Taming the Lion (4 page)

The Pole moved lower, taking one of Kaspar’s balls in his mouth and sucking it tenderly before turning his attention to its twin. Too much more of this and Kaspar would lose his load, spattering Blazej’s face with his cum. He didn’t want that—not yet.

Something must have alerted Blazej to the fact he was taking his inexperienced lover too close to the brink because he pulled away, raising himself up on his elbows so he could address Kaspar.

“I think you are ready for me to fuck you, but we need to be careful.”

What is this guy talking about?

When Blazej slipped out from between the bunk beds, Kaspar expected him to make sure the cabin door was securely locked. Instead, he disappeared into the little bathroom. Kaspar took advantage of his momentary absence to take his underwear off completely.

Blazej returned with a strip of condoms and a bottle of lube, which he laid down on the bottom bunk. He took off his combat pants and left them to lie on the floor. He went to remove his undershirt, but Kaspar found himself, muttering, “No, leave it on.” He couldn’t explain why it appealed to him so much but he found the sight of Blazej’s pecs outlined by the white cotton incredibly sexy.

“Whatever you want.” Blazej smirked.

Kaspar didn’t speak as Blazej peeled down his briefs. Though the Pole was short and wiry, he had a surprisingly long cock.

How is that going to feel in my arse?
He licked his lips in anticipation.

Blazej unwrapped one of the condoms and began to roll it down his length. Kaspar realized he’d never watched another man handling himself at such close quarters. Even when he’d been enjoying the exhibitionistic displays of the guy in the apartment opposite, it had been at a safe distance—for both of them. But now he could smell Blazej’s spicy male musk and hear his short, hissing breaths. The need to play a part in the action, rather than just be a passive observer, took over.

“Let me,” he begged.

Blazej moved close, allowing him to finish the job of putting on the condom. Kaspar smoothed it on with careful movements, taking every opportunity to enjoy the feel of Blazej’s hard cock.

They rearranged themselves on the bunk, with Blazej guiding Kaspar to lie on his side. There was a little click as the Pole flipped open the bottle of lube. Kaspar shivered as Blazej stroked the gooey liquid over his arsehole.

Blazej tried to push a finger inside him. Even though Kaspar wanted so badly to be penetrated, he found himself tensing against the intrusion.

“Just relax,” his lover murmured. “I know you wait a long time for this, but it will be good. I promise.”

When Blazej tried again, Kaspar took his words to heart and now the Pole pushed his digit through the tight ring. He closed his eyes, listening to the low, persistent hum of the ship’s engine and the excited thumping of his heart.

“Kaspar, I think you are ready for me now. But we take it slow, okay?”

Kaspar nodded. Blazej pressed up tight behind him, guiding his penis into position. For a moment, Kaspar worried it would be too big for him to take. Yet somehow, it slid in without problems, and for the first time in his life, he found himself full of hot, latex-sheathed cock. The sensation took his breath away.

Blazej held still. Then, clearly judging that Kaspar had got used to being filled, he started to thrust in and out.

That was exciting enough, but when Blazej reached round and took hold of Kaspar’s straining shaft, wanking it in time to the rhythm of his pumping hips, Kaspar almost howled with pleasure.

“You like that?” the Pole kept repeating. “You like that, huh?”

“I love it.” Those were the last words Kaspar managed to form before everything became too much for him. He fought to hold back his climax, but to no avail. Cum shot from his cock-tip as sharp shudders racked his body.

Blazej kept on pounding into him, his movements becoming faster, less controlled as he neared his own orgasm. He exclaimed something in what Kaspar assumed to be Polish, his fingers still gripping tight around the root of Kaspar’s shaft. A moment or two later, he pulled out to sprawl on the bed, panting hard.

“You are one hot fuck,” Blazej told him. “Such a tight, beautiful arse… So for your first time, was it what you hoped?”

Oh, yes, and so much more.
Worth going back for a repeat performance, though he knew that would never be possible. “Mm-hm. I only hope you have a good story to tell Magdalena when you see her next.”

“Very much so. She is an incredible woman, Kaspar. She gives me so much freedom, so much love. I only wish you could meet her.”

