Here’s a short continuation of what I started last week. Soon I’ll post the debut date and link to the newest Gaslight Mystery.
Chapter 2: Something Hard
Simon had awakened surprised and was still astonished.
His heart was rattling like a toy drum, his throat was dry, his hands were shaking as he tried to unlock the door to his flat.
Of course he expected Michael to try to lure him back into the privy, or to touch him somewhere as they stood briefly in the gaslit hallway. He even wanted the slick intrusion into his ear, the husky promise of the man’s voice. No, not merely wanted those sensations. Craved them.
What flabbergasted him—now, and every moment since waking up this morning—was his own eager collaboration. He had always ducked and fled from the randy roustabout, one for whom the word “subtlety” had seemed to be some form of undecipherable ancient tongue.
Why now, after a full year, had he thrown aside the sham of disliking Michael’s frank interest?
He’d rushed through his daily toilet and bath, hoping to find the brawny, good looking Irishman outside the privy door. And as badly as he’d wanted to stroke his heavy penis until the pressure eased, he’d merely washed it gingerly until he was sure it would be acceptable to his flat-mate’s questing mouth—if, indeed, Michael began to look for the obvious.
Simon’s fingers finally found the keyhole, and he opened the door to number 3-C, the large Victorian-era flat he shared with Michael McCree. His eyes took in every detail of the room immediately, noting the small change wrought by his flat-mate.
The room was spacious, with a high domed ceiling where his own shadow played, caught by the flickering gaslight. His eyes swept the marble fireplace whose mantel boasted his antique clock … his father’s handsome liquor cabinet next to it with stained-glass panels … a huge impressionist-style painting of the hills of Cambridge … the old wingback chair and the slick leather divan three meters away, both hand-me-downs from his father … the thick oriental rug whose reds and golds shimmered like mysterious gems.
This was the environment where he felt both safe and in peril. The place where he could come to find privacy and forbidden pleasure too.
The canes. The ivory-handled fighting sticks. He’d mounted them near the fireplace a few years ago, and yesterday he’d taken them down as a veiled message to his flat-mate. Carefully laying them next to each other, he’d propped them against his roomer’s door. Michael had to take them away to get inside. Where had he put them?
Simon saw them in his next glance, lying absolutely perpendicular on the heavy mahogany dining table. Uncrossed, open, the way he wanted Michael to see them also—an invitation to be his stick-fighting partner. Even though the street-wise Michael relied mainly on his blunt fists, Simon thought no self-respecting Irishman should be without a rudimentary knowledge of cudgels in some form. And Michael was showing him he understood and agreed.
Lately his blustery room-mate had begun to show promise … a shade of delicacy, moments rife with actual nuance. It had taken Simon almost a year to teach the fellow, and the man’s sexual energies were now being channeled in a way that deeply excited him.
Standing at the table, he ran his fingers down the length of the canes. Their high polish and adamantine smoothness called to him, reminded him of the fighting master who’d awarded him these beauties. He felt almost an electric spark, letting the meat of one palm settle on the hard surface before lifting his hand again, loathe to disturb their static potential yet longing to release that promise once more, with a new partner.
As he crossed the large sitting room to his bedchamber, Simon reflected that he had not truly taught Michael. His business partner and companion—face it, Simon, your lover—had learned because he’d found every way conceivable to say “I want you.” And maybe Michael’s unspoken words told him something even deeper. His partner’s off-and-on subtlety was just a small part of a secret daily message Simon knew he was whispering sometimes soft, sometimes with a rasping insistence.
Once he entered his large bedchamber, Simon was again taken aback. The soiled linens were no longer crumpled on his bed but balled up on the floor next to an old lumpy chair. Fresh folded sheets were sitting on the too-plump seat, no doubt waiting for the damp mattress to air-dry in the slight breeze wafting from the window.
Normally he would firmly close the door. He’d strip the robe and don clean underwear, then find some suitable summer-weight suit to wear the rest of the day. But today he walked directly to his large four-poster bed and sat heavily at its foot, his mind snagged by the fighting sticks, the clean sheets, the memory of a wet movement in his ear and his own eager tongue on Michael’s full lower lip. Flicking, then fleeing. But absolutely honest and direct, like Michael’s own.
His phallus began to swell, and for once he did not try to will “it” away. The erection. The hardness. My stiff cock.
Michael had taught him how to give his body to another person. He’d also showed him how to blurt out his needs in words of one syllable.
He’d gone from being a hermit with a bad attitude to a willing lover, all in the space of just one year. If he were to be honest with himself, Simon knew the “willing lover” part was somewhat scarce most of the time. Simon shook his head, still reeling from the change in himself—not in a year, but in just a few days. Hell and damn, in the space of a few hours.
Something important, some alchemists’s magic, had turned him from straw to flesh. He needed time to take stock of this new Simon Hart…
A familiar lilt, the deep humor-laced tones of a sensuous man, penetrated his thoughts.
“Simon, lad. Let’s make this damned bed, or let it make us.”
He looked up and saw his flat-mate in a towel that was way too thin to disguise the man beneath. Looking from there into Michael’s brindled eyes, tawny as a cat, he found himself suddenly smiling.
“Make us what, McCree?”
The interloper leaned over him, the tented cloth only inches from his chin.
“Make us crazy again.”
Almost by rote, Simon slid away from the heat of Michael and managed to stand not quite touching him. But not exactly running away. And again out of habit, he pushed his lower lip into its usual cynical droop.
“I heard no knock on the door.”
“Sure an’ ’twere a knock, lad. Something hard knocking against this bloody towel.”
And then Michael kissed him. A slow, wet kiss that started on his surly lower lip and moved inside, while his bear-paw hands gentled his cheeks and chin then moved to cup his buttocks.
Simon felt his phallus become a bed post.
Missed the excerpt from Chapter 1? It’s here:
Have you started Erin O’Quinn’s acclaimed Gaslight Mysteries? Find them on my Amazon and ARe/Omni Lit pages.
❤️HEART TO HEART ❤️
👥SPARRING WITH SHADOWS 👥
☠️TO THE BONE ☠️
🔫THIN AS SMOKE 🔫
Art of the cane fighters is by Alex A. Akira, writer/artist/illustrator. If you need covers, banners, box set art, etc., you’ll find his service here: alexaakira.org