“Nomonks.” Rory’s hands slid into Arthur’s suit jacket, tracing his stomach and chest over the vest and fitted dress shirt. Fingers came up to tug at his bow tie several times then gave up, slipping across Arthur’s shoulders under the jacket. “No suspenders?”
“My tailor prefers belts.” Arthur moved his hands down Rory’s body, hitching him higher on the wall and pushing his thigh between his legs.
Rory made a desperate noise. Arthur could have sworn he felt a breeze, and then behind them something shattered, but his foyer was full of trinkets his parents’ designer had picked out and Arthur didn’t care about any of it as much as he cared about getting Rory to make that noise again.
Fingers twisted urgently around Arthur’s lapels, but the form-fitting jacket wasn’t coming off unless he removed his arms from around Rory, and that wasn’t happening anytime soon. Rory muttered something in Italian, a curse maybe, against Arthur’s mouth, and abandoned the jacket. His hands went to Arthur’s belt, tracing the buckle in an exploratory way, and it was Arthur’s turn to swear. He lifted Rory even higher and Rory scrambled to grab his shoulders, his arms, and then up to the back of his head. Arthur moved his kisses to Rory’s neck and there it was, another desperate groan that made Arthur’s blood sing.
“Arthur.” Rory arched his back against the wall, pushing their bodies closer together. His fingers pulled at Arthur’s hair, probably harder than he meant to, and Arthur felt it in every nerve. “I need—Ace—”
Arthur trailed kisses over his neck. He’d barely touched his drink but he felt half-drunk now, light-headed and consumed by his senses. Rory still smelled of snow and the faint trace of the monastery, the scent of old books and incense and wood, reminding Arthur of what he’d almost lost to the Hudson River and making him tighten his grip to hold on to him now.
Rory’s clothes were loose enough for Arthur’s hands to find their way to heated skin, muscles vibrating under his touch like a cork in a shaken champagne bottle. He rucked Rory’s shirt up to his ribs, starved for the feel of Rory’s skin as much as the taste. One suspender popped free as his fingers traced over Rory’s stomach, over his hips, then he slid his hands into the back of his trousers to pull Rory as close as he could against him just as Arthur’s teeth grazed his neck beneath his ear.
Rory gasped, his body futilely trying to arch farther into Arthur except Arthur hadn’t given him an inch of space to do it. His eyes rolled back and his hands gripped Arthur’s hair painfully tight as he shuddered in Arthur’s arms and—
And Arthur might have forgotten what it was like to be twenty.
Rory panted, flushed and glowing and humiliated. “Aw geez, I’m sorry—”
But Arthur’s lips were on his. “No apologies,” he whispered. “You can’t do anything wrong with me.”
“But I—well, y’know—and I think I broke something—”
“You are the only thing in this flat that matters to me.”
Rory relaxed in a rush, his knees going weak, his breath still coming too hard as they slid down against the wall together. He sat on the floor, glasses crooked and clothes rumpled, Arthur kneeling between his legs in his perfect three-piece suit.
Rory reached out to touch his jaw, scratchy with black shadow.“Bellissimo,”he said softly. “I’m hopeless for you.”
“You’re fine, darling.” Arthur didn’t look upset at all. “There’s no wrong way to do it.”
“Yeah, there is,” Rory said, before he could stop himself. “I didn’t even get your tie off.”
The corner of Arthur’s lips turned up and he leaned in for another kiss. “Next time, you’ll just have to work faster—”
“I tried.”
Arthur pulled back, brow furrowed. Rory’s face flushed uncomfortably and he looked away. “I tried,” he said again, defenses down and tongue loose in the afterglow. “Your clothes are too complicated. You’ve got so many accessories, and I’ve only ever worn suspenders...”
Arthur blinked, and Rory tensed, ready to be ridiculed.
But then Arthur said, “Oh,” soft and simple. “Of course. You’re absolutely right.”
Rory glanced uncertainly at him. “I am?”
“Certainly.” Arthur gestured at himself. “Jacket, vest, shirt, bow tie—why on earth am I wearing so many things?”
Arthur’s smile was rueful and soft and not mocking in the least. He wasn’t making fun. Warmth blossomed in Rory’s chest. “It’s same as all the high hats wear.”
“But the upper class is, admittedly, absurd. And then my tailor goes and styles everything fiendishly tight—”
“Whoa whoa whoa.” Rory wrapped a territorial hand over Arthur’s bicep. “I’m not grouching aboutthat.”
Arthur’s smile became a grin. “No?”
Rory ran his palm over the iron muscles under Arthur’s jacket. “No other fella in New York’s half as fine as you in a suit. But you could wear a potato sack and still look like you stepped outta my best dream.”
“Oh, how dare you.” Arthur bent, put his shoulder against Rory’s stomach, and suddenly stood, picking Rory up with him.
