The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [45]
But … he looked at Stephan, the kindness and the sadness in his broad face, and knew he couldn’t.
“I must go,” he said abruptly, and stood up, brushing crumbs from his shirt ruffle. “It’s very late.”
“Must you go?” Stephan sounded surprised, but rose, too.
“I—yes. Stephan—I’m so glad we met this evening,” he said on impulse, and held out a hand.
Stephan took it, but rather than shake it, drew him close, and the taste of oranges was suddenly in his mouth.
“WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?” he asked at last, not sure whether he wanted to hear the answer but needing to hear Stephan speak.
To his relief, Stephan smiled, his eyes still closed, and drew his large, warm fingers gently down the slope of Grey’s shoulder and over the curve of his forearm, where they curled round his wrist.
“I am wondering what is the risk that I will die before St. Catherine’s Day.”
“What? Why? And when is St. Catherine’s Day?”
“In three weeks. That is when Father Gehring returns from Salzburg.”
“Oh, yes?”
Stephan let go of his wrist and opened his eyes.
“If I go back to Hanover and confess this to Father Fenstermacher, I will probably have to hear Mass every day for a year or undertake a pilgrimage to Trier. Father Gehring is somewhat … less exacting.”
“I see. And if you die before making your confession—”
“I will go to hell, of course,” Stephan said matter-of-factly. “But I think it is worth the risk. It’s a long walk to Trier.” He coughed and cleared his throat.
“That—what you did. To me.” He wouldn’t meet Grey’s eye, and a deep color rose across his broad cheekbones.
“I did a lot of things to you, Stephan.” Grey struggled to keep the laughter out of his voice, but without much success. “Which one? This one?” He leaned forward on his elbow and kissed von Namtzen’s mouth, enjoying the little start von Namtzen gave at the touch of his lips.
Stephan kissed men frequently, in that exuberant German way of his. But he didn’t kiss them this way.
To feel the strength of those broad shoulders rise under his palm, then feel them give way, the powerful flesh melting slowly as Stephan’s mouth softened, yielding to him …
“Better than your hundred-year-old brandy,” Grey whispered.
Stephan sighed deeply. “I want to give you pleasure,” he said simply, meeting Grey’s eyes for the first time. “What would you like?”
Grey was speechless. Not so much at the declaration, moving as it was—but at the multitude of images that one sentence conjured. What would he like?
“Everything, Stephan,” he said, his voice husky. “Anything. It—I mean—to touch you—just to watch you gives me pleasure.”
Stephan’s mouth curled up at that.
“You can watch,” he assured Grey. “You will let me touch you, though?”
Grey nodded. “Oh, yes,” he said.
“Good. What I wish to know, though—how best?” He reached out and took hold of Grey’s half-hard prick, inspecting it critically.
“How?” Grey croaked. All the blood had left his head, very suddenly.
“Ja. Shall I put my mouth upon this? I am not sure what to do then, you see, how this is done correctly. I see there is some skill in this, which I do not have. And you are not quite ready yet, I think?”
Grey opened his mouth to observe that this condition was rapidly adjusting itself, but Stephan went on, squeezing gently.
“It is more straightforward if I put my member into your bottom and use you in that fashion. I am ready, and I am confident I can do that; it is much like what I do with my—with women.”
“I—yes, I’m sure you can,” Grey said rather faintly.
“But I think if I do that, I might hurt you.” Stephan let go of Grey’s prick and took hold of his own, frowning at the comparison. “It hurt, at first, when you did this to me. Not later—I liked it very much,” he assured Grey hastily. “But at first. And I am … somewhat large.”
Grey’s mouth was so dry that it was an effort to speak. “Some … what,” he managed. He glanced at Stephan’s prick, freshly erect, then away. Then, slowly, back again, eyes drawn like iron to a magnet.
It would hurt. A lot. At least … at first …
He swallowed