He had to bite down his bottom lip to keep quiet, causing him to accidentally break the skin and draw blood which left a coppery taste in his mouth, the pleasure he felt being almost too much, making it difficult for Paul to control himself. Keening, he thrusted his hips up into that wondrous wet cave that surrounded his straining erection, and came long and hard, his fingers tugging helplessly at the soft locks of hair beneath the covers. His eyes were shut tight and his cheeks flushed red from the exercise as he let his orgasm take over, consume him whole as every muscle in his body contracted at the intense moment of pure and unmasked pleasure, his toes curling into the sheets and his thighs tightening around the head that was bobbing up and down between them, suckling on his cock and swallowing it all down with an insatiable hunger.

Once Paul had finished, the other man pulled off with a plop and started kissing his way up Paul's body, occasionally licking at his sweat-slick skin as his head slowly appeared from beneath the covers, looking as debauched as Paul imagined he himself must look: flushed, sweaty, lips sore and abused, and his hair sticking out in all directions. He groaned as the man's lips found his neck and started sucking and nibbling lightly at the skin, leaving behind a light pink mark that they both knew would be gone the next morning.

"Stan..." Paul moaned, his voice too croaky and weak to say any more.

"Was that good for you, Paul?" the young man asked, briefly pulling his lips away from his neck to look him in the eye, his soft blue eyes sparkling in the dim light of the candles. Paul smirked at the question, thinking him too insecure for his own good, and in reply to his ridiculous question, he cupped the boy's cheek in his hand and gently pulled him down for a kiss, moaning as he tasted himself on his tongue. When they pulled away, Paul noticed there was a smear of blood on his bottom lip and leaned up to lick it off, causing the other man to shudder, his nails digging into the skin of Paul's chest like a cat's - it was not difficult to imagine him purring.

"It was wonderful," Paul said when he had finally found the strength to speak again, watching as a bright smile appeared on his face that reached all the way up to his eyes.

"It was for me, too."

They kissed once more, their lips moving leisurely as both came back down from their highs and melted into the warm comfort of Paul's oversized bed, legs tangled and hands roaming, touching every bit of skin they could easily reach. When the kiss ended, Stanley had curled up around the other man. He let his head rest on his chest as he held him close with both arms, refusing to let him go and sighing as he felt Paul's fingers tangle themselves into his hair, his eyes falling close.

"I missed this," he muttered softly, burying his face into Paul's chest and kissing him right where his heart was. Paul smiled down at him at the confession and let out a deep sigh of his own, being only able to agree. "I'm glad you picked me."

"Picked you?" Paul repeated, frowning at the odd phrasing. Stanley, on the other hand, did not seem to think what he was saying as anything particularly strange and nodded in reply. "I didn't pick you. I liked you."

"No, you did. You could have picked anyone at all, and you picked me. Call it what you like, but you did 'pick' me, and I am glad that you did. That is the point."

"I suppose you could say it like that," Paul said with a chuckle, tightening his grip on the other man to hold him closer as he kissed the top of his head, "but I didn't have to pick someone. I 'picked' you - as you insist on calling it - because I like you."

"Good, because I like you, too," Stanley replied resolutely and Paul had to kiss the top of his head again, having missed these nonsensical conversations they would have from time to time, and continued to hold him close as he laid back in bed and closed his eyes, feeling how the sleep was starting to catch up with him, making him feel drowsy.

"I should probably go soon."

"Please, stay a little longer," Paul whispered back, but Stanley shook his head.

"I shouldn't," he said and untangled himself from his lover's limbs as he sat up in bed, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to straighten it. Paul creaked his eyes open and reached out for him, running his fingers seductively up and down his arm, coaxing him to come back to him, missing his warm touch.

"Please," he repeated, almost voiceless. Stanley glanced down at him for a moment, before he let out a deep sigh and gave in reluctantly. Paul smiled as he laid back down, on his stomach this time, his chin resting on Paul's chest so he could look at him.

"Well, if I am going to stay, we might as well talk a little. How did it go with your brother's fiancée? It mustn't have been too horrible, considering your head is still very much on your two shoulders," Stanley asked with a wink, and Paul shook his head in disapproval, before reaching down to play with the man's hair, stroking it back and threading his fingers through it, marvelling at how silky it felt against his skin.

