A Collar and Tie (Ganymede Quartet Book 4) (43 page)

Henry reached for a second pillow. “Lift your hips up.”
Martin complied, and Henry placed the pillow. With Martin’s ass lifted up off
the bed, he’d be able to get the angle just right. He pushed his cock in
again—he sighed, Martin cried out—and began to move. In and out, fevered
squeeze and lush drag, Martin tugging his own cock with a shaking hand. Henry
put a little more force behind it, his buttocks clenching as he thrust forward,
and Martin responded to the extra effort, hitching his knees higher and
murmuring,

“Like that, Henry. Oh, that’s so good. Make me come,
please
make me come for you.”

His begging worked like a tonic on Henry. He pounded into
Martin’s body, Martin meeting each thrust with a hoarse, triumphant cry.
Martin’s hand moved erratically over his cock, bringing himself to the edge but
not over.

“Come on,” Henry urged. “I want to see it.” His hips slammed
against Martin’s ass again and again.

“Oh!
Henry
! Oh god, Henry! Please,
harder
!
Harder!” Martin writhed beneath him, his handsome face twisted in a grimace.
His hand moved with purpose and he cried out, a wavering shout, and splattered
his own chest with semen. Immediately he said, “Don’t stop! Come in me.”

Henry did as Martin asked. Hips pumping, tension winding
tighter and tighter, the friction against his prick so very sweet. He bent to
kiss Martin and Martin pushed himself halfway to sitting to meet him, slinging
an arm around Henry’s neck and making insistent little grunts against his lips,
urging him on. Henry came with a short, hard series of thrusts, moaning into
Martin’s mouth. White lights flashed in the dark behind his closed eyelids. He
opened them to look into Martin’s face and saw tears welling in his eyes.

“Are you sure you’re just drunk?” This seemed like something
more to Henry, but Martin denied anything else could be the matter, shaking his
head.

“I just love you so much, Henry.” Martin’s voice cracked and
he sobbed a little.

Henry was befuddled. He wanted to do the right thing for
Martin. “I love you, too, Martin.” He got off of him and lay by his side. “Come
here.” He gathered Martin close and kissed the side of his head while Martin
clung to him.

“I’m sorry I’m acting so crazy.” Martin sniffed and snuggled
closer. “Oh! I need to clean us up. I got spunk all over you.” He tried to sit
up but Henry held him tight.

“It’s not going to hurt me any. Just stay with me a minute,
please.” He petted Martin’s short hair and wondered if he’d ever get used to
it, ever stop missing the long locks. He’d have plenty of time to adjust,
though, whether it was in New Orleans or San Francisco or even Italy. He’d have
to adjust to a lot of things.

Martin was fidgety and Henry figured he’d better let him up
to get a washcloth. “Go on, then. Do your job.” He spanked him lightly on the
ass and watched him walk into the bathroom. Martin ran the water for a little
while and came back with a warm, wet cloth. He washed Henry’s prick and wiped
his semen off of Henry’s chest and arm.

“I feel better now.” He nestled into Henry’s embrace. “I’m sorry
I cried. I’m drunk and tired.”

“Don’t apologize.” He kissed Martin’s temple, rubbed his
cheek on his hair. “It’s okay.” He thought back over their day; so much had
happened. “Say, how many times did you come today?”

Martin thought a moment. “Let me think…five. And you
did…four?”

“I guess so. It starts to hurt a little after three or so,
don’t you think?”

“What’s our record again? Nine?”

“Yes, nine apiece, back in December.”

“Oh, that was an amazing day!” He rolled in Henry’s arms,
laughing against his chest. “You know what I remember? How much it stung
afterward when I peed!”

It seemed significant to Henry how many good, special
memories he had with Martin, after a lifetime distinctly lacking in same. It
was hard to remember sometimes that he’d only known this person for a little
over seven months, and had been his lover even less than that. If the rest of
his life was only half as wonderful as these last few months, he’d still have a
hell of a time.

