The Wages of Sin [The Mysterious] by Alex Beecroft

didn't wish to lie to you, Charles. I forget that my vocation has been cut away from me like a limb. I feel its phantom presence and I cannot believe it's gone."
    The picture above the mantel was of St. Sebastian, tied to a pole, pierced all over with arrows. Jasper smiled at it, his eyes mercury with tears. "I grew up with that picture. I thought it so romantic; martyrdom. Jesus Christ, I had no idea!"
    Charles tried to shift position, got tangled in the overlarge folds of the banyan and shucked it off. It was warmer now, much warmer. The beeswax candles above the fire gave out a thin, sweet smell of honey.
    Jasper soaked the tears into his cuffs, pressed his lips together firmly. "And I have been dressing as I used to, playing the part since I came home, because I didn't want father to know. He has at most a month to live and he's made peace with that. This… no. How could I possibly burden his last days with this?"
    "You couldn't." Charles reached out and took the other man's face in his hands, brushing away the faint dampness with careful fingertips. Leaning in, he touched his lips to each eyelid, and then to Jasper's lips; little butterfly touches, barely more than a breath and a brush of warmth against his mouth. "I'm so sorry."
"I don't want you to do this because you're sorry."
    The overlarge shirt slipped on Charles' shoulder. He gave a little twitch to encourage it to fall down entirely, pool in worn, soft folds in the bend of his elbow. "No." The breeches had already slipped to his hips, were barely clinging on there. He got to his knees and made a little shuffling step forward that made them slide lower until they outlined the curve of his buttocks through the thin shirt. "I want you to do this out of your own free choice. Please?"
Jasper gave a peal of delighted, astonished laughter. "Oh God, you are nothing like him, are you?"
"Do we have to keep talking about him?"
    "About who?" Jasper grinned. He touched his finger to the butter in the butter dish and traced the line of Charles' exposed collarbone with it, making it glisten. As Charles watched curiously, thinking how strange this was, he leaned in at one end of the line and sucked the butter off. Charles yelped with surprise, clutching involuntarily at Jasper's wide, silk clad shoulders, his prick alert and throbbing, as a fever of pleasure burst from the bone. Jasper licked and sucked his way along the line and Charles wriggled beneath him until the breeches were around his knees and he could shift forward and sometimes, just occasionally brush his prick against Jasper's kneeling thigh.
    His hands felt their way down the slopes of Jasper's back, his flanks, hot beneath a single layer of linen, fumbled with breeches buttons, just as Jasper leaned away, lips glistening and that big cat smoulder back in his whiskey coloured eyes.
    The next line, gleaming gold in candlelight, he drew slowly down from the row of bruises across his chest, pressed two dripping fingers to Charles' nipple, circling it, rubbing the oil in. The burst of pleasure built from fireworks to a constant rushing tingle. Charles leaned back onto the scattered cushions, bringing Jasper down with him. Now he could arch up into the mouth that seemed intent on marking him all over with little bruises. Jasper's hair trailed over his sweating skin, making him shiver with delight, and his nipple drew up tight, peaked with anticipation. When Jasper closed his teeth over it, the tug and nip were molten gold down his spine.
    Kicking his loose breeches off, Charles pulled the shirt up, over his head, and lay back down, completely bare, rolling the bigger man back on top of him. Silk and thin linen dragged hot and soft against that abraded nipple. The rougher canvas of half buttoned breeches teased his belly and his engorged cock. And the weight! God! The weight of Jasper drove all the breath out of him, filled him with a black ache of need that he had to have satisfied now or he would die.
    He thrust up