His Valet (Victorian Decadence Book 2), page 20
Stephen tried to ignore the smug voice, but right now, the sensual part of his brain—on which he generally kept such a tight leash—reveled in the man’s submission.
“Right now what I desire is release,” Stephen said, feeling like a spectator in his own body, listening to his mouth say things his brain had not approved.
There was not even a flicker of emotion on Leather’s face. “I understand, sir, and it would be my pleasure.”
His cock jumped at the other man’s words, but neither of them broke their locked gaze.
“Nothing will change if you say no; your job is secure.” He gave Leather a hard look; he needed to know that Stephen wanted nothing that was not freely given. “You know I speak the truth on that.”
“You’ve never lied to me, sir.” Leather said. He hesitated and then asked, “Will anything change if I said I would rather, sir?”
Stephen stared, his body throbbing.
Leather didn’t blink or color or turn away, he merely peered down at Stephen through his impossibly thick lenses.
Stephen considered what he meant but decided he didn’t bloody care. He just wanted to come by somebody’s hand other than his own tonight.
“Nothing will change, either way.”
Leather nodded and then reached for the oil on the nightstand and slicked his hands, his expression the same as if he were about to rub Stephen’s feet rather than his cock.
Stephen’s prick wept harder and jumped with excitement; why was he finding this plain, dull, disinterested man’s offer to frig him so erotic?
You enjoy the thought of owning him, controlling him so completely he would serve you in any way. You like thinking of him as your slave.
That was sick, but also true: it made him incredibly hard wondering just how far this man would go to please him.
Leather lowered his slick hands to Stephen’s hips. One went to his shaft while the other slid between his already spread thighs and began to massage his aching balls.
“Fuck that feels good,” he ground out as Leather’s slim, smooth hand pumped him with firm, competent strokes, his thumb rubbing the sensitive underside of his crown with each pass.
He stared at Leather, his jaws clenched as he struggled for control. His valet focused his attention on what he was doing, only the slightest sprinkling of color over his sharp, high cheekbones. Stephen glanced down to Leather’s hips to see if his work was arousing him. Leather’s trousers were lifeless and flat. So, this really was commitment to his work rather than desire.
Stephen didn’t know whether that was better or worse, and then decided he didn’t care. Leather was working him with more skill than any whore he could recall, stretching the sensitive skin of his sac, one oiled finger brushing the area below it by accident. And then brushing it again.
So, not by accident.
Leather’s fist tightened and the pumping quickened. The oiled finger between his thighs quested down and down and then stopped. Stephen spread wider; his invitation clear.
A soft, slick pad probed his hole and he grunted with animal pleasure, his hands bunching the bedding on either side of his body as the orgasm began to build.
Stephen forced his eyes open, twisted curiosity making him want to see his servant’s impassive face when he brought him to climax.
Just as he did in every other way, Leather knew exactly what he wanted and Stephen moaned as a slick finger stretched the tight ring of muscle.
Leather stroked him harder and faster while his finger began to fuck him. Stephen’s hips pulsed with sharp jerks to meet Leather’s fist and to bring his finger deeper. The pressure had built so slowly that he wasn’t ready when his throbbing balls tightened.
“Yes,” he ground out between clenched jaws as he drove his cock into Leather’s hand, fucking his fist. “Harder.”
Leather’s finger rammed him with deep, rhythmic thrusts. His narrow face was hard, his jaw tight as his arm pumped, his nostrils flared with the force of his labor. And then he hit that spot that was like heaven on earth and Stephen yelled something and jerked into the other man’s hands twice more before thrusting off the bed, his back arched as he fucked the sky.
The last thing Stephen saw before his eyelids slid shut was Leather’s flushed face and the way his lips almost curved into a smile.
Chapter Seventeen
For the second night in a row Jo couldn’t sleep.
