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Nico’s Mistake
Hughes Stalker Book 2
By Mia Fury
Table of Contents
Copyright & Disclaimer
Trigger Warning
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
THE END
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright & Disclaimer
Names, characters, places and incidents within this book are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and
any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, etc. is purely coincidental.

Copyright © Mia Fury 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced,
scanned, transmitted, or distributed in any printed or electronic form
without permission.

Cover Artwork Copyright © Anya Kelleye Designs 2022

Website: anyakelleye.com
All rights reserved. No part of this image may be reproduced,
scanned, transmitted, or distributed in any printed or electronic form
without permission.
Trigger Warning
This book isn’t your typical romance. The characters may do mean
things, and these may offend some readers.

If you have triggers, then sadly, this book may not be for you.

The book features stalking, violation of privacy, threats, violence,

murder, mind games, coercion, lewd behaviour, crossing swords,
oh… and bad language.

I do not condone some of their behaviour, nor do I believe it has a

place in the real world, but for the purposes of dark romance, I
really hope you enjoy this book!
Chapter One
Nico
A month ago everything was normal. Or normal for me, at least. I’d
work the club four nights a week, maybe get laid every damn one of
those, and get home the next morning, usually with Nort’s help, to
sleep it off.
I’ve had pissed off women after me before. It’s not anything new.
When you prefer those a little on the edge, they’re more likely to go
full bunny boiler, when you fuck them and sneak out, never to be
seen again. Or, at least, that’s always the hope.
Sure, I’ve had my tyres slashed a few times, and I’ve been splashed
in the face with a drink, more often than I’ve actually finished one.
It’s all good. The more intense and crazed they are, the more I
need to fuck them. I don’t know why that gets me hot. I’m sure
some shrink could explain it, but I don’t care. Whoever gets my dick
standing to attention, that’s who I’m going to fuck.
I had been staying at Emory’s house, ever since she moved in with
my brother. Who knew that my brother would be the one to find a
woman, and settle down? Until he met her, I was actually starting to
wonder if he was even straight, or had working junk. I guess it just
took the right woman.
And now they were so together, and in sync with each other, and I
hated it. Not because he didn’t deserve it. Because it made me
realise that what I’d been doing was so fucking empty, and
worthless. Not just because of the women I’d hurt, but because of
how it didn’t fulfil me. Yeah, I got to dump my load often, but I may
as well have been fucking my hand.
My phone made a sensual moan of arousal, and my stomach
clenched. Not another death threat, please.
Kitty Kat: Is it okay if I come over today? I’ll bring dinner. Maxie
must be missing me.
Kat. What the fuck would I do without her? She’d been my
neighbour for nearly two years, and in that time, she’d become a
foster mother to my furry child, Max. He’d stayed with her more
often than with me. I was out so much, that I wanted him to have
someone with him. She worked from home, so she enjoyed
spending her days with him, and walked him often enough to tire
out those little legs of his.
Right now, as he lay curled up on the sofa beside me, I stared at
him, wondering how the hell I hadn’t lost him to her. He should
have forgotten me; with all the time I’d been too busy for him. That
made me a bigger asshole than anything else.
“You want Kitty Kat to come over today, little man?” I murmured,
and his ears twitched, his eyes fixing on me.
“You miss her, don’t you, buddy?” I reached over and scratched
the top of his head. With a huffy sounding noise, he pushed up and
stretched, then came over, and climbed half into my lap, flopping
down again with a sad whine. My boy. He was a Dalmatian cross,
and I had no idea what the other dog had been. I’d rescued him
three years ago, from a local centre, because I needed a friend, and
he gave me these huge brown eyes, and I was lost. He had floppier
ears than Dalmatians normally had, and his hair was longer, his
stature slightly smaller than they tended to be. In my eyes, he
couldn’t be more perfect.
He groaned, and nudged me with his head, reminding me that I’d
stopped stroking his head.
“Sorry, buddy. I’ll be back on my feet soon, and we’ll get out
together again.” The second I said it, I realised that it wouldn’t be
possible. Not only because someone was planning to kill me, the
first chance they got, but also because the longer I stayed inside,
the more terrifying it sounded to even consider venturing back out
there. How could I feel safe, when any person I passed in the
street, could be the one who wants to kill me? How could I feel safe
crossing a road, when the sound of a car would send me into a
panic?
I hadn’t been sleeping. Not properly. If I slept, I had dreams. And
my dreams had stopped being about naked women, and my cock,
and pleasure, and had started being about dark figures following
me, cars smashing my body into broken pieces, and sometimes, if I
really got lucky, I’d dream of being tortured, and murdered. Yeah,
better to drink a fuckload of coffee, and function on bugger all
sleep.
Me: Babe, you’re always welcome. Maxie rolled his eyes at your
excuses, but he’ll still let you hug him.
It was funny that, with everything going on, I could still be me with
her. I could still joke, and flirt, and act like everything was okay. I
knew she didn’t believe it, especially when she walked in and fixed
those big blue eyes on my face, but she tried to play along.
Kitty Kat: Nice try, big boy. I’ll see you in an hour. Any requests?
I grinned. I could have fun with this, right?
Me: Just you, baby… wear something… provocative…
I pictured her opening the message, shaking her head, that glossy
red hair flying, before a smirk crossed her face, and she started
typing. I watched the screen for a while, but her reply was taking
longer than I’d imagined. Maybe I’d pushed things too far.
I knew she was into me. I just didn’t think she could take my brand
of loving. I’d thought about it. I’d seen her in my sex dreams more
often than I’d ever admit. It was suddenly a terrifying thought, that
I might have offended her.
When my darkened phone lit up, punctuated by a sound of pure
sexual pleasure, I reached for it, suddenly nervous about her
response.
Kitty Kat: I don’t think you could handle me in something
provocative. You’d probably spunk your pants like a teenager.
She’d included a winking emoji after the last comment, and I burst
out laughing. Well, well, well… touché, Miss Kitty Kat.
Me: You’re right… I should probably take off my pants for your…
arrival…
I glanced at Max, who gave me the one eyed glare again, since he’d
turned on his side. He’d turned into quite a grumpy middle-aged
dog. He’d been about three years old when I adopted him. At least
that was their guess. It scared me that he’d started to slow down a
little already. At least around me. When Kat appeared, he turned
into a bouncy puppy again. Maybe he loved her more. Maybe it
was cruel of me, to keep him beside me.
Kitty Kat: You mean you’re wearing some right now? I thought
you walked around half naked most of the time. You always seem
to be ‘just out of the shower’ whenever I call round.
Ha! She was right about that. If I knew she was due to visit, I’d
often make sure I was at least topless. It was part of our game.
That first time she’d feasted those big blues on my tatted chest, and
spotted the bars through my nipples… yeah, she’d looked like she’d
spontaneously orgasm, right there and then. So yeah… I’d made a
point of it ever since. In fact… A hot day like today… I should really
be wearing less.
I glanced down at my t-shirt and shorts. Yeah, I could lose the shirt
for sure.
“What do you think, little man, you think the Kitty Kat wants me to
make her purr?”
Max groaned, and made a snorting noise. I didn’t like to think that
my dog had just mocked me, but he was a savvy bastard.
“I’m thinking I might try anyway, even with your disapproval.”
Max completely ignored me. And he was probably right.

It was just under an hour later when Kat arrived, and as planned, I’d
somehow lost my shirt, between messaging her, and dealing with my
hound’s disdain, and her arrival.
 “Ah, there you are. Thought you might be lost.” I said with a
smirk, as I let her in. She looked amazing. She wore a vest and
denim shorts, like she belonged on a beach in California.
She took one look at me, and shook her head.
“What? It’s hot.” I protested, and she smirked.
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that. I brought some bagels and
stuff.”
I watched her head to the small kitchen, and start preparing plates
and stuff, so I hobbled over to her, and started prepping the kettle,
until her hand on my arm stopped me.
She pointed to a tray I’d somehow missed, while I’d been ogling
her. Iced coffees. She’d thought of everything. I grinned, and
leaned on the counter to watch her work.
“You move around like you belong here, babe.”
She quirked a brow. “In the kitchen? If that’s your way of trying to
coerce me into being your housemaid, I’m afraid I’m not
interested.”
I pictured her in a maid’s outfit, and bit back a groan. “Babe, if you
wear the outfit, I’ll make it worth your while.”
She laughed, tossing her head, that high ponytail flipping. It was
the perfect height for gripping it, as I slid my cock into her from
behind. Jesus fuck. A few weeks without sex, and I’m ready to
jump my neighbour. Suddenly every little innuendo and flirtation
between us felt real. I was long overdue for a good fuck.
Max suddenly let out a bark, and came charging in from the other
room, launching himself at Kat, firmly in puppy mode.
“That took him a while.” She said with a worried frown. “I told
you he’d been sleeping really deeply. It scared me the first time. I
had to shake him before he woke.”
I felt a deep pit of fear in my stomach, as I stared at my little man.
Don’t be sick, buddy. Please.
“Should I get him checked out?” I asked her, and she frowned.
 “I think so. He’s supposed to be your guard dog. At this rate,
you’ll be the one protecting him.”
I glared at her, because what the actual fuck? “I’ll always fucking
protect him! What are you on about?”
She frowned some more. “It was a joke, Nico. Chill. But yeah, I
think we should run him to the vet. I’ll book an appointment.”
I leaned down, trying to get closer to my little man. “Hey buddy,
you’re okay, aren’t you? You’re just scaring me for shits and gigs,
right?”
Kat was typing something into her phone. “Booked, tomorrow
morning.”
I stared at her. “You did it by text?”
The look she gave me, was one of pity. “You don’t use the vet’s app
to book stuff for him?”
“There’s an app?”
“You’re old before your time, Nico. Yes, there’s an app. They post
pics of him on there on his visits too. The thread is for his owners
only.”
She turned her phone, to show me a picture of him standing on the
vet’s scales, his face almost grinning.
“So you’re listed as one of his owners?”
She set the phone down, and reached for her bagel. “I have had to
take him to a few appointments. They gave me access, so I can
book them easier. You said you didn’t mind.”
When the hell did we have that discussion? I stared at her, trying to
figure out how I missed all of that, and she rolled her eyes at me.
“I was wearing that red dress you liked.” Oh. The moment came
back to me in an instant.
“That’s what we were talking about?”
She pushed my plate toward me, and pointed to the dining chair.
“Sit, and eat.”
I did. Because I was hungry, and for no other reason. My knee was
throbbing again. Honestly that bastard hurt more than any other
injury I’d had. It didn’t help that I kept re-injuring it, either.
I watched Kat’s hand disappear under the dining table. A few
moments later, she did it again.
“Jesus, Kat. That’s why he begs at the table, dammit.”
She giggled. “He’s hungry, look at him.”
I peered awkwardly under the table. All I saw were her bare,
tanned legs. “Jesus. What were we talking about again?”
She moved, looking under the table, narrowly avoiding a face licking
from Max.
“Those are my legs, Nico. You’re supposed to be looking at your
boy.”
“My boy is doing the looking for me.” I said with a smirk, making
an effort to sit upright again. My ribs felt like they pinched a little,
when I moved. Great.
She was giggling, and then she stopped. “Eww. I just got that.
Keep it in your pants, neighbour.”
When we’d finished eating, Kat took Max for a long walk, longer
than I could have. Let’s face it, I could have taken him to the
doorstep, maybe a step or two further, and I’d have been fucked. I
sat awkwardly on the sofa to wait for her.
Nort: Hey man, how are you? You’re not keeping in touch. You
promised.
I groaned, hitting the phone icon to ring him.
“So now you’re just gonna ring me, like that’s what you were
planning the whole time?” He asked, when the call connected. I
grinned. It was nice hearing his voice. It made me feel a little less
alone.
“How do you know I wasn’t?”
“Uh… I know you. How’s the leg?”
I stared at my swollen, throbbing knee. “Yeah, improving. I’ll be
jogging again in no time.”
“Jogging? I thought the only exercise you did was fucking, and
running away from women?” I could almost hear the smirk on his
face. Cheeky bastard.
“I only run from the crazy ones.”
“You see the irony, right? But look, I’m serious. You need to come
back, you come back, okay?”
I sighed. I couldn’t keep lodging with my brother, like his
dependent. I had a life. A business. I needed to find a way to get
it all back.
“Nah, I’m fine. Besides, if I come back, the rest of Emory’s lease
gets wasted. Where’s the sense in that?”
“Jesus Christ. Okay, I clearly can’t talk any sense into you. I’ll
change the subject. How’s Max?”
I fell silent for a moment, because that was the all-important
question. Screw the mess of my knee, and various other parts of
me. My little man might be sick, or old, or something. It was
terrifying.
“Nico?”
I cleared my throat against the unexpected lump in it. “Yeah, he’s
good. Taking him for a little check-up tomorrow, just to be sure.”
“Want me to go with?”
“Like you’d let my dog in that posh car of yours. Nah, it’s fine.
Kat’s taking us.”
He laughed. “Bet you’d rather it be the other way around…”
“I told you, it’s not like that with her.” No matter how much I
wanted it to be. How long had I been lying to myself about her?
She was too good for me. That’s why I stayed away. Right?
“It could be. She likes you. More than likes. Women don’t
practically adopt a man’s dog for nothing. She agreed to help,
because she wants more than just being your neighbour. I mean, of
course she fell for him, everyone does.”

