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the fact Vincent once gave him verbal leave to do with him as Oliver pleased, the man’s unease at the time had been more than obvious—breaths short and shallow and muscles drawn tight in trepidation, never mind the limp cock dangling between his legs. Neither had Oliver felt comfortable with such a sudden reversal of their usual roles. Sometimes one needed time to acclimate oneself to a new idea, and it had definitely been one of those circumstances. But many months had passed since Vincent even flinched in hesitation when Oliver trailed his fingertips along the crease of his arse. Hell, the man now had no qualms at all bending over and ordering Oliver to lick his arse.
    And it wasn’t that Oliver did not believe himself capable of taking Vincent to the necessary point. He held no illusions Vincent would ever walk into the bedchamber and surprise him with another offer to put himself in Oliver’s hands—the notion was too foreign, too new for him to feel comfortable voicing on his own with no prompt at all. But if Oliver sufficiently applied himself, he felt confident he could strip away every one of Vincent’s inhibitions and pull those four words from his lips. The words he had once promised himself he would wait for.
    The opportunity had presented itself many times. He adored lavishing Vincent with pleasure, trailing his lips over every inch of his body, feeling those powerful muscles tighten to the point of trembling with need, hearing those deep, low groans of pure lust. Yet he always held back, just enough, and had long ago stopped questioning his reasons. But now he knew the true cause. He could not ask it of Vincent, could not accept that gift from him when the possibility of being forced to part still hung over them.
    But with the direct threat now gone…
    A broad smile curved his lips, one he knew had to appear downright wicked. Anticipation nipped at every nerve in his body. Tonight, if Vincent was amenable, the man would be well and truly his, in every sense of the word.
    The carriage turned right, onto the road that led to Vincent’s estate. A few large oak trees lined the long dirt road. All hints of the day’s sun were gone from the sky. The light from the full moon cast the trees’ bare branches in spidery shadows across the sparse winter grass. Oliver settled back against the black leather bench and turned his mind to how best to get Vincent to abandon his own plan for the evening and put himself in Oliver’s hands.
    An outright request was out of the question. A shrewd businessman, Vincent tended to analyze a situation. Best if he did not have time to think on it, else his nerves would seize hold and destroy any hope for an enjoyable evening, regardless of the man’s willingness. He would need a strategic assault. Slow and careful yet deliberate. Building the tension, the want. Nurturing the need he knew lay buried deep within Vincent. Until his lover could not stop those words from tumbling past his lips.
    Please, Oliver. Fuck me.

Chapter Four
     
    Vincent reached for the silver bowl of carrots and spooned more onto his plate. “Was the appointment a success?” Oliver had returned to the house before Vincent even started to worry he had been left to his own company for supper, prompting Vincent to wonder if the appointment had been worth the effort. Present Oliver with a stack of books and the man tended to lose track of all sense of time.
    “Oh yes.” Oliver took another bite of the pork. “Middleton’s library…” He let out a blissful little sigh that Vincent knew had nothing to do with the quality of the pork tenderloin. “Books everywhere and most were in pristine condition. Well, at least those I was able to sort through. Mr. Wallace will certainly be pleased when the books I selected arrive,” he said, referring to the shop’s prior owner who had remained on to assist Oliver with the day-to-day running of the small bookshop. Oliver paused, his fork suspended a couple of