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Ángel was bored. That in and of itself was already dangerous, but it was boredom brought on by summer’s dead heat, and that presented a whole new world of potential troubles. The heat never did anyone any good.
All he wanted was a decent distraction from the sweat and discomfort. His mother recently left town for several days, leaving him with the ability to do as he wanted with the house. Ángel did appreciate that — that meant that there’d be less risk of getting caught, should he desire to bring anyone home. On days like this, he usually would seek out pleasurable company in the evenings, but even that had lost some of its luster over the past year.
The one man he’d like to bring to bed was stubbornly refusing to make himself available.
At the very thought of him, Ángel lit a new cigarette, despite knowing it would only make the heat more unbearable. At least it gave him something to do other than simply sulk and pine like a lovesick schoolboy who couldn’t control himself when the object of his attention walked by. He hated feeling out of control. The sensation of things slipping out of balance drove him insane, especially when he was unable to regain mastery over whatever it was that had shifted out of place.
It was self defense, see, as simple as that. If he maintained control over everything, just as his father had and his father before him, then no one would see the cracks in his perfectly managed life. They wouldn’t see the rot at the foundation. He’d even concocted the perfect cover story for the scarring on his back. None of the men he took to bed ever had asked, as Ángel took them from behind and never allowed them to touch him that much beyond their mouths or hands on his cock. After all, one day he’d be married to some ghastly vapid woman, and surely she would ask on their wedding night why his back was so badly scarred.
That was a far less pleasant thought, however, than the man who was currently vexing him, and so he shifted his attention away from what awaited him in the future to the person currently occupying his present thoughts.
Ángel had assumed that Ramiro, when he’d been hired on, would be easy to seduce. He was handsome, and everything about him seemed designed to spike Ángel’s interest. He was easy to tease — Ángel knew how to make him blush quite well at this point, which innuendos and barely disguised flirtations worked best. If there was some privacy, Ramiro might even almost flirt back. At first, he’d stammered and fumbled his words, which Ángel found exceedingly charming. But as time passed, Ramiro began to reveal how clever he really was. It only made the chase more fun, even if Ángel couldn’t help but bristle at the way his mother would then talk down to Ramiro as if he were an idiot child. Worse still was how quiet Ramiro would become in those moments. Ángel, on occasion, would try to rile him up in more public spaces and Ramiro remained quiet and withdrawn then. That only served to frustrate Ángel more.
In the year between Ramiro’s hiring and now, he’d found the men he’d taken to bed had all begun to looking increasingly more like Ramiro, a fact which endlessly infuriated Ángel once he’d noticed what he was doing. He didn’t want to admit that perhaps he’d developed something close to a crush on him. He’d never directly invited Ramiro into his bed, but he’d thought his advances were clear enough. And yet, for all their stolen moments of flirtation, Ramiro never crossed any real line. He never appeared at Ángel’s door in the dead of night. Ángel never found a way to sneak him out into the gardens after dark. The most that would happen was Ramiro blushing and demurring with a “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, señor.” It drove Ángel mad. Any other man he’d have given up on by now, but he needed to see this through. He had to have Ramiro, even just once to get him out of his mind. Once they’d fucked, he could be done with this ridiculous obsession.
Even simply thinking about Ramiro was frustrating. He’d seen him this morning, assisting with breakfast, and that had been enough to send Ángel into a mood. As Ramiro had poured his coffee, Ángel longed to tease him enough to send a blush rising to his cheeks. Of course he hadn’t — his mother hadn’t left yet, and he wasn’t about to risk her wrath and her potentially staying at the manor — but he’d longed to do something, anything, to keep Ramiro’s attention on him. It was a dangerous game to play, but they’d been playing it long enough that Ángel knew that Ramiro wasn’t going to go running his mouth out of shock that his employer was a degenerate.
Perhaps the worst thing about Ramiro, Ángel mused, was how damned gentle he seemed to be. Ángel did not care for weakness, in others or in himself. Ramiro, by the standards that had been taught to him all his life, was weak. Sheepish and quiet and nervous, he’d never make anything of himself if he were so willing to let others take advantage of him. As if he could make anything of himself, that was; Ángel was not foolish enough to think that Ramiro, a poor servant from a poor country, would ever become a wealthy man in his life. But even knowing that, he found himself treasuring Ramiro’s gentleness as much as his wit. Even though Ramiro would keep the boundaries between them as strong as he could, he would often give Ángel a fond smile when they were alone. It was almost as if they were friends at times. And if Ramiro looked at him with a strange, gentle look in his eyes, then…
Ángel wondered what he was up to now. If he was alone. After a moment, he decided to find him.
