Page 17 of Measure of a Man

Exeter laughed, breath ruffling the sweaty curls on the back of Virtue’s neck. “Sometimes I forget that you’re four years younger. Give me a half an hour.”

“Well, I shan’t say no, but I meant again-again. Another time?” Virtue turned his face, hiding it in the pillow.

It felt like an awfully long time before Exeter spoke again, and when he did, it was with a soft humour. “A long-standing social engagement for fucking? Followed by vingt-un and Almack’s?”

Ah. Sometimes the softest of blows could hurt the hardest when the target was true. If he tried very, very hard, Exeter might not see how the rejection upset him. He’d been quite sure that Exeter had hinted at wanting this…whatever this was…to go further. But perhaps he had misunderstood, and he’d only meant for this to be one long, wild night.

He was too tired to think, but he was certain now that he’d had Exeter—it would be impossible to go without.

CHAPTER 7

Exeter settled on the pillow beside him. He slipped his hands under the cool side to cradle it up more comfortably. A rustle of paper ripped Virtue from his post-coital doze. His eyes popped open in alarm.

“You’ve been writing letters in bed?” Exeter asked.

Oh, damn.

Exeter, as ever, too curious for his own good, extracted a handful of rumpled, faintly crusted pamphlets from the makeshift hiding spot where they’d been stashed.

Virtue tried not to die. It was only of a minor comfort that at least he was going to die from shame in his own bed.

“My God,” Exeter choked, dissolving into laughter. “Is this your stash of French prints, Julian?”

“Absolutely not.” He lunged for them, but Exeter was quicker, holding them aloft in one hand while he flattened Virtue back down with the other.

There was no point tussling with a bigger man while he was still boneless from being ravished, so, Virtue allowed himself to be defeated. It wasn’t as if Exeter didn’t already know he liked men. Good lord, he’d not just ten minutes ago let him spend between his thighs. A fact that was remarkably wonderous to him.

…But to be exposed as a fancier of the Fancy when they weren’t even his papers?

Well, his father hadn’t made him study the great generals of the world for nothing; a simpler change of tack would have to do.

“They’re scientific pamphlets on the diets and exercise of prize fighters,” he bristled.

Blast. He’d gone for sounding dull, but had choked the delivery and ended up sounding prim. Prim people always had something to hide.

“Of course.” Exeter gave an unconvinced hum as he flipped one over. Its title proclaimed in jaunty block lettering that it was The Life of a Champion Prize fighter or a Modern Olympian. Double blast! That had been one of the rather more pictorial publications. It had done away with the loin clothes and fig leaves in pursuit of a more faithful representation of classical antiquity.

“Shall I expect to find between the pages? Am I going to be confronted by some buxom Nell Gwyn type selling oranges, and everything else, or Harriette Wilson with her cherry tarts on show?”

“Neither! But I’m glad to discover what your preferences are!”

“Harriette Wilson? Never!” Exeter rolled his eyes with exaggerated offence and thumbed open the pamphlet. “Oh. It really is prize fighters. It’s men,” he noted with some surprise. Turning on his side to read more comfortably, he freed Virtue from beneath him. “Chiselled and sporting masculine specimens,” he quoted, his eyes agog at the crudely illustrative illustrations. His face settled into wry amusement as he looked at Virtue. “Yes, I can see why you find the—what does this fellow call it? Ah yes—the ‘Sweet Science of Bruising’ so appealing.”

“I don’t! At least not the bruising part, or whatever it was you just said. Not outside the sport. I’m not a masochist,” he said growing flustered enough to give up the game entirely. “It’s just their bodies. They’re quite nice. That’s what I liked.”

“Quite nice, he says.” Exeter’s face grew to be all white teeth and blue eyes, and Virtue could hardly bear to look at how perfect he was. Was it normal to feel this absurdly pleased at being teased by his friend? He flung his arm over his face so that Exeter could see only his smile.

“Fine. They’re very nice.”

Laughing, Exeter flopped on top of him, his head pleasantly heavy on Virtue’s chest.

“I think I’ll sleep like this, much comfier than a pillow stuffed with pornography.”

“It’s not—Oh, never mind.” Virtue hesitated. He wrapped his arms around him. When he wasn’t immediately shrugged off, he relaxed.

Exeter’s skin was still lightly tacky from exertion and he stank of sex…and Virtue would have been happy to live the rest of his life lying underneath him.

It was more than ‘very nice’.