Chapter Text
No one questioned the subject of inheritance because sons had been receiving their due for generations. To the youngest went the church living, complete with a properly modest cottage, a wholesome wife, and an adoring flock. To the second son went the Army commission, which brought a promise of independent wealth and future glory along with the constant threat to life and limb.
And to the eldest went all the responsibilities of the peerage—the desperate need for a wife and future heir, the bother of estates and bookkeeping, the punishing demands of renters and the working poor, and the pressing need to keep in good with the Prince Regent whatever the cost to pocketbook, moral character…or body.
“He expects a full Season’s membership to Eastwick, you know,” Isaac complained, sprawled sulkily on the lush violet chaise. A woman’s slender, practiced fingers were twining through his hair, tugging on the short black strands before soothing his scalp. Another scantily dressed woman was perched at his feet, full breasts nearly swinging free of her gown as she kissed the tips of his toes. “A full Season every Season. And it’s not just for show, either—I have to go nearly every night and dine with the old prigs or I risk hetting Prinny up.”
Fitzwilliam hummed in agreement, hoisting a giggling, half-naked girl onto his lap. Richard was more sympathetic. “My brother had to take up membership when he ascended to the title, too,” he said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Dirty blond hair fell into his eyes and he flicked it away irritably before one of the whores could reach for him. “He hated it the first few weeks, but he said you grew used to it over time.”
Isaac made a face and Fitzwilliam—Fitz, when they were like this—laughed, hands lifting to cup his girl’s breasts. “’Grew’ is the operative term, though, isn’t it? Everyone knows why Prinny insists on his lords dining at Eastwick so often. He’s grown so abominably fat over the last few years that he can’t stand being the only one rolling about town. How big a belly has Lord Aldritch got on him now?”
Richard flushed. “My brother has gained weight, true,” he admitted. “A substantial amount over the last few Seasons. But that doesn’t mean everyone dining at Eastwick is bound to—“
“Everyone dining at Eastwick is bound to get fat,” Isaac interrupted sharply. He sat up, pushing aside the whore’s hands irritably, muscles tensing. He could feel them beneath his half-undone shirt—the tight, strong stomach and chest, the sturdy arms. It wasn’t pride feeding his opinion of himself.
Well. It wasn’t undeserved pride. He was a Corinthian. He was a sporting man, given to pugilism and horse racing and hunting. He’d served with the 34th Mounted with Richard and Fitz and all of his friends, secure in his place as second son.
Until the shipping accident that cost his father and brother their lives.
Until this fresh hell.
He sighed and pushed his fingers through his short, dark hair. He hadn’t wanted the title, or the money. He’d been doing just fine without it, enjoying his freedom, his active lifestyle, and his many lovers (both open and carefully guarded secret). Being the Duke of Northumberland brought more changes than he knew how to handle—not the least of which was the threatened change to his waistline. “The food’s rich enough to spoil a man’s insides, and everyone knows the unspoken rule is you keep eating so long as the Regent is still at table.”
“And everyone knows Prinny’s got an appetite that can barely be sated.” Fitz slid an arm around his girl’s waist and shifted on the opposite couch to face Isaac, letting her sprawl across his lap. She was a pretty sort, if redheaded, and Isaac found his gaze dropping to the V of her thighs barely hidden by the gauzy excuse for a dress.
At his side, his own two whores crept closer, and Isaac let them, reaching out to grab a handful each of pert bottom. One warm hand slid up under the hem of his shirt, nails raking across his tight abs. One firm thigh slid over his.
Richard frowned and glanced down, then shrugged. He stood, tugging off his own shirt, balling it tight before tossing it aside. His sun-bronzed skin gleamed in the fitful light of the bordello. His muscles shifted and bunched as he moved closer.
“You’ll be rich, Isaac,” Fitz murmured. Isaac closed his eyes, thighs spreading apart as soft lips brushed over his skin. A larger, broader palm moved along his jaw and he bit his lip, hips lifting in blatant invitation. “Richer than any of us will ever be. More important than any of us will ever dream of, even if we do go back to war.” There was the sound of knees hitting the hardwood floor, then broad shoulders pushed his legs apart. Richard wouldn’t dare touch him so intimately in mixed company, but here, they were safe. Here, in this den of inquitiy anything was permitted for men like them.
A small part of Isaac idly wondered whether, now that he was lord in his own right, he could indulge his male lovers as semi-openly as his female. The gossips would whisper, but what power did they have over him anymore? He could hardly be cast from the Army a second time, and he was rich enough to thumb his nose at anyone he wished. The thought was appealing, and he hummed a breath as one of the whores began unfastening his breeches for Richard—head tipping back, eyes still tightly shut. Fitz was still talking, but the words were beginning to fade in and out, making little sense.
Why shouldn’t I enjoy this now? Isaac thought, riding up into the heat that was gradually beginning to build. He felt languid and open, vulnerable and flushed. He was hard and his balls ached at the irregular gusts of breath soaking through the woven cloth. Isaac gasped when one of the women pinched his nipples. A hot, masculine mouth brushed over his still-clothed erection.
“So you’ll go to Eastwick and dine with Prinny near every night.” Fitz’s words blended with the soft sounds of skin on skin and his own irregular breaths. “So you’ll be stuffed like a prize hog every Season until your breeches don’t fit and your gut bounces with each step. You’ll still be the Duke of Northumberland, you’ll still be rich as God Himself, and you’ll still be twice the man either of us will be.”
