Robert made his way to the outbuilding, breathing in cool night air. Below, the grass was slick with dew, and above, the stars were brilliant and the moon hung like an upside-down scythe, a sliver of white gold.
His heart was beating, loud in his ears. He almost hoped Cameron wouldn’t be there when he reached the top of the steps, but he was, knees bent in the same position as the night before, arm slung across them.
His eyes glinted in the dark as he looked at Robert, giving nothing away.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Robert said. His voice sounded raspy. He cleared his throat but didn’t move closer.
“What do ye want?”
It was a good question, with too many answers to voice. He wanted to be Cameron’s friend. He wanted to be more than his friend. He wanted to know what would happen when the guests left and Theo returned. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to do so much more than kiss him.
A verse came to his mind: Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove, that valleys, groves, hills, and fields, woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And thus, it was official—he was ridiculously besotted. He would have to be to think of poetry at odd, random moments, and it was always Elizabethan poetry, too. This was clearly the other man’s fault. He reminded Robert of the moors and the sea and the stars and ancient, unchangeable things. Things that Robert had no hope of fighting.
Robert moved closer and then knelt down in front of Ian, the cold damp of the stones seeping into the fabric of his breeches at the knee.
“Are you jealous of Hale?” he asked. This seemed an easier question—it was a concrete thing. A yes or no.
Ian seemed impossibly still and quiet. Finally, he said, “You shouldna ask me that.”
“But I am asking,” Robert insisted.
Ian didn’t answer. The space between them was somehow both too wide and too narrow.
“I was jealous of Miss Hale,” Robert admitted.
Ian blinked. “Why?”
“You defended her. You never defend anyone. You must like her, at least a little.”
“I had…I have a younger sister. She reminds me of her.”
“That’s all?” Robert’s skin felt hot, flushed and feverish against the night air.
“That’s all. I don’t—” Ian suddenly stopped.
“You don’t what?” Robert asked, leaning closer. He was almost pressed against Ian’s bent knees now, but he didn’t want to miss a second of this, didn’t want to miss a single sound.
A muscle in Ian’s jaw twitched, as though he was trying to stop himself from speaking, but in the end, he spoke anyway. “I’m not attracted to women like you are.”
Robert’s heartbeat nearly stopped. He’d been guessing and wondering and now, after all this time, Ian simply said it out loud. Maybe there were a few things he needed to clear up, too. “I’m not only attracted to women.”
Ian tipped his head back to look at him more fully. “How does that work?”
Robert laughed, breathless. “What do you mean, how does it work? Do I need to go into the basic mechanics?”
“I mean, has it always been like this?”
Robert thought about it and then nodded. He had only ever pursued women romantically. On the few occasions he’d admired men, he’d admired them from afar. But those attractions, though less prevalent, had still been there, even early on, even as a boy.
Not that either inclination mattered much in terms of experience. He wasn’t the sort who placed much importance on sowing his wild oats. He’d gone through his adolescence and young adulthood flirting and talking and sometimes touching but never finding that missing piece that would induce him to go further.
Until he’d returned from university to his aunt and uncle’s home and become acquainted with a young widow who’d lived in a neighboring estate. Their friendship had grown into love—on his side, at least—and she’d invited him to her bed, and he’d finally been ready, he’d finally wanted someone enough to take that step.
For several months, things between them had been good…more than good. But even as he lost himself to pleasure, he’d found himself holding something back. He could tell she didn’t love him, that, even if she cared for him, she didn’t envision a future with him.
When things had ended, as he’d assumed they would, his heart emerged bruised but unbroken, and his grand total of lovers had remained at one ever since.
And he hadn’t really cared, until now. He wondered if this would have been easier if he’d had more experience with this sort of thing. With other men. If he wouldn’t be so hesitant, so unsure about his own observations.
But that probably wasn’t right, either. Cameron was such a taciturn bastard, it would have been difficult for anyone to be sure.
“So anyone would do?” Ian asked. “You just need a warm body?”
Robert cocked his head, unoffended. He heard the uncertainty behind the words. “No. Not just anyone will do. Very few people meet my lofty standards.” He pushed Ian’s knees apart, making a space for himself in the cradle between his thighs. “Don’t be petty, Cameron,” he murmured. “It’s not a good look on you.”
Ian snorted. But Robert could tell their proximity was doing something to him—his breathing was too shallow, eyes just a little too wide. He was far from immune, no matter how much he tried to pretend.
Robert felt his heart jolt and his own breath stutter, fail, start again somehow, and oh, he wasn’t immune, either. He was the opposite of immune. Never in his life had he had such a visceral reaction to another person’s lust. It was just one more thing in a long list of things to worry about—death by stolen oxygen. “Please…just…” Words failed him. Those things that had been his companions and his joy and his art flew out the window, simply because he was close enough to feel Ian Cameron’s breath on his cheek. “Just…let me.”
And then he grasped Ian’s coat in his hands, closed the gap between them, and kissed him.
Ian was still, unmoving as a sculpture, and a moment of panic seized him.
He’d misjudged. Ian didn’t really want this. Ian didn’t want him.
All the looks, the brief touches…he’d been searching, hoping for something that wasn’t there.
He started to pull away—
Silence.
A quiet so complete the world faded.
Ian had taken hold of his waist.
Ian was kissing him back.
Like a wave, everything that had gone away came rushing back to shore. Sensation. Thought, flitting in and out of his mind like sparrows. His heartbeat, a dull roar in his ears.
Their breaths tangled. Their lips tangled. And impressions flooded him—Ian’s chest, hard beneath his hands, rising and falling in great, staggered breaths. His lips, surprisingly soft. His face was covered in a light stubble that scraped at Robert’s chin. The scent Robert had noticed before wasn’t just on Ian’s clothes, it clung to his skin, too—the smell of the moors—peat smoke and brine and cold, rain-drenched wind.
Ian’s hand was fisted at the bottom of Robert’s shirt, as though to hold him in place—as if Robert would even think about pulling back.
He was in this. He was in it too far to even think about stepping away. He couldn’t have stepped away even if he wanted to—Ian’s other hand maintained a steady, inexorable grip on his waist—but he didn’t want to. All he wanted to do was bask in the sensation of Ian’s mouth moving against his with a rough, quiet intensity that made his pulse falter.
Robert wondered if he was in over his head.
Maybe he was, he thought as he gasped against Ian’s lips, trying to draw in enough air to breathe and barely succeeding. Maybe he was drowning on dry land. But if Robert was drowning, Ian was melting. Thawing. Icy stoicism dripping down to something hot and intense, a flame that burned from within, brighter and faster than Robert could have imagined.
All he could do in light of that intensity was kiss him harder.
…
The way Robert kissed was cruel.