Glen Baskerville generally thought of himself as a practical man. His manor, while luxurious, had nothing more than he truly needed. He was not a noble that went and spent his money on expensive rugs or spices – no, he chose merely what worked and nothing more. He did not hold lavish parties or engage in many, expensive love affairs.
Nevertheless, there was simply nothing practical about Jack Vessalius on his knees before him, beneath the overhang of the veranda in broad daylight, his braid a loop of gold about one of Glen's feet and quite the efficient snare.
That was not to say he did not engage in love affairs. No; Jack was merely not an expensive one.
Jack's tongue was on him, kittenesque, and Glen hissed and swore as it rubbed against the tip of his cock, delicately tasting the pearl of liquid that gathered there. This was not the first time he and Jack had enjoyed such a tryst, but it was the first time that Jack had cornered him so without warning – in the middle of the day, outside, leaves rustling with the rush of wind and blood pounding in his veins at the thought of discovery –
Not that he would be the one shamed. No, he would receive a clap on the back, some crude joke between nobles that he was fucking the third son of the Vessalius family and wasn't that one pretty –
Glen looked down at the sight of Jack's kiss bruised lips wrapped around the thick length of his erection, lashes low and cheekbones flush with unmistakable arousal… and bit his lip to stifle a groan. The slick, wet heat of the blonde's mouth, the tightening of Jack's throat as his rhythm brought Glen in even deeper, buried near to the hilt – God, yes, but that one was pretty. Beautiful. His. Glen's fingers clenched in sunspun hair as he thrust, unable to resist, and Jack's eyes briefly went wide before fluttering near-shut again with a muffled, pleased moan, the lax hold upon the duke's hips releasing as Glen near grinned, and took the slow slide of Jack's hands down and away as permission to do as he might.
The skill of Jack's lascivious tongue was unmatched as far as Glen was concerned, and thus it took little time for him to reach his peak with each thrust that buried himself down the all-too pliant throat of his lover, fingers twisting into silken hair with each twitch of his aching cock. It was on an afterthought that he pulled back at the last moment, a sticky, gossamer strand still connecting him and Jack's lips as he came, spilling not down his lover's throat, but over his face instead, and Glen smirked, hazily, at the sight Jack made, flushed and shocked and dirtied in a way that continued to make his body stir, even as it attempted to simultaneously unwind.
"… A warning would have been nice – " Jack attempted, grimacing with one emerald eye shut, and Glen drew him up, grasping Jack's chin and drawing his face close. The blonde squirmed, but Glen paid no heed, his tongue wet and warm as it drew up Jack's cheek, tasting himself, the salt of sweat, and the sweetness and heat that was simply Jack. Glen felt him shudder, watched both eyes shut entirely, and then swiped his tongue over one eyelid as well, savoring how Jack jerked slightly in his arms, both aroused and unsure.
"If you want a warning," Glen breathed, a wash of warmth draping saliva-slick skin, "extend to me the same courtesy."
It was then Jack's turn to smirk. "Never."
For that reason, Glen supposed, he never wanted to let Jack go.