Alcott Hall: Second Sons Book Three

So, it was true. Charles Bray was back in Finchley. When the lads mentioned seeing him in the high street yesterday, Warren could hardly believe it. Charles was done with Finchley. Done with him. There was no way the proud, principled Charles Bray would come crawling back here. Not after three longs years of a silence colder than the grave.

But Warren couldn’t focus on why Charles left. Not now when he was standing here before him. Warren took that pain, all that resentment and hurt, and he boxed it up tight, shoving it into the darkest corner of his mind.

For the first time in three impossibly long years, his heart could beat again.

“Charles,” he murmured, his lips barely moving.

God damn, but the man was still so beautiful. Even covered as he was in his winter trappings, Warren could still see the amber in his eyes, the slant of his cheekbones, the freckles dotting his nose. Warren would know this man in the dark. He felt that hum between them, like a finger plucking the string of a heart’s thread. Two souls inexplicably intwined.

Charles’s panicked gaze swept him from head to toe. He wasn’t expecting Warren to come then. How could he ever doubt it? When had Warren ever been able to stay away? Did Charles think three years was long enough for Warren to forget about their decade of shared memories?

Impossible.

He blindly reached for the latch of the garden gate, a smile curling his lips as he watched Charles take a hesitant step back, his boot crunching in the snow.

“No,” Charles whispered, his voice muffled by the thickly woven scarf wrapped around his neck. He glanced hesitantly around. “You can’t be here.”

Fuck that.

There was nowhere else Warren could be, not knowing Charles was here. He stepped around the gate, leaving it open as he approached. His heart hammered in his chest. He tugged off his gloves as he walked, feeling the sting of the winter air on his fingertips.

Charles stiffened. “Warren, I’m late. I can’t do this now.”

Always excuses. Always denials.

Warren crossed the distance between them, feeling that thread wind up tight, reeling him in. “I wondered when you’d come back,” he said, his voice gravelly. “I had to know.”

He stopped within arm’s reach of Charles, keeping his hands firmly down at his sides. Standing so close, their height difference was more pronounced. Charles was of average height, but Warren was a bear of a man. He towered head and shoulders above him. As children, they’d always been comparable in size. Once they turned sixteen, Charles had merely filled out, like a sturdy sapling. But Warren doubled in size like a mighty oak.

As a gamekeeper, his size was useful—hunting, trapping, wrangling unruly animals. And Warren wouldn’t deny how he thrilled at the feeling of Charles nestled in his arms, smooth and lean and so goddamn soft. Apparently, he liked delicate things. His mind flashed with images of the young lady pressed against him, her lips moving with his. Lady Madeline was soft too.

His cock twitched just thinking about her, even standing here in front of Charles. Fuck, he was a mess.

“Know what?” said Charles, pulling him from his thoughts.

Warren narrowed his eyes at him. “Whether your love for Selby eclipsed your hatred of me,” he replied honestly.

Charles took another step back, tears springing to his eyes. “I don’t hate you,” he murmured.

It was all the opening Warren needed. He stepped forward, raising a hand to brush his fingers over the only piece of Charles he could claim—his rosy cheek. Charles’s skin was like cold marble, chilled by the wind. Warren’s calloused fingers reverently stroked the line of his cheek towards his mouth.

Charles gasped at the touch, eyes shutting tight. “We cannot do this here. We can’t—”

Here, he said. Meaning there was somewhere this could happen. Warren meant to find that place and tie Charles down, never to leave him again. He took a step closer, and Charles stepped back. They continued their dance, Warren’s smile spreading. “We need to talk—”

“We don’t need to talk.” Charles glanced over his shoulder, always afraid someone was watching them, judging them. As if two old friends couldn’t have a conversation in the garden of the parsonage without raising suspicions. “We don’t need to do anything,” Charles added. “I cannot be here for you. I can’t—I’m here for my uncle.”

“How long will you stay?” he murmured. “Tell me how long my heart gets to beat this time.”

“I’m not—damn it—” Charles groaned, spinning away. He crossed around the corner of the parsonage, flinging open the door to the old potting shed. It was a narrow, flimsy structure, home to little more than a roughhewn worktable and the curate’s supply of gardening tools. One dirty window with a broken pane let in the morning light.

Warren was well familiar with this place. This wasn’t the first time he’d followed behind Charles to sneak away. He snapped the door shut, pulling Charles to him with both hands.

Charles’s hands shot up to press against his chest. He shoved at him. “Get off me.”

But Warren held fast, his hands banded around Charles’s arms.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Charles cried, slapping at him.

“We’re going to talk if I have to take that scarf around your neck and tie you to the table,” he growled.

