Deliberately Bound
Copyright © May 2011 by Ava March

Cover Art © by Ava March

All rights are reserved. No part of this work may be sold, manipulated, or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

This 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 construed to be real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely incidental.

Warning
This work contains sexually explicit scenes and graphic language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Intended for adult audiences only. Not intended for anyone under the age of 18. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

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DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in this BDSM title without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. The author will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in this title.

Deliberately Bound

The Bound Series #3-1/2

by Ava March

July 1824
Rotherham, England

Vincent followed Oliver inside the man’s bedchamber and shut the door. As he turned the lock, a sense of peace settled over him.
Two days without his lover. One would think it had been a month given how long last night had felt. It wasn’t as if he and Oliver spent every night together when they were in London. But at Rotherham… The country house had felt downright empty without him.
As Oliver crossed the room, he shrugged his black coat from his shoulders and flung it in the general direction of the narrow door leading to the dressing room. “It’s good to be home.”
“It’s good to have you home.” Vincent’s gaze tracked his lover as the man stopped at the bedside table.
Oliver glanced over his shoulder, fingers poised over the jade cravat pin at his throat. “Did you miss me?” A smile that said he had no doubt of Vincent’s answer played on his full lips.
Yet Vincent answered nonetheless. “Yes.”
That smile broadened. “Well, I certainly missed you.” Oliver turned his attention back to the bedside table. With a faint clink, he dropped the cravat pin into the silver dish. “But the appointment was well worth the trouble.” He let out a little sigh. The same little blissful sigh that had accompanied a detailed account over supper of the books he’d purchased on his visit to Wakefield.
As easy and unassuming as Oliver was, his dedication and attention to detail – when it involved the acquisition of books – was earning his shop a reputation as the place to go among the booklovers in London. Vincent had overheard more than one individual at White’s recently recommend Wallace’s Bookshop – the best selection of prime stock in the city. Certainly by now the shop warranted an expansion. Oliver couldn’t argue he did not have the funds at his disposal, yet he preferred to keep the shop small. He claimed he liked the intimacy, the quaint atmosphere, and didn’t want it to become so large that it occupied all his time. Unlike Vincent, the acquisition of wealth had never been one of his priorities. Not that it showed a lack of ambition, but rather Oliver being true to himself. And Vincent wasn’t about to argue with Oliver over his decision. He very much preferred having more of Oliver’s time devoted to him.
“When do you need to return to Town?” Vincent asked, as he began to unbutton his navy coat. Since the post ensured business matters reached him in Rotherham, he could remain for a good month or more. Unfortunately, Oliver’s obligations and not Vincent’s tended to dictate the length of their stays in the country.
Oliver let his waistcoat slip from his arms, the garment falling to the floorboards, and shrugged. “Not for a few days. Perhaps Saturday.”
Four days from now? That wouldn’t put them back in London for a week, making their absence from Town push three weeks in total. But Vincent held back the urge to question him with a firm reminder that it was Oliver’s business and not his own. The man would know when he was needed back at his shop.
Vincent folded his coat and set it on the chair next to the dressing room door. “I’ll have word sent to the stables tomorrow to have the carriage prepared to depart on Saturday.” In any case, who was he to complain about having more nights than anticipated with Oliver in Rotherham, where not a single servant spent the night under their roof?
