The Brass Box

Table of Contents Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven About the Author

Is it real, or just smoke and mirrors? As a member of the British gentry, Marcus Fleetwood-Smythe’s life is an endless round of responsibility and duty. Charged with finding a magician for his sister’s upcoming wedding, he ventures out into the pouring rain and finds Teague, whose free spirit calls to Marcus. And makes him hunger for anything and everything his position won’t allow him to have. Teague’s stock in trade are his wandering feet and the rather odd lineage that takes the wonders he performs on stage beyond the ordinary. But there’s nothing more magical than the sparks that fly between him and Marcus. Except the duty-bound Marcus fears letting go of a life that’s smothering him almost as much as he fears discovery. Desire fans the flames until it flares into forbidden passion, leaving Marcus poised on the precipice of the most frightening choice of his life. Risk everything for the man who holds his heart…or watch his one chance at forever vanish in a puff of smoke. Warning: Two stubborn men, one steamy carriage ride, and a little bit of magic may produce more than a few sparks. eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. Samhain Publishing, Ltd. 577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520 Macon GA 31201 The Brass Box Copyright © 2010 by K.M. Mahoney ISBN: 978-1-60928-236-3 Edited by Linda Ingmanson Cover by Valerie Tibbs All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: October 2010 www.samhainpublishing.com

The Brass Box K.M. Mahoney

Dedication

To my sister and her new husband, even though they’ll probably never read this. I hope you find your own happy ending.

Chapter One

The rain poured down with the damp chill possible only in London, hitting the rapidly cooling paving stones. Steam rose like a thick fog around the lampposts, curling upward to twine with the factory smoke that perpetually blanketed the city. Marcus pulled his coat tighter and scowled down at his water-splattered boots. Damn Eloise, anyway. If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t be suffering through this weather, slogging through the puddles and God only knew what else. He could think of quite a few better things to be doing tonight. Most of them involved warm sheets, warmer bodies and more than a few acts frowned upon by Society. “Watch it!” Someone slammed into his back, nearly sending him sprawling into a puddle the size of a small pond. “Watch it yourself,” he snarled. The stranger barreled past, shoving him toward the street. Marcus sighed glumly when a passing carriage sent a cascade of water to drench what few parts of him remained dry. Marcus wrung out the ends of his knee-length coat, past the point of anger now and headed into merely resigned. “Best move back,” a wry voice said. Large, warm hands wrapped around his arms and pulled him into the relative shelter of the nearest building. “This road stays pretty busy this time of night.” “I don’t believe it matters at this point,” Marcus replied. “I think the only way to soak me more is to throw me in the Thames.” The man laughed. Marcus tucked his chilled body into the bricks that still radiated a slight heat from the beating sun of earlier. Out of the rain for a few blessed moments, he turned to look at his new companion. Marcus sucked in his breath. Good God. Why couldn’t they grow them like this in Society?

Thick lashes framed a pair of deep, brilliant blues eyes brimming with life and humor. Lush, finely molded lips tipped up in a charming smile, outlining stark cheekbones with deep creases. Tousled, dark hair stuck up in wet, riotous clumps. Broad shoulders and a silhouette to make Michelangelo’s David envious completed the picture of masculine perfection. Marcus had to work very, very hard to keep his eyes above chest level when what he really wanted to study lay a bit southward. That lovely grin turned into a smirk, as if the man had a good idea of Marcus’s thoughts. He probably did too. According to Marcus’s mother, he could never hide what he was thinking. Not enough for her tastes, anyway. The booming toll of a clock startled Marcus. He hiccupped. Bloody hell, he simply couldn’t get used to that new clock tower. But the interruption served a useful purpose this time. Eloise. Marcus yanked his thoughts back to the here and now with reluctance. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said stiffly, not really sure what he was talking about, but feeling that manners required some sort of response. The man grinned again, a positively wicked expression, one promising all manner of sinful delights. Marcus tugged his coat closer again. Not against the weather this time, but rather in an instinctive attempt to conceal his body’s unruly reaction. “Anytime, my dear man,” the dark-haired stranger said with a gallant bow. “May I offer any further assistance before you dart off into this dreadful weather for parts unknown?” “You wouldn’t happen to know the way to the Brass Box, would you?” One eyebrow rose nearly to the hairline. “The Brass Box?” He dropped the well-rounded consonants and plummy accents for a much more appealing drawl with just a hint of a brogue. “Really? You hardly look the type.” Marcus shoved a hand into his hair, pulling slightly and wishing his fist was wrapped around his sister’s neck rather than the damp strands. “It’s a long story,” he said, “so if you can just point me in the right direction, I’ll let you get on with your evening.” The man shook his head and offered his hand. “Teague Byrne.” Marcus shook it automatically. “Marcus Fleetwood-Smythe.” He ground his teeth through the inevitable snicker. “If you don’t mind, I must be off.” “I’ll take you,” Teague offered. “Can’t have you getting lost down by the Brass. You’ll get that swim in the Thames after all.” Marcus didn’t argue, simply fell into step next to Teague. He wasn’t about to pass up a chance to spend more time in the company of this utterly fascinating man. “May I ask what business you have that close to the wharf?” Teague asked. His casual tone belied the sharp look in his magnificent eyes. “My sister,” Marcus replied simply. “Your sister is down there?” “No, her fiancé.” “Ah.” “Either I drag Charles back by his scruff, or I can listen to her wailing for the rest of the evening. And possibly well into next week. I find it an unacceptable risk.” Teague smiled, the corners of his eyes wrinkling in true merriment. “We’d best fetch the man, then. I have three sisters, myself. Here we go.” Marcus nearly walked right past the gloomy doorway. Amatched set of three-story apartment buildings leaned toward each other in creaking age, casting the small, dingy tavern into a cave of shadows. Or at least Marcus had assumed it was a tavern. But when Teague shoved the water-stained door open, a small bell jangled merrily. Marcus stopped mid-stride, a smile creeping across his face. “Well, I’ll be damned.” “Don’t get lost now,” Teague warned. Marcus nodded absently at Teague’s words, busy doing just that. The store was tiny, but every square inch contained some mechanical device to catch the curious eye. He wandered from the main aisle, glints in the dark catching his attention. He stopped at a small wooden box and ran his hand over the smooth lid. His fingers caught on a button and he pushed. One side swiveled out, bent backwards and tilted the box on an angle to provide a better view of the contents. Fascinating. He started poking at the device, trying to figure out how the thing was hinged together. “Come along,” Teague called. “I imagine your Charles is down below. There’s usually a poker game in the basement.” “Oh, but did you see—” Teague’s exasperated sigh spoke louder than words, but when Marcus looked, there was amusement in his eyes. The pair shared a smile, Teague’s indulgent, Marcus’s rueful. Teague was still forced to literally pull Marcus away from his examination of the box. Marcus tried to dig in his heels. “I want a better look,” he protested. Teague grabbed Marcus’s hand. At the feel of those strong, calloused fingers wrapping around his own, Marcus lost all thought of examining the tiny, mechanical device. In fact, he lost all thought entirely. Hard to concentrate when all your blood was in a head other than the one atop your shoulders. They pushed their way through a tattered curtain at the back of the dimly lit shop. Teague walked with utter confidence through the gloom. Marcus, on the other hand, was nearly halfway down the rickety staircase before he even remembered why they were there. “A poker game?” he asked abruptly. “Why on earth didn’t he simply go to one of the hells uptown?” And closer to home. “The prizes are a bit more enticing in this part of town,” Teague replied enigmatically. He shoved aside another curtain, this one dark blue to the upstairs red velvet, but equally tattered. “Hello, boys.” A chorus of greetings hailed their arrival. Marcus took in this room with even more fascination than the one upstairs. While upstairs was grimy, dim and crowded, the downstairs seemed positively cavernous by comparison. It stretched from the bottom of the stairs in both directions to tunnel under the buildings on either side. The stone floor beneath his muddy boots was swept as clean as his mother’s front hall. Lamplight illuminated the room here as well, but it brightened the large space more than any electric lights could. The flickering flames bounced off gleaming brass and polished copper. The entire room glowed with a warm golden hue. Marcus dropped Teague’s hand, not even aware until then that he’d kept a grip on the other man, and wandered over to the nearest object. A large cabinet made entirely of hammered brass stood as a lone sentinel against the wall, guarding the foot of the stairs. He ran his hand along the side, trying in vain to find some sort of latch or door. He circled the free-standing closet, unable to find even a seam. “Bloody brilliant.” Thank God Teague remained focused, because Marcus could stay lost down here for days. Teague cleared his throat. “Boys, anyone here by the name of Charles?” The six men seated at the round felt-top table, cards scattered before them, looked around the room as if searching for a person among the metal. “There was a bloke ’ere,” one man said finally. “’Didn’t catch a name. Came in near to a tick ago asking fer ye. Left when we said ye worn’t in.” Well, bloody hell. Marcus scowled, the words pulling his attention away from the box. Out in the rain for nothing. “Want some advice?” Teague’s tone said it wasn’t a question. “Go to your club and avoid your sister until the storm passes.” “The emotional one or the actual, weather-related one?” “Both. Let Charles find his own way home.” Marcus decided it was advice he was going to take. He thanked the men. They didn’t notice, having already dived back into their poker game. He followed Teague back upstairs and said a reluctant goodbye. His gaze lingered with longing one more time before he ran out of excuses to stay. Marcus pulled the collar of his coat up tightly around his ears and stepped back out into the rain. He could feel that intense stare boring into his back all the way down the street. Teague watched the slender man round a corner and disappear, hands stuffed in the pockets of that ridiculous coat, shoulders hunched against the drizzle. He leaned in the doorway of his shop and allowed a small, entirely genuine smile to creep across his face. Damn, but that was one fine example of British gentry. Anyone with eyes could see that the man didn’t exactly belong on this side of town. His fair skin contrasted beautifully with his blond hair and proclaimed his upper-class background better than any clothing. Men in Teague’s neighborhood usually had hints of tanned skin, hard-earned in the foggy London air, more muscles and calloused hands. Teague let more of his weight lean against the door jamb, allowing his mind to wander, lighting briefly on various possibilities. He ran his fingertips over the edge of the door as he schemed. Purple sparks chased his motions, but he ignored them with the ease of familiarity. He wanted to see Marcus again. His logical mind insisted on shouting all the problems intrinsically involved with pursuing a man of Marcus’s obvious social standing. Not the least of which involved the fact that, if Marcus were not so inclined, Teague could find himself imprisoned before he could blink. Teague decided this time the rewards were worth the risks and told his logical mind to shut the hell up. Considering the looks those brown eyes had been giving him, Marcus was indeed so inclined. The chance of exposure only added to the thrill. And there was nothing that Teague loved so much as a good thrill. What was life without a little excitement, a little risk? Coming to a rapid decision, Teague levered himself upright and set off into the dying storm. The first step was to find that blasted Charles and discover what he wanted. With any luck, it would be something that would put him in intimate—very intimate—contact with the utterly delicious Marcus Fleetwood-Smythe.

Chapter Two

Marcus tripped down the stairs, yawning widely. He winced when the force made his jaw pop. In the brief second that his eyes were closed, he somehow managed to walk into a jungle. He opened his eyes to find himself staring directly into what had to be the largest, bushiest flower arrangement he’d ever seen. “Holy—Eloise!” He paused with one foot hanging off the bottom step and stared in amazement at what had once been the front hall of his home. “Please, Marcus, don’t shout,” came the feminine scold. His sister bustled around the corner, apron wrapped around her waist and her skirts tucked off the floor. Marcus didn’t think he’d seen her up this early in the morning since they were ten. “Eloise,” Marcus said with what he thought was remarkable patience, “I haven’t even had breakfast yet. It is far too early for a lecture on etiquette.” She huffed, an expression that made her look like a younger, shorter version of their mother. “Explanation?” He dropped the last few inches to the parquet floor and flapped his hand in a general encompassing wave. “For the party.” Eloise gave him that haughty glare common to all sisters, the one that asked —rhetorically, of course—about his intelligence. She was firmly convinced he had the thought processes of a monkey. Short attention span and easily amused. “Your engagement party requires turning the house into a corner of Hyde Park? Never mind, I’m going to see if Cook fixed bacon this morning. I need bacon,” he mumbled, shoving through the oversized plants scattered in no discernible pattern from one corner of the foyer to the other. In the breakfast room, he snatched the entire plate of bacon and plopped gratefully into a chair. The last thing he felt like doing at this ridiculous hour was getting involved in the million and two details Eloise felt essential to conduct a proper party. He thanked God, not for the first time in his life, that they weren’t actually a part of the Ton. Too many events like this one and he would have gone insane by the age of twenty. His mother and sister would hardly agree, but he was more than content to rusticate firmly in the lower echelons of Society. He also thanked God that six weeks after the engagement party, Eloise became Charles’s problem. Marcus poured himself a third cup of tea and finished off the bacon before starting on the ham. He hadn’t slept well last night. Not at all. Even now he could still see visions of piercing blue eyes burning into the backs of his eyelids. The vision, of course, started a chain reaction. His stomach muscles tightened and he slouched in his chair, sliding his lower body farther under the table. Bloody hell, he usually had better control than this. And he never, ever had wet dreams. Last night he had woken up sticky and sweaty. Twice. The memory made him squirm uncomfortably, trying to adjust his trousers without being obvious. Marcus might be alone at the moment, but he didn’t fool himself. With his parent, sibling, and a house full of servants all preoccupied with party preparations, that state could change at any moment. As if his thoughts had conjured her, his mother swept into the room. “There you are,” she announced grandly. “Would you please fill a proper plate?” She stole his ham before he could protest. China clinked as she set the plate back on the side table. Then she did the worst thing he could possibly imagine this morning. She pulled out a chair and sat down next to him. Her blonde hair, the same shade as Marcus’s own, shimmered in the dim light, courtesy of a liberal dusting of powder. “Well?” she demanded. Her patrician features were arranged in their usual scowl, blue eyes dark and brow drawn tight. Considering the deep lines etched into her forehead, it amazed Marcus that her face remained unwrinkled. Must be all that paste she put on her face every night. “Well, what?” Marcus asked, giving up entirely on the rest of his breakfast. The bacon would have to suffice until he could sneak from the house. “Did you find him?” Marcus tensed, brain racing, before he realized his mother wasn’t referring to Teague. And why the Irishman would be the first person into his head might bear closer examination. Or maybe not. Some things were best left alone. “If you mean Charles, then no, I did not. He was not where Eloise thought, and I was hardly going to chase him across London. He’s a grown man and more than capable of managing his own affairs.” Damn. That hadn’t come out right at all. Lillian pursed her lips, eyes cold. “Well.” No one could put as much meaning into that one word as Lillian Fleetwood-Smythe, widow of Emerson Fleetwood-Smythe, Esquire, and daughter of the Marquis of Standish. A lineage she never let anyone forget. “In any event,” Lillian continued, “I was not referring to Charles. No, I was referring to the entertainment you were supposed to be engaging.” Marcus blinked. “The what?” Lillian sighed, donning her best put-upon expression. And he had to admit, her best was pretty damn good. “I swear that you only listen to a third of what I say. You were supposed to go to that shop last evening and procure the services of its proprietor. Tadd or Ty.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It was an Irish name.” Teague. And damn, there went his cock again. The mere mention of the man made his prick stand up and sing the tenor section of Handel’s Messiah. One peek at his mother and his arousal died quickly. She had that look in her eyes again. He had seen that expression so many times over the past twenty-six years, but he still hated it. It was the same look she had given his father. The one that said he was, and always would be, a constant disappointment, but that she had never expected anything less. “I was unaware,” Marcus replied irritably, “that I was supposed to be procuring anything. I was simply told to go and fetch ‘the man’ from the Brass Box. As we had currently been discussing her upcoming nuptials, I assumed Eloise was referring to her esteemed fiancé. A proprietor of any sort was never mentioned.” “These are important arrangements. The least you could do for your sister is to pretend to be interested.” “Isn’t it a bit late to be hiring the entertainment? I thought the two of you had everything organized the day before the engagement.” “Don’t be crude.” Marcus muttered an extremely insincere apology. “Honestly, Marcus, don’t you ever pay attention? We originally procured the services of Madame Cardoza, that lovely soprano Mrs. Everston introduced me to, but the woman contracted laryngitis.” “Most inconsiderate of her,” he mumbled dryly to his empty tea cup. He tried to make pictures out of the dregs, an old amusement. But the distraction wasn’t effective today. His mother’s cold presence was too overbearing to move beyond. “Indeed.” He didn’t think his mother was being sarcastic. Lillian tapped elegant nails atop the wood of the table. Light reflected off her wedding ring and glittered on the diamonds she wore around her wrist. His mother was in full receiving regalia, her day-dress perfectly creased, blonde hair tucked into an elegant chignon. They weren’t expecting anyone, but that hardly mattered to his mother. She took her position in life extremely seriously. As she took everything else in life. Marcus found abruptly that his lungs had forgotten how to work. He could barely draw a breath through his constricted airway. It was becoming a common occurrence of late. His chest would tighten and his lungs would burn. He stood, ignoring the disapproving look from his mother, and bowed shortly. “I have other duties to attend to.” He abandoned all protocol and practically ran from the room, ignoring his mother’s protests and admonishments. Marcus ducked out the back door and into their small garden. Only once he was leaning under the large oak tree, staring at the hazy sky through its branches, did he feel the knot in his stomach ease. The tension remained. Each week the feeling grew worse. The walls were closing in, squashing his sanity between them. He hoped once this blasted wedding was over and done, life would settle. Of course, Eloise’s departure would leave him alone with his mother. And that was an extremely distasteful thought. Marcus rubbed his chest and pictured twinkling blue eyes and deep dimples. Maybe it was time to find himself a new diversion. And if Eloise was planning to hire the Brass Box’s proprietor for her soiree, he knew precisely where to find it.

