FABULOUS BRITS anthology

A Total-E-Bound Publication

www.total-e-bound.com

Fabulous Brits Anthology ISBN # 978-1-906590-93-2 Moor Love ©Copyright Carol Lynne 2008 Yin Yang ©Copyright Sedonia Guillone 2008 Kingsoak ©Copyright Willa Okati 2008 Under the Law ©Copyright J.P. Bowie 2008 Bound Together ©Copyright Jane Davitt 2008 Bull Rider ©Copyright Jade Buchanan 2008 Cover Art by Ann Cain ©Copyright August 2008 Edited by Claire Siemaszkiewicz, Michele Paulin Total-E-Bound Publishing This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing. Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution. The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork. Published in 2008 by Total-E-Bound Publishing 1 The Corner, Faldingworth Road, Spridlington, Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, LN8 2DE, UK.

Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-burning.

FABULOUS BITS ANTHOLOGY

Moor Love Carol Lynne

Yin Yang

Sedonia Guillone

Kingsoak Willa Okati

Under the Law J.P. Bowie

Bound Together Jane Davitt

Bull Rider

Jade Buchanan

MOOR LOVE Carol Lynne

Dedication Dedicated to my very British, very helpful beta reader, Drew Hunt.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

6

Chapter One

Looking out the window, Caleb watched as the train wound its way through the Yorkshire countryside. He still couldn’t believe he was here. It had taken nearly a year of paperwork to get his student placement, but the day had finally arrived. He quickly scanned the folder of information he’d been given. Smiling to himself, he closed the folder. He’d looked at the damn thing so many times, he already had it memorised. He’d be working for Jon Cook on a small sheep farm just inland of the small seaside town of Whitby. According to the information he’d received, he’d have his work cut out for him. After his mom had read it, she tried desperately to talk him out of going. No, Mr. Cook wasn’t a serial killer or anything, just different. Mr. Cook had been in a car wreck nineteen years earlier. The accident took the life of his father and left him with a pronounced limp and an inability to speak. A more recent fall while dipping his sheep had aggravated his earlier injury. Unable to tend to his sheep in the fields properly, Mr. Cook had finally agreed to sign up for the work placement program. Caleb already knew they would have a problem, because Mr. Cook kept insisting he didn’t need a worker for an entire year, but the program only placed students for that amount of time. Once Caleb started working, he’d be there for the designated time, or risk losing his college credits. As he leaned his forehead against the glass, Caleb lost himself in his own problems. He’d come out to his mom when he was sixteen, but he’d waited to tell his dad. As the years went by, he kept promising himself he’d do it, but the timing had yet to be right. After his folks had divorced, Caleb and his mom moved back to the Kansas City area, leaving his father and the family’s farm behind. His formative years had been spent on baseball fields and malls instead of barns and pastures. He’d been sent to Iowa for two weeks every summer to stay with his dad. It was during this time, he’d felt the divide between them grow. Usually he’d spend the entire time sitting on the porch or in front of the old television. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help his dad on

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

7

the farm, he just didn’t know what to do. His dad had little patience and often lost his temper while trying to explain the way to perform a particular task. Caleb had found getting out of the way made them both much happier. That all changed after coming out of the closet to his mother. At the age of sixteen, Caleb decided it was time to roll his sleeves up and learn everything he could about sheep. Prior to his two week visit, Caleb searched the internet, reading every article he could find. He knew it was the summer he’d finally tell his dad that he was gay and wanted them to have somewhat of a relationship established before then. He soon found out that reading about sheep and actually caring for them, were two different things. His dad was a little more patient with him, but Caleb could tell he still had a lot of bridging to do before coming out to him. Since then, he realised that he actually enjoyed learning about farm animals, not only sheep, but pigs, cattle and even chickens. When it came time for him to apply to a university, Caleb chose Kansas State because of its well known agricultural program. He knew he didn’t want to be a farmer or rancher, but he was finding out there were all sorts of careers a person could get into as long as he had agricultural knowledge. In the end, he decided to go for a dual degree in both agricultural science and marketing. He’d interviewed his sophomore year with a national feed company and thought that was the career path he’d enjoy the most. Maybe a year away would strengthen his resolve to speak with his dad. Hell, it couldn’t hurt anyway. Shifting his gaze away from the breathtaking scenery, Caleb looked down at the folder once again. He wondered how Mr. Cook felt about gays. Would he be expected to put that part of his life on hold for the next year? Caleb wasn’t sure of how tolerant the people in and around Whitby would be. He’d grown to enjoy a fairly active sex life and if he had to, he’d put his desires on hold, but it wouldn’t be easy. He’d at least make sure his sexual orientation was known up front. Even if he couldn’t engage in one of his favourite pass-times, he at least didn’t want to hide it any longer. Jon Cook was thirty-six, only thirteen years older than Caleb, but from the few letters he’d received from Mr. Cook, he seemed much older. Maybe it was being unable to speak. Caleb wasn’t sure, but the letters were always very well written and straight to the point.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

8

The sign along the track and announcement over the speaker above his head, declared he’d arrived in Whitby. Caleb quickly stuck the folder into his laptop case before looking at his new hometown. He could see the ocean off in the distance. Caleb couldn’t remember ever being this close to the ocean. Well, he’d flown over it on his way to England, but this was different. This was definitely a new chapter in his life. No way could this place be real. It looked more like a movie set with narrow winding cobblestone streets set between picturesque buildings. The train stopped and Caleb noticed several passengers in his car gathering their belongings. Mr. Cook was supposed to meet him at the station, and Caleb couldn’t help but to wonder what his new employer would look like. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Caleb picked up his laptop case and dragged one of his suitcases towards the door. Once he had that one on the station platform, he quickly went back for the other. His nerves and lack of food had his stomach churning as he stepped off the train onto the platform with his last bag. The first thing to hit him was the overwhelming smell of the sea. He took a moment to tilt his head up and watch the seagulls flying through the overcast sky. Looking around he didn’t immediately see anyone who resembled what he’d imagined a sheep farmer would look like. Of course he really only had a younger version of his dad in mind. Spotting a lone man leaning heavily on a cane off to the side, Caleb’s breath caught in his chest. Shit, if that was indeed Jon Cook, he sure didn’t look like any farmer he’d ever met. Swallowing around the newly formed lump in his throat, Caleb made his way to the tall dark haired man, deciding to leave his luggage where it sat for now. Their size difference was even more apparent as he stood in front of his new employer. “I’m Caleb Winters. Are you Mr. Cook?” Caleb extended his hand in greeting. Mr. Cook enveloped it with a hearty shake. Caleb couldn’t help but to notice how his hand was swallowed by the tanned callused hand of the man in front of him. His cock began to take notice as well. As soon as their hands released, Mr. Cook started scribbling on the pad of paper hung around his neck. Caleb waited, noticing the long fingers as they gripped the pen.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

9

The small sheet was torn off and handed to him. Caleb took it and read. “Please call me Jon. My father was Mr. Cook.” Caleb looked back up at Jon and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Jon.” Jon nodded his approval before gesturing to the off loaded luggage. Besides the bags he was already carrying, Caleb had packed two fairly large suitcases. The weight hadn’t exceeded the requirements, but just barely. He started to pick both of them up, but Jon swatted his hand off one of the handles. Caleb looked up into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. He hated to get into a pissing contest this early in their acquaintance, but Caleb knew Jon wouldn’t be able to carry the heavy bag with his knee messed up. “That’s okay. I’ve got it,” Caleb said, trying again to lift the suitcase. Jon rapped his cane against the navy blue bag and shook his head. Surrendering, Caleb stepped back. He watched as Jon easily lifted the suitcase and turned towards the parking lot. Caleb fell into step behind him, struggling with the one he carried. He watched as the veins and muscles in Jon’s forearms popped out in stark relief. Although his employer was still leaning heavily against his cane, he seemed to be having an easier time than Caleb was having. He should’ve known. He’d always been a fairly small guy. He’d spent many hours in the gym the previous four or five years, but all he really managed to do was tone his still lean body. Jon easily threw the suitcase in the back of the farm truck. Caleb tossed his backpack in the bed and set his laptop case on the ground. With both hands free, he struggled to lift the remaining bag over the side of the truck. Two browned arms reached around him and helped him finish the task. The momentum of releasing the heavy object threw Caleb off balance enough to brush against Jon’s hard chest. He heard a quick intake of breath and looked over his shoulder. “Sorry,” he mumbled. Jon was looking down at him. He stared for several moments before finally stepping back and retreating to the passenger side of the old truck. What? Was he supposed to drive? It was then that he remembered the obvious. Duh, the English drive on the wrong side of the road. He grinned to himself. Caleb picked up his computer and climbed into the cab.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

10

He set the heavy black case on his lap, hoping to hide the hard-on he’d sprung seconds earlier. Before starting the truck, Jon dug in the seat and handed Caleb a thin notebook. Opening the book, Caleb saw it contained written descriptions of the work Jon needed him to handle. Everything looked easy enough. Caleb just hoped he performed the assigned duties to Jon’s expectations. He’d never been good at living up to expectations and probably never would. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t try though. Riding through the countryside, Caleb still couldn’t believe he was here. “It’s all so beautiful,” he whispered aloud, glancing at Jon. He noticed a slight lift to one side of Jon’s perfect mouth. Evidently, he’d said the right thing. It was a toss up as to what was more beautiful, the scenery out the window or the scenery sitting beside him. Stop it, he scolded himself. There was a huge difference between Jon knowing he was gay and actually flaunting the fact in front of him with a perpetual hard-on. Caleb tried once again to concentrate on the papers in his hand. He reread the opening paragraph. Caleb, I hope your journey was an easy one. I’ve left plenty of time for you to acclimate yourself to the time difference over the next two days. I’m hoping this is satisfactory. If not, please don’t hesitate to speak up. I’ll be up front by telling you I hate that I’m unable to care for my own farm. My doctor assures me my knee will heal, but in the meantime, I need your help with the sheep out on the moors. They tend to wander and it will be your primary job to check the fences daily and make sure the sheep are healthy. Quite often they manage to free themselves of their fences and wander onto the road. I’ve lost more than one of my flock by a careless driver. The terrain is rocky and quite hilly or I’d be able to do this myself. You’ll be sleeping in the spare room next to mine. If there’s anything in the accompanying lists that you find unclear or unsatisfactory, please address it with me sooner rather than later. Allowing things to fester is no way to build a year-long working relationship. Sincerely, Jon Caleb closed the notebook and looked at his companion. “I agree about the festering part. Please feel you can do the same with me. Reading about something is only the first step in really learning about it. I’m sure I’ll screw up, I always have, but I take directions well when shown.”

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

11

Jon gave a slight nod without looking at him. Caleb wondered what it was going to be like, not having anyone to really talk to for the next year. Looking back out the side window, he told himself to take it one day at a time.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

12

Chapter Two

Sitting on his favourite limestone boulder, Caleb looked out over the flock grazing in the dale below. He couldn’t believe he’d been in England for two months already. Yet, part of him felt like he’d come home. The minute he’d stepped out of the truck that first day, the farm seemed to seep into his pores. As the sheep began to head west, Caleb stood and brushed off the seat of his jeans. He’d been taking a break with Jon’s Border Collie, but it was time to get back to work. “Come on Champ,” he called to the three-year-old, black and white dog. Champ followed at Caleb’s side as he made his way down the slope. He’d been surprised at first that Jon’s dog didn’t have a name. Upon arrival at the farm, Champ had greeted both of them with enthusiasm. Caleb bent and scratched the dog behind his ears. “What’s his name?” he’d asked Jon. Jon wrote on the pad around his neck. “Doesn’t have one.” Caleb was shocked. “You gotta be kidding me. How can you have a dog without a name?” Jon looked at him for several seconds before scratching out. “I can’t call him.” He’d felt his face flush. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that.” He turned his attention back to the dog. He wasn’t sure if it was embarrassment or shame that kept his head down, but Jon soon tapped him on the shoulder. Looking back up, he was handed another slip of paper. “You can name him if you’d like.” He still couldn’t understand it, but right there, kneeling on the hard-packed dirt of the driveway, Caleb started to fall for Jon Cook. “Champ?” he asked, looking for Jon’s approval. “I always wanted a dog named Champ. My mom had several dogs growing up, but they were poodles, and very girlie.” He saw Jon really smile for the first time as he nodded his head in approval. Since that day, Champ had become his almost constant companion. He figured out quickly that Champ was more a friend to Jon than anything else. Without the ability to teach the dog commands, Champ was pretty useless as far as a herder.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

13

Caleb had taken it upon himself to teach Champ how to do his job. They’d been working every day for over a month and Champ was really catching on. He’d decided to teach the working dog not only verbal commands, but hand signals as well. He’d also ordered a small dog whistle over the internet. He hadn’t mentioned any of it to Jon. He was hoping to surprise his employer once he and Champ worked out the kinks. Hopefully by the time he had to leave, Champ could help Jon watch the sheep. The thought of leaving stopped him in his tracks. He looked out over the stunning landscape. What would it be like to wake every morning and not walk among fields of heather? To not look upon the sunrise over gently rolling hills? Caleb took a deep breath. Even as far from the North Sea as they were, he could still smell traces of the churning salt water. To not look into the sad blue eyes of a ruggedly handsome man? Yeah, he admitted to himself, it wasn’t just the land he’d miss when it was his time to go. Jon had come to mean a great deal to him. They spent their evenings either watching television or playing chess. Caleb smiled to himself thinking about the wicked nightlife he was hoping for. He’d quickly figured out, the nights he spent with Jon were more fulfilling than any trip to a bar. Jon was withdrawn the first week of Caleb’s stay. It seemed he didn’t really know what to do with someone else in the house. At first, Caleb had tried to stay out of his way. Then one night, as he lay in his bed, he realised Jon had probably been alone for most of the nineteen years since his father’s death. Nineteen years of solitude. What would that do to a person? They had gone into Whitby a couple of times over the previous two months, but Caleb noticed no one spoke to Jon. He didn’t know if it was because they were uncomfortable, or if it was something deeper. Caleb had decided right then and there, to get Jon back into the land of the living. The following morning, Caleb began to talk at the breakfast table. He didn’t ask questions. He knew that would make Jon uneasy. Instead, he started with telling Jon his plans for the day. Jon seemed to soak up every word Caleb uttered. From that point on, Caleb would outline his day in the morning, and recap his day in the evening. Jon would nod and occasionally write out a note of observation. Sometimes it was a specific task he needed Caleb to complete.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

14

Jon surprised him one evening when he brought out an old chess set. He gestured to Caleb and then to the board. “Yeah, I play,” Caleb said with an enthusiastic nod. Since then, they played chess at least four times a week. Looking up, Caleb saw the sheep were getting ahead of him, so he picked up his pace. As they made their way along the old dry-stone wall, Caleb noticed a small section that had begun to topple. He looked down at the stones lying on the ground. They were all different sizes. Studying the rest of the wall, Caleb picked up several of the fallen stones and tried to rebuild it. After nearly two hours, he sat on the ground and tossed the rocks aside. It was like a damned puzzle. He wondered if Jon could help him. Trying to get his bearings, Caleb studied the landscape. If they parked on the road just west, it might be doable. Taking the whistle out of his pocket, Caleb gave Champ the signal to turn the flock around and head them back towards a pasture closer to the house. Hopefully the sheep would stay out of this particular section long enough to get the wall fixed.

**** Sitting down to supper that evening, Caleb broached the subject. “There’s an area of wall that needs to be fixed,” he began. “I worked on it for several hours, but I’m afraid I suck at puzzles. I was wondering if you could help me with it. I’m sure if you show me once, I’ll be able to fix them from now on.” Jon looked a little uneasy and pointed to his knee. “I thought of that,” Caleb said. “There’s a road just west of the downed wall. I think if you let me help you, we can get there. The terrain is pretty level from the road to the wall.” Jon nodded and moved his raised hand from side to side, as if to say he’d try. Caleb stood and started clearing the table. Jon soon joined him and tapped Caleb on the shoulder. Filling the sink with soapy water, Caleb looked at Jon in question. Jon pointed towards the living room. “That’s okay,” Caleb said. “I don’t mind. You do the dishes and cook supper almost every evening. I can take a turn.”

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

15

Instead of arguing, Jon pulled a cloth out of the drawer and stood beside him. As Caleb washed, he’d hand the dishes to Jon to dry and put away. The chore was comfortable to Caleb. Even on the occasion when Jon’s muscled forearm would brush against his. Every touch seemed right somehow. Several times, Caleb wondered if Jon was doing it on purpose. Was Jon as hungry for sexual release as he was? He wondered if Jon had ever dated. Caleb doubted it would be considered polite to ask such a question, but his curiosity was driving him crazy. “You ever had a girlfriend?” he suddenly asked. Jon’s eyes rounded in surprise. He shook his head and put the pan he was drying under the cabinet. He wouldn’t look at Caleb after that. Shit. “I’m sorry,” Caleb said. “I shouldn’t have asked.” He let the water out of the sink and spread the dishcloth out to dry. He felt a hand to his shoulder, and looked up into Jon’s eyes. Before releasing his hold, Jon gave Caleb’s shoulder a slight squeeze. The innocent touch shot straight to Caleb’s cock. Hard and embarrassed, Caleb excused himself. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go up to my room and work on some letters to home.” Jon’s spine seemed to stiffen as he took a step back. Trying to shield the hard ridge trapped behind his fly, Caleb made his way upstairs. After gathering the stack of mail from his dresser, Caleb sat on his bed. He shook his head and smiled. It looked like his mom had written him daily since he’d left. He didn’t read his mail daily because it usually just made him home sick, so he had a pretty good stack to go through. He spent the rest of the evening reading and answering mail from his friends back home. He laughed when he opened a large manila envelope from his best friend, Jay. Thought you could use a little jerking material. Jay. Caleb opened the package and let loose a low whistle. Jay had sent him several magazines full of hot, naked men. Yep, that’s exactly what he needed. Shoving the stack to one side of the small full-sized bed, he shucked his jeans and wrapped his fingers around his throbbing cock. “Oh, yeah,” he moaned as he began stroking himself.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

16

Flipping through the pictures, he stopped. “Fuck,” he whispered, as he gazed at the man in the picture. The same dark brown hair and blue eyes, the model could’ve been related to the man downstairs. Using his pre-cum, Caleb wet his fingers and let them travel down to his neglected hole. As he stared at the image, he began fucking himself with one hand while jerking himself with the other. Caleb licked his lips as he studied the heavily veined cock of the model. He wondered, not for the first time, what Jon’s cock looked like. Would he be cut, or uncut? The picture in front of him morphed into Jon’s. He inserted two more fingers into his ass, relishing the quick bite of pain that came with it. “Yeah, Jon, fuck me,” he groaned as he pumped his cock faster. He knew he was close as his rhythm faltered. God he wished it was Jon’s cock ploughing his hole. With the first stream of his cum, Caleb shouted, “Jon.” He continued to milk his cock, watching his seed splash onto his hand and chest in thick white ropes. Letting his fingers fall from his ass, Caleb rubbed his cum into the skin of his nearly hairless chest. A sound at the door got his attention. As his eyes tried to focus, he saw the door slowly close. Had Jon heard him call out his name? Remembering the way he’d been sprawled out on the bed a few moments earlier had Caleb groaning. How would he be able to work along side Jon now? He just hoped he wasn’t ordered off the farm.

**** Wiping off his cum soaked abdomen, Jon looked up at the ceiling. Tossing the covers aside, he rose out of bed and turned on his small desk light. Opening his journal, he began to put his thoughts on paper. It was something he’d done since he was a boy, and his mother had bought him his first, leather-bound black book. For the past two months, every entry concerned Caleb, in one form or another. At first it was the general uneasiness that he was experiencing. Caleb lit fires in him he thought long dead. As he tapped the pen against the white lined paper, he thought of what he’d walked in on earlier. He’d come out of the bathroom on his way to his room and heard his name.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

17

Stopping, he walked closer to Caleb’s door. When he heard his name called out again, he automatically opened the door, thinking something was wrong. What he saw took his breath away. Never had he witnessed a more beautiful sight in all his thirty-six years. He was mesmerised for several moments as he watched cum shoot from the crown of Caleb’s cock. The fingers buried in that tiny arse of Caleb’s did more for him than anything. He’d long thought of himself as dirty for playing with his own hole. To him it had been a natural progression, but never having talked to another gay man, he often questioned himself. When he’d first been given Caleb’s application, he’d smiled at the way the younger man had written ‘Gay’ in parentheses next to his name. What would it be like to be so upfront about one’s sexual orientation? Jon knew he’d never know the answer to that question. The one time he’d tried to be honest about his attraction to men, it had ended with the death of his father. Quickly pushing the thoughts of his dad from his mind, he thought once again of Caleb. Did he dare follow through on his attraction? What would happen when it was time for Caleb to leave? Jon almost thought it would be easier never to have experienced love and sex than to see it walk out of his life forever. His own guilt regarding the past had kept him shut away on the farm for nineteen years. He knew if he initiated anything with Caleb, he’d want the younger man to know the truth about him upfront. If Caleb was disgusted it would be better to find out sooner rather than later. Tearing a sheet out of his journal, Jon penned Caleb’s name at the top. He wasn’t sure when he’d get brave enough to give Caleb his journals, but he wanted to be prepared. “My Dearest, Caleb,” he began.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

18

Chapter Three

Breakfast the following morning felt awkward to Caleb. He wasn’t sure if he should mention the previous night, or let it drop. He’d caught Jon looking at him several times since he’d come downstairs, but he didn’t see disgust in those baby blues. Caleb figured he wouldn’t be fired and shipped back to the US anytime soon. As he washed the morning dishes, Caleb watched Jon gather food together for their lunch. He took a healthy hunk of Wensleydale cheese out of the fridge and wrapped it in a piece of waxed paper. Caleb grinned. He loved that cheese. The sharp tasting, white crumbly cheese was the best thing he’d eaten since he’d been in England. He watched as Jon put the cheese along with a loaf of bread, and a couple of pears gently in the sack. After filling a plastic jug with water, they were set. “Ready?” Caleb asked, drying his hands. Jon nodded, and picked up a light jacket before heading out the side door. “Would you like me to drive?” Caleb asked, directing Champ to the bed of the old truck. Jon looked at him for several moments before walking around to the passenger side and climbing in. “Well, that was easier than I thought,” Caleb said under his breath.