Kaspar rolled toward the wall, allowing Blazej the room to climb off the mattress, turn out the main light, then make a careful ascent to the upper bunk. The springs of the bed creaked and sagged a little as the man made himself comfortable. In almost no time at all, the sound of soft snoring filled the small cabin.

Well, it’s done. There’s no turning back now.

The ferry sailed steadily on toward the Essex coast. Kaspar pulled the covers around him, closed his eyes, and slept.

Chapter Five

Jon looked up in response to the knock at the door. Glancing at his watch, he realized it was gone eight o’clock. He pushed the book he’d been reading to one side and called, “Come in.”

A young black woman wearing pale blue overalls came into the room. He didn’t recognize her. That meant she must be new. He worked late on such a regular basis that he was on first-name terms with pretty much all the university’s cleaning staff.

“It’s okay if I—?” She gestured to the waste-paper bin at the side of his desk.

“Yeah, sure.”

With a couple of efficient shakes, she emptied it into a black plastic rubbish bag, muttered a shy, “Thank you,” then left as swiftly as she’d entered.

Hey, I don’t bite,
he wanted to tell her. But then who knew what kind of reputation he’d gained on campus? Nutty Professor Fellowes, locked away in his study night after night looking for evidence of pagan cults and weird mythical creatures that were thought to have once roamed the Somerset countryside. Though the other members of the faculty never said as much, he was well aware they considered him to be a borderline obsessive, an impression he’d done nothing to discourage in the months since he and Simon had split in such an acrimonious fashion.

He hadn’t always been such a workaholic, but after discovering Simon had been cheating on him with some random guy he’d met via an online dating site, it had seemed much safer to retreat into his research. What his lover had done had shattered his faith in men. And he might never have known what had been going on if Simon hadn’t sent him that terse text saying he thought Jon ought to get himself checked out at the local STI clinic. All kinds of horrifying possibilities had raced through his mind, and even when the tests had come back negative, he still couldn’t forgive Simon—not just for being so stupid as to have sex with some stranger without using protection, putting both himself and Jon at risk, but for the cowardly way in which he’d admitted to having caught something. He hadn’t had the guts to raise the subject in a face-to-face conversation, no doubt knowing how Jon would have reacted. Not that it would have changed anything if he had. The trust between them had gone, and as far as Jon was concerned, they would never be able to get it back.

He turned back to his textbook, a first edition of the Reverend Neville Farthing’s
A Complete History of the English Pagans
. Written in the 1850s, the book had largely been discredited as a credible work, since it claimed that most of the country’s ancient stone monuments had been built by pagan worshippers in the years shortly before the birth of Christ. Modern archaeologists had dated Stonehenge, Avebury and the other sites Farthing discussed to the Neolithic period, a good two thousand years earlier. But Farthing’s theories still fascinated Jon. There were so many ideas, some plausible, some downright crackpot, as to the purpose of the standing stones. The good reverend claimed they had been used for human sacrifice and though he had no evidence to back up that assertion, his accounts of the rituals the pagans had performed were deliciously lurid.

The main reason Jon had taken a position at the university was because of its proximity to the numerous stone circles that had been erected across Somerset and Wiltshire. Ever since he’d first seen a picture of Stonehenge in an encyclopedia he’d been given for his tenth birthday, he’d been fixated on the thought of who might have built it—and why. The more he’d read about the site, the more fascinated he’d become. Some people believed the stones were a kind of calendar, designed to mark the passing of the seasons. Others held that they had healing powers and had been a place of pilgrimage for the sick in Neolithic times.

Driven by his need to know more, Jon had studied archaeology and anthropology at Cambridge, graduating with a first-class degree. By his own admission, he’d been a bit of a loner, preferring to spend time in the library rather than on the rugby field or in the junior common room bar. He’d begun to realize he was gay around the time he’d taken his GCSEs. Though he was completely comfortable with his sexuality, all his relationships had been short-lived and usually ended badly. It was his own fault, really. He always fell for bad boys, thinking he had the ability to change them when he knew in his heart it would never happen. And still he clung to the idea that the right man was out there and he just hadn’t found him yet. After the crappy way Simon had treated him, he’d begun to believe he never would.