Chapter Three

Their small townhouse bulged with light, laughter and people. Marcus tucked himself into a corner of the receiving room, dubbed for the evening with the ostentatious title of “ballroom”. He folded his arms and watched the dizzying array of colors with a distinct lack of interest. The party filled the modest sized room to overflowing and spilled out the open french doors into the garden. Eloise’s engagement party was in full swing, and had been for nearly three hours. Marcus had spent those three hours dreaming of escape. If one more matron trapped him with a gushing description of her daughter… He kept hoping they would give up. It never happened. “Do try not to enjoy yourself quite so much.” Marcus jerked and hiccupped at the voice. He nearly dropped the empty wineglass he’d been holding for the past twenty minutes. Marcus turned. Teague’s blue eyes creased at the corners, glowing with humor and life. His stark black evening wear was surprisingly fashionable for a man from the City. He looked elegant and completely at home in the midst of the guest’s finery. “Teague,” he said. Oh, very well, it came out more like a whispered exhalation and revealed quite more than he had intended. But ever since their meeting, this man had haunted his mind, body and dreams. It was bloody irritating. With said man standing right next to him, Marcus found himself momentarily tongue-tied. He settled for a smile. Teague smiled back. “Where are the charming Eloise and her erstwhile Charles?” Marcus scanned the crowd. “There, the couple near the punch bowl.” “So Charles was located and returned safely to his fiancée.” “Charles was apparently never lost in the first place.” “Oh?” “I misunderstood. Again. It seems I was supposed to be taking myself to the Brass Box to procure the entertainment services of ‘The Magician’.” “Which would be me.” “Which would be you. I still have no bloody idea how Charles got into it at all.” “Ah, sisters.” “Mothers,” Marcus corrected. “Hold that thought a moment.” Teague ducked around a portly gentleman dressed in an alarming shade of green and returned a few seconds later with two glasses of wine. “You look as if you need a refresher,” he said, handing one to Marcus. “I certainly do.” Marcus took the proffered glass gratefully and drank it with a most ungentlemanly gulp. “I simply had no desire to battle the crowd until I found a footman.” “There’s always the punch.” “My sister has been holding court near that blasted table for most of the evening.” “Nasty stuff, punch. I prefer a good brandy myself.” The last bit was said with a suggestive tilt of Teague’s head. “I believe I might have some stashed away in my study, if you would care to join me later this evening.” Marcus couldn’t believe he had made the offer, but he wouldn’t take it back for anything. Teague chuckled. “And perhaps a more private party of our own? I’m working this evening, but I do believe I’ll take you up on that offer after my performance.” “I look forward to it.” A man from across the room waved his hand at them. Marcus vaguely recognized him as one of the participants from the poker game. “I believe that’s my cue.” Teague passed his empty wineglass to Marcus, smiled widely and proceeded to shove his way straight across the dance floor. Marcus watched him go with a smile of his own. Damn, but there was just something about the man. Marcus was no untried school boy. He’d indulged in his fair share—very well, more than his fair share—of liaisons over the years. But he’d never felt this strong of a pull, almost an obsession, toward anyone. It had taken more willpower than he had known he possessed to stay away from the Brass Box. Perhaps a good, quick fuck with the man would settle his body and he could actually get some uninterrupted sleep. As soon as the thought occurred, Marcus wrinkled his nose. Something about the phrase struck him as surprisingly distasteful. It was an issue he would rather not dwell on. Nothing, he told himself firmly, was different about this one. He wouldn’t let it be. Couldn’t let it be. He had responsibilities, a reputation to maintain. A permanent relationship—and where the hell had that thought come from?—wasn’t possible. The murmurs started at the far end of the room and worked their way across, followed by a sweeping wave of silence. His sister had curtained off a section on the far side near one of the doorways for the magician to use as a makeshift stage. Those damn bushy jungle plants bracketed the curtains and wound their way around the brightly lit room. What had seemed overwhelming in the front hallway fit quite nicely in their ballroom. The candlelight flickered off the wood floor, polished a dozen times until it gleamed. You could damn near see your reflection in the thing. He was not looking forward to the bills at the end of the month. Something moved behind the deep red velvet, making it sway gently. Eloise stepped forward and faced her guests with a smile. “Good evening. I wanted to thank everyone for coming tonight to celebrate my upcoming nuptials. I have a very special surprise planned. I am utterly thrilled to be able to present tonight’s entertainment. Friends, allow me to introduce the current sensation in London, The Magician.” She waved her hand dramatically and stepped aside. Marcus had to give his sister her due. She put on a good performance herself. The rustle of fabric as the curtain moved was accompanied by a brilliant flash of light. Smoke swirled from under the hem of the curtain and rose with unnatural precision toward the ceiling. “Welcome, good ladies and gentleman,” a sonorous voice droned. An unseen wind whipped across the front of the room, clearing the smoke. Marcus closed his eyes and coughed as the smoke swirled into his face, laden with a sweet fragrance oddly reminiscent of gardenias. When he opened them again, the curtain was gone. In its place stood…damn, was that Teague? It took Marcus several long seconds to realize that the man in black with the tall top hat, cape swirling dramatically, was, indeed, the elegant man from earlier. He stood still, body frozen in a dramatic pose, hands upraised. Behind him and to the left stood the brass cabinet from the basement of the Brass Box. It gleamed dully in the flickering light from the candelabra, the lower half nearly hidden from this angle behind an extremely large ficus. Marcus seemed to recall the plant as the one that had almost swallowed him. Teague lowered his hands and braced them on the small metal table in front of him. The table was empty, save for a light blue silk covering that hung down approximately two inches from each edge. “Welcome,” he said again, but this time softly, as if from one friend to another. Marcus noted with interest that the magician had altered his voice once again. It now rang with the sound of an upper-class accent, each word pronounced precisely and without that faint hint of a lilt that Marcus found so fascinating. He rather missed the lazier, more relaxed tone. Teague smiled, a charming expression that had Marcus gulping more wine in a vain attempt to control his body. Damn, but that man had a smile that could convert a saint. Not to mention play merry hell with the libido. And control? Long past. “Parties are marvelous events,” Teague continued. “Achance to intermingle, form connections of…all manners.” He paused, drawing out the last words with significance. And what Marcus would swear was a heated stare in his direction. He searched vainly for another footman and more wine. “I will not take up too much of your time this evening. You have far more important things to do, I am sure, than listen to me prattle on. Before I leave, however, I will show you a glimpse into the world I inhabit. The hidden realm of magic and mystery.” He waved his hand, wide sleeves of his cape falling back. With a near-silent breath of air, two doves appeared from his hand and flew out the doors to the delighted murmurs of the crowd. Marcus forgot about the wine. Another glass and he would quite possibly be too drunk to enjoy his private performance later. He leaned his weight forward, studying the magician with new, curious eyes. Teague ran his hand over the top of the table. Wherever his fingers touched, purple light sparked upward. His hands moved, quickly and gracefully, his smooth tones keeping up a steady patter of conversation. Marcus watched with narrowed eyes as the magician worked steadily through the normal round of parlor tricks. Silk wove its way around his hands, lengthening and shortening. Cards disappeared and reappeared. All the standard tools of any street-side conjurer, albeit completed with utter grace and a sense of effortlessness. Then Teague snapped his fingers. More light sparked, shimmering between his hand and the floor in a melding array of blues and purples. “If you please,” he announced in a louder voice than before. “I would ask for a volunteer for my next trick.” “Oh, damn,” Marcus whispered. He tried to duck behind the crowd as Teague’s eyes fell on him once more. He knew what was coming, but his usual bad luck was holding strong and he didn’t move quickly enough. “Ah, the master of the house,” Teague drawled. “If you would, please, sir.” Marcus opened his mouth to refuse, then changed his mind. His sister was giving him a glare that promised severe retribution and possible maiming if he didn’t comply with the request. Not willing to listen to weeks’ worth of lectures from both his mother and sister on failure to duty, Marcus made his way reluctantly to the front of the room. The journey was far too short, the crowd parting easily, eager to see the magician’s next trick. Long before Marcus felt prepared, he stood in front of the crowd, about to let himself be part of a rather chancy experiment. He really needed to learn how to say no.

“Thank you, sir.” Teague gave him a saucy wink. Marcus shook his head and tried for an admonishing glare. Teague just smiled. The man was a relentless flirt. Teague waved his hand again. With a slight scrape of metal, the cabinet slid out a few feet until everyone in the crowd had an unobstructed view. Marcus tried to spot the wires that controlled the movement. Nothing. Damn, the man was good. Teague ran one hand along the side of the box, stroking it with care and affection. Marcus could really have done without the suggestive look accompanying the motion. With another stroke, one side of the box popped open. Marcus couldn’t help reaching out, himself. He still couldn’t find any seams in the thing, so how… Teague distracted him with another purple-sparked wave. “If you would please step inside, I shall begin.” Marcus moved toward the cabinet. He paused briefly enough to murmur from the side of his mouth, “If you try anything funny, so help me I’ll tie you up with those blasted silk bandannas.” “I wish you would.” Marcus stepped quickly inside the cabinet to hide the bulge in his trousers. Damn, but the image of Teague, sprawled on his bed, wrists bound in bright red silk, threatened to steal the breath from his lungs. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Marcus alone in the dark. The box was surprisingly cool inside. He ran his hands along the metal, savoring the smooth surface, the chilled interior. He marveled briefly at the evident craftsmanship. The metal was perfectly straight, no pits or waves. Brilliant. Marcus could hear the low drone of Teague’s voice on the other side of his confinement, but the metal muffled the words into an indistinguishable hum. He lifted his arms out, testing the radius of movement. His hands hit the sides quickly, barely lifting an inch from his hips. Marcus swallowed audibly, trying to suppress the hiccups that wanted to rise up his throat. Strange, the box had looked much larger from the outside. Just as Marcus was beginning to work himself up into a good panic, the wall behind him swung open. Behind? Wait, he hadn’t turned. How the hell? He turned around and stepped out. To his shock, he realized he was facing Teague and the terrace doors, exiting the cabinet on the same side as he had entered. But he hadn’t turned around, and he hadn’t felt the box move. And the crowd was clapping loudly while Teague took a triumphant bow. Marcus had the distinct feeling he’d missed something important. Teague laughed, the sound hidden beneath the noise of the gathering, but still managing to resonate inside Marcus. The magician leaned close. “Wait for me in your study?” he whispered, his breath brushing warmly against Marcus’s ear, stirring the hair at his nape. “I can find my own way. I’ll join you in five minutes.” Marcus gave a nearly imperceptible nod and strode away to the accolades of the crowd. He was nearly to the edge when he bumped into Charles, literally. “Marvelous performance, what?” the man asked with that cheerful inanity guaranteed to drive Marcus completely batty. “Yes, marvelous.” Marcus edged to the side, trying to dart past the man without being too obvious about it. “Thought your mother would drop her teeth when that box opened up empty.” Marcus froze mid-step. “Empty?” “Of course, man,” Charles replied with a sideways look and a surprised expression. “Opened up that first time and you were bloody well gone, now, weren’t you?” “I didn’t go anywhere,” Marcus replied shortly. “Well, you weren’t in the box,” Charles insisted stubbornly. “How much of that spiked punch have you had?” Marcus asked rhetorically, finally able to slip to one side of the stocky gentleman. “Just a glass. Maybe two. Or was it three?” Marcus left his future brother-in-law behind, the man still muttering numbers to himself. He would ponder the mystery of the metal cabinet later. After a few drinks. And possibly a few dances of a more…energetic kind than took place in public.

Chapter Four

Either Teague didn’t bother to knock or else he did so very softly. Which was quite possible —Marcus was completely absorbed in his own inner thought process. It was the same every time he met someone, particularly someone he thought he could become far too attached to. The last one had been Jameson, an absolutely adorable actor. Cliché, he knew, but the man had been bloody fabulous in bed. The relationship had been his longest, lasting nearly six months. The specter of discovery had eventually come too close, and Marcus had been forced to send Jamie on his way. Reluctantly, regretfully. But not heartbroken. Marcus wondered sometimes if he even had a heart. It seemed unlikely on his bleaker days. He could name each relationship in his life and count out their lengths, most of them numbered in days and weeks rather than months. Jamie had been an exception rather than a rule. Hell, even when Marcus thought of his mother and sister, he felt at best a dull sense of responsibility. And irritation. Lots of irritation. The quiet click of the study door and the even softer snick as Teague turned the lock pulled him from his admittedly depressing self-examination. “So, this is where you hide,” Teague remarked. He looked around Marcus’s sanctuary with obvious interest. Two large windows graced the far wall, but they were heavily covered in thick drapes, leaving the room to bask in eternal twilight. For all the lack of natural light, the room was far from gloomy. A fire and the many sconces glowed cheerfully on the polished wood walls. Bookshelves lined one side of the room, an eye-pleasing array of strips of faded blue, green, red and brown. The massive desk was built out of a light wood, visible on the sturdy legs. The surface was completely covered in papers. Directly in the center of the room sat a comfortable furniture arrangement for socializing, although Marcus did very little of that. A large sofa patterned in browns and golds faced a matching pair of overstuffed chairs. Marcus stood behind the couch, pouring drinks at a small table against the right hand wall. “I want to thank you for participating in my performance,” Teague remarked absently, wandering the room with a leisurely air, touching things here and there in Marcus’s study. Marcus had the unsettling feeling that Teague was seeing far more than most people did. Seeing him in the objects he chose to surround himself with. “It was utterly fascinating,” Marcus admitted. “Though I do have several questions.” Glass clinked gently as he pulled the stopper from the decanter and poured them both a snifter of excellent French brandy. “Ah, a magician never reveals the tricks of his trade.” Their fingers met briefly when Marcus passed over the drink. They shared a small smile. Teague tossed his alcohol back with a quick motion. “There, amenities dispensed with.” His voice still rang with the trace of upper-class accent he used when performing. “Shall we proceed to the fun and games?” Marcus choked. He gaped in an open-mouthed impression of a fish. Teague threw back his head and laughed, a rich sound that resonated deep in Marcus’s gut. “God, man, you’re absolutely gorgeous.” Strong hands wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him close. Marcus’s glass dropped to the floor and bounced on the plush rug as Teague’s mouth crashed down on his. Thought vanished. Marcus wrapped his fingers in Teague’s thick hair and held on. With a huge sense of relief, he consigned his inner demons to oblivion. The kiss left room for nothing else. No thought, no duty, just feeling and a lust that raged out of control. They fought for dominance, tongues tangling. Someone moaned. Marcus thought it might have been him. He pulled back, gasping for breath. “Bloody damn.” “Agreed.” Marcus took two steps back and they landed on the small sofa. Teague grabbed the back for balance with one hand and Marcus’s hip with another. “I don’t think we planned this very well,” he said. Marcus suddenly broke Teague’s hold on him. “What the hell are we doing?” he muttered. “My sister’s guests are still here.” “The door is locked. No one is going to walk in on us.” “I’m loud,” Marcus admitted ruefully. “They may not walk in on us, but they’ll most definitely hear us.” Teague leaned in for another kiss. This time their lips met gently. Marcus slipped his tongue into the warm heat, swirling it around Teague’s. They pulled back and reconnected, lazily exploring, hands roving over sides and backs. “I want you.” Marcus heard the hint of desperation in his voice, but couldn’t bring himself to mind too much. From the way Teague was breathing and the size of the ridge pressing against his leg, the other man was feeling an equal sense of need. Marcus suddenly ripped himself free of Teague’s hold. His own hands wanted to cling, but he wouldn’t let them. He stalked behind his desk, shoving his fingers into his hair and tugging in frustration. “I’d like nothing better than to haul you upstairs to my bedchamber and keep you there until morning, but it’s simply not possible. There’s no privacy here.” “Then come home with me,” Teague offered calmly. “I have rooms above the shop. Small, but you can yell as loudly as you like. No one will pay the slightest bit of attention in that area.”

