A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (33 page)

“Martin, stop. Please stop.”

Martin looked at him with a haughty, imperious expression
that made Henry feel deeply ashamed.

“Please, Martin. Sit.” Henry patted the bed at his hip.

Martin put a stack of folded shirts back in the case and
sat, disapproval written clear on his face.

“It’s obvious you’re unhappy with me.” Henry put his hand on
Martin’s arm, half-expecting Martin to fling it off, but Martin allowed the
contact.

“I don't like this place, Sir,” Martin admitted. “I don't
like that you brought me here.”

“Tomorrow we'll find a better place if you want. Someplace
nicer. You can pick.”

“You should have told me what you were planning, Sir. You
should have warned me.” Martin looked hurt now, a sense of betrayal on top of
his anger.

“I was afraid that if I told you what I wanted to do, you'd
try to talk me out of it.”

“Well, of course I would have tried! I
did
try!” He
sighed and met Henry’s eyes. “But you
are
my master, Sir, and I’ll do
what you say.”

“I’m more than that, aren’t I?” Henry lifted his hand to
touch Martin’s cheek and Martin let him do it, though he did not seem
enthusiastic. “I’m your lover, too, Martin, and you’re mine.”

“Well, of course, Sir,” Martin said, seeming annoyed. He got
to his feet and began unpacking again, his movements listless.

Henry sighed. Obviously, Martin did not share Henry’s sense
of urgency, and why should he? He hadn’t heard Philip’s nasty laugh. He hadn’t
heard Louis’ threats.

“Look, Martin, I’m sorry about all of this, I really am, but
we had to leave
today
.”

“Why is that, Sir?” Martin asked, sounding as if he very
much doubted Henry was right.

“Louis threatened to tell, and then I saw him whispering
with Philip, and then Philip gave me this rotten look and laughed, and I think
it’s just a matter of hours—days at most—before everyone knows about us.”

Martin wrinkled up his nose, dubious. “But why would Mr.
Briggs tell Mr. van Houten anything, Sir? Mr. Briggs is no more fond of Mr. van
Houten than you are.”

Henry didn’t know, and it didn’t matter anyway. “Martin, the
only thing I care about is keeping you safe. You know if word got back to my
father, he’d take you away from me, and you’d be sent back to Ganymede, or
punished, or both.”

Martin frowned, considering this as he absently stroked the
front of a folded shirt. Slowly, he said, “I just don’t agree with you, Sir.
Your father is good to slaves, and he’s always been kind to you. I’d be willing
to take our chances with your father.”

Henry shook his head. “I wouldn’t. You remember what he
said, Martin. He said you were a privilege he could revoke. He said he’d do it
if I made another mistake. Don’t you think this counts as a mistake?”

“But you don’t actually know what Mr. Briggs and Mr. van
Houten were talking about, Sir,” Martin pointed out. “They might have been
talking about anyone or anything, really.” With some measure of vitriol, he
added, “We might have set out on this
adventure
for no reason at all,
Sir.”

Annoyed, Henry said, “It doesn’t matter. We were going to
have to leave sometime anyway.”

“Why would you say that, Sir?”

Henry frowned. He didn’t think he should have to explain. “I
want a life with
you
,” he said. “We can’t have that in my father’s
house.”

Martin obviously disagreed, vehemently shaking his head.
“Just what do you think we were doing then, Sir? We had a
lovely
life.
The master-slave relationship provides the perfect concealment for an affair
like ours.”

“I don’t want to conceal it,” Henry insisted stubbornly,
knowing even as he said it that Martin would object to the whole idea.
Carefully, wanting to be understood, he said, “I want to find a place where I
can treat you as a lover and no one will think anything except how lucky we are
to have found each other.”

Martin gave Henry a dubious look, lips pressed together.
“Really, Sir, there is no such place. You
know
this.”

“This neighborhood might be a place like that,” Henry
countered. “It really might be, Martin. Didn’t you see? All those men on the
street were like us!”

Martin shrugged, not willing to concede this, and busied
himself with the contents of Henry’s case so he would not have to look at
Henry.

Henry watched as Martin handled the clothes with exaggerated
care. Henry sighed, and Martin ignored him, giving all his attention to
organizing the jumble of neckties Henry had thrown into his case.

