“I’d like nothing more,” Jack had replied with a groan, “but these damned suppressants will have me in agonies if I try it. I expected them to have worn off by now. No such luck. I thinkthey’re worse.” He’d grimaced, asked Beckett to bring Arden down to his study when he emerged, and left.
Beckett had expected his drive to fuck would have worn off, too, but it hadn’t. It swirled around in his gut, fizzing at the base of his spine, radiating out and stiffening his cock.
It kept him restless and on high alert. Even though the duch’s steps were light, Beckett’s sharpened senses could track him moving around in his chamber as clearly as if the door was wide open.
Beckett stood, arms still crossed and hands balled into fists, and watched the door handle turn.
This was where a good footman would leap to open the door for the duch.
Today, though, Beckett wasn’t a good footman.
Today, he didn’t attempt to anticipate the duch’s needs. He didn’t even bother to straighten from where he lounged against the wall.
He waited.
The duch opened the door. He was neat as a pin. His hair was brushed back from his delicate face, his clothes were tidy and elegant, and his posture was upright and graceful.
Beckett scowled.
That hair, he thought fiercely, should be bunched in Beckett’s fist. Those clothes in shreds on Beckett’s floor. That poise gone, as he writhed and prettily begged beneath Beckett, and Jack, and?—
The duch took one look at him, squeaked, and backed into the room, using both hands to haul the door shut.
Beckett sighed.
He pushed off from the wall and rearranged his face into the bland, expressionless mask a good footman should wear at all times when on duty. According to Marl, anyway. Beckett hadreluctantly practiced in the mirror until he achieved it. It would never come naturally to him.
“That’s because,” Jack had said once, amusement dancing in his dark eyes as he slowly rocked over Beckett, “you don’t really have what it takes to serve.”
Beckett had been shocked then angry at the comment. He’d let Jack know about it by flipping him onto his back. Jack had flipped him in turn, and they’d rolled off the bed in a hearty scuffle until Jack had pinned his shoulders and said with a breathless laugh, “I meant that you are a born leader, and that climbing the ladder to earn the position will be hard for you?—”
“I’ll show you fuckin’ hard,” Beckett had growled, and worked them both to an orgasm so loud and overwhelming that he swore the windows rattled in their frames.
Jack wasn’t wrong.
Beckett did struggle with orders. Didn’t like to admit it. He wanted to tell people what to do, not be told. One day he would, but the climb…yeah. It was frustrating.
Probably good for him, for his control, but frustrating.
He didn’t think he’d ever manage to be a proper servant around the duch, though, no matter how much he practised. All he wanted to do when it came to the duch was command.
He was about to rap lightly on the door and do it right now, command the duch to come out. Before he did, the door opened again.
The duch clung to the handle and sent Beckett a vague, polite smile that made Beckett want to bare his teeth in response and insist that the duchlookat him. The duch cleared his throat. “Good morning.”
“Your Grace.”
“I…am going downstairs,” he announced.
“Very good, Your Grace.” Beckett stood aside.
The duch scurried past, shoulders hunched almost around his ears. Beckett’s lips twitched as he stepped quietly after him. The duch didn’t glance back until he was at the end of the corridor, when he peeked over his shoulder.
He was trying to get another of his sneaky looks at Beckett. Unfortunately for the duch, Beckett was on his heels.
His gaze bounced up to meet Beckett’s in dismay.
Beckett politely raised his eyebrows, as if he had no idea what that little gasp was about.
