Darcy faced him, and Bennet shivered at the thickening static between them.
They stood that way, four, five, six mingled exhales until Darcy turned toward the playing area. “Let’s play.”
Bennet admired the softly-lit grandeur of the library as Darcy set up. He guessed there were ten thousand books in here, more maybe, lining the walls from floor to ceiling, many only accessible by ladder. And that majestic stained-glass window . . . he’d live in here, if he could. The inspiration, the warmth. There were no armchairs. Bennet loved that Darcy had given them to his son.
His son who seemed to have forgiven Darcy’s transgressions and had an open, playful relationship with his dad.
“I want that with Lyon.”
Darcy shook the Scrabble bag.
“What you seem to have with Georgie and Henry.”
“You do. You will.”
“You have more faith in me than I have in myself.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret. Parents? We fake it. Every day, we fake knowing what we’re doing, and in the course of faking, we figure out what works and what doesn’t until we aren’t faking it any longer.”
“I thought nothing was less genuine than pretending to be something you’re not?”
Darcy sank on his haunches and frowned into space. He slammed his eyes shut, and when he reopened them, he laughed hollowly. “I was wrong about that.” He met Bennet’s eyes. “There is definitely a case for faking it.”
Bennet smiled softly and cast his gaze to the board. “I was wrong about things too.”
They started the game in silence. Bennet opened the board, and Darcy added to it. FALL. ADDING. WIZARD. EWE.
Scrabble words came easily. Their own, they struggled to voice.
ENJOY. BOLD.
DICK.
Darcy blinked at Bennet’s latest addition. When he looked over, Bennet jumped, launching tiles from the bag over his lap and into the cushions. One hit him in the face and slid down the collar of his shirt.
“Sorry.” Bennet picked them up and stuffed them back into the bag.
“You missed one,” Darcy said, gesturing toward him. Bennet looked around.
“There, in the folds of your shirt.”
He patted down himself down. Still couldn’t find it.
Darcy laughed and moved around the board until he was right there, the warmth of him hitting Bennet in waves. Darcy scooped up the Q from the base of his shirt where the material had curled into a cup. The soft touch seeped through to his skin and Bennet’s breath hiccupped.
Darcy held up the stowaway letter and Bennet fumbled as he took it from him. “The one I was searching for.”
Darcy’s gaze was rooted on the tile between them, nose sharp at this angle, lips slightly parted, the bottom one glistening. His curly hair, usually so perfect, had a lock out of place. It softened his face and made him seem younger. Bennet could imagine a teenage Darcy, wild hormones controlled only by will and reason. Will and reason that were perhaps not always so impermeable.
Like Bennet’s.
He shifted, and dropped the tile.
Darcy looked up and the air sucked out of the room.
Bennet touched Darcy’s thin shirt, curled a fist in it. Lean in, Darcy.
He did. His voice was hoarse. “Bennet?”
Their breaths mingled, shivery at the seam of Bennet’s mouth. “Darcy, I—” Bennet ghosted his lips over Darcy’s, then stilled. Waited. Three heart-pounding seconds—come on . . .
Darcy kissed him back, equally soft. Careful.
They pulled back an inch, read the desire deepening their gazes, and clashed together. Hard, fast, urgent.
Bennet curled his hands around Darcy’s biceps and squeezed, drawing him closer. Darcy’s arms came around him, hand cradling Bennet’s nape gently, supportively, as their tongues twisted together. They drank each other in. Darcy tasted like butter from their bread at dinner, and images of baguettes fleetingly passed through Bennet’s mind. He smiled into their next kiss and dragged his lips over Darcy’s jaw, along the curve to the smooth spot under his sideburn. “Is this okay for you?”
Darcy’s voice rumbled. “More than bloody okay.”
Laughter shot out of Bennet, and he dropped his head back. Darcy nibbled kisses under his ear, down his throat. Large warm hands coasted under Bennet’s shirt, exploring the planes of his back. More skin. Yes.
Bennet pinched the hem of Darcy’s shirt and slowly drew his fingers up to the collar. He plucked at shirt buttons. His knuckles brushed over soft chest hair and smooth skin, and his fingers kept slipping over the last pearly-plastic button.
He was used to taking the lead when it came to this, to sex. He knew what he liked and went forth with enthusiastic confidence. He took and gave with ease, but this time, his heart was lodged in his throat and hyper-awareness had him shaking. He couldn’t . . . this last button was impossible.
Darcy’s hand clasped his, flattening it against his navel. “Let me help you.”
Darcy freed the button and began working Bennet’s. “You once said I look at you as a fox does a rabbit. That you know what I want, what I’m thinking.”