Ain’t that the truth… Even Emory, who was a little afraid of dogs
larger than a cocker spaniel, had fallen under his spell. Last time
she’d been here, she’d ended up with him asleep in her lap, and she
looked like she’d won the lottery. It feels like that when a dog
chooses you. I don’t know how they do it.
“Nico, you’d tell me if something else had happened, wouldn’t
you?” Nort sounded worried, and I hated it, because I didn’t need
to cause him extra worries. He had enough of his own.
Last I heard, Emory had been in bits, because she hadn’t been
pregnant. Apparently they were struggling. It surprised me that
they wanted a little screaming demon of their own, but who am I to
judge? I prefer my screaming demons to be scantily clad, or naked.
“It’s all good, bro. I’m thinking I’ll go back to work later this
week. I can’t keep expecting Joey to do everything, you know?
He’s good, but he’s not me.”
“It’s a club. Anyone can do it.”
I pressed a hand over my heart. “Ouch. That hurts, bro. You know
there’s more to it. Nuances, and stuff.”
“Like you’d know what that even means. You open doors, people
get drunk, and dance, and screw people they’ll only regret the next
day, and some of those are the ones who take you home. It ain’t
rocket science.”
God I missed those days. Being carefree. Screwing who and
whatever I wanted. Even the occasional dude. I don’t really have
limits. If they get me hard, I want to bury my cock in them. To be
honest, I probably deserved a medal for not fucking Kat yet.
She was stunning, and just didn’t see it. She referred to herself as
‘homely’. Bemoaned her less than flat stomach, or her thighs, that
she seemed to see as chubby. They were curvy and gorgeous. And
those tits. Jesus.
 “If you’re now playing with yourself, while you remember your
glory days, I’m hanging up on you.”
“See, now you got me thinking about glory holes, and I’m
wondering where I can get me a piece of that action.” I said snidely,
knowing it’d piss him off. He sighed heavily.
“We need to stop by sometime today or tomorrow. Emory needs
some things she left behind.”
“I told you, she only did that so she can keep visiting me.”
“Dick.”
Exactly. That’s me. A dick. Jerk. Loser. Scumbag. Asshole. Did I
forget any of the monikers I’d been graced with by women. Hell
yeah. Let me see, there’s dildo, that was a personal favourite.
Asswipe. Fucktard. Fuckwad. Bastard, of course, that’s a classic.
Oh, so many more.
“You ring me if you need anything, yeah?” Nort finished, because
he could tell that I really wasn’t in a chatting mood, which was
ironic, because I was lonely as hell.
As soon as the call ended, I regretted it. Now I had nothing to do,
except to sit and wait for Kat to return, with my buddy. My knee
throbbed in rapid waves, and I groaned, knowing that I needed to
get up and get painkillers. I couldn’t keep them out on the coffee
table, in case Max got hold of them. Little bastard was always
helping himself to stuff. I’d forgotten how bad he could be, until I
left half a pack of biscuits there the other day. He didn’t even save
me one.

I was halfway to the kitchen, when I felt my knee give way, and I
lurched, grabbing the doorframe. Jesus fuck. I couldn’t move from
my death grip on the wood beneath my hand. If I tried to walk, I’d
take one step on my good leg, and then go crashing to the floor.
Trying to hop would be agony.
The door opened and Max came charging in, while I yelled at him to
stop, before he bowled me over.
Kat slammed the front door and hurried over to me, dumping his
lead and the roll of unused poo bags on the counter.
“Jesus, what happened, Nico?”
I groaned, desperately needing help, but so unaccustomed to asking
for it. I preferred to always say I’m fine, and then struggle alone.
Because why should anyone go out of their way to help me?
She didn’t bother waiting for my answer. “Your knee again?” I let
out a pained breath, and nodded.
“Come here.” She stepped under my arm, bracing my weight, so I
could hop (painfully) to the dining table, where she eased me down
into a seat, and carefully propped my leg up on another chair.
Max, because he can be a good boy, was sitting a few feet away,
watching us, with just the tip of his tail wagging. The tentative ‘am
I a good boy?’ wag. I reached for him, and he hurried over, to slide
his head under my hand, and rest it on my thigh.
“That’s my good boy.” I cooed, rubbing his ears.
“What happened?” Kat asked, going to the cupboards, and
gathering up something with a glass of water. Painkillers. Thank
fuck for that. It was the strong ones the doc had prescribed. I’d
eased off of them, and onto standard pain relief, as fast as I could,
so thankfully I had spares.
“Thanks, babe.” I muttered, after washing two of them down.
“Did you twist it again?” She asked, tentatively pressing her
fingers into my skin, taking care to avoid all of the dark, angry,
bruised skin, and all of the swelling. Hell. Was it swelling even
more?
“It gave way. I was stuck there. You know, your timing is
impeccable. Always liked a lady who comes right on time.” I
smirked at her, trying to hide just how much it was fucking
throbbing.
“Let me google this.” She grabbed her phone, and started looking
stuff up. “I’m going to get some ice for it. You might need to go
back to the hospital though.”
“NO!” I gasped, almost instantly, because it wasn’t safe there.
She looked at me with concern.

