had made it quietly understood that reciprocity was expected…and not in terms of sex.
Loureilles had information Gaspard needed. Gaspard had a cock Loureilles desperately wanted to get his mouth on. It had been a simple exchange, one that had now come to a precipitous end.
“The list.” He extended an expectant hand.
The other man blinked, absently patting his hands over the front of his waistcoat, as though feeling for something he’d misplaced. Eyes still glazed with desire stared up at Gaspard with a vulnerable longing that made him want to back away even farther.
“Don’t you want to…?” Loureilles tilted his head toward the simple divan upholstered in hideous gold-and-green brocade. The invitation was clear.
No. “I have business to attend to.” And Gaspard was already late. “The list, monsieur.”
With a beleaguered sigh, Loureilles pulled a thrice-folded square of paper from the watch pocket of his waistcoat and placed it in Gaspard’s outstretched hand, then struggled to his feet.
Gaspard watched dispassionately, not offering his assistance as he secreted the paper into the fitted sleeve of his coat.
With a wince, the manager adjusted himself, the evidence of his unsatisfied arousal causing not even a twinge to Gaspard’s conscience. Loureilles’s natural inclination ran toward subservience, a characteristic Gaspard excelled at exploiting. “Make me,” whispered excitedly in his ear during his first encounter with Loureilles in one of the Académie Royale de Musique’s mirrored dance halls, had told Gaspard everything he needed to know about what the grandfatherly, dedicated bachelor required to garner his cooperation.
Not every mark was like Loureilles, though. Many of the men were lonely, and some of them kind, though their enforced loneliness often left them desperate for sex. In his time as a spy, he’d fucked intelligent men and stupid men, handsome men and ugly men, men who were highborn and common and boring and odd. But the reasons he visited them were never in pursuit of his own pleasure.
Now he had the list, and he had places to be that were not on rue de Richelieu . “Hubert, it was a pleasure,” he lied, collecting his hat, greatcoat and walking stick from a nearby chair and heading for the office door.
“Will you be back?” There was a plaintive note in the older man’s voice, scraping at the nerve endings bundled at Gaspard’s nape.
Arching an eyebrow, Gaspard paused to glance over his shoulder. He couldn’t afford to have Loureilles shoot his mouth off in a fit of rejected pique. “Perhaps. You’re not the only cock in my flock, you know,” he murmured flirtatiously, knowing Loureilles enjoyed that, as well—the idea that he was only one in a stable of lovers, but part of that stable nonetheless. “ Adieu. ”
By the time Gaspard made it to the cobbled street, dark and wet from the day’s snowy slush, he’d managed to unclench his back teeth and blow even breaths through his nose. Calm and cool, both inside and out—that was what he always was, what he needed to be.
Using his thumbs to pop his coat collar, he turned into the wind, heading briskly toward his next destination. The extravagant mansion of François, the duc d’Évoque , was considered an artistic feat of Baroque architecture, a scaled replica of the famed Château de Chantilly, but suited for town living. Visiting dignitaries and pampered aristocrats from all corners of Europe often begged invitations to stay at Évoque’s palatial Parisian home.
Gaspard hated the place.
After countless midnight meetings in his employer’s private study over the course of half a decade, any magic or majesty found in visiting the fabled mansion had long worn off. It was beautiful, epitomizing the decadent wealth of an era that was supposed to have died years ago with Louis XVI, but Gaspard had lost his appreciation for such beauty during the course of his work.
At least, that was what he’d
Loureilles had information Gaspard needed. Gaspard had a cock Loureilles desperately wanted to get his mouth on. It had been a simple exchange, one that had now come to a precipitous end.
“The list.” He extended an expectant hand.
The other man blinked, absently patting his hands over the front of his waistcoat, as though feeling for something he’d misplaced. Eyes still glazed with desire stared up at Gaspard with a vulnerable longing that made him want to back away even farther.
“Don’t you want to…?” Loureilles tilted his head toward the simple divan upholstered in hideous gold-and-green brocade. The invitation was clear.
No. “I have business to attend to.” And Gaspard was already late. “The list, monsieur.”
With a beleaguered sigh, Loureilles pulled a thrice-folded square of paper from the watch pocket of his waistcoat and placed it in Gaspard’s outstretched hand, then struggled to his feet.
Gaspard watched dispassionately, not offering his assistance as he secreted the paper into the fitted sleeve of his coat.
With a wince, the manager adjusted himself, the evidence of his unsatisfied arousal causing not even a twinge to Gaspard’s conscience. Loureilles’s natural inclination ran toward subservience, a characteristic Gaspard excelled at exploiting. “Make me,” whispered excitedly in his ear during his first encounter with Loureilles in one of the Académie Royale de Musique’s mirrored dance halls, had told Gaspard everything he needed to know about what the grandfatherly, dedicated bachelor required to garner his cooperation.
Not every mark was like Loureilles, though. Many of the men were lonely, and some of them kind, though their enforced loneliness often left them desperate for sex. In his time as a spy, he’d fucked intelligent men and stupid men, handsome men and ugly men, men who were highborn and common and boring and odd. But the reasons he visited them were never in pursuit of his own pleasure.
Now he had the list, and he had places to be that were not on rue de Richelieu . “Hubert, it was a pleasure,” he lied, collecting his hat, greatcoat and walking stick from a nearby chair and heading for the office door.
“Will you be back?” There was a plaintive note in the older man’s voice, scraping at the nerve endings bundled at Gaspard’s nape.
Arching an eyebrow, Gaspard paused to glance over his shoulder. He couldn’t afford to have Loureilles shoot his mouth off in a fit of rejected pique. “Perhaps. You’re not the only cock in my flock, you know,” he murmured flirtatiously, knowing Loureilles enjoyed that, as well—the idea that he was only one in a stable of lovers, but part of that stable nonetheless. “ Adieu. ”
By the time Gaspard made it to the cobbled street, dark and wet from the day’s snowy slush, he’d managed to unclench his back teeth and blow even breaths through his nose. Calm and cool, both inside and out—that was what he always was, what he needed to be.
Using his thumbs to pop his coat collar, he turned into the wind, heading briskly toward his next destination. The extravagant mansion of François, the duc d’Évoque , was considered an artistic feat of Baroque architecture, a scaled replica of the famed Château de Chantilly, but suited for town living. Visiting dignitaries and pampered aristocrats from all corners of Europe often begged invitations to stay at Évoque’s palatial Parisian home.
Gaspard hated the place.
After countless midnight meetings in his employer’s private study over the course of half a decade, any magic or majesty found in visiting the fabled mansion had long worn off. It was beautiful, epitomizing the decadent wealth of an era that was supposed to have died years ago with Louis XVI, but Gaspard had lost his appreciation for such beauty during the course of his work.
At least, that was what he’d
Similar Books