**** After Caleb parked along side of the road, Jon opened his door. Caleb had been right. It did look like a pretty straight shot to the wall in question. Caleb surprised him by sliding an arm around his waist. “Let me help you.” Jon started to protest that he didn’t need help, but he stopped himself. He knew he did indeed need the help, and he was honest enough to admit to himself he enjoyed the feel of Caleb’s body next to his. “Oh, hang on.” Caleb released his hold and went to the back of the truck to retrieve the small tool bag and their lunch. This time when Caleb wrapped his arm around him, Jon reciprocated with an arm around Caleb’s shoulders. He watched as Champ barked and took off.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

19

Making their way slowly through the field, Jon relished the feeling of being held. He hadn’t realised how much he missed simple human contact. Had it really been over twentyfour years since he’d been held? His mom had been the hugger of the family. Her death when he was barely twelve, had hit him hard. James, his father, had been left to raise Jon until his death. Thinking about his dad was never a good thing. What he’d done to the only family member he had left was inexcusable, and Jon knew he’d have to live with it for the rest of his life. Suddenly, they stopped walking. Jon looked down at Caleb. The smaller man’s face was scarlet as he stared into Jon’s eyes. It was then he realised his hand had somehow worked its way from Caleb’s shoulder to his arse. Blinking, he quickly removed it, embarrassed. Caleb grinned. “You could’ve left it there. It felt nice, just surprised me is all.” Jon looked away and started to walk again. His knee was really throbbing by the time they finally reached the downed wall. He quickly scribbled, ‘Rest’ onto his tablet and lowered himself to the grass. Looking at the stones lying on the ground, Jon gestured to the tool bag. Caleb handed it over and Jon withdrew two small wire brushes. He handed one to Caleb and picked up one of the fallen stones. His dad had always taught him to clean the stones a bit before rebuilding the wall. Caleb caught on quickly and began to follow Jon’s lead. With the stones clean, he eased his way closer to the wall. After studying it and the ones on the ground, he began to erect the wall in his mind, before picking up the first rock. As he progressed, he motioned for Caleb to step up to the wall and try. He placed a stone in Caleb’s small hand and gestured to the wall. Biting that cute bottom lip of his, Caleb tried placing the stone several times to no avail. Reaching around, Jon covered Caleb’s hand and physically moved it to the correct place. Caleb released the rock, but Jon couldn’t bring himself to let go of the hand he still held. He didn’t know how long they stood that way, but Caleb finally looked over his shoulder. Jon was about to let go, when he felt soft lips on the underside of his chin. Caleb was the first to withdraw his hand and quickly turned to face him. Shit, what do I do? While he was trying to work it out in his mind, Caleb moved his hands to the back of Jon’s head and pulled him down for a kiss.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

20

A kiss. A real one. Caleb’s lips and tongue played over his mouth for a few seconds. “Open for me,” Caleb instructed. Swallowing his fear, Jon opened his mouth. Caleb’s lips sealed against his as he teased the tip of Jon’s tongue with his own. The rush of feelings made him sway in Caleb’s arms. Caleb mistook the action and broke the kiss. “Maybe we’d better sit down for this,” Caleb said. Jon didn’t know what he needed besides the return of Caleb’s lips. He let Caleb help him sit, before he pulled the smaller man back into his arms. This time the kiss went deeper. With every second that elapsed, Jon’s natural instincts began taking over. The feeling of thrusting his tongue inside Caleb’s mouth for the first time almost sent him over the edge. His cock was hard and leaking, he knew for sure, as he felt the wet material against his skin. Falling backward, Jon tried to take Caleb with him. What he hadn’t remembered in that split second, was his sore knee. Caleb’s body landed on him, hitting his knee against the ground. Jon released his hold and grabbed his knee as a cry erupted from his throat. It sounded more like a wounded animal than a man, and Jon was immediately ashamed. “Shit,” Caleb jumped away from him. “I’m sorry, oh god, I’m so sorry.” Jon shook his head. As he continued to hold his knee, he willed the unbearable pain to fade. Caleb knelt beside him and poured some water from the jug and held it out to him. “Do you need a drink?” Jon shook his head again. “Christ,” Caleb spat and tossed the water aside. Despite the pain he was in, Jon knew he needed to set Caleb’s mind at ease. Releasing his knee, he fumbled for the pad and pen now resting on the ground. With clenched jaws, he wrote a brief note. “I’ll be okay. Just wait.” He tore off the slip of paper and handed it to Caleb. After reading the note, Caleb stuck the sheet into his back pocket. Caleb surprised him once more by sitting cross-legged by his head. “Here, rest in my lap.” Caleb gently helped Jon manoeuvre to do just that. As he closed his eyes against the slowly fading pain, Caleb rubbed small circles against Jon’s temples.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

21

“It’ll be okay,” Caleb crooned. “Just relax. If you can fall asleep, it would probably be the best thing for you.” That’s the last thing Jon remembered, before waking several hours later. The sleepless nights had evidently caught up with him. He opened his eyes, surprised to see the sun dropping towards the horizon. He tentatively tried to move his leg. The pain was still there, but more a dull ache than the sharp pain of earlier. He looked up into Caleb’s brown eyes. Had Caleb been watching him the entire time he’d slept? “How’re you feeling?” Caleb asked. Jon did his best to give Caleb a smile as he nodded his head. Although he hated to break contact with Caleb, he knew the longer he lay on the ground, the stiffer he’d become. Sitting up, he looked at the wall. What? He looked back at Caleb in question. A bright smile was plastered on Caleb’s face. “I finished it while you slept. I’m sure it’s not as strong as what you would’ve done, but hopefully it’ll work for now.” He couldn’t keep his grin hidden. Caleb was right. The wall wasn’t built well, and would no doubt come back down in no time, but he knew it was the thought that counted. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about it for a couple of weeks. Jon gestured to the truck and the dipping sun. “Ready to go back?” Caleb asked. With a nod, Jon held out his hand. Caleb helped him to his feet and pressed the antique walking stick into his hand. After Caleb quickly picked up their tools, he held up their lunch. “I ate a little, but I bet you’re starving. Would you like some now, or later?” Jon waved his hand at the bag, letting Caleb know he could wait. The trip back to the truck seemed to take twice as long. By the time Caleb eased Jon into the passenger seat, he was sweating heavily. As he watched Caleb get behind the wheel, he wondered if he’d ever feel those lips on his again. Hopefully it wasn’t a one time thing, because he knew he could get used to kissing the man beside him.

**** With the last of their supper eaten, Caleb started to stand to clear the table. A hand on his arm stopped him. He looked into Jon’s eyes. “Do you need something else?” he asked.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

22

Jon moved his hand to cup Caleb’s cheek. It was easy to see the hunger in the older man’s eyes. Leaning across the table, Caleb kissed him. Jon’s eyes closed and Caleb knew he’d guessed correctly. At the first touch of their tongues, Caleb’s cock hardened. As much as he wanted to strip naked and beg Jon to take him, he knew they needed to take things slow. It had been evident their kiss earlier in the field had been Jon’s first. Breaking the kiss, Caleb drew back slightly. “Will you hold me while we watch television?” Jon stared at him for so long, Caleb was beginning to feel self-conscious. Eventually, he pointed towards the stairs. Caleb had to admit he was a little shocked by the sudden invitation, but he wasn’t about to turn it down. He followed Jon up the steps, as the injured man gripped the railing. He was very tempted to lean forward and bite the sexy ass in front of him, but he figured he had plenty of time to play. Jon led Caleb into the master bedroom. Caleb pulled his shirt off as soon as they crossed the threshold. He was surprised when Jon walked back towards him with a stack of black notebooks in his hands. Looking a little scared, Jon held out the pile of books. “You want me to take these?” Caleb asked. Jon nodded, and Caleb took the books. Once his hands were free, Jon retrieved a sheet of paper from the front of the first book and set it on top of the stack. My Dearest Caleb, If you’re reading this, it means things are beginning to progress between the two of us. As you’re probably aware by now, I’m not very experienced in the art of love. Before I can allow things to go any further there are a few things you must know about me. Please take these journals. Read them and you will come to know me like no one ever has. If after finishing them, you’re not completely disgusted with me, I’d love to get to know you better. Love, Jon.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

23

Caleb looked into Jon’s eyes. He saw the uncertainty hidden within their depths. He wasn’t sure how Jon thought he’d change his mind after reading the journals, but he could tell it was important to him. “I’ll read them,” he finally said. Jon gave him a tentative smile and kissed him on the forehead. Caleb returned the favour and carried the pages of Jon’s life to his room.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

24

Chapter Four

Caleb woke the following morning with one of the journals still in his hand. What time had he dropped off? It still felt like an invasion of privacy to him. He tried not to linger over the passages he felt were too personal. The books soon after Jon’s mother’s death had been filled with a boy’s pain. By Jon’s fifteenth year, he’d begun to write of his sexual fantasies. Caleb couldn’t help but to smile. Jon must’ve been the typical horny teenager. He’d written about making love in the barn, in the fields, on the kitchen table. So many of the entries reminded Caleb of himself. Jon’s longing to tell his father that he was gay, knowing his dad probably wouldn’t understand. The book still in his hands was the most heartbreaking. It detailed the evening Jon had finally confessed his homosexuality to his father. Dad picked me up from school because I had to stay over for fighting. He’d always taught me to stand up for myself. Well, that’s exactly what I’d done. Peter Stiles called me out in front of the whole school for being gay. I showed him that being gay didn’t mean being a wimp. When I got into the truck, dad didn’t say anything until we reached the edge of Whitby. He asked me what the fight was about. I knew it was the right moment to tell him my long-held secret. We were rounding a turn as I suddenly blurted out that I was gay and Peter had teased me about it. That was the last thing I remembered before waking in the local hospital. Before I could say a word, I was told my father had died on impact. I’m told my lack of speech is psychological, that no actual damage to my vocal chords had occurred. Part of me knew that. Like I knew my words had carelessly been responsible for my dad’s death. Everyone at the hospital tried to fuss over me. The boy who’d lost his only living relative and would be forced to live the rest of his life with a mangled leg. I didn’t care about my leg at the time. I felt like a murderer and expected the local constable to arrest me at any time. It was decided I was old enough to take care of myself and eventually sent home. This is the first time I’ve been able to write. I’m sure I’ve left out important details, but at least my confession is finally down on paper. I, Jon Cook, killed my father.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

25

Caleb wiped the tears from his eyes. So, Jon chose not to speak, or was it a mental block due to the overwhelming feelings of grief and guilt? He wondered if he even could after so long a time. Maybe it was a matter of strengthening his vocal chords. After several more hours spent reading about Jon’s loneliness in the years following his dad’s death, Caleb picked up the most recent journal. He was shocked the first time he came across his own name, written in the journal. I think it was a mistake to invite Caleb into my home. The words hit Caleb like a punch to the gut. Swallowing around the newly-formed lump in his throat, he continued. I thought it would be easier to be around someone like myself, but its pure torture. I look at him, and my mind imagines a number of things. None of which are proper, and all of which I want more than my next breath. When he appeared at the barn carrying an injured lamb, I wanted to fall on my knees and worship him. I loved the way the muscles bulged in his slim arms, the chords straining in his long neck. At that moment, Caleb was every fantasy I’d ever had come to life. I took the sheep from his arms and turned my back on him. I’m afraid he thought I was dismissing him, but my embarrassment over my hardened cock caused me to flee into the safety of the barn. Caleb looked out the window. As the sun rose higher in the sky, he remembered that episode. Jon was right. He had felt dismissed. Deciding he’d read enough, Caleb rose and opened his door. The house was quiet. At a few minutes after ten, he was sure Jon was already out in the barn. He stepped into the small shower and began washing his hair. From reading Jon’s thoughts, Caleb knew the man understood nothing about sex. After the accident that had killed his father, Jon tried to put that side of himself away. He wondered again why it was so important to Jon for him to read the journals. Did Jon really think Caleb would be disgusted with him? In fact, the complete opposite had happened. He not only gained new respect for Jon, he’d fallen even more in love with him. Inserting his favourite plug had his cock hard as a rock. Caleb chose to ignore it, deciding instead to make the first of Jon’s fantasies come true. After a quick dry, he pulled on a pair of sweats, foregoing underwear and a shirt. After he’d rifled through his bag for several moments, he found the box of condoms. He slipped his feet into his old sneakers and went to find the object of his desire.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

26

As he walked to the barn, he couldn’t help whistling. The interior of the barn was dark compared to the sunny day outside. Caleb stood just inside, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light. He heard movement in the small workroom and walked towards his destiny. He watched Jon’s strong back as he emptied a fifty pound bag of dog food into a storage bin. He cleared his throat, letting Jon know he was in the doorway. Jon’s spine straightened. It was several seconds before the bigger man turned to face him. Caleb could see the nerves begin to overwhelm Jon as his hands fisted at his sides. Caleb decided Jon had been through enough in his thirty-six years. Instead of keeping up the suspense, he walked forward until they stood toe to toe. “I finished them,” Caleb said, moments before he sealed his mouth over Jon’s. The longer they kissed, the more at ease his soon-to-be lover became. Caleb could feel the proof of Jon’s desire against his abdomen. As much as he wanted to bend over and beg Jon to plough his ass, he knew it would overwhelm his love. Instead, Caleb pulled out of the kiss, and sunk to his knees, feeling the plug shift inside of him. He glanced down to see a large wet stain on the front of his tented sweats. “See what you do to me?” he asked as he began to run his hands across the hard ridge in Jon’s old, worn jeans. As he began unfastening Jon’s jeans, a hand tilted his chin up. Jon looked down at him questioning. “Let me love you,” Caleb begged. “Please.” Jon answered the plea by pulling off his own shirt. It was the first time Caleb had seen Jon’s chest. He’d had no idea such a perfect specimen of manhood lived on the planet. “If I looked like you, I’d walk around naked twenty-four seven.” That got a blush and a smile out of Jon. Caleb went back to the task at hand and lowered the bigger man’s pants and briefs. The long thick proof of Jon’s desire sprung up and hit Caleb on the chin. “Yeah, definitely naked,” he remarked. Caleb looked at the most impressive cock he’d ever had the pleasure of holding. Moving his hand down towards the root of Jon’s cock, he marvelled at the way the red, glistening head peeked out. Caleb pulled up and then back down. He was like a boy with a new toy. He suddenly wished his parents hadn’t circumcised him.

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Carol Lynne

27

“Beautiful,” he whispered as he lovingly licked the tip of Jon’s cock, tasting his lover’s pre-cum for the first time. Jon gave a soft grunt as Caleb’s lips enveloped the thick erection. Caleb felt Jon’s fingers begin to thread their way through his light brown hair. With Jon’s cock in his mouth, Caleb moved one hand to tease at Jon’s balls, while the other reached up to smooth across one brown nipple. The grip on his hair tightened almost to the point of pain as Jon began thrusting his hips against Caleb’s face, burying himself as deep as possible. He nodded, giving Jon permission. With a loud groan, Jon shot his first volley of seed down Caleb’s throat. He pulled off enough to better taste the proof of Jon’s climax. When he’d milked Jon’s balls dry, he stood and thrust his tongue down the taller man’s throat. With another grunt, Jon lifted Caleb off the floor and set him on the workbench. Jon looked into Caleb’s eyes before glancing down at the tented sweatpants. “Yes. Please,” Caleb whispered, pulling down his pants. Jon looked at Caleb’s cock like he was seeing one for the first time. Caleb knew if he hadn’t been ready to shoot, he would’ve let his new lover stroke and lick him all day. With the plug still buried in his ass, he was on the brink, and Jon had yet to take him fully in his mouth. “Please,” Caleb finally groaned. With reverent care, Jon closed his lips over the mushroom shaped head. “Yes,” Caleb shouted. He tried to think of writing his mother to keep himself from coming as Jon moved up and down about four inches of his length. “So good,” Caleb whispered as he threaded his fingers through Jon’s silky dark hair. “I can’t hold it,” he panted as Jon gave his balls a slight squeeze. Jon nodded and gripped the base of Caleb’s cock as the first stream of cum was released. Caleb actually felt like the crown of his cock might shoot off as he continued to cum like he’d never done before. Too much for an inexperienced man, Caleb watched as the thick white fluid began to escape through the corners of Jon’s mouth. As soon as the last spurt left his cock, Caleb pulled Jon up into his arms. Leaning forward, he licked his own seed from his lovers chin and cheek. “That was fantastic,” he told Jon.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

28

Jon blushed and gave Caleb a slight smile. His lover looked deeply into his eyes before taking the pad and pen from around his neck to write out a note. Caleb read the small white sheet of paper. Does this mean you’re not disgusted with me? He felt his chest tighten as he cupped Jon’s cheeks. “I read absolutely nothing that would ever elicit a feeling of disgust. I don’t believe the accident that killed your father was your fault. He was the driver and therefore responsible for the truck, not you.” Caleb kissed Jon’s nose. “You’re actually a lot braver than me. I still haven’t told my dad that I’m gay.” Jon seemed surprised by Caleb’s statement. “My mom knows. I came out to her at a pretty early age, but my dad, I imagine, is a lot like your dad was.” Jon leaned into Caleb’s touch. He watched as Jon’s lips seemed to move just the slightest bit. Caleb wondered if Jon was talking to him, or wishing he could talk out loud. “Listen,” Caleb said. “Why don’t I get my work done, and we can have a nice dinner and watch television snuggled up on the couch?” Jon smiled. He took a step back and lifted Caleb from the workbench before pulling up his work jeans. Caleb pulled up his sweats, aware the plug was still inside of him. “I’m gonna go in and change before Champ and I find the sheep.” Jon wrote something and handed it to Caleb before he could walk passed him. Thank you. The note said. Caleb shook his head and pulled Jon into a deep kiss. “Please don’t thank me. You’ve made me the happiest bloke in England,” Caleb joked. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours. Keep these lips warm for me,” he said, as he placed another chaste kiss on Jon’s mouth. He practically skipped back to the house. Yeah, his life was getting better all the time.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

29

Chapter Five

Closing up the barn door, Caleb cupped his hands around his mouth and blew out a warm breath. Damn, it was getting colder all the time. Why in the hell had he thought England had mild winters? His work done for the day, he couldn’t wait to get inside. Jon was a master at setting him on fire. Jon may have been a virgin when they first started their affair, but three months later, and the man fucked like a pro. It took everything he had to leave his lover’s bed in the mornings, but work was work. As he headed for the house, he had to stop and adjust his cock. Just thinking about Jon gave him a woody every time. Caleb opened the back door and stepped into the mud room. “Honey, I’m home,” he called out as he took off his coat and boots. He didn’t know what Jon was cooking but it smelled damn good. Almost like… He walked into the kitchen and his jaw dropped. His gaze swung to Jon standing beside the old Aga. “What did you do?” Caleb asked, going right up to his lover and planting a sound kiss to his lips. Jon pointed to the calendar on the wall. He’d circled the date in red. Caleb had to study the date for several seconds before he finally realised why the date was special. “Shit,” Caleb chuckled. “How could I have forgotten it was Thanksgiving? But Brits don’t celebrate it. Why…?” Jon put his large hand over Caleb’s heart. Caleb melted under the sentiment. He’d quickly discovered just what a romantic guy Jon was. He was continually doing little things for Caleb. He’d even had the phone service reconnected so he could call his mom occasionally. “Damn,” Caleb looked at the clock. They were six hours ahead of his mom, which meant it was close to eleven in Kansas. “Remind me after we eat to call Mom.” Jon nodded. After one more lingering kiss, Jon pulled back and motioned for Caleb to wash up for dinner.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

30

As he washed his hands and face in the kitchen sink, Caleb watched Jon take the gravy off the stove. He wondered how Jon knew he loved turkey gravy. He dried his hands and face on a clean dish towel. “Everything looks fantastic. How did you know?” Jon set the bowl of gravy on the table before walking back to the counter. He picked up a sheet of paper that had been half buried under dirty dishes. Caleb took the page and melted even further. Evidently his love had written to his mom and asked her what foods Caleb liked for the holiday meal. Caleb noticed his mom had also included the Christmas meal on the back page. “You’re amazing,” Caleb said, leaning over to kiss Jon again. He glanced through the Christmas meal his mom had written up as he took his usual seat at the table. He’d been so busy falling in love, he hadn’t given his mom the thoughts she deserved. What would it be like for her to spend Christmas alone? Jon touched his hand. Caleb looked up into the questioning depths of those blue eyes. He knew he’d been caught. “Just thinking about my mom. It’s been the two of us for so long that I wonder how she’s handling me being away during the holidays.” Caleb could see the sadness in Jon’s eyes. Here he was going on about missing his mom when Jon had been alone for the holidays for nineteen years. “I’m sorry,” he said and looked at the table full of food. “Everything looks so good that I don’t know where to start.” That earned him a tentative smile from Jon as he passed the bowl of mashed potatoes. Caleb took the bowl and dropped a large portion onto his plate. “You know, it’s an American tradition to lounge in front of the television after the meal until you’re hungry again.”

**** After a short nap in Jon’s arms, Caleb opened his eyes. The call home to his mom had gotten to him a little more than he cared to admit to his lover. She’d told him she was having dinner with friends and she would be fine, but Caleb still felt guilty. “Do you think it would be okay to invite my mother here for Christmas?” he asked Jon as he traced the dark brown nipple in front of his face. Jon nodded. He pointed to himself and then Caleb, questioning. “She knows about us,” Caleb said. “I think you sending her the letter was her first clue.”

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

31

He felt Jon stiffen. “It’s okay. She’s happy for us.” Jon relaxed and ran his hand down Caleb’s chest to the closely cropped hair at his groin. Smiling, Caleb spread his thighs and let his lover’s hands roam. They’d been so stuffed after supper they hadn’t yet had time to play. They were naked of course. They’d made a habit of stripping out of their clothes after supper to snuggle under a blanket on the couch. They both felt it warmed their skin faster than if they’d remained dressed. Besides, the benefits were fantastic. Jon’s hand moved down Caleb’s cock, to cup his balls. With a gentle squeeze, Jon let Caleb know he was ready to play. He spread further and hooked one leg over the back of the sofa. “Feels good,” Caleb groaned as Jon’s middle finger pressed against his hole. Removing his hand, Jon lifted it to Caleb’s mouth. He knew exactly what his lover wanted and licked at the long, callused fingers in front of him. With a grunt, Jon returned his hand to Caleb’s ass, slipping one finger inside. “Oh yeah,” Caleb said, pushing against Jon’s hand. He scooted to the side and turned to take Jon’s cock into his mouth. Jon thrust another finger into Caleb’s hole, as Caleb took Jon’s length down to the root. Soon he was riding Jon’s hand as he begged his lover to take him. “Need you.” Jon removed his fingers and reached under the couch for their stash of condoms and lube. His lover hated using them, and even though he knew he was clean, Caleb had refused to go without until he’d had a chance to be thoroughly tested. Well, he’d gotten his clean bill of health only days before. His plan was to surprise Jon with the news when the time was right. As Caleb watched his lover tear open the foil package, he realised there was no better time. He reached up and took the condom from Jon’s hands. Caleb stood. “I’ll be right back,” he said running up the stairs to his rarely used bedroom. He grabbed the sheet of paper from his dresser and raced back to Jon’s side. “I wanted to surprise you,” he said holding out the test results. Jon studied the paper for a few moments before it finally registered. A smile, bigger than Caleb had ever seen, spread across Jon’s handsome face. Caleb took the sheet back and set it on the table, before reaching for the bottle of lubricant. He squirted a fare amount into his hand and smoothed it on Jon’s erection. As he straddled Jon’s lap, he suddenly felt nervous. “I’ve never done it without a rubber.”

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

32

Jon’s hands landed on his hips, as the bigger man slowly lowered him. Caleb reached under himself and guided his lover’s cock to his hole. Once the crown pushed through the outer ring of muscles, Caleb released his hold and impaled himself in one long glide of ecstasy. Once his balls were nestled in the thick hair surrounding Jon’s cock, Caleb pulled his lover into a kiss. Jon’s mouth still held a trace of all the foods he’d prepared for Caleb. He didn’t know if anyone had ever done something so special for him. Before he started to move, he wanted his lover to know how he felt. He broke the kiss and pulled back to look into Jon’s eyes. “I love you,” he said. Jon’s eyes immediately filled with tears. He lifted Caleb’s hand and kissed the palm before placing it over his own heart. Remembering something he’d been taught in grade school, he took Jon’s hand and formed his fingers into a symbol. “This is the American sign language sign for I love you.” Jon studied his fingers before looking back at Caleb. He relaxed his hand and then repeated the sign over and over between kisses. Caleb felt his heart soar. He didn’t need the words spoken. Just knowing Jon felt them was more than enough for him. “I’ve wanted to tell you that for a while, but I was afraid.” Jon shook his head and pulled Caleb in for a deep tonsil tickling kiss. Jon thrust up against Caleb’s ass, letting him know what he wanted. Caleb retracted his tongue and grinned. He lifted up slowly before sinking back down on Jon’s length. “Is this what you’re after?” he asked, doing it again. Jon nodded and let his head fall to the back of the couch as he gripped Caleb’s hips once again. Caleb picked up his pace and within moments was riding Jon’s thick cock like it was the last time he’d ever have it buried inside of him. “Good,” Caleb moaned. Jon began thrusting up into him as he used his leg muscles to hover just above Jon’s lap. Caleb reached for his cock, but Jon’s hand slapped his away before enveloping the throbbing erection in his fist. “Yes, oh hell, yes. Make me come,” he panted. A callused thumb pressing against the slit in the crown of Caleb’s cock, sent him over the edge. “Fuck,” he yelled as he painted Jon’s chest and abdomen. Jon pulled Caleb down to fully bury his cock in Caleb’s ass before he began to shake under him. “I can feel you,” Caleb said in wonder. He never thought he’d be able to actually feel himself being filled by his lover’s seed.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

33

Once they were both spent, Caleb collapsed against Jon’s sweating chest. It didn’t matter that the house was still cold. The two of them couldn’t have been hotter. Jon once again formed the ‘I love you’ symbol. “I love you, too,” Caleb whispered.