It was either that or get himself off thinking about how beautiful a sight it would be to see Ramiro on his knees, his mouth wrapped around Ángel’s cock. Not that Ángel hadn’t pleasured himself to many fantasies of Ramiro on his knees, or bent over the desk in the study that had once been Ángel’s father’s, or spread out on Ángel’s bed and begging for him. But there was an itch under Ángel’s skin that would not be satisfied by a dreamed version of Ramiro. He wanted to see the real one.
Getting up from where he’d draped himself over a low couch in his room, Ángel stretched languidly. The heat made him long to nap like a house cat in the sun, but now he had reason to stretch his legs. He abandoned his jacket, instead leaving his room in his crisp blue button up shirt with a vest over it. He left both the family ring and his father’s watch in his room, unwilling to dress as if he were expecting company on a day like this. He could be allowed some modicum of casual dress in this heat.
The first place he looked was in the kitchen, under the guise of asking the cook what dinner was to be. As the older woman described the menu, he scanned the room. There was no sign of Ramiro. He interrupted her remarks to simply say he’d take a tray in his room later, and then went on to search more. Ramiro was also not in the study, or any of the parlors. It was doubtful that anyone would be in his mother’s suite, so Ángel avoided that. His frustration grew with every step. Did Ramiro simply evaporate into thin air? He wondered if he could ask one of the other servants if they’d seen him, but he didn’t want to draw undue attention to the fact he was looking for Ramiro. Too many of the servants were in his mother’s pocket, eager to report on any perceived wrongdoings. Ángel actively seeking out the company of a footman would invite questions. Ángel did not want to answer those.
Finally, he stepped out of the house into the heat of the gardens. The gardens were a vast, sprawling area, the pride of the manor and of his mother. Ángel found it all ostentatious. Not that he didn’t love the gardens, or rather parts of them, but they were solely cultivated to remind the other wealthy families in the area that the Baqueros were the wealthiest. Their money was old, and their bloodline ran strong. It was a status symbol as much as Ángel, a well-educated and well-bred heir, was one. One day, he’d be married off in these gardens at a celebration designed to remind everyone that the Baqueros controlled the power of the area. Ángel despised the idea. If he had his way, he’d live in a smaller, yet still luxurious home that had a smaller garden with only the flowers that he liked. It would be a place he could come to draw and to read, to maybe enjoy some company.
He wondered what Ramiro’s favorite flowers were, and then quickly pushed the thought out of his mind. Ramiro wouldn’t be at that house with him.
Towards the back of the gardens, a willow tree overlooked a man-made pool. There were several benches along the edge of the water, to encourage reflection. At the base of the willow stood a statue of the Virgin Mary, a gift from his mother’s favored priest. As a result, Ángel rarely spent time near it. It felt as though the man’s eyes were on him every time he approached it. But as he drew closer, this time he saw a man in a blue jacket kneeling in front of the statue, head bowed in prayer.
Ángel’s mouth curled into an easy smirk as he slowed his pace, slowly making his way towards the man. When he was close enough, he stopped and slipped his hands into his pockets. “You’re a hard man to find.”
Ramiro jumped, cursing lightly. He turned to see Ángel watching him, and Ángel felt a thrill of pleasure at how he couldn’t quite hide a smile. “You startled me, señor. I thought I was alone out here.”
“Well,” Ángel said, “my apologies. I would never want to give you any cause for alarm.”
He said it with a wolfish smile though.
Ramiro got to his feet, holding something in his hands. “Do you need anything, señor?”
Ángel grinned at him. “How many times do I have to ask you to call me Ángel?”
“At least once more, señor.” The corner of Ramiro’s mouth quirked upwards slightly. It was a common way Ángel tried to bridge the boundaries between them, and Ramiro, ever proper, refused to be so bold.
In the heat, the refusal felt somewhat more annoying that usual. Ángel took a step closer, looking at what Ramiro held in his hands. “A rosary? It’s not Sunday, you know. No need to pray today.”