Where there were absolutely no worries anyone else would hear the full force of Oliver’s desire.
Lust spiked his senses, wound its way into his veins, settling in his groin. The candles on the mantel provided enough light so he could just make out the faint outline of the sleek lines of Oliver’s back beneath his white shirt. His fingers twitched with the need to rip the trousers from his lover’s body, to expose the firm round globes of his arse. To toss the man onto the mattress, bind him to the bed, and fuck every last “more” from his lips.
But he stopped himself before he took even one step closer to Oliver.
Patience. He repeated the word in his head.
The entire night awaited them. Many, many hours until his housekeeper arrived at dawn. No reason to rush at all.
Desire firmly in check, he set to work on the buttons of his waistcoat. A warm, summer night’s breeze drifted into the room, fluttering the drapes covering the window near the bed. Fabric swooshed softly as Oliver tugged his cravat from his neck, the sound amplified in the quiet room.
Oliver turned from the bedside table. A little smile curved the edges of his lips as he regarded Vincent. “Will you put yourself in my hands tonight?”
Vincent’s fingers stilled over the last button on his waistcoat. Apprehension pinched his stomach. He knew exactly when he’d last seen that confident little smile. And the way Oliver had phrased the question – never mind the cravat he had yet to drop to the floorboards – led Vincent to believe he wanted something more than taking him. Not that merely being taken by Oliver held no cause for at least some concern. Oliver had only buggered him twice. Once seven months ago, and second time in early spring. Oliver hadn’t asked then, and neither had Vincent. The man had somehow sensed though, exactly what Vincent had wanted on that particular night.
Tonight though…
“Is that a no?” Oliver asked, the smile diming a fraction.
“I’m not certain.” There was no point in trying to dissemble with Oliver. His lover had an uncanny ability to see right through him. “Care to enlighten me as to your plan for the evening?”
“I’d rather not. You’ll think on what’s to come, and it would take some of the…enjoyment out of it. And I believe you will enjoy it. We both will,” he added with an all too eager spark in the dark depths of his eyes.
Oliver indulged his whims most every night, submitting so beautifully he never failed to hold Vincent in awe. He should let his lover do as he pleased with him on occasion. And it wasn’t that he was completely against the idea. He could still remember the strength of his climax from four months ago, an intense slam of sensation that had left him utterly boneless. Not something one tended to forget. The mere memory made his cock jump against the placket of his trousers. Yet…
His gaze was drawn once again to the rumpled cravat in Oliver’s hand, the long length dangling from his closed fist.
“If you want to stop at any time, you can simply give the word, Vincent.”
He took a deep breath and nodded. He trusted Oliver, and if the man pushed him beyond his comfort, he’d call a stop to whatever Oliver had planned for the evening. The thought calmed the knot in his stomach.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes,” Vincent said, doing his best to appear perfectly composed.
Oliver’s smile broadened into a damn grin. “Thank you, Vincent. You can take off your clothes while I gather a few things.”
A few things? Vincent’s brows drew together as he watched that cravat flutter to the floorboards. His gaze snapped to Oliver as the man opened the top drawer of the dresser and reached inside. He knew exactly what Oliver was after.
The key.
Oliver dropped to his knees before the small trunk beside the dresser. He fit the key into the brass lock. The click as the lock opened echoed in the room.
“I thought about nothing but you on the drive back from Wakefield." Oliver lifted the lid and reached into the trunk.
The journey would have taken a good six hours. Vincent suddenly wished the village wasn’t such a long distance away, for Oliver obviously had too much time with nothing but his own thoughts. Thoughts which had taken a decidedly wicked turn if his lover’s plans involved something from that trunk.
And Vincent knew exactly what that trunk contained, as he had selected each item for their holiday in Rotherham from Oliver’s bottom dresser drawer.
