Chapter Text
It was an insult – that much was immediately apparent – or a joke.
A cruel, knowing prank, designed to throw Shane off balance.
Fuck! He didn't know where to look.
He was going to murder his brothers. What were they thinking?!
Here Shane was, coming down to breakfast on the morning of his twenty-first birthday, and yet instead of the much-anticipated golden bridle he'd set his hopes on, instead of that enviable and uncomplicated item, there was a lavish pile of generic-looking gifts heaped before the fireplace and… this. Insult.
At least Shane's parents weren't back from their trip yet. Small mercies. In attendance this morning, thankfully, were only Shane's two older brothers, his father's private secretary, and a handful of dutiful Argent Manor staff.
So at least it wasn't a public insult. Word shouldn't travel – not immediately, at least.
Shane arranged a smile on his face. It still felt far too public. If word reached his polo teammates, ever… it didn’t bear thinking about. They would crucify him for this.
"Ha," Shane made himself say, ignoring the round-eyed waiting staff. He looked at Matthew, four years his senior and acting head of the household in their father's absence. "Very… funny. I'm guessing this is not your doing."
"Noooo," Matthew said, but the degree of unconcern in his eyes – the utter lack of surprise – told Shane that he'd at least allowed it. If he hadn't known beforehand, he'd be puffing with bluster and outrage right now. Instead his face was tight with restrained amusement.
Shane turned to his middle brother. Sure enough, Sebastian's eyes were a riot of gleeful mirth.
Sebastian, just a year his elder, looked eerily similar to Shane except that his hair was more artful, his retorts quicker, and he seemed to thrive on the sort of attention that Shane did his best to avoid.
"Thought you deserved a treat," Seb said innocently. "You work so hard."
Shane's focus skipped back to—the treat. Standing bold as brass amidst the rest of Shane's presents, hands in repose, head tilted expectantly.
Indentured servitude of the physical arts was an outdated but not uncommon practice. From veiled women teaching young men the ways of the world, to high class brothels offering relaxation and relief to weary travellers and moneyed revellers alike, the purchase of pleasure was barely more frowned upon than the purchase of any other indulgence. For a young wealthy lord, it was easily excused, especially for such an auspicious birthday. Dancing girls might be procured for a feast, or sultry acrobats – contortionists, even – and no one would bat an eyelid if any of those talented women later followed the birthday boy up to his private rooms.
But this…
This was a man.
Of course, sometimes men were also purchased by the hour to teach fighting or riding or other athletic skills… but Shane already had an aptitude for most things physical, and was certainly in no need of tuition… and this man, though an impressive specimen of bare-chested broad-shouldered athleticism, could not be mistaken for anything but a pleasure slave.
At twenty-one, Shane Hollander was the celebrated Captain of the Argent polo team. He was the youngest rider ever to win the Nine Isles’ Championship Race. He was the last eligible son of the governing house of the island of Argent—a house which thrived on order, respectability and tradition, and above all abhorred a scandal.
For anyone to think that Shane Hollander might enlist a male pleasure slave for his own enjoyment would be humiliating in the extreme. Beyond excruciating; career-ending. A catastrophe.
Shane felt his face heating as he stared, unable to look away.
The man's features looked high-born, all strong jaw and fine brow, and yet his handsome face was framed with curly dark-blond hair that fell to his shoulders, and his wide blue eyes were smudged with kohl. And—he was wearing a collar. A shiny, broad collar of rich yellow gold, encasing his throat, with a metal loop at the front. A fine chain ran through the loop, fanning down in both directions to—Shane felt his cheeks heat even more. The man's nipples were pierced. The chain from his collar draped down and attached to a shining gold bead at each snub, pink nipple, set atop the most beautifully sculpted chest Shane had ever seen.
It had to be an insult. Unfortunately, it happened to be an incisive one.
Fuck, he wanted to wring Seb's neck! He couldn’t deal with this before breakfast!
He’d wanted a new racehorse.
Thank goodness his parents weren’t here. For them to even sniff such potential for scandal made Shane want to shrivel up and depart this life at once. He couldn’t imagine their expressions, were they even to suspect such a scene.
Of course, they would be back later today. There would be Shane's birthday feast this evening, with all the pomp and ceremony of the youngest son of the high house of Argent turning twenty-one. And his parents might have invited… prospects. Prospects for Shane to meet. His thudding heart seemed to sink a little, squeezed tight beneath his ribs. Expectations weren't the same for Shane as for Matthew, obviously, whose future was chiefly concerned with legacy – but his parents would still be dismayed if this foolish prank became the talking point of the evening, he was absolutely sure.
They probably wanted to fuel speculation on how eligible and desirable Shane had become, now he rode professionally, with the Championship medal already hanging in his trophy cabinet; how ready he must be for the right girl to dazzle him with her wit and charm. Not speculation over whether he'd want a wife at all.
What Shane knew his parents specifically didn't want was another Seb, with his flighty reputation and lightning-strike affairs. Sebastian Hollander was loudly and frequently delighted that he was not the heir to the Argent estate, with its associated roles and responsibilities, and was rumoured to bed men and women alike, with unseemly frequency. For Seb to have taken an interest in Shane's prospects did not bode well.
Shane knew their parents had lost considerable sleep over Seb’s disreputable ways, and despaired of him ever redeeming himself. Outwardly, they stiffly reported that it was Seb's changeable nature they found so difficult to understand, not the fact that he allowed himself to be seen in broad daylight in close proximity with other men. But inwardly, Shane suspected it was much simpler. Matthew had risen to their expectations; Seb had failed them. And Shane… they still had hope for Shane. Shane had potential, and now, an unexpected gift, an aptitude that could be honed and meticulously managed. Just as long as he didn’t put a foot wrong.
One thing in Shane’s favour was that he had always been more biddable than Seb. More predictable. Not really distracted by the fairer sex, on the whole. Unfortunately, in procuring this… man, Seb had guessed astutely about where Shane's own preferences lay.
It made the joke all the more cruel. Shane would rather nobody thought about Shane’s preferences, including himself. It was just simpler to squash that aspect down, out of sight, out of mind. He certainly hadn’t seen fit to do anything about that shadier, more confusing side of himself. His other duties more than filled his time.
It wasn’t that Shane rarely thought about the male form. He… often thought about it. To the exclusion of all other thoughts, at times. Years of riding instructors – a whole parade of the athletic ideal who gently disciplined him, urged him on, praising him when, and only when, he succeeded – had definitely left some marks on him. On what distracted him, excited him, late at night, in the prison-like privacy of his own mind. But nothing had ever happened. It was safest it stayed that way.
Which was probably why this horrible prank felt like such a stone-cold disaster. Although it wasn't technically a public outing, word would surely get around if Shane didn’t take it well, if he didn’t manage to shrug it off, respond to the joke in good grace. If he made a big fuss, he might as well just get it emblazoned across his riding jacket for all to see.
The delighted sparkle in Seb’s eyes told him he knew this.
Fuck, Shane had been quiet too long. He had to figure out how to respond properly, make some sort of call – take offence, or make a joke back. Instead he was still just staring.
The man’s chin lifted. He didn’t have the… demeanour of a slave. There was nothing soft or cowed about him. As he caught Shane looking he tipped his head to the other side, making the collar flash, and his brows lifted as if to say, And?
Shane panicked. He waved at the pile of gifts.
“Have it sent up to my rooms.” Shane’s rooms occupied the Eastern turret of Argent Manor; safely out of the way.
Seb's eyes gleamed. “All of it?”
