The duch whipped to face forwards, and scuttled ahead.
Beckett should have given him space, of course.
He didn’t.
He knew that the duch was going downstairs to find Jack. He knew that Jack was going to kiss him. Jack had told him so, watching Beckett for his reaction.
“He’s sweet,” Beckett had said. To his utter mortification, he’d added, “Be gentle.”
Beckett stayed close behind the duch. The odd little thing couldn’t seem to decide what pace to proceed at.
First, he scurried.
Then, as if embarrassed to be scurrying, he slowed down to a ridiculous, self-conscious amble.
Then his shoulders tightened all the way back up to his ears and he scurried again.
In the end, Beckett took control. Let someone try and tell him off about it. He was the one who had helped the omega through his heat. It was only a matter of hours since he had the man on his cock. Beckett was obeying his alpha instincts, that was all, to soothe and protect. No one could blame him for it.
He reached out and set a hand on the duch’s vulnerable nape.
The duch stopped suddenly and Beckett bumped into him. He gave the duch an encouraging little push.
“His Grace is waiting, Your Grace,” he said.
“Right. Yes.” The duch sprang away. He didn’t get far; Beckett made a soft, reproving sound, firmed his grip, and set their pace at comfortably brisk.
There was no more stopping and starting, no more jerkiness. Good.
He escorted the duch along the corridors and down the stairs. He was aware that a couple of the other footmen at their duties stopped and watched them go with blatant curiosity. They’d have done that anyway when they saw Beckett, since everyone knew what Beckett had spent the whole night doing.
Or perhaps they were staring at the situation in his breeches.
It wasn’t what you’d call appropriate, after all, for a footman to go striding through his master’s residence fully aroused. Shoved up right behind his husband, too.
They arrived at Jack’s study and Beckett didn’t waste time letting the duch get himself into another tizzy about it. He reached over his shoulder, knocked once, and opened the door without waiting for a response, ushering the duch ahead of him.
Jack was sitting behind his enormous, carved desk with a fancy blown-glass pen in his hand and a sheaf of gleaming parchment before him.
For all he looked like he was hard at work, Beckett would lay good odds Jack was doing nothing more than doodling while he waited for his husband to be delivered for kissing.
Slowly, he set down the pen and leaned back in the comfortable chair. “Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” the duch replied.
Beckett should probably stop scruffing the duch like he was a kitten.
He let go, and immediately ruined it by drifting a hand down the duch’s side to rest on his hip.
Ah, well. Did his best.
Jack got to his feet and strolled over. He paused, his gaze turning calculating as he waited to see if Beckett would allow it.
Beckett nodded. He’d try.
Jack lifted the duch’s chin on a curled knuckle, lowered his head, and hovered just out of reach as the duch quivered and strained subtly towards him. Jack shot Beckett an apologetic look before saying to the duch, “This is to be our first proper kiss as married men. Do you want it to be just the two of us, or—ah.”
He couldn’t say who was the most surprised, him or Jack, when the duch reached back and grabbed Beckett’s thigh with a loud smacking sound.