**** As he lay in bed later that evening, Jon held Caleb. What would he do when Caleb left him? It wasn’t just the sex he knew he’d miss, or the companionship for that matter. It was Caleb, pure and simple. He looked down at the sleeping angel in his arms. He’d never believed he could come to love someone as much as he did Caleb. The old phrase, ‘You don’t know what you’re missing’ came to mind. No, he hadn’t known. The previous nineteen years had been hard, but not unbearable. Jon had a feeling he would soon know what unbearable really meant. He only had another six months of bliss. He couldn’t help but to wonder whether it would be easier to start pulling away now. Caleb chose that moment to stir in his sleep, burrowing further against Jon’s chest. Jon shook his head. No. It would be impossible to do anything but love the man sleeping beside him. He thought of the look on Caleb’s face as he’d brought out the pecan pie earlier. He’d had the bakery in Whitby make it up special for Caleb. According to Suzanne’s note, pecan was Caleb’s all-time favourite pie. The thanks he’d received for that one nutty confection, was worth a dozen more. Thoughts of Suzanne, Caleb’s mum, had him worrying about Christmas. What would it be like with her here? Would Caleb act differently around his mum, and where would she sleep? “You’re thinking too much,” Caleb mumbled. The smaller man crawled up Jon’s body until they were nose to nose. “You should’ve been asleep hours ago. Is there something wrong?” Jon shook his head and ran his hand down Caleb’s nude back. He used his other hand to press Caleb’s head back to his chest, kissing the top of his lover’s head as he did so.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

34

He decided to follow Caleb’s lead, and tried once again to fall asleep. They had plenty of time to be with each other. He’d make the most of every day, and worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.

MOOR LOVE

Carol Lynne

35

Chapter Six

“Come on, stop looking so nervous. My mom is gonna love you,” Caleb said as they waited in the truck for the train to arrive. Jon wasn’t so sure. To parents, a thirteen year age difference could be a big thing. He just hoped Suzanne’s mind was as open as Caleb told him. Caleb had insisted his mum wouldn’t mind if he and Caleb continued to share a bed whilst she was here, so they hadn’t bothered to move his lover’s stuff out of the master bedroom. With the train only minutes away, he began to second guess that decision. He shifted in the seat uncomfortably. A hand landed on his thigh. “Is your knee hurting?” Caleb asked. Jon shook his head, and Caleb scooted closer and began kissing his neck. “I don’t know why Mom insisted on taking the train from Manchester. She’ll likely be pooped by the time she gets here,” Caleb said, licking a path up Jon’s neck to his lips. There were a few other cars in the car park, but Jon didn’t care about any of them. He’d been talked about for years, since before his father’s death. If people wanted to call him names, let them. He was truly happy for the first time in his life. Tilting his chin up, Jon let Caleb explore the available skin with his tongue and teeth. The horn, signalling the train’s arrival, made them both jump. Jon turned to look out his window. The train was just coming into view. His hands began to sweat as Caleb gave him one last kiss, this time on the mouth. “I love you,” Caleb whispered against his lips. Jon used the sign he’d become very accustomed to since Thanksgiving. As the train screeched to a stop, Caleb opened his door and climbed out. “Come on,” he motioned to Jon to get out. After wiping his hands on his jeans, Jon joined Caleb on the platform. His lover immediately threaded fingers through his as they watched several passengers disembark. Jon spotted a middle aged woman with shoulder-length blonde hair step off the train, and immediately cover her ears against the onslaught of noise created by the gulls overhead.

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Carol Lynne

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“Mom!” Caleb shouted and waved with his free hand. Jon immediately released his grip on his lover and gave him a little push towards his mum. Caleb took the hint and ran to embrace Suzanne. It warmed his heart to see mother and son together again. Their embrace lasted several moments, before Suzanne pulled back to look at Caleb. “You look good, Cale,” she said, using a nickname Jon had not heard. His lover blushed and gave an embarrassed nod. “I’m in love, Mom.” Caleb turned and held his hand out to Jon. “I’d like to introduce you to Jon Cook. Jon, this is my mom, Suzanne.” After a quick wipe of his hand against his trousers, Jon held his hand out to Suzanne. She looked at his hand and shook her head. “Nope, I want a hug.” She surprised him by pulling him into an embrace. Their height difference was apparent as she wrapped her arms around his torso. Jon suddenly wondered if Caleb’s dad was also smaller than average, or if Caleb just took after his mum. “That’s enough,” Caleb broke in. “Not trying to steal my man, are you Mom?” Suzanne stepped back and put a hand to her mouth as she giggled like a school girl. “Can you blame me? It’s not very often a ruggedly handsome man from England hugs me.” Caleb chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Find your own,” he joked as he turned to pick up his mum’s suitcases. It was easy for him to see the great relationship between Caleb and Suzanne. His relationship with his own mother had been one of love, but they’d never joked back and forth with each other the way the two people in front of him were. Maybe he hadn’t been old enough yet? Perhaps he would indeed have had this kind of relationship with his own mum had she not died when he was so young. Jon watched as Caleb’s lean muscles bulged from his slim arm as he picked up the first suitcase. Stepping up, Jon took the bigger of the two. He wanted to take the one Caleb had in his hand, but refused to embarrass his lover in front of his mum. He gestured to the truck and began to walk that way. Caleb and Suzanne followed, talking non-stop. Once the luggage was stowed in the back of the truck, Jon climbed in behind the steering wheel. He was pleased when Caleb jumped in next to him, with Suzanne on the other side.

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As they drove to the farm, Suzanne asked questions of both him and Caleb. She wanted to know how far outside of Whitby they were going, and if she could do some shopping before she left to return to the United States. “And the noise. My gosh I never heard such a racket,” Suzanne commented. “It’s something you definitely have to get used to. You’ve got the sound of the surf along with the birds. But the shopping in Whitby is worth it. You’ll love it, Mom.” Caleb turned to Jon. “Do you think we’ll have time to get Mom back to Whitby?” Jon smiled and nodded. If he could get Caleb into taking his mum into town, he could work on the wall that was already beginning to topple again. He didn’t want Caleb to know all his hard work would have to be redone. Pulling up to the stone farmhouse, Suzanne gasped. “Oh my god, it’s like what you’d read about in a Bronte novel.” Jon looked around at the farm he’d grown up on, perhaps really seeing it for the first time. The two-story house was made of local stone, as well as the barn, but did it look like something the Bronte sisters would’ve described? Suzanne opened the door and got out of the truck, looking from the house to the surrounding countryside. “Amazing,” she said. Caleb poked him in the ribs. “I think she approves,” he chuckled, following his mum’s lead and getting out of the truck. Patches of an early snow still clung to the slate of the roof, giving it somewhat of an old world charm, he supposed. Shaking his head, Jon got out and lifted the two suitcases out of the bed of the truck. He walked to the small porch and waited for Caleb and Suzanne to join him. Suzanne was still chattering about his home as they made their way inside. “I can’t believe you don’t lock your door, Jon,” Suzanne said. Caleb chuckled. “Look around, Mom. It’s not like a burglar is going to come all the way out here to steal stuff.” Jon carried the bags upstairs to the bedroom Caleb had readied for her. “You’ll be in here, Mom. It gets cold at night, so I put extra blankets on your bed. I’ll be right down the hall with Jon in the master bedroom.” Jon braced himself for the fallout that one statement could provide. Instead, when Suzanne turned around, she was smiling. “It’s perfect. Just like I’d imagined.”

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Jon released the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Caleb wrapped an arm around his waist and gave him a half-hug. “We’ll let you get unpacked. Come down when you’re ready and you can have a proper cup of English tea,” Caleb said with a wide grin. He let Caleb lead him out of the room and down the stairs. After adding more coal to the Aga and a few more logs to the fireplace in the living room, he stood just inside the kitchen and watched Caleb flutter about. His lover already had the kettle on, and was taking the biscuits out of their tin and arranging them on a plate. Caleb spotted him and smiled. “All done?” Jon nodded and walked towards his love. He reached out and pulled Caleb into his arms, kissing him. Caleb moaned and tried to hoist himself into Jon’s arms as the kiss went deeper. As much as he wanted to strip Caleb and fuck him on the kitchen table, he was perfectly aware there was now someone else in the house with them. He tried to put some space between them, but Caleb wasn’t having it, and continued to grind against him. “Need you,” Caleb groaned. “Need to feel you filling me with that beautiful cock.” His lover’s words overrode his common sense and he picked Caleb up into his arms and thrust against him. Pushing his tongue down Caleb’s throat, he grunted. He’d never get enough of this sexy man. A creak of the stairs signalled Suzanne’s immanent return. Breaking the kiss, he released Caleb’s arse and let him slide down to stand. Looking down, it was obvious what they’d been doing by the red swollen lips of his lover. Caleb surprised him by leaning forward and nipping his nipple playfully through his long-sleeved shirt. “Later,” Caleb promised.

**** As he strolled along the narrow cobbled streets of Whitby with his mom, Caleb told what little he knew about the town’s history. He pointed to the cliff overhead in the distance and the large stone remains. “That’s Whitby Abbey. Bram Stoker is said to have written Dracula after walking through the cemetery up there.” “Can we get a closer look?” Suzanne asked.

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“Depends.” Caleb grinned. “How strong are your legs? There are a total of one hundred and ninety-nine steps leading up to it.” Suzanne playfully cuffed Caleb on the back of the head. “I may not be a young woman any more, but I’m certainly not old either. Lead the way, smart mouth.” As they walked towards the newly reconstructed stairs that would lead them to the Abbey, Caleb began to tell his mom about the accident that had taken Jon’s father’s life. “So he can speak, he just doesn’t?” Suzanne asked. Caleb stopped and looked out over the North Sea. “I’m not sure. I think it’s more of a mental block than anything. According to the doctors there isn’t anything physically wrong with his vocal chords or his brain.” “That’s it? You just accept it?” Shit, he knew that look. His mom was going to make a big deal out of this. “Please, Mom. Let’s drop it. Jon has come a long way since I arrived. He’s actually living for the first time in over nineteen years.” “And what happens when your work permit expires? Are you going to be able to just pack up and leave him? Cale, you of all people should push him to talk. He trusts you. After you leave, you don’t want him shutting down again. Give him the skills he’ll need to continue to lead a happy life. And speaking is the first step.” Caleb closed his eyes against his mom’s intense stare. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen to Jon after he was forced to leave. Without another word, Caleb turned and began walking up the long stretch of stairs that would lead them to the cliff above.

**** Several days after Suzanne arrived, she found Jon working in the barn, ministering to an injured sheep. Caleb was out tending the flock, making sure they were all still healthy despite the cold weather. “Jon? You in here?” Suzanne called, stepping inside the darkness of the old stone barn. He stood and waved his hand to signal his presence. As Suzanne walked towards him, Jon watched the puffs of air escaping her mouth in the cold afternoon temperatures. She looked at the sheep with the bandaged leg. “Will she be okay?” Suzanne asked.

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Jon nodded and wrote on his pad. “Just a bad scrape from a sharp stone.” Suzanne took the sheet. After reading it she crumpled the white paper in her hand. “I need to speak with you. I’m sorry, but Cale told me about the accident that took your father.” Jon felt like he’d been punched in the mid-section. “Don’t be upset with him. I asked him why you didn’t speak, and Cale told me. It wasn’t to tell your business. I think my son wanted me to understand.” Suzanne looked up from the sheep to look Jon in the eyes. “Well I don’t understand.” He felt his teeth clench. Who did this woman think she was? “I know you love my boy, but that’s not good enough for a mother. Take it from me, thinking someone loves you and actually being able to hear it are two different things. Cale’s father wasn’t one to vocalize his feelings. Because of that, we drifted apart.” Suzanne seemed to drift away in thought for a few seconds. “I want more for my son. I want him to be with someone who can tell him daily how much he’s loved and adored. Since Cale told me about you, I’ve never worried about the age difference or the geographical distance, those can be worked out. But for me to know you have the ability to speak and choose not to is unforgivable in my opinion.” She took a step closer and laid her palm on Jon’s chest. “I know you think you can’t talk, but if you don’t push yourself to try, you’ll lose him eventually.” With that, Suzanne turned and left him standing there alone. With his hands on his hips, Jon looked down and kicked the bucket of water across the barn. The movement should have hurt his leg, but Jon barely registered the pain in his knee compared to the one in his chest. If Suzanne was right and Caleb would leave him eventually anyway, what was the point? He was still mired in anger and depression when Caleb came strolling into the barn. “Hey,” Caleb said, walking up behind him. Jon looked over his shoulder at the man he loved. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Caleb asked, going around to stand in front of him. Caleb wrapped his arms around Jon and hugged him. “Come on, tell me what’s happened?” And there it was, laid out at his feet. Jon wished he could tell his lover what was wrong, but that was the problem. He’d been naïve to think showing Caleb his love would be enough, but he no longer believed that.

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“Jon?” Caleb asked again when Jon’s arms continued to hang at his sides instead of wrapping around to embrace his lover. He finally shook his head and pointed towards his throat. Caleb’s eyes rounded before narrowing to thin slits. “Did my mother say something to you?” Jon clenched his jaws, unwilling to get between mother and son. “That bitch!” Caleb screamed and started to turn away from him. Reaching out, Jon stopped him with a hand around Caleb’s arm. He held up a finger, asking for Caleb to stay right there. Picking up his pad, he began to write. “Your mom loves you. She told me how your dad’s inability to vocalize his love tore them apart.” Caleb shook his head. “That’s her story. It wasn’t just my dad’s inability to tell her he loved her that did it. He couldn’t even show her, or me. They’re not us, Jon. I know you love me. It’s written on your face when you look at me. It’s in everything you do for me. Please don’t listen to Mom,” Caleb said as a single tear escaped his eye and ran down his cheek. He pulled Caleb into his arms and buried his face in his lover’s hair. Caleb had so much faith in him. His lover deserved the world on a platter, not a mute sheep farmer, but could he be anything different?

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Chapter Seven

Jon could still hear the doctor’s words as he drove home from his appointment. “I’m sorry, Jon, there’s nothing physically wrong with you. Until you decide to come out of this protective shell you’ve placed yourself in, there’s not a bloody thing I can do for you.” Is that what he’d done? He thought of the bone-deep guilt he’d felt after the accident. Questions, there had been so many questions that he’d been unable to answer. He knew they hadn’t pushed him to remember, fearing he’d slip even further into himself. Jon pulled the battered truck to the side of the road. The small wooden cross that he’d replaced several times over the years, stood like a sentry, guarding the accident scene. He sat where he was for several moments before getting out and standing next to the weathered memorial. Closing his eyes, Jon tried, for the first time, to relive that night so long ago.

Jon knew he was in trouble as he got into the truck. “Sorry, dad,” he said, not looking at his father. His dad said nothing as he headed out of town. Jon leaned his head against the window and watched as they left Whitby. “So what was this fight with Peter Stiles all about?” his dad eventually asked. He closed his eyes. He’d known his dad would ask, but he still hadn’t made up his mind as to whether to tell him the truth. Jon sighed, he’d never openly lied to his father in his life. “Peter said a few things in front of the other kids, hurtful things. I punched him in the nose, broke it, I think.” As his father manoeuvred the truck around a section of hairpin curves, he seemed to be deep in thought. “What was the boy teasing you about?” his dad asked. Jon swallowed around the lump in his throat. He felt his eyes and nose begin to burn as he fought back tears. “I’m a homosexual, Dad. Peter must’ve picked up on it and started spreading it around the school.”

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He braced himself for his dad’s reaction. He watched as if in slow motion as his father’s hand came off the steering wheel and swung towards him. He automatically shrunk back further against the passenger door, but instead of hitting him, his dad cupped his cheek. “I already knew that, and it doesn’t matter to me.” An object in the road caught Jon’s attention out of the corner of his eye. “Dad, watch out!” he yelled as the lone sheep came fully into view. His father’s gaze went back to the road and released his hold on Jon’s cheek as he tried to avoid the large animal. As he turned the wheel and slammed on the brakes, the truck began to skid before leaving the road. Jon’s head hit the windscreen. The last thing he remembered as he saw them heading straight for the tree was his dad’s calm voice. “I love you, Jon.” Jon opened his eyes and looked around at the peaceful surroundings. If not for the scarred wooden cross, no one would ever know a man had died in this spot. He fell to his knees as the memories overwhelmed him. “Daaaad,” he cried out, as he buried his face in his hands. It was several agonizing moments before Jon realised what he’d done. Sitting up, he put his hand to his throat and tried once again to speak. “Caalleb,” he managed to croak. Saying the name of his lover for the first time brought fresh tears to his eyes. He’d had it all wrong. All these years, he blocked out what had truly happened on that day so long ago. He wondered if he’d ever understand why? He eventually got to his feet and wiped the moisture from his face with the bottom of his shirt. Before he got back into his truck, Jon took one more look around. “Sorrrry, Daaad.”

**** Caleb was walking across the pasture back towards the barn, when he saw Jon’s truck pull into the drive. He waved and picked up his pace. He was almost there when Jon stepped out of the cab and held out his arms. “Caaalleb,” Jon called. He stopped dead in his tracks. What the fuck? Did Jon just call his name? “Caaalleb,” Jon said again. “Holy shit,” Caleb said as he broke into a run.

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He didn’t stop until he was standing toe to toe with his lover. “Say it again,” he panted. Jon smiled and pulled Caleb into his arms. “Love,” Jon said as he bent to give Caleb a kiss. He let Jon sweep the interior of his mouth for several long seconds before he pulled back. “How?” Caleb’s mind was spinning. Jon had left earlier in the morning to go into Whitby. What had happened while he’d been gone? “Remembered,” Jon said. His speech was by no means perfect, but it seemed to get better with each word he spoke. “Remembered?” Caleb asked. “I don’t understand. You remembered how to talk?” Jon shook his head. “Accident.” Jon’s lips moved several times before the rest came out in stuttered speech. “Wasn’t. My. F-Fault.” Caleb hugged Jon again. “Oh, honey, it was never your fault. No matter how the accident happened.” Jon buried his head in Caleb’s hair as he began to cry. Caleb knew it had to be an emotional day for his lover. “Come on. Let’s get inside where it’s warmer.” He led Jon to the house, plastered to his lover’s side. He still couldn’t believe it. As the realisation began to sink in, he wondered if Jon would finally get out and date after Caleb’s time in England was over. His chest felt tight. What did he expect? He’d given Jon the taste for sex. He knew from experience it wasn’t something you could just shut off. Once he got Jon settled on the couch, Caleb crawled onto his lap. It was his favourite place to be. He could easily spend a lifetime sitting right where he was. He rested his head on his lover’s chest. “I’m so very proud of you,” he whispered, slowly unbuttoning Jon’s shirt. He felt Jon’s erection pressing against his ass as he began to lick his way down his lover’s chest. “I’ve been working with Champ since I got here. I guess you’ve just ruined my surprise,” he chuckled. “What?” Jon stopped Caleb’s downward progression with a hand under his chin. Caleb looked up into those sparkling blue eyes. “I wanted Champ to help you with the sheep, so I’ve taught him hand signals. He also responds to a dog whistle. I’ll go ahead and teach you the correct cadence of the whistles, but now you’ll be able to tell him what you need.” Jon’s jaw dropped. “For me?”

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Caleb shrugged. “Of course. I know you got Champ for companionship, but he’s a working dog. He needs to help you to feel happy, and you’ll need the help without me here.” “Stay,” Jon blurted out. The way Jon gazed into his eyes, Caleb knew he meant it. He crawled back up Jon’s body and kissed him, long and deep. “I love you. More than I ever thought possible, but we both know I have to go back to the States in a couple of months.” Jon shook his head, and Caleb could see tears pooling in their beautiful depths. “Maarry me.” Shocked, Caleb’s jaw dropped this time. “Marry you?” Jon nodded and kissed Caleb again. “Love you,” Jon said when they broke their kiss. Shit, Jon was serious. Caleb’s brain began a slow and steady meltdown. Could he give up everything for the man he loved? He’d heard that England had legalised gay partnerships, but had never considered that Jon would want him forever. He tried to imagine a lifetime spent on the farm with Jon. Could he even get work in England? The farm was a lot of work, but now that he was healthy, Jon could take care of it himself. “Yes!” he finally shouted. He wrapped himself so tightly around his lover they appeared to be one person. “Yes?” Jon smiled. “Really?” Caleb nodded. “As long as everything can be worked out, the answer is definitely yes.” He proceeded to show Jon just how happy he was at the prospect of becoming his husband.

**** Caleb couldn’t wait to get home. He’d been on the road for almost a week, a rare occurrence, but necessary if he wanted to keep his job. His boss had promised this would be the last trip for at least another six months. Caleb just hoped his boss kept that promise, because being with the man he loved was more important than any damn job. Even if he’d landed a dream job with a regional feed company. At least he’d been able to keep in contact with Jon. Their evening phone calls were what got Caleb through his day.

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He smiled as he rounded the last bend in the road that would lead him to Jon. It had been almost a year since their civil partnership ceremony at the registry office in Whitby. His mom had flown over, and to his surprise, his dad had come with her. Little had he known, after the initial phone conversation with his father about his sexual orientation and his desire to stay in Britain with Jon, his lover had written to his father. Caleb still didn’t know what Jon had put in the letter, but his dad had surprised them both when he got off the train with his mother. Caleb glanced at the envelope resting on top of his briefcase. He’d decided to surprise Jon with a trip to London for their one year anniversary. His husband very rarely left the farm, so a trip to the capital would be exciting for both of them. There were so many things in his own country that Jon had yet to experience. Caleb worried a bit about the crowds, which Jon would be unaccustomed to, but he was sure they could spend plenty of time in the hotel if his lover needed soothing. He pulled his car to a stop and chuckled as Champ came running towards him from the pasture. Opening the door, he accepted the wet licks with grace. “Stop it, Champ,” he laughed. “You’re going to get me into hot water. You’re supposed to be Jon’s dog and you just abandon him when I pull up? What kind of loyal companion is that?” He reached into his back pocket and withdrew a crisp white handkerchief and wiped his face. Deciding to get his luggage later, Caleb practically ran towards the pasture. Hopefully Jon would be close by. His dress shoes weren’t really meant for traipsing through the dale. Jon was bent checking the ears of one of their new lambs. “What a sexy ass,” Caleb shouted. Jon spun around and smiled. “It’s about time you came home.” Caleb jogged the last few steps as Jon opened his arms. The two men came together in a kiss of tongues and teeth. Jon thrust his tongue into Caleb’s mouth. As Jon continued to devour him with his lips, Caleb began stripping. His lover broke their kiss. “You’ll get your suit muddy.” “I don’t care,” Caleb said, kicking off his shoes and stepping out of his pants. “Need you.” Caleb thought of the plug he’d inserted earlier in the day. He’d driven for the previous two hours with his ass begging for Jon’s thick cock.