Chapter Two
Kat
He was a stubborn bastard. I’d been prepared for that, but this was
something more. That ‘no’ had been tinged with panic. Fear. He
was afraid to be back out there at the hospital again. The trouble
was that I didn’t think he could risk not getting it checked out. It
was getting worse by the minute.
“You have two options, Nico. Either I call an ambulance, or I call
your brother.”
He rubbed his face. “You don’t understand, Kat. It just needs rest.”
“Yeah? How’s that working out for you? Seems to me that resting
is just making it worse.”
He glared at me, while I dialled on my phone, and lifted it to my ear,
walking away from him. I added a little extra sway to my hips, just
in case he bothered to check out my ass. One day. One day he’d
notice me. One day he’d stop shagging every other slut in town,
and take a look at me. Realise that I’m right here.
“Hello?” Norton answered the phone at last.
“Hey Nort, it’s Kat.”
He let out a breath. “Is he okay?” He didn’t even have to wonder
why I’d called.
“I think he needs to revisit the hospital, but he’s refusing. I could
use some backup, to bully him into it.”
“What happened?” I heard him mutter something in the
background, maybe to Emory.
 “His knee is getting worse, instead of better.”
“I knew that fucker was lying to me.” He snapped, and then
apologised.
“Sorry, Kat. You don’t deserve my crankiness. I’ll save it all for
that prick. I’m on my way now.”
He rang off, and I turned to walk back into the kitchen. He’d
probably heard my call, because the rooms were separated only by
an opened up archway.
He was glaring at me over his shoulder, as I approached. “That
wasn’t necessary.” He grumbled, and I countered with a glare of my
own.
“How can you get better, if you’re such a stubborn asshole that you
would rather suffer, and keep hurting yourself again?”
He glanced at Max, who’d curled up beside him on the floor.
“I’m letting him down.” He muttered suddenly, morosely.
“How?”
“If he’s sick or something, he’ll need to be looked after, and I can’t
even look after myself. I’m a fucking disaster.” When he looked
back at me, he looked shockingly close to tears. His bottom lip
quivered a little before he sucked in a breath, and pasted that more
familiar smirk across his face.
“Maybe I’m just pretending I’m hurt, so you’ll keep coming over,
babe.”
Idiot. I made us a drink while we waited for Norton, and when he
arrived, I ushered him into the car with his brother, and stayed to
keep Maxie company while they were gone.
When I heard a scandalous moan, somewhere in the room with me,
I realised he’d forgotten his phone in the excitement. I figured it
might be a message from Norton, or them checking the phone was
here, so I pressed the button to show me the lock screen. It wasn’t
either of them.
Unknown: You can’t hide forever, asshole. Your days are
numbered. I’m looking forward to watching the light die from your
eyes.
I gasped, fumbling the phone as my hand shook. I felt a sudden
choking fear, even though the message hadn’t been aimed at me. I
was in his house alone, with only Max to protect me, and vice
versa. What if they came for him now?
Norton and Nico didn’t return for another three hours. By that time,
there had been another two messages along the same lines,
threatening impending death, but with details as to the method, or
how he’d die screaming.
Norton helped him through the door, and I saw that he’d been
supplied with crutches, which he carried, rather than relying on.
Norton helped him onto the sofa, ousting Maxie, who’d hopped back
up there when his daddy came home, his tail wagging wildly.
“Next time, dumbass, you listen when we try to fucking help.”
Norton was grumbling, carrying a prescription bag into the other
room. I followed him, hiding Nico’s phone against my leg as I did.
“What’s the verdict?” I asked him, looking back to see Nico sitting
with his head back, and arm around Max, who was trying to lick his
ear.
“Torn anterior cruciate ligament in his knee. He didn’t rest properly
when he first got hit. He’s on complete rest for a few days, and
then he has to start moving, so it can stay mobile. I’ll help get him
to his room.”
I glanced at Nico again. “I can stay with him.” I offered, and
Norton smiled.
“I think that would be amazing, if you can. He’s going to be an ass
about it, though.”
I stepped closer to him. “There’s a bigger problem, Norton. He left
his phone behind, when you guys were at the hospital. I saw the
messages coming in.”
He frowned at me. “What’s going on?”
“Death threats. Pretty nasty ones. I think it’s been going on a
while.”
He took the phone from me, a look of horror on his face, as he read
the messages he could see without the unlock code.
“This is fucking serious.” He muttered, and I nodded.
“He’s been hiding it from both of us. I bet he didn’t tell the police
either.”
He strode into the living room, and glared at his brother, holding the
phone up.
“Anything you want to tell me?”
Nico stared at the phone in his hand. “I wondered where I’d left it.
Wasn’t aware I’d left it in your fucking hand.”
Norton made a frustrated growling noise. “When were you going to
tell me that you were getting threats like these?”
Nico just shrugged, looking every bit like a sullen teenager.
“Nico, this is serious. This person really wants to hurt you.”
Nico shot him a glare. “What, you didn’t get that point from him
driving a car into me? Geez, I thought you were a bit smarter than
that.”
Norton slammed the phone on the coffee table. “You need to stop
being a bitch about this, and grow up. This isn’t some pissed off girl
you fucked. This is something bigger. Something more serious.
And if you know who it is, we can do something about it.”
Nico threw his hands up, almost elbowing a disgruntled Max, who
moved across the sofa.
“Sorry, buddy. Look, Nort. I appreciate the concern. I really do.
But what can I do? I have no idea who it is. I changed my fucking
number, and still they’re messaging me. Tell me how that’s even
possible, because I have no idea. I moved, but I feel like they’re
going to find me again anyway. What’s the point in telling the
police? They’ll do bugger all. They’ll wait until someone kills me,
and then use it all as evidence in court. Well, you know what? I can
get myself killed without their help.”
Norton turned, and slammed a fist into the wall, making me jump,
and scaring Max straight off the sofa. He let out a frustrated bark,
and came to sit against my legs. I’d backed into the kitchen when
things had been kicking off, but now it sounded like it was going in
the wrong direction.
“Calm down, both of you. Look, I’m sure you guys have some
macho shit going on here, and quite honestly, I don’t care. I care
about not having to take Max to live with me, because his daddy’s
been murdered. That’s what I care about!” I was practically
snarling the words, and didn’t that just make a mockery of the first
thing I said.
“Babe, I’m sure Max will be very happy with you.”
I turned to glare at Norton. “Well? It’s not like you’re exactly
making things better, is it?”
He was staring at his fingers, bloody from their headlong collision
with the wall.
“Bet you wish you’d punched me instead, bro. It’d hurt your hand
less.”
Norton smirked. “It was starting to heal, you dick, and now it’s
fucking killing me again. Look… promise me you’ll at least think
about telling the police. Maybe they can keep an eye or something.
Or trace them from the messages.”
Nico shrugged. “It’ll be a burner phone. That’s why they’re not
worried about making threats. Because it can’t be traced to them.”
He pointed to his knee. “More importantly, I’m supposed to be
resting, with this swollen bastard elevated, and ice on it. Now, if
you’re both finished verbally spanking me, do you think one of you
could give me a hand? Please?”
Norton shook his hand, wincing as it moved. “Fine. But I’m not
going to shut up about this. You’re being a dick.”
 “Wouldn’t be the first time.” Nico joked, leaning on his brother as
he helped him up.
“I’ll bring you up a drink, and the ice packs, in a minute.” I
offered, and he stared at me, over Norton’s shoulder. “Nah, you’ve
done enough, thanks babe.” I took the dig for what it was, and
ignored him, going to the kitchen to prep the ice packs they’d
brought, and to check out what meds he’d been given, while I
waited for the kettle to boil.
By the time Norton reappeared, I passed him a black coffee,
because I’d known him long enough to know he liked his coffee dark
and bitter. He used to joke that it suited his soul, but these days he
was different. Lighter. Happier. Freer. I liked it. I wished for the
same for Nico.
“Want one of these spare ice packs for your hand? They’ll defrost
anyway.” He took it and rested it over his fingers with a sigh.
“He’s going to be a dickhead when you go up there. I just want
you forewarned. He’s already declaring that he doesn’t need
anyone, and he’s pissed at you for showing me the messages.”
I grinned as I prepared a tray, with hot and cold things on it. “I can
handle him and his moods. Been doing it for a while now.”
“I’m serious. He’s really grumpy.”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t he have a right to be? He’s hurting, and
afraid, and stuck here, instead of out there, dipping his manhood
into every woman he meets, and who wants to kill him.”
Norton threw his head back as he laughed. “Nailed it.”
“That’s what he said.”
He laughed again. “You’re good for him, Kat. Please don’t give up
on him. If he ever gets his head out of his ass, he’ll see how
amazing you are.”
I smiled, kissing Norton’s cheek as I passed him. “I’ll be back in a
few minutes, you know, after he curses me, and sends me away.”
Chapter Three
Nico
I couldn’t believe how betrayed I felt, with Kat outing the messages
to my brother. I could handle the fact that she’d seen them. She
couldn’t make too much trouble, but Nort? He’d have me in a
freaking safe house or something.
It wasn’t like he didn’t have access to properties. I’d even helped
myself to one once, to impress a girl. Couldn’t remember her name
for the life of me, but she’d clearly come from money, so I’d done
my best to make her think that I was rich enough to get into her
pants.
“Nurse time.” Kat declared, as she stepped into my bedroom. Nort
had helped me onto the bed, still in my shorts, but Kat just helped
herself to my leg, propping more pillows under it, to make it more
comfortable, and then she set the ice packs over it. Finally, she
handed me a coffee.
“There you go, sexy.”
“I’m pissed at you.” I muttered, focusing on those luscious legs of
hers, because I still wanted them wrapped around my head.
She sat on the bed, curling a leg under her, so she could face me.
“Nico, you don’t have to go through this stuff alone. We want to
help. You need us. Don’t keep pretending you don’t.”
“I’ll tell you what I need, babe…”
She raised her eyebrows, looking wary.
“This is going to be some innuendo, isn’t it?”
I grinned slowly. “So is that a no, to sitting on my face?”
She heaved a big sigh, and stood up. “I thought you’d just bitch at
me, and kick me out. I’m going to get some things from my place,
and I’ll be back.”
 “Wait, what?” I tried sitting up, and even that hurt my fucking
knee.
“You need someone here, Nico. You’ll need help getting to the
damn toilet. I’m not leaving you to manage alone.”
“Nort can help me.”
“Nort has a fiancée to worry about, dammit. Stop being a
stubborn ass.” She said, shaking her head at me. “I’ll be back.”
She walked away, to try and stop me answering her.
“I don’t want you here.” I called out after her. Stubborn woman.
It wasn’t safe to be around me.
A few minutes later, I heard the front door slam, and the house fell
quiet. Max didn’t come trotting up to see me, which kind of hurt my
feelings, because he’s my boy, and he’s snubbing me. Probably
waiting at the front door for Kat.
“I thought I’d keep you company.” Nort spoke suddenly from the
doorway. I nearly crapped myself, because I thought he’d left ages
ago. He was holding an ice pack over his knuckles.
“Where the fuck did you come from?” My heart was racing, so
fast, it felt like it would burst out of my chest.
“You need to be more aware of your surroundings, you know, if
you’re going to push us all away.” He sat on the bed beside me, his
head back against the headboard.
“I’m not doing it for fun, bro. If I’m in some kind of shit, I want
you all as far away from me as possible. They’re only after me. I
don’t want any of you in the middle of this.”
He shrugged. “I mean, we’re family, so we’re in it, no matter what.”
“Not if I push you all away like a stubborn ass. You’ll get tired of
me eventually.”
Nort lifted the icepack from his knuckles, and stretched them
carefully.
 “Do you have any dangerous friends you can call on for support?
You must meet people through the club?”
I stared at him. “Oh yeah, my club is full of all of England’s most
dangerous people.”
“Don’t be a dick. What about that guy who got rid of… you know…
that item for me?”
“You mean the guy you punched to death? That item? The
corpse? The dead guy?”
I can’t help myself sometimes. He rubbed his face.
“What about him then? He seemed unsavoury, and kind of scary.”
I snorted. “Member of the local biker club. Trust me when I say
he’s not the kind of guy you want favours from. Not unless you’re
willing to go into a life of crime to repay them.”
He fell silent for a moment. “Hang on a minute. He did you a
favour, or me… a favour… what did he ask in return?”
I smirked at him. “Seriously? Now you want to know?”
He groaned. “Jesus… what did he ask?”
“To be introduced to a certain lady in my club. I arranged it, and
I’m pretty sure he’s fucking her. She might even end up as his old
lady. I’m pretty sure if that happens, I can probably squeeze
another favour out of him, but not for a while.”
“Dammit, Nico, this is serious.”
“You think I don’t realise that? What am I supposed to do? Call in
bodyguards, or something? I don’t have that kind of money. We’re
normal guys. We earn from our businesses, and we keep things
ticking over. We don’t have masses of disposable cash.”
He chewed his thumbnail. “I can maybe get some money together
for that.”
“Forget it! This is my problem. Leave this for me to sort. I’ll fix
it.”
Nort fell silent after that, and just pissed around with his phone for a
while. I knew he was planning on staying until Kat returned,
assuming that I hadn’t pissed her off enough, to keep her away.
“You don’t have to stay.” I muttered finally, and he snorted.
“Yeah, because you don’t need anyone’s help.”
“We just had this discussion. I don’t.”
He fixed me with a shrewd look. “So you can manage to get to the
toilet, and hold your junk while you piss?”
I smirked at him. “I knew you wanted to get your hands on my
dick. All you had to do was ask.”
“Ugh… don’t make me throw up. I’m just making a point. Do you
want me to bring you a water bottle to piss in then?”
I laughed. “Yeah, I’ll just line them up on the bedside cabinet, as I
fill them.”
The door slammed downstairs, and he snorted. “You might want to
be nicer to Kat. She’s going out of her way to help you.”
“Yeah, for the wrong reasons.”
“And the right reasons are?”
I closed my eyes, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. “I have no
fucking idea, but she shouldn’t be here. She deserves better.
More. I can’t give her that.”
“I don’t know why you think that.” Nort said, as he pushed up
from the bed, and crossed the room.
“Because I’m a worthless piece of shit.” I muttered under my
breath, and yet my words were still heard by him. He shot me a
glare.
“Don’t badmouth my brother. I kinda like him. Rest up. Be nice.”