Moments later, the pair exited the townhouse. Marcus pulled his coat up tighter around his ears and his hat down farther on his head and wondered how on earth Teague had talked him into this. The man had the charm and persuasive skills of Lucifer himself. “This is a really stupid idea,” he muttered, more to himself than his companion. “Nonsense,” Teague remarked cheerfully. “It’s a bloody brilliant idea.” The practical side of Marcus’s brain wanted to catalog everything that could go wrong. It insisted on listing, in numerical order of importance, his many responsibilities, followed by a stern lecture on the necessity of retaining his reputation and the danger of discovery. His body consigned the practical to the deepest, darkest pit of hell, and he hailed a passing hansom cab. Teague settled himself into the seat across from Marcus and gave the driver directions. Their legs brushed in the close confines, each breath sounding abnormally loud. “How long until we reach your lodgings?” Marcus asked in a hoarse voice. “Nearly twenty minutes, if the roads are clear.” “Too long.” Teague hummed his concurrence. Oh, bloody hell. Marcus couldn’t wait that long. He flung his body across the small space separating them, relishing the look of surprise on Teague’s face. As cool as the man was, Marcus figured it was a rare thing to take Teague off-guard. He grabbed the man with a low grunt, narrowly avoiding an elbow in the stomach. The two men were of a similar build, although Teague sported a more muscular frame. That didn’t mean Marcus was a lightweight. Teague gasped under the extra pressure, yielding with a delicious moan of pleasure. Marcus curled his hands into Teague’s overcoat and threw every inch of his soul into the kiss. He trusted this man to catch him, and more than just physically. He pulled back long enough to take a deep breath and whisper, “God, Teague,” before diving right back in. Teague delved into the warm, moist heat of Marcus’s mouth in return, equal emotion sliding along Marcus’s nerve endings from the caress of hands and mouth. Teague’s tongue slid past teeth, diving in and out with a suggestive rhythm. “Want you,” Marcus murmured, sliding his lips down Teague’s neck, tongue flicking out to taste the trace of blossoming sweat. The fragrance and flavor of the man went straight to his cock, a heady combination of man and something uniquely Teague. Marcus had hardly expected his first time with Teague to be in the back of a carriage, but he wasn’t willing to wait. He didn’t think Teague was, either. Teague’s fingers were digging into Marcus’s hips and leaving bruises; his breathing was harsh and ragged. The gentle swaying of the conveyance and the drifting sounds of the outside world added to the growing tension with rapid force. Marcus had never enjoyed a kiss so much, never could have imagined that the act could penetrate so deeply beyond the carnal. He had the sneaking suspicion that his question about whether or not he was capable of love was going to be answered far sooner than he had anticipated. Marcus thought he would be content to kiss Teague for the rest of the night, but soon it wasn’t enough. His body burned for more. His cock throbbed in the tight confines of his trousers, and he shifted unconsciously. “So passionate,” Teague murmured against his skin as Marcus tried his best to crawl inside the big Irishman. “I do like that in a lover.” Teague wedged his hand between their bodies. Marcus squirmed, trying to make enough space between them so Teague could reach his lower body. He wanted that hand on him, and he wanted it now. It took Teague seconds to undo the plackets of Marcus’s pants, but those seconds seemed endless. Teague’s kisses turned frantic, needy. Teague’s fingers finally closed around his prize. Marcus groaned low in his throat as the heat from Teague’s hand sank into his burning flesh. He’d never felt anything more wonderful in his life. “More,” Marcus panted. The feel of Teague’s long fingers wrapping around his cock was nearly enough to have him spilling his seed right then like a virgin schoolboy. God, sex had never been like this before. “I’ve got you, love,” Teague whispered as his fingers began a gentle slide up and down Marcus’s heated flesh. “That you do,” Marcus replied, amazed he could even manage speech. All his focus had flown right out the carriage window the instant Teague’s lips had merged with his. Oh, God. The window. His body threatened to stiffen up as his blasted mind reminded him of where they were. Shut up, Marcus, he told himself firmly. Teague slid his fingers over the head of his cock, and suddenly Marcus couldn’t care less where they were. Hell, they could be sitting at a box at the Opera House and he would just beg for more. “Teague, slow down. I’m going to—” “Go ahead.” “Wanted this to last.” “Next time.” Marcus’s hips thrust uncontrollably as Teague’s hand worked up and down his shaft, fingers twisting over the head on each downward stroke. “Damn it, man.” “Let go,” Teague whispered. When Marcus opened his eyes, Teague’s eyes were devouring him with a hunger he felt down into his gut. Marcus couldn’t hold that gaze for long. It made him feel…exposed. Ridiculous, considering his trousers were hanging open and his cock was thrusting against Teague with uncontrolled jerks. Marcus closed his eyes to escape that blue gaze, tilting his head back as he rode Teague’s hand. Marcus ground his ass against Teague’s cock, hard and heavy beneath him. “Want you with me,” he managed to demand. “Next time,” Teague promised again. Oh, hell no. That wouldn’t do at all. If Marcus was going to go under, he wanted Teague right there with him. Unfortunately, the man was a wily one. Teague ran his thumb over the head of Marcus’s cock, pressing into the slit briefly. That move earned a startled gasp and thrusting hips, and quite effectively sidelined any plans of action on Marcus’s part. The rough calluses on Teague’s fingers scraped erotically as he gathered up pre-come, slicking the heated silk. That maddening hand ran up and down, twisting around the head with every stroke. Marcus’s passionate groans filled the small carriage, which suddenly seemed nearly unbearably hot. The driver suddenly let out a shout, and the wheels slowed. Marcus grabbed for Teague’s hand, trying to stop his motions. Teague wouldn’t be denied. As the carriage slowed its pace, he quickened his, fingers moving faster. He dropped his hand lower, tugging Marcus’s balls before wedging his hand underneath. One slick finger slipped just inside the tiny hole. “Teague, stop, we—” “Almost there,” he whispered into Marcus's ear. Marcus buried his face into the side of Teague’s neck, almost sobbing now. So close. God, he was so close. But the touches, no matter how firm, weren’t enough. His ass muscles clenched in a silent plea for more penetration. Marcus’s lover obliged, delving deeper, letting the tight suction pull him right in. He twisted, finger searching. “Teague!” Marcus tensed, body bowing backwards as Teague found that spot deep inside guaranteed to drive a man insane. His ass tightened until Teague’s single finger felt as wide as a man’s prick, heat and lightning spreading from his balls and shooting up his spine. Marcus managed to utter Teague’s name in a hoarse groan before the storm overtook him. The orgasm ripped through him, sending warm heat spraying across Teague’s arm. Very improper, but Marcus didn’t give a damn. Judging by the lust-filled eyes devouring him, Teague didn’t either. Marcus shuddered, panting for breath as he rode out the explosion. Slowly, the tension drained away, leaving behind limp muscles, his body utterly relaxed in a way he hadn’t felt in months. Years, maybe. Damn, Teague was amazing. He couldn’t remember an orgasm like that. Ever. Not even from his beloved and extremely flexible Jamie. A loud pounding on the door interrupted that lovely feeling. Marcus slid off Teague’s lap. A judicious shove sent him onto the seat instead of on the floor. He didn’t even want to think of the picture he made, sprawled on the squabs, trousers undone and flaccid cock hanging free, hair tousled and sweaty. Relaxed muscles started to tighten again, and that damnable ache started up at the base of his neck. Teague grinned—an utterly wicked expression, that—and waved several fingers still shiny with Marcus’s release. Then the man lifted his hand to his mouth. Keeping his gaze fastened to Marcus, he licked each finger, one by one, so slowly. His tongue twirled around the digits until he had licked every drop from his skin. By the time he finished, Marcus was flushed, and damned if his cock wasn’t stiffening again. Another knock on the door sent Marcus scrambling. He did up his trousers and attempted to straighten his appearance. He had the feeling it was a fruitless endeavor. He had just been well and thoroughly ravished, and he imagined his appearance screamed it to the world. Teague wrapped his coat around himself, tucking the fabric to cover the stains Marcus had left on his clothing. Marcus was gifted with another of those sensual smiles. Teague opened the door. The coachman stepped back, face a careful study in blankness. Marcus rather imagined that a London cabdriver learned not to ask too many questions. Or any at all. Teague hopped down to the street, dark hair glinting in the lantern light, strands darkening from the light dusting of rain now falling. He turned around and held out his hand. “Come along,” he said cheerfully. “I’m not nearly done with you.” Marcus couldn’t decide if that was a threat or a promise. Either way, he followed.

Chapter Five

Teague’s lodgings were nothing special. One room with an average-sized fireplace comprised the living area. A small bedroom angled off to one side. It was nearly the size of Marcus’s dressing room. In other words, exceedingly tiny. The narrow bed with its brass headboard and a small nightstand were nearly all that fit. Marcus wondered idly where Teague kept his clothes. Despite its lack of size, the space was welcoming. Teague had clearly spent some time abroad, possibly even in the Orient, and it showed in the dark colors and rich fabrics. Lush rugs in reds and blacks covered the floor, and the bed was draped in a deep purple material that shone with the rich heaviness of brocade. “Very nice.” “Thank you. But I don’t believe I invited you here to examine my lodgings.” Marcus smiled. “No, I don’t believe you did.” Teague dumped his coat onto an overstuffed armchair. Marcus fought a blush at the sight of the damp spot on his clothing. “Ah, none of that, love,” Teague nearly crooned. “I enjoyed myself very much indeed.” “I believe it’s my turn,” Marcus murmured. He pulled Teague’s shirt loose from its waistband and found warm, hair-roughened skin. He slid the shirt up with his hands, tossing it aside with a distinct lack of concern for its landing. Hell, it could end up in the fireplace. His only concern would be the damper a fire would have on their plans. Marcus hummed his appreciation at the expanse of tanned, well-muscled chest. He caressed his lover, following the thin trails of hair. Teague groaned when Marcus’s searching fingers discovered a pair of nipples. “I must say, I like the view,” Marcus said. His hands kept stroking, following the path of muscles. He rubbed his fingers along Teague’s well-defined abdomen. “I especially like this,” he said, fingers tracing the small glory trail on his stomach. “Shall I see where it leads?” “Please do,” Teague groaned. While Marcus went to work at dropping Teague’s trousers, Teague did some exploring of his own. Marcus found himself quickly divested of his coat, jacket, cravat, waistcoat, shirt—at some point, Teague made a low comment about drowning in a bloody flood of cloth. Marcus’s heart raced, his body aching and straining as if coming off a ten month drought rather than a ten minute one. He abandoned his earlier intentions and dove directly for the prize. Teague was as beautiful here as everywhere else, his cock long and firm, pointing demandingly from a bountiful nest of dark curls. He wasn’t as thick as Marcus, but he made a perfect handful nonetheless. Marcus slid his hand over the top, sliding back the foreskin, already imagining what the thick length of hot steel would feel like buried inside him. Damn. Teague pushed him backward. Marcus’s legs tangled in his half-dressed state, and they stumbled backward. Their momentum carried them several feet before they fell onto the bed. Marcus kicked his feet, tossing the pants free, thanking God he’d followed Teague’s lead and removed his boots upon entering. Marcus quickly lost track of whose hands grappled for whose skin. They became one melded mass of heat and limbs. He threw his head back, gasping for air, as Teague licked his own path down Marcus’s chest. For once, he didn’t mind the lack of chest hair. It made the sensation of Teague’s soft tongue all the more intense. The magician pressed his nose to the skin right above Marcus’s bellybutton and sucked. Marcus shouted and arched upward. Bloody hell, he could feel the bruise forming as teeth came into play. At the same time, Teague slid his hands around his chest and began playing with his nipples, the nails biting with a hint of threat. Marcus could do nothing else but wind his fingers in Teague’s hair and hold on. It was just like in the carriage, only more intense. Whatever else the man might be, he was a bloody magnificent lover. Marcus had meant to take the lead this time, but that busy tongue was quickly derailing his plans. “Fuck!” Teague chuckled. “Patience. I’m getting to that.” Marcus stiffened slightly, not as lost to lust as earlier in the carriage. “Wait a moment.” Teague raised one eyebrow. “Really?” “I don’t usually—” “You do today.” “Arrogant bastard.” “Absolutely. And I can also say in complete arrogance that you’ll love it.” “Do you know how many times I’ve said that to get my own way?” Teague’s eyes darkened. “I don’t want to hear about anyone else. Not here, and definitely not now. Not ever, actually.” “Does anyone ever mention you talk too much?” “Frequently.” Teague pushed Marcus down onto the mattress, heat and muscle rubbing from shoulders to feet. Teague stole another kiss. Marcus knew he did it as a distraction. It worked too. The man’s taste was swiftly becoming an addiction. Their harsh breaths and even harsher groans filled the air as Teague slid up and down, rubbing their cocks together. Marcus arched up, head thrashing mildly. “Damn it, man, would you get on with it?” Teague tangled his hands on either side of Marcus’s head, holding him still as he kissed and licked his way down Marcus’s throat. “You’re not there yet.” “The hell I’m not!” Marcus was through playing the passive partner. He heaved his weight up, dislodging Teague and flipping them both. Marcus smiled at the surprised man underneath him. This time, Marcus was the one doing the rubbing. But he didn’t go for the throat. No, he went right to the main event. He slid up and trapped Teague’s cock between his legs, squeezing. Teague gasped something. It wasn’t in English, French, Greek, or Latin, but whatever language, it was the sexiest thing Marcus had ever heard. He applied himself to tasting and teasing Teague’s nipples, determined to hear it again. “Marcus!” Marcus smiled around one hardened bud, completely satisfied with himself. “Now that I have you here, perhaps I should be the one doing the fucking.” “Next time,” Teague growled. Their lovemaking became a wrestling match, sweaty skin sliding and hands grappling. Victory was irrelevant; no matter who ended up on top, they both won. When it was over, Marcus found himself sprawled back on the pillows, Teague’s mouth tormenting the skin just above his cock. Long fingers tapped a lovely song onto the skin behind his balls. Teague sucked the tip of his prick lightly. Then that hot, talented mouth dropped, closing over Marcus’s sac. The sensations ripped through Marcus. His release hovered, just out of reach. Marcus’s yell rattled the windows. He had never been the one receiving before, but at the moment he wanted Teague in him more than he wanted to breathe. “Teague, please.” Anything to drop over the edge. Teague pulled his mouth off, squeezing the base of Marcus’s cock. Marcus nearly sobbed as his orgasm retreated. But only a little. His body continued to hum with out-of-control lust. The magician didn’t pull his body away, but he did lean to the side to dig through a drawer. With a triumphant crow, Teague brandished a small bottle of oil. It seemed to take him an eternity to loosen the top and coat his fingers. When the first cool, slick digit slid inside Marcus’s ass, he thought his body might fly apart. He knew his brains had melted, because all he could manage to utter were strange dying yelps and sobbing breaths. Not very masculine sounds, but Teague was moving his finger in and out with shallow thrusts guaranteed to reduce any man to a babbling idiot. The addition of a second finger had Marcus twisting uncomfortably, the burn dampening the edges of his arousal. “Hush, love,” Teague crooned. “I’ll take my time.” He stretched his fingers apart, delving a bit more deeply, but still not quite deeply enough. The burst of electricity from Marcus’s sweet spot remained just out of reach. Marcus writhed as Teague continued to move, the pain battling with the pleasure until he could barely distinguish between them. He hardly noticed the third finger, but he definitely noticed when Teague moved just that short distance deeper. Lightning ripped up his spine. “Teague! Oh, God, right there. Again, Teague, again…” Marcus could have cried when Teague pulled his fingers free with a small, wet sound. A much larger blunt object bumped him, stifling his protests. Oh, God, he wasn’t sure— Marcus didn’t have time for protests as Teague slowly forged his way inside. Hot flesh gave way to slick steel as Teague’s cock tried to split Marcus apart. His yell this time rode a bit more on the side of pain as the burn threatened to consume him. Teague froze, muscles stiff, jaw clenched. “Relax, love,” he ground out. “Let me in.” Marcus knew, he really did. But it was far, far different on this end. His head fell back, eyes closed, as he concentrated on relieving some of the pressure. His ass muscles suddenly relaxed, and Teague surged in to the hilt. Arms braced beside Marcus’s head, Teague dropped forward. “Tell me when.”

Marcus tightened experimentally, delighted when Teague gasped his name. Yes, he rather thought he could get to like this. Not all the time, mind, but it was certainly proving worth the earlier pain. He wrapped his legs around Teague’s waist. “Teague?” he whispered. “You can move now.” Teague’s low “Thank God,” was almost drowned out by the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. Teague pulled out, the tip of his cock dragging against that marvelous spot in Marcus’s ass. He slammed back in with one powerful thrust of his hips. Marcus hung on and rocked with Teague’s steady rhythm. In, out. In, out. Marcus’s arousal rose, hovering just on the edge of the drop. He heard himself chanting for Teague to move faster, begging for more force behind his thrusts. Teague complied, bracing himself on his arms and letting Marcus’s body absorb the shock of his movements. Marcus wrapped one hand around Teague’s neck and dropped the other one lower. Marcus gripped his own cock in a shaking fist, stroking with quick, jerky movements. The world narrowed. Marcus knew he was shouting, but he had no idea what. The words probably didn’t make sense, anyway. For all the buildup, Marcus’s orgasm still caught him by surprise. One moment he was racing for the finish line and the next his body seized. Swear to God, he actually screamed. Stars burst behind his closed eyelids as the pleasure overwhelmed him. Teague shouted in encouragement as Marcus’s ass contracted around his cock. One last thrust and he joined his lover in the tumble into a bliss-induced stupor. Teague’s arms gave way, and he collapsed onto Marcus. They stayed glued together and wrapped around each other for several long minutes, neither able to do more than tremble and pant. Marcus finally let his legs slide from behind Teague’s back. His arms felt like overcooked noodles, but he managed to gather enough strength to push at Teague’s shoulders. “I can’t breathe.” “Good.” “Not that kind of can’t breathe, you idiot.” Teague chuckled, sliding bonelessly to one side. “Damn, love.” “I’ll say.” They laughed again, just for the sheer joy of it. Marcus couldn’t remember ever feeling this good after sex, although his laugh was a touch hoarse. He hadn’t been kidding when he said he was a vocal lover. Marcus dropped one hand to pet the sweaty hip pressing into his side. “Ready for round two?” Teague teased. Marcus raised his head just high enough to give Teague a disbelieving glare. “You can’t possibly be serious.” Teague smirked and waggled his eyebrows. Marcus dropped his head back onto the pillow. “At least give me a minute to recover,” he ordered. “And this time, it’s my turn.” “Oh, really?” “Bastard.” The word emerged with far more indulgence than Marcus had intended. He yawned and rolled to one side, tucking himself against Teague, humming happily at the warmth rolling off the larger man. The room was a touch cool, and the rapidly drying sweat on his skin was giving him a slight chill. “Maybe in the morning,” he murmured sleepily. Indulgent eyes followed him into sleep, a gentle hand smoothing his hair back in a soothing motion. Marcus savored the connection. It would be far too easy to get accustomed to the care in that touch. But those were worries for the morning. For now, he would he would let the sweet exhaustion of the best sex of his life lead to the best sleep he’d had in weeks.

