Beckett filed that one away to examine later. Now, he moved over the duch, straddling him on all fours and caging him in.
The duch’s eyes grew even wider as they tracked down Beckett’s body to his cock, which was up and raring to go.
“Ah-ah,” Beckett said, recalling the duch’s attention. He tapped his own mouth with a forefinger, and raised his brows.
The duch obediently lifted up and pressed an awkward buss to his lips.
Beckett was tempted to open up and suck on the duch’s tongue just to see what kind of noise he’d make at that, but he didn’t. The duch pulled away and they stared at each other for a long moment.
Beckett gave an abrupt nod and climbed off.
“Wait for me, please,” Jack said before he could make a clean exit.
Beckett grabbed his discarded breeches, hauled them on, and stalked out.
He’d intended to ignore Jack’s demand, go back to his own little room, and sleep the day away. He’d earned it, hadn’t he?
But when he strode down the corridor in his breeches and bare feet, absolutely fine to scandalise anyone he passed with his state of undress, seeing as by now there wasn’t a soul on the estate who didn’t know what he’d spent the night doing, he couldn’t quite manage it.
He set his teeth, tried again, and found himself turning on his heel and striding right back to the duch’s bedchamber, where he loitered outside like he’d been told to, seething about it the whole time.
Was it Jack who’d drawn him back? Beckett’s need to see him, touch him, talk to him? Properly, that is, not while balls deep in his husband, or else being used as a pillow.
Or was it…?
Beckett sagged with his back to the cool wall, and rubbed his hands over his face. His stubble rasped harshly and he thought of the roughened, red skin around the duch’s pouty mouth.
It was the duch he couldn’t bring himself to leave, wasn’t it? And didn’t that feel like a betrayal? He’d have made Jack come and find him, but it was the duch he wouldn’t leave?
Perhaps the duch needed him again.
Something fired up low in Beckett’s belly, and he caught himself turning to open the door. Before he barged on in and instructed the duch to roll over and Jack to settle in for another show, Jack opened the door from the other side.
Beckett couldn’t help it. He made a sound of relief and reached out to Jack, gripping his upper arms even as Jack did the same.
Jack walked him backwards, the door swung shut behind them, and they were alone.
Beckett heard himself breathing heavily. He couldn’t understand the look on Jack’s face. He opened his mouth to say something, and then Jack was on him.
You’d think, after the night Beckett had spent, that the dead last thing he wanted to do right now was kiss. Hemeltedfor it.
Jack wrapped his arms around Beckett, and Beckett’s arms went around Jack’s waist, hauling him impossibly closer. He growled into Jack’s mouth in demand. And Jack? He growled back. He bit back.
This was what Beckett knew. This was his safe place, his firm ground and his foundation, everything he wanted. Not…not sipping kisses from a mouth as tender as a bruised plum.
You can want both, a small voice whispered at the back of his mind.
Beckett jeered at it.
It was a miracle he’d ever had either. The duch was a one-off. As for Jack? Well. Beckett was a pragmatist. Now the duch was here, his time with Jack was no doubt running out.
It wasn’t over yet, though, and he wasn’t about to give ground until he had to.
They fought for dominance in the darkness of the corridor, until Beckett finally yielded. Because he was exhausted, he told himself, and not for any other reason.
He let Jack take his mouth however he liked. Probably searching for a taste of his husband. Beckett yelped when Jack gripped his sore cock and squeezed it.
“Uhn,” Beckett said, his forehead falling onto Jack’s shoulder.