It was a good twenty minutes before Kat reappeared, Max prancing

at her side.
 “Oh, now he deigns to visit me. He’s more your dog than mine
now.”
“Whose fault is that?” She muttered, bringing me a drink and
some pills.
I stared at her, took in every beautiful feature on her tanned face,
the luscious red hair pulled back in that high ponytail. A few wisps
coming loose.
Her figure. I mean, seriously, she could make a man cry with those
curves. I wanted to dig my fingers into those hips, and feast on her
pussy, but how could I offer her anything except heartbreak, and
death threats?
“You don’t need to be here.” I murmured, watching her sit beside
me. Max hopped up on the bed, and curled up between us.
“The word you’re looking for is ‘thanks’, Nico. I’m doing this
because I want to, so can you at least try to be pleasant? I know
you have it in you. It’s how you hook all those unsuspecting
women, right?”
I felt my lip curl at her. “I get it, Kat, I’m disgusting, an asshole. I
know all of this already. What I don’t get is why you seem to want
to be around me, if I’m so fucking awful.”
She sighed. “Are you in pain?” Yes. But I’d never admit it.
“I’m fine. So I guess the question is how far your nursing skills
stretch, babe. Do they go as far as helping me take a piss? Sponge
baths? You gonna get me naked, and stroke my cock with those
hands?” Jesus… just at the thought, the bastard was trying to get
hard. I was in too much pain for it to work, but hell, he was trying.
She stared at me. “You think I’m going to scream, and back off at
the thought of your man parts, Nico? I’m a grown woman. Besides,
it’s not like I’m going to see it at its best, right? You’re not attracted
to me. You’ve made that very clear, over the time I’ve known you.
Even if you do flirt all the time.”
I felt my chest tightening. I’d done too good a job of pushing her
away. I should be relieved, but it burned, deep inside. No way was
I turned off by her. Just the opposite. In fact, I wasn’t sure how
much longer I could hold back, and protect her from being tainted
by me.
“Kat…”
“Whatever. I get it. You don’t have to keep pushing the point.
Just remember, if you wait too long to realise how you feel about
me, I might have moved on by then. Women have needs too, Nico.
You might try to remember that.”
She left the room, and I bumped my head back against the
headboard a few times. “Idiot.”
Max lifted his head, groaned, and rolled onto his side.
“I know, little man. I just keep fucking it up.”
Chapter Four
Kat
He made me so angry sometimes. Yes, I’d do anything for him.
And if that meant holding it for him so he could pee, then yeah, I
would. That’s what love is. He just needs to get his head out of his
ass to understand that. Of course, I was pretty sure he wasn’t even
capable of such emotions.
Maybe I really had been wasting my time for the last two years.
Two fucking years. Two years of riding my fingers, and watching
porn on my phone, because he didn’t want me. Maybe I should just
go to his club tonight, and sleep with the first man I see there. Get
that itch scratched at last.
He was getting cranky after a few weeks with no sex? He didn’t
know how lucky he was.
I finished cooking up a stir fry, and plated it up, shouting for Max,
because his dinner was in his dish waiting for him. He charged
down the stairs like a bat out of hell, and buried his face in the
bowl. With a giggle, I grabbed our plates, and cutlery, and headed
upstairs.
Nico looked like he was sleeping, but he opened his eyes the second
I stepped into the room.
I sat on the bed and handed him a plate, and tools to eat with. He
lifted the plate to his face and sniffed.
“That smells fucking amazing, Kat. I didn’t know you could cook.”
I flipped him a rude gesture, and started to eat. It was good. I
knew it would be. What does a woman do, when she has very little
to do with the outside world? She becomes really damn good at
cooking, because she has to rely on herself for everything.
“This is really good. Thank you.” Nico muttered, between
mouthfuls. He was eating like he’d been starved.
 “I have skills.” I muttered, still not completely over our earlier
discussion. He talked like I was some lovesick loser, who wasn’t
good enough for him. And half the time he acted as if I’d be afraid
of even seeing him naked. And it was all I wanted.
I’d seen that bare chest so many fucking times, that I knew it was
toned, and strong, and covered in tattoos. I loved every one of
them, for different reasons. The few showing women’s names were
my least favourite, but I loved the tribal ones around his arms, and
the almost mandala-like patterns on his chest. Some even looked
like occult symbols. He kept his chest hairless, and smooth, and
sometimes I’d get this bizarre urge to run my tongue across it. To
taste his warm skin.
“Why are you staring at my chest?” He suddenly asked, and I
almost choked on my food.
“Ugh… just miles away. But while we’re on the subject of your
sketchpad chest, why don’t you tell me about them? You have so
many different tattoos.”
He shrugged. “Mostly they’re just things I liked when I saw them,
so I added them.”
“The women included?”
He frowned, and I pointed to three names, which I knew wrapped
around his side. He laughed.
“Oh… they’re not women, Kat.”
I glared at him. “I’m not an idiot. Cassie? Mary? Jessie?”
He laughed again. “It’s not what you’re thinking. When I was a
teenager, and Nort was being the breadwinner, while I bummed
around, and tried to work out what kind of life I wanted… I found
them.”
“Found three girls?”
“Puppies.” He said simply. “Some bastard had abandoned them. I
found them by the canal. Took them home. Nort was pissed,
because it meant more expense, but I wouldn’t let them go into a
shelter. I wanted to raise them. They were my babies.”
I was stunned. I knew he loved his dog, but I had no idea he’d
been the kind of guy to nurture puppies like that. He barely seemed
like the kind of guy to be able to look after himself.
“Where are they now?”
He lowered his eyes. “They weren’t well. I didn’t know when I took
them in. The vet said they seemed healthy, you know, barring the
expected stuff for being abandoned. Turned out they were inbred at
a puppy farm. All three had issues. It broke my heart as I lost
them, one by one. But I made sure I could never forget them.
Hence the tats.”
Oh wow. Had I thought I was in love with him before that story? It
was so hard to reconcile that guy, with the one in front of me, the
one I’d seen break heart after heart, without a fucking care.
“I’m so sorry. That’s awful. They were lucky to have a loving
home with you, while they were around.”
He shrugged. “I’d love to hunt down every bastard who was ever
connected to a puppy farm, and kill each one of them. And of
course, rescue all of the poor dogs, and give them a happy life.
Love them. Jesus… I sound like such a pussy.”
He rubbed at his face, his empty plate sitting on his lap. I reached
over and took it, setting it aside with mine.
“You have depths, Nico. Really really well hidden ones. Maybe you
shouldn’t be hiding them so well. Are you afraid that people might
realise you’re not such an ass after all?”
He smirked at me. “You got me. It’s all an act. I don’t really fuck
women, and leave them discarded.”
I looked away. At least those women had a chance of a night with
him. What I wouldn’t give to have that.
Nico groaned. “I hate to say this…”
 “What’s up?” He showed me his embarrassment, his cheeks
darkening as he looked at me, and looked away.
“I need the bathroom.”
I shrugged. “No biggie. I’ll help you there. Being serious for a
minute, do you need help in there?”
He shook his head vehemently. “If you can get me in there, I can
do the rest.”
“That’s what he said.” I joked, and he burst out laughing.
“Yeah, I know what I’m doing there, too, baby.”
“That’s what I hear.” I helped him scoot to the edge of the bed,
moving pillows, and helping him ease his leg down. He winced
when he tried to bend the knee. Once we had him on his feet, I had
him loop his arm over my shoulder, and I took him to the bathroom.
It was the room across from his, so easy to move to. Honestly, with
me being almost his height, it wasn’t as much of a struggle as I’d
imagined, and having his bare skin pressed against my body was
heavenly. I wanted more of it.
“You going to be okay?”
He grinned. “Not my first time, babe. You’re gonna have to let go
though.”
I glared at him, shoving his arm away, because he’d been the one
still holding on.
“I’ll be out there, dickhead. Out of hearing range.”
He laughed, and pushed the door closed. I wandered back to the
room he was sleeping in, and then checked out the spare room. It
was nice. I figured I’d bed in with him, though. He might need me
in the night. I felt a trickle of excitement down my spine. Maybe he
really might need me in the night. He had to make the move
though. I wasn’t about to humiliate myself by throwing myself at
him.
“Kat?” I heard him call out from the bathroom, and made my way
back, meeting him as he pulled the door open.
 “I hope you washed your hands.” I muttered, making him laugh.
“Wanna smell them?” He offered, and I elbowed him in the chest.
“Come on, dickhead. Let’s get you back to bed.”
“You say the sweetest things, Kat. You thought any more about
sitting on my face? I bet I can make you scream.”
I sighed, helping him back to the bed, before lowering him carefully
back onto it.
“Say yes, Kat. I want to pleasure you with my mouth.” He reached
for me, and I slapped his hands away.
“Stop being a dick, Nico!”
He glared at me as he sat back, and I propped pillows around his
knee again.
“I don’t know what you want from me, Kat. Kitty Kat. Let me
make you purr, baby… come on…”
He was acting way out of character. It was unnerving. Yeah, he’d
hit on me before, never in a serious way, but now, he was practically
begging me to let him do the things to me, that I’d been craving for
two fucking years, and it wasn’t fair.
“Stop it.” I muttered, leaning forward to check the ice packs, which
needed to be reactivated. I’d have to swap them for others.
His hands suddenly settled on my arms, and he ran his palms up to
my shoulders.
“Kat. Come here, babe. Let me touch you.”
“Why? Why now?”
He groaned, sitting back again. “I’m fucking dying without sex. Do
you have any idea what it’s like to go so long without it? I need it. I
need you. Please, Kat.”
I leaned closer, and when he tilted his face up, a grin crossing it, I
slapped him. Hard. His head was turned by the force of the
impact.
 “What the fuck?” He gasped, a hand covering the handprint I’d left
on his skin.
“I fucking hate you, Nico. How could you? You’ve gone a month
without? Well boo fucking hoo. What a nightmare for you! You
know how long I’ve waited? How long I’ve gone without, because
I’ve been hoping you’d suddenly see me for who I am?”
“Kat…”
“Since the day we first met. So you can bitch about your piddly
month without shagging some faceless whore. But you’ve got
nothing on me. I can tell you about suffering. I can tell you about
frantically fingering myself, night after night, watching crappy porn,
because I’m so fucking desperate to be touched. To be pleasured.
To be fucked. Does that make you feel good, big man? Yeah, you’re
the reason I’m so sex starved, that I almost just gave in. To feel
something. Anything.”
I stormed from the room, before I could make an even bigger fool of
myself. What the hell did I just do? I told him how pathetic I was.
How lame. How I’d waited years, for a man who clearly didn’t see
me as anything other than a handy, disposable hole, for him to use if
he finally became truly desperate.
I made it as far as the spare room, curling up on the bed, and
hugging myself, as I tried to cry as quietly as I could. I’d given up
too much already. I wouldn’t let him relish my pain too.
Chapter Five
Nico
What the actual shit just happened? I stared at the doorway, like I
expected her to reappear, but after those words, after what she just
told me, I knew she wouldn’t. I hoped she wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t
disappear on me. I had to talk to her again. I had no idea she’d
really been waiting for me. I didn’t deserve that. She deserved a
million times better than me.
I struggled to move to the end of the bed, knowing that there was
every chance I was about to land on my ass, but I had to go find
her. Somehow I managed to push up onto my feet, and staggered
to the doorway, mostly hopping. We’d left the crutches here, so
despite my deep shame at having to use them, I propped them
under my arms, and hopped into the hallway. I was glad that Max
had stayed out of the way, or I’d have ended up in a heap. They
were trickier to use than I’d expected.
I could hear a soft noise coming from the room next to the
bathroom. Crying. I’d made her cry. Yet more proof that she’s too
fucking good for me.
I made my way to the doorway, and pushed the door open slowly.
She didn’t hear me at first, so I hopped into the room, the tell-tale
thumps of the crutches, and my hopping foot, suddenly getting her
attention.
“What? Get out. What are you even doing up?” She snapped,
sitting up to wipe her tears away. She looked embarrassed to be
seen upset, and that pissed me off, because she had absolutely
nothing to be ashamed of. Unlike me. Asshole number one.
“Babe, how could I stay there, when I knew I’d hurt you? I’m so
fucking sorry.”
She glared at me, rubbing at her face. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s get
you back to bed, before you fall.”
She stood up and stared at me for a moment.
“You waited for me?” I finally asked, my voice practically a croak.
She cursed, turning away to wipe at her eyes again.
“I lied. I was angry.”
She reached for me, to help me back to my room, and I shook my
head.
“Bullshit. You don’t get this upset over a little fight. You’re right
about me. I’m all the bad things you should run away from. And
you don’t. No matter how hard I try to keep you at a safe distance,
you just keep pushing closer.”
She frowned. “Safe distance for you, or for me?”
I felt my shoulders slump a little, which almost unbalanced me on
those damn crutches. They didn’t feel like they were the right
height for me. I’m almost six foot two, and they were clearly for
someone shorter. And Kat? She’s only a couple of inches shorter
than me. She’s my perfect other half. Except they made her from
light, and sweetness, and what went into me was decayed, and
worthless.
“I asked a question.” She folded her arms.
I took a breath. “Look at me, Kat. I’m literally the guy every
mother warns their daughters about. I’m heartless, and uncaring.
I’m toxic. Decaying from the inside. I’m no good to anyone. You
deserve someone whole, and real. Someone who can look after
you, the way you look after me. You deserve a real man.”
She grinned briefly. “What if I don’t want a real man?”
I felt a choked laugh rise inside me. “You want the reject that you
should keep your distance from, before he destroys everything good
inside you?”
She chewed at her lip. “I want the man who makes my entire body
feel like it’s on fire, whenever he’s near me. Or when I think about
him. I want the man I picture, every time I ride my fingers to a solo
orgasm. I want the man who rescues abandoned puppies, and
whose heart breaks when he fails.”
I felt oddly like I wanted to cry. She saw me. The old me. The one
who didn’t die inside, over years of meaningless existence. I knew I
hadn’t achieved anything in my life, apart from hurting women. And
the longer it went on, the harder it became to try and be anything
else.

