“Oh, nothing worth repeating. I’ll get that excuse underway for tomorrow.”
“Good.” Da Silva hesitated by the door. He was sleeked and primped, dressed for elegant battle, with an outrageous frilly bloom in his buttonhole, but the undone collar, wings loose, revealed the hollow at the base of his neck, and Curtis couldn’t take his eyes off it. He wanted to see da Silva undressed, dishevelled, undefended. He could almost feel the sensation of pulling open his white shirt, popping stud after stud, to reveal that pierced nipple, and pressing his face to the smooth skin. The need was on him out of nowhere, so strong that he could barely breathe.
“Do you need assistance?” da Silva asked, and for a fraction of a second Curtis couldn’t tell what he was offering.
“The collar studs? No. I can manage.” Curtis cursed himself as the words left his mouth. Of course he could manage, of course he didn’t need those agile fingers working around his neck and down his chest, but…
“Are you sure?” Da Silva’s eyes were on his, and his voice was just a little breathy. Curtis’s mouth went dry.
“It, uh…” He couldn’t think of anything to say but he held out a hand, his own studs in the palm, towards da Silva and saw his eyes flicker down and up again.
Da Silva plucked the studs off his palm and moved over, softly, standing very close, so close Curtis imagined he could feel the warmth of his slim body. He lifted his hands to Curtis’s throat, nudging his chin up with a knuckle, and then, very slowly, ran the back of his finger down his neck, over his Adam’s apple, delving just a fraction under the cloth of his shirt.
Da Silva reached up to fix the stud. He hooked a finger into the front of the collar and tugged gently, and Curtis swayed forward in helpless response.
“Mmm.” Da Silva’s breath was warm, tickling his skin. “I should probably apologise.”
“What for?” Curtis managed.
“I distressed you.” Da Silva’s fingertip stroked the beginnings of stubble. “That business earlier was a trifle hectic. It wasn’t my intention to cause you upset.”
“You didn’t.” Curtis felt the skin of his throat moving against da Silva’s finger as he spoke.
“I think I did, a little.” Da Silva’s lips curved in that secret smile. “I hope it was upset of the pleasanter sort.”
Curtis gave a convulsive swallow. Da Silva made a face, looking a touch annoyed. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t come in to bring that up.” He slipped the stud deftly, impersonally into place, closing off Curtis’s neck with the starched material. “Quite seriously, I’d hate you to worry on my account. Be assured, you need not.”
“I shan’t. Wait.” Curtis reached out as da Silva made to move, putting a hand to his shoulder before he was even sure what he was going to do. Da Silva stopped at once, unnervingly motionless, eyes watchful. “May I assist you? In return?”
Da Silva hesitated. Curtis said, in the lightest tone he could, “Do allow me. Please.” It wasn’t nearly light enough.
Da Silva’s lips parted, then curled. “I’d be most grateful.”
He took the stud from his waistcoat pocket with two deft fingers and dropped it in Curtis’s extended palm, then lifted his face, eyes on Curtis’s, mouth so close. Curtis’s breath caught. If he just leaned forward now—
He’d never kissed a man in his life, that bit of playacting in the library aside, and that had been none of his choice and over before it began. To do it himself, to lean forward and bring his mouth to another man’s…that was unthinkable. Or, at least, he’d never acted on any such thought. Tossing a fellow off was one thing, a practical matter, but to kiss a man, as a lover—that felt like an irrevocable step, a terrifying one.
He wanted to do it. He wanted to kiss da Silva, wanted to see what he would taste like, how his lips would feel. He had no idea if da Silva kissed other men.
Da Silva was still watching him, waiting. Curtis swallowed, throat tight in the constraining material, then took the wings of the collar, allowing his fingers just to touch the warm skin. He could feel the pulse fluttering in da Silva’s neck.
“You’ve very careful,” da Silva murmured. “Interesting.”
“Why interesting?” Curtis threaded the stud through the hole, conscious of the ugly shape of his leather-clad, mutilated hand.
“Well. That Viking build.” Da Silva’s eyes flickered down the length of his body and up again. “That delightful, masterful, soldierly way of yours. I expected a more, shall we say, bull-at-a-gate approach. Conquering by brute force. And instead you’re sliding it in, bit by bit, so very carefully and gently that I can hardly feel the penetration—”
Curtis fumbled the stud. The back half sprang from his fingers and dropped to the floor. He stared at da Silva, open-mouthed, and saw him glance up from under long dark lashes with unmistakable mischief.