Unwillingly Shane’s gaze cut back to the—the man. No, send him away. What a hilarious joke. But he wasn’t laughing. And he couldn’t seem to make the words come out.
“All of it,” he mumbled, with his best effort at a gallant, unconcerned wave.
The rest of the day passed in a flurry of activity. His parents got home amongst the usual fanfare—leading with the presentation to Shane, as he'd been desperately hoping, of a golden bridle crowning a completely gorgeous racehorse.
Shane’s euphoria at the gift was somewhat tempered by the events of the day so far. He felt like all the staff were looking at him, if not openly talking about him. He hadn't yet managed to break away and check if the man was still in his rooms, let alone work out how to diplomatically dismiss him.
“Well, after your splendid victory this year,” Yuna was saying, smiling, “we really thought you deserved it.”
“It’s not every family that can boast a Championship gold medal,” David agreed, proudly patting Shane on the shoulder. “All your efforts really paid off!”
The Nine Isles Championship Race was a big deal. It was held every four years, inviting riders from across the archipelago to compete on a different island each time. Its frequency commemorated a two-decade old treaty that had brought peace to the nine islands after four years of open hostility. Following the treaty, each island appointed one or more high houses charged with local governance and wider diplomacy. On Argent, that honour of leadership had been awarded to Yuna and David Hollander; and in the intervening years, their small, temperate island with its flourishing silver industry had done very well in the Hollanders’ steady, capable hands.
Shane had attended his first Championship race at the tender age of twelve, when the prospect of riding professionally had still seemed a far-fetched dream. His eyes, as Yuna told it, had filled with stars and he’d never looked back. The second Championship race he’d managed to attend, aged sixteen, was held on the austere military island of Titan, where his mother had been born before her parents fled during the war. Shane had still been too young to compete in that race, but he was already convinced he could out-pace most of the adult riders present. The coveted medal, a heavy coin made of metal from all nine islands swirled together, had gone that year to a man called Hunter—a celebrated rider with at least a decade more experience than Shane. Shane had watched him closely, obsessive in his critique, and vowed that when the time came he would be ready.
This year, the race had been set on the balmy, civilized island of Palladium, which was Hunter’s home turf; allowed to compete, at long last, Shane had given it his all and managed to swipe a conclusive victory.
It had been a sweet, sweet moment, storming past the finish line. The first victory of its kind for Shane, and a much-needed validation of his chosen career in the cautious, traditional eyes of his parents. Which had clearly led straight to this moment, Shane’s dearest wish as long as he could remember: the magnificent gift of a thoroughbred Aurum racehorse.
"I can't believe it – he looks wonderful," Shane said, hugging both his parents and hoping his grip strength telegraphed more enthusiasm than his face. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
As evidenced by the gilt-edged bridle, the horse had indeed been purchased from an authentic Aurum stables, which virtually guaranteed its prestigious pedigree. The horse looked to be an incredible specimen, everything Shane had been wanting for years now.
Yuna made him an additional gift of some new riding leathers – incredibly fine – with the Argent insignia embroidered in gleaming silver silk, front and back.
A gift entirely worthy of a young lord entering his most eligible years.
Shane stammered some further thanks.
His thoughts stole back to the man waiting – presumably twiddling his thumbs by now – in Shane's private rooms.
If news about the prank did reach his team, Shane would have to weigh up whether deflecting any scandalous aspersions onto Seb would take the heat off Shane, or whether that would be more damaging by association in the long run. It was probably better to play it up as just a grotesque prank, aiming to provoke shock and disgust, and leave any potential mention of preferences safely aside.
Seb seemed like he didn't a damn who knew about his own leanings, but Shane couldn’t understand how that was possible. He supposed Seb moved in different circles to Shane, preferring artists and actors over sportsmen and sponsors, and he didn’t have a career so much as a thousand different investments constantly shifting in ways Shane couldn’t follow. So maybe little things like reputation didn’t matter to him, who knew.
Whereas to Shane, reputation did matter. Shane’s sponsors didn’t like risk; they liked traditional tough guys, straight-forward and decent, with as clean an image as possible. They had already taken a chance by backing Shane, with the distinctive Titan features that he’d inherited from his mother, his glossy black hair and warmer skin tone setting him apart from his pale-and-ruddy, tawny-haired teammates. They'd all been born on Argent but Shane looked that little bit different, and wasn't allowed to forget it. Fortunately, these days, it was more often his skill that set him apart.
Shane’s polo team were decent, tough guys. Shane had played against a lot of riders and he could honestly say his team were the best, on and off the field. They treated their horses well. They only fought a normal amount. Apart from Hayden, they went through a lot of women, but that was pretty standard too. Shane was the outlier there, keeping his hands to himself no matter who put herself within easy reach. And they ribbed him for it, absolutely. Standard, again. Just like they ribbed Hayden for never seeming to cheat on his wife. But they weren’t deliberately obnoxious, or cruel.
None of them knew about Seb, as far as Shane was aware. He couldn’t conceive of them knowing and being normal to Shane about it—that Seb wasn’t straight and wasn’t even ashamed of it. Seb would laugh easily at someone's joke about fucking cocksuckers and then look them in the eye and offer to give some pointers. In Shane’s opinion, it was best it stayed that way, with as few people knowing about Seb as possible. He didn’t want to make it weird when the others said stuff. And they did—say stuff. Normal rider stuff, they made all the usual jokes, and said things in anger, too. But they weren’t the scary sort of guys that wanted to string queers up, or actively go out looking for trouble. It wasn’t like that on Argent, hadn’t been for years.
Other islands, sure, were less temperate in a lot of ways. Take Aurum, Argent's massive tropical neighbour across the Southern sea, where it was possible to get thrown in prison for bare hints of depravity. Shane didn't know it well, but his father had voyaged there on diplomatic missions, and reported it was a complicated, old-fashioned place. Whereas Argent had one governing high house – Shane’s family – Aurum had twelve, all seeming to be in constant conflict with each other. David had told stories of a vast mosaic of corrupt wealth and deprivation. Best to keep at arm's length, he’d hazarded.
Shane mostly knew Aurum as boasting the best horse-craft across the Nine Isles. Their polo team was rising through the ranks under the leadership of some energetic new captain. Refusing to play there would be a massive career misstep; being banned from playing there, because someone started a rumour that Shane Hollander fucked male pleasure slaves, was career suicide.
Better to keep his head down and say nothing.
Aurum was one of several islands where Shane had stopped inviting Seb, when he played away.
Shane realized he was chewing on his lip. What the hell had Seb been thinking, arranging for a paid man to come offer his services to Shane, even in jest? When it could damage Shane’s image so much? It was like Seb didn’t comprehend what was at stake here at all.
Fuck, though. That body.
Maybe it was that simple. Seb didn’t care about anyone's image, and just thought it would be funny to dangle something insanely provocative in front of his careful, reserved brother.
Maybe Seb hadn’t realized it was possible Shane would want the man at all. Hadn’t expected him to look twice.
But as the day wore on, Shane found it increasingly difficult to deny – in the shameful privacy of his own head – just how much he wanted to take another long, hard look at that man.
He finally escaped, begging a good hour to go dress before dinner.
Even leaving aside what – or who – might be awaiting him there, Shane felt like he might need more than an hour. He’d been given new dress robes, in silken navy with silver piping, alongside a few pieces of matching jewellery in a quilted tailor’s box. Privately Shane thought he would look like a peacock in such an ensemble. But he couldn’t ignore the murmur that had gone around the room as he drew out the heavy, gleaming fabric, and exposed the jewels to the light – they were clearly very fine pieces indeed.