“I’m no good for you, Kat. I’m a cancer. I’ll eat you up inside.”
“I really hope so. I mean, I’m hoping you’re not all talk…” She wet
her lips as she stared at me, and I felt the last of my arguments
dissipating into the air around us. She knew what she was getting
into with me, didn’t she? She’d seen enough to know that I wasn’t
worthy of her, and yet she still wanted to lower herself to be with
me.
My firm stance with those crutches was starting to fail. I could feel
my arms shaking, as they tried to hold my weight, and my one leg
was starting to strain.
“Jesus.” I muttered, trying to move to the bed. Kat reached out to
help me, and it felt like her hands burned my flesh, where she
touched me. She sat me on the bed, and moved the crutches out of
reach.
“You weren’t ready for those yet. You’re still supposed to be
resting up.” She muttered, kneeling in front of me, to check my
knee. All I saw was a beautiful woman kneeling in front of me, and
how much I wanted those lips on me. Wrapped around my hard
cock, which… Jesus… it now was. Pain, and all of this fucking
heartfelt talk, and still he’d somehow risen to the occasion.
Kat fixed her eyes on it, and then looked at me. “You really are
suffering, huh?”
I reached out and stroked a wayward red hair from her forehead.
“That’s not it, babe. He’s… he came up for you. It’s you doing it.”
She lifted a trembling hand to her face, smoothing other stray hairs
from her damp skin. Her ponytail had started to give up the ghost.
“Let that gorgeous hair down, baby, let me see it, surrounding your
face, caressing your shoulders…”
She reached up and pulled it free, shaking her hair loose. I
groaned, as I leaned forward, and ran my fingers through it. It was
just as soft, and lush as it looked.
“I’ve waited so long to feel your hands in my hair, Nico. I often
pictured them gripping it, as you fucked me.”
Another groan reverberated through my body, my cock jerking at the
mere thought of being inside her.
“If we do this, there’s no going back, Kat. It’s a line we can’t
uncross.” I warned her, and she shot me one of those gorgeous
glares.
“That’s bullshit. I managed two years of being kept at arm’s length
by you. If you decide I’m just another ‘fuck and duck’, then I’ll just
have to live with it.”
I burst out laughing, as I stared at that feisty face of hers. “Fuck
and duck?”
“Yeah, you know… you fuck them, then you duck.”
I shook my head as I stared at her, wondering how the hell this was
even happening.
“No more fuck and duck.” I muttered, pulling her closer by her
hair, bringing her lips to mine, as she moved within reach.
She was the first to slide a tongue out, teasing at my lips, and I
wasn’t going to miss out on a chance to taste her, tugging her
mouth hard against mine, as I pushed my tongue against hers, both
of us letting out a moan of pleasure and relief. I’d waited too long
to get some part of me inside her, and I already knew it wasn’t
enough. I needed to be inside her. And it needed to be now. We’d
both waited too fucking long.
I pulled back to look at her. To feast my eyes on that face, flushed
with arousal, her lips swollen from our kisses, that heated desire in
her eyes.
“I want you, Kat. You have no idea how much I want you. How
long I’ve wanted you.”
She shuddered in my hold. “But…”
“I thought you’d want our first time to be in your pussy, but I’m
open to suggestions, preferences, etc.” I grinned, as her eyes
widened, and then she laughed.
“Don’t ever stop saying things like that, Nico. They make me so
horny.”
She started pulling at the fastening at the waist of my shorts, and I
laughed, leaning back on the bed, making it easier for her to get at
my cock. For as long as he wanted to stand up, I wanted to put him
to good use. On the only woman I should ever have been with.
Why had it taken me two fucking years to come to that realisation?
She freed my cock, easing my shorts out of the way, and off, so she
could stroke him, and tease my balls, and I shuddered, as her
tongue slid along the length.
“Jesus!” I gasped, as she sucked me deep into her mouth, her
tongue curling around him as she took him in. She started to fuck
my cock with her mouth, and suddenly I couldn’t take it anymore. I
pulled her hair, easing her head back, my cock slipping from her
lips.
“No… it’s not enough, baby.”
She frowned. “We don’t have condoms, Nico. We can’t fuck. Let
me do this, please.”
I grinned slowly, despite my desperate disappointment, about the
lack of fucking protection. I hadn’t come here planning to fuck
anyone, and sadly, neither had she. I couldn’t risk fucking her bare.
I hadn’t always been as careful as I should have been. Granted, the
last few months, I’d been better at remembering to wear condoms,
but… she shouldn’t have to take the risk.
 “The only way I can do that, baby, is if you do what I’ve been
begging you to do, and sit on my fucking face at the same time.
Can you do that for me?”
“I’ll suffocate you. I have a big ass.”
I laughed, grabbing her hands, and pulling her on top of me. “You
have a gorgeous ass, and I want it in my hands. I want your pussy,
pressing down on my face, and if you do suffocate me, I’ll have died
a happy fucking man.”
She shook her head at me, suddenly looking embarrassed.
“Kat… Kitty Kat… I love your fucking body. It was made for
pleasure. Let me prove it to you. I promise you; I’ll tongue-fuck
you real good.”
She shuddered, and pushed away from me, my heart sinking for a
moment, before I watched her start to strip. Hell yes. Show me
everything. I wanted to see every glorious inch of that beautiful
body.
When she finally wore as many clothes as she was meant to, aka
none, she climbed back onto the bed, and looked at me, suddenly
shy.
“Come on, baby… give me that pussy.” I pointed to my mouth.
“Right here. Sit on me.”
She let me guide her around, until her pussy was right where I
wanted it, and I couldn’t wait to delve in, sliding my tongue through
her wetness, finally getting the taste I’d been desperate for. I
groaned, feeling her move her hands, and then her mouth
reappeared where I needed it. I gripped her hips, so I could keep
her still, over my face, while she writhed, and wriggled with each
flick of my tongue.
Moving my hands, I used my thumbs to press her lips apart, so I
could sink my tongue inside her. She flinched, moaning around my
cock, which passed the moan right back to me, echoing out of my
throat. It was like an infinity symbol of pleasure, each moan I
wrenched from her, reverberating down my cock, and echoing back
out of me, against her wet pussy. And that little clit. Can’t forget
that.
Her juices were soaking my face, and my hips were now jerking at
her, trying to fuck her mouth, as she drove me too fucking close,
and I fought to get her there first. Tongue fucking her in earnest, I
used my fingers to pinch at her clit, and finally heard the scream I’d
been working so hard for, as her lips lifted from my cock, and her
body undulated on top of me.
Her mouth enveloped me again, while I licked her through the final
tingles of her orgasm, and then I felt fingernails trailing over my
balls, and I blew my load. My body felt like it had been set on fire,
as I spurted into her warm mouth, and felt her swallowing against
the flow.
My hands fell away from that luscious ass, and she rolled away,
laying beside me, our heads level with each other’s waists. Our
hands just naturally found each other, and linked together, as we lay
together and caught our breath. I licked at my lips, languid swipes,
now and then, to pick up the last of her taste.

Chapter Six
Kat
It took long slow minutes for my breathing to finally return to
normal. I lay naked beside Nico. Nico! He was naked too, and my
head was resting alongside his hip, as our hands played with each
other in that idle way that came with no thought, but from a level of
comfort with each other, that had never been there before.
The silence was comfortable, until it suddenly wasn’t. As my
inhibitions started to return, and I started to doubt myself.
“Kat?”
“Yeah?”
 “Stop freaking out, baby.” His voice was a soft whisper, but it
shocked me, because his words were the last thing I expected.
“What makes you think I am?”
He chuckled quietly. “The way you’re suddenly trying to pretzel my
fingers.” Oh. I pulled my hand away, and pushed myself up onto
my elbows, immediately assaulted by the sight of my body. My less
than perfect, saggy stomach, and my larger than I liked hips, and
thighs. I wanted to cover up, and reached for the bedding, trying to
pull it over me.
Nico’s hand flashed out, stopping me from covering up.
“Don’t. I like seeing your body. Don’t know why you think you
have to hide it from me.”
I met his eyes. “I never thought I’d be showing it to you. I guess I
always had this fantasy that I’d have toned up before you saw it.
But that would mean going to the gym, and that’s just not my
thing.”
He grinned slowly. “Baby, you want a workout, I’m right here.”
Now he says that. What will he say in the morning, when he’s had
time to think, and starts pushing me away again? I don’t know if I
can take it. I know I put on the whole bravado thing, and convinced
him that I could cope with it, but I wasn’t sure at all. How could you
have the one thing you’d wanted, for so long, and then give it up
again?
“I knew I wasn’t your type. Couldn’t be. Not with my bigger
body.”
He frowned a little, as he reached over, to idly stroke his fingers
across my stomach, caressing the undersides of my breasts.
“Your body is perfect. Why wouldn’t you be my type? Who
wouldn’t want you?”
I felt myself glaring at him. “Seriously? Every fucking woman you
go for is supermodel thin. Every time I saw you disappear with one,
I had to hold in my screams of frustration, because as long as that
was what you wanted, you’d never see me.”
He pushed himself up on his elbows, his taut stomach tensing with
the effort. Yeah, he worked hard for his body. I languished on a
sofa, eating snacks, and bemoaning my weight gain. If not for the
dog walks, I’d probably be a few sizes larger.
“Wait a minute… what the hell are you on about? You didn’t see
me with women. I deliberately never let them anywhere near where
I lived. I never brought them home. I never went anywhere, but
from the club to their places.”
Shit. Well, crap on a cracker. On a pile of crackers. I didn’t mean
to tell him that.
“I guessed. I mean, I guess that’s the kind of woman you’re into.
Who isn’t, right?” I moved to get up, and his hand closed around
my wrist.
“Stop. Kat, when have you seen me with women?”
He wouldn’t let go as I tried to move, so we both ended up sitting,
with me still trying to pull away from his grip.
“Never mind. It was just some dumb thing I didn’t mean to say.” I
pulled at his grip again, and he glared at me.
“I made sure I never brought them anywhere near you. I didn’t
want you seeing them. Ever. So how, Kat? How did you see me
with women?”
I managed to wrench my wrist out of his hand, and slid off the bed,
standing up on slightly trembly legs.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m thirsty, so I’m going to make a drink. You
need help getting back to your room?”
“I’m not going anywhere, Kat. Neither are you. How the fuck did
you see me with other women?”
I slipped my shorts and vest back on, forgoing underwear, just to get
out faster.
 “Fine. I’ll put your drink in your room, when it’s made. You can
manage to get there, I’m sure.”
“Jesus, Kat. Talk to me.” He tried sliding off the bed too, but his
knee wouldn’t take his weight, nor should he have tried to make it.
“Stop it! If you keep fucking it up, you’re never going to be free of
me again.” I snapped, pushing him back down on the bed.
“If that’s what it takes, that’s what I’ll do.” He said stubbornly.
“Please. Stay. I’ll make drinks, then I’ll help you back into your
room.”
I went to the bathroom, soaked a flannel, and tossed it at him.
“Might want to clean my pussy juices off your face too.”
He laughed as he grabbed it from his chest.

I went downstairs, my legs still a little trembly. He hadn’t been

kidding about knowing what to do with his mouth. I’ve never come
so hard in my life. Was it because it was him? Or because I’d
waited two fucking years, to be touched like that? Both?
Max wagged his tail at me from the sofa.
“What are you doing down here, buddy? You should be upstairs
with us.” Of course, I’m glad he didn’t spectate, while we
participated in my first ever sixty nine… my god… I can’t believe we
just did that. Not my first blow job, of course not, but I’ve never
had a man want to tongue me while I did it. No wonder women
wanted more than one night with Nico.