“Don’t be a brute. Let me go!” His gloved fingers curled into fists as he gripped the lapels of Warren’s coat, pushing at him even as he pulled him closer. “We can’t,” he said on a breath. “Warren, please—”

Warren wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer. With his other hand, he tugged down on Charles’s thickly wrapped scarf, exposing those perfect, bowed lips. They were parted, his warm breath escaping in a little cloud.

Warren’s cock was thickening, desperate to feel this man’s closeness. The heat of his gentle touch. The glide of that clever tongue, swallowing him deep. After three long years, he was all but feral with need. He groaned, lowering his face, eager to taste that perfect mouth.

“I can’t,” Charles panted, still pushing at his chest. Useless. Warren was a rooted tree. “We can’t—”

There was a slight whimper in his voice now. Charles was holding on so tightly to that goddamned self-control. Warren wanted to see him fray and snap. Charles had always been so wild at heart. He was all passion and fire and purpose. Warren had felt it. He’d held it with his two hands. This man seemed born to fight him, fight himself. Hell, Charles was determined to fight the whole world rather than be true to himself.

But Warren was used to handling wild things. He could be tender too. He could be patient. Charles deserved no less. In the end, all wild things crave a firm guiding hand. Warren was that firm hand.

He pressed in with his hips, suppressing a growl as he felt the hardness in Charles’s pants brush against his own. He dropped his face lower, tracing his nose along Charles’s jaw, breathing him in with a low groan. Damn, the man always smelled so delicious—like a fine leather wax, buttery and sweet.

“Charles…” He put everything he felt into the word. All his unspoken pain and hope and desire. All his bone-breaking need.

Charles whimpered, his body bending to Warren’s voice and his will. This was always their way. Charles liked the fight. He liked to be overpowered, liked to be claimed. “God damn you,” he said on a sharp breath. Even as he cursed, he pressed forward with his hips, letting the hard ridge of their cocks slide against each other through their many layers of clothes.

“Fuck,” Warren panted.

Both men were all but shaking with need.

“I cannot get swept under again,” Charles murmured, eyes shut tight. “Trapped in your current. In your pull—I cannot—”

“Charles,” he said again. What else was there to be said? He unraveled the scarf from around Charles’s neck, tipping his hat off in the process. Those perfect curls flopped forward onto his forehead. Warren had to touch them. Had to feel. He raised his left hand, dragging his fingers through Charles’s curls from forehead to nape.

The effect was instant. Charles whimpered again, his hands sliding up Warren’s broad chest to wrap around his neck. “Oh, god, I lied—” He lifted on his toes, pressing himself closer.

“Lied?” Warren was too distracted by undoing the buttons of his great coat.

“I do hate you,” Charles replied. “I must. It’s the only way I can be free of you. It’s the only way I can leave and not feel my soul rending in two. Warren, please, try to understand—”

Warren growled deep, snatching Charles at the hips, and shoving him against the rickety table. Charles hissed, both of his gloved hands reaching behind him to grip the rough wood. It was perfect. It opened him up fully to Warren’s greedy hands.

He tugged the last button of Charles’s coat loose and jerked the coat open. His left hand snatched Charles by the jaw, squeezing tight. His right went straight for the fall of Charles’s breeches. In moments, both men were panting, Warren’s large hand sliding inside to grip Charles’s hard cock.

“Oh—fuck—” Charles hissed, slamming his hips back against the table, rattling the contents of the tabletop. “Fuck, your hand is cold.” Even so, his cock twitched with eagerness in Warren’s hand.

Warren just smiled, giving him a few slow strokes. “It’ll be warm in a moment.” He grazed his palm over the tip, smoothing Charles’s come down his shaft.

Charles groaned, sinking back against the table. It creaked under their weight as Warren pressed forward. “God—please—”

Warren’s teeth clenched as he swallowed his growl. “Your god isn’t here, Charles. It’s just me with my fist ‘round your cock, claiming you in the way only I can.”

Charles moaned, lifting his hips. “Warren…”

He lowered his face, his lips brushing against Charles’s ear as he rasped, “Say it.”

Charles bit his lip with a stifled moan, those amber eyes heated with raw need. One hand fisted tight to Warren’s lapel, the other still gripped the table. They both needed this. They needed him to break.

Warren gave his shaft another tight squeeze. “Say it.”

“Ah—fuck—John,” Charles said on a breath, clutching to him with both hands now. “Johnnie.” He panted the words out in time with each stroke of Warren’s tight fist around his cock. “John. My John. Only mine.”

Warren’s hand stilled as he savored the whine that slipped from Charles’s lips.