Since he’d moved to Bath, Jon had become increasingly interested in the standing stones close to the village of Stanton Combe, a dozen or so miles outside the city center. The circle of six weathered slabs, one of which had toppled to land on its side in the years since the monument’s construction, was known locally as the Foolish Brothers. Like all the other similar sites, it was steeped in myth. One account Jon had read described how King Arthur had been laid to rest beneath the fallen stone, and now lay sleeping, waiting to be roused when his country most needed him.

However, the most intriguing stories talked of a race of strange creatures—part man, part lion—that had lived in the woods of the south-west. The pagans had begun to worship these beasts, and the Foolish Brothers had been at the heart of their religious ceremonies, an altar where sacrifices would be made to the lion god, Leweilun. Jon didn’t believe a word of it. Big cats had never been native to the British Isles. The romantic in him, however, couldn’t help but be attracted to the thought of being able to change his shape into that of such a strong, magnificent animal. And even though the pagans had seen their influence diminish with the rise of Christianity, the lion still lived on as a symbol of Bath. The city’s coat of arms bore its image in honor of Edgar, who had been crowned the first king of all England there, more than a thousand years ago now. And lions adorned hundreds of local buildings, in the form of sculptures, frescoes and gilded doorknockers. Maybe there was more to these old stories than he could bring himself to acknowledge.

Jon rose from his desk, about to go over to the crowded bookshelf and take down another book. Fantasy or not, he was keen to discover why Stanton Combe, once a place of great importance, no longer attracted the kind of attention devoted to other Neolithic sites. He gave himself a mental shake. He’d already stayed far too late tonight. He had a lecture on nomadic tribes of the Paleolithic period to deliver to his second-year archaeology students at nine-thirty the following morning. It was time he went home. There was a portion of chicken casserole in the freezer. He could check through his notes for tomorrow while it cooked, maybe pour himself a glass of that nice merlot he’d opened at the weekend.

He emerged from his study then turned to lock the door.

“Burning the midnight oil again, Jon?” The voice came from behind him.

He looked round to be greeted by the white-haired, corpulent figure of the university’s Vice-Chancellor, Henry Mortimer.

It was no surprise to see the man wandering the corridors of the faculty building. Before Henry had been appointed to the role three years ago, he’d been head of the archaeology department, and he still kept up his research activities alongside his administrative duties. Jon knew Henry had been widely considered the right choice for the job, thoroughly at home in dealing with policy makers and leaders of industry as he promoted the university’s interests in the wider business world. He also had no apparent enemies among his colleagues. That was certainly unusual for a man who’d been part of academic life as long as Henry had.

“Oh, hi, Henry. I’m just on my way home.” He regarded the Vice-Chancellor, who wore a heavy overcoat and had a plaid scarf wrapped round his neck. Not what he’d call normal attire for the start of June, but then the weather had been unseasonably cold over the last few days. “Do you need a lift anywhere?”

Henry shook his head. “I’m fine, thank you. I have to pop into the city center on a spot of business, and I wouldn’t want to take you out of your way.”

“Okay, well, I’ll see you later, then.”

“Before you go, I’m hosting one of my regular staff suppers at the rectory next Friday night, and I realized you hadn’t been to one of my little soirées since I moved there. I hope I can count on seeing you?”

That was one of the other reasons Henry had been such a popular choice for his new role. He knew how to throw a good party.

“It’s very kind of you to invite me, but I’m afraid I’m not going to be around. I’m meeting up with an old friend from Cambridge that night.” The lie slipped easily from his mouth. The last thing he needed was an evening spent with his fellow members of staff, listening to them moan about their petty grievances regarding their jobs and the way the department was run.

“Well, that’s a shame. Another time, maybe?”

“Of course. Goodnight, Henry.”

Jon headed for the exit, but for some reason the one thing on his mind as he walked to the staff car park wasn’t why he’d ducked out of accepting Henry’s invitation or even Simon. He was thinking about lions.