Ramiro’s face darkened slightly, which caught Ángel’s attention further. “Unless there’s some holy day I’ve missed?”
“No, señor.” Ramiro was retreating inwards, and that bothered Ángel as much as the heat. Was it some sort of deep religious passion that kept Ramiro from falling into his bed?
“May I?” He held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Ramiro handed him the rosary. The cross was an elaborate silver, finer than anything Ángel had ever seen Ramiro possess. It was also old — some of the wooden beads were cracked. Still, it was clearly a possession Ramiro cherished; the silver gleamed as though it was regularly well polished, the beads worn in a way that betrayed use. The sight of it made Ángel sick as he turned his back to Ramiro to stare at it more. Why is it that God would always be used against him? The priest’s whip, the sermons condemning men like him, now Ramiro’s piety likely keeping them apart. It was wildly unfair.
“May I have it back, señor?”
Ángel rolled his eyes. He turned to Ramiro, but held the rosary in one hand, out of reach. “I didn’t take you to be so pious.”
Ramiro’s eyes flashed at that. “Please. Señor.”
The use of señor gnawed at him too. “Call me Ángel and you’ll get it back.”
“That’s…” Ramiro’s stammer returned, along with a scowl. “That’s not fair, señor. Please!”
“C’mon,” Ángel said mockingly. “The Lord will forgive you this sin at confession. Just say my name and I’ll give it right back.”
He took a few steps backwards, towards the edge of the water. Ramiro took a couple steps forward, eyes darting between the rosary and Ángel’s face.
“Come now, Ramiro,” Ángel sneered. He flung his hands open, the rosary still clutched in one. “I swear the devil won’t claim your soul if you call me Ángel once. Just once. Please.”
Ramiro looked oddly close to tears. “Stop it! Just give it back!”
“Ooh, not even a señor there?” Ángel tsked. “You’re getting bold. You’re so close too, just one word and —“
One of the wet rocks at the edge of the water slid under his shoe and Ángel flailed for balance. The hand holding the rosary opened in surprise, and the rosary fell into the pool. Ramiro lunged forward, and for a moment Ángel assumed he was going after the rosary itself. But instead he seized Ángel by the front of his vest and pulled him forward, away from the water.
Silence descended over them, as heavy as the heat. Ramiro stared at the pool, hands fisted at his sides, and Ángel felt a twist of shame. He forced it down, holding his head high. “And to think, if you’d just said my name, you could’ve had it back. What a shame.”
He turned to go, but stopped when Ramiro spoke up. “It was my father’s.”
Ángel turned, the shame fanning itself hotter in his gut. “Your father’s?”
Ramiro hadn’t taken his eyes off the pool. “My father died nineteen years ago on this very day. Every year, I take the two things he left me — this jacket, and the rosary — and I come find a quiet place to pray for him. This year, I thought the garden would’ve been perfect. He was a gardener at a mansion like this before he died. So I came here to pray for him and now… now…”
He inhaled shakily, and Ángel could see that Ramiro was fighting back the urge to cry.
Ramiro looked at him, anger flaring in his eyes. “That was cruel. You’re just as cruel as they say.”
Now he started to leave, and Ángel couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let Ramiro hate him, not like this. It didn’t matter if others thought he was cruel; they were probably right after all. But Ramiro couldn’t think that. It felt so much worse if Ramiro thought that, because somehow, in Ángel’s mind, Ramiro thinking he was cruel made it true.
As Ramiro made to pass him, Ángel grabbed his arm. “Wait!”
Ramiro pulled up short. Their faces were close together, and Ángel’s breath caught for the slightest of moments as his eyes flicked down to look at Ramiro’s lips. Then he looked back up at Ramiro’s dark, sad eyes. “I’ll get it.”
“What?”
Ángel let go of Ramiro’s arm and began unbuttoning his vest. “I’ll go get it for you.”
Ramiro scoffed, but when Ángel discarded his vest and began working on the buttons of his shirt, his frown deepened. “You’re not about to dive in there. If anyone should go in, it should be me.”
“It’s not your fault it’s in there.” Ángel shrugged off his shirt, leaving himself in his thin interior shirt. After removing his shoes and socks, he stepped out of his trousers, though he left on his undergarments. “It’s mine. Besides, it’ll cool me off, which I deserve after spending hours running around the house looking for you in this heat. So, if you’ll excuse me…”
The water was blissfully cold compared to the heat of the day, and Ángel could’ve sighed as he stepped in. It rose to his waist as he settled into the chill. Ramiro stood at the edge, eyes now widened with confusion. “You’ll catch a chill!”