I made coffee, and rinsed and refilled Maxie’s water bowl. He came
to inspect the bowl, taking a few slurps, before he came over to
press his wet mouth against my leg. He always knew how to make
me smile.
“You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Not getting sick on us, are you?”
He wagged madly at me, and stared at me as I stroked his head.
Another random document with
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romanticists as Gifford looked upon the Della Cruscans, and which
induced him to carry his defence of custom and tradition almost to
the verge of bigotry.
Something must be allowed, too, for the operation of
contemporary ideas upon Byron. The leaders of the so-called
Romantic Movement, partly because many of them had associated
themselves with the Jacobin party in England, partly because their
poetry seemed strange, were met from the first with opposition in
86
many quarters. Language of a tenor hostile to their work may be
met with in Mathias, the Anti-Jacobin, Epics of the Ton, the
Simpliciad, and Hodgson’s Gentle Alterative. The suggestions for
many of the anti-romantic views since attributed to Byron alone
came doubtless from other satirists, whose accusations Byron fitted
into telling phrases.
An excellent illustration of this is to be found in Byron’s
unprovoked attack upon Scott, in which the younger poet, seizing
upon the well-known fact that Scott had received money for his
verses, terms him “hireling bard” and “Apollo’s venal son.” Perhaps
Byron may have shared with Young the snobbish notions about
money expressed in the latter’s couplet:

“His [Apollo’s] sacred influence never should be sold;

87
’Tis arrant simony to sing for gold.”

It is more probable, however, that he had in mind a passage from

Epics of the Ton, in which Scott’s “well-paid lays” had been
88
mentioned in a contemptuous manner. Even in his charge that the
plot of the Lay of the Last Minstrel was “incongruous and absurd,”
89
Byron had been anticipated in a note to All the Talents. The whole
tirade against Scott in English Bards was particularly unfortunate
because, as was revealed later, that author had remonstrated with
Jeffrey on the “offensive criticism” of Hours of Idleness.
 Byron’s antagonism to the so-called Lake School of poets,
Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey, began early and continued
long. In 1809 it is improbable that he had any acquaintance with any
one of the three; yet he placed them in a conspicuous and
unenviable position in English Bards. His primary motives in
attacking them have already been indicated. Considering them as
faddists who were lowering the dignity of the author’s calling and
degrading poetic style, he followed the Simpliciad in condemning
them for the contemptible nature of their subject-matter, for their
simple diction, for their fondness for the wild and unnatural, and for
their studied avoidance of conventionality.
Southey’s first verse had appeared in 1794; while Wordsworth
and Coleridge had been really introduced to the public through
Lyrical Ballads. Opposition to them and their theories had begun to
be shown almost immediately, allusions to Southey, in particular,
being fairly common in satiric literature before 1809. Mathias had
said ironically with reference to Southey’s first poem:

“I cannot ...
Quit the dull Cam, and ponder in the Park
90
A six-weeks Epick, or a Joan of Arc.”

In the Anti-Jacobin Southey’s poetry had been ludicrously parodied,

and the members of the Lake School had been branded as
revolutionists. Epics of the Ton had ridiculed Southey and
91
Wordsworth, and the Simpliciad had accused all three of “childish
92
prattle.” Byron, then, was no pioneer in his satire on the
romanticists, nor did he contribute anything original to the
controversy. The frequency and rapidity with which Southey had
published long epics had impressed others before Byron cried in
English Bards:

“Oh, Southey! Southey! cease thy varied song!

 93
A bard may chaunt too often and too long.”

In this early satire Byron showed no personal animosity towards

Southey; he introduced him merely as a too prolific and too eccentric
scribbler, to be jeered at rather than hated. The fierce feud between
the two men was of a later growth.
Picking Southey as the leader of the romanticists, Byron treats
Wordsworth as merely a “dull disciple,” silly in his choice of subjects
and prosaic in his poetry, “the meanest object of the lowly group.”
Perhaps the most striking defect in the satire levelled at this poet is
the lack of any recognition of his ability, an omission all the more
noticeable because Byron, in the last two cantos of Childe Harold,
was influenced so strongly by Wordsworth’s conception of the
relation between man and nature. Coleridge receives even less
consideration. He is “the gentle Coleridge—to turgid ode and tumid
stanza dear,” and is ridiculed mainly because of his Lines to a Young
Ass, a poem which had previously excited the mirth of the
94
Simpliciad. The slashing manner in which the boy satirist disposes
95
of his great contemporaries is almost unparalleled.
Byron’s satire on the Rev. Samuel Bowles (1762–1850)
illustrates one phase of his veneration for Pope, and connects him
with another Pope enthusiast, Gifford. In the Baviad Gifford had
gone out of his way to confront and refute Weston, who, in an article
in the Gentleman’s Magazine, had adduced evidence to prove that
Pope’s moral character was not above reproach. Gifford, unable to
dispute the validity of the facts, had contented himself with
describing the critic as “canker’d Weston,” and terming him in a note
96
“this nightman of literature.” Bowles, whose early sonnets (1789)
had attracted the admiration of Coleridge, published in 1807 an
edition of Pope’s Works in ten volumes, in which he followed Weston
in not sparing the infirmities and mendacities of the great Augustan.
The effect of this work on Byron was like that of Weston’s on Gifford,
and the result was that Bowles was pilloried in English Bards as “the
wretch who did for hate what Mallet did for hire.” Nor did the quarrel
end here. It grew eventually into a heated controversy between
Bowles and Byron, carried on while the latter was in Italy, in the
course of which Byron was provoked into calling Pope “the great
moral poet of all times, of all climes, of all feelings, and of all stages
97
of existence.” So strongly did he feel on the matter that he wrote,
even as late as 1821, concerning English Bards: “The part which I
regret the least is that which regards Mr. Bowles, with reference to
98
Pope.” Byron’s exaltation of Pope was made a positive issue in the
unreserved commendation which he gave to Campbell, Rogers, and
Crabbe, all three of whom were, in most respects, firm in their
allegiance to that master’s principles of poetry.
An odd freak of fancy led Byron to pose in English Bards as a
watchful guardian of morality in literature, though even at that date
he was the author of verses which are not altogether blameless.
That he should upbraid Monk Lewis, Moore, and Strangford as
“melodious advocates of lust” may well seem extraordinary to the
reader who recalls the poem which Byron sent to Pigot, August 10,
1806, asking that it be printed separately as “improper for the
99
perusal of ladies.” The truth is that Byron was again treading in the
steps of others. The virtuous but somewhat prurient Mathias, excited
by Lewis’s novel Ambrosio, or the Monk (1795), which has given the
writer notoriety and a nickname, had assailed the author in Pursuits
100
of Literature, and the supposed voluptuousness of the story had
not escaped the notice of the Anti-Jacobin and Epics of the Ton.
Byron had thus more than one precedent for his ironic reference to
Lewis’s “chaste descriptions.” Moore’s Epistles, Odes, and other
Poems (1806) had been censured by the Edinburgh Review in an
article which described Moore as “the most licentious of modern
versifiers.” All the Talents had questioned Moore’s morality, and
Epics of the Ton had mentioned a writer who,

“Like Tommy Moore has scratch’d the itching throng,

And tickled matrons with a spicy song.”
Byron had been a delighted reader of the Irish poet and had been
influenced by him in the more sentimental verses of Hours of
Idleness; nevertheless he repeated the imputations of the other
satirists in referring to him as

“Little! young Catullus of his day,

As sweet, but as immoral, as his lay.”

To Viscount Strangford (1780–1855), of whose translation of

Camoëns he had formerly been very fond, Byron offered advice:
“Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste.”
In the same vein as this grave admonition are the remarks which
the poet makes upon the Argyle Institution, founded by Colonel
Greville as a resort for gambling and dancing. Digressing for a while
without any logical reason, Byron proceeds to condemn social follies,
especially those fostered by “blest retreats of infamy and ease.” The
passage includes some lines on round dancing, which anticipate
Byron’s attack on that amusement in his later satire, The Waltz.
Gifford’s Mæviad, after making some final thrusts at the Della
Cruscans, had shifted its attack to contemporary actors and
dramatists. That satire upon them was justified may be gathered
from Gifford’s remark in his Preface: “I know not if the stage has
101
been so low since the days of Gammer Gurton as at this hour.”
During the fifteen years following the date of this statement it cannot
be averred that circumstances made it any the less applicable to the
theatrical situation in England, and Byron, in 1809, in ridiculing the
“motley sight” which met his eyes on the stage of his time, had
102
perhaps even more justification than Gifford had had in 1794.
Of the dramatists whom Gifford had mentioned with disfavor,
only two, Frederick Reynolds (1784–1841) and Miles Andrews (died
1814), were selected for notice by Byron. What the Mæviad had
called “Reynolds’ flippant trash” was still enjoying some vogue, and
English Bards took occasion to speak of the author as “venting his
 103
‘dammes!’ ‘poohs!’ and ‘zounds!’” Miles Andrews, whose
“Wonder-working poetry” had been laughed at in the Baviad, was
barely mentioned by Byron as a writer who “may live in prologues,
though his dramas die.” In general the satire on the stage in English
Bards consists of uninteresting remarks on some mediocre
dramatists, among them Theodore Hook (1788–1841), Andrew
Cherry (1762–1812), James Kenney (1780–1849), Thomas Sheridan
(1775–1817), Lumley Skeffington (1762–1850), and T. J. Dibdin
(1771–1841). It is a fair contention that this digression is the
dreariest portion of the poem. The interpolated lines on the Italian
Opera, sent to Dallas, February 22, 1809, after an evening spent at a
performance, attack that amusement on the ground of its indecency.
104 105
They are akin in spirit to similar passages in Young, Pope,
106 107
Churchill, and Bramston.
The satire on less-known poets is indiscriminate and not always
discerning. Erasmus Darwin (1731–1802), who, in his Botanic
Garden (1789–92), was a decadent imitator of Pope, is
contemptuously dismissed as “a mighty master of unmeaning
rhyme.” Another once popular bard, William Hayley (1745–1820),
still remembered as the friend and biographer of Cowper, is branded
with a stinging couplet:

“His style in youth or age is still the same,

Forever feeble and forever tame.”

The Delia Cruscans are passed over as already crushed by Gifford,

and “sepulchral Grahame,” “hoarse Fitzgerald,” the Cottles from
Bristol, Maurice, and the cobbler poets, Blackett and Bloomfield, get
only a fleeting sneer. H. J. Pye, the laureate, once a butt of Mathias,
is mentioned only once.
Two characterizations, however, are distinguished above the
others by their singular virulence. The first was a vicious onslaught
on Lord Carlisle, the friend of Fox, Byron’s relative and guardian,
who had been included among the sentimental rhymsters in Tickell’s
Wreath of Fashion. To him his ward had dedicated Poems Original
and Translated; but the peer’s carelessness about introducing Byron
into the House of Lords had irritated the young poet, and he changed
what had previously been a flattering notice in English Bards into a
ferocious assault:

“The puny schoolboy and his early lay

Men pardon, if his follies pass away;
But who forgives the Senior’s ceaseless verse,
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse.”