Maybe it would be best to let Martin sort through his
feelings on his own for a bit.

“Martin? Are you hungry? I'm awfully hungry.”

Martin shrugged, not meeting Henry's eyes.

“I'm going to go downstairs and order us some food, all
right?”

“Whatever you’d like, Sir.”

Martin was so unhappy that it was difficult for Henry to
look at him. He was angry and miserable, and it was entirely Henry’s doing.
Henry had to escape the room; he bolted for the door and shut himself back up
in the tiny elevator.

Nothing was going as he’d hoped. He had explained himself,
and in doing so had expected Martin would understand the need for their abrupt
exodus, but Martin did not understand, or at least he didn’t agree with Henry’s
methods. Martin definitely did not share Henry’s sense of urgency about his
safety, refusing to believe Father would return him to Ganymede, and it was
annoying that Martin felt he knew Father so much better than Henry did. Henry
was not prepared to trust in his intimidating father’s kindness. He was not
prepared to risk Martin going up for sale to some horrid boy who wouldn’t
treasure him as Henry did.

It was bewildering to have such strife between them, and
Henry felt quite unprepared to cope with such unprecedented rancor from the
person he loved best. Henry was used to Martin going along with whatever he
wanted; perhaps this was the first time he had wanted something that Martin
didn’t want, too. Henry didn’t like feeling that they were at odds. He wanted
to find something he could do to make things better between them that wasn’t
just turning around and heading back home.

Down in the lobby, the desk clerk wore his same amused
smirk. “Good evening, sir. May I help you?”

“Good evening. Do you have a menu for the restaurant? My
friend and I wish to order dinner.”

“Of course, sir.” The clerk produced a worn menu, foxed and
fingerprinted, which Henry perused at the counter. The clerk took down Henry's
order on a receipt pad: steaks and potatoes, bread and cheese, chocolate mousse
for dessert. “Would you like wine with that, sir?” The clerk cocked his head,
questioning, smiling.

“Yes,” Henry said firmly. “We would definitely like wine.”

“What sort of wine, sir?”

Henry opened his mouth and shut it again. “Uh…red?”

The clerk seemed to be trying not to laugh. “Perhaps the
house red, sir?”

“That would be fine.”

“We'll start you a tab with the restaurant, then. I'll just
take this back to the kitchen, and a waiter will bring up your food when it's
ready.”

“Thank you again…what was your name?”

“Tobias Smith, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith.”

“
You
,” the clerk said, “may call me Toby.” He winked
at Henry and smiled. Henry blushed and dashed for the elevator.

Up in the room, Martin had finished hanging Henry's suits
and had put their few garments in the wardrobe's drawers. He sat on the desk
chair in his shirtsleeves, elbows on knees, his long, graceful hands hanging
limp between his thighs.

“I ordered us food,” Henry offered hopefully.

“Thank you, Sir,” Martin said in a monotone. “Oh, sorry.
Henry
.”

“I also ordered wine.” He'd hoped this would get a positive
response, but Martin did not seem to have even heard him. Sighing, Henry
shrugged off his jacket and flopped down on the bed.

“Your boots, Sir,” Martin admonished. He got up from his
chair and went to untie Henry's boots.

Henry thought to remind Martin about the sirs, but bit his
tongue. Perhaps it would be better to let Martin adjust to their new
circumstances in his own way, in his own time, and if it made him feel better
to call Henry sir, Henry would try to tolerate it for now.

Martin picked at the knots.

“You don't need to do that anymore,” Henry said, though he
didn't actually try to stop him. “I can take off my own boots.”

“But you
won't
, Sir.” Martin yanked at the laces and
roughly pulled the boot from Henry's foot. “You get the coverlet dirty and it
creates extra work for people, and even if they're only slaves, they still get
tired.”

Martin had never come out and been quite so openly critical
before, and Henry was rather taken aback. But he was going to have to get used
to it, wasn't he? If he meant for Martin to act as a free man, then he’d have
to really treat him as an equal, and that meant listening to criticisms, as
uncomfortable as that might be.

“I'm sorry, Martin. I just don't think sometimes. I don't
mean to be careless. I'll try to do better, all right?”

“Do your best, Sir.” Martin gave him a wan smile and
squeezed his stocking foot.

Suddenly insecure, Henry begged, “Do you still love me,
Martin?”

