A hand tightened in his hair. “Get out of the way,” Daniel said urgently.
Curtis took the warning—next time he wouldn’t, he told himself—and withdrew Daniel’s cock from his mouth, then dared to lick at it again, outlining the smooth head, tasting the fluid beading there.
“Archie,” whispered Daniel, and jerked against his hand.
“Daniel. Now, please, now.” Curtis choked out the words as if he were climaxing himself, and gasped as he watched the white spatter hit Daniel’s skin. He could feel the taste in his mouth.
Daniel lay, chest heaving. Curtis licked his lips and reached for the whisky.
“Well might you drink. Ah…have you done that before?”
“No.” Curtis found himself somewhat embarrassed by his own inexperience, which was absurd. The fact was, there were the men who did that to other men, and there were the men to whom it was done, and Curtis had always been in the latter group. It had never seemed expected that he would reciprocate, not with his mouth, and he had never offered. Well, he wouldn’t. He wasn’t that sort of chap.
The thought caught him sharply for a second, but Daniel was looking at him with startled pleasure, and Curtis found himself tugged down for a deep kiss that drove everything from his mind but the sweep of tongues and the movement of lips. Daniel seemed not to object to the taste of himself in Curtis’s mouth.
After a breathless moment, Daniel released him. “Which is to indicate that I’m honoured, my dear.”
“What? Oh, nonsense.” Curtis grabbed for the now rather soiled handkerchief and made an effort at cleaning them both up.
Daniel waved a hand. “I’m filthy anyway, don’t worry.”
They managed to get into some kind of comfort again, snuggled together on the hard floor under scratchy, musty blankets. Curtis ran his hand over Daniel’s stubbled jawline and leaned forward to kiss him, because he could.
“This is the most peculiar house party of my experience.”
Daniel chuckled, then nuzzled into Curtis’s chest. “It’s had its moments.”
Curtis looked down at the dark head, felt those clever, exploratory fingers running over his muscles and said, without planning, “May I call on you?”
Daniel’s fingers stilled. “Sorry?”
“In London. When this business is done with. May I call on you?”
“Call on me?”
He sounded incredulous. Curtis felt himself redden. “Or however one should put it.”
“Ah.” Daniel relaxed perceptibly. “If you mean, may you visit for a fuck, then, my dear fellow—”
“No,” Curtis said strongly, and then, “Well, that is, yes. If you’d like to. But that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” Daniel had a frown between his eyes, as if the commonplace phrase had made no sense to him.
“I don’t know how else to say it. I don’t know how men conduct these things between themselves. If I liked and respected a lady, I’d ask permission to call—”
“I’m not a lady. I wouldn’t be a lady even if I were a woman.”
Curtis sighed. “Good Lord, help a fellow out here.”
“I don’t know what you want.”
How they had managed to lose that instant, easy understanding? “It seems quite straightforward to me.”
“Unfortunately, my dear, you are so straightforward I sometimes have trouble understanding a word you say.”
Daniel’s tone was very smooth and mannered, and Curtis fought an urge to say, “Never mind” and retreat. He set his shoulders against the real possibility that he was about to make a hopeless fool of himself. He hadn’t thought this through in the slightest, but he knew the truth of his own words as he spoke. “I mean, I want to see you again. Spend time with you. This, of course”—he waved a hand at their entwined bodies—“but…more. Damn it, Daniel, I want to be with you. You’re brave and clever and rather wonderful, and I even like your poems, and—”
“Stop!” It was almost a shout. “Stop, stop, stop.”
Curtis stared down. Daniel looked up at him with troubled eyes. His shoulders were hunching.
“What on earth—”
“Don’t say those things.”
“Why not?”
Daniel shut his eyes. “Because that is what gentlemen do, and I am—not a gentleman. I’m sure we will fuck like the songs of angels, and I look forward to it. But no more than that, hmm?”
“I don’t understand.”
Daniel opened his eyes again to shoot him a glare. “My father is a Spitalfields locksmith. I was brought up between his shop and my uncle’s billiard hall, which my mother manages in a very low-cut dress. I learned to mimic my betters from another uncle who recites Shakespeare in the better sort of music hall. I dress well because another uncle is a tailor of excellent imitative powers, not because I can afford a decent suit of clothes. I’m the only one in my grotesquely extensive family who’s ever been to university. You know damned well I’m not of your class.”
“What has that to do with anything?”