The dildo itself was a work of art. Hand-blown Murano glass, smooth and curved, about seven inches long and tapered from a modest tip to a girth that Lex estimated at somewhere betweencomfortableandeducational. The glass was a deep, swirlingblue-green with threads of gold running through it, and the base flared into a smooth disc that caught the lamplight. It looked like something you’d display in a cabinet, not shove up your arse. But it would do for that, as well.
The bathroom door opened. Barnaby walked out barefoot and shirtless, wearing pyjama bottoms that sat low on his hips, his hair damp at the temples. He stopped when he saw what Lex was holding.
His face went through three stages in rapid succession: recognition, horror, and a flush so deep it started at his collarbones and climbed to his hairline.
“Where did you find that?”
“Your bottom drawer.” Lex held it up to the lamplight and turned it slowly, watching the gold threads catch. “This is without question the poshest sex toy I’ve ever seen. It looks like it belongs in the Victoria and Albert Museum. There’s probably a wing for it already.Glass Phalluses of the Italian Renaissance, kindly donated by His Serene Highness Prince Vidal of Cardona.”
“Put it down.”
“Have you used it?”
“Put it down, Lex.”
“You have. You’ve used it. You’ve used your mate’s custom Murano glass cock. That’s beautiful, Barns. That’s friendship. You, Jams and Vidal, give each other exactly what you need.”
Barnaby crossed the room in three strides and reached for the dildo. Lex pulled it out of range, holding it above his head, which was a cheap move but effective because he had four inches on Barnaby and arms that were built for keeping things away from people.
“Give it to me.”
“I’m not done admiring it. Look at the craftsmanship. Some Italian bloke sat in a workshop on a little island in the Venetianlagoon and blew this specifically for your arse. That’s bespoke. That’s the Gieves and Hawkes of dildos.”
Barnaby stopped reaching. He stood in front of Lex with his arms at his sides, his chest rising and falling, his jaw set, deciding between verbal annihilation and physical violence.
Lex lowered the dildo. He held it in both hands, across his palms, and adopted an expression of grave solemnity. “Barnaby Fitznorman-Bicester,” he said. “Marquess of Ashworth. Heir to the Duchy of Chatham. Olympic gold medallist. It is my honour and my privilege, as a joint ambassador of His Majesty’s King’s Trust, with the endorsement of the Crown and the blessing of the Church of England, to ply this dildo upon your person.”
Barnaby’s foot connected with his thigh. It wasn’t hard. It was a kick that communicated a precise and measured amount of contempt without risking actual injury, which was exactly the kind of controlled violence that an equestrian would deploy.
“Fuckoff, Murphy. Don’t you dare buy into the BLEX hype.”
“BLEX is constitutionally endorsed, Barns. The Crown has spoken. God save the King, and God save this dildo.” He pressed his lips to the smooth glass in a kiss. “I’m going to use it on you now.”
Barnaby kicked at him again, but Lex caught his ankle before he could connect. He didn’t grip it hard, just closed his hand around it and held on, his thumb resting against the knob of bone.
Lex tugged on his ankle, and Barnaby let himself be pulled forward a step. “Listen, James is a pillock. I’ll grant you that. And I’ll grant you that he should have asked you before he dropped the news about the co-ambassadorship.”
“Thank you.”
“But he’s your best mate and he loves you. He did a daft thing because he wants you to be happy. Yes, it’s still a fucking rubbish reason to put someone’s private life out in a press release, buthe didn’t mean to be an evil git about it.” Lex’s thumb moved along the inside of Barnaby’s ankle. “The BLEX lot will have a laugh about it for a fortnight. We’ll make heaps of money for our charities. Then someone on Love Island will shag someone they shouldn’t and the whole internet will forget we exist. Now, Barnaby, lie down. I want to help you relax.”
Barnaby stared at him. The room was quiet except for the wind against the windows and Florence scratching at the door. Lex felt bad about locking her out. But the last time he’d tried anything with Barnaby while Florence was in the room, she’d wedged herself between them on the bed and growled at him until he rolled off, and there were only so many times a man could be cockblocked by an Irish Setter before he started taking it personally.
Barnaby lay down.
He arranged himself on his back, settled on the pillow, his arms at his sides, his pyjama bottoms still on, his feet bare and pale against the white cotton of the duvet. He looked up at the ceiling with an expression of feigned indifference that was undermined completely by the erection pressing against the front of his pyjamas.
Lex set the dildo on the bedside table. He pulled his shirt over his head, dropped it on the floor, and climbed onto the bed. He positioned himself between Barnaby’s legs and hooked his fingers into the waistband of the pyjama bottoms.
“Lift.”
Barnaby lifted his hips. Lex pulled the pyjamas down his thighs, over his knees, off his ankles, and tossed them onto the armchair beneath the window. Barnaby was naked, pale and lean against the bedding, his cock hard and flushed pink against his stomach.
Lex ran his hands up the inside of Barnaby’s thighs. The muscle tensed under his palms, and Lex pressed his thumbs intothe tendons at the crease of his groin until Barnaby’s legs fell open wider.
“Good.”
He reached for the lube from his bag, poured it onto his fingers and pressed one against Barnaby’s hole. Barnaby’s breath caught. The muscle clenched under his fingertip, tight and resistant. So Lex waited, circling slow, letting the heat of his hand do the work.
