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“I’m a thief,” John said, “you said so. And your stepbrother. Well, not any longer, I suppose. That one hasn’t been true for years.” His voice was very dry, over that; they both recalled his mother’s flight, the divorce, the scandal. The reasons why. “You should arrest me. You caught me. You and your pet constables. But you didn’t, and you won’t.”
“No.”
“Because you want this.” He dropped a hand to Sam’s trousers, skillful, practiced; he had musician’s fingers, and he played Sam’s prick through fine fabric, easily. “Because you want me.”
“No—”
John’s hand froze. His eyes went wider, startled. “Sam—”
“I didn’t mean no. To this. You. I meant—” Oh, all the gods, ever, old and new, Midwinter and Midsummer and the spaces in between. How could he talk?
How could he say anything, right or wrong? With those eyes, the tall fierce whirlwind, the presence? With John’s arousal evident, standing firm and hard, so close and undeniable?
Good, whispered a bit of Sam’s treacherous heart. Good, yes, it’s real, he wants you; maybe he even wants you as much as you want him—
John moved the hand, but did not back up.
Sam stayed in place, flattened against the door. “I want you. I want you to—to do whatever you want. To me. I mean I won’t arrest you—not because of this.”
John actually laughed, cynicism laced through a symphony. “Isn’t this exactly why people do things?” He meant passion, emotion, desire. Possibly revenge.
“You don’t deserve it. Gods—yes, you do, you’ve been stealing paintings—but they’re ours. They were hers. Torie’s. I know why you—”
“Shut up,” John said, and dropped to both knees.
Sam did not have time to move, to react, to know anything but pure blinding want. John on both knees, at his feet. John flicking open Sam’s trousers, a combination of fingertips and half-sung command, power as easy as breathing. A twine of melody, something classical that Sam vaguely recognized, fluttering and full of opera. Sam’s cravat slid free and whipped itself round his wrists, above his head.
His hips rocked forward, responding, instinctive. His study—his home, his house, his life—lay beyond John’s head, neat and clean, a pulse-pounding contrast. The open case—closed, he supposed, because he knew who’d stolen all three artworks; he’d known since the first—hung fire in the night, awaiting his judgment. Everything he was, everything he did not do, everything wrong and messy and so painfully good, collided in a thunder of need.
John put a hand on his hip. Leaned in, plush curving mouth just there, hovering above Sam’s straining cock.
And then he leaned in more, and took Sam in. Thick head, stiff shaft, and all.
Sam made a noise. Strangled, broken, yearning and full, both at once somehow. His length, his girth, sliding in and out of John’s mouth. The slick sweet pinkness of John’s lips around him. The strokes, the friction, and whatever utterly sinful thing John was doing with his tongue, dear gods and all the demon hells, nothing Sam had ever imagined, if he’d ever let himself imagine—
John was humming. Just a bit, around the length filling his mouth. Something hot and glittery, a sensation. Sam couldn’t speak. His prick, his balls—all of him responded, drawn up tight and shaking, the edges of brilliance twinkling like glass, too much and yet exactly right, a shocked eruption of feeling.
John’s hand was toying with his balls, and John’s fingers slid lower, back, teasing his hole—while Sam stayed in place against his own door, wrists bound, held because he didn’t want to move, couldn’t move—
John, mouth full, looked up at him. Through devastating dark eyelashes, with the curve of a smile at his lips, before he did that—that—again.
Sam came on the spot, no warning at all, a sudden wrenching breaking-apart of release. Himself into John’s mouth, spurting, pouring it all out. With his eyes locked on John’s.
His desk shuddered as if it’d been kicked. The rug under John’s knees tried to roll itself, and quivered, and collapsed.
John swallowed, swallowed more, licked and stroked and wrapped his tongue around every drop and every sensitive spot; until Sam was whimpering and sobbing and practically out of his head with stimulation. And then John sat back, on both heels, looking up at him.
That mouth was so pink. Shining. Those eyes were huge and ruffled as velvet, not calm at all. Still dressed, boots on and waistcoat buttoned, cravat rumpled but stylishly so, John might’ve been artwork himself: a young man dressed for a Midwinter London house party, flawless and luscious, with nothing to give away the fact that he’d just had Sam’s prick in his mouth, with the sort of skill that might’ve made courtesans weep.
He said, “Was that good, for you?”
“Oh my fucking gods,” Sam breathed. His knees threatened to crumple. His door was convenient support.
“Was that what you wanted?” John got up, a lovely ripple of motion, and touched Sam’s wrists, under snowy linen. “About the rug. I saw that. That wasn’t an objection?”
“No. I only—” He hated to admit it. He couldn’t come up with a lie. “Lost control.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