“Not in this weather.” Ángel sighed, looking at the bottom of the pool.
“Can you swim?”
“Enough.”
“Christ above, don’t drown on my account,” Ramiro said sharply.
“It’s not like I’m at sea. Now, calm down before you give yourself some sort of heart attack. I’ll get it back.”
It took a few times of diving under the cool water, but eventually Ángel found the rosary at the bottom of the pool. He couldn’t help but grin as he emerged from the water, first holding out the rosary to Ramiro, who took it gratefully and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket before he helped Ángel climb out.
“See?” Ángel smirked at him. “I told you it was no trouble at all.”
Ramiro stared at him, face flushed.
Ángel realized that his clothes had become sheer in the water. His interior shirt clung to his skin, and as Ángel watched Ramiro’s eyes kept dropping down to look. His eyes dropped lower and it was clear by the slight catch of breath that Ángel’s undergarments were just as sheer and clinging to him as well.
He couldn’t help himself. “Like what you see?”
Ramiro swallowed once. “I’m sorry, señor. I shouldn’t…”
“Oh, go right ahead and look,” Ángel said, as he debated whether or not to strike a more seductive pose. “After all, I’m sure you’ve thought about it before.”
Ramiro’s eyes widened. He glanced down again and then back up. “I…”
“Relax,” Ángel said, turning around to grab for his dry clothes. “I don’t mind if you look. In fact, I like it when you —“
“Oh.”
Ángel stopped at the shocked sound Ramiro made. It didn’t sound flustered, or flirtatious. Ramiro sounded genuinely surprised, as if he’d seen something he hadn’t expected when Ángel turned his back to him. Which was odd, really, because what could he have seen…
Oh.
Fuck.
Ángel immediately turned around, face pale. Ramiro’s eyes no longer wandered. Instead they were locked onto his face, concern and horror clearly warring for control. He’d never seen Ángel in any state of undress before, so he would have never known about the scars. His mother kept his punishments well hidden from most of the staff too, so while Ramiro would have heard her verbally abuse him for a mistake, he would never have any reason to have witnessed a more severe punishment or the aftermath. There was no way Ramiro could’ve known.
But now he did. Now he did and Ángel felt more exposed than he thought was possible. It was ruined now, wasn’t it? Ramiro would see those scars and his shock would turn to pity. Any would-be desire would wither and die, replaced by disgust. Worse still would be if Ramiro would think those punishment were deserved, but they would never discuss them long enough for that conclusion to be drawn. This would be the end of any budding friendship, any dream of getting him into bed. Ángel had killed it.
Ramiro’s eyes were still wide with shock, but something stirred in them. “Are you alright?”
“Get out.” Ángel’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Go back to your duties.”
“Ángel…”
It was the use of his name for the first time, sounding as lovely coming from Ramiro’s lips as Ángel could’ve ever dared dream, that broke him. When he spoke, it was in a furious command. “Get away from me!”
Ramiro took one last moment to stare in horror, and then he fled, leaving Ángel shivering despite the damned heat of the day.
The heat of the day did not break with nightfall. Ángel still found himself burning even as the clock ticked closer to midnight. Most of this was to do with the still warm air, perfumed by the flowers of the garden and humming with the sound of insects outside his open windows. A small part of it though he knew was due to what occurred in the gardens themselves. All he could see was Ramiro’s shocked expression and the cold rush of vulnerability that being seen like that had brought with it.
He’d considered firing Ramiro. That would be the end of it — no need to fear Ramiro’s pity or contempt. But even the thought of letting Ramiro go hurt in its own way, and so Ángel lay on his bed, trying to figure out how best to protect himself going forward. Ignoring Ramiro would be the best option. Hopefully, the man would take a hint that Ángel did not want to speak to him again and would quietly retreat, or even leave the manor on his own. That would have to be good enough. Any dreams of him being able to have Ramiro would just be put away, and surely there would be another attractive man to take Ramiro’s place in Ángel’s mind. Someone less stubborn, who’d be an easy catch.
