And what would you want even if you could? says a small voice in my head.
I’ve no answer, which sets off a flare of panic inside me. I suddenly feel myself to be drifting, out of even my own control.
What do you want?
The musicians take a recess and a man comes onto the stage to do a recitation of a poetical nature. A few people in the crowd boo. Percy knocks his shoulder into mine when I join them. “Stop that.”
“He deserves it.”
“Why? Poor thing, he’s just a poet.”
“Is more reason needed?” I kick my feet up on the table, misjudging the distance and catching my toe on the edge. Our empty glasses wobble. “Poetry is the most embarrassing art form. I can sort of understand why all the poets off themselves.”
“It’s not so easy.”
“Course it is. Here, attend.” I whack him on the back of the head to make him pay attention to me instead of the stage. “I’m going to write a poem about you. ‘There once was a fellow named Percy,’” I start, then falter. “‘Who . . .’ Damn, what rhymes with Percy?”
“Thought you said it was easy.”
“Blercy? That’s a word, isn’t it?”
Percy sips at his whiskey, then sets his glass upon the rail and says with a lilt, “There was a young fellow I knew / Named Henry Montague.”
“Well, that’s unfair. Everything rhymes with my surname. Blue. Chew. Mutton stew.”
“He drinks lots of liquor / And never gets sick-er.” He pauses for fullest effect, then finishes, “And he’s four inches longer than you.”
I burst out laughing. Percy drops his head over the back of the chair, with a grin. He looks very pleased with himself. Nothing delights me more than filthy things born from Percy’s tongue. Most who know him wouldn’t believe that such a quiet, polite lad has told me stories that would color a sailor’s cheeks.
“Oh, Perce. That was beautiful.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I should share it with Lockwood.”
His head shoots up. “Don’t you dare.”
“Or at least write it down, for posterity—”
“I swear to God, I shall never speak to you again.”
“Perhaps I’ll say it back to myself as I’m falling asleep tonight.”
He kicks the leg of my chair, and I’m nearly unseated. “Goose.”
I laugh, and it comes out a tipsy giggle. “Do another one.”
Percy gives me a smile, then leans forward with his elbows on his knees like he’s thinking hard. “Monty often smells of piss.”
“Well, I like this one significantly less.”
“But plays a wicked hand of whist.”
“Better.”
“Though Lockwood may doubt him, / There’s something about him / That everyone just wants to . . .” And then he stops, a bright flush creeping into his cheeks.
The corners of my mouth begin to turn up. “Go on, Percy.”
“What?”
“Finish it.”
“Finish what?”
“Your poem.”
“My what?”
“The rhyme, half-wit.”
“Does it rhyme? I didn’t realize. Oh, wait. . . .” He feigns reviewing the verse in his head. “I hear it now.”
I lean in to him. “Come now, what were you going to say?”
“Nothing. I don’t remember.”
“Yes, you do. Go on.” He makes a humming noise with his lips closed. “Do you want to finish it, or do you want me to keep pestering you?”
“Ah. Bit of a tough choice.”
I press my foot into his shin. His stocking has slipped from his garter and is bunched up around his ankle. “That everyone just wants to what, Percy? What is it exactly that everyone wants to do to me?”
“Fine.” Now he’s really blushing, poor boy. He’s not so dark skinned that he can’t still go fantastically red when sufficient cause arises. He blows a short breath, then scrunches up his nose. It looks like he’s working rather hard not to smile. “Though Lockwood may doubt him, / There’s something about him / That everyone just wants to kiss.”
That single word sends a pulse up my spine like a struck lightning rod. Percy laughs and ducks his chin, suddenly shy. I mean to sit back and say something coy so we can play it off as a laugh—I swear to God, I do. But then he licks his lips, and his eyes flit to my mouth in a way that seems a little out of his control.
And I want to. So badly, I do. Just thinking about it makes all the blood leave my head. And the drink has just enough of a hold on me that the part of my brain that usually steps in the path of terrible ideas and halts them with a sensible Steady on there, lad, let’s think this one through seems to have taken the night off. So in spite of being in possession of a full understanding of what a terrible decision it is to do so, I lean in and kiss Percy on the mouth.
I truly intend to make it a peck, just a small one, like it’s only because of the rhyme and not because I’ve been going mad with wanting him for two years. But before I can pull away, Percy puts his hand on the back of my neck and presses me to him and suddenly it’s not me kissing Percy, it’s Percy kissing me.
For perhaps a full minute, I’m so stunned that the only thing I can think is, Dear Lord, this is actually happening. Percy is kissing me. Really kissing me. Neither of us is sober, or even sober-adjacent, but at least I’m still seeing straight. And, damnation, it feels so good. As good as I’ve always imagined it would be. It makes every other kiss I’ve ever had turn to smoke and disappear.
And then it’s not just Percy kissing me—we’re kissing each other.
I can’t decide if I’d rather keep my hands in his hair or do something about getting his shirt out of the way—I’m feeling frantic and scrambly, unable to commit to a single place to put my hands because I want to touch him abso-bloody-lutely everywhere. Then he slips his tongue into my mouth, and I am momentarily distracted by the way the entirety of my being spills over with that feeling. It’s like being set aflame. More than that—it’s like stars exploding, heavens on fire. Kissing Percy is an incendiary thing.
I tug his bottom lip between my teeth and work it gently, and he lets go a bright, weighted breath as he slides from his chair onto my lap. His hands go under my shirt, tearing it out of the waistband of my breeches in handfuls, then his arms slide all the way around me, and I’m struggling to stay soft, trying to think of the least arousing things possible, and it just isn’t working because Percy’s got his legs on either side of my lap and his mouth is open against mine and I can feel his palms up and down my back.
I run my tongue down his jawline, so enthusiastic that my teeth scrape him, at the same time working my fingers against the buttons of his breeches until the essential one pops. He inhales softly with his head tipped skyward when my fingers meet his skin. His nails dig into my spine, my shirt rucked up in his fists. I know we should be careful—it’s a private box, but not that private, and if anyone saw us like this, we might get in real trouble—but I don’t care. Not about who might be lingering nearby or the pillory for sodomites or my father’s threat of what will happen if I’m caught with a lad. Nothing matters right then but him.