Mr. Chatham had fallen into a deep sleep after his orgasm, not even twitching when Jo bent and licked the soft head of his cock clean, reveling in the taste of his spend. She’d been tempted to use her tongue on the delicious ridges of his abdomen but came to her senses. Still, he’d not moved when Jo brought a warm cloth and tenderly bathed every part of him. Nor did he stir when she took a pillow and placed it beneath his head.
She’d pulled the bedding over his naked body, tucking the ends beneath him so that the chill could not seep in.
And then she’d gone to her room and given herself one explosive orgasm after another, her mind’s eye full of Stephen, his hard, muscular body slick with oil and rosy from both the massage and arousal. His thighs spread wide—sprawled and exposed, his hips pumping while she fucked him with one hand and stroked his magnificent cock with the other. It had been even more erotic to see her hands on his body when her own body was fully clothed—clothed as Leather, not Josephine.
Jo had felt his eyes on her, and it had made her wetter. For whatever reason, he wasn’t trying to imagine she was somebody else, he’d wanted to see her face when he climaxed.
And what an orgasm it had been: he’d come so hard it spattered his chin, his beautiful cock pulsing, the thick blue vein throbbing with each spasm.
All types of thoughts had crossed her mind while she’d worked him. What would he have done if she’d taken him in her mouth at the moment of orgasm and milked him until he screamed?
Only years and years and years—a lifetime—of self-control had stopped her. She was his valet, not Josephine. She was the man who cleaned his boots and shaved his face and mended his clothing. And now she was the man lucky enough to give him release when he couldn’t be bothered to seek it someplace else.
“God. Let that be often,” she muttered, her finger sliding up and down her slick, swollen slit, wondering if she should give herself just one more.
Jo had to admit the sorry truth: that part of tonight had been so much better than the four nights with him because he’d ejaculated while looking at the real her—not the invented person, Josephine—but Joseph Edward Leather: Jo.
She hadn’t needed to wear a mask or fake long hair or dress in clothing that wasn’t comfortable. She’d given him pleasure dressed like herself, and she’d been able to see him for the first time because she’d been wearing her bloody glasses!
Every time she was Josephine, he’d been muted, fuzzy, unclear. Not tonight. Tonight he’d been as clear as a diamond. It had been a feeling unlike any other, and she would do anything to experience again.
No matter how unlikely that actually was.
Jo knew she should enjoy tonight, because it was likely the first and last time. Not that he’d fire her, no, he’d given his word and he didn’t lie. But he’d not been himself: he’d been drunk.
She’d taken advantage of that, and she didn’t care. She’d do it again in a heartbeat.
But it was entirely possible that tomorrow he would decide one time was plenty—that being fisted by his valet wasn’t worth the possible complications. It wasn’t beyond comprehension that he would worry Leather was a sod and would develop a fixation on him.
Jo snorted. If only he knew.
He would be on edge—one way or another. And that meant Jo needed to behave as if absolutely nothing was amiss when she went to wake him in only—she glanced at the bedside clock and groaned—less than an hour.
***
It had been a bloody long day and Stephen didn’t arrive back at the hotel until sometime after eight o’clock. Just like always, Leather was waiting for him.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said, taking his satchel and hat and waiting for his gloves. “There are two messages for you on the salver.”
Stephen grunted—just like he always did—and began unbuttoning his greatcoat. There was something not quite real about the way he and his valet were going on with each other.
It wasn’t awkward, startling the reverse, actually. He’d arrived at Stephen’s bedside this morning at five-thirty with the same bland expression as always and had proceeded to shave, bathe—complete with vigorous all-over toweling—and dress Stephen like always.
While Stephen was grateful that he was so unflappable, he couldn’t quite get his mind around the fact there was absolutely no sign of the man who’d fisted and finger-fucked him not even twenty-four hours ago.
Both of which he’d done quite willingly—not to mention deliciously—and which you can enjoy again tonight—and every other night, if you so choose, an insidious, selfish, amoral voice whispered inside his head.
The twinge in his groin at that thought made Stephen feel more than a little concerned.
“Shall I order dinner up for you, sir?” Leather asked after he’d helped him off with his overcoat.
