2023 Top Ten Gay Romance

The Wedding by T.J. BlackleyRoger Roger was left reeling, as he watched Vincent, one of his dearest friends, walk away from him at the racetrack, the sound of his words still echoing in Roger’s ears. If you want Edward, you will have to ask for him. It was impossible, Roger decided, as he forced himself to turn and make his way back to his spot in the stands—his and Edward’s spot. Edward could not possibly love him. Did Vincent think Roger had not looked? Had not obsessively cataloged every expression Edward had ever had, when looking upon Roger’s face, for signs of returned affection? Even the merest scrap would have satisfied Roger, but he had never seen it. They had been close ever since Roger’s father, Edward’s uncle, had adopted Roger at ten years old, after all, and Roger had realized his feelings only a handful of years later; he had had plenty of time to make observations. Roger had all but convinced himself that Vincent, though clearly it was kindly meant, was utterly mistaken, by the time he made it back to his seat. It was nonsense; Vincent, newly married to his husband, Eiji, was seeing love everywhere, even in places where it did not exist. But then he caught sight of Edward through the crowd, and Edward caught sight of him, his beautiful face lighting up in that way that took Roger’s breath away. He looked as though he couldn’t be happier to see anyone than he was to see Roger, and some traitorous part of Roger’s heart said, Maybe. But he had always looked at Roger that way, from the moment they had met as children, when Roger’s father had taken him in, even before the adoption was finalized. Surely Edward could not have loved him all that time. It was only friendship. Edward loved his friends; he looked at Vincent the same way. Didn’t he? Roger picked his way through the throng, pressed against the railing, until Edward could catch him by the elbow and draw him to his seat. “You’ve come back just in time,” Edward said brightly, leaning in close to be heard over the din; close enough that his breath gusted over Roger’s cheek. “The race is about to begin.” He let go of Roger, leaving a burning brand around Roger’s elbow where his hand had been, and they sat down again. Their knees knocked together, and Edward repeated the gesture purposefully, smiling at Roger. Edward, Roger knew, had a horse in this next race, his beloved Sharp Spear. Roger mustered up every ounce of innocence that he had ever been assumed to have possessed, and said, “Do you know, I can’t quite remember which beast I’ve bet on.” Edward saw through him, of course, as he always did, and just roared with laughter, his cheeks dimpling as his teeth flashed through his smiling lips. He slung an arm around Roger’s shoulders companionably, giving him a little shake as the sound of the opening gunshot ripped through the air. Edward turned his attention to the horses, his face going lovely and sharp with focus, but he left his arm around Roger’s shoulders, and so Roger missed most of the race, distracted by Edward’s scent in his nostrils: leather and mahogany, rich and intoxicating. Sharp Spear won her race, which Roger discovered when Edward dragged him into an embrace, thumping him on the back and shouting. Roger did his best to return the embrace without giving himself away; he did not think he managed very well, but Edward was still distracted by his victory, and thankfully did not notice any awkwardness on Roger’s part. “That’s my darling,” Edward said, triumphantly, finally drawing away from Roger. His cheeks were darker than usual, from his excitement, and his dimples were still in firm effect as he grinned at Roger. “I knew she would not let me down.” Roger was spared having to respond by the commotion on the tracks as the next race began. The rest of the races were unremarkable, but Edward, and thus Roger too, were still riding the high of Sharp Spear’s victory as they collected their winnings from the counter and eased their way out of the tracks with the rest of the audience. “Ride home?” Edward asked, his mouth once again at Roger’s ear to be heard. Roger nodded, and Edward led him to his carriage. It was much grander than Roger’s father’s carriage, but Roger had ridden in it countless times, and its grandeur no longer fazed him as Edward handed him up inside and joined him. “How will you spend your winnings?” Edward asked once they were on the road, leaning back against the carriage wall, still in high spirits. “I have some new novels on hold for me with the bookseller,” Roger admitted, feeling his face heat as Edward’s smile widened. “I’m afraid I’ve already spent my winnings, in some respects.” Edward looked at him fondly. “Of course, you’ve gone into debt over novels,” he said. “The latest romances, no doubt.” Roger blushed deeper, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “It’s foolish, I know.” Suddenly there was a hand on his knee, and he looked up to see Edward gazing at him, no longer grinning quite so widely, but still with fondness written over his handsome, friendly face. “Not foolish at all,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “You are allowed your treats, Roger, and things that make you happy.” Roger stared at him, utterly caught out by the tenor of the moment before Edward broke it with a wink. “You’ll just have to marry rich, so that you never outspend yourself.” “Do you have anyone in mind?” Roger heard himself say, and Edward tipped his head back and laughed. If there was a thread of desperation in that laugh, Roger was sure it was just his imagination. Roger’s father was out paying a call to friends, when Edward dropped Roger at the door, so Roger supped alone, a fact which, tonight, he was grateful for. Roger loved his father dearly, and usually enjoyed their nightly conversations over supper, but tonight he was glad to be alone, because it meant