Oliver stood, holding a pair of leather cuffs in each hand that answered the question pressing heavily on Vincent’s mind and spawned a good dozen more. Cuffs were typically used to restrain. To keep one immobile. The buckles and metal rings on the cuffs clanked as Oliver set the items on the dresser, and then he dropped back down before the trunk. Vincent shifted his weight. The floorboards creaked.
Oliver glanced over his shoulder. “Aren’t you going to undress?” He righted his wirerimmed spectacles, pushing them higher on his nose. “Or have you changed your mind?”
“No, no. Well, yes, I’ll undress. No, I haven’t changed my mind.”
“You’ll enjoy it. I’m certain of it.”
While Vincent thoroughly enjoyed seeing those cuffs adorn Oliver’s wrists and ankles, he wasn’t so sure he’d enjoy them on his own. His prick, however, didn’t completely object. It pressed, semi-erect, against his trousers.
“And it will be good for you,” Oliver added, turning his attention back to that damn trunk. The dark waves of his untidy hair fell forward, obscuring his face, as he rummaged around for whatever the hell he was after.
“In what way will it be good for me?” Chain clinked. Vincent’s breaths stuttered.
“You don’t always need to be in control. At least not with me.” His lover got to his feet. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” The words fell from his lips without conscious thought.
Oliver set a familiar length of leather line on the dresser beside the cuffs, then turned back to Vincent and arched a brow.
“Yes?” Vincent asked, meeting Oliver’s expectant stare.
“Your clothes?”
He fought down the surge of frustration at himself and instead focused on untying the knot of his cravat. “Yes, of course.”
Oliver merely stood there as Vincent removed his clothes, the weight of his gaze a physical force branding every inch of Vincent’s skin as it was exposed. Vincent pushed down his drawers and pulled them from his feet, then he set his clothes on the chair with his coat.
He had stood bare before Oliver countless times, yet how was it possible to feel even more naked now?
“Do you plan to remain dressed?” Vincent asked.
Oliver smirked. “No. I’ll see to that in a moment. First…come here.”
Vincent forced his feet to take him the short distance to stand before his lover. “Hold out your arm.”
The request jarred an old memory. Vincent hesitated before complying. Had it been really only a little more than two years ago when their positions had been reversed, and he had been placing the cuffs on Oliver’s wrists for the first time?
Was this how Oliver had felt? Nervous as all hell yet determined to see the evening through? Using the last available notch for the buckle, one that had never seen use before as Oliver’s wrists were smaller than his own, Oliver secured a cuff to Vincent’s wrist. The leather felt strange against his skin. Thick and foreign. Was Oliver planning a repeat of their first night together? The memory of leather cracking through the air echoed in his head.
He stiffened.
Oliver secured the second cuff. “Relax, Vincent. I’m not going to whip you.”
Letting out a huff of self-disgust, he rolled his eyes. I’m as transparent as damn glass.
After grabbing the other two cuffs from the dresser, Oliver dropped to his knees. The position was so familiar Vincent’s hand had started to reach out to palm the back of the man’s head before he recalled himself and pulled his arm back to his side.
“What do you plan to do?”
Oliver merely shook his bowed head and secured the cuffs to his ankles. Vincent would bet the Rotherham estate that the man had a smirk affixed to his lips.
“You are enjoying this immensely, aren’t you?” Vincent muttered.
“Indeed.” Oliver stood. Crossing his arms over his chest, he took a step back. The remnants of that smirk turned into stark appreciation.
It was rather difficult to feel ridiculous when his lover looked at him with such unabashed hunger. Oliver’s cock tented the placket of his trousers. A faint flush tinged his cheeks, his breaths quickening. Vincent’s own prick began to harden once again; an instinctive response to his lover’s arousal.
After what felt like a never-ending moment, Oliver reached for the leather line. “I won’t keep you in suspense on every detail. After I tie you to the bed”—his gaze dropped to Vincent’s groin—“I’m going to suck your cock.”