Ángel scowled at the ceiling. Damn Ramiro to hell. He wished they’d never had the misfortune to meet. His life was better without Ramiro in it. It had been simpler then. No one ever snuck into the cracks in his armor before, and he’d take care to make sure no one did again. This was the last time Ángel would allow someone near him like this. It was a shame they’d never actually fucked, but there was no use fussing over that now. Ramiro would go, and soon he’d be a memory Ángel could attempt to lock away and forget.
He was so caught up in thoughts of how to forget Ramiro that he almost did not hear the knock at the door.
Slowly he sat up, frowning slightly. The staff should be asleep, and his mother was not at the manor. No one was supposed to be around to bother him while he was brooding. And yet, as he stared at the door, someone timidly knocked again.
Realization dawned at the quietness of the sound. There was only one idiot in the house who’d be so damned polite. Ángel debated pretending he was asleep, but the lamp on his bedside table was still lit and he knew the light shining underneath the door would give him away. After taking a moment to straighten his clothes — he’d dressed in a fresh set of clothes after coming back from the gardens, and had yet to change into something to sleep in — he strode towards the door, unlocked it, and opened it.
Ramiro stood in the dark hallway, a lit candle in his hand. He swallowed hard at the sight of Ángel’s severe expression, but he did not flee.
“What do you want?” Ángel kept his voice a low buzz of displeasure.
“I wanted to check on you, señor.” Ramiro let his eyes drop to the ground. “After this afternoon, I was worried.”
“Well I’m fine,” Ángel snapped. “Go back to your room.”
Ramiro tensed slightly. “Please. I just wanted to talk. That’s all.”
Ángel debated pushing back. He could yell and scare Ramiro into a retreat, but face to face with him, he found it hard to do so. Instead he sighed, as if Ramiro was asking far too much of him, and stepped to the side. Ramiro’s eyes darted to his face quickly as he walked into the room, blowing out the candle he held. He set it on a small table as Ángel locked the door behind them. No need to risk anyone stumbling in and making the wrong assumption about this.
“Talk.” It was an order, and Ángel crossed his arms defensively. “What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until morning?”
Ramiro turned to face him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said you were cruel. That was unfair of me. And I shouldn’t have forced you to get into the water. That wasn’t my place either.”
“You didn’t force me to do anything,” Ángel said dismissively. “I chose to get your stupid rosary. I should’ve left it where it was.”
Ramiro’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he took a deep breath. “I won’t tell anyone what I saw.”
"And what did you see?” Ángel sneered slightly. “You were the one staring at me while I was half naked. It would reflect badly on you. You wouldn’t want people to get the wrong impression of you, after all. That could cost you your position. Or worse.”
Again, a flash of frustration crossed Ramiro’s face. “You know what I meant.”
“Perhaps I don’t,” Ángel said. “Go on. Say what you mean.”
Ramiro glared at him. “Your scars. I won’t tell the others.” He paused, and when he spoke his voice was gentler. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
Ángel scoffed. “You’re sorry. How sweet, when you’re not the one who took the whip to me in the first place. Your pity isn’t wanted.”
“I’m not pitying you.”
“Of course you are,” Ángel said.
“I’m not!” Whatever grip Ramiro had on his patience, he was fast losing it. “Christ, if there’s one thing I don’t feel for you it’s pity.”
“Then it’s contempt. Or maybe you think it’s all deserved.”
“I would never say that. No one deserves that!”
“Maybe I do.” Ángel stalked forward, until he was close to Ramiro and could get in his face. “You’ve heard what my mother says, what the other servants say. I’m arrogant, spoiled, a terrible son. I’m a waste of my father’s good name. Maybe they needed to beat the devil out of me.”
“I still don’t think you deserved that,” Ramiro said, his voice a low growl. “You are arrogant and spoiled. You’re thoughtless. But I don’t think that you should be whipped for that, and we both know that’s not why you were.”
Ángel laughed bitterly. “Says the man who prays with his father’s rosary. Tell me, Ramiro, would your father be honored by the prayers of his own degenerate son?”
Ramiro flushed slightly. “I…”
“Don’t deny it,” Ángel said, his voice dropping to a low purr. “I saw the way you looked at me. I know your type. You pray during Sunday mass, and then afterwards you get to your knees for a different reason. But if push came to shove, you’d cast the first stone at me.”
“Go to hell.”
“I’ll see you there.”