he could slip up to his room early, without risking comment. Roger usually made a concerted effort to avoid indulging in his fantasies about Edward, both his romantic ones and the ones that were less pure. But tonight, after spending an afternoon pressed against Edward’s side and an hour in a carriage with him, his scent and the heat of his body so close that even now Roger still felt them, and especially with Vincent’s words still echoing in his ears, stirring up all sorts of hopes and wishes, there would simply be no avoiding it. Roger undressed for bed slowly, taking care with every button and cufflink, and let his mind wander. Unsurprisingly, it brought him to an image of him declaring himself to Edward, on one knee before the man he had loved since long before either of them was properly men. In his heart, Roger knew Vincent had been at least partially correct—although Edward did not, could not love him, at least not in the way Roger wanted him to love him, he would never fault Roger for trying, if he ever grew brave enough to make the attempt. Edward respected bravery, and he respected Roger, too. Edward would be kind to him, when turning him down, and would make every effort to remain just as friendly and warm toward him after the awkward moment was over. But Vincent seemed to think that Edward would not turn him down; that he would, in fact, accept him. What reasons Vincent thought Edward might have for not asking for Roger’s hand himself, as would be his prerogative as the one with the higher rank, Roger could not fathom, but as Roger carefully undid his flies and slid his trousers down his legs, he let himself imagine what might happen if Vincent were correct, and Roger declared himself. What would Edward do, if he loved Roger, and Roger asked for his hand? Would he flush as Roger was now at the thought, his dark cheeks turning darker at Roger’s words of love? Would he bite his lip, the way he always did when deep in thought? Would he kiss Roger? Would he draw Roger close, push a hand into his hair, and claim him as his own? The thought made Roger’s knees weak with desire and he sagged, catching himself on the bedpost as he lost all sense of care about his clothing and kicked his trousers away. Roger had never kissed anyone before; he did not know what a kiss was like, in truth; but the thought Edward being his first kiss—his only kiss—was still enough to make his head spin with wanting. Roger clambered naked onto his bed, rolling onto his back to stretch himself across the covers. He was already aroused, just from the thought of a simple kiss from the man he loved, and with a sense of giving into the inevitable, Roger let himself sink fully into the fantasy. Say Edward kissed him, and Roger somehow managed to avoid flying into a thousand pieces at the merest touch of his lips. Say Roger gathered the wherewithal to kiss back, to cling to Edward’s strong shoulders as he had always longed to do. Say Edward kissed him deeper, his mouth possessing Roger’s fully, stealing his every breath. What would come next? Despite his two closest friends being the two loosest men in society, Roger had somehow kept himself innocent enough that he was not entirely sure what could come next, save the barest impressions and most basic anatomical knowledge. But Edward would know. Edward had bedded more men than Roger knew about, he was sure, and Edward would know how to move them from kisses to the things that haunted Roger’s more fevered dreams. Edward would know how to take Roger in hand. Roger’s hand wrapped itself around his hot, aching flesh almost unconsciously, and he cried out at the touch, secure in the knowledge that he was alone on the floor, his father still out and the servants safely downstairs. His cry echoed around his bedchamber and he let out another, stroking himself carefully. He did not touch himself often, but tonight was for indulgence; his hand moved slow and torturous over his hard, weeping c**k as his body and mind recalled the feeling of having Edward so close to him all day, the gust of his breath over Roger’s ear reimagined into a more lustful caress, the arm over Roger’s shoulders pulling him in to a kiss that turned deep and devastating. Roger’s desire splintered from that point on; he was too ignorant in the ways of the flesh to resolve the feeling into specific images, but the urges, and the feeling of his hand moving over his c**k faster and tighter as he drove himself on, were decadent enough to bring him to a shuddering, abrupt conclusion, his body turning itself inside-out all at once as his breath and voice both caught in his throat. Unwilling to release the feeling, Roger continued to pull at himself, wringing every last drop of pleasure from the encounter until it began to feel too painful to bear. Only then did he let his hand fall away with a sigh, wiping it regretfully on the bedcovers beside his hip. His body felt loose and languid, his hot skin prickling over his muscles as he came down from his peak. With a private smile he imagined Edward there beside him, in a similar state, pulling Roger into his arms to smile back at him, and kiss him more tenderly, and whisper his love. In the back of his mind Roger knew he would wake in an hour or so, too cold without the covers over him and too sticky without washing, but for now he could not bring himself to move and risk jarring the fantasy. Instead, he spread his arms and legs out wide, to embrace an Edward that was not, and never would be, beside him, and let sleep take him gently. He did wake, just when he predicted, and ventured from his bed long enough to sponge the dried mess on his stomach clean and pull on his nightclothes before drawing back the covers and climbing under them. He had not dreamed, which he regretted; he had hoped for a ghost of the memory of Edward’s triumphant embrace, to keep him warm even as he slept.