The sharpest satire in the poem was inserted merely to satisfy a

personal grudge. Hewson Clarke (1787–1832), editor of The Satirist,
a monthly magazine, had made sport of Hours of Idleness in an
issue for October, 1807, and had harshly reviewed Poems Original
and Translated in August, 1808. Byron replied in a passage full of
violent invective, describing Clarke as

“A would-be satirist, a hired Buffoon,

108
A monthly scribbler of some low Lampoon.”

These lines Byron never repudiated; he appended to them in 1816

109
the note: “Right enough: this was well deserved and well laid on.”
English Bards closes with a defiance and a challenge. The poet,
then only twenty-one, repeating that his only motive has been “to
sternly speak the truth,” dares his opponents to meet him in the open
and declares his willingness to engage them. There is something
amusing in the pompous way in which Byron, throwing down the
gauntlet, boasts of his own indifference and callousness to criticism.
He had, however, achieved at least one of his two objects: he had
answered hostile reviewers in a manner which made it plain that he
would not submit unresistingly to supercilious comment on his work.
Assuredly he had turned the weapons of his critics against
themselves.
Nothing was more natural than that Byron, his wrath for the most
part evaporated, should regret his bitterness in cases where his
hasty judgment had carried him too far. On his way home from
Greece he wrote Dallas: “At this period when I can think and act
110
coolly, I regret that I have written it.” The story of the events
leading to the suppression of the fifth and last edition may be given
in the words of Byron to Leigh Hunt, October 22, 1815: “I was
correcting the fifth edition of E. B. for the press, when Rogers
represented to me that he knew Lord and Lady Holland would not be
sorry if I suppressed any further publication of that poem; and I
immediately acquiesced, and with great pleasure, for I had attacked
them upon a fancied and false provocation, with many others; and
neither was, nor am, sorry to have done what I could to stifle that
111
furious rhapsody.” The result was that the whole impression of
this edition was burned, only a few copies being rescued, and when,
in 1816, Byron left England forever, he signed a Power of Attorney
112
forbidding republication in any form. His mature opinion of the
work is expressed in a comment written at Diodati in 1816: “The
greater part of this Satire I most sincerely wish had never been
written—not only on account of the injustice of some of the critical
and some of the personal part of it—but the tone and temper are
such as I cannot approve.”
It now remains to compare English Bards with other examples of
English classical satire, if one may apply that title to poems which
use the heroic couplet and follow the methods employed by Pope.
Byron’s versification in his early satires shows the effect of a careful
study of Pope. It is singularly free from double rhymes, there being
113
but five instances of them in English Bards. Byron was somewhat
more sparing than Pope in his use of the run-on line. Adopting as a
basis of judgment the conclusion of Mr. Gosse that “with occasional
exceptions, the presence or want of a mark of punctuation may be
made the determining element,” we find that, of the 1070 lines in
English Bards, approximately 101 are of the run-on variety, that is,
about ten out of every hundred. In Mr. Gosse’s collation of typical
passages from other poets, he estimates that Dryden has 11, Pope
4, and Keats 40 run-on lines out of every hundred. In the whole
length of Byron’s poem there is but one run-on couplet; in a hundred
consecutive lines selected by Mr. Gosse, Dryden has one such
114
example and Pope none. Twice Byron employs the triplet, and he
115
has two alexandrines. The medial cæsura after the 4th, 5th, or 6th
foot of the line occurs with great regularity as it does in Pope’s work.
116
There are a few minor peculiarities in rhyming, but in general the
rhymes are pure. In summarizing, it is safe to say that Byron
adhered closely to the metrical principles established by Pope. Not
until Hunt, Keats, and Shelley introduced the looser and less
monotonous system of versification used in Rimini, Endymion, and
Epipsychidion, was the heroic couplet freed from the shackles with
which Pope had bound it.
Byron’s candid acknowledgment that, in English Bards, he was
venturing “o’er the path which Pope and Gifford trod before”
suggests at once a comparison of his work with that of the two
earlier authors. Although the Dunciad and English Bards are alike in
that they are in the same metre and actuated by much the same
motive, there are many differences in execution between the poems.
The Dunciad is, as the Preface of “Martinus Scriblerus” states, a true
mock-heroic, with a fable “one and entire” dealing with the Empire
and the Goddess of Dulness, with machinery setting forth a
“continued chain of allegories,” and with a succession of incidents
and episodes imitated from epic writers. English Bards, beginning as
a paraphrase of Juvenal, has no real action and is composed of a
series of descriptions and characterizations, joined by some
necessary connective material. Pope’s method of satire is frequently
indirect: he involves his victims in the plot, making them ridiculous
through the situations in which he places them. Instead of inveighing
against Blackmore, Pope pictures him as victor in a braying contest.
Byron, on the other hand, uses this method only once in English
Bards—in burlesquing the duel between Jeffrey and Moore.
Instinctively he prefers taking up his adversaries one by one and
covering each with abuse. The Dunciad, with rare exceptions,
assails only personal enemies of the satirist, and these, for the most
part, men already despised and defenceless; Byron attacks many
prominent writers of whom he knows nothing except their work, and
against whom he has no grievance of a private nature. Thus in plan
and operation the two satires present some striking divergences.
So far as matters of detail are concerned, English Bards is not
always in the manner of the Dunciad and the other satires of Pope. It
has been observed of Dryden, and occasionally of Pope, that at its
best their satire, however much it may be aimed at particular
persons, tends to become universal in its application, just as had
been the case with the finest work of the Latin satirists. Horace’s
Bore, for instance, was doubtless once a definite Roman citizen;
Dryden’s Buckingham has a place in history: but the satire on them
is pointed and effective when applied to their counterparts in the
twentieth century. The same is true of Pope’s Atticus, who is
described in language which is both specific and general, fitted both
to Addison and to a definite type of humanity. The faculty of thus
creating types was not part of Byron’s art. For one thing, he seldom,
except in some of his earliest satires, employs type names, and he
carefully prints in full, without asterisks or blank spaces, the names
of those whom he attacks. His accusations are too precise to admit
of transference to others, and his epithets, even when they are
unsatisfactory, cannot be dissevered from the one to whom they
apply. The satire on Wordsworth, illustrated as it is by quotations and
by references to that author’s poetry, is appropriate to him alone, and
would have soon been forgotten had it not been for the eminence of
the victim. It is otherwise with Pope’s description of Sporus, which is
often applied to others, even when it is forgotten that the original
Sporus was Lord Hervey.
In many respects Byron had more in common with Gifford than
with Pope. It is Gifford to whom, in English Bards, he refers so often
as a master; it is he whom he mentions in 1811 as his “Magnus
117
Apollo” ; and it was of the Baviad and the Mæviad that he was
thinking when he conceived his plan of hunting down the “clamorous
brood of Folly.”
 Pope, preserving in his satire a calm deliberation which enabled
him both to conceal and to concentrate his inward wrath, was
capable, even when most in a rage, of a sustained analysis of those
whom he hated, and seldom let his temper sweep him off his feet.
Gifford and Byron prefer a more slashing and a less reserved
method. Dallas once said of Byron: “His feelings rather than his
118
judgment guided his pen.” The same idea was also expressed by
the poet himself:—“Almost all I have written has been mere
119
passion.” These two statements, confirming each other, explain
the lack of poise and the want of a sense of proportion which are
apparent in English Bards, as they were apparent in the Baviad.
Unlike Dryden, neither Gifford nor Pope allows his victims any merit;
each paints entirely in sombre colors, without ever perfecting a
finished sketch or alleviating the black picture with the admission of a
single virtue. Their conclusions, naturally, are unpleasantly dogmatic,
founded as they are on prejudice and seldom subjected to reason.
Most satire is, of course, biassed and unjust, but the careful
craftsman takes good care that his charges shall have a semblance
of plausibility and shall not defeat their purpose by arousing in
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reaction a sympathy for the defendant. Satire written in a rage is
likely to be mere invective, and invective, even when embodied in
artistic form, is usually less effective than deliberate irony. Byron in
his later satire learned better than to portray an enemy as all fool or
all knave.
Gifford was, as he sedulously protested, fighting for a principle,
aiming at the extermination of certain forms of affectation and false
taste in poetry. There is no ground for suspecting his sincerity, any
more than there is for questioning Byron’s motive in his effort to
defend the classical standards against the encroachments of
romanticism. It so happened that Gifford was performing a genuine
service to letters, while Byron engaged himself in a struggle at once
unnecessary and hopeless. In their zeal and enthusiasm, however,
both satirists lost a feeling for values. Gifford delivered sledge-
hammer blows at butterflies; Byron classed together, without
discernment, the work of mediocrity and genius, and heaped abuse
indiscriminately upon poetaster and poet.
Gifford’s method, like Byron’s, was descriptive and direct, and
his satires have little action. The Baviad, with its dialogue framework,
is not unlike some of Pope’s Epistles, while the Mæviad is more akin
to English Bards. Byron, following Mathias and Gifford, employed
prose notes to reinforce his verse, but he never, like Gifford, padded
them with quotations from the men whom he was attacking. In both
the Mæviad and English Bards names are printed in full. Gifford
used no type names, nor did he succeed in creating a type. In style
and diction Byron is Gifford’s superior. The latter was often vulgar
and inelegant, and his ear for rhythm and melody was poor. Byron’s
instinctive good taste kept him from blotting his pages with the
language of the streets. His study of Pope, moreover, had enabled
him to acquire something of the smoothness as well as of the vigor
of that master.
It may be said in general of English Bards that it owes most in
versification to Pope, and most in manner and structure to Gifford.
There are, however, other satirists to whom Byron may have been
slightly indebted. At the time when he was preparing British Bards,
Francis Hodgson (1781–1852), his close friend, irritated by some
severe criticism in the Edinburgh Review on his translation of
Juvenal (1807), was planning his Gentle Alterative prepared for the
Reviewers, which appeared in Lady Jane Grey; and other Poems
(1809). The fact that the provocation was the same as for English
Bards and that the two authors were acquaintances offers a curious
case of parallelism in literature. It is certain, however, that Byron’s
satire, which is much longer than the Gentle Alterative, is indebted to
it only in minor respects, if at all. Both satires mention the ludicrous
mistake of an Edinburgh Review article in attributing to Payne Knight
some Greek passages really quoted from Pindar; but this error had
been discussed in a long note to All the Talents, and was a favorite
literary joke of the period. Both poets, too, call upon the master,
Gifford, to do his part in castigating the age. Beyond these superficial
similarities, it may safely be asserted that Byron borrowed nothing
from Hodgson.
 It is curious that the striking simile of the eagle shot by an arrow
winged with a feather from his own plume used by Moore in
121 122
Corruption should have been employed by Byron in speaking
of the tragic death of Henry Kirke White (1785–1805), the religious
poet and protégé of Southey. The simile, which has been traced to
Fragment 123 of Æschylus, occurs also in Waller’s To a Lady
Singing a Song of His Own Composing. It is somewhat remarkable
that two poets in two successive years should have happened upon
the same figure, each working it out so elaborately. Aside from this
one parallelism, Moore’s early satires, almost entirely political, would
seem to have had no definite influence upon English Bards.
It has been shown, then, that Byron’s ideas in his satire were not
always entirely his own, and that he reflected, in many cases, the
views and sometimes the phraseology of other satirists, notably
Pope, Churchill, and Gifford. English Bards belongs to the school of
English classical satire, and, as such, has the peculiarities and the
established features common to the different types of that genre. In
the preface to the second edition of his poem, Byron said: “I can
safely say that I have attacked none personally, who did not
123
commence on the offensive.” To accept this literally would be to
misinterpret Byron’s whole theory of satire. Whether he admitted it or
not he was a great personal satirist—in English Bards, primarily a
personal satirist. Looking back at the time when his wrath was
fiercest, he said: “Like Ishmael, my hand was against all men, and all
124
men’s against me.” Even when satirising a principle or a
movement, he was invariably led to attack the individuals who
represented it. Swift’s satiric code:

“Malice never was his aim;

