Arden blinked and passed a hand over his forehead. He was sweating lightly. Of course he was. He’d just sprinted from Jack’s bedchamber like a fool.
It was fine.
He drifted to the head of the bed, trailing his fingers along the edge of the mattress as he went. If he closed his eyes, he could picture it. How he and Beckett must have looked to Jack.
Him, writhing and panting, scratching and begging beneath the beautiful, muscular Beckett.
Poor Jack, to have to witness such a thing.
Arden was a terrible husband. He’d planned to be such a good one, too.
Sighing, he perched his sore rump on the edge of the mattress. The sheets couldn’t possibly hold the heat of last night, meaning that the warmth he felt shimmering around him must be coming from him alone. He tucked a hand under his buttock and hummed. Yes, he was hot there. No wonder. Beckett had slammed into him at the end. He’d tried, Arden thought, to keep it sweet and gentle. He still held Arden down and positively pummelled his arse.
Arden smiled faintly with wonder. When he registered the tacky, unfamiliar…unpleasantness…under his fingers along with the heat, the smile fell away.
He glanced down at his naked body—oh gods, he was naked!He’d been running through the corridors naked!—and reeled.
His pallid skin was littered with marks. A rough red patch here on his chest, a small flowering bruise there on his hip.
He remembered Beckett sliding down the bed and fitting his big, hard hands around Arden’s waist, arching him up to Beckett’s hungry mouth so he could lick and suck over Arden’s quivering abdomen.
He remembered Beckett pinching the skin of Arden’s inner thighs between his teeth and biting down. And Arden had arched even harder, straining for it even as he’d shoved his hands boldly into Beckett’s thick spill of dark hair, so lovely against Arden’s skin, and held him there, begging for more. Beckett had laughed.
Red patches, bruises, a hectic blotchy flush that still hadn’t faded, and…
…and that….
…thatstuff.
Streaked over his belly, his thighs. Arden launched to his feet, both hands went to his behind, and he felt more of it.
Everywhere.
He wascoveredin it.
…was it his? Was it from him?
Or was it Beckett’s?
Beckett had groaned as he climaxed deep inside Arden’s greedy body, knotted in there, and pulsing.
It must have l-leaked out.
And the…on his front. At least some of it must be—yes. Arden had thrown his head back and sobbed as his abdomen clenched in brutal, fast pulses and his small shaft, usually so quiet and unassuming, barely even noticed between his legs, had flung the stuff everywhere.
Arden looked desperately at himself, then the bed, then himself again, his eyes widening.
Everywhere.
He rushed over to the bell pull to call for clean bedding and hot water and grabbed the richly embroidered fabric.
He paused.
Anyone who came in would know what he’d done here.
They’d talk about him.
He swallowed hard.
