A Seditious Affair

By: K.J. Charles

A Society of Gentlemen Novel (Society of Gentlemen Series Book 2)




Chapter 1


JULY 1819

The Tory was waiting when Silas entered the private room.

He stood as if looking out the window, though it was covered by drapes. No prying eyes wanted. His back was to the door, and Silas gave himself a moment to look. Curly black hair that he knew to be shot with silver at the temples. A pair of shoulders beginning to round, just a little, from too long spent at a desk. Fawn breeches that didn’t hug his arse nearly as much as they might. A rich man, by Silas’s standards. Probably an important man. An unknown man.

He turned a moment after Silas entered, though he must have heard the door. Dark eyes under the black hair. Welsh blood at work, that was, that and the strong, dark features.

The Tory looked at him, unblinking. Didn’t smile. Didn’t say good evening.

Silas crossed to his usual chair, watching. The Tory watched him back.

Silas sat. It was a comfortable chair, and he’d been on his feet all day and had walked here from Ludgate too. He allowed himself a sigh of contentment, then looked up at the well-dressed man who waited in silent stillness.

“Wine.” His own Cockney rasp always seemed more pronounced in the Tory’s presence.

The Tory didn’t move for a moment, as if shocked by the order, a flush darkening on his cheeks, then he went, in silence, to the little table. There was a bottle there, already uncorked, two long-stemmed glasses. He poured for them both with a hand that shook, left one glass there, came over to hand Silas his.

Silas tasted the wine. Rich, red, almost certainly costing some impossible sum. Like the private room at Millay’s, like the Tory’s coat and gleaming boots, like everything in the room except himself.

The Tory stood close, watching. Silas swung one leg over the other. He wore shoes and worsted stockings. The Tory wore Hessians and silk.

“Take my shoes off,” Silas said harshly, and then, “No. On your knees.”

The Tory gave a convulsive swallow. He went down to his knees, head bowed, and reached for Silas’s roughly stitched leather shoe.

“Look up.”

His head came up, dark eyes unreadable. His face was taut with emotion, but his mouth was a little open, lips a little red, and he took hold of Silas’s shoe like the best-trained servant Silas could imagine.

“Other one.” Silas moved his foot, forcing the Tory between his legs as the man served him. His prick was hardening already, and he could see the bulge in the Tory’s breeches. He spread his legs wider. “See that?”

The Tory nodded, a barely perceptible movement. Silas curled a leg around his back and kicked the kneeling man forward. It took him by surprise. He lurched, steadied himself with a hand on Silas’s thigh, and Silas took the opportunity to grab his face, taking a tight hold on his well-shaven chin. “I said, see that?”

“Yes.” A whisper. Forcing the word out.

“Where’s that going tonight?”

“Please,” the Tory said. “Please. Don’t make me.”

Silas stared at him, feeling the pulse beat beneath his fingers, hearing his harsh breaths. The Tory stared back, eyes full of shame and defiance, chin stubbornly up.

One of those nights.

“Don’t make you,” Silas repeated. “Don’t make you, when I come all this way to get my prick pleasured?” He set his jaw, tensing his shoulders, increasing the pressure on the Tory’s skin. “You’ll do as I say.”

“No.” The Tory’s voice was a soft thread of pleading. “Don’t.”

Silas pushed him away, hard, catching him off balance a second time so he went over onto his tailbone, sprawling on the wooden floorboards. He slapped a hand on the floor to stop himself going over completely, and stayed there, bent backward, legs folded under him. His posture suggested a man who was going to lose this fight. The bulge of muscle in his arms and the tension of his lips suggested a man who wasn’t used to losing, who had to struggle with it.

“Get up. Strip yourself. Do it.”

The Tory stood. His hands were shaking as he obeyed, pulling off his coat and waistcoat, tugging the clean linen over his head. His chest, tangled with wiry black hair. His belly, just a little soft from fine living.

“Breeches.”

The man doubtless had a valet, someone who folded his clothes and took off his boots. Silas enjoyed watching him do it himself. No opportunity for caustic comments as he struggled with a tight coat or stiff boots tonight, though. He was dressed to undress. His boots came off easily; he pushed down soft breeches, linen drawers. Such a fine gentleman.

And then he stood naked. Candles—wax candles, no stinking tallow here—burned all over the room, giving a clear light. Silas liked the light. He liked to see the Tory bare, without the fine fabrics and expensive tailoring that marked his class. Just a man, skin and flesh, a face braced against pain or humiliation, and a cockstand begging for it.

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