Chapter Six

“How long have you owned the shop?” Marcus asked. He poured himself a cup of tea, wondering what the hell he was doing. When Teague had invited him to join him for a bite to eat before leaving, Marcus had accepted. Utterly uncharacteristic, that. In general, the amount of time spent with his lovers outside of the bedchamber could be counted in minutes rather than hours. And he had meant to refuse, truly he had. But when he opened his mouth, “yes” came out instead. “The Brass Box? About six months.” Something about the wording roused Marcus’s curiosity, but he stalled at the “six months” part. “That’s it? You must have purchased an established store, then, to achieve such a reputation already.” “No, the Brass Box is solely mine.” “You work quickly.” “The reputation is the easy part,” Teague replied enigmatically. “It’s the tricks that confound.” “I won’t even pretend to understand what you mean by that.” “Ummm. More toast?” Marcus took the proffered item. It crunched satisfyingly between his teeth. “You seem to be doing quite well. Are you planning on expanding?” And why he was blathering on about the bloody shop was beyond him. He supposed, if he was feeling analytical and philosophical about the matter, it was because business was the one thing he knew. Hated, but knew. “I doubt I’ll be around long enough for that.” An unidentifiable feeling took up residence in Marcus’s gut. Teague looked across the table surreptitiously, with a measuring expression. Marcus hoped any green tinge was attributed to the early hour and not a sudden bout of nausea. “You’re planning on leaving?” “I rarely stay in one place for more than a few months. Wandering feet, if you will.” Marcus, who had lived in the same house his entire life—hell, had occupied the same bloody bedroom—couldn’t fathom a lifestyle like the one Teague was alluding to. Always on the move, never truly having a place to call home? It sounded utterly dreadful. And rather frightening. And when he thought of his mother and the responsibilities awaiting him back home, bloody wonderful. “When will you be leaving, then?” Marcus told himself the hoarse tone in his voice wasn’t audible. It wasn’t. Damn it, he’d spent only one night with the man. Not enough to feel panicked at the thought of never seeing him again. Teague shrugged. “Difficult to say. I usually just get the urge to pack up and leave. Soon, perhaps. London is not my favorite city. Never has been. Too dirty by half. Eggs?” Marcus felt a bit like a clockwork mannequin, blankly accepting whatever was handed to him. But for a bachelor with only a cooking fire and a pan, Teague managed to produce a surprisingly tasty breakfast. “What’s the best part? About the wandering life, I mean.” “Seeing new places. Hearing unfamiliar ideas, learning the latest scientific advancements.” “And the worst?” “The loneliness.” The words were spoken with such stark truthfulness that Marcus felt another pang in his gut, this one of sympathy. He knew most of his friends and peers would scoff, but he knew about loneliness all too well. How it could eat at your insides, gnaw at your soul, until you felt that it would surely drive you mad. “Well, I may not be a wanderer, but I do know a bit about that,” Marcus revealed softly. “Yes, I imagine you do,” Teague replied, equally softly. He pushed aside his plate. He leaned forward on his elbows, dark hair dropping into his eyes. Teague’s smile was gentle and a bit wry, as if the man were going to say something he knew wouldn’t be well-received. “Tell me, Marcus, if I asked you to come with me when I left, what would you say?” For one brief, wonderful moment, joy swept through him. Given the chance, he would follow this man anywhere. Marcus opened his mouth to say just that, but then reality swept in. In the wake of that sense of freedom, the actuality of his life and responsibilities crashed down with the weight of a locomotive engine. “I couldn’t possibly,” he replied. He forced his tone to emerge cool, the words even. Deep inside, the Marcus he kept buried screamed at him. He had gotten far too used to ignoring the inner Marcus, the one not trapped by his life and upbringing. Marcus also told himself firmly that it wasn’t hurt on Teague’s face. No, they hadn’t known each other long enough for that. “Well, then,” Teague said with a rakish grin. “We mustn’t waste any time.” The magician shoved back his chair and was around the table in seconds. Grasping Marcus by the arms, Teague pulled Marcus out of the chair. Strong hands ran up Marcus’s back, burrowed into the hair at his nape. Teague leaned close and whispered, “You know the best thing about living within my financial means? No servants to interrupt at bloody inconvenient times.” Marcus groaned his agreement and yanked Teague’s head down. He licked across the still-swollen lips until they parted. His tongue surged inside, engaging in a mock duel with Teague’s. Once again, winning was irrelevant. Marcus let his hands slide down to cup those ass cheeks and squeeze, swallowing Teague’s deep moan. He dipped in for one more

taste before pulling back. Teague grunted a protest. “Relax,” Marcus said. “I have something better in mind.” “I can’t think of anything better than kissing you,” Teague replied. “Unless perhaps it’s burying my cock in your ass.” “Later,” Marcus promised. Teague’s shirt went flying, and Marcus briefly wondered why they’d even bothered to dress. Skin against skin was far more enjoyable. Marcus didn’t bother with his own clothes, choosing instead to kiss his way down the broad chest displayed so enticingly. His tongue licked over firm muscles and traced the paths of gathering perspiration. His hands wrapped around Teague’s waist. “Off,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the ridged muscles of Teague’s stomach. God, the man was a feast for the eyes. And the lips. And the tongue. Teague complied quite happily, and the trousers quickly went the way of the shirt. Marcus continued to move down the powerful body, chest sliding with tantalizing grace along Teague’s abdomen and thighs. From their matched groans, the sensation was as pleasurable for Teague as it was for Marcus. Marcus slowly, oh so slowly, slid to his knees. He nuzzled into the thick curls surrounding Teague’s swollen and weeping cock, inhaling deeply. Damn, Teague smelled marvelous. Like lust and arousal and freedom. His tongue flicked out, tasting the skin at the juncture where hip met thigh. They groaned in unison again. “Marcus, bloody hell.” Marcus pressed his forehead against Teague’s leg and shook his head, knowing his hair would brush against Teague’s cock with a ripple of maddeningly light touches. The man was still speaking English. Marcus’s goal was complete incoherency, at the least. It could take a while. He planned to enjoy every second, and to make sure that Teague did as well. Teague’s fingers dug into Marcus’s scalp, hands clinging to his hair, urging him closer. Marcus moved to the other side and nuzzled the same spot, but this time he nipped lightly at the crease of skin. “God, man, would you touch me already?” Marcus smiled. “I am touching you.” “Suck me, damn it! I need your mouth on me.” Ah, that was better. It was an order Marcus was more than happy to obey. Without any warning, he swallowed the head of Teague’s cock. Teague shouted and thrust forward. Marcus relaxed his jaw to take more in. He ran his hands around Teague’s thighs, muscles rigid with desire. He moved one hand up to grasp the base of Teague’s cock, sliding it upward to mark the depth he could manage. The other hand slid down to tease that enticing bit of smooth skin between balls and ass. He rubbed back and forth with a steady rhythm, head bobbing in harmony. Teague’s steady groans and muttered encouragements added a wonderful counterpart to the song he was creating. Marcus pulled back slightly, swirling his tongue around the head, making sure to catch every drop of salty fluid leaking heavily from the slit. His lips rounded, the suction audible. He slurped wetly and inhaled, shoving his tightly pursed lips back down, keeping his tongue moving all the while. Teague’s hips thrust strongly, moving faster with every spiral Marcus added. Those strong hands tugged harshly on his hair. Teague moaned something indistinguishable. Marcus grinned around his new favorite toy. There. Right there. He trebled his efforts, cheeks hollowing with the force of his pulls. “Marcus, love, close.” Teague pulled, trying to yank Marcus back. “Close, love!” Marcus pulled back until just the tip of Teague’s cock caressed his tongue, unwilling to entirely relinquish his prize. He shook his head slightly. Then he plunged back down. His wandering hand rubbed Teague’s balls, massaging the sac and tugging ever so slightly. Teague’s back arched at the slight nip of pain, fingers tightened. “Marcus!” With a shout loud enough to make Marcus’s ears ring, Teague thrust forward. Purple sparks lit the peripherals of Marcus’s vision, momentarily diverting his attention. Arcs of colored electricity were dancing along the fireplace tools and into the chimney. Thick, creamy spunk hitting Marcus’s tongue made him forget all about the sparks. He pulled back, swallowing rapidly, to savor the taste. Teague’s hands slowly released their grip and moved from yanking to soothing as his cock softened. Marcus kept licking and sucking until he was certain Teague’s prick was completely clean. Only then did he pull back. Teague kept his hold on Marcus’s hair when the younger man sat back on his heels, licking his lips. Marcus peered up from under his lashes, eyes positively gleaming with satisfaction. Teague stared down at his lover, world reeling and mind fuzzy. But that smile. God, it was a lovely expression. He could live off that smile. There, Teague thought. There’s my Marcus. Teague’s legs were actually rubbery, damn it. And he’d lost control, of his body and his gift. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Teague let himself go, slumping to the floor next to Marcus. He did, however, have enough energy left to slide his hand up under Marcus’s shirt and stroke the tight stomach, tickle the very top of his curls. His hand wandered farther, plucking at the small nipples, pulling a husky moan from Marcus. “Let me catch my breath,” he said. “Then I’ll return the favor.” Marcus stripped his shirt off. Muscles gleamed with sweat in the hazy light streaming through the window in the other room. His chest moved almost as deeply as Teague’s. It sent a thrill through the magician, to realize he affected Marcus as much as Marcus affected him. “I have nowhere else to be today,” Marcus said with a wicked grin to match the expression shining in his brown eyes, dark now with passion, pupils enlarged with arousal. Teague laughed. He lunged forward, sending them both tumbling to the rug. He landed on top, pinning Marcus to the floor. Marcus’s chuckles filled the air as he bucked, trying to toss the heavier man off, but Teague held firm. He plundered Marcus’s mouth with single-minded intent. “My turn,” he growled. He didn’t take his time like Marcus had, moving down the man’s body in one swift slide. He yanked Marcus’s trousers down, not bothering to get them off, leaving them tangled around the man’s ankles. He spent a few moments smelling and snuggling, although it must have felt like hours to Marcus. His cock leaked in a steady stream, his skin flushed, cock curving upward to nearly touch that pretty stomach. Marcus wasn’t as chiseled as Teague; he did, in fact, have a slight roundness to him. Teague found it utterly charming, although he rather thought the man would deck him if he dared to say so out loud. The thought made him chuckle, and the effect on Marcus immediately captivated him. He leaned closer and blew a gentle stream of air across the head of Marcus’s cock. That beautiful body jerked, and Teague’s name echoed around the room in a hoarse shout. Marcus held out almost as long as Teague had earlier. Teague licked down that lovely cock, pressing the tip of his tongue into the seeping slit. Marcus’s entire body tightened, the tremors running through his skin passing themselves to Teague. His body bowed upward as he climaxed. He must have been weary from the night before, because there was no shout this time. Only a low, anguished groan that spoke of a pleasure almost too intense to bear. Teague swallowed and licked, bringing Marcus down from the physical sensations with gentle touches and murmured words. “I have you,” Teague whispered into his sticky, sweaty skin. “Just let go, my love. I’ll take you in.” Dazed eyes blinked up at him. Good. Let Marcus work that one out on his own. Because Teague meant to hold Marcus forever, to take him through much more in life than one —or even several—bouts of passion.

Chapter Seven

Marcus slouched at his desk, brow furrowed, squinting in the dim light. Sometime within the past hour the sun had set, casting the room into deep shadows, but he couldn’t seem to stir himself to light more candles. He shifted the papers. Now where the hell was that grain price…ah, there it was. He rubbed his forehead, trying in vain to ease the pounding in his brain as he attempted to make sense of the numbers. He thought longingly of Teague and two entire days of bliss. Then, as he always did, he shoved them aside. Certainly it would be lovely to shut himself up in the cozy little apartment above the Brass Box and spend his hours exploring every square inch of Teague’s luscious body. But it simply wasn’t possible. He had investments to oversee, letters to write, factories to inspect. A wedding to pay for. Amazing how much a simple breakfast buffet could cost. Particularly when it was being served in the afternoon. Never made sense to him, but then what did he know? He always figured you ate when you were hungry and it didn’t matter what the blasted meal was called. And he was wandering again. Marcus yanked his thoughts back to the business matters spread across his desk and screaming for his attention. But damnation, it seemed to grow harder every day. And no, that wasn’t a veiled reference to anything, no matter what Teague might say. No. No, damn it. No thinking about the man. Work. He had work to do. A gentle knock sounded and the door slid open partway, his butler entering just far enough to gain Marcus’s attention. “Yes, Standish?” he asked wearily. “There is a gentleman here to see you.”

