Chapter One

D ecember 25, 1820

London, England

Percival Owens stepped out of his mother’s town house, a sigh of relief deflating his chest at finally being free of the drawing room. As he lingered on the last stone step, waiting impatiently for the footman to shut the door behind him, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his greatcoat. His fingers curled around crisp, folded paper.

I will expect you at eight in the evening on Christmas Day.

A short note. One line was all that was needed. And that one line had been foremost in his thoughts since he’d received the note yesterday morning.

With a smart snap, the footman shut the door. Instead of going east toward his apartments, Percy turned left onto the walkway, toward the direction of Michael Barlow’s tidy town house on the outskirts of Mayfair.

The rain that had made the family carriage necessary to attend church services that morning had abated, yet the chill, damp air held the promise of more rain soon to come. Thick clouds obscured the full strength of the moon, but the golden light spilling from the windows of the houses he passed kept the night from near pitch darkness.

The streets were relatively quiet, with only an occasional carriage passing him. Most people would be tucked safely in their homes, gathered around the Yule log or playing merry games, celebrating the Christmas holiday with loved ones.

Whereas his holiday would be marked by something entirely different.

Shame washed over him, familiar and unavoidable. He knew exactly what would transpire when he arrived at Michael’s home. Well, perhaps not exactly . Michael made the decisions. Percy merely did as bid.

But he wanted to do as bid. Needed Michael to take control. Wanted that large hand to palm the back of his skull. Wanted to be told to suck Michael’s cock. To be bound and restrained. To be buggered and spanked. To let Michael do all sorts of wicked things to him no self-respecting gentleman should allow.

Yet he did allow them. When he was with Michael, all those wicked things didn’t feel quite so . . . wrong. He didn’t feel so wrong.

Percy quickened his pace. The sooner he reached Michael’s, the sooner that sense of calm would wash over him. The worry and the shame gone. Wiped away for a few precious hours.

If only it could be longer. If only Michael could come to care—

He gave his head a firm shake, throwing off the thought before it could fully form. A handsome, successful man like Michael would never want him for more than a very obedient bed partner, and it would do no good for Percy to even begin to hope for more.

The yearning tamped firmly down, he headed north at the next corner to cross Oxford Street. It seemed like no time at all before he was standing before the third door on Henrietta Street. A check of his pocket watch proved he had not arrived late.

Michael was expecting him. There would be no need to knock. The servants dismissed for the evening, Michael in the study, perusing the Times or a report from his estate manager.

Percy stepped up to the door, reached for the brass knob with a hand that shook only slightly, and turned it.

* * *

T he faint click of the front door shutting made its way to Michael Barlow’s ears. A smile spread across his mouth. Percy had arrived.

Setting the Times on the couch cushion next to his hip, he looked to the clock nestled in the evergreen boughs draping the fireplace mantel. Percy had followed his instructions.

No surprise there, though. Percy always did as commanded. No questions, no hesitation, no needs of his own to interfere. In fact, he couldn’t recall a single instance when Percy had asked anything of him. Not for so much as a touch or a kiss. Not even when he was gasping and groaning in pleasure, fingers clutching the coverlet, had Percy allowed a single plea for more to fall past his lips.

A furrow touched Michael’s brow. While he preferred his lovers not to be of the overly demanding sort, he couldn’t help but find such blind acceptance of his whims a bit disconcerting.

The sound of footsteps approached the study, and then Percy walked into the room. He glanced to drapes closed tightly over the windows, then shrugged his greatcoat from his shoulders, revealing a plain brown coat and trousers. “Good evening, Michael,” he said, finally looking at Michael. Coat folded over one arm, he shifted his weight, discomfort mixed with acute need radiating from him.

Michael did his best to keep the frown hidden from view. They’d been meeting for months. The uncertainty of a new relationship should have been behind them by now, yet the proof that it wasn’t stood just inside his study.

Patience, he reminded himself. Percy was young. Just three-and-twenty compared to Michael’s own thirty years. And while Percy had never explicitly stated it, Michael had the sense his prior relationships had been confined to a handful of hasty encounters.