Befitting his station. And so he must wear them this evening, Yuna had decreed. She had such a special evening planned; a glorious feast, lavish yet intimate, as Shane did not have many he called close companions, and did not enjoy crowds.
He had turned down his mother’s innocent suggestion to throw open Argent Manor’s doors and invite every enterprising young lady in the realm to a marvellous and memorable dance.
"You never know," she told him, voice warm and encouraging. "It's not too late to instruct a band, if the fancy takes you."
"Mm. The fancy does not take me."
"Perhaps next year," she suggested.
Gratefully, he took the out. "Maybe. Or perhaps by next year it won't be called for. A lot can change in a year."
She seemed satisfied with that, giving his fingers a quick squeeze.
If Yuna Hollander knew about the—the joke, the prank that Seb had played, she was doing a stunning job of not letting on.
Shane excused himself and returned at last to his private rooms. Located within a broad turret along the Eastern edge of the manor, Shane’s rooms were accessible only by a winding flight of stone spiral stairs.
Shane rather liked his rooms’ remote vantage point, though he knew his brothers rolled their eyes at the climb. Well, their loss. While they were both down in the bustling heart of the building, Shane had peace and privacy and a fantastic view across the grandiose estate gardens.
Now he took the stone stairs two at a time. He told himself he’d basically forgotten by now who might still be there. Then he supposed that Seb might have already tired of the joke and sent the man on his way again. Then, he told himself that would be a relief. It would!
But he was there.
There would be no relief.
"Ah," Shane said, immediately tongue-tied once more.
The man was just as stunning as he'd remembered, leaning against Shane's bedroom wall with one hand on his hip, looking bored.
"You… you're here."
"Yes." The man's voice was gruff. He smirked at Shane. "You forget? This is where you had me put."
He had an accent, the words recognizable but blunted, a heavier stress on certain consonants. It made something in Shane's stomach flip, even as he deciphered the dreadful meaning of what he was saying.
"Fuck, I'm sorry," Shane blurted. This man was here, in his rooms, had indeed been put here, like some object, just shoved around like an errant package – and on Shane's command, too. "I didn't think. I just wanted to get you out of there, with everyone staring and, and thinking and I – I'm so sorry, I should've—"
The man cut him off with a shrug. "Is no matter."
"But you—"
"I do not object."
His voice seemed to drag over Shane's skin, the unfamiliar angles to the words catching in his ears, smooth and rough at once. He sounded like he might hail from Aurum. Of course. Of fucking course Seb had chosen the worst possible candidate for him, the most scandalous possible option. If word reached his team…
"But—"
"Why would I object?” the man interrupted, which didn’t seem very servile of him. “Is warm, quiet…” He looked Shane up and down, a deliberate and lascivious once-over. All types of horse-craft evaporated from Shane's mind. He felt the stroke of the man's gaze like a physical touch that explored him from a distance before flicking back up to his face. “…Private."
He's going to eat me alive.
The thought flew through Shane's head before he could even register it and he took an involuntary step toward the man before catching himself. No! That was not what was going on here!
He drew himself up. This, at least, should redeem him. "I should have come sooner," he said, threading apology through his voice like a silver ribbon. "To tell you – you can go."
The man's eyebrows lifted a fraction. "Go."
"Yes! You're free to go," Shane said, nodding magnanimously. "I will not ask anything untoward of you."
The man didn't look impressed by Shane's virtuous stance. Perhaps he hadn't understood. His accent was quite thick.
"You may leave," Shane tried. He indicated the door with his hand. "Free. To go? If you wish."
The man's brow cleared. "Ah." He made a negative little noise, shaking his head. "I do not wish."
Shane racked his brain for any other way he could put it. He felt like his familiar walls were getting narrower. He waved at the door to the stairs again, as if the man might have missed it the first time. "But—you must go," he said, and realized his voice had gained an urgent edge. "You can't stay here. You… You're free! To go!"
The man looked at the door, then back at Shane. "Hollander."
Shane froze. His name on those full lips, in that blunt voice—it was like being struck by lightning. "Y-yes?"
The man moved closer to him. Plucked Shane's still-waving hand out of the air and lowered it for him. His grip was gentle but the movement was firm. This much closer, Shane could see how the man's irises were a cool, clear blue, like water. The eyelashes framing them were the colour of dark golden sand, smudged with black kohl. For a moment Shane couldn't focus on anything else.
"I not go," the man told him, with a little nod. "I stay."
Shane came back to his senses. "But you can't stay," he said weakly. "You… you just can't. I have to go to dinner."
"So go," the man said, and cracked a smile. "I stay here."
"But—"
"One night – five hundred gold. Paid tomorrow. Do you have five hundred gold on you?"
The man's attention roved over Shane with a renewed and overdone interest, focusing especially on his pockets.
Shane admitted that he did not. It was an eye-watering sum. Half a racehorse, probably. Sebastian was insane for this.
"Right. So." The man indicated the room around them with two long fingers. "I stay – til morning. You tell your brother I give you satisfaction. He give me five hundred gold. And then I leave."
"Satisfaction?"
"Yes." The man's eyebrows lifted minutely again. "You know what is."
"Yes, of course I know." He did not know.
The man tilted his head to one side again, almost quizzical at whatever he'd spotted in Shane's countenance. “If you want," he said, stepping in again, "I can give to you now.”
"I, um, I’m sure you can!"
Shane stood his ground as the man drew closer. He was not going to back away, damn it!
“Just say the word," the man said evenly, "and I will suck you, fuck you – anything you want.”
The room faded out, a whooshing noise filling Shane’s ears. There was nothing but this huge golden man’s hypnotic voice—it had been clumsy around some words earlier, but not around these words, no. These words seemed to roll right off his tongue.
“Ah… and if I don’t want?”
Something closed in the man’s eyes. His lip curled. “Then I leave you alone,” he said, dismissive. Then he poked Shane in the sternum. “But you still tell your brother I gave you perfect night. I am not having him renege on deal. Deal is made, I am here. Five hundred gold.”
"Right," Shane said, swallowing and nodding. "Perfect night."
The man flashed him a grin. "Best night of your life."
"R-right."
"Is option."
"Ah… no," Shane said quickly. "No, I have to get dressed. Um, for dinner."
His new clothes were waiting on a trunk beside his dressing table. He thought about asking the man to leave while he put them on, but that would be juvenile, wouldn't it? This man had clearly seen it all before. He would laugh if Shane tried to preserve his modesty now.
Still, he shucked his clothes and drew on the new fine silks as swiftly as possible, burning with the awareness that the man was watching.
Openly.
It made Shane's fingers feel thick. It made other parts of him feel thick. He tried to focus on the clothes.
The dress trousers were straight-forward enough, sumptuous dark weighted fabric hanging straight down over his thighs, supple yet strong. Dancing trousers – not that Shane danced. But he could imagine fighting in them, if it wasn't sacrilegious to do such a thing; he could imagine whirling and spinning in them, fencing, sparring.
His fingers stalled a little on the covered buttons of the shirt, and then got entirely jumbled over a complex set of folds he was supposed to arrange around his collar. He became sure there must be a stiffener somewhere to keep the slippery fabric from slithering into disarray. He searched vaguely for one amongst the rustling tissue paper, but there was nothing. He caught the man's neutral gaze in the looking glass, observing his struggle.
Ah – the jewels. That must be what held it all together. Hasty now, all too aware of the man's steady regard, Shane fumbled the array of silks together at his throat and skewered them with a large jewelled pin. There. Surely. It was a little crooked, felt a little tight, and he wasn't sure he could turn his head to the left any more—but it would have to do. He felt certain it was approximately correct.
