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Poison dripped from his tongue. Really, William didn't have much of a choice. He needed the reminder: Jones was beneath him - no, that conjured up the wrong image. Jones was lesser.
Strong hands pushed him up against the bannister. He brushed away thoughts of those broad shoulders uncovered in the sun, of Tom's heated passion. No - Jones. His cousin.
A foundling with no blood shared between them, his prick reminded him with a heart-stopping twitch.
If only Jones were a brute, pushing him across that civilized line, no better than an animal rutting into him and chasing sweet (unashamed) relief.