Chapter Fifteen
November 18th, 1808
Whiteoaks, Wiltshire
Sir Henry Wright left the next day, and Tom was sorry for it, because he liked the man. Wright didn’t seem downcast by Tish’s refusal of his proposal; on the contrary, his grin was wider than ever and there was a buoyant spring in his step.
“He took it well,” he said to Lucas. Unlike Stapleton, who’d been as sullen as a penned bull.
He and Lucas rode over to the folly, and climbed the ruined tower and kissed, and he said, “Do you want my hand or my mouth,” and Lucas chose his hand, as he always did. Some days were rough and fumbling and hasty, others slow and intense. Today was the latter: a long, leisurely build-up, gently stroking, stroking, stroking, until Lucas was moaning low in his throat and their c***s were hot and damp