He turned to find the man three steps closer, eyes fixed on Shane's efforts, shaking his head solemnly. "No."
Shane's fingers fluttered in self-consciousness back to his neck. "What?"
The man rolled his eyes. “Come here.”
"What?"
"You have this… ugh. All wrong. Too many folds. Pin goes other way. What you have done – terrible."
Shane blinked several times. "What?"
Fuck, he needed to stop saying that. But the man's disapproving voice was all he could concentrate on, his faintly aghast expression, as if Shane could not be trusted to get dressed on his own.
Which apparently, he could not.
"When you sit down – you will choke."
"I—oh." Well at least he hadn't said what.
"You like to be choked, pretty boy?"
"No!" Shane protested, feeling the world closing in fast at the edges. "No, of course I—"
The man's eyebrows lifted, and he said simply, "So."
Heat raced over Shane's face, pounded in his ears. His discomfort redoubled as the man reached for him, his deft fingers unclasping the pin again and holding its point out of harm's way. As the fabric shifted somehow a tension released across the full breadth of Shane’s shoulders. He really had outdone himself at failing to get dressed. A horse could probably have done it better. A blind, angry horse.
The man was focusing closely on his own fingers, drawing his full lower lip between his teeth as he retied the complex knot of silk around Shane's throat. He fixed it neatly in place with the jewelled pin, a subtle weight against the hollow at the base of Shane's neck—elegant, now, instead of half-throttling him.
"There," the man pronounced, glancing up to meet Shane's eye. "Pretty like princess."
Shane spluttered. "I’m not a princess!"
"No," the man said, and smirked. "But pretty like one."
“Fuck you," Shane said, and then, in haste, belatedly recognizing that might offend, "I mean – shut up?" That wasn’t much better.
The man stepped back and drew a line across his lips with his forefinger, indicating biddable silence. But his eyes were twinkling.
He had very full lips, Shane couldn't help but notice again.
"I… have to go to dinner."
"Dinner." The man sounded pleased; he had caught Shane looking at his mouth. The kohl-darkened eyes smouldered. “First, you let me… whet your appetite?”
In the back of his mind, Shane was struck by this phrase. It had meaning below the words; dual meanings, in fact. Whet, whetstone, knife – sharpen his appetite, make the edge of it keener – but he meant sex, he so clearly meant sex. It was a coy courtly idiom from a man who two minutes ago had seemed not to understand the words free to go. Who was he?
Meanwhile, in the forefront of his mind, Shane slowly realized he'd been propositioned – and he hadn’t yet answered.
"No. Um. No way!"
Shane Hollander did not want to receive sexual pleasure from a paid man!
The man’s gaze swept down Shane’s body. “You are sure?”
The heavy robes were cut well enough that Shane’s burgeoning erection could not be seen, he was certain of it. But the man’s face suggested he knew anyway.
For one wild moment Shane imagined throwing caution to the wind. What would happen? Would this man – as offered in that dark honey voice – really want to suck him, fuck him, do whatever he wanted? All night?
Shane's cock thickened further, ever hopeful, and Shane panicked. He wheeled away in a flounce of silken fabric, cursing himself and Seb and most especially this new concept of huge gilt-edged beautiful sexually-available strangers who just seemed to be amused by him now.
"I'm sure," Shane called back, over his shoulder, as he made for the door.
The man's soft, untroubled laugh followed him. "We will see."
"I'm not sure," Shane said, over a small square of a cake so deeply saturated with brandy that his tongue tingled. "Quality and value are different things. But probably I'd say Aurum."
He was sitting in the banqueting hall beside his mother, with Seb and his father sitting opposite them. It had been a nice meal, with reasonably-endurable speeches, and now the guests were mingling freely; picking over morsels of dessert and crystallized fruit, helping themselves to liberal jugs of sweetened wine. Further down the table Matthew was holding court before a swathe of starry-eyed young things who had given up on Shane's purported interest as soon as they met him.
Shane was not, apparently, telegraphing much intention to befriend this evening.
"I'm glad to hear you say that," Yuna said warmly. "We were initially torn between Aurum and Palladium, but—"
Shane wrinkled his nose. "Palladium horses run lame by their third year," he interjected, shaking his head. "They're fast, sure, but there's no substance – if you push them they wear out, and if you don't push them, what's the point?"
Yuna and David exchanged a glance.
"What a good thing we went with our first choice," David murmured, and Shane cringed; he'd sounded ungrateful. The market value of some Aurum horses ran to twice that of anywhere else in the archipelago.
"Well – I mean – both islands have amazing stables," he hastened, painfully aware of Seb's silent laughter at his miss-step across the table. "I'd be lucky to have another Palladium horse, anyone would. But of the two, I'm glad you chose as you did – if he was, you know. Affordable."
Yuna gave a gentle laugh, letting him know his conversational slight was overlooked or forgiven. "Well, luckily enough, we got him for an excellent price."
"Great!" Shane said.
"Yeah – phew!" Seb mimicked, making Shane want to kick him beneath the table. He had to sink down in his chair slightly to get the reach, and was rewarded instantly by a sharp jab back to his ankle.
"The market is erratic down South right now," David said, ignoring or oblivious to their tussle. "Lots of stock moving. There's a rumour one of Aurum’s high houses is falling into disarray."
Shane sat up straight again. Cut-price champion racehorses were definitely a topic he could spare some interest for.
"Or just down on their luck," Yuna said mildly. "It only takes a couple of poor seasons, doesn't it? In any case, they were looking to recoup some losses, so your boy here was a much more sensible investment than he would have been last year."
"That's great," Shane said again, conscious of Seb smirking at him across the table, and opted not to think about the extravagance Seb had arranged for him, at such a casually audacious price.
"Though we still weren’t sure they'd part with this stallion in particular," David chuckled, shaking his head and pouring them each another measure of wine.
"Mm," Yuna agreed, lowering her voice and nudging Shane. "The youngest son fancies himself a champion rider – to rival yourself, if you can believe that!" Her eyebrows conveyed how ludicrous she found this assertion. Then she pursed her lips, glancing to the side. "He is quite decorated, to be fair. Obviously you took the last Nine Isles Championship race, but he was in second place until his horse threw a shoe."
Shane blinked. That day on Palladium – the greatest of his life – had blurred by now into the simple joy of winning, the astonishing upswell of noise from the crowd. He'd taken first place on Argent the Second, a young slate-grey Palladium-trained racehorse he'd feared he was pushing too hard, but they catapulted past the finish line in a thunder of glory, a good few yards ahead of their closest competitors. Shane didn't remember an unfortunate young Aurum rider in amongst all that happy turmoil. But then, Shane didn't have a good memory for faces.
“And he’s taken various other prizes and awards – the family has made a lot of gold off his achievements, over the years. But by all accounts, any winnings are squandered. They don’t reinvest in the boy."
She passed Shane a plate of roasted figs, then squeezed his shoulder.
Shane shrugged the touch away, discomforted.
His mother made an apologetic noise. "But you don't want to talk about business on your birthday," she said brightly. "All you need to know is – we got a good price for the horse."
"Even so, I am humbled by your gift," Shane said, as was expected of him, and ignored Seb rolling his eyes in the background.
He busied himself with the figs – one of his favourite dishes, reliably delicious prepared this way, despite such a short local season – while his mother and father continued the conversation across the table without him. It seemed they were thinking about sending Matthew down to Aurum next to find out a bit more, establish if there were any other advantageous deals to be made.