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Once his clothes were in a pile, he started on Jon’s trousers. Giving in to Caleb’s desires, Jon removed his shirt as Caleb sunk to his knees. “You need to sit down so I can get your Wellington’s off.” Laughing, Jon sat his bare ass on the ground as Caleb pulled off the tall rubber boots. When Jon lounged before him totally nude, Caleb pounced. “Fuck me,” he moaned as he ground his cock against Jon’s. Jon rolled them until he was on top of Caleb. Sitting back on his heels, Jon bent and took Caleb’s cock into his mouth. “Yessss,” Caleb hissed, hooking his arms under his knees and bringing his legs to his chest. Jon pulled off Caleb’s cock and swiped his tongue down the crack of Caleb’s exposed ass. A growl let Caleb know his lover had finally discovered the purple plug. “Naughty boy. No wonder you’ve attacked me before even saying a proper hello.” Jon pulled the plug partially out before slamming it back inside. “Please,” Caleb begged. Smiling, Jon removed the plug and tossed it aside. Taking the thick erection in his hand, he looked down at Caleb. “This what you want?” “Oh, hell yes,” Caleb answered. Jon spat into his hand and coated his cock. Putting the crown at Caleb’s already stretched hole, Jon began to tease him. His lover would push in an inch before withdrawing completely. After the fourth time, Caleb grabbed Jon’s ass and pulled him in fully. “Yes, that’s what I need.” Jon apparently gave up his torture routine and began to fuck Caleb, fast and hard. Fuck yeah. He’d never get enough of Jon in Alpha mode. Caleb could feel the rough ground under his back. It felt like tiny fingernails raking down his skin and surprisingly only added to his enjoyment. “Yes, do it. Harder,” Caleb continued to beg as Jon’s thrusts became even more forceful. He planned to spend a lifetime with this man inside of him, and Caleb couldn’t think of a better way to live. With his balls drawing tight, Caleb reached down and grabbed his cock. “Gonna,” he warned. “Together,” Jon ground out between clenched teeth. Three more thrusts and Jon looked into his eyes. “Now.”

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Caleb’s cock erupted on command as Jon’s body stiffened above him, filling him with cum. He released his legs and let them slide around Jon’s hips as he pulled his lover down for a kiss. They continued their mutual tongue baths until Jon’s flaccid cock slipped from Caleb’s body. “Welcome home,” Jon whispered against Caleb’s lips. “No where else I’d rather be,” Caleb answered before he took another kiss.

About the Author An avid reader for years, one day Carol Lynne decided to write her own brand of erotic romance. Carol juggles between being a full-time mother and a full-time writer. These days, you can usually find Carol either cleaning jelly out of the carpet or nestled in her favourite chair writing steamy love scenes. Email: [email protected] Carol loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

Also by Carol Lynne Campus Cravings: Coach Campus Cravings: Side-Lined Campus Cravings: Sacking the Quarterback Campus Cravings: Off-Season Campus Cravings: Forbidden Freshman Campus Cravings: Broken Pottery Campus Cravings: Office Advances Campus Cravings: A Biker’s Vow Campus Cravings: Hershie’s Kiss Good Time Boys: Sonny’s Salvation Good-time Boys: Garron’s Gift Good-time Boys: Rawley’s Redemption Good-time Boys: Twin Temptations Cattle Valley: All Play & No Work Cattle Valley: Cattle Valley Mistletoe Cattle Valley: Sweet Topping Cattle Valley: Rough Ride Cattle Valley: Physical Therapy Karaoke at the Tumbleweed Legend Anthology: Healing Doctor Ryan Joey’s First Time

YING YANG Sedonia Guillone

Dedication To Mitch always And In loving Memory of Florence Gray

Author’s note: Although Yin Yang is Book Four of White Tigers, each story is stand alone. However, if you wish to read the romances as they occur in chronological order, they are as follows: Men of Tokyo: Sudden Bliss (Naoto and Koji), Men of Tokyo: Sudden Surrender (Kiku and Yuzo), Yin Yang (Basho and Timothy), Men of Phuket: Tongue-Thai’d (Ryu and Nat), and Men of Tokyo: Sudden Heat (Quan Chan and Hiru). I hope you enjoy my stories. Sedonia

Death is a dark prospect. If it takes ten-thousand years, I will hold you until you stop shaking — Mitchell Halper

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Prologue

London, fifteen years ago… Timothy whistled all the way home from rugby practice. In just a few hours, Basho would be back from that bloody family wedding in Tokyo and this torturous two-week separation would end. What would be the first thing he’d do to Basho once he got him alone? The mere thought made Tim smile at everyone he passed. The fat woman walking her poodle probably thought he was barmy, but if she could see into his head right now, she’d have the bobbies arrest him for sodomy and buggery. First he’d rip Basho’s clothes off and run his hands over that smooth golden skin. Basho was lanky, with sinewy, graceful muscles. Basho would moan from his mere touch and then start panting when he played with the man’s small dark brown nipples. Tim felt blood rush to his cock. Come to think of it, he’d better not be thinking all— What the bloody hell? Turning down his block, he saw a crowd of neighbours huddled together in front of Basho’s family’s flat. His blood rushed suddenly from his groin to his stomach, setting it churning. His heart lurched when he saw his mum. What was she doing in the centre of the group, a newspaper in her hands? Tim came to a stop in front of her. “What’s going on, Mum?” She looked up. Deep lines furrowed her brow, and her eyes and nose were red. “Timmy, oh, Timmy, love. I’m so sorry.” His blood ran cold. “Sorry for what?” “The Sakai family…Basho…they’ve been…murdered.”

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Chapter One

The man who lives without conflict, who lives with beauty and love, is not frightened of death because to love is to die. — Krishnamurti

Tokyo, present day…

Basho lay on his futon in the dark, thinking of the first time Timothy had ever sucked his dragon. Golden-haired, blue-eyed Timothy, his muscular body like a Greek athlete. He threw his head back, remembering the way Timmy’s lips, velvety pink and soft, slid up and down Basho’s hard shaft. Perfection. Beauty. Before all the horrible shit had happened. Basho’s hand went to his erection and stroked, base to head, following the memory of warm moist heat engulfing his cock, the press of Timothy’s large hands into his hips, anchoring himself against the bobbing of his blond head… Timothy had been the daring one, the first one to break the silence between them. They’d been mates since childhood, but that other part…the sexual desire, the raw need that simmered between them since their bodies had become men’s bodies…had been a forbidden topic. Until that night. Until Timothy cornered him in the alley behind the sushi restaurant Basho’s parents owned. Basho was emptying the garbage and had just thrown some scraps to the alley cats after closing when he heard footsteps. At first he’d tensed, not knowing who it could be. His father had once gotten involved with some really bad people back in Tokyo and had made the really grave mistake of informing on them. Basho had overheard his father and uncle speak of it years ago and had lived in fear ever since that the criminals would follow his family as they fled from Tokyo to London. “Hey you.” He’d breathed deep relief at Timothy’s voice and turned. A single bulb above the back door of the restaurant made Timothy’s shaggy hair look like an angel’s halo. But when

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Timothy came up to him, the look in his eyes was of no angel. A dark hungry glitter in them made Basho’s heart speed up. “Hey yourself,” Basho muttered, trying to keep his tone casual. There was something about Timothy’s swaggering walk, the way he wore his faded jeans low on his lean hips that brought a funny feeling to Basho’s gut. “What’s going on?” Tim drew closer. Close enough that his spicy aftershave invaded Basho’s senses. His body responded immediately to Timothy’s muscular frame, outlined in the tight T-shirt. Basho felt his blood heat up and his balls tighten. His cock pushed against his trousers. “I’ve something to tell you, mate,” Timothy said softly. “I can’t wait any longer.” He took another step, bringing him nearly up against Basho’s chest. Leaning in, he pressed Basho back against the brick wall, his face so close, his breath fanned over Basho’s lips. Basho’s mind swirled. His vision blurred and…kuso…the brush of Timothy’s chest against his made his nipples tighten, even through both their layers of clothing. The warm summer evening got much hotter. “What is it? Tell me.” His voice sounded shaky in his own ears. Timothy chuckled, but Basho heard the nervousness in the sound. They were both nearly twenty and he’d known the bloke for eleven years. He knew what Timothy’s laugh sounded like when he was nervous. Knew how Timothy was feeling with only one word. There were only a few sounds he’d not yet heard Timothy make… Tim’s large hands cupped his shoulders, pressed him more snugly to the wall. “You’re a bit daft, aren’t ya, Bosh?” He remained hovering close, lips a mere few centimetres away. “I…I guess so.” “Well, I already told you.” Timmy’s south London accent rolled through Basho’s mind and trilled through his body like hundreds of tiny fingers massaging him. “I can’t wait any longer.” Basho blinked. The words carried through the fog of his mind. All the blood had rushed down to his cock…he couldn’t…think. “That’s what you wanted to—” Tim’s lips crushing on his ended the sentence. At first Basho had jumped, as if given an electric current, but Tim’s taller, broader form pressed him back, pinned him in surrender. The tip of the other man’s tongue pushed open his lips, demanded to go deep inside.

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Basho parted them to accept the velvety moist heat of the other man’s tongue. He’d never kissed anyone before, man or woman, and this was fucking incredible. Better than any saké or food. Tim slid his tongue along Basho’s, danced against it while his body rubbed Basho’s in a slow heated rhythm. Tim’s cock was hard like steel against his. Even through their trousers, each grind sent licks of heat through Basho’s whole lower body. Blindly he reached around with both hands and grabbed Tim’s ass cheeks, pulling him as close as he could possibly get. If he could have pulled Tim deep inside him forever he would have, to keep this incredible feeling, so it would never end…

**** Back on his futon, Basho could no longer tell the difference between the memory and reality. His hand became Tim’s mouth, after Tim had pulled away from their kiss and yanked open Basho’s trousers. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, Bosh,” he’d breathed and dropped to his knees. In the next second, Tim’s mouth had invaded his cock, tugging the plump head in with hot suction. Basho sagged back against the brick wall. His eyelids shuttered closed. Nothing had ever felt so damned good, not even the creative rush that swept through him while writing poetry matched the dark, enthralling tide of bliss that invaded his entire body. He moaned, a soft vibration with each mind-blowing tug of Timothy’s lips down his shaft. Timothy’s strong fingers clutched his hips, anchoring him in place so firmly he could barely rock his hips. An exquisite torture. This had to be what a flower felt like when a bee drank from its stem, pulling the nectar up to the top until it exploded… Basho couldn’t contain the swell. His heated gush filled Timothy’s mouth. One sensuous wave after the other shimmered down his cock. His legs felt weak. Without the wall behind him and Timothy’s fingers digging into his skin, he would have collapsed. But Timmy held him even more firmly as that beautiful, soft mouth captured every drop. Back in reality, Basho’s yang cloud coated his stomach and chest. He released his dragon and lay back, panting. Once again, he’d failed to do the White Tiger exercise correctly, to rub himself slowly, breathing deeply with each stroke as Kiku-sensei had

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instructed him. Maybe if he’d work with a partner, there’d be someone to remind him to slow down. But he didn’t want to do the exercises with someone else. No one could replace Timmy, and then again, even if he wanted a partner, who’d touch and kiss a bloke with grotesque burn scars on the side of his head and neck? Didn’t matter anyway. Kiku-sensei had told him how to practice White Tiger techniques alone. But whenever Basho thought of Timmy, he got carried away and forgot about the slow, steady, breathing thing. Bloody hell. The unexpected sting of hot tears rushed his eyes. More heat swirled in his belly and fanned through his chest. Pain, emotional grief, sudden and hard, welled up from deep inside. Before he knew what was happening, the tears leaked from his eyes, ran down the sides of his face and into his pillow. His chest heaved, his throat made guttural sounds, like an animal trapped in a cage. In the corner of his grieving mind, he realised the practice had worked. He should have known it would. The careful stimulation of his yang force had helped him regain his memory after years of amnesia and had now, finally brought him to this point. There was only one problem. Timothy. He’d never have Timmy back. Never. The thought fuelled his tears, which poured from some invisible ocean he hadn’t known he possessed. Soft light shone suddenly into his tiny room off the kitchen. But he couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t acknowledge that someone had slid back the soji screen, was approaching his futon then kneeling down. Not even when a gentle hand started caressing his brow. The tears and animal groans just kept coming, as if unlocked from a dungeon in his soul. Whoever was touching him was gentle, undemanding. Not trying to stop his crying. Just offering comfort. Which eventually did soothe him. With each caress, his sobbing passed a bit more, until he had calmed down enough to turn his head and see who was there. In the dim light, he could see hot pink spiky hair. Ryu. One of his fellow White Tigers. The light behind him outlined Ryu’s wiry form in a tank shirt and baggy pants. Ryu’s softly rounded face watched him, brow furrowed. He

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stopped his caress, resting his hand on the top of Basho’s closely shorn head. “Do you need to be alone?” he asked softly. A short time ago, Basho wouldn’t have hesitated to say yes. But something was different now. Something inside him had changed, begun to crave company again, especially Ryu’s. The man was small and gentle, in spite of the fact that he was a professional boxer covered with tattoos. Ryu was one of the only people he’d ever met who openly showed his heartache and didn’t try to hide his emotions. He would understand. “No, Ryu-chan,” he said, voice thick from crying. “I’m…glad you’re here.” The corners of Ryu’s lips turned up and he resumed his caress on Basho’s brow. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came down to the kitchen to make some tea and heard you. I was…worried.” Basho heaved a sigh. His body relaxed a bit more under the comforting touch. Sudden exhaustion seeped into his limbs. “I was practicing,” he murmured. “And I made a mess.” “Oh, I see.” Ryu’s voice held understanding. He withdrew his hand and rose. “Lie still,” he said, “I’ll get something for you.” He disappeared into the tiny bathroom and Basho heard him running the sink. Ryu came back with a bowl of warm water, a washcloth and a towel. He knelt back down and soaked the small cloth. Basho turned on the bedside lamp and took the cloth from him. “I’ll do it. Thanks, Ryuchan.” “You’re welcome.” Ryu turned away respectfully while Basho cleaned and dried himself off. When he was finished, he pulled his blanket up to his waist. “I’m done.” Ryu put the bowl and towel aside and turned back to him. “Do you want some tea?” Basho shook his head. He needed something a bit stronger. “No thanks, just your company. I am itching for a cigarette, but I don’t want the smoke to bother you.” “Don’t worry about it. Go ahead.” “You sure?” “Definitely.” “Thanks.” Reaching for his pack and lighter, he sat up, slid open the window by his bed, and lit up. He planned to quit one of these days, just not yet. After the first long drag, he blew the smoke through the window and flicked the ashes into the alleyway. The small light in his room cast a glow on the bricks of the building next door, and the bricks made him think of his memory.

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No one here at the White Tiger knew his story, except for Kiku-sensei. But the only reason Kiku knew was because of his psychic visions. Just being in the close proximity to Basho had made him see images of Basho’s experience, the horror he’d suffered. Kiku had offered to tell Basho what he saw when he was ready, but Basho didn’t want to know…that is, until the White Tiger path had led him back to his identity. In this moment, for the first time since Kiku-sensei had offered him a room and a job cooking at the White Tiger, it didn’t seem fair that no one else knew his story. He knew all the others’ sufferings. Naoto’s lover had been murdered several years ago by yakuza; Koji’s father used to whip him so hard, he still carried the scars on his body, and then the one person he’d loved his whole life, his step-mother, had died of cancer and he’d had a nervous breakdown. Ryu’s father, once a pro boxer himself, was now a big wig in a local crime family and had never bothered to have a bodyguard for Ryu. As a result, Ryu had ended up getting raped in his own bed by the main boss’s son when he was seventeen. The horror stories went on and on. “Ryu-chan, can I tell you something?” Ryu nodded. “Of course. Anything.” Basho took another drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out with a deep exhale. “I was hoping I could tell you how I got here.” Ryu’s eyes widened. “Really?” He nodded, knowing he could trust the other man with anything. “Yes, really.” Ryu bowed deeply. “I’m honoured.” When he straightened, he sat back against his heels, hands resting on the tops of his thighs. “I’m listening.”

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Chapter Two

You could turn this way I’m also lonely This autumn evening. — Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694)

“I was born here in Tokyo. But when I was ten, my father moved me and my mom to London.” Basho took a quick drag and exhaled it. He’d barely said anything personal, but after hiding for so long, revealing even the tiniest detail seemed like a matter of life or death. Ryu’s compassionate gaze urged him on. “He told us it was to open up a restaurant there, which we did, but I know the truth. I overheard him and my uncle once in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep. My dad had some dealings with a local yakuza and had made the mistake of telling the wrong people about it.” “Oh.” Ryu nodded. If anyone understood yakuza, he did. “Anyway, that’s when I met Timothy. He lived across the street from me. We became best mates.” A warm ripple of energy passed down his spine as he described his memory of sitting on his stoop, feeling lost, and Timothy coming over with a football, inviting him to play in the street with the other blokes. Even then, Basho remembered being captured at the sight of that golden hair and wide blue gaze. He went on to tell Ryu about that first night in the alleyway, the one he’d just fantasised about, leaving out, of course, the explicit details. A dreamy look slipped through Ryu’s eyes. “Wow, Basho-chan…that’s so romantic.” Basho chuckled. “I guess you’re right.” He’d never thought of a blowjob in a back alleyway as romantic, but he knew Ryu’s hunger to have a man fall as deeply in love with him as Ryu was with Kiku-sensei. The older man treated Ryu as an adored, precious son, and they had once been lovers, but Kiku had never returned Ryu’s romantic feelings. Then Basho felt the dark cloud descend as he reached the next part of the story. “We had over two years of bliss after that night,” he went on. “Well, you know, we argued at times and there was the typical worry about our families and being accepted, not being able

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to hold hands in the street. The usual crap. But, we were so happy, you know, all that stuff didn’t matter.” His chest ached, remembering how happy he was just to be at Timothy’s side. He could be worried, unhappy, tired, anything, but as soon as he saw Timmy’s face, none of it mattered. “And then, one of my cousins back here in Tokyo was getting married. My mother wanted us all to go to the wedding. I don’t think she knew about what my father had done. But I did. So when my father told me we were going, I got him alone and asked him if it was safe to go to Tokyo. He knew what I was really asking. ‘How did you know?’ Dad asked me. I saw the fear in his eyes. The humiliation. I told him about overhearing his conversation with my uncle just before we moved to London. He answered that my uncle said it was safe now, that the bad people were now either dead or had defected to another family.” Basho sighed and dragged on his cigarette until the glow was nearly at the filter. He exhaled and crushed the butt in a small dish he kept by his bed. Ryu was still listening, his gaze soft, full of understanding. “He lied to you, your uncle, didn’t he?” he asked, again showing his acute understanding of the underworld’s ways. Basho’s chest squeezed. “Yes, he did. But we didn’t know until it was too late. He had me and my parents in the car when they grabbed us. We were blindfolded and brought to some warehouse somewhere. That’s what I saw when they finally pulled the blindfold off. My father begged for my mother’s and my life, but there was to be no mercy. All threats were to be eliminated.” Ryu nodded. “I know.” Basho took a deep, calming breath. He was tempted to stop, feeling the usual stirrings of panic whenever he tried to think about the next part. But something made him push on. The newfound need to connect, perhaps. “They beat my father first then shot him, first his legs so he screamed and then, his head.” He paused and blinked as hot tears filled his eyes. His mother’s screams still rang in his head to this day. “Then my mother…after several of them raped her.” Ryu’s gaze had widened, and in the shadowy light, Basho saw that his eyes too, were moist. Rape was another thing Ryu understood firsthand. “Then it was my turn. They beat me with bats and then put me in a bag. I don’t know why they didn’t shoot me as they’d shot my parents. I felt them dump me in the trunk of a

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car and when they stopped, I felt them throw me onto the ground. The bag got wet. I smelled gas. And then the heat, the fire as the car pealed away. The flames ate away at my flesh. I felt my life ebbing away. And then something else happened. I felt something hitting me, not something sharp or hard, but something like a blanket. I lost consciousness then and when I woke up, I was in a bed.” Basho paused and lit another cigarette. When he put it to his lips, he saw the tear tracks on Ryu’s cheeks. “A woman and her daughter had heard the car and had come out to put out the fire,” he continued. “It wasn’t until I was well enough to hear what had happened that she told me she thought the men had set garbage on fire but then heard me moan from inside the bag after she’d put the fire out. She’d been a nurse in the war. The two of them nursed me back.” “They knew not to take you to the hospital, right?” Basho nodded. “She told me as much later on. She figured whoever had done this to me would have connections. If I were spotted, they’d try again to kill me. Those two women were…angels.” “Yes, they were.” Ryu wiped at his wet cheek with the heel of one hand. “I was with them for over a year,” Basho said. “The thing was, I didn’t remember who I was, my name, what had happened. Nothing. The murderers had stolen my identification, everything. I didn’t remember how I got this…” He held out his hand with the yin symbol tattooed on the top of it. “Tim and I got them one night. He has the yang half, the dark half.” Basho smiled, remembering. “Because he was the daring, outspoken, energetic one and I was the contemplative, quiet one.” Now Ryu smiled, that dreamy look slipping back into his sweet eyes. “Like two halves of one soul,” he said softly. “Hai,” Basho agreed. “Definitely like that.” He fell silent and puffed on his cigarette a bit more before going on. “The only thing I knew about myself was that I wanted men,” he said finally. “The daughter seemed to have fallen for me. But I didn’t feel the same for her. I didn’t want to mislead her and so I left. To this day I still leave money on their doorstep when they’re not at home.” Ryu’s misted eyes widened. “So that’s where you go?”