Tomorrow he’d try to pin Martin down on a destination. New
Orleans sounded better and better the more he thought about it; that’s where
they’d go, then, unless Martin could come up with a real reason not to—which he
could
not
, Henry could almost guarantee it. They could be on a train
tomorrow, just days away from a new existence. There. It was decided. Now he
just needed to pick a new name for himself…

He was almost asleep when Martin slipped from his embrace.
“Where are you going?” he asked sleepily.

“I just need some water.” Martin made his way to the bathroom
in the dark and worked the tap.

When he got back onto the bed, he drew Henry close. “Come
here, Henry. I want to hold you.”

Henry curled up at Martin’s side and put his ear against his
ribs. He fell asleep, as he had so many times before, to the slow, reassuring
rhythm of Martin’s heart.

Henry woke to loud knocking on the room’s door. His head
felt like it would crack open and his mouth was dry. Martin was awake, looking
a little worse for wear, and hurrying into his clothes.

“It’s just the maid,” Henry told him. “Tell her to go away.”

“It’s not the maid, Sir.” Martin had grabbed the wrong
garments; he was dressed in Henry’s creased dress shirt and trousers. He looked
so sorrowful that Henry took note.

And he had called Henry sir.

“What’s going on, Martin?” He sat up, clutching the sheets
to his chest.

“Let me get the door, Sir.”

Martin opened the door a few inches and had a short
discussion with whoever was on the other side.

“Is it the maid?” Henry asked, though he no longer believed
it would be the maid. “Who is it, Martin?” He had a terrible feeling about
this, dread in the pit of his stomach. He saw dark shapes moving behind the gap
in the door, looming and bulky.

“You should put some clothes on, Sir, please.”

Henry tilted sideways off the bed, reached for and snagged
Martin’s dress shirt, and shoved his arms into the sleeves. “What’s going on,
Martin?”

“Enough of this,” said a familiar gruff voice, and Father
pushed into the room, past Martin, who looked stricken and guilty. Timothy
followed in Father’s wake, managing to seem both sympathetic and disapproving.

“Henry.” Father shook his head. “Son, what in the hell do
you think you’re doing?”

Henry did not have a ready answer and sat half-dressed and
rumpled with his mouth opening and closing like a stupid fish.

“You’ve worried your mother half to death, boy.” Father
pulled a cigar out of his breast pocket and Timothy came to him with a lit
match. “If she falls back into her old habits, you’ll have to think long and
hard about your part in it.”

Uncomprehending and horrified, Henry tried to speak and
nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. “How…how are you here?
How did you find me?”

Father inclined his head toward Martin. “Your Martin left a
note, then sent word yesterday. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, and he
clearly cares what happens to you.”

Henry felt like he’d been punched in the chest, no air in
his lungs. Martin was looking at him with pleading eyes, regretful and sad. For
the first time ever, Henry wanted to hurt him.

“Did you do this?” he demanded. “Did you really do this?”

“Sir…” Martin said beseechingly. “Please, Sir, I couldn’t
let you—”

Henry held up his hand as if he could block Martin’s words.
“Just shut up. Don’t talk to me.” Martin looked as hurt as if Henry had hit
him. Henry would have liked to hit him. He was gutted. He had never felt
anything like the hollowing pain of this betrayal. He felt tears welling in his
eyes and clenched his fists furiously. He didn’t want to cry in front of
Father.

“Considering how much money you took,” Father said, “you
ought to have washed up in a nicer place.” He prodded a heap of dirty linen
with the toe of his boot. “Get up, Henry. You boys need to get cleaned up and
we’ll take you home. You have a lot of explaining to do.” He turned to Timothy
and said, “The stink of this place! Half gymnasium, half brothel!”

Everything Henry had wanted, everything he’d imagined for
Martin and himself, was gone, and it was apparently Martin’s doing, a
volitional act on Martin’s part. Henry couldn’t quite understand it, as if the
thoughts were the wrong size and shape for his feeble brain to comprehend. He’d
thought they loved each other, but if that was the case, then how could Martin
have done this?

