Page 13 of The Last Crimes of Peregrine Hind
Repeatedly, Peregrine had to remind himself that Alexander was a Dartham, and moreover, his captive. He shouldn’t feel anything but grimly determined while he was around. He shouldn’t have to catch his breath whenever he saw his captive lord staring at his silk-trussed wrists with fascination and undisguised arousal.
When it was time for dinner, Peregrine tied the free end of Alexander’s rope to the arm of his chair and then watched as, despite his bindings and his visible erection, his captive ate as prettily as if he were in front of the Queen herself. In contrast, Peregrine himself ate quickly and efficiently, an inevitable consequence of war and four years on the run from the law.
“You eat like a soldier,” said Alexander after a moment.
“I was a soldier,” Peregrine said somewhat automatically, and then immediately wanted to unspeak the words. He knew Alexander was trying to learn anything useful that would help him escape while also ingratiating himself through any means possible, including friendship. Peregrine probably shouldn’t even be eating with him now, if he was honest, but it was nicer than eating alone, and Alexander was so very lovely to look at, and sometimes he said the funniest things.
Sometimes he almost made Peregrine smile.
“Of course you were,” Alexander said. “And now you’re a knight of the road. Isn’t that how all the stories start? A valiant soldier returns home after the war and finds his home taken away from him, and so the only recourse he has is to steal from the very men who robbed him in the first place?”
It was too close to the truth, and Peregrine struggled not to react. “You’re thinking of Robin Hood, or maybe the Royalists after the Civil War,” he said carefully. “Times long past.”
Alexander didn’t seem to miss how Peregrine sidestepped his remark, however. “So what then makes a modern-day soldier take to the road?”
“What makes the son of a duke spend his days carousing and cheating at cards?”
“I never cheat, I only strategize,” Alexander said, taking a dainty sip of wine. “And it’s more nights than days, you know.”
“But there’s no other work your brother would rather put you to? No responsibilities waiting for you at Far Hope?”
Alexander’s expression shuttered, and it was as if a light had gone out. He didn’t like this line of questioning any more than Peregrine had liked Alexander’s.
“There’s plenty waiting for me at Far Hope,” Alexander said cryptically.
He set down his cup and turned to face Peregrine. On the far side of the room, the fire burned in its improvised fireplace and cast Alexander’s elegant features in a reddish glow.
“What?” Peregrine asked his captive, who was now staring at him with an unsettling expression.
“I was just thinking,” Alexander said in a velvet voice, “that I should show you why it’s worthwhile to keep a rake nearby.”
A dark heat crawled up Peregrine’s thighs and down his belly. He should ignore it; he knew he should. But it burned so very hot inside him. It had been kindled and stoked by seeing Alexander so coquettish all day, and Peregrine couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this. Maybe he never had.
“Is that so?” Peregrine asked in a gruff voice.
Alexander gave him a secretive smile. He slid easily from his bench to his knees, graceful as a dancer. Within a few sinuous crawls, he was in front of Peregrine’s chair.
Peregrine knew he should tell Alexander to stop, to go back to his bench. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
Instead, he angled his chair and spread his legs, feeling his control slip and slip and slip as his captive moved between his feet.
Alexander brought his bound hands up between them. Peregrine had tied them so that they were separated by a few inches of silk—so he could still eat and use the privy without help—but now his captive held them folded together, like he was praying. Like he was supplicating Peregrine for a favor.
“Let me taste you,” Alexander said, his voice a low, wonderful purr that no doubt had wooed many men and women to his bed over the years. “How long has it been since you’ve had your cock sucked, Peregrine?”
Too long, Peregrine thought, but he didn’t answer out loud. He did another thing that he absolutely should not have and untucked Alexander’s shirt, so he could lift it and see underneath. So he could see if Alexander’s organ was pushing against his breeches like it had been last night.
It was.
“If you’re wondering if I am inflamed,” Alexander said, somewhat dryly, “the answer is yes.”
“Is it because your hands are bound, or because you sincerely wish to do this?”
Alexander peered up at him through dark lashes. “Why can’t it be both? If it comforts you, I’d want to do it even if I wasn’t your captive,” he added. “Please, Peregrine. Just a little. Just a taste. Let me taste you.”
Peregrine didn’t know how to say no to this. He needed to say no—Alexander’s family had killed the only people he’d ever loved—and aside from that very large consideration, he wasn’t the kind of man to use someone else for pleasure when that someone else was a prisoner.
But Alexander’s hands were so warm through the fabric of his shirt as they pressed against his stomach, as they slowly plucked at the linen until it was completely untucked and the buttons of his breeches were exposed. And Alexander’s eyes were so pretty like this, glittering under their dark fringe of lashes, and his mouth looked so soft, and knowing that he was hard as he knelt between Peregrine’s feet . . .