"I just heard some unusually risky decisions have been taken recently," David was saying, helping himself to a dish of soft-veined white cheese before reaching for the figs himself. "Could be an opportunity."
Yuna shrugged an elegant shoulder. "A familiar story, isn't it?" she mused. "An old house starting to crumble – it's natural that infighting would break out over whichever sons or cousins were most fit to inherit."
Seb drained his cup of wine and reached for the jug again. "With the eyes of the Nine Isles upon them," he said dramatically, making their father laugh behind his hand. "Lo, and what a thrill to witness the other high houses circling like vultures, ready to pick off any stragglers!"
"Now, that's enough," Yuna said, reproving. She glanced at Shane. "Though it is why we're so keen that you each find your own way in the world," she added, an odd light in her eyes. "Then when the time comes, you'll be drawn to pull together, not apart."
"Mother," Seb protested, wincing away from her words. "That's ghoulish."
"Not ghoulish," she corrected archly. "Pragmatic."
"Perhaps a bit of both," David said, favouring her with a tolerant grin. He addressed Shane. "Speaking of finding your own way, have you tried out your new acquisition yet?"
The horse. He was talking about the horse. Obviously! There was no one else Shane had any intention of trying out.
Still, Shane was always happier to talk horses than politics. "Not yet – but I cannot wait."
Yuna beamed at him. "Oh, I'm so excited to see you put him through his paces. You can take him out at first light – if you can hold off that long."
Seb, now several cups of wine ahead of Shane, hooted under his breath. "First light? Unlikely."
Yuna shot him a dark look. "Sebastian?"
"Haha. No. Nothing," Seb said, with a sunny smile. "Jus' I bet Shane won’t be fit to ride anywhere first thing in the morning."
Shane's eyes widened and his heart started to pound. That was far too obvious. That was a... a frankly scandalous assertion! "I beg your—"
"And why is that?" Yuna asked; the milder her voice, the more laced with disapproval it became.
"Wellllll," Seb started, "since it's his big birthday, I—"
Shane interrupted before he could get any further. "No, Seb, of course I won't drink so much wine tonight that I'll stay in bed all morning," he ground out. "I'll be very keen to take out my new horse."
Yuna gave Seb a cool look. “You see? Not every young man sees fit to overindulge at every single opportunity.”
"Exactly," Shane said loudly, tilting his own cup of wine in a bid to draw her attention. "I’ll just—I’ll finish this and then I’ll get an early night!"
If Yuna looked crestfallen at his suggestion of premature departure from his own party, it was only momentarily.
"I bet you will," Seb mouthed, when their mother wasn’t looking.
Shane felt like his cheeks flushed as dark as his wine.
Wending his way out of the still-busy banqueting hall with as few goodbyes as he could get away with, Shane was struck by a realization that, while he’d been downstairs eating his fill, the poor man – and fuck, he didn’t even know his name – had been languishing in Shane's rooms unfed.
He must be generally well-nourished to have shoulders like that, Shane reflected, a moment later, hot on the heels of his guilt.
But regardless – he must be intensely hungry by now! There was water in Shane’s rooms, of course, and apples, and a bowl of candied walnuts on the table by his reading chair, but unless the man was actively looking, he might not have found anything at all.
It gave Shane a curious feeling to imagine that man wandering around his rooms.
He swept that feeling away. This whole situation was outrageous! When he next got Seb alone he was going to berate him so hard…
He slipped back into the more shadowed end of the banqueting hall and snuck a jug of nice wine, then piled a plate high with snacks; it wasn’t until he was outside his own door that he considered how preposterous this must look. Like some little kid having a sleepover.
But really, this offering was the least Shane could do to atone for his brother's terrible choices.
Shane creaked the door open, still half expecting the man to have cut his losses and left.
He had not left.
He had built a fire in Shane's hearth and was slouched in an armchair beside it, unmoving, eyelashes downcast. Maybe he was asleep. But as Shane let the door close behind him, the man's bare shoulders twitched, and the collar flashed in the firelight as his chin rose.
His eyelashes lifted in Shane's direction; his eyes were as arresting as before.
The sight of him took Shane's breath away. The chain trailing across the man's chest glistened. He was still wearing nothing but soft, sand-coloured britches that barely grazed his knees, and his thick thighs lolled open, again far more provocative than servile. He didn't look cold, despite his scanty clothing. Far from it.
"Hi, er, hullo again," Shane said, careful not to trip on the hearthrug as he made his way toward him. "I brought you something to eat."
The man regarded him for a long moment, then his lips twitched. "Okay." He patted his thigh with an authority that made something in Shane's stomach tighten. "Come. Sit in my lap. Feed it to me."
"Um, well, no," Shane said, thrusting the plate at him, standing back at a safe distance as the man sat up and accepted it with a look of bemused tolerance.
Though Shane thought he'd piled the plate high with delicacies, in those big hands it looked like a meagre offering.
Nevertheless, the man made a dual-syllabic noise that Shane dimly recognized as a word of gratitude in the tongue of Aurum. And something about this tiny reminder that the man was a stranger, that Shane had someone entirely unknown and unpredictable in his rooms, filled him with sudden warmth. Fear. It must be fear.
Though… Shane could probably take him in a fight. This man was big, but Shane was well-trained, had a fighter's discipline and a youngest son's reflexes. He would have no problem defending himself, if it came down to it. He was fairly sure he would come out on top, if he wanted to.
On the other hand, if he… Well. If he wanted to let the other man… win… then… Fuck. That would be different.
The man was watching whatever was playing over Shane's face with a distinct impression of amusement. Eventually he took an interest in the plate as well. He ate some crispy salt pastries, one after another, blotting his lips with a knuckle between bites.
Shane watched him pinch a roasted fig in two fingers and lift it to his mouth. His own mouth watered at the remembered taste, the sweet-dark burst of slow-fired fruit collapsing between his teeth. Shane had used cutlery, himself, to avoid any staining from its sticky purple juice. This man just sucked his fingertips clean, cheeks hollowing slightly. There was a dark mole on his cheek, which would have looked like imperfection on anyone else. Shane wasn't sure he'd ever seen anyone more handsome.
All of a sudden Shane realized he was just… watching him eat. That was absurd, wasn't it? He should say something.
He could think of precisely nothing to say.
Ah, wine! He'd also brought wine.
The man took a few slow mouthfuls of bread and oil, dragging the crusts through the spiced lemon preserve that Shane had specially ensured was on the plate, chewing with an appreciative look. Or possibly the appreciative look was for Shane, belatedly pouring a measure of wine into a glazed mug, passing it over with a hand that barely trembled.
The man's fingers enclosed Shane's as he accepted the wine, and the sensation travelled up Shane's arm like a firecracker. Shane inhaled sharply, almost dropping the mug.
The man saved the wine with a crooked grin, brought it to his lips. "Almost."
Almost? Almost dropped it? Almost touched him?
"I don't, um…" Right. Time for Shane to say his piece. He had to make this right. "I'm sorry. This is a very strange situation."
The man's brows lifted again as he swallowed a mouthful of wine and then waggled his head as he set the plate and mug aside. "Not really."
"No?!"
"No."
"But—"
"One night – five hundred gold," the man reminded him. He wiped his mouth, licked his lips. His voice was deep, matter-of-fact. "Offer is agreed. Is fair." His gaze turned watchful. "And yet… you do not make me earn it."
A sudden, violent flash of images went through Shane's head of how this man could earn it. They largely revolved around putting Shane on his knees, one way or another, or holding him, touching him, letting himself be touched in return. Shane swallowed hard, mortified.