"It went better than I had thought it would. Miss Fishwick was as pleasant as I had remembered her to be, her brother was a bit of a bore, though nothing I couldn't handle, and the evening went by rather smoothly."

"Well, that is good news."

"Yes... Although, I have to say that I was rather saved by Mr. Fishwick himself. Seems like the man shares my love for riding, so he did not mind my showing up in my riding clothes. If it was not for the sudden fondness he expressed towards me, I am certain I would not have been so lucky," Paul admitted with a sigh, smiling as Stanley leaned up into his touch, rubbing his head against the palm of his hand much like a cat; even after all this time, the boy was still surprisingly playful and tender in comparison to his rough exterior.

"Do you think your father is angry with you for it?" he asked, concern shining through in his voice. Paul thought for a moment, before shaking his head.

"No, I don't think so. Disappointed, definitely, but not angry. Besides, he can hardly punish me for making Mr. Fishwick like me, even if it was by accident. I will be fine," he said, cupping the other man's cheek in his hand and stroking the skin with his thumb, enjoying the closeness between them and feeling happy he had decided not to leave him just yet; at least for a short while longer, he would not be alone. Stanley nodded in response at his words, but did not speak, and instead let his eyes roam over his lover's face, taking in every little detail, until they came to rest upon the bruise just under his eye, high on his cheekbone.

"How is the bruise? It does not still hurt, does it?" he asked, and Paul shrugged.

"Only when I press down on it. It looks worse than it is, I promise. I have had to deal with worse ones," he said, but Stanley looked unconvinced. Yet, he did not press the issue, and instead, he merely kept looking at him, studying his face and looking him deep in the eye as he continued to lie there in silence, looking deep in thought with a light frown on his forehead. He looked so handsome as he lay there, that Paul found himself wondering why he could not bring himself to love him - truly love him - like his brother loved Miss Fishwick, or his father had loved his mother, wishing he could have that too.

He let out a moan of surprise, when, without any prior warning, Stanley leaned up and pressed his lips to his again for a swift and simple kiss, giving him barely any chance to respond to it. When he pulled away again, he laid his head back down on Paul's chest and tightened his grip on him, drawing him in closer to him as he muttered they ought to find some sleep. Paul nodded in response and wrapped his own arms more firmly around the other's body.

"I suppose that might be a good idea," he said with a yawn, closing his eyes. "You wouldn't mind blowing out the candles when you leave, would you?"

"I'll take care of it, sir," Stanley replied and Paul felt himself smiling at his answer, before he was quickly consumed by sleep and drifted off into a peaceful slumber, his hold on his lover slacking as the muscles in his body relaxed. Stanley continued to lay with him for a while longer, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the soft and gentle rise of his chest as he breathed, and watching the light of the candles flicker until he was certain Paul was far gone and would not awake. He slowly untangled himself from him and got out of bed to change back into his clothes and blow out the candles, making sure to make as little noise as possible as not awake the other man. He glanced back at Paul's sleeping form once, before he silently crept out of his room, down the corridor and to the servants' stairs that would lead him downstairs so he could sneak out of the manor unnoticed.

***

The doorbell rung earlier than John had expected it to that Wednesday evening, not having forgotten Paul's notice about him being perhaps slightly late that evening due to the visitors that were staying with them. Ever since the carriage with the strangers had been seen driving past the city and up to the McCartney driveway, the people of Liverpool had seemed to be unable to speak of anything else, causing for numerous theories and speculations to rise up, the one wilder than the next, on who these visitors might be, why they were here, and for how long they would stay. The most believable story that had caught John's ear so far, he had heard in one of the gentlemen clubs when he had gone there for a drink with Stuart and Richard a day earlier, and consisted of the idea that one of the two sons had gotten engaged, meaning it had to be his fiancée who had come to visit to see her future husband and have their marriage approved. The idea had caused some slight anxiety among the young women once it had reached their ears as well, but soon they had decided the idea was ridiculous in itself, as neither of them had heard of any potential wives - or pretended to, at least - and had insisted it was merely a friend of Mr. McCartney senior who lived overseas and would thus stay for a couple of weeks, if perhaps not longer.