Ramiro drew himself up to his full height, and Ángel was pleased to see he was slightly shorter than him. “Do you know why I only have my father’s jacket and rosary, out of all the things he left behind? Why I’m in Spain at all, rather than back in Portugal? Because when I was sixteen, my mother and step-father disowned me and cast me out. I was caught with another boy, see, and they said they didn’t want me to corrupt my siblings. My step-father beat me bloody then gave me a minute to gather my things and go. I haven’t seen my family in years, and I haven’t been back to mass since then either. I pray for my father’s soul, because he was a pious man, but I don’t pray for myself. God doesn’t want me, just as he doesn’t want you. So no, Ángel, I would never condemn you for who you fuck. If I’m going to hell, it won’t be for the sin of hypocrisy.”
Ramiro said his name for the second time, and yet it seemed not to matter. Ángel felt his shame roar back to life at Ramiro’s confession. All this time, and he’d never once thought to wonder if Ramiro suffered as he did. He just assumed Ramiro kept his secrets better hidden, that he was good at pretending. But here, in the dim lamplight, he could see Ramiro laid bare for him. He saw his anger, his pain, all the ugly parts of himself he tried not to feel. He saw his own pain mirrored in them.
“I…” In his fury and self defense Ángel could find so many words, but here? He couldn’t find what Ramiro needed to hear. He didn’t know what Ramiro would want to hear.
Ramiro didn’t break eye contact. His eyes blazed with fire and Ángel wanted to let that fire burn every trace of his own armor away. He wanted Ramiro to purify him.
“Why did you really come here?” It was all he could think to reply.
Ramiro inhaled shakily. “I wanted to know you were okay.”
“Is that the only reason?”
There was a heavy silence, as hot as the burning sun had been during the day. Ángel held his breath.
Ramiro shook his head. “It’s not.”
If this had happened before their confessions and their secrets being revealed, Ángel would’ve kissed Ramiro without any preamble. He would’ve devoured him, dragging him to the bed and bending him over it so he could fuck him as fast and hard as he wanted after a year spent burning for him. But now, with their souls exposed like this, Ángel wanted to luxuriate in this moment. In what he could now have.
He brought his hand up to caress the right side of Ramiro’s face, gently brushing back some of his curls before tracing his fingers along the curve of Ramiro’s cheek. Finally, he dragged his thumb along Ramiro’s lower lip, relishing the hitch of Ramiro’s breath. Ángel swallowed once, letting his eyes drift across Ramiro’s face, memorizing every part of it. Something felt so familiar about this. Ángel mapped out every inch of Ramiro and felt as though he were coming home somehow. As if when their lips would meet, it would be as familiar as breathing was.
Ramiro’s eyes fluttered closed as Ángel leaned in, lips still not touching. “Tell me you want this,” he said.
Ramiro sighed. “Please.”
It was all the encouragement Ángel needed.
The first time their lips met was a gentle, teasing brush, enough to make Ramiro sigh. Ángel kissed him again, slightly more determinedly, savoring the sensation. Every part of him felt alight with sensation. He shivered, as though he were submerged in the cool of the water in the garden once again. This time though, he wanted to drown. He never wanted to come back up for air.
Ramiro wrapped his arms around Ángel’s neck to pull him closer, to deepen the kiss, and Ángel grinned as he happily obliged. Ramiro kissed him hungrily, with a desperation that made it clear that he’d wanted this for just as long as Ángel had. The thought was delightful. Thinking about proper, quiet Ramiro longing for him in the same way, fantasizing about him, touching himself thinking about him… it was intoxicating.
Ángel fumbled with Ramiro’s suspenders, pushing them off his shoulders so he could begin to unbutton his shirt. The action was made difficult by not wanting to stop kissing Ramiro, who was also busying himself with Ángel’s shirt as well. They kept bumping their heads together in a way that made Ángel feel like a clumsy teenager experimenting for the first time; he almost wanted to laugh, but he didn’t want to spoil the mood. Instead, he focused on getting Ramiro’s shirt off so he could let his hands wander over warm skin. He let his mouth travel down to Ramiro’s neck, finding a sensitive spot that made Ramiro gasp and clutch at Ángel’s shoulders.
