My Best Friend Sold Me, So I Went to Poison My Mate novel · Chapter 3 of 24
Chapter 3: No Veil
Benedikt takes Oren to bed on Cormorant Point and breaks the act he has worn for six years, then sends him to the guest room.
The glass house on Cormorant Point had one lamp lit in the whole of it.
Benedikt walked Oren through a long room of black windows and up open stairs.
Neither of them said a word.
The bedroom was at the end.
A wide bed, a bare floor, the sea on three sides.
Oren stopped in the middle of the floor and did what he always did.
He let the green silk slide off one shoulder, tipped his head, and let his mouth go soft.
"Where would you like me, sir?"
Benedikt shut the door.
He stood against it with his hands at his sides and looked.
"Take it off," he said.
Oren took it off.
The silk pooled at his feet.
He stood naked in the lamplight, half hard from habit, with his skin crawling.
He had done this for six years.
He knew how to arch and how to breathe, how to say please in the voice that made men pay double.
Benedikt crossed the room slowly.
He circled once, close enough that Oren felt the heat off him, and stopped at his back.
A hand settled on his hip.
The other came up the middle of his spine, one slow line, and Oren shivered before he could make it a performance.
"Good, sir," Oren said, because it was the next line. "Like that."
"Don't."
The hand didn't move.
"Don't what, sir?"
"That." Benedikt's mouth was at his ear, and his voice was rough. "The voice. Don't use it on me."
"It's the only one I've got."
"It isn't."
Benedikt turned him by the hip and kissed him.
It was not the kiss Oren knew, a careful pressing of mouths that clients paid extra for.
It was hot and hungry and slow.
His tongue went straight in and took, and a hand closed in Oren's copper hair and held his head still.
Oren made a sound in his throat that was not in any script.
He tried to pull back and Benedikt followed him.
"Sir," Oren managed against his mouth, "please."
"No sir."
"Please, then."
"Better." Benedikt bit his lower lip, not hard. "Say what you want."
"You. Your cock." It came out raw. "In me."
"That's still the voice."
"I don't know what else I'm supposed to say."
Benedikt's thumb stroked his lower lip.
"Then say nothing and let me find out."
He picked Oren up under the thighs, easily, and put him on the bed.
Oren landed on his back with his legs open and his heart pounding.
Benedikt stood over him and took his own shirt off one button at a time.
His chest was broad and scarred in two places, his stomach hard.
He got his belt open and his cock out, thick and flushed and already heavy, and Oren's mouth went dry.
He did not move to be taken.
He knelt on the mattress between Oren's knees, pushed them wider with both hands, and bent his head.
The first stroke of his tongue went up the inside of Oren's thigh.
The second went over his hole.
Oren jerked.
Nobody did that.
Clients paid to be sucked and fucked.
Not one of them in six years had put a mouth where Benedikt's mouth was now.
He worked Oren open with his tongue, slow and deep, until slick ran down and Oren heard himself begging.
"Please, oh, fuck, please."
"Better."
A finger pushed in beside the tongue, then a second, and Oren grabbed the sheets.
He was coming up out of his body and he could not stop it.
"Wait," he said, "I'll, I'm going to."
"Do it."
"It's not, I don't, I haven't, not for real, not in-"
"I know." Benedikt lifted his head, mouth wet, eyes black. "That's why."
Oren came with a cry that cracked down the middle, shaking and spilling over his own stomach.
Benedikt worked him through it with two fingers curled deep.
When it ended Oren lay there gasping at the ceiling.
He had faked that sound ten thousand times.
He had never made it.
Benedikt wiped his mouth on his wrist, climbed up over him and set the head of his cock against the slick, open hole.
"Look at me."
Oren looked.
"Yes?"
"Yes." It was the first true word he had said all night. "Yes. Fuck me."
Benedikt pushed in.
It was slow and enormous, and Oren felt every inch of it, stretching him wide, filling him until his breath stopped.
He wrapped his legs around Benedikt's hips and dug his heels in.
"Don't stop."
"I wasn't going to."
Benedikt began to move.
Long strokes, deep and unhurried, his weight pressing Oren into the mattress.
He kept his eyes open the whole time.
Oren couldn't look away.
The man above him was not smiling, or counting, or watching the clock.
He watched Oren's face, every change in it.
"You feel," Benedikt said, and his voice cracked on it, "so good."
"Harder," Oren said.
He got it.
Benedikt braced a hand on the headboard and drove into him, hard and fast.
The bed knocked the wall.
Each thrust found the place inside Oren that lit him up white.
Oren cried out and clawed at his shoulders.
He was hard again, aching and wet against the other man's stomach, and he did not know how.
"Touch yourself," Benedikt said.
Oren got a hand around his own cock.
"Together."
They came a few strokes apart, Oren first, tight and shuddering.
Benedikt followed with a groan torn out of his chest, buried to the root and shaking with it.
His knot swelled at the base for a moment.
He pulled out before it could catch, and Oren whimpered at the loss.
Benedikt dropped beside him, breathing hard, and for a long moment neither of them moved.
Oren stared at the ceiling.
His whole body hummed.
He waited for the part where the man rolled over, paid, and left.
Instead Benedikt got up, went to the bathroom, and came back with a warm cloth.
He cleaned Oren's stomach and thighs without a word, tender and quick.
Then he stood by the bed with the cloth in his hand.
"You sleep next door," he said. "The room at the end of the hall. I don't share a bed."
It was a slap, and Oren felt it all the way down.
He sat up.
"Of course."
"Oren."
Oren did not look at him.
"It's fine. I know where the guest room is, sir."
He saw Benedikt flinch.
He picked up the green silk off the floor.
In the pocket stitched into its lining, the vial clinked once.
The lamp went out behind him as he left.
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