“I’m not at home.” “Of course, sir.” “Nonsense. He is quite clearly at home. I can see him from here.” A cheerful voice cut through the gloom of his office and set off a chain reaction in his body. His breathing grew shallow, skin flushing, nipples tightening and cock hardening. “Teague,” Marcus exclaimed with pleasure. “It’s fine, Standish, let the man in.” He waited until Standish disappeared down the hall before rising from behind the desk. No sense letting the servants on to all his secrets, even if they did probably know them most of them already. Teague closed the door just in time to receive an armful of eager male. Marcus wrapped his arms around the man, hands sliding beneath his coat in a quest for skin. He relished the sensations shivering up his spine as Teague reestablished his claim. They spent several breathless moments inspecting each other, ascertaining that all teeth were still present and accounted for. Marcus finally came up for air, lungs tight as if he had just swum the entire breadth of a lake underwater. He took in Teague’s red cheeks and labored breathing, savoring the feel of the man’s erection pressing against his leg. His lover was well built everywhere, as he’d found out to his delight nearly three weeks ago. And multiple times since. He pulled away with a low laugh. “Hello,” he greeted the man a touch sheepishly. “Hello, yourself.” Teague’s hands slipped away. Marcus stepped back a few paces, allowing them both to gain some measure of control over their unruly bodies. Teague stripped off his coat, laying it over the nearest chair, and loosened his cravat. Marcus swallowed and tried to think of grain prices. When that didn’t work, he turned his attention back toward the papers waiting like spiders in dark corners. His arousal subsided slightly. His prick softened even further when he reminded himself where they were. In his house. With his mother and sister upstairs. And a servant lurking in every doorway. “I…” Marcus halted his words midsentence, shifting nervously. His mind warred with itself, wanting to grab what Teague offered with both hands while it was being offered. Before the man vanished from his life as easily as he had entered. But at the same time, he couldn’t quite seem to let go of his problems and worries. Maybe if they were somewhere other than his house. Teague stepped closer. Marcus didn’t trust that gleam of lust and determination shining in those brilliant eyes. He put up a hand, backing a step. “It’s not that I don’t want to see you, but why are you here?” “What sort of question is that?” The lascivious grin was replaced with an irritated scowl. “A sensible one. We can’t both use our pricks to do the thinking. I thought we agreed it was best if you didn’t come here. Too many prying eyes.” “No, you decided. I just nodded.” “Nodding implies agreement.” “Not when it’s because my head’s bobbing up and down on your prick.” Marcus scowled, reaching down unconsciously to adjust himself. “Now you’re simply being crude.” Teague shrugged. “What can I say? I have a gift.” Marcus snorted with amusement before he could catch himself. His gaze kept wandering, and he scolded himself sharply. He was supposed to be angry with the man, not ogling the muscles in his thighs. Or the muscle a few inches higher. “Teague.” He drew out the word in exasperation. “Relax.” Teague dropped onto the sofa, spreading his arms wide along the back. The position did interesting things to his form. Marcus had to stop himself, again, from drooling at the thick arms and the chiseled stomach, visible through Teague’s thin linen shirt where his waistcoat had ridden up. “As delightful as I find your body,” Teague continued, “I’m actually here for another purpose. I’m giving a performance at a small theater tonight and would like to invite you to attend.” Marcus hesitated, contemplating the odds of discovery, whether anyone might possibly deduce his reason for tramping down to the show. His curiosity outweighed his concern. “I would like that,” he admitted. “But this time, find another volunteer.” Teague chuckled. “What, you didn’t enjoy your brief foray into the entertainment business?” “Not exactly. But I would rather like to see that box trick from the other side, this time.” He wouldn’t admit it, but that trick had been preying on his mind with almost the same frequency as the magician himself. As the one in the box, he knew he hadn’t gone anywhere. But he rather wanted to find out what the audience saw. Charles may be an idiot, but so far his lack of mental agility hadn’t affected his eyesight. “So, you will attend?” Teague sat forward, looking almost…eager. Well, damnation, how was Marcus supposed to turn that expression down? He was so used to seeing a collected, almost disinterested mask on those stark features. “I suppose.” “Excellent.” Teague shot off the couch as if his legs were powered by springs. He gathered his jacket and pressed a quick kiss to Marcus’s lips. “I must be off. Much to do before this evening.” “You could have sent a note,” Marcus pointed out. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides, I wanted to see you.” He wouldn’t get all mushy over that. He wouldn’t. Teague dropped his hand and copped a quick feel of Marcus’s ass before moving his hand around for an even faster grope. “I’ll see you this evening. And if you come in disguise, I shall be extremely irritated,” he added over his shoulder. The door closed behind him with a thud, leaving Marcus with his paperwork and a vague feeling of being hit by a passing carriage. Teague added the final touches to his makeup, carefully applying the last line of kohl to the base of his lashes. He shook out his cloak and laid it over the chair before pulling on his gloves. Then he adjusted his cravat, wincing at the tug of fabric. Damnable things, but what could you do? Londoners looked at you with the evil eye if you tried to roam the streets without one. He longed for a more relaxed society or, better still, the traveling life that he loved so much. But currently, he had a very compelling reason to remain in the rigid, oppressive London atmosphere. “Well, now, don’t you look marvelous?” He smiled, still studying his reflection in the mirror. And, by consequence, the small figure behind now standing behind him. “Good evening, deirfiúr.” Teague turned around to give his sister a warm, welcoming smile. “Good evening to you, as well, deantháir.” “Whatever are you doing in London?” “Checking up on you, what else?” Her deep red hair shone nearly purple in the gaslight as she slinked across the room with the graceful stride that was so familiar. It made his chest ache just to watch her move. Homesick, damn it, he was homesick. At least, as homesick as a member of his family could be, seeing as they never stayed in one place for longer than three months. At least, not usually. Aislinn helped him don his cloak, her movements sure and swift. He let his hand brush against her cheek when she finished. “You’ve been in London a long time,” she said quietly. That was one thing he loved about his sister. She rarely bothered with useless conversation. Teague smiled, ruffling her hair. “You worry too much, deirfiúr. I have simply been occupied.” “Yes, so I saw. He’s quite lovely.” Teague didn’t think Marcus would appreciate being referred to as lovely, but he concurred completely. “Spying on me again, were you?” he teased gently. Aislinn shrugged. “We were trying to teach Sinead how to use the mirror properly for viewing events at a distance. Your magical blood makes you easy to find.” “Sinead came into her power, then?” “Very much so. She’s going to make a powerful witch someday.” “Isn’t that just bloody wonderful?” Teague was well aware that the words came out a bit more bitter than he had intended when Aislinn fixed her special big sister glare on him. But he couldn’t help it. He had spent his entire life surrounded by powerful witches. Every single female member of his family was gifted. Even his father had a touch of the sight in him. Teague, on the other hand, was stuck with a minor gift, and a limited one at that. “Is he the one, then?” Aislinn asked, the subject change pulling Teague from his thoughts. As much as he welcomed the distraction, he didn’t welcome the question. Teague froze. How was he supposed to answer that? Honestly, of course. Aislinn would accept nothing less. “It’s possible,” he admitted. He ran his hand along the edge of the vanity, fingers tapping an absent rhythm on the metal edging. Sparks traced his every movement. “Go maire tú, Tadhgh. The family will be thrilled.” “I’m certain they will,” Teague replied dryly. “Especially as my feet are twitching and I highly doubt I shall be able to coax him away from London and his duties.” He couldn’t quite erase the sadness from his tone. Teague knew before he began the whole bloody affair with Marcus that one or both of them would most likely end up with a broken heart. The call had simply been too strong for Teague to ignore, despite knowing there would be a less than satisfactory ending to the affair. Aislinn stopped his restless motions, squeezing his hand. “Have faith, Tadhgh. And put some of that famous y Broin stubbornness to work. I have faith you’ll work it out and find happiness.”

He shook his head in mock admonishment. “Always so optimistic.” Aislinn leaned up to give him a quick peck on the check. “Someone has to counter your pessimism.” He laughed. Teague had been described as many things over the years. Pessimistic was rarely one of them. “There, that’s better.” Aislinn followed her kiss with a quick pat, applying just enough force to sting slightly. “And if all else fails, you can always give him a little push. Gram swears by it. I can gather—” “Hell, no,” Teague interrupted, knowing exactly what she was going to say. That was the problem with being surrounded by hedge witches. They always thought everything could be solved with magic. His gift, on the other hand, had taken a more…modern twist. Thank the Goddess. “It worked for Gram,” Aislinn said with a shrug. “Worked?” Teague raised one brow in disbelief. “She’s gone through six lovers in the past two years. I believe I’ll stick with more traditional methods, thank you very much.” “Gram seems to be quite happy with her latest conquest. You never know.” Teague glowered, earning him a happy laugh. Aislinn’s happiness always made him picture the rolling meadows of home, even when her amusement was purely at his expense. “Suit yourself,” Aislinn said cheerfully. “Do keep in touch. Mam was worrying a bit. I’ll tell her you’re doing just fine.” “You do that.” Aislinn pulled him into another quick hug. “I must be off.” “Not staying for my performance?” She waved one hand dismissively. “I’ve seen it.” “Amazing. What would I do without such a supportive family?” Aislinn ignored him with that wonderful aplomb achieved only by older sisters. “Take care, deantháir. I will see you soon. You and your lovely man.” Teague turned back to the small dressing table to grab his hat, knowing she was already gone. His family disliked nothing more than standing still. He’d been in London for nearly six months already. He’d come for the sights, because conjurers were popular currently and there was money to be made. He had come because something was tugging on his soul. He had stayed because he knew he was supposed to be in this dirty, damp city. And most definitely not for the atmosphere. When he’d first laid eyes on Marcus, the tugging had ceased and he had known: this was why he’d come. Teague may not have his family’s more traditional gifts, but he had enough of the magic in him to recognize his destiny when he ran straight into it. Now Teague just had to figure out a way to keep the other half of his heart close. He tilted his top hat at just the right angle and grinned into the mirror. Aislinn was right; pessimism didn’t suit his personality. He had a plan. Starting tonight, he would pull Marcus’s head out of that dreadful rut of duty and responsibility. With illusions, a few kisses and a great deal of full-body contact, he would bind himself so tightly to the man that Marcus would never dream of letting Teague leave alone. Sex and perhaps a judicious application of magic. Not his gram’s spells—God forbid he dig himself into that hole. But a touch of mystery and intrigue? Always useful. He gave his hat one last pat and turned in a swirl of fabric, putting every inch of drama that he possessed into his movements. Yes, tonight was going to be a fabulous performance. Astounding. Spellbinding. Vital.

Chapter Eight

Marcus skulked in the shadows, hat pulled low and hands jammed into his pockets. Contrary to Teague’s taunt, he hadn’t come in disguise. Thought about it, yes. But in the end decided not to give the man the satisfaction. Of course, hiding in the shadows would probably rate at about the same level to Teague. Marcus didn’t care. Ever since his mother had made that comment at the dinner table, he’d found himself looking over his shoulder. It had been three days ago. He’d been dining with his sister and mother, as usual. Lillian had been picking delicately at her food, also as usual. Eloise had been…well, God only knew what. She and Charles made a bloody brilliant match, if he did say so himself. He had finished the meat course and was devouring an absolutely divine chocolate confection when his mother looked up. “I heard the most amusing rumor yesterday at Margaret’s bridge gathering.” Her tone conveyed anything but amusement. Marcus stuck the spoon into his mouth and sucked more chocolate off it, glaring like a petulant schoolboy. Damn it, the woman was going to ruin his dessert. He just knew it. He took another quick bite, determined to enjoy as much as he could before she spoke. Lillian ran one finger around the rim of a delicate teacup. “Lady Astorley’s niece—Marilyn, you remember her? Her brother claims he saw someone looking remarkably like you down near the docks the other day. In fact, I believe he said it was very near to that shop where we hired the magician for darling Eloise’s engagement fete. Imagine, a Fleetwood-Smyth, frequenting the docks. Absurd, is it not?” The ice in her eyes said it had better be absurd. Marcus dropped his spoon onto his almost-empty plate with a loud clatter. “Absurd,” he muttered to the remaining scraps of his dessert. His stomach churned with nausea. Why couldn’t the woman ever wait until after dessert? The mere memory was enough to start Marcus’s gut rumbling again. If his mother had heard, then the gossip was spreading. And the last thing he could afford right now was gossip. It still wasn’t too late for Charles to call off the wedding. Alow rush of whispers and the dimming of the gaslights signaled the beginning of Teague’s performance. Marcus moved farther along the edges of the theater, determined to stay anonymous, but wanting to stand nearer to the stage. The mystery of the brass box would be just the thing to erase his mother’s words and the dizzying sense of suffocation that seemed to be his closest companion these days. The curtain swept aside and Teague entered much as he had last time, with a soft whoosh of air and a flash of light. Marcus’s lips tilted involuntarily at the sight his lover presented onstage. Hat tilted at a rakish angle, face cut into harsh planes by the lighting, cape swirling around his polished boots dramatically. Bloody hell, but the man looked positively delicious. He watched the opening tricks absently, tuning out the magician’s patter and focusing on those smooth, rich coffee tones. He wondered, sometimes, about the magic. Nonsense, of course, but Teague certainly had captivated him. Away from the man, it was easy to catalogue all the problems and dangers of an association between them. But one glimpse of the man, one hint of the exotic scent of him, and all those logical reasons dislodged from his brain and leaked right out his ears. He was bewitched. Ah, there. The far end of the curtain slid aside to reveal the gleaming metal of Teague’s signature trick. Ayoung lad leapt onto the raised platform from the front of the audience. He bowed graciously to the applause of the crowd before entering the box. Marcus crept forward, leaning around a rather large gentleman in the row in front of him. Teague ran his hands around the box at shoulder height, from the left side to around the front. Everywhere he touched the metal, sparks swirled like tiny purple fireflies. Teague’s large hands caressed the metal with the same delicate touch he used on Marcus’s body. Marcus ignored the now-familiar tightening in his abdomen and squinted through the haze of the auditorium. He watched those well-shaped lips form words, far too low to travel across the stage. Teague stepped back several paces and clapped his hands. The front of the box swung silently on invisible hinges. Empty. The blasted thing was one hundred percent, utterly and completely empty. A chill ran up Marcus’s spine. He’d been inside that thing. He knew. There was no trap door, no false back. So how? Teague stepped forward again and repeated his motions, this time in reverse, mouthing the same words. This time when he finished, he pressed the corner and the box popped open once more. The boy stepped out and bowed again, to the raucous encouragement of the crowd. Teague helped the boy off the stage. Then he took his own bow. Purple light flashed around his boots. He straightened and waved his hands. More sparks floated around his fingertips. He looked directly at Marcus, those blue eyes piercing the haze and gloom as easily as any light. Lips quirked, he winked. Then the light flashed again and he was gone. The theater lights rose, and the crowd began to stir, accompanied by the gentle swish of fabric as the curtain was ratcheted closed. Marcus ducked out a side door before the aisles grew too congested. He wandered across the street and leaned against the side of a darkened bookseller’s shop. He didn’t have long to wait. Less than a quarter of an hour later, the side door of the theater creaked open and several dark figures emerged. Teague’s familiar voice called farewell before his feet turned in the opposite direction of the other men. Marcus straightened and waited for the magician to cross the street and join him. “Good evening, love.” When it looked like Teague was going to take a quick kiss, Marcus stepped back. “Not here,” he said sharply.

Teague’s expression held a vague expression of disappointment. Marcus told himself firmly that it was disappointment over not receiving a kiss. Not disappointment in him. Not. Marcus cleared his throat. “Fascinating performance.” “Hmmm. Shall we return to my lodgings and discuss its…finer points?” Marcus studied his feet. He was standing in a rather nasty looking puddle. Ah, well. Too late to save the shine on his boots now. “I should really return home.” “Why?” Teague asked, a touch rudely in Marcus’s mind. “What possible pressing business could you have at this hour of the night?” “None, but we’re taking chances.” “What’s life without a little risk?” Teague stepped closer, crowding him. Marcus inhaled deeply, the scent of sandalwood and musk filling his nostrils and imprinting themselves permanently on his subconscious. “I’m afraid we don’t all have the luxury of indulging in risk.” “Come, lover,” he purred into Marcus’s ear, breath stirring the delicate hairs on his neck. “I promise to be discreet.” “I don’t believe you understand the meaning of the word.” But Marcus’s resolve was crumbling swiftly. His eyes were glazing, passion clouding his normally rational mind. Teague practically pressed into Marcus’s side, cloak swirling around both their boots, concealing their lower bodies. “Discretion is overrated. But for your sake, I’ll certainly do my best. Come with me.” Teague’s hand brushed against the front of his trousers with tantalizing promises. With a silent groan, Marcus gave in. “I have to leave by sunrise,” he warned. Teague hummed, a smile lifting the edges of his mouth, cheeks just beginning to dimple. “Excellent,” he purred. “I’m a bloody idiot,” Marcus muttered. “No, love. Not that. Never that. Not for seizing what pleasure you can in this life.” Marcus tried to smile, but it felt stilted. Teague’s eyes shone with a deep understanding. “I promise, love,” Teague said, brushing Marcus fingers lightly. “I will never give you cause for regrets.”

Chapter Nine

“Bloody damnation!” That didn’t quite do it, so Teague yelled a few curses in the old language for good measure. He yanked out a handkerchief and wrapped it around his hand. The white cloth turned pink, then red, at an alarming rate. He squeezed, ignoring the pain that tore up his wrist. He had no one but himself to blame. He knew better, damn it. He’d been at this long enough to know not to let his attention wander when working with his metals. His magic might do most of the work in manipulating the metal, but those rough edges were still bloody sharp. It was this damned situation with Marcus. It consumed him. Three weeks. Nearly three blasted weeks since he’d last laid eyes on his lover, felt the thrill of that touch. Like the cut that splayed open the back of his hand from his knuckles to past his wrist bone, that was his fault too. He’d been too eager, moved too quickly. Teague abandoned his latest project as a lost cause for the time being and took the stairs slowly, head spinning. Working magic without full concentration was asking for trouble. His bleeding hand was glaring evidence of that. It took Teague several painful minutes to slow the blood flow enough to bandage the cut. Then he had to sit until the room stopped turning in circles and his stomach decided to go back where it belonged. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, attempting to ignore the throbbing in his hand. Teague’s mind insisted on replaying the same scene, over and over, the memory responsible for the pain in his extremity. He rather fancied it was an excellent match to the pain in his heart. They’d returned to his lodgings after the show. Teague was brimming with plans for the future. He had it all neatly outlined, foolish idiot. Of course, they’d been distracted at first. Sex outshone talking any time. Teague had let his head sink into the pillow and closed his eyes, lungs struggling for air. Every nerve ending in his body vibrated from his release. He flung out an arm and pulled the solid, sweaty form against him. “Gets better each time,” Marcus murmured. “I sincerely hope not,” Teague teased gently. Gentle was about as much energy as he could muster at the moment. “Otherwise we’ll both be dead in a matter of days.” Marcus chuckled. Oh, marvelous sound. Too rare by half. Marcus shifted until he was half lying atop Teague’s chest. He propped his hands under his chin. “Tell me how you do it,” he demanded. “Do what?” Dang, the man could actually think? He clearly hadn’t done his job as well as he thought. “The vanishing box trick. Or rather, the vanishing person trick. Using the box. How do you do it?” “Most of my magic is just lights and illusion,” he replied around a yawn. “No mystery whatsoever.” Marcus poked him in the ribcage. “That doesn’t answer my question.” “No, I suppose it doesn’t.” When he didn’t say anything further, Marcus tried another tactic. He oh-so-casually moved his hands to rest near Teague’s collarbones before moving down to play idly with his nipples. Oh, God. He wasn’t really getting hard again, was he? Teague lifted his head slightly to peer past Marcus. Yes, indeed, he was. Bloody hell, how many times could a man come in one night before his balls fell off? Marcus seemed determined to find out. “I don’t suppose I can simply say a magician never reveals his secrets and leave it at that?” Marcus leaned down, exhaling onto the drying perspiration that coated Teague’s skin before nibbling. The edge of his teeth scraped along the hardened bud of Teague’s left nipple with the hint of a threat, a magnificent contrast to the soft lips that closed and sucked. “No,” Marcus replied. The word was muffled, as his mouth didn’t seem inclined to relinquish its hold. But Teague understood. “There’s no magic,” he insisted. “Simply parlor tricks and illusions.” Marcus pulled off his nipple with an audibly wet pop. The look on his face. Not disappointment; deeper than that. Hurt. Marcus was hurt by his roundabout answer. “Marcus, love, no, come back here.” Teague grabbed Marcus’s arm when he started to move away. “It’s just a magic trick, part of a stage show. Is it really so important?” “You tell me,” Marcus replied somberly. “You’re the one who refuses to give me a simple answer.” “There isn’t a simple answer.” “A complicated one, then. Hell, Teague, you’re lying to me. I can see it in your eyes.” “Goddammit, Marcus, you’re not ready for this conversation. You may never be ready.” This time he wasn’t fast enough and Marcus was out of bed and halfway across the room before he could react. “Don’t patronize me, you son of a bitch.” “You’re overreacting.” “The hell I am!” Teague swung his legs over the side of the mattress and studied Marcus’s face, red now with anger instead of passion. “Why is this so important to you?” he asked with grave seriousness. “Because…because…because I don’t want this to be just scratching a mutual itch!” The words burst out of Marcus, the look of surprise on his face clear. It was obvious to Teague that the statement hadn’t been planned, but once out it couldn’t be rescinded. “You have to know it’s more than that. Hell, Marcus, I asked you to come with me when I left London. Do you think I extend that offer to every man I take to my bed?” “I didn’t think you were serious.” “Of course I was.” And as quickly as that, the argument evolved from one matter into another entirely. Teague’s jaw clenched. He was pushing, and he knew it. But he couldn’t seem to stop. “I’ve never asked anyone to travel with me. I rarely ask anyone back to my lodgings, and it’s even rarer that I share more than one night with a lover. They were just sex. What we have, it’s more. We both know it.”