John on the other hand thought the idea to be a highly convincing one, and found himself hoping it was the youngest of the two who was getting married and not Paul, the idea of that being a possibility causing his stomach to feel weird and his throat to tighten, though he could not think of a reason why. Richard, of course, had been quick to suggest that he had a more personal reason as to why he disliked the thought of the eldest McCartney son getting married, but John had dismissed that as soon as the words had left his friend's mouth and had told him to stop suggesting such preposterous ideas. He was not interested; the man could go to hell for all he cared.

Still, he jumped in his seat at the sound of the doorbell ringing, announcing Mr. McCartney's arrival as it had done every Wednesday and Friday evening for the last couple of weeks, and felt a nervous tingle pool low in his stomach. He sat up in his seat, but did not rise to stand, deciding Dot could answer the door for him as she did with all their clients, and waited for Paul to be lead through into the studio. In the corner at the back of the room, the canvas he and Stuart had prepared together that afternoon for the McCartney portrait was already placed on the easel, and was surrounded by everything that John would need for that evening's session, such as his sketching pencils, but also his oil paint, brushes, and palette in the hope that they could start on the portrait itself that evening after their tea break. The beginnings of the sketch were already visible on the canvas. John had started on it that afternoon, using his sketches as guidelines, in the hope to hurry things along that evening, doubting he would be able to finish the portrait in time if he continued working at the pace he was doing now.

It took a minute or two before the front door was finally opened and John could hear voices coming from the hallway, one of which he recognised as Paul's as he had expected. Much to his surprise, however, the other voice wasn't Dot's. In fact, it was not even female, but instead a low and deprecating voice that could not belong to anyone but Stuart. He considered stepping in between the two, knowing neither liked the other for reasons they refused to share with him, but before he had been able to get to his feet, the door to the studio swung open, and Paul was shown inside, albeit not very warmly.

"Mr. McCartney is here for you, John," Stuart said through gritted teeth, shooting a spiteful sideways glance at the young man, before disappearing again and pulling the door close behind him with a loud thud that caused Paul to jump in surprise where he stood. Still, he seemed rather unimpressed by Stuart's attitude towards him, and smiled at John as a greeting as he took off his hat and coat, the other man already having vanished from his mind. The easy way in which he seemed to be able to detach himself from such things impressed John, having had difficulty with it himself since he had been a child.

"Good evening, Mr. Lennon," he said, his voice calm and unaffected as if he had never even spoken with Stuart. John nodded in reply to acknowledge him and beckoned him to have a seat in their usual spot, to which Paul easily complied, laying down his coat and hat over the armrest of one of the sofas, before taking a seat.

"I er... I am sorry about Mr. Sutcliffe. I thought Dot would get the door for you," John said as he sat down on his stool opposite him, but Paul was quick to tell him he did not mind, being used to people voicing their dislike to him like that. John felt a pang of empathy for the other man, the fact that he said it with such nonchalance making him feel sorry for him, but pushed the feeling away, knowing such issues were none of his concern. Instead, he offered him a smile. "Would you like something to drink, or shall we get straight to it?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Lennon. I am fine. Let us get on with it, shall we?" Paul said in reply and John nodded once again as he got up and knelt down by Paul's feet to help him sit in the right position while he explained what they would be doing that day, as had become habitual for them; Paul did not so much as twitch as John laid a hand on his knee to guide him and moved with him easily. John still found it hard to breathe when he was this close to the other man, feeling how the man's body burned against his hands and being hyper-aware of how his eyes followed his every move, occasionally locking directly onto his own as he watched him closely.

It was only when John sat knelt by the man's face and was gently angling up his chin with his thumb and pointer finger, that John noticed the little pink mark low on the man's neck, only just not hidden by his collar. The sight made him frown.

"Is something wrong?" Paul asked, breaking John's concentration. He blushed as he noticed he had frozen up as he had stared at the mark, and quickly shook his head.

"N-no. Sorry, sir."

"Is it still there? Can you still see it?"

"Sir?"

"The mark? You can still see it?" Paul repeated, his eyes wide with what seemed like concern, which only added to John's confusement.

"N-No. Well, I can, but it isn't visible exactly. The skin is slightly pinker and it looks a little rougher just above the collar of your shirt, but nothing people would usually notice."