For all the time he’d been waiting for this, Ángel had wondered what it would feel like to get his hands into Ramiro’s hair. He let one of his hands wander back up to tangle into his curls, giving an experimental tug. Ramiro, in turn, moaned quietly. It was a beautiful, musical sound, and Ángel tugged harder to see if he could pull it from Ramiro’s throat again.
Ramiro let his head tip back. “Oh, God…”
Ángel grinned against the skin of his neck and nipped very gently. Ramiro moaned, slightly louder, then went still and tense.
“She’s not at home,” Ángel said, in between pressing soothing kisses to the spot he’d bitten. “No one should be in this wing. You can be as loud as you like.”
It took a couple more minutes before Ramiro got Ángel’s shirt off of him. Ramiro’s hands were slightly rough and calloused, proof of years of work, and Ángel loved the sensation of them touching his skin. Ramiro’s hands slid downwards, teasingly, towards the fastening on his trousers, before coming back up. He started to slide his arms around Ángel, as if to pull him closer, but he stopped before he touched his back.
Now it was Ángel’s turn to go still. He’d never been touched there like this. He’d never wanted to be touched there. The fear of pain coursed through him and he fought not to succumb to memories of the beatings he’d suffered as his mother’s hand, at his father’s hand, and at the hands of the priest his mother kept well paid to keep him in line.
But Ramiro wasn’t any of those people. Ángel looked at him and all he saw was concern on Ramiro’s face. His hands shifted too, moving further away from his back to rest against his chest, ensuring he would not touch him if Ángel did not want him to. But Ángel did not want to stop. Part of him longed to say as much, to say he knew Ramiro would never hurt him in the same way, to say he knew Ramiro’s touch would only ever be gentle and sweet. But that was more frightening to say out loud.
Instead, he nodded.
Slowly, Ramiro let his hands move again, sliding over Ángel’s back. His fingers mapped out the scars he found there, gentle as ever. Ángel did not allow this moment to linger though. Instead he kissed Ramiro again, with more intention, and began to guide him back towards the bed. Once there, he pushed Ramiro back onto it, taking in the sight of him panting and flushed, before stripping off his trousers. Ramiro watched him with a hungry expression, hands stopping as he attempted to get out of his own trousers.
“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” Ángel teased. “I saw you staring today after all.”
“Even so.” Ramiro took in the sight of him, and Ángel almost blushed at the desire clear on his face. He was no stranger to being admired. After all, his looks were sometimes the only thing he found worthwhile about himself. But there was something about Ramiro looking at him like this, as if the rest of the world did not matter beyond this room, that thrilled him in a fresh and unexpected way. He wanted Ramiro to look at him like that forever.
He deflected from the sudden burst of emotion by grinning down at Ramiro. “Are you going to keep those on all evening?”
Ramiro startled out of his reverie. He sat up, hurriedly fumbling with his trousers. In a few minutes he was naked, and Ángel made a show out of taking in the sight of him. His eyes lingered on Ramiro’s cock for a long moment, unable to resist staring after imagining for so long. He was beautiful. Ángel could not deny that. But then, he’d always thought as much. Even dressed in his somber servants uniform, Ramiro stood out. Ángel couldn’t understand why no one else seemed to give him a second look. Ever since the first day they’d met, he’d found himself unable to look away.
Ramiro, in turn, seemed to bloom under Ángel’s attention. He sank back onto the bed and slowly spread his legs, reaching down to stroke himself lazily as his eyes wandered as well. It was clear he wanted this just as badly as Ángel did, and Ángel simply could not resist giving Ramiro exactly what he wanted.
After retrieving a small jar of oil from a drawer, Ángel settled himself between Ramiro’s legs. He slicked two of his fingers and pressed them against Ramiro’s hole. Slowly, he pushed one in, sighing already as he began to slowly finger him open. Ramiro moaned, relaxing into the mattress as he kissed Ángel desperately. He ground down against Ángel’s hand as he pushed in a second finger, whining slightly. Ángel grinned and slowly scissored his fingers, treasuring the new sounds he pulled from Ramiro.
Finally, he removed his finger and slicked his own cock with oil. He grabbed at Ramiro’s thigh, hiking his leg up on his hip, and kissed him deeply before lining up his cock and pushing inside him. As much as he wanted to thrust deep and fast already, another part won out that wanted to savor this moment. To take his time taking Ramiro apart. After all, they’d waited for so long. What did a few extra seconds matter now that they’d spent a year dancing around each other like this?