Marcus turned away, and Teague felt that withdrawal to the depths of his soul. “I don’t know any such thing,” Marcus replied stiffly. “What you’re asking me to do…if you knew me at all, you would know better. Go away with you? It’s impossible. And frankly, the fact that you would even put me in the position of having to refuse shows how little I mean to you.” “Damn it, Marcus, don’t tell me what I feel!” The look he got from those normally warm, melted-chocolate eyes was hard and cold. “No? Then we’re at an impasse. You’re trying to fool me, or you’re fooling yourself. Either way, I won’t be lied to.” He stalked over and snatched up his clothes, yanking up his trousers with such force that Teague winced a bit in sympathy, despite the emotions creating a violent spring storm inside him. “Marcus—” “It was nice while it lasted,” Marcus interrupted, stuffing the tails of his shirt into the waistband and forgoing the waistcoat entirely. “The sex was bloody marvelous. But I took an unforgivable risk in coming here and frankly, I’m finding that the rewards are not, as promised, worth it. So I’ll take my leave now.” He paused, hand on the doorknob. Teague leapt to his feet, the realization suddenly flooding over him that Marcus really was going to leave. And that wasn’t just anger on his face, it was resolve. Determination. Marcus had every intention of walking out that door and never looking back. “Don’t,” he begged. “Safe travels,” Marcus said. “And I ask that if you care at all, you’ll leave me alone.” Teague lunged toward the open door, not the slightest bit concerned that he was stark naked. He hit the top of the stairs, shouting for Marcus. The door to the alley slammed closed and banged back open from the force. Teague was halfway out the door before he realized he couldn’t go chasing Marcus down the streets of London without any clothes on. They’d lock him up and let a rat swallow the key. His eyes ached with strain, searching through the darkness for Marcus’s lean form, but he was far, far too late. Big Ben chimed the hour, a morose counterpart and a fitting finale. Teague swallowed heavily. Too late. Too many minutes, too many words. He rubbed his chest. Marcus hadn’t contacted him again, and he couldn’t bring himself to go knock on the man’s door. He had fumbled, badly. For once, his famed self-confidence had deserted him entirely. He had no clue what to do next. So he sat in his lonely rooms and roamed his darkened shop, pounding on the metal when the frustration grew too much to bear. Caught in limbo. He wanted desperately to leave London, but couldn’t. The thought of leaving Marcus was enough to make his lungs cease functioning. He ground his teeth when another stab of pain shot up his arm. Then again, maybe he’d catch infection and die of fever. That would solve the whole bloody mess. Oh, for the love of Danu. Teague suddenly snorted, disgusted with himself. Since when did he wallow in self-pity like this? He was Tadhgh y Broin, not some simpering schoolgirl pining for her first love. If Aislinn were here, she’d be smacking him over the head with a shovel. It was time to stop feeling sorry for himself, time to stop reliving the argument over and over. It was time to face the problem head on. He stood, resolved. But first, he thought, looking down at the blood dripping onto the floor, it was time for a new bandage. And possibly some stitches. He should feel something. Marcus sat in the front pew with his family and watched Eloise exchange her vows. And it meant absolutely nothing to him. The church was overflowing with people he didn’t know, family members he hadn’t seen since his father’s funeral or longer. After all, more people were willing to travel for a wedding than a funeral. There was food at a wedding. And a party. He should know. He was paying the bill. There was something wrong with him. Here he sat in a church surrounded by teary-eyed women and all he could do was mentally tabulate costs. Maybe Teague had a point. No, damn it, he wasn’t thinking about the man. Not here, not ever. He’d put the whole bloody mess behind him and that was where it would stay. It meant nothing that he thought of Teague two dozen times a day. He wouldn’t let it mean anything. If giving away his sister in marriage didn’t stir any emotions, good or bad, then neither would the loss of Teague. Marcus was the one who had walked away. Remember that, he ordered himself sternly. He’d made his decision, as he made all decisions. With cold rationality and an eye toward practicality. And if sometimes he longed for more, and if the tightness in his chest was now a constant companion, well, that was the price required for doing his duty. Doing the right thing. Marcus kept repeating that, all through the endless ceremony—God, that was one long-winded priest. Where had his mother dug this one up? No one wanted to hear a sermon on hellfire and damnation during a wedding. He repeated the mantra with growing frequency during the even longer reception. Duty, always. Dutiful son, dutiful brother. He was fulfilling his responsibilities, just as his father would have wanted. The reception plodded on, afternoon giving way to evening. Night fell, and still they kept coming. Once more his house bulged with people he had absolutely no desire to speak to. And if one more relative asked when his own nuptials would take place, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. Violent or otherwise. Dusk had begun to fall by the time he managed to slip outside. Marcus leaned against his favorite tree with a sigh of relief. He didn’t even notice his hand rubbing a steady rhythm against his stomach, the action had become so habitual during the last several weeks. The sounds of a London evening floated over the stone wall, a loud cacophony of shouting men and rumbling wheels. Damn, was there no peace to be found in this bloody city? He knew the answer to that. Marcus hadn’t felt completely at peace in years. Before his father’s death, they’d spent most of the year at the country estate in Suffolk. He still savored the memories of standing in a barren field, the only sounds the rustling of wind through the grass and his own gentle breathing. The country home was gone now, sold when he was fifteen. His mother preferred the city and wanted nothing to do with her husband’s ancestral home. Theirs was an old family, but untitled, henceforth no entailment, and the retreat had left the family’s possession less than six months after the funeral. He very rarely traveled outside of London these days, but the thought seemed to consume him lately. He knew why too. Ever since Teague. Until the infamous offer, he had been…well, not content, but at least resigned. Now, he couldn’t seem to settle in his own skin. He was restless, itchy. And lonely. God, he was so lonely. “Brooding again?” Oh, damnation. Speak of the devil. Marcus’s eyes slid shut briefly. He tried to summon up the earlier anger that had propelled him from Teague, but the feeling had lasted only for as long as it took to return home and see his mother’s cold, unlined face. Now, well, anger took effort. And he was just so tired. “Teague,” he replied without turning. “What are you doing here?” “What do you think?” A slight rustle of bushes and Teague emerged from the shadows. Marcus’s gut seized at the sight of that tousled dark head, the achingly familiar blue eyes. The act of holding himself back was actually physically painful. Marcus wanted nothing more than to throw himself against Teague’s hard body, let those strong arms wrap around him. Hell, he didn’t even want sex right now. He just wanted Teague. Marcus couldn’t have him. He needed to remember that. “Nothing has changed, you know that,” he said, trying to remind them both. “No, I don’t know that.” Teague’s face was set in stubborn lines. He hadn’t shaved in several days, and the stubble lining his jaw gave him a roguish air. That and the fact that he was, as usual, dressed in black from head to toe. “Then I’ll tell you now.” Marcus pressed his fist tighter into his stomach. “Nothing has changed.” “Well, maybe I’ve changed,” Teague admitted. Marcus snorted. “Oh, very well, not so much changed as made a decision.” “And what would that be?” “I love you.” Marcus gaped, too stunned to be thrilled. His mind refused to process the words correctly. “Excuse me?” “You heard me,” Teague grumbled. “And I’m not going to leave you. Even if that means spending the rest of my life stuck in this dirty, overcrowded, smelly city.” “You needn’t sound so thrilled.” Marcus couldn’t keep his voice detached. Maybe it didn’t change anything, but Teague had just confessed to loving him. Even if he couldn’t accept, he could savor the thrill. At least for a few moments. Teague sighed. “This conversation isn’t going anything like I planned.” “Do they ever?” “Now that you mention it, no.” A smile slowly crept its way across Marcus’s face. Teague reached out and traced the dark circles under Marcus’s eyes, pleasure evident when Marcus didn’t pull away. “You look horrible,” he said softly. “Flatterer.” Marcus had a mirror. He didn’t fool himself. He’d lost weight again. Exhaustion rimmed his dull eyes, stress and pain beginning to carve deep lines in his face. Even his mother had commented earlier. Said he was starting to look ill, and would he please do something about it? Marcus hadn’t even been able to summon the energy to be irritated with her lack of concern. “Teague, I…” Marcus stared off into the shadows, amusement sliding away as if it had never been. “You deserve more than I can give you. More than I can be.” “So do you.” When Marcus moved to grab his middle again, Teague stopped his hand. Marcus couldn’t resist. He entwined their fingers, savoring the contact of skin on skin. Damn, but he’d missed that touch. Even the brush of their hands was enough to increase his heart rate, at the same time that it calmed something deeper inside him.

“Marcus, this isn’t healthy. You’re miserable. And have you even noticed how much your stomach is paining you these days? I hate standing by, watching you kill yourself slowly. And if my presence in your life can ease that pain, even by a small amount, then I’m more than willing to give up traveling.” Marcus remained silent, studying their clasped hands. He truly didn’t know what to say. Acceptance was too easy, came with too many problems. And he didn’t have it in him to refuse outright. Not after those three words. He rubbed his thumb over the thick bandage coating Teague’s wrist and a good portion of his palm. “What happened?” he asked with concern. Teague grinned self-deprecatingly. “I was thinking about you, as usual. Distraction and metal-smithing are not a good combination.” Marcus shook his head slowly. God, he wanted so badly to just take what Teague was offering. But it would be selfish. And no one had ever accused Marcus of that particular trait. “I can’t ask this of you. You’re talking about altering your entire life. And for what? For me? I can’t offer you anything. Hell, I can’t even acknowledge a friendship between us.” “You can offer me yourself. And that is more than enough.” Teague smirked. “You’re going to make me say it again, aren’t you? I love you, you idiotic bastard. And I won’t let you walk away again. I don’t care if I have to sneak over the garden wall every night until I’m too decrepit to walk. I’m not letting you go. The rest is just details.” “Details.” Marcus grimaced. “Those details caused problems once. They will again.” “So we fight. That just means we get to make up. Enthusiastically. In bed.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. God, what this man did to him. “Teague, I want to accept, believe me.” “Accept?” “Accept your love, your offer.” “First of all,” Teague said with a dark scowl, “the love is yours, whether you want it or not, whether you return it or not. There’s no acceptance involved. And I don’t think I’m going to give you a choice on the offer, either. I’ve decided that you’re not getting rid of me.” The words caused a little thrill in Marcus, but… “One of us needs to be practical.” “To hell with practicality!” Teague snarled. “It’s brought nothing but trouble. Do you want me or not?” “Teague, you know I do, but—” Voices floated through the air as several guests made their way into the garden. Marcus reflexively pulled Teague deeper into the shadows. But he didn’t let go of the other man’s hand. He couldn’t. And perhaps that right there told him everything he needed to know. One voice rose above the gentle swish of silk skirts and the light click of gentlemen’s boots. What on earth was his mother doing in the garden? She should be holding court inside. His mother did love to be the center of attention. That it was Eloise’s day wouldn’t make any difference to her. “It is such a relief to have Eloise settled,” Lillian commented in her carefully modulated voice. “And to such a solid, stable man.” “Yes, Charles is an excellent match.” Marcus couldn’t place the second voice. He figured it really wasn’t important. Something in the way his mother said “solid, stable man” had his hackles rising. “What about Marcus?” another feminine voice inquired. “Is he courting anyone these days?” “Of course not,” Lillian replied with disgust. “That boy has absolutely no interest in doing his duty by this family. He’s very nearly as worthless as his father in that regard. I sincerely doubt he will ever marry at all. He’s far too busy hiding in his study doing Lord only knows what.” “I suppose it isn’t absolutely necessary,” the first woman mused. “After all, there’s no title to pass along. Still, it is strange for a man of his age not to seek a bride.” “I have heard…rumors.” This new voice was male and more than a bit malicious. “Speculation is growing that it’s not simply a bride that the man isn’t interested in. Of course, I shouldn’t mention this in polite company, but word has that Marcus finds no appeal in women in general.” The words were said in such a tone that Marcus’s gut flared. He had to swallow down a sudden rise of bile. No one, not even an innocent lady—and his mother could hardly claim to be that—would be able to mistake the meaning in that voice, those words. Teague shifted, a low growl rumbling almost inaudibly from his chest. Marcus grabbed his arm to keep the other man from rushing into the open. His muscles were bunching under Marcus’s grip. While Marcus agreed with the sentiment, he wasn’t about to let Teague defend his honor—or lack thereof. The last thing he wanted was a brawl at his sister’s wedding reception. Not only would he never live it down, but the commotion would bring too much attention. Marcus himself was curiously unmoved. Concerned—very well, slightly terrified—but not angry. Besides, he rather wanted to hear his mother’s reply. Marcus could pick out that sniff of disdain in a packed theater during the curtain call. “Baseless gossip,” she replied tartly. “Marcus is simply…handicapped, I suppose.” Marcus had the insane urge to laugh until his sides ached. He wasn’t perverted, just impotent? Oh, that would do wonders for his reputation. Marcus thought he’d rather everyone knew the truth, although a lack of performance ability was probably preferable in his mother’s eyes. “Do tell?” The man’s voice sounded revoltingly interested. Honestly, didn’t these people have anything better to do than gossip about his sex life, or rather his lack of one? “This is hardly the proper conversation for polite company,” his mother declared. “Ah, there is Millicent. I do believe she is signaling the departure of the happy couple. I must be off.” “Allow me to escort you.” The two women departed, leaving the men behind. One lit up a cigar, the flare of light bright in the darkened garden. “Interesting protestation,” the man said, blowing a gentle stream of smoke out with his words. “What mother would proclaim her son’s bedroom problems so bluntly? Particularly an unmarried son?” That snide voice replied, “A mother who has something far worse than a failure to perform to concern herself with.” “So you believe the rumors are true?” “Yes.” Well, that was clear enough. Marcus squeezed his eyes closed as he finally placed the voice. Damn it. Baron Roberts. The blasted man had more connections, legitimate or otherwise, than the bloody prince regent. Which, of course, made his companion Hurley, the Marquis of Queensborough. The two were related by marriage, although they probably saw more of each other than they did of their wives. He wasn’t the only one whose private life was speculated on at times. However, they had one advantage that he did not. They both possessed wives and heirs. And Marcus refused to rush out and marry the first woman he came across simply to still the wagging tongues of a bunch of doddering idiots who had nothing better to do with their time than discuss business not their own. Bloody, interfering— It abruptly dawned on Marcus that he was no longer afraid. The long-displaced anger had replaced it. He mulled that notion over in his head, not even noticing the departure of Roberts and Hurley. He didn’t care. And everything was suddenly, incredibly simple. “Marcus? Are you well?” Teague asked. “I am, actually. Come, let’s go somewhere we can talk without being interrupted again.” Teague studied him carefully, intently, before nodding. “As you wish.” “Thank you.” Marcus knew he had made the right decision when he realized that until now, no one in his life had ever cared about his wishes.

Chapter Ten

The small set of rooms looked precisely the same as the last time, although perhaps a tad messier. Marcus ran his hand over the mantel, savoring the smells of sandalwood, whiskey and Teague. The sandalwood came from a small box on Teague’s dresser, the whiskey from the glass in his hand and the other from the man standing entirely too far away. Marcus swirled the liquid in his glass, letting a small smile play about the edges of his lips. “Are you sure you aren’t feeling ill?” Teague inquired again. “You’ve hardly said a word, and I know you must be upset about the conversation earlier. “I’m not,” Marcus replied calmly. “I’ll need at least a month to organize my affairs.” “Why?” Marcus knew he shouldn’t take so much enjoyment from the confusion shining in Teague’s eyes, but the man was just so bloody confident about everything. It was nice to be able to knock him off balance every once in a while. “So we can leave, of course.” Teague’s mouth actually dropped open, full lips parting. Marcus couldn’t resist. He put his glass down on the mantel and strode over, pressing a quick kiss to that surprised mouth. The lips were just far enough apart that he could slip between them, the soft tunnel creating a delicious slide against his tongue. He said a quick hello to Teague’s tongue and pulled back. “You’re going with me?” Teague whispered. “Truly?”

