twitched hard at that fantasy. He wanted to pleasure Yuri so thoroughly that he never wished to look for another lover. They’d agreed, informally, to seek out sex in others after they’d been married long enough and it felt safe to do so, but the idea of Yuri being touched by any other man filled Angelo with a combination of disgust and rage.
Well, hell, he thought. This was not something I’d planned on. At all.
The train ride back to London with Roger was largely silent, much like Angelo's breakfast of toast and eggs with Yuri. Going to Oxford had been a mistake. A huge mistake. Not one he regretted in and of itself, but he hated the fallout that he should’ve anticipated. No man could live up to Yuri’s active imagination. Perhaps this was better done now, though, than later. The worst was over. Both knew what to expect. Yuri, now that he realized sex with his straight—or mostly straight—betrothed was not all he’d anticipated it to be, would willingly go back to the old plan. They’d seek out separate lovers when it was safe to do so. It would be utterly civilized. He and Yuri would remain friends, or whatever it was they were to each other. Only minus the sex.
“Sir. I think that newspaper has suffered enough,” Roger said.
Angelo looked down and saw he’d rolled and twisted it until it had begun to rip. “Oh,” he said, and dropped it beside him on the train seat. “Sorry.”
“Better the paper than something else, I suppose.”
Angelo looked at Roger’s face, which was solemn but still seemed to hold the trace of a smile. He sighed. “I think I’ve buggered it all up,” Angelo confided.
“Maybe,” Roger said, making Angelo’s spirts dip even lower. “But then again, maybe not.”
“What do you mean?” Angelo demanded.
To that, Roger only replied, “Rome wasn’t built in a day,” but could not be drawn out further on the topic.
Angelo spent Saturday trying to exhaust himself without thinking. He went shopping for food, exercised for several hours in the gym, then watched a film as he ate his supper. The next day was Sunday, and it would be more of the same. It was a depressing thought.
As he was undressing for bed, he got a text from Roger.
Roger: you might want to open your front door.
Angelo: why?
Roger: just do it. It’s nothing dangerous, I promise.
Roger: Probably not dangerous
Roger: I’m here if you need me
Roger: just open the fucking door, your highness
Angelo: stop nagging and let me put a shirt on
More or less decent, Angelo sleepily staggered to the door of his flat and peered out through the security hole. Something thudded periodically on the door, but Angelo couldn’t see anything.
He opened the door and Yuri, who’d been leaning his head against it, tumbled into his arms.
“Yuri? What on earth?”
“I didn’t want to come but I need to know.”
“Know what?” Angelo was bewildered, but also excited as hell to see Yuri. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe—
Yuri stepped closer and draped one graceful arm around Angelo’s neck while the other cupped Angelo’s cock and balls. The touch ran through him like an electric shock and he felt like he was being consumed with desire for the man who’d been a thorn in his side his entire life.
“I had to know if this was real or just a fluke.” His hand gripped Angelo’s cock through his trousers.
Angelo’s cock firmed further under Yuri’s clever fingers. He longed to grab for Yuri and just take everything and anything and all the things he’d never known he needed to survive. “What do you think?” Angelo asked in return, his voice gone husky with desire for the maddening, impossible boy in his arms.
Yuri licked his lips. “I think you should take me to your bed so we can figure it out.”
25
Yuri Wants Reparations
It had been an extremely shite day and Yuri was absolutely done with trying to be a good person about it.
Things with Angelo that morning had been stilted and awkward. Philippe had been quiet as well, but his silence, at least, hadn’t felt judgmental. Angelo had, on the other hand, regret stamped hard all over him. He could barely look at Yuri and that hurt like a knife plunged straight into his chest.
After that, he’d been unsuccessful trying to track down an important, and rare, book in the Bodleian. That futile search had eaten up two hours of his day. Then he’d had an informal meeting over coffee with his advisor, who made