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Basho managed a weak smile. “Yes.” Otherwise he barely left the White Tiger except to buy cigarettes. “I was lucky that I wasn’t paralysed or blinded from the beating, or that the burns on my body weren’t worse than this.” Unconsciously his fingertips went to the angry red skin on the side of his neck, a scar that spread up onto his skull, behind the ear. “Just my limp, you know?” To this day, Basho remembered the feel of baseball bats crushing his hip bone. “Yeah, I know.” Ryu sounded sad. As sad as Basho felt. “That’s when I made my way to Ni Chome. I felt more at home here, on the streets, where there were other gay people, than in that cosy house, even though those women took care of me.” “That’s when Kiku found you?” Basho nodded. “Yes. But not until after I’d been living on the streets. For years I haunted the alleyways, picking food out of dumpsters, taking odd jobs here and there to get paid with a meal or a few yen. As you know, I was picking through the dumpster here and Kiku opened the back door. He invited me in for a meal.” Basho sighed. “Even in that first moment I sensed something about him, something good, and I wanted to stay.” Ryu smiled. “I remember. I liked you, too.” They were both silent a moment before Ryu spoke again. “Remember how shocked you were when he asked you to be our cook?” Basho nodded. “Definitely.” Unlike the guests who stayed here, Kiku’s psychic visions were no secret among the men who came to live at the White Tiger. That’s how Kiku-sensei had known what had happened to Basho and that Basho could cook, even though at the time, Basho didn’t remember anything and Kiku couldn’t tell him the truth of what he saw because it would have traumatised him if revealed before he was ready. When Kiku had put him to work in the kitchen, Basho’s hands had remembered the knowledge that had been beaten out of his mind. Chopping, slicing, frying. It had all come back to him, including the Japanese appreciation he’d learned of the innate, delicate flavours of food unembellished by heavy sauces or seasonings. Once an annoying task he’d done at his parents’ restaurant, cooking was now his living, his way of bringing pleasure to others. A far cry from the college professor and published poet he’d planned on becoming. Basho sighed and puffed on his cigarette. “The rest you know. Bit by bit, my memory started to come back. Here, doing the White Tiger exercises. I dreamed about the tattoo,

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started to see the other half of it. I started to remember Timothy.” He sighed. “Then I started to remember…everything.” Ryu nodded, looking solemn again. He’d been here for all of that, had been a good friend, seeing Basho through his nightmares, his trembling and screaming fits. “I tried to find Timmy through the Internet, but he’d moved. Disappeared. At first I was horrified. I thought about hiring a private detective to find him, but then I realised it was for the best.” “Because you’re trapped here.” For a second, Ryu’s lightning-fast understanding of the truth startled him. But then again, Ryu understood the underworld and its inescapable hold over the life and death of everyone who brushed against it. It didn’t take a whole lot of deduction to understand the truth. Basho nodded. “Yes. Without my passport, I couldn’t prove who I was. Which meant that someone had passed off another dead body as me.” Basho had seen the old news clips. For several days, the articles had reported him missing, but then later photos had shown a corpse with his yang tattoo on the right hand. Only a policeman on the take could have pulled that deception off, someone connected to the yakuza who would deliver the real Basho Sakai right back to his murderers if he showed up, trying to get back to the United Kingdom. “And I can’t go to my family, seeing as my own uncle handed us over to them in the first place.” Ryu nodded. The rims of his eyes were red now. “There are other reasons, though, Ryu-chan. What if my search revealed that Timothy was dead? Or involved with someone new? The condition I’m in now, I just couldn’t bear it. Besides,” Basho went on, his eyes filling again because of what he was about to say, “I’m not the same man Timothy fell in love with. I’m…damaged, frightening to look at. He might not want me now.” Ryu’s brow furrowed. “You’re still handsome,” he said. “You’re not frightening at all.” The conviction in his voice eased Basho’s ache a tiny bit and he bowed. “Thank you.” “I mean it,” Ryu went on. “Frightening is a psychopathic yak who rapes you and believes he did it out of love. Not a good man with a few scars on his head.” Ryu spoke of Taro Suzuki, the man who’d raped him. Suzuki had one of his goons hold Ryu down so he couldn’t get away. Suzuki still haunted them, coming around to use the

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hotel’s baths because Kiku owed him a debt. If Suzuki had his way, Ryu would be his slave for good and all. Kiku still hid Ryu away whenever Suzuki came around. Only now, the situation was even worse. Basho paused, unable to ignore the truth in the other man’s words. He nodded. “Yes, you’re right, Ryu-chan,” he murmured. “And if Timothy loves you, he won’t care if you have scars.” Basho let his shoulders sag. Guilt weighed as heavily as his sorrow and he didn’t let his mind even think that Timothy might still be alive and alone and missing him. He remembered back in one of his literature classes at the Uni, reading a famous novel called Catch 22 by an American writer. The whole idea was that you were screwed with either path you took. It described his situation perfectly. “It doesn’t matter anyway, Ryu-chan,” he continued. “Because I can’t leave and I can’t find him.” He scrubbed a hand over his head before sitting back and sighing, his head tilted slightly upward. Then he realised something hurtful in what he’d said and looked at Ryu again. “Ryu-chan, listen, I don’t feel trapped here, not really. I’m very fortunate to be here. You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had.” His admission was rewarded with a smile. “Thanks, Basho-chan.” Ryu wiped at his tears, which still ran down his cheeks and Basho sensed that Ryu’s empathy now mixed with his own personal heartache, the actual reason behind Ryu’s difficulty sleeping this night. Kiku, the man Ryu had pined for most of his life, had finally fallen in love. And not with Ryu. Yuzo had come recently to the White Tiger, ironically, to escape the same man who’d raped Ryu. Kiku had never allowed his heart to be captured, but for some mysterious reason, Yuzo had succeeded where all other men had failed. If it weren’t bad enough, they were all worried about what would happen when Suzuki finally figured out where Yuzo was. Suzuki wouldn’t hesitate to exact a price from Kiku, his archrival who couldn’t even use his connection to Ryu’s father as a safety valve. Naboru Miyazaki didn’t know what had happened and probably wouldn’t care. For the moment, however, Suzuki didn’t know where Yuzo was, which was here, at the White Tiger, falling in love with Kiku. And the two men’s love noises from the room next to Ryu’s had probably tormented Ryu and driven him down to the kitchen. “Hey, Ryu, would you hang out with me here for a while? I’d appreciate your company.” For a moment, he was tempted to ask Ryu if he’d like to undress and get under the covers with him. For the first time in years, his body was alive with desire, a potent thing

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combined with the loneliness he was experiencing. But Ryu’s trust was fragile and the poor guy had already been hurt so much. Ryu looked hesitant and for a moment, Basho worried he’d roused his friend’s suspicions. But his question showed that wasn’t the case. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother.” “I’m positive. I’m just going to meditate for a while. You can sit up here, if you want. It’s more comfortable.” He moved over to make room, being careful to keep his groin well covered. To his relief, Ryu nodded, rose up and settled next to him on the futon. Perhaps it was the option of not having to go upstairs and be tortured with jealousy for a while that made Ryu agree. Otherwise, he wasn’t in the habit of staying in other people’s rooms with them. To Basho’s shock, Ryu lay down on his back, resting his head on Basho’s thigh, over the covers. Looking down, Basho saw Ryu’s dark gaze staring at him. “Is this okay, Bashochan?” Basho smiled and dared to smooth back Ryu’s electric pink hair. He could understand why Kiku-sensei treated Ryu more as a son than a lover. In spite of how physically alluring Ryu was, he tended to bring out the protective fatherly instinct in those around him. “Of course.” Ryu smiled and Basho felt his friend’s wiry form relax as he stroked Ryu’s hair. Ryu yawned and in moments, the younger man had fallen asleep. Basho smiled and leaned back, feeling cleansed. With his eyes closed, he listened to the faint traffic noises of Ni Chome, mingle with the late spring air, carry through the open window. Around them, the neighbourhood teemed with bars, clubs and overnight bath joints where men could meet and have sex, but here, inside this room, it was quiet. Peaceful. Ryu’s breathing rose and fell gently, a soft sound that blended with the other night sounds. Basho listened to them, a backdrop to the feelings inside him. This was the first night in fifteen years he’d spoken to another human being about Timothy. The man would be thirty-seven now, like himself. Strangely, he felt so old, considering the lads they’d been back then. He’d heard an expression once…something about time healing wounds. But he was finding how untrue those words were. Time didn’t make him miss Timmy or think about him less. Not at all. Truthfully, his ache for the man

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grew more intense every day, a yearning he’d thought himself incapable of after the shock of the beating he’d received and the near burning-alive. And yet, he didn’t want to not hurt. He didn’t want to go back into the cave of numbness that had helped him survive for so long. In spite of all the bitterness, his life had also given him great sweetness. How many people got to find their soul mate, the way he and Tim had? How many people lived in a beautiful place like he did, surrounded by loyal, strong and caring friends like Ryu and Kiku-sensei? Strange how he could feel so much gratitude and good fortune and yet feel this deep, sad longing at the same time. Basho sighed and glanced down at Ryu. His friend’s dark eyelashes rested against his cheeks and his nostrils—one of them pierced with a small gold ring—flared gently with his breathing. The sight inspired Basho to caress Ryu’s hair gently some more, careful not to wake him. He couldn’t help it. The human contact felt too good after all this time to stop. “I’m sorry, Timmy,” he whispered out loud. All he could do was pray that the man he still loved was well and happy. Even if it meant Tim had found someone new. At least Basho had good friends. He wasn’t alone. Not completely.

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Chapter Three

Not this human sadness, Cuckoo, But your solitary cry. — Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694) One month later… Tim stared at the bloodstained hand hanging outside the sheet. The yin symbol on Basho’s unmoving hand stared back at him. A man appeared wearing a white coat, his face blank, no features, no expression. He reached out to pull back the sheet. No! Timothy screamed and lunged forward to stop him. But he couldn’t reach the white-coated figure. Nor could he tear his gaze away from the sheet. The man pulled it back, revealing a body, the face charred beyond recognition, black and grisly. No! Tim screamed, over and over until his throat was raw. “Sir, are you all right? Sir?” Tim opened his eyes. The pressure of hands on his shoulders pushed him gently back. “No…” he yelled, about to swear at the white-coated man. The expletive died on his lips as the scene around him came into view. He stopped struggling and sagged against the backrest of his seat. A young woman, pretty, with almond-shaped eyes, her black hair pulled back off her face, watched him, her brow furrowed. She wore a blouse and skirt and was bent close to him. His awareness grew. Other faces were turned to him, looking concerned. Only then did he become fully aware of his surroundings. He was on a plane to Tokyo. In the background, the motors vibrated and hummed loudly. The woman was the flight attendant. And he’d just had one of his nightmares in the midst of a jumbo jet full of people. Bloody hell. “Sir, are you all right?” the flight attendant repeated.

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Heaving a deep sigh, he nodded. The ghastly image of his nightmare spiralled through his mind, diving back down to its dark place in his consciousness where it would wait for him to fall asleep again. “Yes, I’m fine. Sorry about that.” The flight hostess smiled and lifted her hands away. She remained bent over. “Would you like something to drink?” The sudden craving for a whiskey straight up gripped him. Tim stiffened. No. No more of that. Basho’s death had shattered his life and drinking had only destroyed what was left of it. He’d finally reached a whole year sober this month and refused to break it now. “Coffee, please.” “Right away, sir.” She bowed and hurried off. Most of the other passengers had turned back around. No one occupied the other two seats in his row, so there was no one immediately close by to apologise to. Aside from that, things appeared back to normal. Normal. That word was some kind of bad joke. As if he even knew what it meant. Life had never gone back to normal. Fifteen years later, he felt as haunted as he had that afternoon, when his mother had handed him the newspaper. Tim scrubbed a hand through his hair and over his jaw, in need of a shave. According to the growth of stubble, he’d been asleep most of the night and the flight would land within the next couple of hours. He put the tray down in front of him and gratefully accepted the coffee the attendant set down. Busying himself with the simple act of opening the sugar packets and tiny tubs of cream helped him bring his mind into the present with his body. He stirred and took a careful sip. The hot liquid slipped down his throat in a soothing way. He closed his eyes as the stuff seemed to infuse his veins. Yes, caffeine was a mood altering substance, but he could drink coffee and not experience blackouts. He could have a couple of cups and not wake up naked on some doorstep without remembering how he’d gotten there. Quietly he sat, sipping and staring at the fuzzy seat upholstery ahead of him, unable to read or listen to music, anything to erase the image of the charred body and the lifeless, dangling hand with the yin symbol. The photo from the newspaper article fifteen years ago had burned itself into his brain, so deeply, there wasn’t a night that went by it didn’t haunt his sleep. Basho had been the other half of his soul.

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He was the reason Tim was on this bloody long flight to Tokyo. ‘Have you considered going to Japan?’ Ron, his therapist of the past two years had asked him one day after Tim had berated himself for the millionth time for not being able to move on. ‘I personally don’t see why you need to ‘get over him’,’ Ron had said, quoting Tim’s own words. ‘You still love him. Nothing wrong with that. But maybe if you…visited the place he died, it would help you. As long as funds aren’t a problem, perhaps it would help you put certain memories to rest.’ No, funds were certainly not a problem. The unexpected series of detective novels that had poured from him in the last few years had unexpectedly taken off. Apparently, the reading world was hungry for his murder mystery series featuring Russell Eaton whose quest to solve murders was underscored by his grief over his lover who’d been brutally murdered years before. Tim had gone straight to a travel agency and started making the arrangements to leave. He’d even found an incredible hotel to stay in, right in the heart of Tokyo’s gay quarter. The advantage of being an author, he had no boss to answer to. And in his case, no lover. The few he’d had in the last decade had shied away after seeing a photograph of Basho and realising first, their physical resemblance to the dead man, and then suffering the constant undercurrent of having to measure up to a ghost and failing. I pray I’m doing the right thing. Tim could only hope this journey would at least put the nightmares to rest and not make them worse. A night’s sleep without being assaulted by grisly images of Basho’s charred corpse would be a welcome change. He only wanted to remember the good things. Those, thankfully, he could think about now without feeling crazy. The benefits of having gotten his feet back under him through writing and staying sober. For the longest time, he couldn’t even remember Basho’s smile without needing to drown the pain. Now he wanted to remember Basho’s smile, the sculpted fullness of his soft lips and the way his dark eyes lit up, especially whenever he saw Tim. He also wanted to remember his lover’s smooth golden skin, the way it hugged his lanky muscles. There’d been nothing about Basho that wasn’t beautiful. The curve of his neck, the sleekness of his hair, which he’d always worn on the longish side, long enough to make waves around his angular face and long enough in back to curl around his collar. Tim had spent plenty of time raking his fingers through it.

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Tim had even loved Basho’s voice, smooth and even. A tenor, really. Not too deep or too high, just smooth as he read the poetry he’d written out loud. The man had written incredible poetry in all forms, but he’d been especially good at haiku, which was why Tim had nicknamed him Basho after the great haiku poet of centuries ago. The name had just seemed to fit his best mate better than Junichi. He’d often wondered what Basho would look like now, if he’d lived. How would the youth of twenty-two have matured into a man of thirty-seven? He thought about his own looks. Basho had thought him a golden-haired angel-devil sort of man. But Timothy knew his blue eyes didn’t shine the way they once had at Basho and the rugged athletic physique Basho had loved to run his hands over, though still fit, was not quite as vigorous as that. Draining the last sip of coffee, Tim set the cup down and closed his eyes. As it had many times before, his favourite memory surfaced, the one that came to mind when he was able to relax. The night he and Basho had lost their virginity to each other. The day had started out like any other. Tim had expected he and Basho would go on as usual, lusting after each other silently with those looks they caught each one giving the other yet remaining too repressed and shy to do something about it. And then that morning, Tim had stepped off the curb on his way to class, his mind filled with his usual unfulfilled fantasies of Basho, and had almost been topped by a double decker. Completely shaken, he’d had to go sit in the nearby park to catch his breath and come to terms with his mortality. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, his one thought had been about not having expressed his feelings to Basho. What if the bus had hit him? He’d have died without Basho’s ever knowing how in love with him he was and without even ever having kissed him. That night, he’d cornered Basho in the alleyway behind Basho’s family’s restaurant after closing. He’d really just intended to tell him how he felt and kiss him, but that first touch of their lips had turned his blood icy hot. His mind and body had soared, especially at the way Basho had melted beneath him, completely surrendered, without one second’s hesitation. Suddenly, Tim had wanted more. Everything. Back in his narrow airplane seat, Tim’s groin tightened. The tingle of arousal started in his balls and intensified so quickly he had to shift around to ease the swelling. Good thing his tray table was down and he had one of those small airline blankets over his front. He needed the cover.

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Basho’s soft groans echoed through Tim’s mind. He closed his eyes again and gave in to the images, the ghostly scent of Basho’s musk, the first taste of his cock, the slide of it against his tongue and the creamy texture of his cum as Tim had drunk it down. He’d kept his hands on Basho’s slim hips as Basho sagged against the wall, panting. Unable to rise from his knees, Tim stared up at him, fascinated by the way Basho’s soft lips moved with his heavy breathing. Arousal thundered through his own body, swelled his cock past the point of pain, but he still hesitated, needed to make sure Basho wouldn’t freak out and run away. “Was that okay, Bosh?” Carefully he lifted up to his feet and looked Basho in the eyes. The wide-eyed look of passionate wonder he got in return melted him to his toes. Without Basho’s saying a word, Tim felt something pass between them, into each other, entwining them deep inside. In that moment, he was a complete goner. Somehow he understood that the rest of his life had been decided and that he’d been given the one thing that all the songs and poems were about. “Yeah,” Basho breathed finally. “It was…” Tim waited, holding his breath while his erection throbbed, wanting only to be buried deep inside Basho, as if that could complete the soul fusion that was happening now. Basho stepped away from the wall and leaned into him. Tim saw the other man’s dark gaze fall to his lips and the icy fire in his veins surged again just as Basho kissed him, tentatively at first, as if Tim hadn’t meant everything that had just happened and would pull away…and then more firmly, tongue seeking his in a hot moist dance. The kiss heated into chafing passion, and Tim pressed into Basho again, rocked his hips against the slimmer man whose pants were still open, his cock still exposed. As if hit with an electric current, Basho pulled away and looked at him, lids heavy. His eyelashes were like calligraphy brushes, thick, soft, alluring. “What do I do, Timmy? Tell me.” Now was their chance. With one word, he and Bosh could do all the things Tim had fantasised about for the longest time. His heart pounded but he was soaring, elated. “Come with me,” he whispered. “My mum and dad are over in Liverpool visiting my aunt.” He picked up Basho’s hand and tugged. “We’ll have the place to ourselves for days.” Wordlessly, Basho nodded. He quickly did up his pants and let Tim lead him from the alleyway. “Give me one sec,” Basho said. “Just to tell my parents where I’m going.”

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“Okay.” Tim knew about what Basho’s father had done and why Bosh was so careful about telling his parents where he was. He followed Basho like a love-starved puppy, not wanting the slimmer man out of his sight for a moment. Ever. Ten minutes later in his parents’ flat. Tim led Basho to his room and immediately pulled Basho against him. With his blood singing through his veins, he leaned in and kissed Bosh again. Those lips were so damn soft, he couldn’t believe it. He licked eagerly across the man’s velvety tongue, tasting the flavours that were Basho. Ginger, soy sauce, even the faint nutty trace of rice. Basho’s hand closed around his upper arm and Tim felt the tremor in his touch. Instinctively, he pulled back and looked into Bosh’s eyes. They were large and dark and simmering. He could spend forever staring into that gaze. Well, after they came. “Something the matter?” he murmured. A shy look flitted through Bosh’s gaze. “I feel grimy and sweaty.” Tim didn’t care. He was ready to run his tongue over every inch of the bloke, especially his ass, his balls, over that delicious cock some more. And hoped Bosh would do the same to him. Then again, he’d showered, himself, earlier, before coming to the restaurant. He was already clean. He picked up Bosh’s hand. “Come on then.” He led Basho to the small bathroom and turned the shower on for him. When he turned around, Basho had already stripped off his T-shirt and was toeing out of his sneakers, hands on the buckle of his belt. Tim froze and stared. He’d seen Bosh shirtless enough times, playing football in the summer heat, but this? Completely different. The chiselled slopes of Basho’s lanky muscle and chocolate brown flat nipples a few inches away took on new meaning. When Basho’s gaze met his, Tim saw the man’s cheeks colour. “Okay if I watch?” Basho gave him that shy smile of his. “All right.” Tim’s toes curled right there into the bathroom rug as he raked his gaze down the centre of Bosh’s taut stomach. Basho hesitated a second, hands on the waist of his trousers. His cheeks blushed again but then he pushed his trousers and shorts past his hips so that Tim could continue his perusal over the delicious trail of dark hair descending from below Bosh’s navel into his generous thatch of pubic hair.

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There was just no comparison. The real thing was a hell of a lot better than the images on the videos and magazines he’d been trying to satisfy himself with. Hopefully, those items could now remain stuffed under his bed where he’d stashed them. With a glance up at Bosh’s face, he grinned and helped the guy off with the trousers so he could lean in and run the palms of his hands over Bosh’s perfect, hard, round ass. That skin was so smooth, so… For the second time that night Tim dropped to his knees in front of Basho, as if in worship of him. Closing his eyes, he leaned forward and nuzzled the hard, flat expanse of skin under Bosh’s navel. The thin trail of fuzz there was soft against his lips and Basho’s musky scent weakened him. The slim man’s cock rubbed his cheek. Bosh pulled in a quick tight breath and Tim felt his friend’s…no, his lover’s…fingers curl into his hair. This was so strange. He’d thought for the longest time that once he got Bosh alone, he’d jump on him, ravage him with all his pent up lust. And yet, here he was, kneeling before him, just breathing in his scent and stroking the hard sloping muscles of Bosh’s arse and thighs. This tender worship wasn’t what he’d seen in the loops—guys sucking, fucking, and grunting as they pounded each other into spewing cum—although Tim sure as hell wasn’t against that. He slid the fingertips of one hand back up Bosh’s thigh and explored the plump round sac of his balls. Mmm, the skin was crinkly in spots and smooth in others. Basho groaned more at the slide of his fingertips over the round swells. Bosh sucked in another breath and his cock surged, tapping Tim’s cheek as if demanding him to touch it again, to lick away the clear droplet that oozed from the tiny opening. Tim gathered the moisture with a fingertip and licked it off. Salty-sweet, like Bosh’s whole cock had been. Tim’s stomach fluttered as the bathroom filled with steam. He opened his eyes, reminded by the moist heat of the shower. Rising up, he gazed into Bosh’s now velvety eyes. And realised then that neither of them really knew what to do. Looking at photographs and videos was not the same. The blokes in them were so casual, pounding each other as if nothing mattered but getting off and then moving on to their next conquest. If a guy was a virgin, the conquest was extra erotic. Extra…studly.

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But not…special. Not sweet. No one made a big deal of the first time. Not for guys. And yet, to him, it was a really big deal. “Bosh, this matters the world to me,” he murmured, just above the thundering sound of water. Basho smiled at him. “To me too.” He nodded in the direction of the shower, his eyes shy yet hungry. “Come in with me?” Tim’s insides jumped. It wasn’t what he’d planned, but hell, naked and wet with Basho… He grinned, stripped off his clothes and reached for Bosh’s hand again. Under the hot spray, Tim tugged Bosh against him and kissed him again. Just like before, Bosh melted against him, wet skin fused like they were one body by the flow of water. Tim slipped a hand into Bosh’s dampening hair, curled his fingers into it. So smooth and sleek, yielding to his raking fingertips the same way the slimmer man yielded to his lips. His other hand slid across Bosh’s wet back. Warm slick skin and hard muscle met the pads of his fingers. Bosh rubbed against him and a jolt of heat shot through Tim’s groin. The sensation made Tim hungrier, more feral, especially when he felt Bosh’s hands kneading his ass cheeks. He pulled away from their kiss, panting. Bosh’s eyes seemed to glitter with the same wildness he felt. “Bosh, I want to put it in so bad. Can I?” Bosh’s chest was heaving and his lids half-covered his eyes. His lips, swollen from wild chafing kisses moved with heavy breaths. “Yeah,” he breathed and turned around. Without thinking, Tim slipped several soapy fingertips into that inviting crevice. Basho’s ass was smooth, hard, perfect, and Tim’s thumb brushed across one delicious globe as the other fingers sought the hidden opening. His fingertips landed on the tiny puckered spot. Basho groaned and leaned back against him. Tim’s heart pounded now. After years and months of jerking off while imagining this moment, it was actually happening and he wanted it to be perfect for both of them. He pushed a bit, but Basho’s entrance was tight. Shit. Tim had gotten lube, but it was back in the bedroom and he didn’t want to stop what they were doing for a second. Then he remembered something. His mum’s bath beads. Her only luxury item she kept in a fancy bowl on the tank of the loo. She wouldn’t miss one, as long as he didn’t melt the lot of them like he’d once done as a babe playing in the tub.