Ramiro grabbed at the sheets with one hand, head tipping back in pleasure. The column of his throat was bared and Ángel took the opportunity to kiss his neck again, fighting the urge to suck a mark into his skin that would mark Ramiro as his after all this time.
Finally, he was fully inside him, and Ángel groaned, pressing his face into the side of Ramiro’s neck. Ramiro was breathing heavily, and he looped his arms around Ángel again, running his hands through his hair. They stayed like that for a moment, the heat bearing down on them as their hearts beat against one another’s. Ángel raised his head just enough to capture Ramiro’s lips with his, kissing him filthily.
He pulled out slowly, leaving just the head of his cock inside. Ramiro let out a small gasp, and Ángel kissed him again before snapping his hips forward hard. The sound that tore out of Ramiro’s throat was practically musical, and Ángel thrust again, just as hard. He set up a fast pace, bracing himself so he could thrust deeply into him.
He captured Ramiro’s wrists in his hands, pinning them down over Ramiro’s head. Ramiro moaned, straining against Ángel’s grasp, but Ángel held him fast. He grinned down at him, slowing his pace ever so slightly. Ramiro panted as he stared back up at him, eyes wide and desperate.
“Don’t stop,” he breathed. “Please, Ángel…”
Ángel kissed him. “Ask me again.”
“Please!” Ramiro shifted below him, trying to grind down against Ángel’s cock inside him. “Ángel, I need you, please…”
“How can I resist,” Ángel said, kissing him again, “when you’re asking so nicely?”
He resumed his pace, pinning Ramiro’s wrists down with one hand so he could reach between them and stroke him with the other. At the first touch of Ángel’s hand on his cock, Ramiro let out another cry, closing his eyes. “God, yes, like that!”
Ángel was close himself now, losing the patience to tease Ramiro further. He fucked him hard, stroking him in time to his thrusts. The world around them slipped further away, and all Ángel knew was the sensation of being inside Ramiro, of Ramiro’s lips against his, and of the small gasps and moans that Ramiro made.
He sped up his stroking and Ramiro came with a sharp sound, spilling into his hand. He clenched around Ángel and Ángel followed, muffling his own moans by biting down on Ramiro’s shoulder. He released Ramiro’s wrist with his hand as he rested against him, not wanting to move. Ramiro brought his arms down, stroking Ángel’s hair with one hand. He kissed Ángel’s temple, lips ever so gentle, and Ángel smiled against his skin.
Soon, the sweat and stickiness was more uncomfortable than anything else. Slowly pulling out, Ángel smirked at Ramiro. “Don’t move.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Ramiro said with a groan, sinking further into the mattress. “The thought didn’t even cross my mind.”
Ángel hurried to the bathroom, where he washed his hand and quickly ran a towel under some water. When he came back, Ramiro had propped himself up on his elbows, and watched him approach with a satisfied smile on his face. Ángel returned it as he settled next to him, Gently, he began to clean Ramiro up, a task which brought a gentler expression to Ramiro’s face.
“I can take care of that myself,” he said.
Ángel shook his head. “I don’t mind. More excuse to touch you.”
“Flirt.” Ramiro let himself relax back down. After a moment, he spoke again, and Ángel could tell he was trying to sound unbothered. “So was this it? You got what you wanted from me.”
“You got what you wanted too.”
“You know what I mean.” Ramiro sighed. “If this was all there was to it, it’s… I understand.”
Finished with his task, Ángel let the towel drop to the floor. He climbed back into the bed and Ramiro opened his arms so Ángel could settle his head against his chest. He liked this. Ramiro’s arms didn’t feel as though they were trapping him but rather protecting him. He felt safe, and cared for in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before. The sound of Ramiro’s heart beating was as soothing as the sound of waves upon the shore. Ángel thought he could stay like this forever.
Out loud, he took on a casual tone of voice. “I haven’t gotten all I wanted yet.”
Ramiro kissed the top of his head. “If you say.”
He sounded pleased, and Ángel grinned, comfortable in the knowledge that Ramiro wanted the same as he did.
Ramiro began to hum, a tune that Ángel did not know, and Ángel closed his eyes and let the gentle sound soothe him to sleep.
The last thing he thought before he drifted off was it seemed as though the heat of the day had broken at last.