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By the time Lord Martin Blackwood opened the trap door and reached a hand down to pull Jon out of the priest hole he’d had built under his bedroom, Jon felt half dead. His food and water had run out yesterday and he’d barely slept, kept awake partially by the footsteps and shouts of the priest hunters and partially, mostly, by the overwhelming terror that at any moment he could be yanked out of his hiding place, taken away somewhere terrible to be tortured for every ounce of knowledge he possessed until he was finally executed.
“Are you okay?” Lord Martin said, catching Jon as he stumbled on legs weakened and aching from days curled up in the tiny priest hole, fearing for his life.
“Yes,” Jon croaked. “Have they gone?”
“Yes. Yeah. For real, this time. Believe me, I checked. You’re safe.”
Jon, humiliatingly, burst into tears.
Lord Martin moved, but instead of recoiling from Jon’s completely inappropriate emotion, he scooped Jon easily up off his feet and carried him across the room to the enormous four-poster bed. He sat down and pulled Jon into his lap and held him there while Jon sobbed into his broad shoulder. Once Jon had finished crying, Lord Martin gave him water to drink and food to eat, and had the servants fill a bath for him.
“Let me help,” he said softly.
Jon was so tired and he ached and it was nice, if strange, to let Lord Martin pick up the soap and washcloth and start cleaning him gently, and if Lord Martin’s big, soft hands lingered appreciatively over the curves of Jon’s chest, paying them more attention than anything else, that was quite nice, too. Soft and tingly and sweet. Jon tilted his head to let it rest on Lord Martin’s plump shoulder, and watched idly as Lord Martin’s hands worked their way down his back and his belly.
“Um,” he said, his legs twitching closer together instinctively as fingertips brushed even lower. Lord Martin paused, though he didn’t take his hand away.
“I’m just washing you,” he said mildly, so Jon bit his lip and nodded, and let Lord Martin wash between his legs and then all the way down to his feet. “There we are. Now, let’s get you dry and warmed up, shall we?”
And really, it seemed simpler to let Lord Martin help him out of the shining copper bathtub and start rubbing him dry with the softest towel he’d ever felt than to protest that he was perfectly capable of doing it for himself. Lord Martin dried his arms and body, and then knelt to dry his legs and feet. When he’d finished, he dropped the towel on the floor and sat back on his heels, smiling up at Jon.
“Hi there,” he said, and Jon’s heart thumped. Lord Martin was still fully clothed, and Jon was bare, now without even the cover of bath or towel, and Lord Martin’s hands, which were very big and very soft, were closing around his thighs, drifting upwards to cup his bottom, and Lord Martin was leaning forward, lips parted, and he was about to put his mouth on Jon’s –
Jon stepped backwards quickly.
Lord Martin looked up at him again, his eyebrows coming together. Then his face cleared and he got to his feet.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re tired and cold, I shouldn’t keep you standing there. Let’s take this to the bed, shall we?”
He reached out and took Jon’s hand and drew him towards the huge four-poster bed, and Jon might be a priest, but he wasn’t a complete innocent. He knew about sex, in theory, at least. He’d never actually done it. The whole thing seemed rather alarming and complicated and not at all worth the effort of working out how to go about it.
“I – ” he said, haltingly. “I don’t – ”
Lord Martin’s face fell slightly. “Don’t you want to? I thought – well, it’s been a rough few days for us both, hasn’t it? I thought it might be nice to let off some steam.”
Oh, Jon thought. Yes, he supposed it must have been quite a bad few days for Lord Martin as well as himself. If nothing else, out of sheer gratitude, he ought to let Lord Martin have this. And – well, he couldn’t deny that now he had the opportunity, it might be interesting to know what all the fuss was about.
Lord Martin led him to the bed and sat him down on it. His hands stroked down Jon’s arms, quite chastely really, but naked as Jon was, it didn’t feel chaste at all.
“It’ll feel good, I promise,” he said. “I’ll make it good for you.”