Vincent’s attention was drawn to Oliver’s mouth, to those soft, full lips that felt like heaven sliding up and down his prick.
“First though, the bed.” Oliver tipped his head in the direction of the four-poster bed.
Fully focused on getting that beautiful mouth on his prick, Vincent complied. He knew exactly where Oliver would want him on the bed, as he’d put Oliver in the position many times. He lay on his back, shifted slightly to the right, putting himself directly in the middle of deep green coverlet, and then lifted his arms over his head so his knuckles grazed the spindles spanning the width of the headboard.
The mattress dipped as Oliver kneeled beside him. With the leather line in his hand, he reached toward the headboard. Through sheer force of will, Vincent resisted the urge to tip his head back and watch.
Fingertips brushed his wrist.
“Stop.” The words burst from Vincent’s throat.
A heavy furrow on his brow, Oliver rocked back onto his heels. Oliver opened his mouth, but before he could give voice to a single word, Vincent spoke.
“No. You don’t need to stop. I just wanted to…check.”
“You doubted I would stop if you asked?”
“No, of course not. I just…” Ah, hell. Now he felt ridiculous. He let out a breath. “I’m not very good at this,” he admitted.
Oliver smiled, indulgent and understanding. “It’s only your first time, Vincent. You should not expect perfection of yourself.” He leaned down and brushed his lips against Vincent’s. A fleeting ghost of a kiss that still somehow managed to calm Vincent’s racing pulse. “If you promise not to move, we can make do without the line.”
“No, I want you to tie me.” He could do this. Was determined to prove to Oliver that he could do it. He had asked it of Oliver enough times that it only seemed fitting that he allowed his lover the same liberty.
Oliver was silent for a moment, then he nodded. “All right.” Rather than reach for the headboard again, he scooted off the mattress and bent down. When he returned to Vincent’s side, he held not the leather line but his wrinkled white cravat.
This time when fingers brushed his wrist he didn’t even flinch.
“Hold this,” Oliver whispered.
Vincent opened his hand, then closed it around what had to be the end of the cravat. Tipping his head back, he looked to the headboard. Oliver had tied the cravat to one cuff, passed the length through a ring on the other, and secured him to one of the spindles with a simple loop knot, the end of which now rested in Vincent’s palm. His lover had put the means to untie himself in his own hand.
No doubt at all. Oliver could see right through him.
“Now that you’re tied to the bed, what comes next?” Oliver asked, trying but failing to keep the pleased smile from his lips.
Vincent narrowed his eyes. “Suck my cock, boy.”
A visible shudder went through his lover. That agile tongue darted out to sweep across his full bottom lip. “Well, I do believe you’re correct,” he said without even a hint of a tease.
After setting his spectacles on the bedside table, Oliver moved to kneel between Vincent’s spread legs. He wrapped a hand around Vincent’s length and lowered his head.
It took no time at all for Oliver to coax his cock to full attention. Soft lips slid up and down his length, fluid and effortless, as if the man had been born to suck his cock. The crown bumped the back of Oliver’s throat with each stroke as the man worked his fist in counterpoint. The heavy, wet suction of his lover’s mouth had the hint of an orgasm teasing Vincent’s ballocks. Rather than pull back, Oliver pressed onward. Sucking harder. Stroking faster.
Was this all Oliver wanted? To tie him up and suck him off? He ignored the twinge of disappointment and reveled in the heady rush of sensation as a climax barreled closer and closer. His body drew tight. His panting breaths echoed in his ears. His hand flexed around the end of the cravat as he resisted the almost overpowering urge to free himself, to grab the back of Oliver’s head and urge him to take even more.
With a crude popping noise, Oliver abruptly pulled free. Air brushed across Vincent’s wet, aching erection.
“More,” Vincent demanded, lifting his hips.