"I hope you liked the food," he said faintly, cheeks heating. "But I—I am sorry that, ah, that this is the situation we find ourselves in. I am sure you are a good person and nobody deserves to have their, um, time – purchased like this. I'm sorry my brother did this. It wasn't my idea – I didn't know – and I need you to know, I would never pressure or, or force, or take advantage of anyone in this way."
The man looked less impressed the longer Shane spoke. At last he tipped his head back to the ceiling and blew out a breath. The metal bars piercing his nipples glittered. Then he met Shane's eye. "Finished?"
"…Yes."
The man spread his knees in the armchair. "You would like to get on your knees now? Suck my dick, show how sorry you are?"
For a moment Shane couldn't speak. How this man had managed to infer that from… from Shane's words, or how he looked or stood… he did not know. He felt like his head had been opened and shaken out. His pulse was flying in his ears, in his chest and his tongue and all through his body. The silken ties at his throat felt too tight.
He swayed on his feet, shook his head.
"Pity," the man said, smirking, and dropped a casual hand into his lap, laying it over his crotch and idly gripping. "I wondered if, you know. Boring grovelling turn you on."
"Boring grovelling?!"
He was enjoying this. Shane was losing his mind and yet this impossible man was actively enjoying himself. For five hundred gold!
The man groaned; it sounded despairing. "Hollander," he said, looking Shane straight in the eye, and again, his name, hearing that voice say his name, it made him ache. "I want to fuck you. I have been paid to fuck you. Please – let me fuck you?"
Shane forced his voice to work. "No! I'm going to bed." He tugged the jewelled pin out of its fastening and felt the silken knots at his collar unravel, trailing down his chest. He told himself he could breathe easier now, but in truth it still felt too rapid.
"And I join you?"
Options wheeled in Shane's mind. Obviously, no, he did not want this man – this stranger! – to share his bed. And yet. He couldn't exactly make him stay in that chair all night, could he? Consign him to discomfort in addition to everything else. That would be worse. And Shane did have a large bed, more than large enough for two grown men.
"Fine," he gritted out. "But take that off."
The man grinned. "This?" He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his britches, started to push down.
"No!" Shane squeaked. "That—that," he said firmly, pointing at the golden collar, the fine ornamental chain.
The thought of that chain perhaps catching in the bedclothes, tugging on both his nipples at once—it gave Shane a feeling of immense disquiet.
"Nuh uh," the man said, shaking his head. "Can't. Part of contract. You would have to take it off."
"Oh."
The man rose to his feet to stand in front of Shane, eyes unreadable now. He tilted his head, swept his hair back off one shoulder, displaying the smooth shiny collar.
"Clasp is at back," he said, as if prompting.
Mouth dry, Shane reached up with both hands. He touched the metal of the collar only, not allowing his fingers to stray onto warm smooth skin or the pulse he could see bounding in the man's statuesque neck. Even so, it was inescapable that Shane practically had his arms around this beautiful, bare-chested stranger, his own chest swaying close. He could smell him, an intriguing musky-smoky smell, not perfumed at all. Probably just the hearth's wood-smoke seeping into his hair.
Shane's own nipples were hard beneath his dress robe. If he got any closer they might brush the man's chest, perhaps glide against one of those neat metal studs. The thought of it made him shiver.
He wasn't cold, though. No, he was warm. He felt like heat was radiating off him as he tried in vain to undo the collar's fastening by touch alone. His hands were practically in the man's hair, soft curls brushing his knuckles.
He couldn't work out what to do with it at all. His fingers didn't know which uneven ridge of metal was part of the clasp, or what might be the collar itself. And he was distracted. They were so close. He was suddenly imagining lowering his lips to the man's chest, taking a mouthful of metal and flesh, sucking.
"Spring-loaded," the man said.
"What?" Shane's head was hazy.
"Press hard, then unlatch clasp." Matter-of-fact again, but his darkening gaze was fixed on Shane's face; he felt like he was being devoured by sight alone.
"I… can't seem to do it." Shane's fingers were damp now, sliding on the shiny metal.
"Okay. I help," the man said, and dropped his voice. "Tell no one."
Shane couldn't tell if he was being serious or not, but he didn't have time to formulate a question about that before the man reached up as well.
Big hands covered Shane's own, shifting and squeezing. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing. The man's thumbs pressed hard, uncomfortably tight for a second, spiking Shane with a momentary worry about the man's throat—before the collar was releasing, coming apart in their hands, cleanly hinging open and lifting away.
The man ran his thumbs briskly down the lengths of chain to his nipples and twisted, making a tiny noise as the connecting chain detached both sides simultaneously. And then Shane was left holding the complicated sliding handful of metalwork, somehow much less impressive in his hands than adorning the column of the man's throat, and the man was rolling his head back and rubbing his neck, making a display of his physical freedom, before flashing Shane a bright grin.
"Better?"
"Better," Shane agreed, letting the collar drop from his fingers to clatter against the floor. There was a red mark at the base of the man's throat, a shallow red crescent that he was suddenly desperate to brush his lips against. They were still in extremely close proximity. Though the chain was detached, the man's nipples were still pierced with little bars ending in gold beads, and looked hard, pinker than before. Shane wondered how they would feel against his tongue, if the man would make that tiny noise again.
Hollander. I want to fuck you.
Shane had a sudden sense of how easy it would be, to reach for this. And oh, fuck, he did want to. But then he imagined the triumphant look in Seb's eyes, the rumours flying, that Shane Hollander had had to pay for it, and who he’d paid; that Shane Hollander had taken this fucked up insulting joke of a birthday present seriously, and—
The man closed both hands on Shane's upper arms and tilted his head. Before Shane could think to protest, the man ducked closer, leaning in to kiss him, and that was absolutely—not—not what Shane—under no circumstances, he didn't—
Oh.
Their lips brushed and the firecrackers swarmed Shane's body again, temporarily ousting his common sense.
Oh, fuck, yes.
He kissed the man back, tasting those full lips, a hint of wine; feeling them part readily, pressure increasing, as the man's tongue nudged into Shane's mouth, an almost delicate enquiry. Shane moaned softly and sucked, his hands rising to clasp the man's face. Heat surged inside him as the man clearly took that as permission, kissing Shane fiercely and walking him backward to the bed. His mouth felt incredible and he was strong, thrillingly so, half shoving, half lifting Shane as they moved; and Shane could feel the outline of something big and hard in the front of those soft britches, something that made his head spin even more, fuck, he wanted to touch it, wanted to get it out, wanted wanted wanted—
The spell broke when the backs of Shane's knees collided with the edge of the bed; Shane stumbled backward over it, disengaging and thudding down on his ass in the same chaotic movement, and was immediately swamped with mingled waves of guilt and shame.
"Fuck, sorry," Shane gasped, twisting free of the man's hold and clapping a hand over his mouth, trying to sit up. Every nerve in his body was singing.
The man gave him what looked like a genuinely bewildered scowl. "What. Is. Problem. Now?"
"Sorry," Shane repeated, staring up wide-eyed. The man was looming over him, breathing hard, that bulge beneath his waistband inexorably tempting Shane's eyes. It ought to be threatening but it—it really wasn't. It made him feel hungry. "I can't."
"You can," the man countered, a flicker of his gaze unmistakably drawing Shane's attention to his own erection, hidden beneath his silken trousers—ah, so he had felt that, then. Fuck.