A dry laugh.
“Literally.”
Isaac made a rude gesture, hips lifting toward Richard’s gifted mouth helplessly. He was pressed down against the chaise by a tangle of limbs, male and female. Even Fitz sounded closer, low voice near Isaac’s ear. A hand swiped over his stomach, calluses making him shiver, and a thumbnail flicked along the circumference of his bellybutton.
“Enjoy m’lord’s body tonight, ladies, Richard,” Fitz teased. Isaac turned his head and opened his eyes and yes—yes, he was right there, blue eyes glittering in amusement, full mouth parted in a wicked grin. The whore in his arms was fully naked, legs around his waist, skin gleaming in the candlelight. His wicked eyes were dilated, flicking down Isaac’s body and then back to his mouth in a hungry glance. “Take your fill of his bloody beautiful body. There’s going to be a great deal more of it to come once the Season is in full swing.”
His rough hand rubbed a teasing circle along Isaac’s stomach before sliding down. Isaac felt his body clench, felt Richard’s tongue press against the head of his cock through layers of cloth, teasing a moan out of him. Soft breasts rubbed against his skin and long hair was tangled about his face.
Fitz winked at him and pinched the bare flesh of his stomach. “A great deal more.”
“You’ll—fuck—you’ll like that, won’t you?” Isaac managed, struggling not to buck up into the overwhelming sensation. Small, soft hands were pulling him out past the falls of his breeches for Richard’s undisputedly talented mouth, stroking the base as his long-time lover swallowed him down. Fitz leaned in to press hot kisses along his jaw, tongue laving over the rasp of dark stubble even as the whore in his lap lifted up onto her knees, balancing precariously over his Fitz’s body for a few seconds before carefully seating herself on his bare cock.
Isaac watched, fascinated, turned on, turned all but upside down himself as inch after inch of his other long-time lover’s cock slid into the welcoming heat of the whore’s cunt, and all he could do was moan and clutch at Richard’s sandy hair.
Fuck, fuck, it was good. He could live and die here, happily.
Fitz, the demon, bit at his jaw light enough it was unlikely to leave a mark. “Like what, my l-lord?” he murmured, one hand dropping to his girl’s rounded hip to help guide her rhythm. His eyes flickered between the tangle of bodies moving over Isaac’s supine form, then up to watch as Isaac watched him. His breath was hot against Isaac’s parted lips. “There are many things I enjoy; you’ll have to be more specific.”
Damn the infuriating man. Isaac threaded his fingers through Richard’s hair, stroking gently—encouragingly—even as he reached over to pinch Fitz’s side hard. Golden skin stretched taut over muscles; Isaac wasn’t the only Corinthian amongst them. “You know damn well what I…fuck, Richard,” he added with a breathless laugh, hips bucking hard into a sudden deep swallow of impossible heat. His fingers tightened convulsively, but he forced himself not to buck up, instead rolling his hips carefully as Richard took him to the root. One of the girls was kissing across Richard’s broad shoulders, but he was, as always, ignoring her, his eyes for Isaac alone. Of the three of them, he was the least likely to be swayed by the attentions of a pretty trollop. “What I mean,” Isaac forced himself to finish. “You’ll like seeing me go to seed.”
Fitz snagged a handful of his girl’s hair, pulling her in close until her breasts were rubbing hard against the cut planes of his chest—no doubt intending to draw Isaac’s helpless gaze. God, he was close to coming; he could feel the heat building and building, body and mind overwhelmed with bubbling pleasure. The scrape of hard pink nipples against Fitz’s chest hair—the liquid swallow around his prick—the soft gasps—were enough to have him steps away from exploding into waves of pleasure. If the lordship takes everything else away from me, at least, please God, let it allow me to keep this.
“Do you mean will I enjoy seeing you get blessed fat?” Fitz gasp-laughed, grin wicked. “Oh, aye. Richard is the cleverest; you will be the richest. It’d hardly be fair if you’d be allowed to be the most handsome, too. When you’re nice and round as a ball, I’ll finally be the dashing one, eh?” He leaned in, catching Isaac’s mouth (and the sputtered protest) in a sudden, fierce kiss that had him pressed back against the soft chaise, utterly debauched and exposed and instantly, inevitably forgetting what he was about to say. One strong hand gripped his hair to pin him still, even as Richard’s firm grip cupped his arse and hoisted his hips up into that blinding heat. Spare mouths sucked bruises against his thighs and hipbones and stomach, soft hands smoothing over his body, and everything inside of him coiled tight with the first breath of inevitable release.
I won’t let it happen to me, Isaac decided, aware of his body—coiling muscle carefully maintained, trim shape perfectly sculpted—on display for so many admiring touches. I won’t be like all the others. No matter what bloody Fitzwilliam says.
Richard nuzzled against him, fingers squeezing, giving him permission to come down his throat. Isaac stroked back soft blond hair in reply and closed his eyes, ready to fall.
And Fitz, of course, waited until that very moment Isaac was crying out on the first cresting wave of pleasure to break the fierce kiss with a bite to his mouth and murmur hot and teasing-cruel into his ear: “Come for us, lord piggy. Let’s see you all undone.”