Martin’s ass; Henry made a little disappointed sound and gave Martin a compensatory hug. “Am I squashing you?”

Well, yes, he was. Martin kissed his neck. “I should get us cleaned up anyway.”

“We can both do it,” Henry said, rolling off of him.

Martin sat up and loosened the knot of his necktie. It was damp and slick with semen, as was the shirtfront. The shirt could be washed, but the tie might be a lost cause. He would worry about it later. He let shirt and tie fall to the floor as he got to his feet.

Henry followed him into the bathroom and stood patiently at the sink as Martin washed him. “I’ll do you next, all right?”

“You don’t have to, Henry. I can do it.”

“Do you not want me to do it? Or do you just think I shouldn’t?”

He had enjoyed Henry cleaning him before. There was no reason not to let him do it when it was what he wanted. Doing what Henry wanted was Martin’s job.

“All right. You can do it. Thank you. Go ahead.” He handed Henry a soapy cloth and stood with his feet apart, hands braced on the edge of the sink, ass tilted helpfully.

Henry stood close beside him, an arm across the front of his waist, cleaning his cleft with gentle thoroughness. It seemed very quiet, very intimate. Martin leaned into Henry’s embrace, and Henry kissed his shoulder.

“Thank you for choosing me, Mr. Durant.”

“You’re welcome.”

He would always choose Henry. It seemed that when he’d chosen Henry last August, that had been his final decision.

“I’m going to give you everything,” Henry said, a solemn promise. “Music, paintings, Chinese food, new experiences. Everything.”

“We’ll go downtown and dance,” Martin said, also promising. “I have some ideas about how we might go about it. You can even wear a velvet jacket if you want.”

Henry smiled. “Well, I’ll get one made, at any rate. I might not be brave enough to wear it out in public.” He turned to drop his wet cloth in the sink, but did not let go of Martin.

Martin would not say that it might be a bad idea anyway, not now. Besides, Henry knew this. Martin had a thought, and considered a moment if he might really be willing to follow through.

“If you want,” he said slowly, “when we go to Hamilton’s, I might be willing to consider getting some clothes I’d wear just for you.” He saw Henry’s eyes light up with delight, and hurried to caution him. “But only things that
I
pick out. Things that are to
my
taste.”

“Colors, though, please,” Henry said, eager and avid. “Things that you pick out, but colors. They don’t have to be bright. Just not black or tan.” He grinned and wrapped Martin up in his arms. “I’d love that. I’d love it so much.”

“Maybe just a waistcoat to start,” Martin said. “The idea makes me a little nervous, to be honest.” He looked at himself in the mirror, Henry’s dark head bent against his own. He reached up to run his fingers through Henry’s hair. Henry turned to smile at him in the mirror.

“I love your handsome face,” he said, kissing Martin’s cheek.

Martin smiled back. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“I’m excited by the idea of you wearing colors, even just for me,” Henry said. “But I won’t push you, I promise. I’m done pushing you, Martin.”

“Well, it does make me feel better that you’ll let me decide.” He gave Henry an affectionate pat. “We’ve had a long day. Are you ready to get in bed?” He took Henry’s hand as he turned toward the door.

“Actually, I might be hungry,” Henry admitted. “Surely there’ll be some cake left, don’t you think?”

Martin laughed. “Where did I leave my pajamas?”

They were by the door where he’d stripped them off. Henry watched as Martin dressed himself. “You have lost quite a bit of weight, haven’t you?” He sounded wistful, not accusatory.

“Does it look bad?” Martin buttoned his pajama shirt, hiding his bony chest.

Henry shook his head. “No. At least,
I
don’t think so. It’s not that. I don’t think you could ever look bad to me. But it makes me sad because it means
you
were sad.”

Martin went to Henry’s wardrobe and got out a pair of pajamas for him. “I think everything will be all right from now on, though, Henry. Don’t you?” He crouched down and held Henry’s pajama pants ready. “I don’t think we’re going to make each other unhappy like that again.”

Henry stepped into his pants and pulled them up. “We won’t,” he promised. “Well, mostly me. I’m not going to hurt you again, Martin, I promise.”

“I know you’ll do your best, Henry.”

“No.” Henry frowned, shaking his head as he thrust his arms forcefully into the sleeves of his pajama shirt. “That sounds like you don’t believe me, Martin, and I’m telling you I’m not going to hurt you again. I won’t let myself do it.”

“I do believe you,” Martin said, reaching for Henry’s buttons, and he mostly did.

“Trust me,” Henry insisted. “You know I’m not ambitious. I don’t care about succeeding at anything, really. I have an easy life, and I don’t need to try very hard. So that means I can put all my effort into being good to you and giving you the things that’ll make you happy.”

It wasn’t a master’s job to make a slave happy; quite the opposite. But maybe Martin could let himself care less about what masters and slaves were meant to do. Maybe he could just enjoy having his preferences indulged and desires fulfilled by this romantic, generous young man who wanted nothing more than to adore him. If making Martin happy was what would satisfy Henry, then Martin should let Henry make him happy. He should accept the gifts and enjoy the experiences. Doing what Henry wanted was Martin’s job.

“I’ll trust you, Henry,” he decided. He finished with Henry’s buttons and embraced him, breathing in the smell of his skin and kissing his neck. “We’ll be good to each other.”

Henry pulled Martin closer still and rubbed his bony back. “Cake,” he said, kissing the side of his head. “Let’s fatten you up.”

As they walked down the hall and then down the back stair, Henry reached for Martin’s hand, his grip tentative at first but becoming more confident as he realized Martin was going to allow it.

“There’s no one awake to see us,” Martin murmured in response to the unasked question. He didn’t think it necessary to mention that no one who might see them would be shocked. Henry would come to understand this in his own time. Martin laced his fingers through Henry’s and squeezed his hand.

He chose Henry.

He’d chosen him on auction day, and he’d never wavered from his choice, and he’d never regretted it. At Ganymede, he’d been domesticated, but perhaps not tamed. The wildest part of him, a deep and brilliant spark, had immediately recognized Henry as kindred, as analogue, and from that moment on, he’d felt part of a bond that was unassailable and undeniable. He and Henry belonged to each other, body and soul. Martin believed they were destined to be together, halves of a passionate whole, greater than the sum of their parts. He and Henry would have to go through much worse than these weeks of discord and hurt feelings for Martin to want to be parted from him.

As they neared the bottom of the stairs, there were sounds of commotion, people working to dismantle the remains of the party. Henry heard, too, and let go his hand with lingering reluctance.

He would always choose Henry. His stubborn, generous, loving Henry, who had apologized and promised him the world.

The hall was full of Blackwell people and hired help carrying dishes and flowers and calling out instructions, an efficient sort of chaos. Henry hesitated at the foot of the stair, seeming reluctant to enter the fray, but Martin reached for him, smiling encouragement.

“Come on, Sir,” he said. “Let’s find someone who’ll cut us some cake.”