“Good evening, Percy.” He tipped his head toward a wingback chair, the one that held the navy coat he’d discarded a good hour ago. “Did you have a pleasant dinner with your family?”

A grimace flickered across Percy’s genial features as he folded his greatcoat over the back of the chair. “I wouldn’t go so far as to classify it as pleasant. My mother still wants me to distinguish myself by becoming a barrister.”

“Did you inform her that you’d rather not?”

He shrugged. “It would not do any good to argue with her.”

“I beg to differ. If you prefer your position as a clerk, you should tell her so.”

“I reminded her I’ve been in Mr. Miller’s employ for a year, but to her, that’s a year too long.” He shook his head, his shoulders slumping. “Rather than listen to her go on about it, I left early and walked here instead of taking a hackney.”

It took considerable effort for Michael to hold back his opinion of Percy’s social-climbing family. Anger on his behalf, or even compassion for being tied to a family that refused to appreciate him, wasn’t what Percy needed. “A reminder as to the length of your employment is not akin to a statement of your preferences,” he said, careful to keep his tone firm yet even. “Honestly, there’s no hope at all she’ll ever stop pushing you to become a barrister if you don’t make your wishes known.” For that, he received another noncommittal shrug. Holding back the sigh, he flicked his fingers toward the other wingback chair across from the couch. “Sit.”

Percy rounded the chair then stopped short, his gaze on the brown leather bag on the chair’s cushion. Simple yet sturdy, a bag fit for a barrister’s clerk.

“Happy Christmas.”

Shocked hazel eyes met Michael’s. “For me?”

“Yes.”

“Truly?”

“Yes,” Michael repeated, uncertain if he should be amused or concerned at Percy’s disbelief.

“Thank you.” Percy reached down, feathered ink-stained fingertips over the engraved initials on the small silver oval on the bag’s flap. “But . . . P J O. How did you know the J?”

Trust Percy to notice the smallest detail first. “I ran into your elder brother at my club the other day. Pulled the name from him.” Percival Joseph Owens, the Joseph coming from his grandfather.

A wrinkle marred Percy’s brow, his eyes clouding with acute anxiety. “Oh, does he suspect . . . Did he ask . . .?”

“Not to worry. He hasn’t the slightest suspicion of the degree of our acquaintance.” Michael waved a hand to the present. “Do you like it?”

“Yes. Most assuredly. It’s perfect. Thank you.” The words rushed out of Percy’s mouth, eager and pleased, the briefest of smiles lighting up his face. He ran a reverent hand over the smooth leather. “But . . .” There was that wrinkle again. “But I have nothing for you. It didn’t occur to me. In my family, the presents are given to the children, never among the adults. But I should have thought to—”

“Not to worry.” He knew Percy’s position didn’t pay him much, and that even though his mother possessed an ample fortune, she rarely pressed a few extra pounds into her younger son’s hand. The man needn’t spend a shilling on him, nor did he want him to. “Truly. Don’t fret over it.”

Teeth digging into his bottom lip, Percy nodded once, ever obedient. “If there is anything I can do for you, you need only to ask.”

“Perhaps I shall.” He lowered his voice. “Later.” He swore he could detect the frisson of anticipation grip Percy’s body. “For now, have a seat.” Once Percy sat, Michael asked, “Would you care for a drink? I had the kitchen make some wassail before they departed this morning.”

At Percy’s nod, he got to his feet and crossed to the console table.

Hands clasped over the leather bag on his lap, Percy glanced about the study, to the evergreen on the mantle, the holly sprigs on the corner of his desk, the punch bowl on the console table. “You’re one for the holiday?”

He needn’t sound so surprised. “Yes,” Michael said, handing Percy a half-full glass.

“Did you spend the day with family?”

Instead of taking up his spot on the couch, he leaned a hip against the edge of his desk. “No. They’re up in Cumbria. Wasn’t of a mind to travel this year. I took dinner at the club since the kitchen had the day free.” And then he had spent the rest of the evening alone, waiting for Percy.

Percy nodded once, then took another sip of the spiced punch. A little nervous wiggle in the chair. A fleeting glance to Michael. A glance full of stark, desperate need.

Michael couldn’t keep the command from his lips a moment longer.

