“I dimly recall some such thing. But I had no idea it was to be today.”
“Do you object?” Julian was prepared to fight this matter to the death.
“No, good God, not by any means. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit out the match of the decade. If you’re going to take on my mother, I’ll have a front row seat, please and thank you.” He tossed a parcel onto Julian’s breakfast table. “I brought buns.”
Julian could smell the cinnamon and butter even through the paper. “You may as well sit.” He gestured reluctantly at an empty chair. He wanted to leave, not linger over pastries, but he didn’t want to get sticky sugary crumbs all over the plush upholstery of his carriage. And leaving anything behind that smelled so good was quite out of the question. Gingerly, he opened the parcel and gave one of the buns to Courtenay and dropped one onto his own plate, then wiped the sticky glaze onto the napkin in his lap. Leave it to Courtenay to choose the messiest pastry in the land. But it smelled divine, and his dry toast seemed a very distant and irrelevant memory.
He picked the bun up carefully, and then—“Oh my God,” he said, his mouth still full. “These are even better than the last ones.” There was cinnamon and butter and a vast quantity of sugar, but also lemon rind and the barest hint of a spice that reminded him vaguely of his childhood in Madras.
“It’s the one thing I missed when I was abroad. Bath buns, Chelsea buns, the whole lot. Can’t get them in France or Constantinople or anywhere else.”
Julian took another bite, conscious that the glaze was now all over his fingers and mouth. But, well, no use worrying about that now.
He shoved the rest of the bun in his mouth.
And then he took another.
“Hungry?” Courtenay asked. He was taking catlike bites of his own bun.
“Oh shut up.” Julian stared at his now empty plate. The toast crumbs were not only scattered but compounded with cinnamon-bun crumbs and globs of glaze.
He ran his finger through the mess and licked it. He would never do such a thing around anyone else, not even his manservant, but what could Courtenay possibly care? What was finger licking compared to participating in orgies and eating opium and doing whatever else Courtenay had gotten up to in his past? Julian scooped up another fingerful of pastry and licked his finger again.
Courtenay made a choked-sounding noise and shifted in his chair. Julian paused with his finger still in his mouth, realizing what he looked like.
“Does your valet knock before entering?” Courtenay asked, his voice low and promisingly raspy.
Julian knew what Courtenay was really asking, knew he ought to say something quelling, but the man looked so appallingly delicious. So instead, he licked another finger, looked Courtenay directly in the eye, and said, “Always.”
Courtenay let out his breath and slid his chair closer to Julian’s. Then he took hold of Julian’s wrists, and, bending his head, he systematically licked each of Julian’s fingers. Julian somehow managed not to whimper when he felt Courtenay’s tongue circling each fingertip, or when Courtenay drew a finger deep into his mouth, sucking much harder than was necessary to remove a bit of sugar. But when Courtenay leaned in and licked the corner of Julian’s mouth, the warmth and roughness of his tongue made him gasp aloud.
“Sweet,” Courtenay murmured, before flicking his tongue along the seam of Julian’s lips.
Infuriating man. Julian wrapped his fingers around the arms of his chair, hoping that would keep his hands from doing anything embarrassing, like petting Courtenay’s hair or something. “Kiss me properly,” he said with a little sniff. “Otherwise, let’s get in the curricle and get on with the day.”
Courtenay let out a huff of silent laughter and pressed another exasperating little kiss on the edge of Julian’s mouth. “I can’t imagine how you think propriety enters into this. There’s very little that’s proper about this situation.” Another stupid, teasing kiss. “Even your table manners are atrocious.”
That really was the outside of enough. “There’s a right way to do things. And chaste little kisses that don’t go anywhere aren’t the right way.” He was gripping the arms of his chair so tightly his fingers were beginning to hurt. “I should have thought that you, of all people, would have grasped the concept.”
“But I’m enjoying this,” he murmured into the skin below Julian’s ear.
“Because your head isn’t on right.” It was taking all Julian’s composure to keep his voice neutral and his clothing on. “I always suspected it.” Julian could feel Courtenay’s smile against his flesh.
Then Courtenay finally cupped Julian’s jaw in his hand and tilted his head back for a real kiss. He licked into Julian’s mouth, and he tasted sweet, like messy pastry and a confusion of spices. Julian moaned—he hadn’t meant to—but the sweep of Courtenay’s tongue against his own was so good, so exactly what he craved, such a relief after that prolonged torment.
Julian let go of the chair and threaded his fingers in Courtenay’s hair, tugging him closer, kissing him deeper. He tasted so good and his mouth was so warm and right. Each kiss stoked the lust that had been building in his belly since Courtenay walked into this room. No. Wrong. The lust had been building since he had first laid eyes on Courtenay, only temporarily relieved in Courtenay’s arms.
Courtenay pulled away. “We ought to go.”
Julian gaped. “The bedroom isright there.”
“It’ll still be there later.” He rose to his feet, straightened his lapels, and headed for the door.
“I think that what you really like is discomposing my state of mind. Turning me into a babbling fool.”
Courtenay became very busy adjusting his cravat.
“Oh my God, I’m right. That is what you like. You like seeing me desperate for you.” It was mortifying, this knowledge that his sad own lack of control was what Courtenay sought.