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Reaching around the shower curtain, he plucked one of the pink balls from the dish and squeezed. The tiny sphere melted a bit between his fingertips then burst. Perfect. Tim let the shell drop to the floor of the tub where it would melt and smeared the rose-scented oil over Bosh’s hole. Bosh groaned and sagged, palms bracing his weight on the tiled wall. Tim let out a breath of relief that Bosh was enjoying the probe of his fingertip. He pushed in. Bosh groaned again. “I’m not hurting you, am I?” Bosh looked over his shoulder and shook his head. “No. It’s…incredible.” Tim grinned. So far, this was even better than he’d imagined. Exerting more pressure, he pushed until his entire finger went in. He pushed it in and out, stretching Bosh open, preparing him while the other man moaned and panted with each inward and outward slide of Tim’s finger. Damn, it felt so good, just to have some part of him inside Bosh, even if it was just one index finger. Remembering some of the things he’d read in his hidden away book on gay sex, he searched for that soft spot, the prostate. The magic spot the book had called it. “Oh!” Bosh jumped against his hand, practically knocking Tim backward. “Wow!” Tim’s grin widened. Guess he’d found it. He rubbed back and forth, enjoying the result of Bosh’s heavy panting and pushing back against his hand in what seemed a pleading way. But Bosh was still pretty tight and Tim didn’t want to hurt him. He spent more time playing and pushing, stretching Bosh’s opening with more fingers and sliding in and out until Bosh looked over his shoulder again, eyes hungrier than Tim had ever seen them. “Please, Timmy.” Droplets of water ran down the planes of Bosh’s cheeks and over his lips. His hair, plastered into shiny ebony peaks, framed his face. He was more beautiful than any painting Tim could imagine in all the museums in the world. Obediently, Tim pulled his hand away and reached for another bath bead. Squeezing as hard as he could, the oil burst all over his hand which he immediately smoothed the length of his cock. Bosh was still gazing at him over his shoulder when Tim pushed at his ass with his oiled cock. Bosh’s lips parted in an ‘o’ and his body jumped again as the head slipped in.

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Tim grasped Bosh’s slim hips. Pleasure tingled through the head of his cock and he had to restrain himself from ramming in all the way. “That all right, Bosh?” he breathed. Bosh’s eyes were practically closed but he nodded and turned back around before pushing his ass out more. The movement made Tim slide in deeper. He sucked in a breath and pressed his fingertips deeper into Bosh’s hips. Looking down, he watched his shaft, reddish and veined, sink between Bosh’s golden ass cheeks. The tight suction took his breath away and heat tingled through his whole body. The shower spray pounded on his back while bliss invaded his front. All he could do was stare down and watch his cock slide in and out of Bosh’s ass. His and Bosh’s moans blended with the thundering sound of water and Tim squeezed his eyes shut as his body took over. He wanted to slow down and make it last, but he was powerless, truly powerless in the grip of ecstasy. The pressure tightened and built until it exploded, an orgasmic wave which he rode until he’d emptied himself into Bosh and collapsed against the other man’s back, panting. Reaching around, he started to stroke Bosh’s cock, but a hand stopped him. “It’s all right. No need,” he heard Bosh murmur over the spray of water. Tim pulled back, sliding out of the warm haven of Bosh’s tight passage so he could turn Bosh around in his arms. “Why?” Just like before, in the alleyway, he studied Bosh’s face. Nothing in the world was more important than how Bosh felt. “Don’t you want me to?” His heart beat quickly though not from exertion now. To his relief, a smile curved Bosh’s velvety lips. “In a bit. I already came.” His hands slid around Tim’s waist, pulling him close. After that, they’d quickly soaped up, rinsed off and gotten out of the shower, barely taking the time to towel dry before padding into Tim’s room and climbing under the covers where they stayed for hours. They’d kissed, stroked, licked, sucked every inch of each other they could and fucked until they were both limping sore and bowlegged. Tim’s mum had left the fridge stocked for him while she was gone and so he and Bosh had left the bed long enough to forage and stuff themselves, naked in the kitchen before going back to bed for some more. That time had been absolute heaven.

****

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Tim shifted in his seat, his erection painfully tight now. But there was nothing he could do about it. If he walked down the aisle to the lavatory, everyone on the plane would see the boner tenting his slacks. If he tried to stroke himself off here in his seat, he’d have the problem of what to do with the emission. All he could do was sit tight and wait for it to go down enough so that he could gather his shaving kit, head for the lavatories in the back of the jet and take care of himself. A while later, after brushing his teeth and hair and having a shave, he patted some cologne onto his cheeks and returned to his seat where he drifted in and out of a light sleep until the flight attendant announced their descent into Tokyo’s Narita airport. At the announcement, Tim’s gut began to tighten, along with his grip on the armrests. In just a short while, he’d be in Tokyo. The place where Basho had died. Tim retrieved his baggage, went through customs and out to the front curb. The website of the hotel he’d found provided a printout in Japanese of the name and address so he could just hand it to a cab driver. That was one of the things that had drawn Tim to the White Tiger. The organisation and class of the place. Well, that and the prospect of a massage from a gorgeous male attendant. After his hard-on in the plane seat, the prospect of having one of these professionals give him more than a massage sounded incredible. At the taxi stand, Tim slid into the backseat of the next available taxi and handed the paper to the driver who nodded and set the paper on the seat next to him in order to drive. Sighing, Tim sat back and watched through the window. He wanted to be excited about a new city, somewhere he’d never been before, even on his recent book tours. But he couldn’t. Not right now. Perhaps after he’d found Basho’s grave and said good-bye to him the way he should have years earlier, he’d be able to explore the place the man he still loved had come from. But not yet. Tokyo was still just the place where Bosh had died.

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Chapter Four

A calm moon— Walking home the gay boy Frightened by the howling of foxes — Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694)

The White Tiger had no sign in front, just a pair of glass doors etched with leaping White Tigers. Otherwise, the building, on the corner of a busy city block lined with bars, appeared nondescript, just another example of traditional Japanese architecture with opaque panel windows and those traditional Japanese lanterns and hangings along the front entryway. Tim was just reaching out for the door when it opened. A young man appeared, smiling and Timothy had to blink a few times. Was he just tired from flying or did this bloke have hot pink spiky hair and tattoos just about everywhere Tim could see flesh? “Mr. Banks?” Tim’s heart jumped. In all the years he’d been using his pseudonym, he’d never completely gotten used to it. “Yes, that’s me.” The pink-haired bloke bowed. “Welcome to the White Tiger. I’m Ryu. Please, come in.” The greeting sounded genuinely warm and Tim smiled at Ryu as he passed. “Thank you.” Another man stood in the hallway and bowed when their gazes met. This bloke was broad and muscular with long hair, reaching to the middle of his back. Both men wore white vests, bare-chested underneath, and white shorts which showed off their muscular legs. Both could have easily posed for a men’s underwear magazine. “Welcome, Mr. Banks,” the brawny guy said. “I’m Naoto.” Another warm greeting. Tim smiled at him. “Nice to meet you.”

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“I’ll take your shoes,” Ryu said. He materialised at Tim’s side holding a pair of slippers with tigers emblazoned on the tops. “Here, these will be more comfortable.” Kneeling down, Ryu set the slippers before him and picked up Tim’s shoes as he stepped out of them. “Thank you, Ryu,” he said. Ryu looked up from his kneeling position, his eyes unusually wide, as if he’d seen something that shocked him. For a second, Tim wondered if he’d gotten spinach or something nasty stuck between his teeth. “Everything all right?” he asked. Ryu blinked as if given a mild electric current. “Yes, sir,” he murmured, then rose, just as Naoto came forward. But Ryu stepped in front of the larger man, seeming to block his way.

“I’ll show you to your room, Mr. Banks,” Ryu said, glad he’d been practicing his English a lot, as Kiku wanted all the White Tigers to know the language if they didn’t already. He was going to need it. Behind him, Naoto’s confusion was palpable and Ryu pressed a hand to Naoto’s to stop him from coming forward. Before Naoto could move again, Ryu eased the suitcase from the blond man’s grip, staring down at the yang symbol on his hand. He’d seen it the second he’d knelt down with the slippers. This had to be Timothy even though his name was Tom Banks. If he was as broken up about Basho as Basho was about him, maybe he’d changed his name in the attempt to erase all the pain of the past. “Ryu-chan, is something the matter?” he heard Naoto ask behind him in Japanese. Ryu turned to find Naoto looking at him, understandably puzzled. Showing guests to their rooms wasn’t one of the functions Ryu served. Ryu’s heart pounded wildly but he gave Naoto a courteous bow, for the sake of show. “Hai,” he answered, praying that the Englishman didn’t speak Japanese, “This guest might be someone very important to our friend in the kitchen. I must find out.” He winked and quickly turned back to ‘Mr. Banks’. “Follow me, please.” Naoto’s confusion filled the air like a cloud but thankfully he said nothing as Ryu led the blond man past him, towards the elevator. He pressed the button and smiled. In the elevator, Ryu checked out the man who’d been Basho’s great love as surreptitiously as he could. He didn’t usually go for Western men but he had to admit that

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this Timothy was incredibly handsome. His blond hair, cut short around the sides and a tiny bit longer on top, was a beautiful golden colour except for darker streaks by the roots. His large eyes were very blue and genial, though also troubled. He was tall, a good four inches at least above Ryu, with broad shoulders and looked pretty strong although there was something in the reserved way he stood that gave Ryu the feeling of someone who’d been torn apart and put back together in some way. Ryu’s stomach clenched as he cast about for a way to find out if this man was Timothy, and if so, would he want to see Basho again after all this time? At least he was here alone. Ryu cleared his throat just as the elevator doors opened on their floor. He picked up the suitcase and gestured for his guest to precede him. “How long will you be staying with us, Mr. Banks?” he asked. If the man had been Japanese, he wouldn’t have asked any personal questions until they were in the baths where it was appropriate, but Kiku said Westerners appreciated small talk, that it made them feel as if they were being brought into a warm and welcoming place. “I’m not sure really, Ryu. It depends.” Sadness tinged Timothy’s voice on that last word. “I see.” Ryu itched to ask him what the length of his stay depended on, but that would go past the point of small talk into nosiness. Reaching the guest’s room, Ryu slid open the soji screen and gestured again. “Here’s your room, Mr. Banks. Please.” He smiled and waited until Timothy had walked in before following him and setting his suitcase on a rack. From the corner of his eye, he watched Timothy take in his surroundings as he slipped off his jacket. “Here, allow me.” Ryu took the jacket from him and hung it up as Timothy continued to look at the black lacquer furniture, potted plants and erotic male drawings framed on the walls. Kiku had made his illegal gambling parlour into a beautiful, restful inn. Quickly Ryu showed his guest the small bathroom and pointed out the call button next to the bed, as well as the amenities provided in the bedside table, including scented massage oil. “This place is beautiful,” Timothy said, lowering himself onto the futon. Kiku kept the futons on platforms so they’d be more like Western beds, to accommodate the Europeans and Americans who came here. Ryu bowed and knelt down, noticing that Timothy spoke with the same kind of accent Basho did when he spoke English. This had to be the right guy and Ryu had to find a way to

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get more information. “Thank you,” he murmured. “We’re…fortunate you chose the White Tiger for your stay.” Then he remembered. The saké. They delivered a welcoming decanter to every guest upon arrival to help them relax. Perhaps a cup or two of that would loosen Timothy’s tongue and he wouldn’t notice if Ryu was asking nosy questions. He bowed again. “I will go get your saké,” he said, working not to let his voice tremble. “We always bring some to a new guest.” But Timothy put out a hand. “No…thank you. I…can’t drink.” Shimatta! Ryu clenched his jaw. He had to think fast. “How about some tea instead?” It wasn’t liquor, but it was relaxing at least. Timothy nodded. “That would be great, thank you, Ryu.” His hands went to the buttons on his shirt and undid the top one. “I’ll take a shower and shave while you do that, if it’s all right.” “Of course, Mr. Banks.” Ryu’s gaze went to the yang symbol tattooed on the other man’s hand. “Do you need any assistance?” He didn’t want to help the man undress but couldn’t risk appearing in a rush to leave, either. To his relief, the blond man shook his head. “No, thank you, Ryu.” Relieved, Ryu bowed again and retreated. Basho wasn’t in the kitchen when he went in. Ryu scanned the long room. Everything was clean, quiet and in order, as Basho always left it after the midday meal, so Ryu padded quietly towards the hallway where Basho’s room was. Peeking around the doorway, he saw the soji screen to Basho’s room open a few inches and heard the sound of Basho’s shower. In spite of his anxiety, Ryu grinned. Funny how Basho and Timothy were in sync without even knowing it. If the man upstairs was, indeed, Timothy. Ryu went back into the kitchen and started preparing tea. He put water up to boil and arranged some pastries on a plate. “Ryu-chan, what’s going on?” Naoto came up beside him just as he was measuring tea leaves for the hot water in the teapot. Ryu shot a glance towards Basho’s room and put a finger to his lips. “Don’t let Basho hear you, okay?” Naoto’s brow furrowed but he nodded. “All right.” Ryu turned to him. “Did you see the tattoo on the English guy’s hand?”

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Naoto shook his head of long ebony hair. “No. You rushed him off before I had a chance.” “Sorry.” Ryu grinned. “Anyway…” He moved a bit closer to Naoto so he could lower his voice. “He has a yang symbol tattooed on his hand. Who do you know with a yin tattoo on his hand?” Understanding slipped into Naoto’s eyes. “Ah! It always seemed unusual to me that Basho would have only a half of the yin yang. But…he’s never mentioned…you know…someone from the past.” “Exactly. Basho told me his story a few weeks ago.” Ryu touched the side of his neck, indicating Basho’s scars. “I know how it all happened. The scars. The limp. The tattoo. A tragedy.” Naoto nodded, his expression sympathetic. “I can imagine.” Ryu looked down at the tea. “But maybe it can end well after all. They never stopped missing each other. At least, I know that Basho still misses him.” Without thinking, he reached up and grasped Naoto’s brawny shoulder. “Please trust me?” “Of course, Ryu-chan.” Ryu threw a look over his shoulder. He couldn’t hear the water now. Basho was probably finishing up. He had to hurry. “Basho’s in the shower right now but can you please make sure he doesn’t leave?” The other man smiled. “Done.” A relieved breath escaped him, making him aware of his own tension. “Great. Thank you so much.” He finished preparing the tea and put everything on a tray, which he carried out with a parting look to Naoto. Naoto winked and stationed himself at the opening to the hallway. Back upstairs, Ryu knocked on the edge of the soji screen. “Mr. Banks, it’s Ryu.” “Come in,” he heard Timothy say. Swallowing hard, Ryu manoeuvred the screen open, set the tray down just inside and closed the screen behind him. Timothy stood near the futon, wearing a hotel kimono, rubbing his hair with a towel. Ryu gave him a courteous smile and set the tray on the low table in the seating area where he knelt down and went about pouring tea into a small cup. He moved slowly and deliberately, not only because he’d been trained to work with careful attention but also to buy some time.

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“Thank you, Ryu.” Timothy came over and sat down, setting his towel aside. “You’re welcome.” Ryu offered the cup of tea with both hands then sat back as his guest accepted it and took a careful sip. “Ah, that’s good.” Timothy sat back and heaved a deep breath. “It’s a bloody long trip over here from London.” He rested the cup on his lap. Ryu watched the steam curl into the air, thankful that Timothy seemed sociable and not inclined to have him leave. “I hope you find your room comfortable,” he said softly. “It’s very comfortable. And beautiful. Whoever decorated this place has exquisite taste.” “That’s Kikuchiya,” Ryu said. “The owner. He did it.” Timothy nodded and lifted his cup to his lips. “My compliments.” “I’ll be sure to tell him you said so.” Think, Ryu, think. Ryu sat back on his heels. Then an idea hit him. “If you need any assistance, don’t hesitate to ask. I don’t only mean here, at the hotel. We can advise you about where to go in Tokyo and advise you about getting around. Things like that.” Timothy had taken another sip of tea and sat up straighter. “Actually, that would be great. I will need help.” A shadow seemed to pass over the blond man’s face. “I need to find a grave. A friend of mine many years ago was killed.” He looked down. “It’s taken me a bloody long time to get here and say a proper good-bye. I don’t speak Japanese.” He sighed, sipped his tea and set the empty cup on the table. Ryu’s heart thumped. He’d gotten the opening he needed. Now he needed to handle it correctly. He leaned forward, lifted the teapot and refilled Timothy’s cup. “What is your friend’s name?” he asked although he already knew. “Well, his real name was Junichi. Junichi Sakai.” A wistful smile curved Timothy’s lips. “But I nicknamed him Basho because he wrote beautiful poetry.” Ryu fought to keep his breath normal. If there’d been the tiniest doubt this man was Timothy, it was gone now. “Basho’s father and uncle had dealings with yakuza,” he said softly, “and Basho’s father informed on them. Which was why they’d moved to London a long time ago.” Timothy’s blue eyes flew wide open. “You knew him?” He nodded. “Yes. It was—” “How? How did you know him?”

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Ryu’s heart lurched. “Gay Tokyo is very small. People meet. They talk to each other. I heard many details.” It wasn’t exactly true. Ni Chome was populous and cliquish in places, but he doubted Timothy would know that. “You know details about Basho? Please, would you…tell me?” Timothy was leaning far forward in his seat now, blue eyes large, his tea obviously forgotten though he still held the cup. “I don’t know anything beyond that they were here for a family wedding and then…” He looked down. Ryu bowed. “Of course I’ll tell you all that I know.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “It was dangerous for him and his parents here in Tokyo but his uncle lied to them and told them it was safe to come back. He lured them here and then turned them over to the yakuza.” Timothy set down the teacup and Ryu saw the man’s hand trembling. “I didn’t know it was a lie.” His voice trembled now as well and his skin paled. Ryu took a deep breath. Time to continue. “This part is very disturbing. Do you still wish to hear it?” Timothy nodded. “Yes. I must know everything. Please.” “The yakuza shot his father to death. They forced Basho to watch his mother raped and then shot. After that, they beat Basho, put him in a bag which they dumped on a street somewhere and set on fire.” Now Timothy’s blue eyes filled. “My poor Basho.” He swallowed so hard, Ryu saw the muscles move in his throat. “I saw the photographs of the body,” Timothy said almost in a whisper. “In the papers. I’ve never forgotten them.” My poor Basho. The passion and affection in the blond man’s voice made a pang in Ryu’s chest. He cleared his throat. “It didn’t quite happen that way.” Timothy’s gaze shot to his. “What do you mean?” “I mean…a woman heard the car peal away and ran out into the street. She saw the fire and put it out, thinking it was a bag of garbage. Then she heard a man groan inside the bag and found Basho.” “Alive?” He nodded, heart pounding. “Yes. He was near death and badly burned but she took care of him for a long time, until he was well.”

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Timothy was at the edge of his seat, hands balled on his lap. “Are you telling me Basho is…alive?” Ryu lowered his gaze. “Yes…Timothy-san.”

Tim’s blood ran cold and he fought for breath against the sudden severe tightening in his chest. “How the hell do you know my real name? Is this some kind of joke? Because if it is, I’ll—” “No! I promise, it’s not a joke.” The pink-haired man bowed, so low, Tim swore his nose touched the red wood floor. When he straightened, his dark eyes were wide, with an unusually innocent look. “Basho had amnesia for years from the beating and wandered the streets, homeless, until he ended up in Ni Chome. For a very long time he didn’t know who he was. The yaks had stolen all his papers, his passport. Everything.” Ryu spoke in a tumble then, as if cramming a lifetime of happenings into a few seconds. Tim heard every word. Corrupt cops. Betrayal. Switching bodies so that the picture in the paper was some stranger given Basho’s identity. Basho was alive. Trapped here in Tokyo all this time, unable to leave. Tim looked hard at Ryu, remembering the man’s earlier words about gay Tokyo and how people meet and talk. “Who really told you all this?” Ryu bowed his head of pink spiky hair. “Basho. He’s…here. Downstairs. He’s our cook. It’s here he got his memory back. He told me all about you and him. He tried to find you and couldn’t. But then, he became afraid, that even if he did find you, he couldn’t come to you without the risk of being murdered. He was worried you might have found someone new and were happy and that he would hurt you. He also hides because of his scars. And the limp. The fire left him with scars on his head and neck. He thinks he’s a monster. But he’s not.” Tim shot out of the seat. “I couldn’t care less about some bloody scars.” He dropped to his knees in front of Ryu. “Please, can I see him? Will he want to see me?” Warm moisture pooled in his eyes and slipped onto his cheeks. “Yes, of course you can see him. He’ll be so happy.” A shy look flitted through Ryu’s eyes. “He hasn’t been with anyone the whole time you’ve been separated. He…only wants you.”

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Tim stared at him as his heart soared. Every nerve in his body trembled and shivered. Shock, joy, elation, nervousness, all swirled through him at once. Basho, alive! Wanting to see him. Then, a horrible thought occurred to him and guilt threatened to wash away all the joy. It was so powerful that it stopped him from throwing on his clothes and running down to Basho. “Oh fuck.” He raked a hand through his wet hair. “How is it possible for him not to hate me? I changed my name. I made myself disappear. Otherwise, he could have found me.” “How could you have known, Timothy-san?” Ryu’s voice was gentle. “You saw the photos of a dead man. Basho knows that.” Tim looked Ryu in the eyes. “But I should have known. We were so close. Like one soul. How could I not have suspected something was wrong? I should have come looking for him.” He looked down, shoulders slumped. A hand on his shoulder made him look back up. Ryu pinned him with a kind, but firm look. Something simmered in the smaller man’s dark eyes. “You and Basho are innocents. You were both victims. The reason you didn’t suspect foul play was the same reason Basho didn’t suspect his own uncle of betrayal. You don’t think that way. You’re not criminals.” He sighed. “My father is one of them. A yakuza. I grew up surrounded by them. I know what they’re capable of. You don’t know. Please, don’t let your thoughts go on that path.” The certainty in Ryu’s voice washed away the guilt. Ryu was right. Nothing else should matter but that Basho was alive and still wanted him! “Now, come, Timothy-san. Basho wants nothing more than to see you again.” The words sent a fresh thrill through Tim. “I…I…I’ll get dressed.” Ryu dipped his head. “All right. I’ll wait for you in the hall.” Tim rose to his feet. His head swam suddenly, eyes blurred, both from tears and from the rush of heated blood around his brain. From the corner of his eye he saw Ryu slide open the soji screen and step out. Hands shaking, Tim yanked a polo shirt and cargo shorts out of his bag and threw off his kimono, letting it fall to the floor. Shrugging the clothes on, he checked his face in the bathroom mirror. His eyes and face were red from shock and tears. His hair was damp and his clothes rumpled from travelling. Fifteen years and he was going to look like shit when Bosh saw him. Fuck it. He wanted to hold Bosh right now.

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Ryu was standing quietly in the hallway when Tim slid back the screen. His heart pounded so hard, breathing was difficult. “I’m ready,” he murmured. The younger man bowed. “This way, Timothy-san.”

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Chapter Five

Sad beauty? The morning glory— Even when it’s painted badly. — Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)

Basho laughed at a joke Naoto just told him, though really, he was itching for a cigarette. He should have gotten another pack last night but had been too tired to go out. Now, having crushed out his last one before showering, he was sorry. Especially since Naoto had waylaid him and seemed to not want him to leave. Full nicotine withdrawal would set in before he could get a pack. He leaned an elbow on the long stainless steel table. “Are you okay, Nao-chan?” Naoto’s eyes widened. “Sure. Why?” Naoto was an intense guy who often had a lot on his mind, especially now, not only because of the situation with Yuzo but also because of his new relationship. His first lover had been shot and after three years of grieving, Naoto had fallen madly in love with Koji. Koji had come to the White Tiger as a guest desperately in need of a vacation, but had ended up returning Naoto’s passion and coming to live here with him. “Just making sure.” Naoto grinned. “No, I’m great. Couldn’t be happier. Now.” He exhaled and shifted from one foot to the other. “Basho-chan.” Ryu’s voice came from the doorway to the kitchen. Basho turned and saw Ryu standing partway through the swinging door, a strange look on his face. Even from a distance away, Basho could see that Ryu’s dark eyes looked…misted. “Hey,” he answered. “You need something for a guest?” Ryu shook his head. Basho expected him to come into the room, but he stayed where he was. “A miracle has happened, Basho-chan,” he said. “A true miracle.”

