embodiment of frustration. Of course Thomas would have been a virgin. A part of him had known it the moment the man had stood bare before him. The slight waver in his voice as he had offered himself to Alexander had all but confirmed it. Yet what the hell had Alexander done?
Hard and sharp, he shook his head. A wave of dizziness flooded his mind. He gripped his skull tighter, willed the lightheadedness away. If only he could lay the blame on the copious amount of whisky he’d poured down his throat that night, but he knew better. He knew exactly where the blame lay.
Always fucking pushing for more than he should.
Teeth gritted, he punched the mattress at his hip then let out a heavy exhale. His shoulders slumped.
So bloody be it. Thomas would have left anyway. Better now than later. He had not meant anything to Thomas then, and all tonight proved was Thomas’s need to assuage his guilt.
That was all. Nothing more. Took four years, but the guilt had finally caught up with Thomas. Still…
The sounds of Thomas’s gasps for more, the memory of warm bare skin beneath his hands, the aching vulnerability in those dark eyes, the soft press of his lips against Alexander’s…
Need tugged at his chest, pulled at his heart, whispered that those apologies had been far more than mere words. That Thomas had, in fact, returned to London for—
No!
He pushed up from the bed and whipped the shirt that still held the faint scent of Thomas’s body over his head. He might not be proud of himself, but he had done the right thing. Thomas had once almost destroyed him. He severely doubted his ability to survive a repeat. And if nothing else, at least he needn’t worry about having to face the man again. Tonight had effectively assured that Thomas would not come knocking on his door again.
Chapter Six
For what must have been the tenth time that evening, Thomas looked over his shoulder to the tall clock in the corner of his mother’s drawing room. In a matter of minutes the butler would announce that supper was served. All of the guests would proceed into the dining room in a particular order arranged by his mother. All of the guests save the one who had not yet arrived.
He’s not coming.
The last thread of hope slipped away.
Thomas kept the disappointment from rounding his shoulders. He had known the possibility of Sasha accepting the invitation had been more than slim. Downright nonexistent.
Yet he had not been able to resist asking his mother to send an invitation to his old friend from Oxford. He had done his best to hide the significance of the request, to act as though it had merely just occurred to him at that moment. Clearly he had succeeded more brilliantly than he could have hoped, for his mother had not even felt the need to inform him of Sasha’s refusal.
And Sasha had been sent an invitation. He knew it without a doubt, for he had lingered in his mother’s sitting room, feigning interest in a book by Cooper and watched from the corner of his eye as she’d sealed that invitation and written Mr. Alexander Norton on the outside.
A supper party to celebrate his return to London, and the sole reason why he had returned had refused to attend.
He turned his attention back through the window of the drawing room. Cold seeped through the panes. Small raindrops from the recent light rain still clung to the glass, partially obscuring his view of the street outside his parents’ town house. But the view didn’t matter. Nor did it seem to matter to his mother or father or his two brothers or their vaunted guests that he’d stood alone at this window for the past ten minutes. Their idle chatter washed over his shoulders. He had endured their questions, their polite inquiries into his time in New York and their false pretenses of happiness to have him back in London in time for the Christmas Season. He knew he himself meant little to them. He was merely a prop, an excuse for the evening’s gathering, and he’d already
Hard and sharp, he shook his head. A wave of dizziness flooded his mind. He gripped his skull tighter, willed the lightheadedness away. If only he could lay the blame on the copious amount of whisky he’d poured down his throat that night, but he knew better. He knew exactly where the blame lay.
Always fucking pushing for more than he should.
Teeth gritted, he punched the mattress at his hip then let out a heavy exhale. His shoulders slumped.
So bloody be it. Thomas would have left anyway. Better now than later. He had not meant anything to Thomas then, and all tonight proved was Thomas’s need to assuage his guilt.
That was all. Nothing more. Took four years, but the guilt had finally caught up with Thomas. Still…
The sounds of Thomas’s gasps for more, the memory of warm bare skin beneath his hands, the aching vulnerability in those dark eyes, the soft press of his lips against Alexander’s…
Need tugged at his chest, pulled at his heart, whispered that those apologies had been far more than mere words. That Thomas had, in fact, returned to London for—
No!
He pushed up from the bed and whipped the shirt that still held the faint scent of Thomas’s body over his head. He might not be proud of himself, but he had done the right thing. Thomas had once almost destroyed him. He severely doubted his ability to survive a repeat. And if nothing else, at least he needn’t worry about having to face the man again. Tonight had effectively assured that Thomas would not come knocking on his door again.
Chapter Six
For what must have been the tenth time that evening, Thomas looked over his shoulder to the tall clock in the corner of his mother’s drawing room. In a matter of minutes the butler would announce that supper was served. All of the guests would proceed into the dining room in a particular order arranged by his mother. All of the guests save the one who had not yet arrived.
He’s not coming.
The last thread of hope slipped away.
Thomas kept the disappointment from rounding his shoulders. He had known the possibility of Sasha accepting the invitation had been more than slim. Downright nonexistent.
Yet he had not been able to resist asking his mother to send an invitation to his old friend from Oxford. He had done his best to hide the significance of the request, to act as though it had merely just occurred to him at that moment. Clearly he had succeeded more brilliantly than he could have hoped, for his mother had not even felt the need to inform him of Sasha’s refusal.
And Sasha had been sent an invitation. He knew it without a doubt, for he had lingered in his mother’s sitting room, feigning interest in a book by Cooper and watched from the corner of his eye as she’d sealed that invitation and written Mr. Alexander Norton on the outside.
A supper party to celebrate his return to London, and the sole reason why he had returned had refused to attend.
He turned his attention back through the window of the drawing room. Cold seeped through the panes. Small raindrops from the recent light rain still clung to the glass, partially obscuring his view of the street outside his parents’ town house. But the view didn’t matter. Nor did it seem to matter to his mother or father or his two brothers or their vaunted guests that he’d stood alone at this window for the past ten minutes. Their idle chatter washed over his shoulders. He had endured their questions, their polite inquiries into his time in New York and their false pretenses of happiness to have him back in London in time for the Christmas Season. He knew he himself meant little to them. He was merely a prop, an excuse for the evening’s gathering, and he’d already
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