“Please, Johnnie. I’m dying—” The man was begging now. Needy and desperate. Tamed.

He wants me.

Relief flooded though him. Relief and that most rare and precious of feelings: hope.

Whatever horse shit lies Charles had to tell himself to leave the way he did, here in this potting shed, the truth won out. He was as ravenous for Warren as Warren would always be for him.

Warren crowed. There was nothing he loved better than to see Charles submit. He leaned down, holding Charles’s gaze. “You said you hate me.”

“I do,” he replied, eyes flashing with raw hunger. “God, but I do—”

Warren brought his face down, smashing their lips together as he claimed all his air. Their kiss was frantic, a clashing of tongues and teeth, as both men were desperate to drown in the taste of the other. Warren hadn’t bothered shaving in a few days, so his dark stubble rasped against Charles’s perfectly smooth skin.

This kiss was so different than the soft, seeking one he shared with Lady Madeline. He didn’t have to be gentle with Charles. He could bite, claim, dominate. Charles may be wild, but Warren was bloody feral. He bowed the man back, plunging in with his tongue, ravenous for more.

Charles fumbled to get his gloves off, then he jerked Warren’s wool cap off with both hands, dragging his fingers through his long, dark hair. He tugged at his nape, earning a hiss from Warren. In retaliation, Warren bit down on his lip, sucking it between his teeth. Charles moaned, sinking deeper into Warren’s embrace.

Warren broke their kiss, gasping for air. “Show me,” he growled, pulling his hand out of Charles’s breeches. “Show me how much you hate me.”

Charles let out a heavy breath, his need etched on every line of his beautiful face. Both his hands dropped to the top of Warren’s breeches. It was the work of moments to have Warren out in his hand. Then Charles was dropping to his knees, sinking that hot mouth around his length, taking him to the back of his throat.

Warren groaned, both hands fisting tight in his curls. Charles was ravenous, sucking him deep, his head bobbing. Warren’s grip tightened as he felt that exquisite coiling low in his spine. He was so close. There’d be no making this last. Not when he was so hungry for even a look at this man who was his every obsession.

His grip tightened as he took charge, moving his hips against Charles’s eager mouth. “I missed you,” he admitted, drawing another exquisite moan from Charles throat. The sound vibrated around his cock, and he twitched, ready to unload.

Charles popped off him, his lips glistening, as he gazed up at him through those long lashes. “I missed you too,” he replied, his warm breath ghosting over the tip of Warren’s cock.

A muscle ticked in Warren’s jaw, but he just nodded, swallowing down his pain and anger. “Good,” he said, voice gruff. “Now, get your sweet mouth back on my cock and finish me.”

With a smile, Charles did as he was told. His tongue was so soft, his mouth warm and wet.

Heaven. This is heaven.

Warren gentled his touch, stroking his fingers through Charles’s hair. “Take your cock in your hand,” he muttered. “Finish with me.”

Not needing to be told twice, Charles dove inside his breeches and stroked himself. Warren savored each of his sounds, his own cock twitching as he felt Charles losing control. With a few last thrusts of his hips, Warren let go, spilling himself into Charles’s mouth. The sweet man at his feet drank him down with a greedy sigh, his shoulders hitching as he let loose into his own hand.

Taking a few deep breaths, Warren gently pushed Charles off his cock. With his free hand, he pulled him to his feet. Charles swayed, eyes glassy as he took his own panting breaths. Warren slid his hand down, wrapping it around Charles’s wrist. He tugged his hand free, glancing down to see the glistening come Charles tried to catch in his palm. With a groan, Warren raised his hand higher, bending to drag the tip of his tongue across the warm mess.

Charles hissed, fingers twitching. “Oh, Christ—”

Warren closed his eyes with a sigh, savoring the taste of his lover. His soul warmed with aching need. He always wanted more of Charles Bray. Never enough. There was no enough.

But when he opened his eyes, he saw that god forsaken look of shame on his face. Charles bit his bottom lip, glancing over his shoulder as if he expected to see a host of angels watching them, shaking their heads in disappointment. It made Warren furious. There was nothing wrong with finding pleasure in each other. But just try telling that to a curate. If the gossip was to be believed, Charles recently earned himself a promotion.

Warren fought the urge to laugh. How had he ended up right back here again? As if all the work he did to move on over the last three years had just been reduced to ash. Charles was home for one day, and Warren was already standing in a garden shed with his cock out, his hands on a vicar who still had his come glistening on his lips.

Nothing in Warren’s life had ever been fucking fair. Least of all was the fact that he was in love with a man who was resolutely determined to believe loving him back was a sin.