“Stand up, Percival.”

Glass clinked as Percy set the tumbler on the side table. He carefully put his gift on the floor, then stood. Hands at his sides, eyes downcast.

“Remove your clothes.”

The only sounds that broke the silence were the swoosh of fabric and Percy’s quick breaths. There wasn’t one fumble, not one rushed tug at a stubborn button. His ink-stained fingertips made efficient work of removing his coat, waistcoat, and cravat. He whisked his shirt over his head, ran a hand over his short light brown hair to smooth it, then pushed his trousers down his legs.

After folding the garments and placing them on the chair, he turned to Michael, eyes once again downcast and arms at his sides.

The light from the candles flickered across his pale skin, his erection jutting eagerly from between his legs. Michael resisted the urge to reach out and wrap a hand around that beautiful prick, to coax a whimper from Percy’s throat, and instead simply took pleasure from the sight before him.

At a good five inches below Michael’s own six feet, Percy’s body was compact and softened to the perfect degree, with just a bit of extra flesh on his frame. Not so much as to cause a protruding belly, but just enough so he wasn’t all hard muscle.

The fire crackled in the hearth. Michael waited. Waited until the rhythm of Percy’s chest slowed, until his breaths turned even, the ragged quickness gone. Until the line of his shoulders finally relaxed.

“Upstairs,” Michael said, calm and without a hint of command.

Percy turned on his heel. Michael pushed from the desk and grabbed the folded clothes.

He could have had Percy undress in the bedchamber, but then he’d have been denied the pleasure of following a naked Percy up the stairs, that generous round arse bouncing with each step he took.

Once they reached the bedchamber, Michael saw to lighting the candles and the fire in the hearth while Percy waited at the foot of the four-poster bed. Pulling a small key from his pocket, Michael dropped to his haunches and then unlocked the trunk next to the writing desk. He made to reach inside the trunk but stopped, hand hovering over a pair of leather cuffs.

It hadn’t escaped his notice that Percy’s reluctance to voice his preferences extended into the bedchamber. The man embodied the very definition of a compliant lover. That wasn’t to imply Michel didn’t enjoy his evenings with Percy—he most assuredly did, and Percy’s reactions screamed he enjoyed them as well. But it was Christmas. And Percy had made him an open offer. Perhaps there was something Percy could give him that wouldn’t cost the man even a halfpenny. A gift that could benefit them both.

He wiped the smile from his expression, then stood. Percy’s gaze went to the writing desk, the surface clear of leather goods, dildos, and plugs, then to Michael’s empty hands. Confusion filled his eyes.

Stopping before him, Michael let the smile touch his lips in an effort to reassure Percy. “Earlier you said that if there were anything you could do for me, I need simply ask. I’ve decided what I want. Call it a gift, if you will. I want your voice tonight.”

A furrow crossed Percy’s brow. “I don’t understand.”

“I want your voice. I won’t do anything to you unless you ask for it.” That furrow became heavier. “It’s not difficult, I assure you. Shall I show you how it works?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Kiss me, Percy.”

Without hesitation, Percy raised an arm, cupped Michael’s jaw, and lifted onto his toes. Soft lips brushed across Michael’s. He held back the impulse to deepen the kiss, to take control of it, and simply savored his first kiss from Percy. The first kiss Michael had not had to take. The chaste press of his lips, the light puff of his breath across Michael’s cheek.

A flick of Percy’s tongue, a short fleeting taste of the man’s delicious mouth, then those lips were gone.

Michael cleared his throat, gathered his senses. “That’s what I want from you tonight. The gift of your voice. I will do whatever you want. Bind you in any fashion you desire. To the bed, to a chair, tie you down on the floor. I’ll redden your arse until you’re sobbing for more, tears streaming down your cheeks, bugger you until you can barely sit tomorrow. Prepare you for my cock and then make you wait an hour for it. Anything. You just need to ask. So do you agree?”

The discomfort, the uncertainty was back, tightening Percy’s shoulders, compressing those soft, sweet lips, convincing Michael that his instinct in this had been spot-on.

And so he held onto his patience and waited for Percy’s answer.