The Wrong Kind of Angel (MM)
A reluctant angel, three not terribly wise men, two gorgeous men on a starlit chase to find a child ... It can only be Christmas.
It’s Christmas 1817 and Captain Charles Farrington has accepted that he is destined to live alone. That is, until Christmas Eve, when a startlingly handsome man crashes into his home and his life.
Harry Valentine is a man on the run. A man with secrets. He hasn’t time to fall for the angel who rescued him and, in any case, he knows that once Charlie realises the truth about him, there will be no future for them.
Harry’s warmth makes Charles face up to the demons in his past and shows him that he can have a family. All he has to do is persuade Harry to stay. But Charlie knows that, despite whatever Harry says, he’s the wrong kind of angel for happy endings.
He needed to get to Scarborough and get to Julian. The only chance that he had of doing that was in a carriage and with money. There were two ways that he could accomplish that. He could steal from Charlie. He could take his horse and carriage, steal some money ... the thought of doing that was so abhorrent it made him shudder. A few hours ago he would have done it without a backward glance. The other way was to tell all. Tell him everything. The whole sordid story of his life and beg him to help. He was fairly sure that Charlie was goodhearted enough to make sure he got to Scarborough, but once he knew the truth? Well, that would most certainly put paid to anything that there might have been between them. He squeezed his eyes shut. Who was he kidding? There could never be anything between them. For a start, Harry was a toff and he was from the gutter. Moreover, and more importantly, they were men. Men were not allowed to love men. He would never be able to have a family with another man. His kind were not even deemed fit to live amongst decent people; not fit to live. He was not the kind of man who had Christmas miracles. He was the wrong kind of man.
Charlie stirred and then seemed to go quite still. Harry swallowed. He hoped that he didn’t regret it. Men got funny when they regretted sexual congress with another man and seldom wanted to be faced with their transgression. Charlie’s head came up. He blinked a couple of times and then his face dissolved into that beautiful, shy lopsided smile and Harry relaxed.
“Did I lean on you the whole night?” Charlie whispered.
“That must have been damnably uncomfortable,” he said, not moving.
“Not a bit.” They smiled at each other. Soft morning smiles that held the reflection of the night before, flushed cheeks that recalled the pleasure and rekindled the delight.
Charlie moved off him. Harry followed and rolled him onto his back. He pulled the blankets around them as he did so as the fire had dwindled to almost nothing and there was a distinct chill. Charlie went willingly and opened his legs so that Harry could lay between them and then wrapped his arms around him.
“Your turn to lean on me,” Charlie whispered, his eyes serious, inviting, and filled with something that looked frighteningly like tenderness.
Harry groaned and ignored the double meaning. He leaned down to kiss him and they stayed like that for an age. Kissing. Just kissing. It was so damned intimate. More intimate than the scorching pleasure they had engaged in the previous night, more satisfying that any fucking that Harry had ever engaged in. Just a man, holding him tight, kissing him and offering himself without wanting anything in return.
Charlie’s hands were in his hair holding his head. Harry moved a little so he could bring his own hand between their bodies. He lined up their cocks and took them both in one hand and as the kissed he stroked. Their rhythms became intertwined and softly, gently, intimately they held together and as Harry’s crisis neared he pulled his mouth away.
“Open your eyes and look at me.”
Charlie’s eyes opened. Serious and intent. Harry kept on stroking hard until Charlie’s eyes started to flutter and his body tensed and then Harry kissed him again before he spent. Harry followed moments later.
They lay in the cold and the mess and Harry knew he could not put it off any longer.
“There is something I want to tell you, but we should dress first. You’ll get cold.” Harry glanced down at Charlie who lay beneath him, eyes wide and unblinking. Harry felt ill.
“Why don’t you tell me here. We can clean up and ...”
“No. Let’s get up.” Harry knew that when he told Charlie the truth he would not want to be naked in bed with him covered in his spend. As much as he wanted to hide under the blankets, for Charlie’s sake he needed to be up and dressed.