Jon had always thought Lord Martin Blackwood, youngest brother of the Duke of Stoke, was quite the loveliest man he’d ever seen. Equally, he’d never thought himself, scrawny bookworm priest as he was, much to look at at all, but Lord Martin didn’t seem to agree. His blue eyes were moving hungrily over Jon’s body and although his hands still hovered at Jon’s elbows, he seemed only to be waiting for permission to take more, far more.
Jon swallowed.
Jon nodded.
“Yeah?” Lord Martin said breathlessly.
“Yes,” Jon said. “Yes, but I – Lord Martin – ”
“Please, just call me Martin. Titles aren’t for the bedroom.”
Jon felt himself flush. Despite the position he was currently in, it was an unexpected, thrilling intimacy.
“Martin,” he said in a low voice, and Lord – and Martin smiled. “I only – could – could we go slowly, please? It’s just that I’ve never – ”
“Of course,” Martin said, soft and reassuring. He brushed Jon’s cheek with his fingers. “Of course. We’ll go as slowly as you need.”
They did. Martin kissed him first, kissed him slowly and thoroughly, until Jon felt light and dizzy with it. His hands roved over Jon’s body, gently caressing, lingering when Jon arched into his touch, moving on when Jon tensed. At last he undressed himself, a sight Jon couldn’t tear his eyes away from as expanses of pale, freckled, furred skin appeared. He laid Jon down on the bed on his side and curled in behind him, so much bigger than Jon that it felt like Martin was surrounding him. One hand kept touching and caressing, while the other found its way between his legs, to some bewilderingly sensitive point there that set Jon to gasping and trembling and pleading as Martin stroked it firmly with his fingers.
Finally, Martin adjusted them both a little and pushed carefully inside Jon, filling him up in a way that Jon never could have imagined before it happened. He waited a moment, letting Jon get used to the sensation, then started thrusting into him, slowly at first and then speeding up, until Jon’s whole body was jolted with every thrust. Martin’s thick, strong arm was wrapped around him, keeping Jon pressed close against him, and Jon couldn’t quite seem to make his brain work. All he could do was to lie there and gasp out a tiny cry with every thrust, helpless and pinioned. It stoked something feverishly hot in his core, where Martin was inside him, where he’d been stroking him before, something that built and built and built as Martin fucked him.
And then, in a moment, Martin went still. He gave a long, loud groan in Jon’s ear, crushing Jon even more closely against his broad, furry chest, and then he relaxed.
“Oh, fuck, I needed that,” he said. He pulled out of Jon, who found himself oddly disappointed. But then Martin said, “Here, let me – ” and his hand went down between Jon’s legs again, unerringly finding that incomprehensibly sweet place and rubbing it, hard and fast, with his fingers.
This time it took only moments before Jon was once again gasping and whimpering in Martin’s arms. He couldn’t seem to keep still, his body unsure whether it wanted to push into or squirm away from the desperate, hot pleasure that was crescendoing inside him.
“Martin,” he said, not knowing what he was pleading for. “Martin – Martin – ”
Martin’s fingers began to move even faster. “That’s right,” he said. He sounded breathless. “That’s right, beautiful, just let yourself go for me. Let yourself feel it.”
All at once, the crescendo reached a peak Jon hadn’t even known was coming. He cried out, clutching blindly at Martin’s arm, and for a few seconds his vision seemed to go entirely white, his whole body an ocean wave of irresistible, indescribable pleasure.
Then it was fading and Jon was back in Martin’s ridiculously massive four-poster bed, panting and covered in sweat and feeling a strange, bubbling euphoria. Martin was laughing softly, still holding Jon as close against him as he possibly could, and as Jon came back to himself he bent his head and kissed Jon’s bare shoulder.
“There,” he said. “I told you it’d feel good, didn’t I?”
Jon found himself laughing, too. Astonishing that a purely physical sensation could make him feel so – so – so happy. He rolled over and smiled up at Martin, and the moment he met his eyes he knew that it wasn’t, in fact, the purely physical at all. It was Martin. It always had been.
“Yes,” he said, and pushed himself up on one elbow to shyly kiss Martin. “Yes, you did, and you were quite right.”