Oliver’s eyes were heavily-lidded, glazed with desire, with stark, undeniable need. Yet the man shook his head. He dragged his forearm across his mouth, using his shirtsleeve to wipe his very wet and very red lips. “No more of that.” He spoke as though he was more trying to convince himself than give an order.
The man shifted off the bed. He closed his eyes for a moment, hands fisted at his sides. A deep breath expanded his chest, the air shuddering on the exhale. When his lashes swept up, the stark, unbridled need in the dark depths of his eyes had dimmed just a fraction.
“Oliver,” Vincent growled. “What do you plan to do next?” Obviously, Oliver wasn’t done with him yet. At least he better not be. If the man intended to leave him like this, skin beaded with sweat and poised on the brink of a climax…
A little furrow creased his brow. “It really bothers you that you don’t know what comes next.”
It hadn’t been a question, but still, Vincent answered. “Yes,” he bit out through clenched teeth. He lifted his shoulders from the bed and watched as Oliver went back to the trunk.
He should have known. The man had left it open.
Oliver leaned down. His trousers stretched across his firm, round arse. Vincent flexed his bound hands.
“All right then. I’ll tell you. I’m going to fuck you.” Straightening, Oliver turned to face him. “With one of these first.”
Vincent’s eyes flared. He recognized each object. An elegant jade dildo with raised bands along the length. A short, fat steel plug. And a long, thick black marble dildo – Oliver’s favorite toy.
How could he have forgotten he had packed that one?
Vincent’s gaze didn’t leave Oliver as the man put the three toys on the bedside table.
Oliver pulled a bottle of oil from the bedside table drawer. “Legs up,” he murmured, as he got back onto the bed.
Taking a deep breath, Vincent did as he was bid, drawing his bent knees up toward his chest. He made a mental note to be on his guard the next time Oliver made a large purchase for his bookshop. He was sensing a pattern…that involved him getting buggered.
Oliver opened the bottle, then went still. He frowned. “Stop thinking, Vincent. The only thing you need to do is enjoy. No responsibilities whatsoever.”
Easy for you to say. Well, it was easy for Oliver. The man gave up control so easily, so effortlessly, it was like drawing breath for him.
“All right. I shall try.”
“Thank you.” Oliver pressed a kiss to his shin. “That’s all I ask.”
Oliver poured oil onto his fingertips. His touch light and teasing and oh, so damn luscious, he coated Vincent’s entrance. Tracing the perimeter. Swirling over the sensitive flesh. And then he slipped one finger inside.
Vincent’s eyes drifted shut. He let out a groan, his body clamping around that digit, eager for more. The thought of getting buggered never held much appeal for him. The actual act though…
Shifting his hips, he bore down on Oliver’s finger, desperate for the full length. Desperate to be filled. Oliver pushed a second finger inside. Another groan rumbled Vincent’s chest. Then Oliver pulled free.
Vincent’s eyes flew open. He would have never guessed it of his lover, but the man was a damn tease.
Oliver reached for the bedside table again. “Which one should I choose?” A rhetorical question if ever Vincent heard one, so he kept his opinion to himself. Oliver’s hand hovered over the black marble dildo. “This one’s my favorite, but you already know that.” His voice dropped to a dreamy murmur, as if lost in a decadent memory. “Almost rivals your cock, but it’s not quite long enough.”
His fingers tightened around the end of the cravat in his hand. While Oliver’s prick certainly did not rival his own in size, it damn well felt huge when it was in his arse. He was suddenly acutely aware of his own hard prick resting on his abdomen. The weight of it, the length and the width. How did it feel to Oliver when Vincent buggered him? How would it feel to be stretched that wide, stuffed that full?
A heavy jolt of lust shot straight to his groin.
“But not tonight.” Oliver’s hand closed around the plug.
As the man liberally coated the steel with oil, a thread of nervousness seeped into Vincent’s gut. Oliver had barely prepared him. At its widest point, the plug appeared almost as thick as Vincent’s own cock. “Oliver…”
