“Fascinating,” Ian drawled. “Are ye going to continue?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to hear something else? I’d even be willing to read Macbeth.” He lifted his eyebrows invitingly. “Castles, bloodshed, betrayal—everything a growing Highlander needs.”
“I’m going to ignore that.” He leveled Robert with a glance. “Ye said you would read it.”
“I know,” Robert sighed and began again. “‘It happened during his thirtieth year. He’d just been asked to question a man who’d witnessed a murder, but this murder was no ordinary tale of vengeance or greed, for when Constable Whitley arrived, the witness swore there was a ghost involved.’”
He didn’t know how long he’d been reading when he glanced over and saw that Ian had reclined on the bed, one arm propped behind his head like a makeshift pillow.
His eyes were closed, his breathing steady.
Had it really been that boring?
Robert stood and moved to the side of the bed to look down at him. He looked peaceful, more peaceful than Robert had ever seen him, and he couldn’t even work up much frustration that his book was apparently sleep inducing, because he liked watching Ian unobserved like this.
And then Ian spoke quietly, without opening his eyes. “Why did ye stop?”
Robert only just stifled a startled yelp. “I thought you were asleep.” When he answered, even though his heart was thumping furiously, his voice was just as soft as Ian’s had been, as though they were on the edge of a moment that shouldn’t be disturbed.
Ian’s eyes cracked open, a shimmer of gray in the yellow light. “I was listening.”
If Robert leaned down a little more, he would fall right into him. But it was late. Maybe Ian was tired. And all he’d asked for was a reading of Constable Whitley, not a repeat of what had happened in the outbuilding.
Robert must have let the silence stretch too long.
“What is it?” Ian asked.
He answered with the truth. “I was thinking you look good in my bed.” He did—he looked warm and peaceful and almost too large, but not quite. Ian’s breath hitched, and Robert leaned closer. He had to hold himself up with arms on each side of Ian’s head. “Are you tired?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No.”
Robert felt his mouth curve. “I’m not tired, either.”
He crawled over Ian and lowered himself just enough to drop a kiss to his lips before pushing up again.
Ian frowned.
“You’re going to have to work for it a little,” Robert murmured. “Do you expect me to put in all the effort?” He felt…happy. Happier than he could ever recall being. He couldn’t resist teasing Ian.
In response, the other man fisted his hands in Robert’s shirt and yanked him down. His body collided with Ian’s, chest to chest, legs tangling. Ian clasped the back of his head and took his mouth in a fierce kiss.
Robert groaned into Ian’s mouth, returning the kiss with enthusiasm that bordered on desperation. He was already hard, his cock stiff and aching, but he didn’t have much time to dwell on that embarrassment before the wet warmth of Ian’s tongue slipped past his lips.
As he kissed him, Ian tugged at the hem of Robert’s shirt, and then Robert felt warm, large hands spanning across his back, tracing his spine, possessive, gripping and guiding. Ian’s length was pressed against the inside of his thigh.
Ian was taking control from him, which Robert didn’t mind in a general sense—in fact, the idea made him even harder than he already was—but a swifter, more potent desire came fast on its heels. This first time, he wanted to be the one in charge. He wanted to watch Ian tremble in his bed. He wanted to know that Ian cared enough about him to be helpless before him, to be vulnerable.
He wanted Ian’s surrender. To him, for him. He wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything.
He didn’t know why, exactly. Maybe it felt like it would be more permanent if Ian was the one giving himself. Maybe he wanted to bind the other man to him in any way he could while he had the chance.
Because he knew it would be difficult. He knew it would have to be secret; they would have to be careful. He wanted to know that Ian was in this, too, as deeply as he was.
He abruptly sat back on his knees and reached for the braces of Ian’s trousers, slipping them down over his shoulders and then going for the buttons of his falls. Ian lifted his hips so Robert could drag his trousers off and then tear at his shirt.
Robert looked down at the naked body sprawled before him, all hard muscles and planes, a wide chest and muscled shoulders that tapered down to a narrower waist and thighs covered in wiry hair. A trail of dark copper hair spread across his chest and pointed down toward a thick, jutting cock.
He looked too perfect to be real.
“Like a bloody Roman statue,” Robert muttered, both in awe and a little envious.
Ian reached for him, no doubt to take Robert’s clothes off, too, but Robert knocked his arm away. He pushed Ian back down to the mattress with his hand spread across his chest.
Ian didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t protest.
“I’ll take care of you,” Robert assured him. “You distrustful thing.”
Robert bent down to kiss his shoulder and smiled as he felt the tension in Ian’s muscles ease.
“Fine,” he said, and Robert might have thought he was bored, except when he pressed his mouth to Ian’s throat, he could feel the tremble of his pulse.
Ian wasn’t very vocal, but Robert quickly became attuned to the small breaths, the subtle inhales and exhales, the tilt of his mouth, the arch of his brow. He was learning the language of Ian Cameron, was speaking in his verse. He studied him like da Vinci studied flying machines, like Michelangelo studied art. If a scholar was required, a scholar he would be. He would spend years learning him—a touch here, more pressure there, less here.
Robert gleaned what Ian liked and what he didn’t: he liked his throat and chest kissed and sucked and bitten, but not his stomach. He tensed up when Robert dragged his lips through the copper hair there, and Robert stored that delightful information away for later—Ian was extremely ticklish. He seemed indifferent to his nipples being touched, but there was a spot just underneath his jaw that made his breath hitch when Robert nuzzled it.
His exploration moved lower, down to Ian’s thighs, and he let his hand curl around Ian’s cock in a rough grip. Ian’s breathing stuttered, and his hips lifted from the bed.
Robert licked his lips and then took Ian in his mouth, hand still gripping the base. There was a salty trace of moisture at the tip, which Robert swiped away with his tongue. He licked his way around Ian’s cock, learning the shape of it, the taste, enjoying the slight muskiness as he breathed in, and the faint, faint taste of salt. He tried to take him deep, tried to take his entire thick cock into his mouth, but it ended up messy—he pulled back, wiping a trail of saliva from his lips.
As he sat back, he stared down at Ian, whose face and chest were flushed, his eyes heavy-lidded. Robert wanted to watch him. He wanted to see him come apart.
He went to his desk and fetched a small glass jar from one of the drawers. When he returned, Ian was sitting up, and he had to push him back down again.
“What are ye doing?” Ian asked, sounding a little out of breath.
“I’m taking care of you, like I promised.” He opened the jar and dipped his fingers into oil. He let his slick fingers drift teasingly along the underside of Ian’s cock. “I want to touch you everywhere.”
“Then do it,” Ian rasped, straining toward him.
Robert gripped him fully, hand pumping up and down slowly, wetly, firmly. He could see every play of emotion over Ian’s face, every ounce of desire, and then he turned his head, into the pillow, away from Robert. Hiding from him.
That wouldn’t do. That simply wouldn’t do, at all.
“Look at me,” Robert said. He barely recognized his own voice, hoarse and gravelly as it was.
Ian shuddered, hips jerking, and Robert realized it was in response to his voice. Desire surged through him, hot and heavy.