“I-I don’t want to go home,” Henry asserted feebly. “Just
let me go! Keep Martin; I don’t want him anymore.” He didn’t know if that was
true, but he
wanted
it to be true. Stricken by Henry’s words, Martin
started crying silently, tears rolling down his cheeks and his shoulders moving
in little jerks, and Henry’s first impulse was to comfort him, which made him
even angrier.

Father laughed, a derisive bark. “Nonsense, son. You’re
coming home, the both of you.”

“Let’s get you up and dressed, Sir,” Timothy suggested. He
gestured to Martin to come help, and Martin obeyed, but Henry didn’t want him
near.

“Stay back!
Don’t
touch me!”

Martin stepped back gingerly, his hands raised, paler than
Henry had ever seen him before, his wet, red-rimmed eyes so very green. He
looked so hurt, like he was suffering. He
should
suffer for what he’d
done. Wounded, Henry turned his back on Martin and dressed with Timothy’s help,
putting on the blue suit he’d run away in.

Martin dressed himself in Henry’s black trousers and his own
slave shirt, black jacket and black waistcoat. He bundled up all of their dirty
linen and separated the new clothes from the old—they’d not be taking the new
away with them—with Timothy’s help while Henry and Father stood and watched.

“Where did you think you were going anyway, son?” Father asked,
ash falling from his cigar onto the gritty carpet. “I don’t imagine you were
planning to stay
here
.”

“New Orleans,” Henry mumbled, not looking at him. “But
Martin was stalling. I guess now I know why.”

“You can go to New Orleans when you’re grown,” Father said
dismissively. “It’s not a place for boys.” He watched with Henry as the slaves
packed the suitcases, and puffed on his cigar, which smelled terrible and was
giving Henry a headache. “I’m pleased you finally cut Martin’s hair,” Father
said, sounding faintly amused.

Henry whirled to look at his father, gaping with dismay. Was
Father joking with him? About
this
? He hunched around the pain, the loss
of Martin’s hair for nothing, the loss of Martin himself, and did not bother to
respond to Father’s words.

After some minutes had passed, Father said, “Henry, I know
you’re angry with Martin now, but he’s done you a favor. You owe the boy a
debt. He’s vouchsafed your reputation and your future.”

He’d also broken Henry’s heart, though Henry could not
imagine arguing that with his father.

“You’re not cut out for an independent life,” Father said
rather definitively. “Not even with Martin’s help. You’ve got no survival
skills to speak of, son. Really, you didn’t even think to use a false name! God
knows what it will cost me to make them forget you were ever here.” However,
Father, who enjoyed solving thorny problems, actually seemed cheered by this
aspect of the debacle.

The cases were packed. Timothy picked up Henry’s, and Martin
carried his own and his violin. They all crammed into the tiny elevator, fat
Father with his noxious cigar taking up most of the space for himself. Father
sent Henry and Martin out to the carriage with Timothy while he settled Henry’s
bill. The blond with the mustache was at the counter, and Henry thought that
this was the man’s lucky day; he felt that Father was prepared to spend a great
deal of money to erase Henry’s folly.

Timothy said, “You boys get in, Sir. It won’t do to have you
standing around on the street.”

Henry sat in the forward-facing seat. “You sit over there,”
he said to Martin. “You can sit with Timothy. I don’t want anything to do with
you. I don’t want to touch you. I don’t even want to look at you.” And to prove
it, he turned his head and stared out the window.

“I know you won’t believe me, Sir,” Martin said in a
quavering voice, “but I did it because I love you.”

“You’re right, I
don’t
believe you,” Henry said
curtly, biting back the pain that threatened to overflow and turn him into a
crybaby. “Now stop talking to me.”

