Free An Improper Holiday by K.A. Mitchell Page B

Only you could make use of a word like applicable with a mouth on your cock and a finger up your arse.”
    Ian thought of pointing out that there was no longer a mouth on his cock, but that would not answer
    the more…penetrative question. “What do you plan to do?”
    Nicky looked up, his fixed gaze unnerving as his finger glided in and out as easily as if oiled. Each
    time he thrust it in, a sweet jolt raced along Ian’s prick.
    “I plan to frig your arse with my fingers while you use my mouth with your cock.”
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    An Improper Holiday
    Almost against his will, Ian’s hips moved to widen his legs. He should stop this, but he couldn’t.
    Because there was something bewildering about the sensations coursing through him and he might be
    damned forever, but the trip to hell was astonishingly sweet.
    As if Nicky sensed capitulation, he wedged Ian’s legs farther apart with the brace of broad shoulders
    before returning to plunge that heavenly mouth up and down Ian’s prick. Nicky’s finger tapped against
    something inside that seemed to be the very root of Ian’s cock, and he clutched at the sheets, at Nicky’s hair, anything that could ground him against the pleasure spiraling outward. A flush of scalding fluid gathered in Ian’s balls.
    “I will—must—Sweet Jesus—”
    The flood took him and his hips snapped, prick ravaging Nicky’s mouth and throat. Ian knew he
    would need to beg for forgiveness for the way his hand held Nicky fast, permitting no quarter until Ian had spent himself between Nicky’s lips.
    As his heart and lungs calmed, Ian composed the apology to be uttered as soon as he freed his bottom
    lip from the grip of his teeth, but he was distracted by the strangest scent. Engaged in a struggle against the lethargy that sought to pin him back beneath sleep’s hold, he could only manage one question. “Why do I smell lavender?”

    ~ * ~

    Ian awoke that morning to the sounds of Simmons stirring the fire, panic accelerating Ian’s heart rate so suddenly he thought he might cast up the contents of his stomach. Had Nicky forgotten to return to his own bed? Every other morning Ian had awoken when Nicky did. He glanced around the room, but there
    was only Simmons, busy with a tea cup and toast rack on a tray.
    “As you’ve missed breakfast, sir, I brought you something. His lordship suggested you might wish to
    sleep undisturbed.”
    Oh, did he? Ian shifted his body on the mattress. There were no lasting effects from their wildness last night, other than a pleasant lassitude preying on his limbs, and the strange scent of lavender lingered which had the unsettling result of making Ian’s prick twitch. He prayed the odd association would not continue or he might have trouble in feminine company.
    He intended to seek out Nicky and make clear the necessary boundaries to continuing their dalliance.
    Dalliance. That was not a word Ian had ever thought to apply to himself. He had always been so certain of the correct course, but Nicky had ever been able to lead him astray. First when they were boys, and even now with all that Ian knew of the world.
    Despite what resuming physical relations cost Ian’s sense of propriety, it grew harder to imagine their coming separation. To lose Nicky after having him again—it would be easier to part with another limb. The phantom pain of absence would be greater than it had with a physical amputation.

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    K.A. Mitchell
    The dance on New Year’s Eve was the high point of the Carleigh house party, so it made sense that
    Nicky would be so busy with preparations he could not be located, no matter how many of the bustling
    servants insisted they had “just this minute seen him, sir.” Despite those assurances, Ian began to wonder if Nicky was avoiding a meeting because he knew last night had been beyond what Ian could in conscience
    offer.
    That evening, Simmons’ attentions had Ian looking fairly well-turned