Chapter 6: Love Lies Bleeding, Part 2
Brandy burned deep in his gut, but Gilles and François burned hotter still throughout his entire body.
A wicked addiction he would do best to rid himself of, but he was as hopeless as the addicts he tried to help every week.
Gilles touched him first, and Stregoni counted it a small, cheap victory. He was no better dressed than they, wearing only the bare minimum required to preserve modesty until he reached the music room.
He shivered faintly as his shirt was pushed off his shoulders, the laces teasing briefly across his nipples before Gilles's mouth trailed with agonizing slowness across his stomach. Reaching out, he shoved his hands beneath Gilles's shirt, digging his nails into the soft skin beneath, feeling hard muscle. A spoiled brat Gilles might be, but he was too vain and proud to allow his body to go to seed.
Lowering his head, he breathed in the scents that clung to Gilles, remnants of his soap - cypress and marigold - and a hint of cologne which remained elusive. He moaned softly as Gilles's mouth moved higher, leaving a trail of tingling heat, making him gasp sharply and tighten his hold until he earned a noise in return.
Gilles abruptly stood up, arms bands around Stregoni's waist. Standing at his full height, he was at least a head taller than Stregoni. He nipped at Gilles's collar bone, but before he could get a better taste of the fine skin, his head was tilted up and his mouth plundered.
He tasted like his dark, dry wine, a hint of clove. Something darker still and so rich, something that was all Gilles. If Stregoni could distill it, whatever it was about Gilles that drugged him so, he could addict the world to it.
His mouth was explored, devoured, taken until not a breath remained in his body, and he was left dizzy and gasping. Only then did he realize they had moved across the room to the black velvet chaise lounge.
Gilles grabbed his shirt and removed it entirely, then pulled off his own. Stregoni gasped as fingers came from behind him, a warm body banishing the cool air making him shiver. Too-sharp teeth teased along his throat as François's fingers unfastened his breeches and pushed them down enough to get fingers around his cock.
An addict Stregoni might be, but he was not so consumed by this wicked drug he would stand stupefied. Recovering himself some small measure, he turned and shoved hard, toppling François to the chaise. Straddling him, Stregoni attacked François's pants, getting them open despite the delicious distraction of being pulled into François's sharp, hungry kisses.
Gilles got the last of their clothes out of the way and then pressed up behind Stregoni, his cock rubbing along the cleft of Stregoni's ass, hands hot and heavy as they stroked and teased along his body.
Grabbing a fistful of Stregoni's hair, Gilles pulled him up and turned his head so that he could kiss Stregoni hard and filthy.
Their kisses hurt because at times they seemed to convey things Gilles and François would never say. These nights were dirty secrets, and Stregoni still did not know why they had succumbed to that first, long ago urge one blizzard-shrouded night.
Touch after agonizing touch, gasps and moans and muffled cries, hot, sweat-slick skin, all melted into a haze of lust and need, until the fingers buried deep inside him finally slid away and Gilles's cock replaced them, François's cock sliding deep into his mouth, fingers tangled tightly in his hair, just the right amount of painful.
They used him hard but with reverence, made Stregoni feel for that too-brief span of time that he was the one using them. Maybe he was. Nobody else could satisfy him the way these two could, with every burning touch and biting kiss, the pain and pleasure twisted together in a way headier than the finest laudanum.
Gilles groaned as he came, sinking deep into Stregoni one last time, fingers so tight on his hips they'd probably leave pale bruises.
A few moments later, François spilled down his throat, then pulled roughly out and kissed him deeply. Stregoni moaned into it, clinging as he was shuffled about, and two rough hands quickly brought him off.
Their panting filled the music room as the fever slowly cooled, and Stregoni dreaded the return of his senses.
It came all too soon, as Gilles slid from his body and he and François stood and started to dress.
He did not wait for the snide comments, the cruel remarks, but slid away and retrieved his discarded clothes, cheeks burning with shame as he dressed.
Gilles said nothing, but he could feel the cold eyes upon him, knew the cutting words hovered on the precipice, that they would tip from the sharp tongue with the next breath. The dry laughter from François that would follow, taunting words to hurry along or strip again if he needed more.
Though Stregoni no whore, at the end of these damned interludes, he felt like one.
Still, they said nothing. That was strange enough that the pace of Stregoni's heart began to increase, a flush of hope causing his steps to slow as he reached the door, and he braced a hand on the frame to turn around and see if just maybe...
"Good night, Carrot."
Cold. Dismissive. As though Gilles were bored again, now that the amusement had come and gone. And that damned name. Carrot. Stregoni knew his hair was ugly, ridiculous, not the more vibrant red-gold that his mother possessed. Gilles always knew where and how to hit for maximum pain with minimal effort.
Back on the bench, François seemed already to be half asleep, but he regarded Stregoni pensively, and with a sadness that he was probably imagining. Why would François ever be sad where Stregoni was concerned? He was so quiet and reserved, Stregoni had rarely heard more than ten words from him in any given week. François was Gilles's beautiful, mercurial shadow.
Stregoni finally left, though his steps remained heavy and slow. As he reached the end of the hallway, the sounds of slow, sad music reached his ears again.
Stregoni pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and told himself it was the late hour and the candlelight which made them sting and water.