Alarm surged and words rushed out of Shane's mouth. "Not can't, okay—I won't. I won't! I'm not doing this for the first time with someone who's been paid to put up with me! It's not right and I—I don't even know your name," he finished, almost mumbling, his voice withering away in the fires of his own embarrassment.
"Ilya."
"What?"
"Ilya," the man said, and his voice was the same but softened slightly around those syllables, like an edge of hard butter starting to melt. "My name."
"Oh," Shane said. "Ilya." His own tongue felt thick in his mouth. "I'm Shane."
"I know. So… first time," Ilya said, and Shane cringed even more. That had just slipped out. Any hope it hadn't been heard evaporated.
He nodded miserably.
Ilya's lips twitched, and then – as if time itself were slowing – Shane watched him kneel down on the floor at the base of the bed, putting a hand on each of Shane's knees and looking up at him, plush mouth ajar. His lips were pinker than before, and now Shane knew how they felt, how they tasted, it was near unbearable to look at them.
"Listen," Ilya said, unnecessarily; Shane was fixated on his every word. "Is okay. We do whatever you want. Does not count. Can be…" He gave a magnanimous shrug, making the muscles of his chest and arms flex hypnotically. "…practice. For real thing. With real partner."
Shane stared at him. That wasn't what he'd meant at all. But Ilya was already leaning down, pressing slow kisses along the thick navy silk covering Shane's thigh, clearly satisfied with his own explanation.
Meaningless practice.
Shane swallowed hard, closed his hands on top of Ilya's, and pushed him away.
"I'm sorry," he said again, and scooted back up the bed as quickly as he could, leaving Ilya with an expression of overt bewilderment.
He'd vaguely intended to change into his pyjamas, but now he thought better of it, contenting himself with stripping off the top and folding it hastily, laying it upon a chair near his bedside and then drawing the blanket up to his bare shoulders. These dress trousers were basically glorified pyjamas anyway, slippery-soft and thick. He had a sense that he needed every insulating layer he could get.
Ilya snorted and shook his head, then rose from the floor and padded around to slide in the other side of the bed. He had also, Shane noted with relief, not removed his britches.
Shane found himself squirming. There was an oil lamp by his bedside; he turned it right down, blinking in the sudden gloom. Then couldn't resist asking, "What's so funny?"
Ilya shook his head again. "Nothing," he said, still audibly grinning. Then, stretching out next to Shane, but not too close, he murmured, "Is just. Most boring pile of gold I ever earned."
Shane huffed an outraged laugh. "You're welcome."
"A pleasure," Ilya returned, sardonic now. He looked relaxed in the low light, sprawled back into Shane's pillows, one arm curved above his head, hand nestled amongst his tousled mane of hair. His eyes were closed, the sandy lashes angled down. The red mark left by the collar was fading, barely perceptible in the gloom.
He was easily one of the most beautiful things Shane had ever seen.
Shane swallowed. "Fuck off."
Ilya's shapely lips barely moved. "Tomorrow."
Shane had nothing to say to that. He stared for a moment, then rolled onto his side, facing away so he wouldn't be tempted to keep looking at him.
The movement pulled his dress trousers into a strange tension around his thighs. They were not, it emerged, as comfortable as his normal pyjamas. At all. He tried to surreptitiously adjust them, but it didn't help. Maybe he should get changed. But that might send… a signal. Better not.
He tolerated the creased tight feeling for a few moments, then shifted again, wriggling back. Not too far—he didn't want to invade Ilya's space. Certainly didn't want to encounter that warm, hard body behind him in the darkness.
Now the trousers’ fit was even worse, Shane's thick thighs practically strangled in twisted fabric.
You like to be choked, pretty boy?
He—oh, fuck. He shouldn't have thought about that, about Ilya saying that to him, so unceremonious, so easy. How Shane had felt when he said it. That was definitely a thought for another time, a distant future time. Not now. Fuck. His cock was hardening again. Now he absolutely couldn't get up and get changed.
Shane grimaced, wriggling and shifting a little more, and eventually gave up and reached down, tugging the slippery fabric briskly straight again, before resettling his limbs a final time. That was better. His skin was still highly sensitive, but at least now the overt discomfort had faded.
He heard a stifled laugh, then a slow shifting as Ilya presumably rolled onto his side—toward Shane.
"Comfortable yet?" He sounded that much closer.
"Uh. Just about."
"You know," Ilya said, almost conversational, his voice a devastating rough whisper in the dark, "some people, they like to be, how do you say. Overpowered."
Shane froze as his face flared. "Not me."
"No?" There was another slow shifting of the bed behind him, then Shane jumped as a large hand ran casually down his side, outlining his bare flank, his clothed hip, the top of his thigh, before melting away. “This wriggling is not… invitation?”
“No!” The path that Ilya's hand had traced felt red hot.
“Ah. Okay. I misunderstand.”
Shane's body was ringing now, every part of it demanding attention. Demanding satisfaction, fuck. Wanting Ilya's hand to just return.
“Just sleep,” Shane croaked.
“Yes," Ilya said, in a tone that was probably meant to be soothing. Shane's pulse continued racing regardless. "I will not touch you again.”
“Please don’t.”
“Good night, Hollander.”
“Good night.”
Sleep took its sweet, sweet time to eventually arrive; and although Shane's thoughts came back again and again to the prospect of things aside from sleep overpowering him, none of them did.
Shane came awake in the warm embrace of someone huge and strong.
And male.
Behind him.
He became immediately aware that something hard and hot was rubbing lazily against his ass through his clothes.
His head was thick with the wine he’d drunk, his mouth dry.
His cock was rigid.
“Mmh?” Shane grunted. Was this a dream? An incredibly specific dream? How could this—? Why couldn’t he remember—? Why did that feel so good?!
“Ah. The princess awakens.”
At his voice it all slammed back to him: the insulting joke of a present, the feast, the bed-sharing. This man. Ilya.
“Fuck!”
Shane rolled over toward him, hands coming up to push Ilya's wrists away, taking breath to demand an explanation.
Ilya froze, eyebrows lifting as he saw Shane's face. He looked more rumpled this morning, lips puffy, the smudges around his eyes faded to the faintest grey.
"Ah," Ilya said, eyelids lowering to half-mast, letting Shane catch hold of his hands and still them. "You do not want. My mistake – I did not know."
Shane did want. Every fibre of Shane's body screamed want. But somehow he ordered the words to draw a veil over that. "No, I – nothing's changed, okay? Like I said last night—"
"Yes," Ilya allowed. "But this morning. You reach for me."
"What?"
"Your leg. You had it over me. How you say… grinding."
Shane's face blazed. He hadn't, had he? Was that why he was so hard? Why he felt so, so primed and ready to continue?
"And you were sucking my neck," Ilya continued, and to Shane's horror he inclined his jaw, indicating a red patch on his neck that did indeed look like it might have fit neatly beneath Shane's open mouth. "And making… noises."
Shane made an appalled little sound in his throat, and Ilya grinned and nodded.
"Yeah. Like that."
He was teasing, Shane realized, through the red hot haze of embarrassment.
"And then you rolled over and pushed back against me like… how you say… little bitch in heat?"
"Fuck you," Shane whispered, through a horrified laugh.
"So I think maybe – maybe – you do want it. A little," Ilya said, and ran his thumbs over Shane's palms.
Shane's breath caught. "I—I do not. Want it. At all."
"Understood," Ilya said, with a crooked grin. And then he was leaning in slowly, giving Shane all the time in the world to turn away, and Shane didn't move, let him lean in, invisible lines of tension drawing tight across every part of his body, holding Shane perfectly still, frozen, until Ilya's lips brushed his mouth, wildfire igniting along every one of those lines—until Ilya clapped him on the shoulder, and threw back the covers, and jumped out of bed.