"Except you, it appears," Paul said, and John shuddered involuntarily at the feeling of his warm breath on his face, not having noticed just how close they were in this position. He nodded with an apologetic smile, as he got back up to his feet, Paul's eyes following him still in the hope for an explanation.

"It is my job to notice. A good artist has a keen eye for detail, especially when it comes to his subject matter, don't you agree?"

"And you think yourself a good artist then, Mr. Lennon?"

"Naturally. You would not have let me do your portrait if you thought otherwise, would you?" John replied with a wink and felt his lips pull up into a smug smile as he got Paul to laugh at that, after which he helped him into the right position and returned back to his own sit, where he picked up one of his pencils.

"Don't worry, Paul. No one will have noticed that mark," John assured him once more and Paul nodded in reply as he let out a deep sigh of relief. "Is she your fiancée then? Your visitor, I mean."

Paul turned his head to him in surprise, before he realised he was not allowed to move and turned back to reassume the correct position. "Fiancée? No, it is my brother's fiancée who is visiting us for the time being. Why?"

"Well, the mark, sir. I- I thought... My apologies, sir, I should not have asked," John said as he started to work, focusing on the white canvas before him rather than his model, feeling his cheeks heat up as if he had been caught doing something indecent. Still, he could not pretend not to notice how his heart had skipped a beat at the news that it was indeed Paul's brother who had gotten engaged and not the man himself as he had hoped. Though, as before, he could not think of a reason why that would cause him such relief, nor why the realisation that the man appeared to have a lover of some sorts - he could recognise a love-bite anywhere, and that mark was most definitely a love-bite - made him feel disappointed, angry. Surely, he was not jealous. The idea alone almost caused him to burst out laughing! No, it had to be something else.

John tried to work quickly, knowing it would not do to overthink his sketch at this point: his fingers knew the curves, the forms, and the shapes that were supposed to appear on the canvas, so he had to trust on that now, or else the sketch could come out forced and calculated rather than natural, which was the last thing he wanted. He had to trust himself. So, as to not become too fixated on what his fingers were doing, he distracted himself by making pleasant conversation with Paul, and was glad to note Paul was all too happy to actively participate. At first, they spoke about Michael McCartney's fiancée, but although Paul answered his questions, he soon realised he was reluctant to talk about it in any depth, his answers remaining brief and formal, so John moved the subject to Richard instead, asking Paul what he thought of him, before their conversation lead into one about travelling and finally their shared love for art and music. John was excited to hear about Paul's opinion on all his favourite books, paintings and music pieces, and to his delight, Paul seemed just as happy to hear about his, their different opinions causing for some light, but interesting discussions.

Soon, about a good fifteen minutes earlier than when they would usually have had their tea break, John had the sketch finished and he was ready to start on the actual painting itself. Looking back at his work, he could not help but feel pleased, thinking it was his best work yet so far. He could only hope Paul would share his opinion and that it would still be as good once it was completely finished. With a deep sigh, he put his things aside and stretched himself out as he told Paul they could take an early break, having finished the sketch. Paul nodded in reply and got up to walk around the room for a bit and stretch his legs, his hands held behind his back. He halted in front of the large window that looked out into the garden. The sun had already started to set, and it was slowly becoming dark outside, the garden being situated between other houses which blocked the sunlight, making it appear darker than it actually was, though there was still enough natural light flooding into the room for John to see his work properly with the aid of some candles. He doubted, though, that they would still have enough that coming Friday.

"Oh, Paul?" he started, catching the other man's attention. Paul only hummed in reply to let him know he was listening, keeping his back turned on him. "I was wondering if we could perhaps move our meeting to the afternoon? It er... is important I get enough natural light now we will start with the actual painting, you see?"

"Oh yes, of course. How does two 'o clock sound? I am sure I can reschedule some of my classes to some other time or day."

"Classes?" John asked, confused, as he wiped his dirty hands off on a clean piece of cloth that lay on the small table beside him. Paul glanced over at him from across his shoulder, and he nodded.

"The only thing I do that my father actually agrees with, I am afraid," he said with a sad chuckle. He briefly paused, staring thoughtfully out of the window and up into the sky, before he continued. "Apart from music and art, reading and learning about the world in general have always fascinated me. It is interesting to study the world and learn about it, and my father always thought it was important that his eldest son would be smart and knowledgeable, so he always encouraged me. I could have stopped years ago now, seeing as I do not want to go university to become a doctor or a lawyer, but I enjoy it. Besides, there's not much else for a man like me to do anyway. Not the things I would like to do, at least."