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Basho stared at him. For a second he was tempted to ask if Ryu’s father had come to visit and tell Ryu he was proud of him for once. That would have been a miracle. Naboru Miyazaki was a hard ass who didn’t seem to notice his son was even alive. What a jerk. Had Ryu been his son, he’d have been infinitely proud. Out of respect for Ryu’s feelings, however, he kept his mouth shut and limped a bit closer. Something about Ryu’s expression made his heart do a small flip. And why was Ryu speaking in English now? “You have some news?” A smile spread on Ryu’s face. “The best news. I didn’t know who he was because he changed his name, but he has the yang tattoo…on his hand.” Basho’s insides jumped, then clenched. “Who are you talking about, Ryu-chan? Who changed his name?” It was then he saw someone standing behind Ryu in the shadow of the corridor to the kitchen. A hand on Ryu’s shoulder bid him aside and the person walked in. “I did, Bosh.” That voice, that accent. The sensation of familiarity stirred within him before its owner even came fully into the room. Basho’s vision blurred. When he’d been beaten all those years ago, it had caused a bizarre floating disorientation brought on by the shock to his body, like his mind and body had completely separated. He’d never, ever forgotten that sensation. Which was exactly the feeling that came over him now. “Timmy,” he whispered. Am I dreaming? He’d often hallucinated during his recovery and thought for just a second that maybe nicotine withdrawal would cause such a vision now. “You’re not dreaming, Bosh. I’m really here.” The answer made Basho realise he’d spoken out loud. Yet dream or not, Timmy was here. “Timmy,” he whispered and moved forward, towards the beautiful blond man hovering in his vision. His mind was aware of the embarrassing limp, the thing that had always marked the damage he’d suffered, which had made him less a man than he’d been. But his body didn’t care as it closed the distance between himself and Timmy. That voice, those blue eyes, sad and yet joyful at the same time as they stared into his. Dimly, Basho was aware that Timmy was moving closer to him at the same time. And then he felt those arms close around him, pull him close so that their chests pressed together and the most familiar delicious scent invaded Basho’s senses. Basho’s eyes closed and he felt wetness on his cheek as his skin slid against Tim’s cheek. Perhaps it was his own tears he felt, or Tim’s, or both, mixing together, blending in perfection the way they always had.

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A hand cradled the back of his head and another his back, holding him close. “Bosh, I’m so sorry, so sorry.” Timmy’s voice was thick, the way a voice got when a person was crying. “I didn’t know. Oh God.” Basho couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. Only feel Tim’s hard warmth against him. His senses came alive…fully alive…for the first time in fifteen years. Timmy. Timmy. Timmy. Tim’s scent, clean and masculine stirred him deep within, made him feel like the Basho he’d been then, as if no time had passed. Suddenly Tim drew back. Bloody hell. Basho stiffened. Surely Tim had seen and felt the scars. He looked up. Tim’s blue eyes glistened. “Bosh.” A ripple of heat travelled up Basho’s spine. The warm pressure of Tim’s hand cupped the side of his neck. “Timmy, my—” Tim’s kiss stopped the next word. The velvety softness of his lips and the moist warmth of the other man’s tongue seeking his caused the only response he’d ever had—Basho melted, surrendered, and pulled Tim harder against him. Tim gulped at him greedily and then pulled his mouth away to shower kisses everywhere on Basho’s face. His forehead, eyelids, cheeks, nose, before coming back to his lips. Basho kept his eyes closed and returned the kiss. Tim’s flavour was just as he remembered, musky and delicious, mixed with traces of coffee and mint. Basho’s insides soared with the joy he’d always felt in Tim’s presence. Yet, unlike those earlier times, as he clutched at Timmy’s back muscles through his shirt, a current of something else nagged him, something sinister, angry, full of self-reproach. When Tim pulled from their kiss, panting, Basho was panting too, as much from the sudden force of his guilt as from the kiss. “Bosh, come to my room,” Timmy breathed, his large hands cradling Basho’s shoulders. Basho stared at him. The feeling grew worse, eating at his joy like acid, rooting his feet to the floor. I’ve been alive all this time and didn’t tell him. Timmy should have known. Should have had a choice. Basho had felt this way often over the years, but not with this intensity, fuelled by the reality of Tim’s presence. “Bosh, Ryu told me everything that happened, including how you feel. I don’t give a fuck about your scars. Or your limp.” Timmy stepped into him and cupped his cheeks. Tears

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made dark tracks on Timmy’s face, still ruggedly handsome, yet obviously tempered by suffering. That only made the guilt worse. Timmy pressed a soft kiss on his lips then hovered close. “I came to Tokyo to visit your grave, Bosh,” he said in a near-whisper. “To say a real good-bye. Now I don’t have to.” Tim’s fingers laced with his and tugged his hand. Wordlessly, Basho followed him out of the kitchen. No matter how he felt about anything, he could never resist Timmy. Ryu and Naoto stood in the hallway, both smiling, eyes misted. “Basho-chan, don’t worry about cooking,” Ryu said. “I’ll tell Kiku what’s happening. You just ring down when you get hungry. I hear that Kiku’s new boyfriend is a fabulous cook.” He winked. Basho bowed even though his knees felt weaker than soba noodles, as much from guilt as from the desire rippling through him. “Thank you, Ryu-chan,” he murmured. “You’re a true friend.” Then he looked at Naoto and smiled. “Now I understand why you didn’t seem to want me to go out for cigarettes.” Naoto returned his smile and bowed. “I thank you too, Ryu,” he heard Timmy say and Ryu bowed to him as well. Hands still joined, Basho let Timmy lead him into the elevator and hold him close, just breathing, until the doors slid open again on the third floor. Timmy tugged him down the hall and led him into a room. Once inside, Basho saw the kimono on the floor and the undrunk tea on the table in the sitting area, both evidence of Tim’s rush down to the kitchen to see him. Behind him, he heard Timmy slide the soji screen closed and in the next second, Tim’s broad body closed in on his back and the heat of Tim’s breath whispered over the back of his neck. The man’s arms closed around Basho’s waist and Basho laced the fingers of both hands with Tim’s. Like coming home. “I never thought…” Timmy kissed the nape of neck instead of finishing the sentence. Basho closed his eyes and let himself lean back into Timmy’s broad strength. “Bosh, what’s the matter?” Tim murmured against his skin. Basho sighed. They’d never been able to hide their feelings from each other and had never tried. After all this time, what was the point of trying to hide them now? Gently pulling out of Tim’s arms, he ushered Timmy over to the futon, had him sit on the edge and then knelt in front of him. For several seconds, he gazed into Timmy’s eyes, something he

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never thought would happen again in this lifetime. A pang squeezed his chest. “I feel horrible, Timmy,” he said. “I was alive and didn’t tell you.” Confusion clouded Timmy’s handsome face. “How could you have told me? I’d changed my name. Disappeared. Ryu told me you tried to find me and couldn’t. It’s true, isn’t it?” Without thinking, Basho reached out and grasped Tim’s knees. A small jolt went through him at the contact with Timmy’s bare skin. “Yes, it’s true. But I should have tried harder. A private detective would have found you. Then you could have come here. You would have, wouldn’t you, Timmy?” A wave of grief swept through him and fresh tears slipped from his eyes, especially at the stricken look on the other man’s face. “Bosh, stop.” Timmy leaned forward. His legs parted and he pulled Basho in closer. The futon was low enough that their faces were level. “There’s no blame in this,” he said softly. “You were trapped.” He sighed. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I should have sensed it was a lie. I should have come looking for you.” He brushed at Basho’s tears with a thumb. Something about Tim’s words made Basho’s burden lift, as if that preposterous selfblame made both their perspectives seem crazy. There was no one to blame. Timmy was right. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. Timmy chuckled. His face and eyes brightened and the chuckle erupted into full laughter. That sound, so rich, so sweet. Basho laughed with him, the way he used to when they were lads. He had Timmy back. Nothing else mattered. When their mirth had passed, Basho gazed at Timmy. His heart sped up as he looked the other man’s face over. Eyes, cheeks, lips. Those lips. Still dusky pink and velvety. Basho’s dragon tightened, but so did his gut. “I haven’t been with anyone, Timmy,” he said softly. “Not since our last time.” It was then he realised his hands still rested on Timmy’s knees. He held back from sliding his palms upwards, even though he ached to feel the man’s thighs, to see if they were as hard and strong as he remembered them, the downy golden hairs on them just as soft. Timmy’s eyelids dropped lower and his lips parted slightly. “So, Ryu told the truth about that too.” Basho felt his cheeks heat. “Yeah.”

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Timmy grinned. The sparkle of mischief was back in his blue eyes. “Hard to believe,” he said, “From what I’ve seen of the hot blokes in this place so far, I’d thought they’d all have shagged you by now.” Basho laughed and slapped Tim’s shoulder. “You’re still a wanker.” Timmy chuckled then lifted off his shirt. His lips remained curved in a lopsided grin. “Anyway, it’s like riding a bicycle, Bosh. You never forget.” Before Basho could say a word, Timmy undid his shorts and slipped those off too, pushing them aside with his foot. His broad chest rose and fell heavily. “You’ll be back at it in no time.” He reached for Basho’s shirt and lifted it. Basho raised his arms and felt the cool swirl of air on his bare skin as Timmy pulled the shirt off him. “I was certain you’d been practicing that White Tiger stuff,” Timmy said as he tossed the shirt aside. The rascally glint Basho had always known was back in his eyes. “I read about it on the website.” His hands cupped Basho’s bare shoulders. A warm shiver tingled through Basho’s skin at the touch. “I did…I have done…” Words wouldn’t form clearly with the brush of Timmy’s thumbs. “Practice, I mean. Alone.” He stole a glance down at Timmy’s dragon. The thick shaft jutted up, hard and ready. Just as he always remembered it. A dragon’s tear already glistened at the tip. Timmy slid both hands down Basho’s arms and grasped his wrists. “Practice on me then, Bosh,” he said in a husky whisper. Dusky need had replaced the mischief in Tim’s eyes. He lifted Basho’s hands and placed them, palms down on his chest, then let go. Timmy’s heavy breathing filled the quiet room. For several moments, Basho kept his hands in one place before venturing a small caress over Timmy’s broad chest muscles. His heart pounded. Fifteen years was nearly a lifetime to have gone without sex. He and Timmy could barely go fifteen minutes back in the days. Yet Timmy had been right. Like riding a bicycle. The same way it had been with cooking, his hands now remembered…his senses remembered…the feel of Timothy, branded deep inside him in a place that could never be destroyed. Basho smoothed his hands in slow circles over Tim’s chest, let his fingertips drag luxuriously through the silky golden hairs, then circled the pads of his thumbs over Tim’s smooth flat nipples, the way he’d studied in the books Kiku-sensei had given him years ago.

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Timmy groaned softly and arched into Basho’s hands. His tawny nipples tightened under Basho’s caress. “See, Bosh,” Timmy rasped, his eyelids fluttering, “I knew you’d get it right off.” Basho’s gaze fell to Timmy’s lips then and the rest of his body followed, closed the small space between them so he could taste the other man’s lips. Strangely, though he hadn’t known this pleasure in so long, he stayed slow, kissed Timmy the way he’d studied. First a soft lick across that soft bottom lip. Then another across the seam. Timmy groaned again and his lips parted so Basho could taste the warm moist interior. Teeth, smooth and hard, tongue, velvety and delicious, like always. Timmy’s flavours wakened Basho more. More of the young man he’d been seeped back, as if just the contact with Timmy had revived someone he’d long thought gone. Timmy grasped one of Basho’s wrists again. Basho yielded to the touch and found his hand wrapped around Timmy’s dragon. Timmy bid him to stroke it, guiding Basho’s hand down to the base and then back up again. The skin was like satin, the muscle like rock. Timmy released Basho’s wrist and Basho kept stroking him, remembering the tiny pattern of veins he’d felt millions of times so long ago. One soft moan after another vibrated into Basho’s mouth and he deepened their kiss as he stroked, a bit faster, letting his thumb brush over the plump head and gather the creamy moisture seeping out. His other hand slid up Timmy’s chest, up the side of the man’s neck and slipped into his hair, still silky and deliciously soft. In the haze of his awareness, Basho felt Timmy’s hands roaming over his arms and chest, not in the hungry way they used to, but curious, reacquainting himself with the feel of Basho’s muscles. The touch ignited more memory and Basho felt nearly his old self, young, eager, bursting with life and the excitement of discovering the pleasures his and Timmy’s bodies could give each other. Only…better, fuelled with the joy of reunion, of having suffered and missed his lover with every breath, thinking they’d never see each other again and then, when the afternoon held only the prospect of a jaunt out for cigarettes, here he was, kissing Timmy, stroking Timmy’s hard dragon, breathing in his lover’s scent… Basho pulled away from their kiss and bent over. With his fingers still curled around the other man’s cock, he captured the plump head in his mouth. Mmm. Basho’s mind melted. Licks of heat surged through his groin as the smooth lobes filled his mouth. Salty dragon’s

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tears slipped down his tongue and Timmy’s groan echoed in his ears. Just like he remembered. “Oh, Bosh.” Tim’s hand came to rest lightly on Basho’s head. The gesture was small yet achingly familiar. Timmy still tasted as delicious as he always had and Basho slid his mouth further, took in as much of that delicious dragon as he could. His whole world funnelled into the feel of hard cock against his tongue, the light pressure of Timmy’s hand and the musky clean scent of the man’s sex. “Bosh. Bosh.” Basho didn’t hear the plea in Timmy’s voice until fingertips on his jaw bid him to stop sucking. Releasing Timmy’s dragon, he looked up, lips wet and swollen. “Is it all right?” he panted. Timmy’s eyelids drooped sensually and his chest heaved, bearing a light sheen of sweat. “I…want…you.” Basho’s blood surged hot. That phrase between them had become a code. The words spiralled through his brain, making his dragon tighten so hard, it mercilessly tented the light cotton of his baggy pants. Timmy wanted Basho inside him. “There’s stuff in the cabinet there,” Timmy said. He stretched over the bed, reaching for the door of the bedside table. He plucked out a bottle of oil, poured it into his palm then leaned over. “Take those off,” he ordered. Heart pounding, Basho pulled the drawstring and let his pants slip to his knees. Before he could rise to pull them the rest of the way off, Timmy reached out and slathered the oil on Basho’s cock. The first touch, other than his own, in fifteen years. The pleasure nearly made him jump out of his skin. Timmy stared into his eyes then lay back. Basho stared before he could move. Timmy’s body was still strong, thick and sturdy in all the right ways. Basho’s gaze travelled up the other man’s toned abdomen with its light chisels of definition, the two halves divided by a thin trail of golden hair. In a surge of hunger, Basho rose up and covered Timmy’s body with his. Tim’s strong thighs came up and gripped Basho’s hips while a large hand reached down and put the head of Basho’s oiled cock to his hole. “Do it, Bosh,” he whispered and pushed down. His tight opening was stretched enough to swallow Basho’s cock in nearly halfway in one slide.

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Basho gasped. Hot pleasure invaded his whole groin. Braced on his elbows, he stared down at Timothy, barely registering Tim’s soft lips open, eyes glazed with pleasure. Timmy squeezed his ass muscles and Basho gasped. On instinct he slammed the rest of the way in though his jaw dropped and he thought his brain would spin away. A bit of the devil slipped back into Timmy’s eyes. “Come on then, Bosh, the way you used to.” He squeezed again, pulling another gasp from Basho. Timmy’s hands lay on either side of his head. Basho slid his palms up Timmy’s forearms and laced their fingers together. Another look infused Timmy’s flushed face, mingled there with desire and lust. “I missed you so much, Bosh,” he whispered. The words tingled through him. “I missed you too.” He squeezed Timmy’s hands and found that his grip on them was not only tender but also anchored his weight. He pulled back and drove in again. Their bodies meeting made a soft slapping of flesh against flesh. Pleasure clenched Basho’s whole body. How he’d made it so long without this…without Timmy… He thrust again, and again, staring down into Timmy’s eyes, vaguely aware of the way his stomach rubbed Timmy’s cock. “Yes, yes,” Timmy’s whisper was like a chant and his eyes rolled back each time their bodies bumped. Basho sped up, half in control, half wild. He forgave himself silently for not being able to hold back, to slow down, the way he’d studied, and shift the angle of his cock again. He was just too hungry…and the tide was building and building. “Timmy,” he heard himself whisper. Timmy groaned. His hips arched against him and Basho felt the warm gush of Timmy’s yang cloud between them. Yet bliss pounded through his own body, filling Timmy’s channel. His hands clenched in Timmy’s, or was it the other way ‘round? He couldn’t tell, only that his body rolled in waves of incredible release and the inside of him, the invisible spirit seemed to be floating. And then somehow, he was back on Earth, sweaty, sticking to Timmy’s chest and stomach, hands joined, breathing heavily, staring down into the deep, deep blue of Timmy’s eyes.

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When the darkness slipped back in, he didn’t know, but it was suddenly there, like a worm, to eat his joy and push him back into his solitary cave. He didn’t know what it was about, only that it was there. “Bosh, what’s the matter now?” Timmy’s breathy question made words form. “You’re going back and I’m trapped here.” He hadn’t even felt his lips move. Timmy’s eyes widened. “Back to London, you mean?” Basho nodded. “Without you?” He nodded again. “Yeah.” Tears threatened to sting his eyes. But Timmy grinned. “You’ve got to be joking, Bosh. If you think I’m ever leaving here without the other half of my soul, think again.” A mist clouded his blue irises. “Please, Bosh, tell me I can stay here with you. I couldn’t survive another separation. Please.” A surge of hope burned, yet stayed dim. There was still the threatening situation with Yuzo hanging over the White Tiger. Would Timmy want to stay, knowing this? “Of course I want you here with me always. I just can’t believe it. But, there is something else, Timmy,” he murmured, his heart pounding. “What is it? It can’t possibly matter.” Pulling in a deep breath, Basho explained everything. “We can’t know what will happen when Suzuki finds out Yuzo is here,” he said in conclusion. “Suzuki is a dangerous man and…I don’t want you to be put in danger.” He fell silent and waited, avoiding Timothy’s gaze. Timmy gave him a look as if he’d said the dumbest thing imaginable. “I don’t give a shit about that, Bosh. I just don’t want you out of my sight for another second.” Then he grinned. “You’re a bit daft, aren’t ya, Bosh?” Basho laughed. And laughed, squeezing Timmy’s hands while his chest rumbled against Timmy’s. He couldn’t help it. Joy broke through, a rising tide, drowning the last fifteen years of sorrow as if they’d never happened. As soon as he could speak again, he looked down at Timmy, a grin stretching his lips. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Guess I am.”

About the Author Sedonia Guillone is a multi-published, award nominated author of both m/f and m/m erotic romance. The man in her life is her inspiration and provides all the handson research she needs. When she’s not writing, she’s cuddling, watching samurai flicks and thinking about the next naughty, delicious tale she wants to write. Email: [email protected] Sedonia loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

Also by Sedonia Guillone Men of Phuket: Tongue-Thai’d Men of Tokyo: Sudden Bliss Men of Tokyo: Sudden Surrender

KINGSOAK Willa Okati

Dedication For JM, JLL, AB, LMP and KS, with all my thanks

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Chapter One

“Hello there, handsome. What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?” Matthew looked up from his intricate work buckling the multiple small latches of the complicated weave of his leather bracelets. He ran his fingers over the inscribed designs, the leather dark against his fair skin, contrasting with the sprays of freckles on his slim arm . The bedroom light shone warm and golden as it fell across the doorway and illuminated his lover Gale, who leaned on his forearm against the door frame, his hip cocked. Edible, and he knows it, too. Matthew’s cock twitched, interested. Of course, Gale had always had that effect on him. He knew what Gale was up to, employing his charms now, of course. He and Gale were meant to meet up with some pals, Horatio among others, sink a few bottles of beer and laze about in good company. Matthew knew Gale had no objections of a good time on the town, but would love nothing better than to walk in half an hour late with a love bite darkening into a bruise on his neck and his hair still mussed from sex, fucked to within an inch of his life and displaying the proof like peacock feathers. Point required point. Matthew arched an eyebrow at Gale and returned his attention to his bracelet, hiding a smile. After a suitable span of time spent making Gale wait for it, Matthew cleared his throat. “So a nun, a wrestler and a flamer walk into a bar —” “Oh, you think you’re funny, do you?” Gale pushed away from the doorway and pounced on Matthew at the end of his nimble stretch, wrapping Matthew up in his arms and nuzzling at his throat. Gale had magnificent arms, strong and flexible, and once they latched on they’d never let go until their owner had had his way. Matthew decided he didn’t mind a bit. He surrendered with a small, happy moan, letting Gale push him against the dresser. Gale knocked Matthew’s legs further apart with his knee, and inserted one taut thigh between both of Matthew’s. He leaned his weight forward and, not incidentally, discovered how much Matthew didn’t mind. “Happy to see me, sailor?” Gale inquired wickedly, rocking his thigh up and across the firmness of Matthew’s rising erection. “Want to buy me a drink?”

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Matthew twined his arms around Gale’s neck and carded his fingers through Gale’s hair, tugging at the short spikes. “I’d planned on it. Someone said something about going out for beer with the guys tonight.” “The guys,” Gale informed him, reaching for the hem of Matthew’s light sweater, “can damn well wait, and they will, too, if they know what’s good for them.” “When your cock speaks, everyone listens, hmm?” “Don’t try to be poetic, love, it doesn’t suit you.” Gale pushed his hand beneath the sweater and splayed his cool fingers out over Matthew’s stomach, which contracted from the chill. Matthew hissed, pushing up into the touch, wanting more. His swelling cock bumped firmly into Gale’s. His head fell back, exposing his throat. Gale immediately seized upon the vulnerable spot. “Mmm, you smell good,” he murmured, delicately licking a path up the line of Matthew’s neck and biting the shell of his ear. “Wonder if you taste as good?” he queried upon reaching Matthew’s mouth. He took a brief taste, tongue flickering over Matthew’s lips, and hummed in satisfaction. “I see you do.” Matthew’s breath had already grown ragged with arousal, but he had presence of mind enough to grab Gale’s hand and move it away from his chest, then to draw it slowly and inexorably down to rest over his groin, moulding Gale’s fingers around his swollen cock. Gale tilted his head, the very devil’s gleam in his eye, and massaged the hardness filling his palm. “Someone’s horny.” “Someone is,” Matthew replied, brazen, bucking into Gale’s hand. “Are you going to do anything about it?” Gale looked first impressed, then proud. He kissed Matthew fast and hard, breaking away to approve of him in his low, sexual purr. “Every inch of you a proper man,” he murmured, “And every inch of that is mine, yeah?” “Yeah.” Matthew tugged at Gale’s hair. “All yours.” “That’s what I like to hear.” Gale rewarded Matthew by snapping open the button fly of Matthew’s jeans. He tickled underneath each button as he opened it, his pace irritatingly slow. He loved to make Matthew break and beg for it, and he was extremely skilled at driving Matthew to that breaking point every single time. Maddening, amazing man.

