Arden threaded his fingers through the side of Jack’s hair and smiled down at him. “Did I say something foolish?” he asked.
“No.” Jack leaned in to kiss the centre of his chest. The linen of his shirt was warm beneath Jack’s lips. “I love you, that is all. Ow.”
Arden’s fingers had clenched in his hair. “Sorry,” he said.
Beckett set his teacup on the small table beside his chair and got to his feet. “Come on over here with me,” he said, “or you’ll have us dithering all night. I’ve got you.” He plucked Arden off his feet, making him squawk again—and pull Jack’s hair again—and sat back down, dragging Arden onto his lap.
Arden went from rigid to boneless to rigid again, his body all but jerking with awkwardness as his sense of propriety warred with his instincts to soften and surrender.
“Stop your thrashing,” Beckett said, juggling him about.
“I am not thrashing, you aremanhandling?—”
“Save it for the bedroom, you’ll be thrashing all over the place?—”
“Beckett, you?—”
“There. Comfy?”
“…yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Your Grace.” He tweaked Arden’s nose.
Arden was sideways on his lap, his head on Beckett’s shoulder, russet curls dishevelled and face still pink. His eyes, though—so bright. So happy. He was pretending to be outraged and cross but Jack could tell that he loved it. Being ‘manhandled’ by Beckett. Being told what to do.
Arden was a gentle man who had spent a lifetime trying and failing miserably to please those around him.
He’d poured himself out, and no one had ever even noticed.
He was made for an alpha like Beckett. Like Jack. For men who wanted nothing more than to cherish him. And yes, to command him. To push him. To have him yield.
To reward him for it, over and over, until satisfaction had lit up every dark corner of him.
The quizzical lift of Beckett’s brows stopped his fanciful musings and brought him back to the moment.
“Oh, but shouldn’t I get Jack something to eat?” Arden was saying.
“No.” Beckett snagged his teacup by the handle, leaving the saucer behind, to Arden’s clear disapproval, and drained it in one gulp. He pressed it into Arden’s hands. “You pour me another cuppa, Jack’ll go on down to the kitchen and get himself properly fed because bread and butter ain’t going to cut it, and then we’ll take you to bed. All right?”
“Yes,” Arden said breathlessly. “All right. I mean. Please.”
Beckett tapped his lips with a finger. Arden leaned up and popped a playful buss right there, then beamed at Jack.
Gods.
CHAPTER 37
BECKETT
“What’s all this, then?” Beckett asked, catching Arden’s hand in his as they walked together through the dim corridor leading to Arden’s bedchamber.
Arden’s fingers were cold and they trembled in Beckett’s. He squeezed Beckett’s hand. “I’m a little nervous.”
“A little?” Arden had been nervous from the moment they’d sent their letter off to taunt Jack. It came and went in waves.
Poor lad. He was trying to be brave. He didn’t need to be. Beckett was there. He’d help him out. He’d help Jack out, too.
Beckett was there to watch over them both. Jack wouldn’t hurt Arden, Arden wouldn’t be afraid of Jack, and Beckett would get to see something beautiful.