"What would you like to do?"

Paul considered the question for a while, before answering. "It is not important."

"But-"

"It is not important," he repeated, his voice firm and cold, and John swallowed the rest of his words and suppress his curiosity. He stared at him for a moment, considering him as Paul continued to stare out of the window, his body tense and shoulders high, looking on guard. The tension in the room was soon broken, however, by a soft knock on the door, followed by Dot's voice, announcing she had their tea for them. Paul barely reacted to her, merely turning around and moving to sit down on of the sofas as he avoided John's eye at all cost. John sighed and went over to the kitchen door to take the tray with tea and biscuits from his maid, who he had forbidden to come into the studio while they were busy, not liking the way she would look at Paul. He took said tray from her with a muttered thank you and had her close the door behind herself, as he put the tray down on the coffee table between the two couches and sat down opposite Paul, where he began to pour them both a cup of tea.

In an attempt to lessen the tension that had started to form between them, John tried to talk about Paul's latest trip to Paris instead, knowing how much the man enjoyed those from what he had told him just a couple of minutes before. Sure enough, Paul was eager to answer his questions and tell him about it, creating detailed pictures in John's mind of the city he had only seen before in paintings and of the handsome and most fashionable men and women who resided there, some of whom were close family friends. He could almost taste the food as Paul described it and listened with fascination as Paul described the art galleries there, as well as his own rooms that his father rented for them to stay at whenever they were there. Soon, the tension between them had vanished completely, and their conversation continued long after they had gotten started on the picture again, and before they knew it, the evening had passed.

Just like every other night when their meeting had come to an end, John escorted Paul to the door and helped him into his coat before he wish him a pleasant evening and saw him out. Neither Stuart nor Dot was anywhere near to disturb them, thus offering the two young men some privacy as they went over their next meeting, setting a fixed time for the meetings that were yet to come. John assured him the portrait should be finished on time as long as they continued to see each other as often as they did, but Paul told him not to worry about the deadline too much, having much rather a more beautiful portrait a little later than a messy one a couple days earlier, though John felt that wasn't really what Paul had wanted to say. Still, he made no comment on it and merely nodded in acknowledgement, before he opened the door for the other man and allowed him to step out into the cold, dark evening. The younger man pulled his coat a little tighter around himself as the icy wind blew around his head, making his cheeks look even chubbier than usual and his eyes even bigger as he looked directly up at him.

"I will see you this Friday afternoon then, Mr. Lennon. If you speak with your friend Mr. Starkey, tell him I said "hi" and that I was sorry for having left the both of you so soon last Monday. It was rather rude of me, I think," Paul said and John nodded in reply.

"Of course, sir," he said, and Paul nodded back at him, his eyes lowering for a moment, before he glanced up at him again, a light frown on his face, as if he was considering whether he should say what he wanted to say or not. In the end, it seemed that he had decided to say it anyway, and beckoned John to lean in closer.

"Although I don't think I would have to tell you this, I er... would very much appreciate it if you wouldn't tell anyone about the mark on my neck - for rather obvious reasons," he said in a hushed voice with a rather forced smile. John swallowed at the question, almost having forgotten about that, but found himself nodding.

"Of course, sir. It is none of my business, anyway," he said, his voice tight, which made speaking almost painful. Still, he forced himself to smile back at the other man.

"Thank you, Mr. Lennon," he said and seemed genuinely relieved and even thankful, much to John's surprise. He nodded in return and watched in silence as Paul turned around and started walking towards the carriage that stood waiting for him alongside the road. But whereas normally, he would step inside and ride off without so much as a wave at the other man, this time, he turned around before he stepped inside, his eyes locking directly onto John's, where they remained for a couple of seconds, before he offered John one last smiled and got into the carriage. The moment could not have lasted long, and neither had it been anything particularly special, but still, John felt that one shared look had meant something. Perhaps, he thought, he was more to Paul than just another employee. As soon as the thought had crossed his mind, however, he chuckled and shook his head at his own stupidity as he turned around and went back inside, thinking himself ridiculous for even considering the possibility.