There was something else in Beckett’s expression as he looked at Arden. It was something Jack was already familiar with, having seen it on Beckett’s face for years, though he’d wager that Arden himself had no idea he’d captured it with his pencils.
Love.
“Mhm,” Jack said to himself in the silent room.
Heat, demand, protectiveness.
Grace, power, possessiveness.
And hunger.
So much hunger.
Around the edges of the main sketch were a few quick studies. A strong throat, sharp jaw, firm lips. The bulge of a bicep, an arm lying loose along the rim of the tub, hand dangling relaxed. A flat abdomen with a scattering of coarse hair below the navel, drawing the eye down to the hint of an impressive alpha cock.
The rest of Beckett’s body was shown in unflinching detail, but Arden hadn’t quite had the nerve to draw that.
Yet.
The fact that Beckett was lounging around in Arden’s tub, the very one Jack had watched Arden bathe in months ago, said volumes about how things were going between them.
Come and get it.
All right.
He would.
By the endof the day, Lord Crewe still hadn’t deigned to sign the documents Jack had been waiting on.
Nolan, being the long-suffering and noble friend that he was, stood up from the dinner table, informed Jack that he’d return with the documents in an hour, and Jack made preparations to leave at first light.
Nolan did get Crewe’s signature, although it took him significantly longer than an hour.
“Do not ask,” he snarled at Jack when he marched into Jack’s study at eleven o’clock that night, his ash-brown hair spilling out of its usual tidy queue, his fussy cravat a disaster, and what Jack was certain was stubble rash around his tightly pursed mouth.
Jack put his hands up and tried not to smile.
He failed.
Nolan swatted him with the packet of documents and dropped them on the desk. “I need a drink, godsdammit.” He stalked out.
Jack went to bed and barely slept a wink at the thought of finally going home and seeing his beautiful boys.
Beckett would scoff if Jack called him that to his face. Arden would blush and smile hopefully, not quite believing that Jack meant it, but liking it anyway.
He didn’t bother to send a message ahead to warn them of his arrival. They knew full well that he was on his way. Whether it was Arden’s idea or Beckett’s to send him that sketch, they’d joined forces to bring him home.
They knew he was coming.
They also knew full well what to expect when Jack arrived.
Beckett did, at least.
He set out on his fastest horse, changed mounts twice, and made it to Avendene in excellent time. It was late evening when he passed the Lodge where he’d recovered from the suppressants.
It seemed a lifetime ago.
He shifted with impatience in the saddle, the leather creaking. His horse, a sweet but moody mare called Ginny, jerked her head up and down, mouthing at the bit. She no doubt sensed Jack’s own mood.
