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Peter had gone to the club with the idea that he'd convince Dalton to smoke a little, they'd watch Rajam do the beautiful dances that one could never tire of, and maybe he could talk Dalton into kissing him, or letting him sit on his lap, if the club was as liberal as the rumors said. And when he woke, dressed in night clothing and in a room that was very much not his own and with Dalton in bed next to him, sound asleep, he thought for a moment that perhaps they'd been knocked in the head on the way there and that they'd never arrived. His head certainly felt as though that could be the case.
But no - thoughts, images, feelings, mirroring each other but too vague to quite understand yet - filtered through his mind as he scrubbed at his eyes. Someone had taken the care to put him to bed. Dalton? Possibly, probably, but Dalton was in bed with him, similarly attired. Ah, there was a note. Peter picked it up and flipped it open, blinking in the too-bright light as he attempted to read it.
He Who Is Carries The Sun In His Hair,
The Tiger, not having tasted our lotus blossoms before, will sleep as in his mother's arms until after you open your eyes. I left bells for ringing to have food given into the room. It is floor of the club for sleeping of nights, and you may stay for resting until tonight.
Ever Devoted Now and Never, Your Goddess
He could not resist a little giggle, although his head did ache a bit and the idea of food - or ringing bells - were both quite abhorrent at the moment. He knew Dalton would probably truly dislike the fact Rajam put them to bed, but something told him (one of those images floating through his brain like shiny presses of memory contained Rajam helping Dalton prepare him, he could see the darker hand holding up a bottle of oil for Dalton to take, could feel the smile from the dancer and the press, the stretch of fingers, he instantly realised he was aroused and tried to force that thought out, he was having trouble thinking enough as it was) that Dalton would find many more things to be upset over than having someone else put him to bed.
Peter curled to his side, nuzzling close to Dalton where he slept on his back, his dark hair mussed over his brow and his mouth relaxed into the abstract smile of the sleeper. He reached up and brought his fingertip to a hover over his manservant's lips, not touching, and traced their outline. Dalton had wrapped those glorious lips around his cock, under the table. Peter could remember that now. He'd bitten him with that mouth - he had felt the bruise when he'd rolled over - he had spoken words in a language Peter could not identify even with all his schooling, words that had set Peter's blood afire with their tone. Ah, not Dalton. Andrei.
Andrei was the tiger that came in the night. The creature with burning eyes and sure touch and fierce bite. Peter shifted slightly so no part of him could touch the man beside him, because even touching him in sleep while remembering such things was almost uncomfortably wonderful. He remembered the laugh, unsure but sweet, that being called Andrei had drug up from the depths of his valet's chest. He wanted to make him laugh like that again. He should always sound like that - free and happy. He had made Andrei sound like that. Mmmm, Andrei. It was as if walking into the club had loosed a whole other being from inside the staid, serious butler.
And Peter prayed to whatever gods would listen to a poppy-thoughted boy who was sleeping next to his very, very male lover (surely there were greek gods that listened to such men) that when he woke there would still be some of the Andrei, the untamed tiger, in his Dalton. Oh he felt sore between his legs and knew walking would not be too plesant at first, but he could not care. He would have all of him again just as rough, even though the remembrances of it were still fuzzy in his mind.
He shuddered, and brought a sharp breath through his teeth. He had let, nay, begged Andrei to fuck him in front of a gentleman's club in London, one filled with some of the highest in the land. Oh sweet gods of the erring Greeks, let there not have been any with the ability to create photographs in the club, or else the world would reek of scandal and it would be hard labor for him and likely death for his Andrei. But no - there were always those in such places who were raised with the smoke and were unharmed by it to watch that nothing untoward happened - at least not of a kind where any of the members would have their reputation harmed. They would be fine. Rajam would see to that, if no one else.
Peter smiled as Dalton made a quiet sighing noise in his sleep. He looked so very young, almost as young as Peter, perhaps, while resting so. He knew Dalton must be older, but like this he could nearly be someone who had been at school with him, perhaps a year or so above in class. Except no one at Oxford had ever had such sun-glinted skin, such thick lashes, such a nose that begged to be bitten with its faintly-un-British-point. He was beautiful, his Andrei, beautiful and strong and unlike anyone else in the world, and Peter decided then, at that moment, that he would fight whatever battle he would come across if it meant he could keep this man by his side. He could not imagine taking another lover after this, despite the fact that he knew he was young, foolish and inexperienced compared to Andrei, certainly compared to Rajam.
But the question remained thus: would Andrei, would Dalton want him? Want him like he wanted the valet? No, the man. Dalton was his valet, poured into the fittings of the British Downstairs Man. Andrei was the consummate lover, the sharp-minded creature of night who poured out his passions as if they had no end. And Peter wanted them both. He wanted the tender care of the man who woke him with soft words and dressed him with precise movements and bathed him like a babe and yet nothing like one and brought him to pleasure with a skill and precision that showed that for that moment, Peter was truly the center of the world he lived in. But he also wanted the newly-awakened Andrei. He wanted him hot and thick and rough inside him. He wanted him pressing him down into the brocade cushions until the patterns were indented on his cheek, as he had felt last night. The man who had called him angel and then pulled him into the darkness with him.
A noise in the hall brought a snuffle of breath to Dalton's body, and Peter leaned upwards on his elbow, letting his lips press soft against Dalton's cheek. He pulled back far enough to allow for the waking man to see him once his eyes had focused, and then waited to see what - or who - the morning light would bring him.