Above me, Alexander’s strong arms gather me closer, his fingers curling around my shoulders as he thrusts again and again. With a primitive roar, he collapses against me, and I absorb the feel of him as he breaks above me. Around me. Inside me.
8
Alexander
“I was looking forward to being here tonight like I would a prostate exam, but it looks like my feelings are about to change. Not to mention my luck.”
I don’t immediately turn my gaze from the contemplation of the glass in my hand, but when I do, I try to do so without a scowl. But given it’s my brother who has spoken, my half-brother if we’re being technical, I’m not entirely successful.
Griffin Middlemass. Half-brother. All annoying.
Why the hell did I think to invite him tonight? Probably because I haven’t seen him in three months. It’s not a case of distance making the heart grow fonder but distance weakening the memory of how hard I find it to be around him.
“I take it from your avaricious expression that you’ve either seen a potential client or someone you’ve fucked.” Though judging by the direction of his attention, he seems to be under the impression that he’s about to unleash his charm on a member of the catering crew. Unless he’s developed a taste for elderly businessmen in the past three months, which isn’t inconceivable. Griffin’s tastes are wide and varied, though they don’t, as far as I know, include men.
“Do you routinely invite members of the criminal fraternity home?” Griffin tilts his chin as though to examine the ornate plasterwork in the high ceiling or perhaps the crystal chandelier hanging overhead. “I suppose you’ll know the one or two oligarchs with dubious business dealings. Maybe one or two junior members of the royal family open to a bribe or two?”
“I don’t associate myself with the corrupt.” Except that one oligarch’s son I happen to be old friends with.
“Just the morally corrupt, eh?” he invites, tapping the rim of his glass to his temple.
I don’t bite though the temptation is great. Lately, I’ve been like a bear with a sore head, so I’ve been told. The fuse on my temper minuscule. My attention to social niceties non-existent. The general feeling is that my behaviour is linked to my recent milestone birthday, and in some respects, it is. It is not, however, the result of a midlife crisis.
“Come to think of it,” he continues, “the ruling class? All thieves.”
“You forget whose blood runs in your veins.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll always be the black sheep, born on the wrong side of the blanket. Brought up on the wrong side of the tracks.”
To listen to Griffin would make a person assume he was raised in a tower block somewhere with crack addicts for parents, not in a small manor home in leafy Sussex. But he likes to play the role of hard done by.
“And a silk,” I drawl in response. “Appointed by the Queen as a member of Her Majesty’s Counsel learned in the law. Or so they tell me.” I’m not sure how. Or how anyone would be stupid enough to retain his services, but Griffin is a barrister. Griffin Middlemass, QC, no less. Had I not seen proof of this myself—Griffin dressed in the customary wig and gown orating a perfect character assassination of a witness in the hallowed courts of the Old Bailey—I might not have believed it myself.
“If you’re suggesting I got where I am as the bastard son of a duke, you’re way off.” Griff straightens his tie with an agitated twist.
I stifle a sigh, unwilling to join in his act of the aggrieved son. It’s not like I was ecstatic to find my father had left some half a dozen bastards around the country after his heart attack. But I resent how Griff likes to play both sides. The estate might’ve paid for his education and later his chambers and staff but, like the popular song, he prefers people to think he’s just a poor boy from a poor family. Which just isn’t true. Perhaps he should try being the head of the family for a while, then he might see how being in his position has its perks.
“Save me the act. It’s not my underwear or my wallet you’re trying to divest me of. You’re not at work now, so there is no need to be such an argumentative ass.” Even if that’s what makes him an excellent QC. It’s probably in the genes. His mother was an actress, after all.
“Arguing is what I do best, and it pays fucking well. Though not as well as being a duke.” Slinging an arm around my shoulder, he thickens a fake cockney patois. “And let me remind you, as the head of this family, you’re responsible for the bastard son.” He straightens. “In that respect, you’re wrong. I’m always after your wallet.”