Tossing the shirt to the floor, George set his knees on the end of the bed and began to crawl up Theo’s body, till they were face to face.
“What do you want?” Theo whispered against his lips.
“I want you to fuck my mouth,” George murmured. “Spill down my throat.”
Theo looped a hand around the back of George's neck and pulled him closer. “Such a good boy.”
George shivered and turned his head, sinking into Theo’s kiss.
The next time Theo woke, it was almost nine o’clock.
Generally, he rose early, but he’d fallen into a contented doze after first spilling himself down George’s throat, then returning the favour. Somehow George had managed to dress and leave the bedchamber without waking him.
Despite the hour, Theo didn’t rise immediately, closing his eyes and allowing his mind to return to how George had looked as he sucked Theo’s prick, his face flushed and beautiful, eyes closed, lashes trembling, dark hair in disarray. Debauched, and owned.
Unbelievably, Theo’s cock stirred again at the memory, but there was something else too, besides lust. An odd feeling in his chest that warmed him, even as it made him uneasy.
After their first night together at Blackfriars, Theo and George had been together every night. There was a part of Theo that was appalled at his own actions. For all his recklessness with money and his future, he had always been careful in his dealings with other men, only too aware that, if he was discovered, it was the kind of scandal he would not recover from.
With George, though, he was being more imprudent than he had ever been before. And somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to stop, or even to question what they were doing aloud. He had the oddest conviction that if he gave voice to his worries, he might damage this fragile thing that was growing between them. So he said nothing.
Neither of them did.
Each morning, George would return to his own room, and, when they were dressed, they would make their separate ways down to breakfast, and say good morning to one another as they took their seats at the table. As though they hadn’t seen one another since dinner the night before. And sometimes, like today, George wouldn’t even be there when Theo got downstairs.
This morning, Mrs. Ford and Martin were sitting at the kitchen table when he entered.
As soon as Mrs. Ford spotted him in the doorway, she rose from her chair. “Good morning, sir. Are you looking for Mr. Asquith?”
“Given the time, I assume he’s already up and about,” Theo replied.
“Yes,” she agreed. “He breakfasted an hour ago and went off to meet Mr. Morgan. I’ll make breakfast for you and Mr. Martin now. If you’d like to go to the dining room, I’ll serve it there.”
Martin grunted. “Don’t bother for me. I’m not hungry.”
“You need a decent breakfast,” the housekeeper replied implacably. “Go and sit with Mr. Caldwell.”
“Mrs. Ford’s right,” Theo put in, approaching the older man. “Come on, I’ll lend you my arm.”
Martin’s expression was irritated but he reached for his stick, bracing himself as he rose from his chair. “Fine,” he gritted out. “I don’t suppose I’ll get any peace otherwise, will I?”
Theo hovered as Martin levered himself up out of his chair, stepping closer when he wobbled to offer a steadying arm.
Once Martin was up and stable on his feet, they set off in the direction of the dining room, Theo walking painfully slowly, while Martin limped along beside him, his gait uncertain, one foot dragging a little.
According to Dr. Porter, he’d made good progress over the last month, but Martin himself did not seem to share the doctor’s optimism. He was plainly frustrated by his ongoing difficulties: lameness and speech problems. Poor balance and co-ordination.
It was barely any distance from the kitchen to the dining room, but it may as well have been a mile. When they got there, Martin sank into one of the dining room chairs with a heartfelt groan and didn’t even complain when, a few minutes later, Mrs. Ford arrived with a tea tray and wordlessly added several lumps of sugar to his cup, stirring it thoroughly for him, as though he was a child, before carefully handing it to him, keeping a steady hold of it as he adjusted his grip.
“Drink that,” she said firmly, before leaving the dining room. He did his best, though the cup visibly shook each time he lifted it to his mouth.
Gradually, though, he regained his colour, and by the time they’d finished their first cup of tea, and Theo had poured their second, Mrs. Ford was back with a dish of coddled eggs for each of them and a heap of toast from the bread she’d baked that morning. Before she left the room, she lifted Martin’s napkin and tucked it round his neck, ignoring his grumbling over her nannying ways. Once she was gone, Martin stared balefully at his plate for a long minute before picking up his knife in his good hand and trying to situate his fork in the weaker one.
“Do you need help?” Theo asked after watching him fiddle awkwardly for a while. Martin gave a determined shake of his head, then let out a hiss of pure frustration when he dropped his fork. It hit the edge of the table and bounced to the floor.
“Stupid bloody thing,” he bit out. A moment later, he made a distressed noise, and his eyes swam with sudden tears. “God damned idiot,” he added viciously under his breath.
Theo got up, dropping down to his haunches to pick up the errant fork. He fetched a clean one from the sideboard and gently placed it in Martin’s hand before taking his own seat again.