He must have heard the warning, for Oliver said, “Trust me, Vincent.” A little smile playing on his lips, Oliver pressed another kiss to Vincent’s shin. “I’m not about to just shove it inside of you. I’ll go slow.”
True to his word, Oliver went slow, pushing the blunt, narrow tip of the plug inside him. Just that bit of penetration. Teasing Vincent’s hole. Slowing pushing in just a fraction of an inch more then pulling back out. Oliver caressed the back of his thigh with his other hand. The long, slow sweeps of his palm were the perfect accompaniment to the luscious strokes. But rather than lull his senses, each thrust made him hungry for another. Another longer thrust. For more stretch. But Oliver kept to his frustratingly slow pace.
Arching, Vincent lifted his hips into the next stroke. “Oliver,” he said, coming dangerously close to a plea.
The man shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Oliver,” he growled, with a tug against his bonds.
“I want this to feel good for you. And it will, if you’ll let me do it my way. Trust me. I know how big this plug is.”
Vincent’s brow furrowed. He had shoved that plug inside Oliver on more occasions than he cared to count, with little more than a couple of hasty fingers worth of preparation. “Do you not like it when I—”
“Oh, I like it.” Oliver pushed the plug a bit deeper on the next downstroke. A wicked grin tipped his lips. “But I’ve also had considerably more practice at this than you. And well...” Another fraction of an inch deeper, but nothing near to what Vincent needed. “I’ve discovered why you’re so fond of playing with my arse.”
Vincent clamped his eyes shut. Dear Lord, Oliver was staring at his hole. But shutting his eyes only made him more aware of the slow, slick glide of the steel in and out of his well-oiled arse.
“You’re gorgeous, Vincent.”
Thick and heavy with wonder, the compliment washed over him, ratcheting the lust soaking his senses even higher.
Oliver kept slowly deepening the strokes. Vincent let out a grunt at the hint of stretching pain. He lifted his head, trying to see how much more he needed to take, but his erection, jutting stiff and hard between his legs, obscured the view. A drop of fluid dripped from the crown, falling to his abdomen. He gasped as that hint became true stretch.
“Relax, Vincent,” Oliver whispered. His harsh panting breaths matched Vincent’s own. “Let it in. It will feel good.”
In and then out. More and more with each stroke, pushing him beyond anything he’d ever felt before. Vincent’s head fell back onto the pillow. He clenched his jaw against the pain swamping his senses. His nerves screamed in protest, but damnation, it felt good.
A groan ripped from his throat as he was stretched unbelievably wide. Then the sharp lance of pain eased as the thick width slipped past the tight ring of muscle and the metal base settled against him.
Oliver gently jostled the base.
“Fuck!” Vincent shouted, as he fought back the climax suddenly gripping his ballocks.
“Feel good?”
He struggled to catch his breath. “You needn’t sound so smug.”
His lover let out a little chuckle and pressed on his knee. “You can lower your legs but keep them spread.” He shifted off the bed.
“What are you going to get now?”
“Nothing.” He pulled his shirt from his waistband, and then whisked the garment over his head, revealing the sleek lines of his flawless chest and the flush warming his golden skin. Vincent didn’t miss the way Oliver’s hands shook the barest amount as he tugged on the placket. The man pushed down his trousers and drawers in one hasty shove, freeing his beautiful prick. The tip was damp with moisture, the length so rigid it jutted from his body.
As he got back onto the bed, he grabbed the bottle of oil once again and poured a generous amount into his palm.
Unable to stay still, Vincent shifted. “What are you going to do?”
Oliver’s hand closed around Vincent’s cock, quickly slicking the length. Then he straddled Vincent’s hips and leaned forward, bracing a hand beside one of Vincent’s raised arms. With his other hand, he reached behind to grab Vincent’s prick, to hold it steady.
“…you will enjoy it. We both will.” Oliver’s earlier promise echoed in his head. Anticipation rushed through Vincent, stinging his nerves with the force of it.
“What am I going to do?” Oliver slanted his lips over Vincent’s in a quick, searing hot kiss. “This,” he whispered.