Marcus smiled and leaned his forehead against Teague, rubbing back and forth slightly. “Truly.” Teague’s arms wrapped around him, holding on with an unbreakable grip. “Thank you,” he said, brushing a quick kiss of his own against Marcus’s cheek, lips nuzzling the crook of his neck, behind his ear. “Thank you.” “You wouldn’t be happy here,” Marcus said. “And you’ve made me realize that neither would I.” “What made you change your mind?” Teague laid his head on Marcus’s shoulder, and the two stood in the center of his living room, simply holding one another. It was all Marcus had ever desired and more. “Our eavesdropping session,” Marcus replied. Teague stiffened minutely, but Marcus felt it. “So the rumors—” “Have very little to do with my decision,” Marcus interrupted. “Rumors be damned. But I finally understood that I’m not enough for them—Mother, Society, none of them. I never will be. So why should I remain trapped in a life I hate, following a routine that smothers me? I’m so buried under duty that some days I can scarcely breathe. All in a vain attempt to gain approval that I don’t even want anymore? No, I would rather leave it all behind and spend the rest of my days with someone who appreciates me. Someone who…loves me.” Marcus held his breath, waiting for Teague’s response. His stomach ached again, but for a far different reason than usual. If events unfolded as he dreamed, it would hopefully be the last time he felt that particular pain. “Good answer,” Teague said faintly. Then he began to chuckle. “We are a pair, aren’t we?” “I hope so.” Teague pulled back far enough to smack one hand into Marcus’s chest. “Idiot. Don’t go doubting me now. We have far too much to do.” “I think I know just where to start too.” Marcus slid his hands down Teague’s broad back to cup the firm ass. “I do believe it’s my turn this time.” Teague threw back his head, the chuckles becoming a full-throated laugh. “Oh, it is, is it? Keeping score, then?” “Absolutely.” Marcus grinned. It didn’t really matter to him which cock found its way into which ass. It felt marvelous to be able to laugh and tease with the man who meant more to him than anything in this world. More than his mother. More than his responsibilities. And far, far more than any position among the so-called Polite World. Give him the impolite world and a lifetime of sin and debauchery any day, so long as his dark-haired magician was involved. Teague wrapped his bandaged hand around the back of Marcus’s head and yanked him into a deep, lung-draining kiss. Marcus leaned against the broad chest, digging his fingers into the cleft of Teague’s ass, slipping as far between the cheeks as the material of his trousers would allow. “I need you naked,” he gasped between kisses. “Agreed.” Marcus mock-growled just before launching himself at Teague. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs. Teague laughed. “Well, now, this is familiar.” “You talk too bloody much.” “That’s familiar too. What, are we repeating the same scene in reverse?” Marcus chose the most expedient way to stop the chatter. He crushed his mouth to Teague’s with such force that their teeth clashed. He tasted blood as one corner of his lip split slightly under the pressure. “Bed,” Teague gasped into Marcus’s mouth. “Too far.” “Well, you’re not fucking me on the floor.” Marcus couldn’t stop the grin that spread over his face, even though he knew it probably looked wild and possibly a bit crazy. He’d actually been half-teasing earlier. Teague hadn’t seemed too thrilled when Marcus went exploring in the man’s nether regions before, and he had nearly resigned himself to not being able to get his cock into that luscious ass. He’d actually been fine with that, a surprising reversal for someone who was new to the receiving end. But he wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity. Marcus rose to his feet and reached down to haul Teague upright. By the time he had the man ushered to the bed, they were both naked, their clothes leaving a trail from the front door to the foot of the bed. Marcus briefly considered exacting some payback, but in the end his body was simply too desperate. It had been too bloody long since he’d touched his man. Marcus wasted no time. He had the oil in his hand and his mouth on Teague’s cock before the man had time to catch his balance. Keep Teague off-guard, that was the trick if Marcus wanted to keep this moving. “Marcus, bloody hell, you’re good at that.” Teague closed his eyes. Marcus smiled at Teague’s obvious enjoyment. Marcus teased the slit and swirled around the head with what he humbly thought was well-honed skill. For a man who’d never taken the more submissive position during sex, he’d always loved sucking cock. Particularly this man’s cock. Marcus grinned around the throbbing cock in his mouth when he felt Teague swell, pushing against the back of his throat. He gave Teague’s prick one last fond taste then pulled off. He buried his nose for a brief instant in the moist joint between hip and thigh, savoring the smell. Damn, he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that. But he was on a mission. No getting sidetracked. He ran his tongue over the heavy sac, licking off the salty traces of sweat and precome. Then he dipped his head, grabbing Teague’s legs and shoving them over his shoulders. His goal—that lovely, wrinkled opening, calling out to him. His tongue darted out for a taste. That earned a surprised yelp. Ah, glorious sound. He rimmed the edge with a tantalizingly soft touch, making Teague buck up. Marcus grabbed those firm thighs in a tighter grip. Marcus realized those low growling noises were actually coming from his throat, but they did make a lovely accompaniment to Teague’s deeper groans. Marcus pressed deeper into the mattress, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his own prick and assuage the need for movement. When he realized he was literally humping the sheets, Marcus decided it was time to move on. His fingers were already working Teague’s ass, stretching that tight, hot hole for his cock. The man was surprisingly loose. Marcus’s growl this time was a touch feral. Jealousy? Now that was new. “Mine,” he said. “You better not have been letting anybody else touch this. And if you did, tell them they can sod off now.” “Remind me,” Teague gasped, “to show you my toybox.” The green monster slid away. Marcus chuckled. “Oh, that sounds intriguing.” “Less talk.” Marcus wanted to tease the man further, but his control was almost depleted. He removed his fingers and thrust deep into Teague’s body in one smooth movement. Teague bellowed and nearly tossed them both to the floor. Bloody strong bugger. Marcus clung tight as he would to a rearing stallion—oh, nice analogy. They soon had a strong rhythm going, Teague surging up as Marcus dropped his weight. They pushed and strained, gasping and moaning. Marcus babbled. Teague shouted in that rolling language of his. Marcus’s orgasm ripped through him, his shout desperate. “Teague!” That was enough for Teague. Marcus just barely brushed the tips of his fingers across the head of Teague’s cock and he shot, warm spunk covering Marcus’s lean abdomen and creating a sticky film that bound them together when the younger man finally collapsed. “I think we’re going to be permanently stuck together,” Marcus muttered into Teague’s collarbone. “I can think of worse fates.” “You know what? So can I.” Marcus wrapped his arms around his lover’s neck, ignoring the mess between them and the thick smell of sex in the air. He was right where he supposed to be and he had no intention of moving anytime soon. He was almost too tired to notice the tiny sparks of light that drifted around them.

Chapter Eleven

Lillian greeted the news with a scene worthy of the stage. There was a great deal of screeching, some rather astonishing curse words, tears and guilt, then a stony silence. All in all, Marcus preferred the silence. He found it surprisingly easy to ignore her tantrum this time. He had far more pleasant diversions to occupy him. Marcus made a few last notes in his notebook, pleased with himself. He’d spent the last several days interviewing what felt like half of London in his search for a man of affairs. He’d never needed one before, preferring to use the excuse of business to keep himself busy. Hard to do that when you paid someone else to oversee your business matters for you. Marcus believed his search had been finally successful. While he couldn’t wait to leave London and his family far behind, his sense of duty was enough to keep him from simply

throwing some clothes in a satchel and disappearing. People depended on him, and not just his mother. Employees, business partners. Thank heavens Eloise was no longer his concern, as the list was long enough already. A politely cleared throat made Marcus look up. His butler hovered in the door. “A visitor for you, sir.” Marcus couldn’t stop his smile, didn’t want to. “Show him in.” A tall, lanky blond walked in. Damn, wrong man. “Rupert,” Marcus said evenly. He stepped around his desk to shake the offered hand. Couldn’t very well kick his nearest and dearest onto the curb, now, could he? Rupert wasn’t exactly his favorite person in the world, but what could you do? Family and all that. His cousin gave a limp handshake in return. Rupert Fleetwood was heir to a barony and one day the illustrious Fleetwood title. Marcus didn’t envy him. The titles came with social standing, but they also came complete with all the monumental weight of tradition and even more monumental debts. Rupert dropped languidly onto the settee, spreading his arms across the back. The smile he gave Marcus was probably supposed to be charming. It only made the man look like he was in pain. “Eloise returned from her honeymoon yet?” Marcus wandered over to the sideboard and poured Rupert a glass of scotch. After a slight pause, he poured one for himself as well. Bit early, but what the hell. He had the feeling he would need it. Rupert rarely paid them a social call. Like a vulture, he showed up only when there was a foul smell on the air. “The happy couple returns from Rome next week.” Marcus handed Rupert the glass. The long fingers clasped the rim delicately, his prominent Adam’s apple working as he took equally delicate sips. Marcus downed his own scotch in one swallow and poured another, ignoring the look of distaste that crossed Rupert’s narrow features. Who gave a damn if his manners were growing a bit coarse? Marcus was learning from the best. Or the worst, if you looked through his cousin’s eyes. Marcus smirked and barely suppressed a snicker as he imagined Teague and Rupert facing off. Oh, the entertainment. “Excellent choice of destination. Rome is lovely this time of year.” Marcus hummed in agreement, playing idly with the small box on the corner of his desk. Teague had presented it to him two evenings past. Teague claimed it would serve as a reminder for his lover, whenever the demons of duty and family tried to pull him under. Teague wanted to leave London as soon as possible, and he wasn’t taking any chances on doing so alone. Not that Marcus had any intention of changing his mind, no matter how much time it took them to prepare. Now that the decision had been made, Marcus was completely and utterly committed. The sense of freedom was unlike anything he’d felt before. His stomach hadn’t even twinged once in the last several days. They sipped their drinks in silence for a moment. “Heard a rumor this morning at the club.” Finally, the purpose behind the visit. Took the man long enough. Marcus’s patience for small talk was never long at the best of times. “God, not another rumor?” Marcus scowled at his whiskey. “Don’t the gentlemen of London have anything better to do with their time?” “Yes, well, I discounted it at first. Then I received a rather odd letter from Aunt Lillian. Thought I’d best pop over and see for myself.” “It would be helpful if you told me what you’re talking about,” Marcus pointed out. “Of course, so sorry, old boy. Word is you’re packing up. Preparing to leave London for an extended trip.” Marcus smiled, all teeth and no sincerity. “For once, the gossips are correct. If all goes according to plan, I hope to leave within the month. I never did a tour of the continent as a boy and I thought I might enjoy it.” “Good God, man, you can’t be serious.” “Completely.” “No wonder Aunt Lillian is in a panic.” “I don’t see why she’s so concerned. It’s hardly a secret that we don’t get on, and I’ll make sure she’s perfectly well cared for financially.” The clock in the hall chimed, followed a moment later by the rhythmic melody of Big Ben. He was actually growing used to the bloody thing. In fact, he thought it might be one of the few things he would miss about London. Marcus put his glass down. “If you’ll excuse me, cousin, I have a meeting to attend. Do give my family your best.” He strode from the room, leaving a sputtering Rupert still on the settee. It was amazingly liberating, not caring a bloody whit about propriety. He couldn’t wait to quit London entirely, so he could experience the sensation to the fullest. Not that the world outside London, or even England, for that matter, was perfect. But simply not having to scrutinize everything he did and every word he said would be worth any discomfort the change might bring. Marcus hailed the first cab he could find and headed for the warehouse district. The windows of the Brass Box were dark, the street quiet. He ignored the “closed” sign hanging in the door and went right in. The shop was unattended, empty spaces on numerous shelves where items had been removed and carefully packed away. He followed the sounds of clanging metal and cursing men to the basement level. His laughter rang through the now-empty space. Teague spun around on one heel. “Marcus, darling!” He flung out his arms dramatically before moving in for a quick embrace—and a quick ass squeeze. Marcus shook his head. “Teague, what are you doing?” It seemed the closer their departure drew, the more wildly uninhibited the Irishman became. “Packing, of course. And you have marvelous timing. You can help the boys. That thing is blasted heavy.” “Of course it is,” Marcus replied dryly. “But the boys appear to be doing just fine on their own.” Teague’s so-called boys had the brass vanishing cabinet on its side as they hefted it carefully up the back staircase to the alley above. They just shook their heads at Teague’s exuberance. Marcus also noted that they didn’t exactly appear to be straining under the prop’s weight. “Hold on a moment,” Marcus declared as the top of the cabinet hit the bottom of the stairs. It was a perfect chance for a more in-depth examination, and he intended to do just that. He ran his hand over the bottom, searching for any hidden mechanisms. Then he walked around, ensuring that the outside was the same size as the inside. But no. No false doors, no hidden spaces. In fact, now that the thing was sealed up, he couldn’t even find the front door. “Blast it, Teague, this is maddening.” Teague laughed, waving for the boys to continue their work. “I told you, lights, mirrors and illusions.” “And I told you, I don’t believe it.” Teague smiled mischievously. “Do you really want the truth?” Marcus rolled his eyes and came dangerously close to throwing up his arms. “Haven’t I already said that? Multiple times?” Teague’s grin held the impish look that Marcus could well imagine always put his mother and sisters on edge. Teague leaned close and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Magic.” “Teague.” Marcus received a crooked grin in return for his admonishment. “Honest,” Teague said. “Magic tends to run in my family line. Actually, it gallops at full speed.” Marcus chuckled and wrapped his fingers around Teague’s. “I suppose I can accept that.” “You can?” Teague asked with surprise. “Aren’t you going to express shock or, I don’t know, disbelief?” “Did you know you give off sparks when we make love?” Marcus asked with a smile. “Purple. They seem to really like the brass bars on your headboard.” “Purple,” Teague muttered disgustedly. “Why do they have to be purple?” Marcus laughed again. “You know,” Teague continued conversationally. “I was expecting a stronger reaction.” Marcus wrapped his arms around Teague’s waist. “I’m discovering that I don’t have to unravel every mystery in the universe. Sometimes, a little intrigue adds some spice to life. Besides, I’m here with you, aren’t I? If I can come this far, what else is possible?” “Mmm, I do like the way you think.” “I know. You love me for my brain. It’s such a burden.” “Prat.” “Are you going to explain the disappearing person trick now?” “No, I don’t think I will.” Marcus pulled back far enough to slug Teague in the shoulder. “You were making progress with the explanations, too. Don’t stop now.” “Didn’t you just say that a little mystery every now and then is good for a person?” “I never used the word good. I want to know how the box works.” Teague gave him a sly wink. “I guess you’ll just have to stick around and find out for yourself.” Marcus gave in. After all, they had plenty of time to discuss the details of this new world he was entering. “I guess I will.” The men wrapped around each other. Marcus inhaled that now-familiar scent, reveling in the feel of the stockier man in his arms, that fabulous ass fitting his palms just perfectly. His cock had been hard since the instant he’d walked through the door, but he was growing accustomed to it. At least he was managing to finish a conversation before he threw the magician down on the nearest flat surface and ravaged him. Although, to be honest, sometimes they didn’t even bother with the flat surface.

“Where are we going first?” he asked. Teague hesitated. “All right, what now? I assumed you at least planned out something of a destination before you hared off into the countryside.” “Yes, well, I do. I’m just not certain you’re ready to hear it.” Marcus sighed and dropped his head against Teague’s. “Go ahead, give me the bad news.” “Ireland.” “What’s so bad about Ireland?” “My family.” Marcus started to chuckle, which soon turned into deep, heaving laughs. “Oh, God. You’re taking me home to meet the parents.” “Oh, they’re the easy part. Just wait until my sisters get their claws into you. Did I mention before that I have five?” “I thought it was three.” Teague shrugged. “I left out the half-sisters.” “Why do I think I’m going to be longing for dull and staid London in a few weeks?” “You need some excitement in your life.” “I have a feeling I’m going to get precisely that.” “Any regrets?” Marcus heard the slight uncertainty in Teague’s tone and hastened to reassure him. “No. As long as I’m with you, there will never be any regrets. Surprises, laughter and a lot of sex, but no regrets.” “Don’t forget the mind-bending orgasms.” “Those too.” Teague pulled him in for a deep kiss that Marcus felt clear down to his soul. No, he wasn’t leaving home. Home was right here in his arms. Magic, mystery and families were only bumps in the road. As long as he had his magician, nothing else mattered.

About the Author

KM lives in the Midwest surrounded by cornfields. To compensate for the lack of scenery at home, she spends her time visiting exotic locations with gorgeous men. All right, so the men are mostly fictional. So are the locations. Everyone needs a hobby. In reality, KM lives a fairly unexciting life with her cat. She writes mainly m/m romance, usually with paranormal or fantasy elements. KM loves to follow her characters wherever they decide to go. KM continues to insist on having little or no control over their actions. Honest. To learn more about KM Mahoney, please visit www.authorkmmahoney.com. There’s no escaping the man at the heart of his memories.

