Page 133

“I am not the one who will bend.”

“Viscount,” he draws out the words, “if I had wanted to, you would already be bent over the floor.”

“Bend me. If you can.”

“Be quiet.”

“Do it.”

“I said shut up.”

“Why? Afraid you won’t manage it?”

“Don’t provoke me, boy.”

“I have enough pearls.”

“You—fuck—” he grits his teeth.

The bulge in his trousers twitches even more.

Once.

Two.

Three.

Four.

A dull sound comes from outside: wet ground trampled by hooves.

I lean down quickly to put back on the shoes I had hurled against the wall.

“What are you doing?” he asks, confused, narrowing his eyes.

“Get up.”

Dorian hesitates, his face trying to grasp what I have already heard. I pick up my cloak from the damp floor. He opens his mouth to speak but is silenced by the voices filtering from outside, mixed with the light rain.

“Viscount Rochefort! Lord Vasiliev Ashford!”

Servants. They are drawing near.

He snaps to his feet, his body still marked by the evidence of a desire that hasn’t had time to subside. He tries to compose himself, in vain. I hurl his cloak at him; he catches it mid-air.

“How did you know?” he asks in a low voice.

“I have developed excellent hearing, Lord Vasiliev Ashford.”

I move toward the door.

“What did you say to the ladies?” I ask, without turning around.

“What?”

“You followed me. What explanation did you give?”

“That your horse bolted because he is blind in one eye.”