“Well, is morning, so I don’t have to do anything else you want anyway.”
Shane twisted to follow him, unable to prevent it, any more than he could prevent his cock from prominently distorting his creased silken trousers.
Ilya's gaze dropped to it, and he licked his lips, almost reflexively. Almost. “Unless you find another five hundred gold beneath the mattress?”
“No!”
"Pity."
"Fuck you," Shane exclaimed, confused heat spiralling through him.
"Next time," Ilya drawled, then gasped and touched two fingertips to his mouth as if he'd misspoken. "No, my mistake – we will not see each other again."
"No. Of course we won't," Shane said, trying to ignore a twist in his gut at those words.
Ilya smirked openly at him. "Regretting your choices?"
"No!" Belatedly, Shane jumped out of bed himself, willing his body to tamp down its arousal, its confusion, everything.
"Good. Would be so sad if you did," Ilya said, and Shane realized he was being teased again—mocked, really.
Ilya crossed back to the armchair by the hearth, darkened and silent now, and lifted a large leather bag that Shane hadn't noticed before. It was… quite intricately tooled. The lid was embossed with some sigil or other; Shane didn't get a chance to see it clearly before Ilya flipped it open, drew out something white and something black.
The white thing turned out to be a shirt, thick fine embroidered linen that buttoned over Ilya's chest with perfect symmetry, concealing the dark shapes of his piercings and tucking crisply in at the waist; the black thing turned out to be an exquisite travelling cloak with gold buckles and gleaming black leather trim. Knee-high riding boots followed, Ilya bracing each foot in turn, his broad knuckles bunching as he laced the boots brutally tight—as an athlete might. Someone who rode non-casually. Then Ilya straightened and raised both hands to his hair, stroking and twisting the long lengths of it, forming a neat coil at the back of his head and spearing it in place with some sort of forked golden hairpin. A few strands escaped, falling around his eyes, but the effect was overall unmistakable.
Before Shane's eyes, Ilya had transformed entirely from anonymous pleasure slave to… to a peer? A foreign dignitary? A fellow rider?
Ilya ducked and scooped up the collar and chain with an easy, long-armed grab, wrapping them carefully in a silky-looking cloth before stashing the bundle away and looking back at Shane.
"Good day, Hollander," he said, shouldering the bag. He looked sleek and composed as he strode to the door.
"Good day," Shane managed, openly staring now, following him before he knew what he was doing. He folded his arms, conscious of his naked chest, his rumpled dress trousers, his bare feet.
He opened his mouth to say something insane – Wait, where are you going? Who are you? Can I come with you? – but thankfully Ilya turned back and spoke first.
"Remember," Ilya said seriously, with one hand on the doorknob. He pointed at Shane, looking him straight in the eye. "You tell your brother – perfect night." He winked. "Best night of your life. I did everything you ask, and more."
"Everything and more," Shane echoed, still adrift in this hot, confusing world in which Ilya could apparently shape-shift.
"Good boy," Ilya said, and blew him a showy kiss.
And with that, he was gone.
"Not too saddle-sore to ride out this morning?" Seb teased, tipping his head back against the doorframe to the stables where Shane was hurriedly pulling on his riding leathers.
Shane glared at him. "No. Not at all."
Seb raised his eyebrows and whistled. "Oh, so was it the other way round? Just goes to show you never can tell."
"It wasn't any way round," Shane said frostily. "And we need to have a conversation about your shabby morality. It's archaic. Even for a joke, pleasure shouldn't be bought and sold like—"
"Oh, pfff," Seb said, waving his objections away like sand from a handkerchief. "No one's being coerced into anything. He's an artisan, by all accounts, and I was paying for his skill – and for a pretty penny, too, I'll have you know!"
Deal is made. I am here.
Shane folded his arms. "It's still not right."
Seb gave Shane a too-astute look. "Was he no good, then? I'm surprised."
"Oh," Shane said, with rapidly mounting horror. "Wait, have you—"
"Ha!" Seb's dark eyes flashed with merriment. "No. No, my darling, I didn't sample your birthday present in advance – that would be going a bit far, even for me." He got a comically faraway look in his eye. "But he did come highly recommended."
Shane tried to ignore the jolt that went through him at the thought of Ilya’s services being recommended to people. Or by people. It was stupid, stupid. "Did you pay him already?"
"I signed it off, yes. It's all through the Agency. It's really not as grubby as you make out," Seb added, faux-peevish now. "But don't tell me the whole thing was a total write-off, it would be just too depressing."
Shane wet his lips. "No," he allowed. "It… wasn't."
Seb crowed and thumped him on the back. "There you go, then! Happy birthday." He chuckled, far too pleased with himself, and realization slowly dawned on Shane.
"So this… wasn't… a joke. An insult, I mean."
Seb looked at him incredulously. "No."
"You were trying to do something nice for me."
"For my sins," Seb said solemnly, before bursting out laughing.
"Wow," Shane said. "I… you are insane."
Sen dabbed the corner of his eye with his fingertip. "Some people – old fashioned ones, not us – might go so far as to say 'thank you'."
Shane opened his mouth to say I wouldn't go that far and instead heard himself ask, "How do you contact him?"
"Thinking about a repeat performance?"
"No!"
"It's one of those sealed envelope situations," Seb said airily. "Very exclusive. But there's no guarantee of reaching him again unless you put your money where your, er, heart is." He waggled his eyebrows. "So was he worth it?"
Shane pressed his lips together. Then—"He was perfect," he said quietly. "Best night of my life." He tried to make his own voice more casual. "But once was more than enough. I was just… wondering… who he was, if I should anticipate bumping into him at some function or other. You know. Could be awkward, if that happened."
Seb was looking at him strangely. "Oh, yes, I see. Well, I don't think there's too much chance of that happening. He's not from around here, as far as I know."
"No, he's from Aurum."
Seb's strange look intensified. "Is he? Well – you'll probably be safe from bumping into him at events, then."
"Right. Good," Shane said.
He was saved from further awkwardness by the stable-hand bringing around his new horse. What a beauty. He really was a very fine creature, a gorgeous bay stallion, deep copper with black points.
Finally. This should take his mind off it all. Shane sprang fluidly up into the saddle, bidding Seb a hasty farewell, and walked on to get a feel for his new acquisition.
Within a half-hour, Shane was in love.
What a fantastic, glorious horse. He was the perfect blend of responsive and energetic. And agile, with impeccable positioning. Shane wondered who had been the trainer. Did they have any more like this one?
His thoughts turned to racing, riding. Polo – the autumn season would begin in a couple of weeks. As with every other year, it would dominate Shane's world for the next three months. He'd have little time to waste on daydreams.
The focus would be winning with his team: matches, tournaments, trophies.
And then, come springtime, the racecourses would take precedence once more. After his success at the Nine Isles Championship, it would be embarrassing to lose some lesser, local race. Not that there were many competing candidates on Argent. But Palladium, Aurum—even Cuprum could have produced a handful of promising riders by the springtime draw.
The other focus, he was less keen on, but it was probably coming. Marriageable prospects. One day it would be unavoidable; one day soon if his mother had anything to do with it. But if he kept busy enough, and victorious enough, there shouldn't be much time spare for that.
There would definitely be no time to contemplate the flash of sunlight off coiled blond hair, the rough mocking catch of a low accented voice, or anyone's terrible, wonderful, mesmerizing scowl.
Shane had work to do.