The Trap © 2010 Indigo Wren Three years ago, David and his college roommate, Ethan, were on the brink of unimaginable success, ready to revolutionize an industry and reap billions. Then David accidentally revealed the attraction he’d never wanted to feel, and certainly never meant Ethan to see. Mortified, he ran from everything that mattered—the fledgling company he’d helped to build, the bright future he’d worked to secure, and the man he couldn’t let himself want. Now he’s built a new life for himself. So what if it’s not the one he hoped for? He’s learned to look only forward, and not to envy the success Ethan achieved without him. He’s even learned to cope with the nightmares. The panic attacks. The failed relationships with women. When an opportunity arises to enjoy a once-in-a-lifetime getaway to a private island resort, David never suspects a trap is about to be sprung. One where he’ll be forced to face the truths from which he’s been hiding—and the man from whom he’s never stopped running. Warning: This book contains erotic waffles, sexual math, blatant ABBA worship, kidnapping, nude napping, dog-napping, journal hijacking, betrayal, redemption, and red-hot man love so poignant and passionate, you won’t know whether to say “awwwwwww” or “oooooohhh!” Enjoy the following excerpt for The Trap: Heart pounding, David retreated from the unmistakable intent in the other man’s eyes, bending and straightening each knee mechanically, digging his heels into the sand and kicking backwards on autopilot until he felt his back come up against something hard and unyielding. A tree, he realized dimly. Nowhere to go. Reaching the perimeter of the shade, Ethan dropped to his knees. Slinging his wet shirt over one shoulder, he fell forward onto the backs of his hands, leaning on long, strong arms and arching his back just slightly as he crawled toward David, graceful as a leopard slinking through tall grass toward its prey. Hypnotized, David watched him approach, his left knee still drawn up to his chest. “Ethan. Don’t.” His voice cracked a little. “Seriously.” “Seriously, don’t what?” Ethan’s voice was liquid, wicked innocence. David drew his other knee up so that his legs formed a bony barrier between himself and the other man. It felt ridiculously inadequate. “Don’t whatever you’re thinking of.” “But, Davo. What I’m thinking of is so interesting.” Ethan hooked one arm easily under David’s bent legs and pulled hard. With a startled cry, David felt himself slide down onto his back into the cool sand, his legs pushing out straight as he tried to right himself, twisting to seek some purchase in the slick sand with his elbows. In a flash, Ethan had straddled David’s legs and was crouched over him, the wet denim of his thighs pressed tightly to either side of David’s hips. David bucked and twisted, but couldn’t unseat the larger man. One flailing wrist knocked against a half-finished can of beer—his? Ethan’s?—and he heard the sound of liquid gurgling out onto the thirsty ground. “Don’t worry.” Ethan ignored David’s wriggling and reached out with a long arm to pluck the can up before it had completely emptied. “I’ve got it.” He twisted the can down into the sand by his thigh so that it was within easy reach. Then he slid his hands up under the edge of David’s T-shirt, finding the soft, quivering skin of his bare stomach and sides and stroking it with knowing thumbs. At his mere touch, David’s whole body jerked involuntarily and his chin lifted, his head pressing back into sand. “Damn it, Ethan,” he exhaled on a tremulous breath. His hands found Ethan’s forearms, pushed at them weakly. “Hang on. Let’s talk about this.” “The problem with drink,” quoted Ethan, plucking up the beer can with one hand while using the other to push David’s shirt up higher, exposing his midriff, “is that it makes men mistake words for thought.” Using one arm to block David’s protesting hands, he tipped the can slowly over David’s exposed skin, let the golden, sticky liquid pool in his belly button and the hollow of his stomach. The beer was still cold and fizzy, and David gasped at the sensation: icy, crackling, electric. “That’s according to Samuel Johnson, of course.” Ethan leaned down over David’s quivering stomach. “And Hemmingway tells us to always do when we’re sober what we said we’d do when we were drunk…because that way, we’ll learn to keep our mouths shut.” His lips closed over the little puddle of beer, his tongue sliding tantalizingly over the skin just above David’s waistband before dipping suddenly, shockingly, into his belly button. David gasped and arched his back. Jesus. “Christ, you taste good.” Ethan’s tongue swept over David’s shivering skin in long, fiery strokes. David writhed a little beneath the other man’s insistent ministrations. “Well, damn it, that’s not exactly an accomplishment, considering that you keep pouring food on me!” Ethan tipped his forehead onto David’s stomach and laughed, his shoulders shaking. Then he returned his mouth to David’s belly, and continued to suck and stroke and bite gently at him, sliding the shirt ever higher as his fingers danced over bare skin, sending little electric shocks wherever they touched. His lips closed on each nipple in turn, flicking and tonguing and sucking at the sensitive buds until David’s knees drew up of their own accord, his legs spreading slightly and his heels pressing hard into the sand, lifting his hips unconsciously. Damn it. Once again, his cock was wide awake and throbbing almost painfully inside pants that seemed suddenly much too tight. If he could just get away somewhere and release

some of this pressure, he’d be all right. But there was no getting away from the pressure, no getting away from Ethan’s roving hands, his knowing fingers, his warm, wet mouth. David’s hands beat weakly at Ethan’s shoulders, pausing, suddenly nerveless, whenever a new sensation paralyzed him. When Ethan’s lips and tongue found the ridge of his collarbone, the hollow at the base of his throat, and began to suckle him there, David gave a whimper that sounded to his own ears like half ecstasy, half exasperation. He tried to choke it off as soon as he birthed it, his hands stilling for a moment in Ethan’s soft, damp hair. “No, Davo.” Ethan’s voice was assuring and amused. “That’s a good thing. Let it out.” His fingers tented lightly on David’s sides high up under his arms now, his thumbs stroking the quivering skin at the junction of arms and chest and then stretching to brush first one and then the other saliva-glistened nipple with a dizzying, feather touch. “For this exercise, little animal noises are not only permitted, but encouraged.” David sucked in air and writhed. “God, where’s the damn dog when I need her? The one with special dispensation to bite you?” “I had to send her away. I thought you’d be…nervous…with an audience.” Ethan laughed gently against the corner of David’s mouth, his lips so close now to David’s own, so close. David turned his head slightly away. “That’s…just…that’s stupid. There’s nothing to see. And nothing to be nervous of. About. For. Whatever. I’m not…not afraid of you.” “Really? You’re not the slightest…bit…afraid…of this?” One finger curled around David’s chin and tugged his jaw gently back around. Helplessly, David stared into Ethan’s eyes, dark with intent, at the little grains of sand that sparkled on the lids and stuck to damp, spiky lashes. “Are you sure?” Ethan tipped his forehead against David’s. His voice was low and a little unsteady. “Because you know I can’t just walk away from a fear response. I have to push through it. Get a positive reaction.” David panted and blinked up into those smoldering eyes. They were above him—so how could he feel as if he were falling into them? “Fine. Here’s a positive reaction for you. I’m positive that I want you to take your stupid theories about programming and…and submission, and soothing savage beasts, and shove them up your ass, and I’m positive that I want you to take me back to the house and leave me alo—” His voice broke off into a sharp, hissing intake of breath as Ethan, without dropping his gaze from David’s, shifted his hips, brushing David’s imprisoned cock briefly— accidentally? unconsciously?—with his own crotch. “I’m sorry.” Ethan raised an apologetic eyebrow. “I missed that last part. What were you saying?” “I said that I’m positive,” repeated David carefully when he could trust his voice again, concentrating on each syllable, holding onto the words as if they were life preservers in this sucking, roaring whirlpool of sensation, “that I want you to take me back to the house and leave me—” Again, Ethan’s hips moved, and again, David’s words evaporated into an insensate groan as his body responded immediately, helplessly, his pelvis rocking upward to seek Ethan’s. “Again, I apologize.” Ethan sounded not even remotely sorry as he leaned forward and tugged the shirt off David’s body, right over his head, sliding it off slack, nerveless arms. His eyes dropped to David’s bare chest and watched it rise and fall for a few moments as David struggled unsuccessfully to slow his excited breathing. Ethan held David’s left wrist loosely in one hand while he drew the backs of his fingers slowly down the soft, sensitive skin on the inside of David’s arm, all the way down the armpit and the ticklish skin at his side. David’s body jerked and quivered at the caress. “It’s very rude of me to keep interrupting you like this. One more time. What was it you thought you wanted?” “Damn it, Eath, I said that I want you to take me—” “Oh, Davo. That makes two of us.” He closed his mouth over David’s, and the shock of it surged through him like a lightning bolt… Some rules are destined to be broken.

From Afar © 2010 Ava March Loneliness. A concept with which Raphael Laurent is very familiar. He’s lived a solitary life for thirty-six years, shunning the excesses of the local vampire clan—until he spots Lord Aleric Vane, the handsome and dissolute third son of a duke. For three years Raphael has watched from a distance, for only when he is near Aleric does the hollow, empty ache in his chest ease. Cut off from his family for refusing to follow his father’s dictates, Aleric’s nights are filled with vice. But after three years in London, the city has lost all appeal. Desolate and penniless, his future appears bleak. Until a mysterious man drops from the shadows to drive off a trio of murderous thieves. When Aleric awakens, he finds himself forever changed. The itch for more that drove him to London is gone. In its place is the feeling that he’s known the beautiful Raphael all his life. But to save Aleric, Raphael had to break the rules, giving him a chance to love the one man he never thought he could have—a chance that could be ripped away by Aleric himself… Warning: This book contains hot m/m action with a new vampire with a ramped up sex drive, and a dash of voyeurism of the m/m, m/f, and m/m/m varieties. Definitely not your traditional Regency romance. Enjoy the following excerpt for From Afar: Pinching the bridge of his nose, he forced himself to recount what he had done. Aleric had not been dead before he tried to turn him. Of that he was certain. He had acted quickly enough. Every last drop of Aleric’s blood had flowed into Raphael, and then he had given Aleric his own. Raphael stopped in his tracks. He looked to the bed. The candlelight was tricking him. Aleric was much too pale. He hadn’t given Aleric enough. That damn thief had interrupted him. Two strides had him at Aleric’s side. Baring his fangs, he pushed up the lace-edged cuff of his shirt and slashed his wrist for the second time that night. Cupping the back of Aleric’s skull with his other hand, he tipped back Aleric’s head and let the blood drip into his open mouth. With every fiber in his being, he willed Aleric to awaken. “Please, Aleric, please,” he chanted under his breath. Strong hands grabbed Raphael’s forearm, yanking it down. Dry lips pressed to his wrist. A hot, wet tongue worked against his skin, suckling greedily. A warm blanket of lust wrapped around Raphael. Lush. Voluptuous. Beyond decadent. His nerves shimmered with the sensation. Startled, he gasped and braced a hand on Aleric’s upper thigh to steady himself. The heat from Aleric’s erection penetrated the thin linen drawers, searing his palm. Raphael instinctively closed his hand over the hard length and stroked, sliding linen over hot skin. A grunt issued from Aleric’s chest. He lifted his hips, seeking more. Raphael’s arm shook. Strength seeped from his body, flowed into Aleric. Enough! Jerking his arm back, he broke Aleric’s hold. Dark lashes trembled against flushed cheeks and then swept up revealing luminescent silver-blue eyes. Intense desire slammed Raphael, yanked hold of him. A physical force, it pulled him closer to Aleric. He leaned down, his hair falling over his shoulders. His lips hovered over Aleric’s, their harsh breaths mingling. He flicked his tongue, lapping up the droplet of blood on Aleric’s bottom lip. His gaze locked with Aleric’s, he closed the last remaining distance, moving ever so slowly. Light and tentative, as if fearing one touch would awaken him from a dream, he pressed his lips to Aleric’s. Sensation crashed over him, swirled around him in a tangible caress for the briefest yet longest of seconds. Then it soaked through his skin, permeating every inch of his body, before settling somewhere deep in the recesses of his very being, in the place his soul once resided. It felt as though the sun suddenly shone from within, its warm rays vanquishing the last thirty-six years of loneliness and emptiness. Strong hands gripped the back of his head and hauled him closer, deepening the light kiss and jerking Raphael to the present. He opened his mouth, lips sliding over Aleric’s. The other man’s tongue thrust inside; determined, persistent, demanding. Lust flared beneath his skin. His kiss turned harsh and aggressive, matching the need behind Aleric’s. It had been ages since he kissed another, since he’d shared such an intimacy. The drought so long his senses greedily soaked up every brush of Aleric’s hot tongue as if it were the last one he would ever receive. Those hands moved to the collar of his shirt and yanked. Fabric tore, the sound renting the air. Aleric shoved the shirt off his shoulders. Reluctantly breaking the kiss, Raphael leaned back enough to shake the sleeves from his wrists. Before he could press his lips back to Aleric’s, hands closed around his ribs and flung him. Air whizzed past his ears and he landed near the foot of the bed, on his back. Aleric pounced on top of him, lips pulled back, fangs bared and panting for breath as he tore at the placket of Raphael’s breeches. Aflurry of movement later and his breeches were flung aside. Aleric settled between his thighs, covering him, and slanted his mouth over his. Linen rubbed against his hard cock. A rough caress that could be so much more. He dragged his hands down the man’s back to his waist, his skin hot and smooth as crushed velvet beneath his palms. The thin linen of Aleric’s drawers was no match for Raphael. The fabric ripped and fell away. Aleric’s cock sprung free, slapping against Raphael’s belly. Grabbing Aleric’s arse, he tilted his hips up, rubbing the base of the man’s erection along the crease of his own arse, teasing his hole, and over his ballocks. Tempting Aleric. Aleric trembled, shook, gasped into his mouth. Aleric tore his lips from his. “Must have you. Now.” With a quick nod, Raphael spit into his palm and grabbed Aleric’s thick prick, slicking the length. Oil would serve him better, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d move away from

Aleric to grab the bottle from his bedside table drawer. He positioned the crown at his entrance and Aleric pushed inside. One long stroke, stretching him beyond wide. Amoan rumbled his chest. The most delicious flush of heat rolled through him. His arse burned, throbbed. Asweet, heady ache that made him impatient for more. Before the pleas could tumble past his lips, Aleric picked up a rhythm of hard, driving strokes, slamming into him. Aleric’s ballocks slapped against him. The potent scents of sweat and of Aleric’s aroused body filled his every breath, heightening the lust consuming his senses and shifting it to an unstoppable urge to dominate. Growling low, he pushed Aleric off, and then sprang to his knees and tackled him. Crouched over Aleric, he spit into his palm once again, using it to slick his own cock. The need to possess drummed hard and insistent through his veins, but he held back long enough to quickly suck on his fingers. Aleric pulled his knees up to his chest and tipped his head back, exposing his neck—the very picture of willing submission. Raphael pushed two digits past the puckered skin and into smooth, clinging heat. His cock twitched in anticipation. The release gathered within, pressure building in his ballocks. He crooked his fingers, desperately searching for… “Yes, yes,” Aleric panted, his eyelids fluttering, as Raphael rubbed his sweet spot. A drop of fluid leaked from the tip of Aleric’s prick, wetting his abdomen. His muscles relaxed just enough so Raphael’s fingers slid smoothly as he thrust, gently stretching, preparing him. He knew he wouldn’t cause Aleric physical harm if he skipped the preliminaries and simply shoved his cock inside, just as Aleric himself had done. His body could now take it and more. What once would have been stark, unadulterated pain would now be spiked with a heavy dose of pleasure. He’d discovered that fact many years ago when desperation had pushed him to lay with another of his kind. But he didn’t want to frighten Aleric, or to give cause for the man to think him uncaring. Instead, he waited until Aleric tugged on his shoulders, begged for more. And then he lined up his cock with that sweet, tight hole and pushed inside. Aleric grunted. The wince flickering across his face quickly shifted to amazement as Raphael sank to the hilt. The most profound pleasure washed over Raphael, briefly stole the breath from his chest. So perfect to be buried inside Aleric, intimately joined with him. Hands planted on either side of Aleric’s broad shoulders, he pressed his lips to Aleric’s, needing his kiss. Then he eased back and drove into him. Aleric pulled him down further, burrowed his face against his neck. Smooth lips dragged across to his shoulder. Raphael shifted, adjusting the angle of his thrusts, trying to peg the man’s gland with each stroke. Aleric shuddered, gasped, and then pain pierced Raphael’s shoulder. Startled by the bite, he tried to rear back, but Aleric clung to him. Rocking his hips, bumping against him, seeking more. The orgasm rushed upon him. A primitive need to mark Aleric with his scent, to brand him as his own, gripped hold. An urge he could not suppress. He quickly pulled out and grabbed his cock. Come shot from the head, landing on Aleric’s abdomen and flawless chest in rhythm to the chant repeating in his head. Mine. Mine. Mine. The echo of that powerful release still racking his muscles, he closed his fist around Aleric’s erection. Within two strokes, the length hardened even further, like a blazing iron rod in his hand. When he felt the thick vein beneath pulse, he pointed the crown to his own chest. On a roar, Aleric came. Raphael dragged his fingers through the pearly white seed, rubbing it into his skin. Aleric bared his teeth, growled his approval, and passed his hand over his own chest, smearing the remnants of Raphael’s climax. A smile tipped Raphael’s lips, the most profound satisfaction coursing through his veins. Aleric’s heavy pants filled the room. Raphael watched as his fangs receded. The raw lust in his silver-blue eyes banked, the aggression slipping from his features. His gaze focused on Raphael’s face, as if really seeing him for the first time. Tension knotted Raphael’s stomach, held it in a vise-like grip. Shock, confusion, accusation—everything he had feared, he saw reflected in Aleric’s eyes. Aleric’s dark brows knit together. “Who the hell are you?”

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