“You know I do, Sir.” Martin sounded so tired, but he did
bend and kiss him.

Henry put his hand to Martin's throat, touched the collar
and necktie as his lips opened for Martin's tongue. He automatically reached to
run his fingers through Martin's hair, but of course it was gone, so instead he
ruffled the short hair at Martin's nape with the side of his thumb.

“Do you really think it looks all right, Sir?” Martin
murmured. “It's so short.”

“You look like a prince.”

They rolled into the trough of the sagging bed and kissed
and kissed. Martin seemed angry still, grabbing roughly at Henry's ass, leaning
on him, pinning him down. When the knock came at the door, Martin rolled off of
him and said, “I can't go, Henry; they'll need you to sign.”

Henry got up from the bed, pulled his braces back up onto
his shoulders, and went to the door, hunching a little in a poor attempt to
hide his erection. There was a waiter in the hallway with a rolling cart, food
under domes. The waiter wheeled the cart into the room, pointedly not looking
at Martin sprawled on the bed, and set the dishes on the desk. While he laid
out the food, Henry signed the receipt, wishing again he'd thought to choose a
pseudonym.

The waiter showed the wine bottle to Henry with a flourish.
“Is this acceptable, sir?” When Henry nodded that it was, he took a corkscrew
out of his apron pocket and pulled the cork from the neck. “Will that be all,
sir?”

“Yes, thank you.” Henry gave him a quarter for his trouble.

The waiter smiled. “You can put your dishes outside the door
when you're done, sir. Enjoy your meal.”

Henry sat on the desk chair. Martin perched on the footboard
of the bed, though he had to stand and set his plate down on the desk to cut
his meat. The food was better than either had expected, which put both of them
in more sanguine moods. The wine was not as good as what Henry had had occasion
to taste at the Blackwell table, of course, but it wasn't so terrible that he
couldn't get used to it. All in all, it seemed to Henry that the meal was a
success.

While they ate, Henry watched Martin, watched his throat
move as he swallowed, watched how the collar moved with his neck. With the
collar and tie, he was indistinguishable from a free man, and so much better
looking than any of them. Henry was confident that the desk clerk and the
waiter believed Henry and Martin were both free, and believed they'd chosen to
be together. It was important to Henry that it be understood he belonged to
Martin just as much as Martin belonged to him.

After dinner, Martin put the dishes out in the hallway. When
he came back inside, Henry beckoned him to the bed and kissed him, searching
his face for evidence of his mood. Martin tasted of chocolate mousse and wine.
He seemed less angry than earlier, but still prickly. He knelt over Henry,
straddling his hips, and stripped off his own clothes to the waist. Henry had
wanted him to keep the shirt and tie on but had been afraid to ask, and now it
was too late.

Martin took Henry's hand and pressed it against the fly of
his trousers and he was hard beneath. “It doesn’t even matter,” he said,
sounding faintly disgusted with himself. “Even when I'm unhappy with you, I
still want you.”

“I don’t want you to be unhappy with me,” Henry told him. He
unbuttoned Martin's trousers and drawers and slipped his fingers inside. “I
want you to be glad you’re with me, Martin.” He was about to say he’d do
whatever it took to make Martin happy, but bit his lip: it wasn’t true. He
wasn’t going to go home again, and he suspected that was all Martin wanted
right now.

Martin didn’t say anything in response, but he put his hand
on Henry’s wrist and tilted his hips against Henry’s touch with a sharp intake
of breath.

“I just want to keep you safe,” Henry explained. “I don’t
ever want to be separated from you.” He wanted Martin to be like George,
grateful for Theo’s protection, but Martin obviously wasn’t seeing him as a
hero, and Henry didn’t dare offer the comparison.

If it was possible to have unfriendly sex, that was what
they were doing. The physical sensations were wonderful, as always, but Henry
felt guilty and slightly ashamed, and Martin seemed disdainful of Henry even as
he kissed him, rubbing his ass against Henry’s prick with sinuous movements of
his hips.

Martin abruptly broke off kissing and stripped Henry of his
clothes. He took off his own trousers and resumed his position astride Henry’s
hips. He leaned forward, braced on his hand, and dug in the drawer of the
nightstand. He came back with the familiar oil bottle. “I found it when I
unpacked your case. I commend your foresight, Henry.”