Martin started to cry again. “Please, Sir, if you’ll just
let me explain—”

“I told you to shut up. If you don’t do as you’re told, I’ll
see to it you’re punished.” Henry crossed his arms over his chest and glared
out the window with resolute fury. It was an empty threat, probably, but a
hurtful one, and Martin crumpled in on himself, taking off his glasses and
crying into his handkerchief with quiet, wrenching sobs. Henry ached to comfort
him, a sort of helpless reflex that angered him. He didn’t want to love someone
who could betray him like this. He didn’t want to love anyone ever again.

The carriage door opened and Father climbed inside. Father
cocked an eyebrow at Henry. “You’re pouting, then? Well, shove over.” Father
sat down heavily beside him, taking up all the room. Timothy climbed in and sat
beside Martin and they were off.

Martin wiped his eyes and blew his nose and put his glasses
back on. His skin was blotchy from crying and his eyes were insanely beautiful,
the color like jewels. It was too recently that Henry had had the flavor of him
in his mouth, had touched his fine-grained skin and been inside him. Henry
couldn’t wait for time to pass, for his memories of Martin to be less visceral,
less painful. He
couldn’t
wait; it had to happen now.

“That was an expensive mistake, son.” Father puffed out a
cloud of blue smoke. “You were lucky,” he said grimly. “Things might have gone
very wrong for you. You should be grateful that you didn’t get into serious
trouble and you weren’t hurt.”

Henry inhaled sharply around the pain.

Father certainly had that wrong.

When they returned home from the Calamus, Father’s first
order of business was to see to it that Henry apologized to his mother for
making her worry. He was sent up to her room while Martin was ushered into
Father’s office to be interrogated. Mother’s bedroom was dark, and Pearl
greeted him with a whisper, but as soon as Mother understood Henry was there,
she insisted she was awake and bade Pearl put on the lights. She had been lying
fully-dressed on her bed, and she sat up and held her arms out to him, tears
welling in her dark eyes.

“Oh, Henry!”

Henry bent tentatively into her embrace. It had been a long
time since he’d held her like this, and she was smaller than he remembered, and
more fragile; she clung fiercely, as if she’d rather die than let him go. He
hesitantly patted her back, unaccustomed to such a dramatic maternal display.

“You worried me so!”

“I’m sorry, Mother.”

“You mustn’t ever do anything like that again! I won’t
survive it, Henry.” She held his face between her hands and kissed his cheeks.
“You foolish boy!”

Startled by the intensity of her affectionate scolding,
Henry could only repeat, “I’m sorry, Mother.”

“You won’t run away again?”

He honestly didn’t know, but it seemed best to say, “No,
ma’am.”

She gripped his hand and dabbed at her eyes with the
handkerchief Pearl offered. “Where’s your Martin, darling? He’s all right,
isn’t he?”

Henry scowled. Traitorous Martin. “He’s with Father.”

Mother petted his captive hand, fidgeted with his cuff.
“Your father is very angry with you, Henry, and this time I’m in agreement with
him. You worried us all terribly!” She turned to Pearl. “Pearl, darling, didn’t
you tell me the slaves prayed for Henry’s return?”

Pearl, who had been hanging discreetly back, stepped forward
and put a comforting hand on Mother’s shoulder. “Yes, Ma’am, we all did.”

Henry felt ashamed that he’d done something to upset the
slaves, even as he wondered that they would all care so much. “Well, thank you
for that,” he muttered. He wondered if they’d been Christian prayers or some
sort of Hetaeria wishes, but did not think he could ask.

“Everyone will be glad you’re home, Sir,” Pearl said. “You
and Martin both.”

It occurred to Henry that the slaves might have really been worried
about Martin rather than himself, but of course he could not question Pearl
about this, either.

Mother had still not relinquished his hand. “Oh, darling,
I’ve been so upset! I haven’t slept well at all! I’m afraid I must rest a bit
now, but will you sit with me a little while? I’m so relieved you’re home!”

“Uh, yes, of course.” Henry perched on the edge of the bed
while Pearl helped Mother to lie back on her pillows. When she was situated,
Mother reclaimed his hand with a tremulous sigh. She seemed to require nothing
more than his presence, and he was grateful he needn’t make conversation.