Chapter Fifteen
St. SebastianBecket pulls in a long breath, and then he unbuttons his cardigan and shrugs it off. He doesn’t pull off his shirt, but he doesn’t need to for us to see the shuddering seize of his stomach and ribs as he sucks in breath after breath or for us to see the way his n*****s have bunched into little points or the trembling in his arms. He unfastens his pants, his c**k falling free from the placket the minute he does, and then he stands there behind Poe, his eyes closed and his chin to his chest. He is half country house, half obscenity, and it heats my blood back to full boil. Yes, apparently I have a type, or one of them at least. Generational wealth mixed with vulgarity . . .
I am shamefully susceptible to obscenity framed by expensive wool.
“Go on,” Auden