Stephen pushed aside his erotic quandary and considered the man’s question. Should he eat here? Or should he go to Meisen’s and order a dinner and a couple deserts?
Or perhaps you might just stay in and enjoy a massage . . .
“No, I don’t think so,” he said. He needed to get out of this room—but he didn’t need to go to a whorehouse. If he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into Gideon Banks. He’d always liked sex, but he’d had more—and of greater variety—over the past few days than was probably good for his sanity. And the last thing he needed to do was make a habit of using his valet like a bloody prostitute. No matter how much the notion made him throb.
Which was, in itself, more than a little unnerving.
“I believe I’ll go down for dinner tonight.”
“Very good, sir. Would you like me to pour you a drink?” he asked, holding Stephen’s coat and looking up at him with the same expressionless face.
Stephen tried to see beyond the thick glass that seemed to insulate the other man from the world. Leather met his eyes directly, not coloring or flinching or looking away.
Stephen exhaled slowly. He had to admit his valet was one-of-a-kind in more ways than one. He’d never encountered such an unreadable face.
“Make me some tea and bring it to the study.” He turned to the salver and removed the two messages before catching up his satchel.
He dropped into the chair closest to the fire, tossed his bag down beside it, and looked at the two messages: one was a telegram and one something hand-delivered. He opened the telegram first: it was from Smith, who’d written to inform him Fanshawe had used the information he’d sent to leverage a deal in Bristol—he’d purchased two ships and Stephen could come home.
Stephen tried not to feel annoyed that all his work had been useless, because it hadn’t. Just because they hadn’t bought any of the ships he’d looked at didn’t mean his information hadn’t been critical.
He could go home, but he should finish out the last of the boats, just in case. After all, if things fell through down in Bristol they’d be glad for all the information.
Stephen frowned; why was his deceitful brain trying to come up with reasons to stay?
He knew exactly why.
But staying in Glasgow did not get him any closer to Josephine; at least not beyond geographic closeness. She had his card, if she wanted to reach him, she knew how.
“Leather!”
Stephen heard the sound of hurrying feet and his valet appeared in the doorway. “Yes, sir?”
“We’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Leaving.”
It wasn’t a question and Stephen wouldn’t have answered it if it was. Leather could fist him from now to next year but Stephen would be damned if he answered a servant’s bloody questions.
“You’d best get packing,” he said, turning to the second message, the hand-delivered one.
“Very good, sir.”
Stephen didn’t bother responding. He unfolded the single sheet, his eyes dropping to the bottom, first. He sat up straight; it was from Julian.
Mr. Chatham,
I hope it isn’t too forward of me to send you this message, but I have some information about your lady friend and felt that you’d want to know.
Stephen gave an unamused bark of laughter. No, what he’d felt was that Stephen would pay a great deal such information.
“I would have sent you this earlier, but I only found out today because yesterday was my one day off. I hope you don’t mind, sir, but I took the liberty of telling the lads who watch the doors to keep an eye out for either of them.”
“You enterprising little weasel,” he said under his breath, not without a little admiration.
“I’m sorry, sir?”
Stephen looked up to find Leather holding a tea tray. “Nothing,” he said. “Just put it down, I’ll serve myself.”
He waited until Leather left before turning back to the message.
“Charles, the tall blond footman, said your lady’s servant was by again yesterday.”
Stephen’s heartbeat quickened and he deliberately turned the letter face down and sat back in his chair, glancing at the crackling fire. He should throw this into the hearth now. He swallowed and glanced at the steam coming from the nearby teapot. He noticed his hand was shaking when he went to pour a cup and set the pot down with a thump.
This was ridiculous.
He flipped over the page.
Since Charles knew how important it was, he paid the driver of the hackney that brought the servant and waited for him, to come back to Meisen’s after he’d dropped him off. I know you will want to know this information and I will be available tonight if you should want to make an appointment.
Respectfully,
Julian Clark
“Why you little shit,” he gritted, crumpling up the paper and shooting it into the fire. “Leather,” he called, pushing to his feet.