He lash’d the vice, but spar’d the name;
No individual could resent,
Where thousands equally were meant,”
was exactly contrary to Byron’s practice. He sought always to
contend with persons, to decide questions, not by argument, but by a
hand-to-hand grapple.
The peculiar features of English Bards are to be explained by the
author’s character. He did not let his reason rule. From notes and
letters we learn that he was often in doubt whether to praise or
censure certain minor figures: it was on the spur of the moment that
he changed “coxcomb Gell” to “classic Gell.” He was courageous
and aggressive, but he was also unfair and illogical. There is little
real humor in English Bards, so little that one is inclined to wonder
where Jeaffreson discovered the “irresistibly comic verse” of which
he speaks. When the satirist tries to be playful, the result is usually
brutality. He has not yet acquired the conversational railling mood
which he utilized so admirably in Beppo.
In spite of its crudities, its lack of restraint, and its manifest
prejudices, English Bards shows many signs of power. In the light of
the greater satire of Don Juan, it seems immature and inartistic, but
it surpasses any work of a similar kind since the death of Pope. It is
Byron’s masterpiece in classical satire. To excel it he had to turn for
inspiration to another quarter, and to change both his method and his
style.
 CHAPTER V
“HINTS FROM HORACE” AND “THE CURSE
OF MINERVA”

On July 2, 1809, Byron, accompanied by his friend, John Cam

Hobhouse, sailed from Falmouth for Lisbon on a trip that was to take
him to Spain, Malta, Greece, and Turkey. When he returned to
England in July, 1811, after two years of travel and adventure, he
brought with him “4000 lines of one kind or another,” including the
first two cantos of Childe Harold and two satires, Hints from Horace
and The Curse of Minerva. Hints from Horace, written in March,
1811, during the poet’s second visit to Athens, is dated March 14,
1811, on the last page of the most authentic manuscript. It was
composed at the Capuchin Convent in Athens, where he had met
accidentally with a copy of Horace’s epistle Ad Pisones, De Arte
Poetica, commonly known as the Ars Poetica.
The history of the fortunes of this work is perhaps worth relating.
Byron, on his arrival, handed it over at once to Dallas, without giving
him a hint of Childe Harold; indeed, only the latter’s obvious
disappointment induced the poet to show him the Pilgrimage, which
then seemed of little importance to its author. On September 4, 1811,
Byron requested Dallas to aid him in correcting the proofs of Hints
from Horace, and “in adapting the parallel passages of the imitation
in such places to the original as may enable the reader not to lose
125
sight of the allusion.” There is, however, no reason for thinking
that Dallas actually undertook the task, for on October 13th Byron
complained to Hodgson that the labor of editing was still hanging fire,
and begged the latter to assist him. Shortly after, owing partly to the
adverse criticism of Dallas, and partly to Murray’s wish not to
endanger the success of Childe Harold, the idea of immediate
publication was put aside for some years. In 1820, Byron, then
resident in Italy, was reminded of his unprinted satire, and wrote
Murray to inform him that the manuscript had been left, among
126
various papers, with Hobhouse’s father in England. At intervals
he expressed anxiety about the proofs, which Murray, exercising his
discretion, delayed sending. From this revived project Byron was, for
a time, dissuaded by the wise counsel of Hobhouse, who suggested
that the poem would require much revision. Nevertheless on January
127
11, 1821, he informed Murray that he saw little to alter, and
accused him of having neglected to comply with his orders. A
postscript to a letter of February 16, 1821, indicates that he was
128
contemplating printing the Hints with its Latin original. After March
4, 1822, there is no further allusion to the satire in his
correspondence, and the question of printing it seems to have been
forgotten. Although a few selections, amounting to 156 lines, were
inserted in Dallas’s Recollections (1824), the poem did not appear
complete until the Works were published by Murray in 1831.
Hints from Horace, through a curious perversity of judgment,
was always a great favorite with Byron, and was estimated by him as
one of his finest performances. His mature opinion of it and a
possible cause for his preference are given in a letter to Murray,
March 1, 1821: “Pray request Mr. Hobhouse to adjust the Latin to the
English: the imitation is so close that I am unwilling to deprive it of its
principal merit—its closeness. I look upon it and my Pulci as by far
129
the best things of my doing.” On September 23, 1820, when he
had published portions of his masterpiece, Don Juan, he said,
referring to the period of Hints from Horace: “I wrote better then than
130
now.” No intelligent reader will be likely to agree with Byron’s
preposterous verdict on his own work, for Hints from Horace,
although designed as a sequel to English Bards, is so much less
vigorous and brilliant that it suffers decidedly by a comparison with
the earlier satire. The poet, far from the scenes and associations
where his rage had been aroused, has lost the angry inspiration
which raised English Bards above mere ranting, and the white heat
of his passion has cooled with the flight of time. The praise which
Byron bestowed upon his poem is additional testimony to the often
repeated assertion that authors are incompetent critics of their own
productions.
Byron’s boastful claim for the accuracy of Hints from Horace as a
version of the Ars Poetica may possibly lead to some
misconceptions. Professor A. S. Cook, in his Art of Poetry, has
pointed out some particular passages in which the English poet
imitated his model, and has proved that he followed Horace, in
places, with reasonable closeness. But Hints from Horace is far from
being, like Byron’s version of the first canto of Pulci’s Morgante
Maggiore, a mere translation. It must be remembered that Byron, in
his secondary title, defined the Hints in three different ways in as
many manuscripts, as “an Allusion,” as an “Imitation,” and as a
“Partial Imitation.” The fact seems to be that the work conforms, in
general, to the structure and argument of the Ars Poetica, in many
cases translating literally the phrasing of the original, but altering and
reorganizing the satire to fit current conditions.
The idea of thus preserving the continuity of Horace’s poem,
while revising and readapting its text, was probably first conceived
by Oldham in his English version of the Ars Poetica. In his preface
Oldham stated his design as follows: “I resolved to alter the scene
from Rome to London, and to make Use of English Names of Men,
Places, and Customs, where the Parallel would decently permit,
which I conceived would give a kind of New Air to the Poem, and
render it more agreeable to the Relish of the Present Age.”
Accordingly, while keeping roughly to the text of Horace, he
introduced plentiful references to English poets. Byron also gives his
satire a modern setting, but in so doing, takes more liberties than
Oldham. He substitutes Milton for Homer as the classic example of
the epic poet; he makes Shakspere instead of Æschylus the
standard writer of drama. He inserts many passages, such as the
remarks on the Italian Opera, on Methodism, and on the versification
of Hudibras, which have no counterparts in the Ars Poetica. Oldham
had refrained from satirising his contemporaries; Byron improves
every opportunity for assailing his old antagonists. Allusions to
“Granta” and her Gothic Halls, to “Cam’s stream,” to Grub-street, and
to Parliament make Hints from Horace a thoroughly modern poem.
We may apply to it Warburton’s comment on Pope’s Imitations:
“Whoever expects a paraphrase of Horace, or a faithful copy of his
genius, or manner of writing ... will be much disappointed.” Byron
restates, without much alteration, the critical dicta which Horace had
established as applicable to poetry in all times and countries; he
takes the plan of the Ars Poetica as a rough guide for his English
adaptation; but he introduces so many digressions and changes so
many names that his satire is firmly stamped with his own
individuality.
There is no ground for supposing that any one of the scores of
translations and imitations of the Ars Poetica had ever met Byron’s
131
eye ; the nearest prototypes in English poetry of Hints from
Horace are probably Pope’s Essay on Criticism and Epistle to
Augustus. Certain superficial resemblances have led critics to the
inference that Pope’s Essay is accountable for much of Byron’s
Hints. It is remarkable that the two authors, born just a century apart,
should have attempted satires so similar in tone at ages
approximately the same. Pope’s Essay on Criticism, composed
probably in 1709, was printed in 1711, a hundred years before Byron
wrote Hints from Horace. In this work Pope tried to do for criticism
what Horace had done for poetry: that is, to codify and express in
compact form some generally accepted principles of the art. Pope,
however, saw fit to introduce incidentally some conventional
precepts concerning the subject-matter of literary criticism, borrowing
them from Horace, and Horace’s French imitator, Boileau. Thus in
Pope’s Essay are to be found many of the maxims which Byron
transferred into Hints from Horace from the Latin source. The
correspondence between such passages in the Essay and their
counterparts in Hints from Horace has led Weiser to conclude, from
a study of parallel ideas, that Byron’s poem is based, to a large
132
extent, on Pope’s work. His thesis, however, has been all but
conclusively refuted by Levy, who shows that in the nine instances of
parallelism adduced by Weiser as evidence, the lines quoted from
Hints from Horace are really much closer to lines from the Ars
 133
Poetica than they are to the citations from the Essay on Criticism.
Undoubtedly there are couplets in the Hints that recall the Essay; but
in view of Byron’s specific statement of his obligation to Horace, it
would be rash to assume that Pope’s influence was more than a
general one, the natural result of Byron’s careful study of his style
and manner. Pope’s Epistle to Augustus, a paraphrase of Horace’s
Book II, Epistle 1, is, in several respects, not unlike Hints from
Horace. It pursues the same method in substituting English names
for Greek and Roman ones, and in replacing classical references by
allusions to contemporary life. Moreover the Epistle, with its
judgment on English writers, its criticism of the drama, and its
estimate of the age, is structurally more akin to Hints from Horace
than is ordinarily supposed.
It would be superfluous to attempt to add anything to Professor
Cook’s work in outlining the instances in which Byron merely
translated Horace. A single illustration will suffice to show how the
same Latin lines were treated by Pope, and, later, by Byron.
Horace’s counsel:—

“Vos exemplaria Græca

134
Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna”

is paraphrased roughly in the Essay on Criticism as,

“Be Homer’s works your study and delight,

135
Read them by day and meditate by night.”

In this case Byron’s version,

“Ye who seek finished models, never cease

By day and night to read the works of Greece,”136
is slightly more literal.
Horace’s treatise, technically an epistle, suffers from a want of
coherence. In plan it is merely a group of maxims, with illustrations
and amplifications. Hints from Horace is even more muddled and
formless. It is like a collection of detached thoughts in verse, with
each single observation jotted down almost at haphazard without
regard to what comes before or after. It is no exaggeration to say
that whole sections of the satire might be lifted bodily from one page
to another without perceptibly affecting the continuity of thought. This
defect, obscured in Horace and Pope by the epigrammatic brilliancy
of separate phrases and the lift of “winged words,” has, in Byron’s
poem, few counterbalancing virtues. Hints from Horace lacks the
finished perfection of style which distinguishes the Ars Poetica and
the Epistle to Augustus. Its versification is, except in isolated lines,
feeble and careless, far inferior to that of English Bards, and even
137
sinking at times, as in the passage on Hudibras, into bare
prosing. One finds in the poem confirmation of Byron’s confession to
Lord Holland in 1812:—“Latterly, I can weave a nine-line stanza
138
faster than a couplet, for which measure I have not the cunning.”
If the dates furnished by the poet are correct, 722 lines, at least, of
the satire must have been composed in two weeks, a speed which
may explain some of the defects in execution. Certainly, even with
due allowance for Byron’s strange fondness, it must be considered
one of his poorest works in structure, diction, and versification.
Nor can it, viewed merely as a medium for satire, claim a high
rank. It is too obviously didactic in its purpose and too general in its
attacks. It does not even possess the special interest which attaches
to English Bards because of the references to contemporary and
famous writers in the latter work. Only a few lines are devoted to
personal satire, and these seldom do more than repeat or amplify
the criticism embodied in the earlier poem. The result is that Hints
from Horace, taken as a satire only, is open to a charge of futility, in
that its motive is not definite and its satire is too scattered. It cannot
go straight to the mark, because it is aiming at no particular target.