“What happened with your father after he found you with William?” Murdo asked, ignoring David’s question.
David sloshed an inch of the hard stuff into a glass. “It wasn’t so bad, considering what he saw. He didn’t disown me. Nothing like that.” He threw back the spirit he’d poured in one gulp and filled the glass again. “Are you sure you won’t join me?”
Again Murdo ignored him. “If he didn’t disown you, what happened?”
David shrugged. “Demanded an explanation. William—well, he put the blame on me. When I wouldn’t deny it, my father knocked me down.” He fingered his jaw, remembering that. The only time his father had ever struck him, and it had been the sort of punch a man throws at another man, fuelled by rage and insult, no holds barred. One minute David had been standing, pleading with the old man; the next he’d been on the ground, staring up at his gentle father in shock.
“Then he marched up to the big house, demanding to see William’s father,” David continued. “I don’t know what was said, but the next day William was sent away to Oxford. And that was all. It was never mentioned again.” He gulped down the second measure of whisky, and, as usual, the second nip felt twice as mellow as the first. Easier in every way. “The worst part was knowing how badly I’d let my father down.”
That wasn’t true. The worst part had been being betrayed by William.
Murdo was silent for a long time. “Come here,” he said at last.
The shadow that was Murdo opened his legs and beckoned David with a tilt of his chin. When David stepped into the space between his thighs, Murdo reached for him, his hands going to David’s hips and pulling him in closer.
The glow of the fire played across the planes of Murdo’s face. He wore an odd expression, a softness about his dark eyes as he watched David.
David stood there, waiting for the next question, or maybe another assessment of David’s character. No doubt this would be more grist to the mill of Murdo’s theory about David’s inability to enjoy the pleasures that Murdo so easily revelled in.
But when he spoke, all Murdo said was, “What do you want?”
“What? What do you mean?”
By way of answer, Murdo shifted, sitting up, leaning forward to place his hand on the crotch of David’s breeches, his fingers tracing the shape of David’s cock, shocking it into hardness. “Tell me what you want.”
“Me?”
Murdo gave a soft gust of laughter. “Yes, you. So far, I’ve always led and you’ve followed. Tonight, you decide.”
David balked. He’d never done such a thing. Never been the one to take the lead.
Except, no. There had been one time. That last day with William, behind the stables. He’d reached for William and had drawn him forward, bringing their mouths together. His heart had been so full, and it was like happiness and pain together. Almost unbearable. The sun had been warm on David’s bare head, and he’d had William’s lips on his, his strong, young body in David’s arms.
And then his father had come.
He wanted that again, that innocent happiness, untainted by the world’s disapproval. He wanted it, even knowing it was unobtainable.
“Kiss me,” he begged. The hoarseness of his own voice surprised him, the edge of emotion audible. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat, sounding calmer when he added, “I want you to kiss me.”
Murdo stood, his body brushing against David’s as he rose. He was taller than William, broader, a man, not a youth. There wasn’t a bit of innocence or purity in him. He was sinful and cynical. Unapologetic. He cared nothing for the world. He just ate its fruits and roamed its wilds and didn’t need anyone. This kiss would be nothing like that long-ago one.
Murdo lowered his head, tilting David’s chin up with one finger. The odd expression from earlier was back, the one that made David feel raw. He closed his eyes, but he couldn’t do anything about the heart that was pounding in his chest.
Murdo’s lips touched his own, feather-light, just a ghost of a kiss, while one hand drifted into David’s hair, cupping the back of his head. He gave a hum of pleasure and did it again, and again, slowly deepening the kiss. His lips, warm and pliable, made seductive little passes at David’s mouth until, at last, he took possession of it completely, pressing his tongue inside, one powerful arm tightening around David’s torso, drawing him in close.
David felt something inside him crack, the banked-up lust inside him flooding out. He wrapped his arms round the other man’s neck, opening his mouth and meeting Murdo’s tongue with his own, his breathing coming suddenly hard.
He was right. This kiss was nothing like that long-ago one. There was no fooling himself as to what this was. He and Murdo were not loving friends. They were not, and would never be, a David and Jonathan. Murdo wanted him. And every time they came together, it felt easier, more natural.
David tore his mouth away from Murdo’s, panting. “I want you to fuck me.”
The word—fuck—from his lips sounded harsh, brutal, but it was honest too. Finally, David giving voice to the deep-seated desire that had tormented him for so long.
Murdo went very still. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
The words were like cold water. David dropped his hands from Murdo’s shoulders, stepping back. Mortification scalded his cheeks.
“David…” Murdo reached for him again. “David—please. It’s not that I don’t want to. Christ, I want to so badly, it hurts. Youmustknow that!”