Oliver pressed down. He fought back the grunt and instead carefully sank lower onto Vincent’s cock. His lashes fluttered as he savored that initial thrust. The heavy thread of pain riding behind the pleasure, nearly overpowering it but not quite. The wonderful, allencompassing feeling of being filled. Playing with Vincent had been divine, but this? Nothing could surpass this.

And knowing the plug was lodged firmly in Vincent’s arse? A groan slipped passed Oliver’s lips.
When his arse met Vincent’s thighs, when he had taken every inch of his lover, he paused. Planting his hands on Vincent’s broad chest, he hung his head, let the sensations completely overwhelm him. Having Vincent restrained somehow lessened the urgency, the desperate need for more he felt every other time he’d been with Vincent. When Vincent was in control, Oliver never knew how long the man would gift him with pleasure. A few precious minutes or hours of intense sensation. Each thrust could be the last of the night. The unknown a heady pleasure all its own. Yet with Vincent his to do with as he pleased…
He slowly lifted his hips and picked up a rhythm of leisurely thrusts. Pulling up until the flared head teased his rim then sinking back down. Lingering over each stroke. He adored Vincent’s rough fucks. The absolute power and command behind every slam of his lover’s hips. Yet this…this was more than nice as well.
Leaning back, he braced his hands on Vincent’s thighs and tilted his hips, searching for…
There, there! An added jolt of pleasure coursed through his veins. A moan tumbled past his lips.
A low growl rumbled around him. “Fuck me harder, Oliver.”
He shook his head.
“Do it.”
For the first time…ever, he ignored a direct order from Vincent in bed. “Not yet,” he gasped, as he continued to ride his lover’s cock. Up and down. Long, slow, perfect thrusts that had the head of the man’s prick pegging his gland with each downstroke.
Stronger and stronger, the pleasure built. He couldn’t stop himself from slamming down harder, his prick slapping against Vincent’s abdomen. Seeking more. Needing more. Yet, yet…
His breaths hitched in his chest. “Vincent.” The name was a plea, soaked in desperation.
Another growl, this one sharper, harsher. The muscles in the strong body beneath him bunched and flexed. Opening his eyes, Oliver lifted his head.
Pure lust blazed in the brilliant blue depths of Vincent’s eyes as the man sat up. The length of the cravat dangled from one cuff as he wrapped his arms around Oliver’s waist. In one fluid motion, he effortlessly flipped Oliver beneath him, the contact of the bodies unbroken. Oliver pulled his knees fully up to his chest, opening for Vincent as much as he could.
“Is this what you want?” Vincent demanded, as he slammed into him.
“Yes, yes. Please.” The words tumbled in a desperate rush from his mouth.
Hard and relentless and so wonderfully deep, Vincent pounded into him. Unable to do anything but serve as a willing vessel for Vincent’s lust, Oliver clung to his shoulders. His gasping grunts blended with Vincent’s. The bed creaked under the onslaught. Every muscle in his body drew unbearably tight, then pleasure exploded across his senses. He climaxed, spilling onto his stomach. With an all-mighty howl, Vincent rammed hilt deep and came, filling Oliver with hot seed. Then he collapsed half on top of Oliver, his broad, sweat-slicked chest heaving under the force of his heavy breaths.
Oliver slung his arm over Vincent’s back and let his eyes drift closed. A smile curved his lips. Good thing they weren’t at his bachelor’s apartment. That howl would have woken the entire building.
It was many moments later when Vincent lifted his head. “Next time you need to travel on business, I’m going with you.”
Oliver forced his sated brain to process his lover’s words. He chuckled. “If you insist.”
His lover shifted onto his elbows, then he let out a grunt. Oliver was about to ask if he had pulled something – the evening’s activities had definitely approached strenuous – when the source of that grunt occurred to him. He did his best to keep the lascivious smile off his lips. “Do you want me to help you with that?”
The question earned him a scowl. Vincent pushed up onto his knees and reached behind him. “I can manage it on my own.” He took a deep breath. A harsh wince pulled his brows, compressing his lips into a straight line. “I’m going to feel that for a week,” he muttered, dropping the plug onto the floor.
Oliver couldn’t stop the possessive growl from rumbling his throat. “Love you.”
“I love you, too. Now up with you.” He swatted at Oliver’s hip. “Unless you plan to sleep with your head at the foot of the bed.”
It took some effort to coordinate his muscles and limbs enough to turn around, crawl to the pillows, and tug back the coverlet. He should play Vincent’s role, remove the cuffs from his wrists and ankles and offer him a wet towel to clean up, but, well…Vincent seemed content to handle that part on his own. So he merely laid there and waited for his lover to douse the candles and return to bed.
The mattress shook, jostling him back from the edge of sleep. Strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him close to a wonderfully warm body.
He rubbed his cheek against Vincent’s chest. “You should know that wasn’t how I had intended the evening to end.”
“You didn’t plan to splatter us both in seed?”
“Well, yes, but I wanted to make you come first. You never do when you’re buggering me. And I wanted to toy with the plug a bit more. To give you the best of both sides, at the same time.”
The beginnings of a chuckle shook Vincent’s chest. “You are welcome to try again. But not now and not too soon. Those cuffs won’t be available for a few weeks…as they’ll be on you.”
A fission of anticipation skipped through him. He never would have guessed he’d enjoy dominating Vincent so much. Definitely an enjoyable experience. But being cuffed and bound for Vincent’s pleasure? His lashes fluttered. “Promise?”
“Most assuredly.”

* * * * *

About the Author

Ava March is an author of smoking hot M/M historical erotic romance. She loves writing in the Regency time period, where proper decorum is of the utmost importance, but where anything can happen behind closed doors.

Ava loves to hear from readers. See what she’s been up to by visiting her on the Web at http://www.AvaMarch.com
or at her blog at http://www.avamarch.blogspot.com