His valet must have been in the next room because he appeared instantly in the doorway. “Yes, sir?”
“When did that message come today?”
“Which one, sir?”
“The hand-delivered one.”
“Just after noon, sir.”
Blast and damn! Stephen supposed the clever little bastard had probably already been reserved by now. Well, there was only one way of finding out.
He saw Leather was still waiting. “Fetch my coat and hat, I’m going out,” he said, already moving toward him.
Leather hesitated only a fraction of a second before scurrying away to get both.
Stephen tapped his foot impatiently as the other man helped him into his coat, and then he snatched up his hat.
“Your muffler, sir?” Leather ran after him as he strode down the hall and Stephen snatched it from him.
“Will you be back soon, sir?”
He ignored the question, telling himself he was being a fool. What was he going to do if he discovered her identity? Storm to her house, kidnap her, and carry her away on a white charger?
Stephen snorted; he’d better learn to ride a horse before he attempted that.
He slowed his pace when he reached the ground floor, having to turn sideways to get around a porter with more luggage than Stephen had ever seen.
Why was he doing this? Why couldn’t he—
“Sir? Sir?” Stephen felt a tug on his overcoat and turned.
A thin, mousy woman with a pinched expression looked up at him. “May I help you?” Stephen asked, not bothering to hide his impatience.
“You don’t remember me?”
Stephen squinted at her, distantly aware that she colored under his rude inspection.
“We met the other day?” she said. “You were with Mr. Leather. Mr. Joseph Leather.”
Comprehension dawned. “Ah, yes. You knew him from the Duke of—” he paused, scrambling.
“Tarland, sir.” She stood up straight, as if she were the duchess, not just a menial.
He frowned and said. “If you are looking for Leather, he’s not with me at the moment.”
She glanced around in an overly dramatic fashion and then shook her head. “No, it was you I wanted to talk to, sir.”
He raised his eyebrows, only just stopping his hand from going to his watch. “Yes?”
She swallowed hard, her eyes darting around again.
Stephen sighed and snapped his fingers at a hovering lackey. “Is there a place we might have a few moments of private conversation?” He pulled out a coin and the man nodded vigorously.
“Yes, sir, this door right here leads to one of the small parlors.”
He moved toward it and Stephen said, “Don’t bother, I’ll get the door.” He turned to the hovering woman. “Ma’am?” he said gesturing ahead of him.
She hesitated, her face puckering. “I’m not sure that would be quite proper. I—”
It was all he could do not to roll his eyes. “If you want privacy, those are our options. If not,” now he did take out his watch. “I’m running late for an appointment.”
She nodded reluctantly and clutched her small bag to her sunken chest, as if Stephen might wrest it from her hands.
He opened the door and followed her inside, waiting for her to take a seat before lowering himself across from her and waiting.
She shifted in her seat, cleared her throat, placed her bag on the table beside her chair, and then put it back on her lap.
Stephen cleared his throat and she jumped.
“Ah, yes. Well, it’s about Mr. Leather.”
“What about him?”
She pursed her lips and moved them side to side. “You seem like a nice young man and I just thought you should know about him.”
For the first time, Stephen felt a pang of . . . something. Instead of hurrying her along, he forced himself to be patient.
“I knew him and his brother since they were just little boys. Their father, Mr. Jonathan Leather, was the duke’s man.” For the first time, she smiled. “He was cut from good cloth—a true servant, through and through. I know it broke His Grace’s heart that he was the last of his line to serve the family. Jonathan Leather was the sixth Leather to valet a Duke of Tarland. His older son, Benjamin, should have valeted the young master, but he was a willful boy who insisted on breaking a tradition of hundreds of years and seeking work elsewhere. Why, there have been Leathers at Tarland’s End almost as long as the family itself. Of course nobody expected much better out of either of the boys given the mother they had.” For a moment it looked as if she was going to turn her head and spit. “Rosa Leather was no better than she should have been. Poor Jonathan got taken in by her pretty face and paid the price for it, didn’t he?”