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“What do you want, love?” Gale asked, biting the shell of Matthew’s ear. “You have to say it.” Matthew rolled his hips. “What do you think?” “Ah-ah-ah.” Gale dragged the rough callus of his thumb over the slickness at the head of Matthew’s cock. Matthew drew together enough self-awareness to look down, greedy for the sight of his engorged purple flesh slipping through Gale’s hand, Gale jacking him slowly, teasing him with not enough but the promise of more. “God, that’s hot,” he hissed. “If you want more…” Gale goaded. “I want more.” Matthew gave in without a qualm, not in the mood to wait or spin out the game. He wrapped his hand around Gale’s, lacing their fingers together as he groaned, infatuated with the doubled pressure and the roughness of Gale’s skin compared to his. He reached for Gale next, burning with the urge to get Gale’s cock in his own hand. To weigh the heaviness in his palm and measure the length with his fingers. Or to taste. His mouth watered, anticipating the flavour. “How about I suck you off?” Matthew suggested, his eyelids too heavy to keep fully open and his lips parted after the words rolled away from them. Gale chuckled, proud of himself, and rightly so. “Not worrying about being late anymore?” “Not at all.” Matthew jerked open Gale’s jeans and pushed his hand inside. “What do I want? I want you to fuck me.” Gale stopped abruptly, breathless for a moment. “You never stop surprising me,” he said, awed. “All right, then, love.” He squeezed, then slapped Matthew’s ass. “Assume the position.” “Ever the romantic.” “You’ve no reason to complain in that department. Hush now, and do as I say.” Gale lowered his face to Matthew’s shoulder, bit the rounded cap, then withdrew his hands and seized Matthew, turning him around. Matthew gladly let himself be manhandled and slapped his hands down on the dresser. “Like this?” he asked, struggling for words.

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Cool air hit Matthew’s ass as Gale dragged his jeans down. “Exactly like that,” Gale approved. “This is the way lovers ought to be.” And to think, Matthew reminded himself, hissing with the pleasure of Gale’s forefinger circling his nether opening, I almost threw it all away…

**** One Year Earlier Nine times out of ten, Matthew would openly admit he didn’t know anything about cars. He’d missed the auto mechanic gene somewhere along the way. He didn’t mind being ignorant if it meant he had to take his car to Tony’s, where he could read a newspaper on a hard plastic chair and chat with the guys in the engine bays, entertaining fantasies about hard-muscled backs and taut asses flexing under coveralls, or hands smeared with grease and rough from hard work gliding over his naked body. The same nine times out of ten, Matthew didn’t mind his car ignorance. Right now, he couldn’t deny that the rattle-rattle-clunk-clank-wheeze his engine emitted didn’t sound good, and for once in his life he gritted his teeth and wished for both a monkey wrench and the knowledge of how to use it. Half a mile out of Kingsoak was nowhere anyone sane wanted to break down, and after a day like the one Matthew had had, he didn’t feel any too sane, full stop. Zero times out of ten would Matthew want to be stuck there. Kingsoak was dangerous, so far on the wrong side of the tracks it almost went off the map. Matthew had heard dark stories about what went on there, enough to keep him warily on guard. ’Not a good place to go after dark’ didn’t cover the half of it…although, now that he thought about it, no one ever really went on to finish that thought, did they? Too horrible to think about, or did no one know the truth? Matthew didn’t think he was up to braving finding out for himself.

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Matthew's car made the choice for him. The engine chose that moment to deliver a pitiful grinding whine, sputter, and cut out completely. Grey smoke wafted in wisps from under the hood, seeping out the sides. Matthew drummed a light, frustrated, slightly panicked rhythm on the steering wheel. Okay, he told himself. Gotta keep my cool. Getting stuck isn’t the best thing that could happen to a guy, but it could easily be a lot worse. I’ve got a cell phone, I’ve got triple-A, and I’ve got cash. He dug his wallet out and flipped open the worn-shiny tri-fold leather. He stared at the empty interior. In a cartoon, butterflies would have fluttered out in silent mockery. I had over two hundred dollars in there. What…? “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Matthew muttered, checking the floorboard, under the gas petals, and under the driver’s seat. He found sixty-three cents in assorted loose change, one pristine condom packet, and three milkshake parlor drive-through napkins. “You’re not kidding me.” Matthew ran a hand through his hair and exhaled heavily, thinking. What are my options? One, get out of the car, walk around, and see if I can find an ATM. Two…okay, there isn’t a two. Buck up. What’s the worst that could happen? A heavy thump on the roof of Matthew’s car startled him into dropping his wallet. So sunk in his own quandary, he hadn’t heard anyone approaching. Ohh, that was stupid, he thought, his heart in his throat. Looking out the window, Matthew was just in time to see a second man lean heavily on the hood of his car, thick arms crossed and stocking cap pulled low, smirking at him. “Car trouble, pretty boy?” the second tough taunted. “Why’nt you get out of the car and let us give you a hand, huh?” No way in heaven or in hell. Matthew fumbled for his cell and held it up, hand shaking. “I have a phone, and I’ll call the cops.” “That a fact? You don’t need to call anyone. We got you. Put the phone down.” The thug leered at Matthew. Matthew tried the horn, which produced only the most pitiable, wheezing squeak he’d ever heard.

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The thugs laughed. “You’re out of your territory, pretty boy. No one around here cares. Now how about you get out of the car and let us take care of you?” I am not going to die here. Matthew’s mind whirred, coming up with a plan that sounded suicidal, but…maybe, maybe… He pretended to start to roll down his window, thankful for the manual crank, then hurled himself at the passenger side door. The door opened with a mighty creak. Matthew scrambled out, running as fast as he could. Before the toughs recovered from their shock and got it together enough to come after him—Matthew hoped—he hurled his empty wallet in their direction to distract them, and without waiting to see if it had worked, took off on foot in the opposite direction. Matthew ran until his chest hurt, not stopping though he knew right away he’d chosen the worst possible direction to head in, and was diving deep into the inner labyrinth of Kingsoak with no phone, no money, no car, and no one to turn to. It couldn’t get worse than this. Despairing, Matthew wondered what on earth he’d done to turn Murphy’s Law so viciously on his head. He was a good man, or tried to be. A good employee with exemplary records, scholarly papers, and an impressive resume in his job as junior curator at the modern art museum. He mentored college students in search of their undergraduate degrees in the fine arts BFA’s, paid his taxes, gave to charity, treated his boyfriends with respect and courtesy, turned the other cheek, and would have helped little old ladies across the street if he’d ever had a chance. Tonight, though, he’d gotten a brown envelope from the IRS, an email inbox full of spam requests for assistance, and his boyfriend had not showed at the bar for their anniversary, leaving Matthew with an empty apartment and no food in the cupboard because he’d been so busy working overtime that he rarely remembered to go grocery shopping. Rebellion burned bright within Matthew, pushing him dangerously close to an edge he hadn’t known he treaded. I’ve broken my back to be a good, upright, decent, law-abiding kind of guy, and this is where it gets me. Kingsoak. Fine. You know what? I quit. Just for one night, I want to see if it’s true that bad boys do have more fun. After this, what’s the worst that could happen? They can’t steal my wallet.

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Kingsoak. I want to see what it’s all about. If I make it until tomorrow, if I get out alive, then I’ll have at least one good memory to look back on in my life. Matthew lifted his head high and walked forward with the mien of one who owns the place. He let the recklessness of his impulse guide him, considering insofar as the seething anger roiling in his head would let him, so that no matter what happened, he could be proud of himself in this moment. He walked into Kingsoak unafraid. It’d be the best move he ever made, though he didn’t know it then.

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Chapter Two

“All right, then, bring it on, bring it on!” The shout drew Matthew’s attention away from where he crouched down, fascinated by his examination of elaborate graffiti spray-painted on the sidewalk. It was art, each division of the old stone spray-painted in blends of fantastic colours, cubist shapes and sharp-edged words. Thought went into this, not vandalism. This is an unrecognised masterpiece. Amazed, he had traced the letters, trying to interpret the message woven through the heavily delineated swirls of red paint. The strangeness of being left wholly to his own devices astounded Matthew. He’d gotten suspicious looks from time to time as he penetrated Kingsoak, and seen the occasional group muttering behind their hands, and felt certain he’d been watched every step of the way. Yet no one had even approached Matthew, much less attacked him, giving him to wonder, uncomfortably, if he was being assessed or taken as a joke. Frankly, after the buildup of his adrenaline, Matthew found the lack of reaction almost disappointing. Normally a pacifist, he’d itched for a brawl, something in which he could take off the Clark Kent and let the Hulk out. Go down swinging instead of fading into a grey nonentity in the real world. Though to be honest, the rest of Kingsoak proper wasn’t at all what Matthew had been led to believe it would be, either. Everything that surrounded him was worn down, true, cracked and shabby, paint peeling, wood worn down and splintered, but…every last inch of it was clean, certainly cleaner than the city streets, where he’d often step over at least three fast-food wrappers or crumpled cigarette packets just on his way from the parking garage to the museum. On every Kingsoak street Matthew had seen hookers and winos and thugs with fists larger than his head and scarred faces, but no one accosted him, no one shouted, and no one mocked him. They’d simply left him alone. Matthew didn’t understand this place, and didn’t know if it made him nervous or if he wanted to see more.

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“Come on, if you’re coming! Take your bets here, men. Who’s got money on Gale tonight? Who’s got the balls to put money on Rooster? Come on, if you’re coming!” Matthew’s blood heated with sudden comprehension. He looked up to see a crowd trickling in, all moving towards a central crossroads, gathering in a circle. A street fight. At last! To Matthew’s inexperienced eyes, the gathering crowd seemed calm—was it an organised event, then, rather than spontaneously starting with some insults and a beer bottle? Still, this was much more what Matthew had been looking for. He rose, started to dust off his knees, then stopped in momentary self-contempt and turned, still grubby, to run towards the backstreet bum barker. He didn’t make the journey alone, handfuls of Kingsoak denizens casually joined him along the way. Strolling out of warehouses and dim, barely-lit basement bars, men and women alike surged towards the call. Women in bright red lipstick and five-inch heels and women with short, buzzed hair and boots, one of them with her arm around a sweet-faced lipstick brunette. Middle-aged men in flannel shirts with the sleeves rolled up to their elbows, old men with sunken lips over empty gums, teenagers bristling with metal poked through their noses, ears, lips and eyebrows. One elderly woman, skinny as a wire, wearing a beaded headdress with a blue ostrich feather stuck through the band. Matthew had never seen anything like this in his life. How could this even be real? Maybe those thugs had gotten him after all. Maybe this was all some crazy dream he floated in. We are all of us in the gutter, but some of us are looking up at the stars, he remembered. Who said that? They had the right idea. Matthew hurried, not wanting to miss a minute of the excitement. He’d almost made it there when, coming in the opposite direction of his trajectory, a hand the size of a Clydesdale’s hoof shot out to stop Matthew. “And where do you think you’re going, friend?” Matthew stared. He’d never seen a man this huge. Arms like kegs, legs like barrels, heavy dreadlocks hanging to his shoulders, and a beard bushier than a hedge. “Sorry?” The man shook his head, dreads swinging. “You come to see the fight?”

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“Yes?” Matthew tried. He coughed, trimming the question out of his voice. “Yes.” Impulsively, he pointed at the roughly forming ring of spectators and the barker. “And I want to make a bet.” “That true?” The man cocked his head. “How much do you want to bet? Got to see the money first, yeah?” Matthew’s excitement wilted. “I—I don’t have any money on me—” “Sorry, friend.” The man’s teeth fascinated Matthew. They were blue. Almost indigo. Art. Matthew discreetly pinched the back of his wrist, pretending to scratch it, so he wouldn’t stare. The man twinkled at him, clearly not fooled at all. “You can stay and watch, if you want. The streets are free. But you can’t place a bet if you’ve got no money. Those are the rules.” “Oh.” Matthew stuffed down his first instinct to politely turn away. No. He’d gotten this far into Kingsoak. No way would he let this stop him from doing whatever he wanted for just one night, or however long this charmed existence lasted. He looked up at the giant, assessing him, and asked, “Can I bet something else?” The man threw his head back and whooped. A few onlookers glanced curiously in their direction, shrugged, and turned back to the growing crowd. Matthew had to shout to be heard over shouts, catcalls, clapping hands and stomping feet. “I’m serious. I could bet—I could write a cheque, or a—” A memory from Guys and Dolls flittered through his head. “What about a marker? An IOU?” “Really, now.” The giant’s expression turned thoughtful. “You sure that’s what you want to do, little man? You the kind of man who breaks promises? Or are you good for them?” “I’m good for them,” Matthew pressed. “I swear.” “Why does this matter so much to you?” Matthew opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I don’t know. It just does.” “Hmm.” The giant studied Matthew. Behind him, the crowd eager for the fight broke into a nearly deafening shout, fists pumping over their heads. Matthew dodged to look past the giant and caught a glimpse of two men pushing their way through the crowd from opposite directions, bare to the waist above torn jeans, their feet also bare.

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“Please,” Matthew insisted. He strained to get another look at the men. As if timed, his next words emerged on a sudden hush as the crowd quieted, one of the fighters raising his hands for silence. Everyone heard Matthew’s promise. “I’ll make good on my marker. You have my word on it.” “Horatio, what’s this then?” the fighter who’d raised his arms called. He spoke with casual good humour and the crisp accent of a recent UK expatriate. Matthew’s cheeks heated and his skin crawled with embarrassment, but he refused to give way and stood his ground. He lifted his chin, meeting the frank and unabashed stare of the fighter. Then, he took a second look. His lips parted, admitting a hiss of air. Art. Dynamite in human form, the fighter was shaped and sculpted on compact lines, each muscle cut and defined as if a master artisan had chiselled him from marble and a god breathed life into him. Short hair styled in spikes, wicked jade-green eyes, sturdy limbs rippling with energy. When he spoke, Matthew recognised his specific accent. Manchester. Working-class, rough around the edges and purring with the abraded raspiness of a tiger. “Who’re you, then?” Matthew refused to look away. He met those green eyes and delivered his own challenge. “Matthew. Who are you?” The crowd buzzed, some catcalling with grins, half of them for the fighter and half for Matthew. Matthew interpreted their question with ease, what are you gonna do about this, huh? The fighter grinned at Matthew, dazzling him. “The name’s Gale,” he said, tugging on the foremost spike of his hair. “Take his bet, Horatio. Who’s he want to put money on?” Matthew challenged Gale, his blood singing with excitement. “The other guy.” “Oh, I think I like you,” Matthew read Gale’s lips over the roar from the crowd. “I think I’ll keep you.” Gale nodded to the giant, Horatio, and turned away. Horatio shook his head, radiating amusement. “You don’t know what a world of interesting times you just stepped in, little man, but what’s done is done, hey? Give me your marker. Time to see what you’re made of.”

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**** What Matthew did know about fighting, especially street fighting, would have fit into a dollhouse teacup. What he didn’t know would overflow the Oxford Dictionary. He guessed he was about to get a crash course. Horatio, ever helpful, escorted Matthew to a first-class viewing spot on the very inside edge of the ring. By ’escort’, Matthew meant Horatio used his bulk and height to simply clear a path with every step he took, with Matthew dragged along in his wake. As soon as Horatio satisfied himself with Matthew’s placement and left him there, the madding crowd of hardbitten men and raucous women pressed in on every side, snapping together like a rubber band. Not knowing exactly how to stand or what to do, Matthew just watched as Gale and Rooster warmed up, flexing lean muscles and feinting at one another. Matthew rubbed his hands together and blew on the knuckles as if they were chapped with cold, though he was almost too warm with the body heat of dozens and the roaring sense of excitement drowning him. Gale bounced in place, all fluid muscles and limber joints. Matthew couldn’t help but stare at him when Gale wasn’t looking, tracing the artistry of his limbs and the happy accident of birth that had given Gale a face both gorgeous to look at and fascinating enough to keep a man looking. Gale turned quickly, winking at Matthew. Though Matthew’s first impulse was to look away, he scrapped the dissuasion before it got further than a flinch. He stood up straight, feet a little apart and planted firmly, and nodded to Gale. Go ahead, he dared Gale with the raising of one eyebrow. Impress me. Gale grinned savagely at Matthew, clearly taken with the challenge. You’re on, Gale mouthed in return, and blew Matthew a kiss. Startled, Matthew would have stumbled back if it hadn’t been for the crowds hemming him in, making it impossible to move. Wait, wait, wait, hold on. That didn’t look like a joke. Matthew would have sworn Gale’s gaze smoldered with rising heat, the look of a man on a sexual hunt who’d just spotted the tastiest dish ever to walk on two legs. The kind of look that promised a night of sweat and

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spunk, with bites and bruises and a soreness in his ass that’d last for days, to remember him by. Matthew blinked at Gale, knowing he had to look like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming train. Me? he mouthed, pointing at his chest. Gale’s lips curled up at one corner in a knowing smirk. He pointed from Matthew back to himself and drew an ’X’ over his heart that led down to his navel, waggling his fingers over the cuts of his hipbones visible over his loosely-fitted jeans. “Let’s get this fight started, ladies and gentlemen!” Horatio boomed at the back of the crowd. “First man to fall loses, last man standing wins. No more bets! No take backs if you lose. Everybody understands this?” Gale kept his eyes on Matthew, refusing to break their connection. Matthew licked his dry lips, searching in vain for a clever comeback. The best that he could manage was in your dreams or you wish, neither of which worked, as Matthew couldn’t imagine anything better to dream about or any wish he’d rather have granted. Tonight’s about living the crazy life, remember? Matthew reminded himself. No regrets. No apologies. “Gentlemen, begin!” A clap as loud as thunder sounded. Matthew bet Horatio had just smacked his massive hands together. It worked as well or better than any bell or gong he’d ever heard, silencing the crowd almost instantly. Nearly as one, they turned to face the ring, savage eagerness and anticipation drawing them up rigid. In the abrupt hush, Gale said, “You’re mine, you are. Guess who holds your marker?” Matthew drew up short. “What?” Rooster growled and ran at Gale from the other side of the ring. Gale rolled his eyes. “Oh, hang on.” He whipped around to face Rooster. Though Rooster was larger and had worked up a decent turn of speed in his lunge, Gale caught him easily and flipped the man over one arm. When he came up swinging, a flash of movement Matthew couldn’t track stopped Rooster, who went down again in an undignified heap. “Well then,” Horatio chortled from the back of the crowd. “The winner is Gale. All those who bet against him, pay the man.” “Wait. What?” Matthew couldn’t believe his ears. Was that how betting pools worked?

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“Later,” Gale shouted over the roar from the crowd, half of them catcalling and half protesting the briefness of the fight. “I’ll take this payment first, and for my own.” He pushed Rooster out of the way with one foot and approached Matthew, swift and sure. Matthew’s world narrowed to vibrantly coloured eyes locked in on his. His lips parted in a gasp when Gale’s hard, callused fingers wrapped around his wrist and locked there. “Don’t play coy with me,” Gale murmured for Matthew’s ears alone. “You want this as much as you’d like to let on you don’t.” Matthew fought to clear his head and take a deep breath. He found it difficult, the force of Gale’s animal charisma overwhelming him far more than the crowds, the smells and all the other sights waiting to capture the unwary in Kingsoak. “Nothing to say?” Gale baited him. “No denials?” “I didn’t—” Matthew started. “How do you know I want you?” Gale snorted. “‘Cos I’m not stupid, love. I know what I know, and here’s my proof.” He cupped Matthew’s groin, not applying pressure but only tantalising Matthew with the firm warmth of his fingers. Matthew grunted, his half-hard cock swelling. “Thought so.” “So you really are the one I owe my marker to?” Matthew asked, breathless but making one last stand, determined to show some spirit. No matter how much he wanted Gale—and he did—Matthew knew a man had to have fire to keep up with the brash fighter, or Gale would lose interest, pat him on the head, and send him home. No way was Matthew going to let that happen. He craved Gale as much as air, water and salt, and knew if he didn’t seize his chance to ride the tiger he’d lose it forever. And God, did he want more of those clever, tough hands on him, pumping his cock until he shot over Gale’s taut, cut belly. Matthew wanted to go to his knees and jerk open the button fly on Gale’s tattered jeans, draw Gale’s cock out and try to swallow the length, burying his nose in wiry curls, greedily breathing in the smell of overheated man and swallowing him down. The rush of desire dizzied Matthew. He shook himself out of his lust-fuelled fugue to see Gale laughing at him. “What?” Matthew asked, annoyed. “You are a treat, and no mistake,” Gale said. To Matthew’s dismay, Gale trailed his fingers up Matthew’s chest, pausing briefly at his heart and then, almost making up for the loss of his palm over Matthew’s cock, brushed his thumb over Matthew’s lip. “You lost the bet, friend. Time to pay up.”

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“With what?” Matthew challenged, letting his own ravenous anticipation show in the savagery he could feel vibrating through his tense limbs, helpless not to also betray the desperation building in his throbbing cock. “And he’s got claws, too.” Gale grasped Matthew by the back of his neck and yanked him forward, crushing their mouths together. Matthew gasped, his lips parting; Gale took advantage and surged in, rubbing his tongue along Matthew’s. The crowd surrounding them raised a cheer, thunderous enough to deafen, shouting lewd suggestions that fired Matthew’s blood and provoked him to grasp the taut globes of Gale’s fantastic ass, groping him without shame. Gale let go the very second before Matthew’s knees would have buckled, his lips slightly swollen and a heat to match or best Matthew’s burning in him. “I’ll collect my debt in private, if you like,” he suggested, his tone promising wicked delights. “Want to get out of here?” Matthew laughed, short and airless, dizzy with desire. “You do want this, then? I’ll not force you.” Gale looked thoughtfully at Matthew, clearly assessing him. For all that, the naughty gleam in his eye abated not a whit. “If you do, you’ll have to say it, so’s I know for sure,” he dared. “Come on. Say it for me, and you’ll never forget this night for as long as you live. You’ll remember the feel of my cock buried to the nuts in your ass every time you jerk off, until the day you die.” Matthew stared at Gale, almost at a loss for words—not that he had the air to say anything with. He nodded dumbly, hoping it’d be enough. It wasn’t. “Say it,” Gale warned Matthew, taking a half-step back. “Tell me what you want. Want to pay your debt? Want to go with me to a place you never even dreamed of?” Gale returned, his breath hot on Matthew’s temple as he whispered, “Want me to fuck you all night long? All you’ve got to do is say the word.” “Hell, yes,” Matthew swore, gritting his teeth. He thrust his fingers under the waist of Gale’s jeans and jerked him closer, kissing the sexiest Brit alive with bruising force. “Let’s go.” Gale threw his head back and laughed. “All right, then. I’ll take proper care of you. Come on.” He took Matthew’s hand. “Follow the leader.”

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**** “Where are you taking me?” Matthew asked, hurrying to keep up with Gale as Gale led him away from the milling crowd of spectators, took a sharp left into an alley damp with humidity, trickles of water running down the stone, and not a scrap of garbage in sight. Matthew would have thought he was in a hidden tunnel in a French cathedral, not in the labyrinthine tangle of dangerous Kingsoak. Gale glanced back over his shoulder at Matthew, his smile dangerous and promising carnal riches. “I like a bit of privacy, don’t you? We’re going back to my digs.” “How far away?” Matthew tugged at Gale’s hand, fingers laced through his. “How much further?” “Eager, aren’t you?” Matthew didn’t deny it. “Tell me.” “Maybe ten minutes, on foot?” Gale almost glittered with mischief as he stopped, the hush of the heavy stones blanketing them, blocking out everything else but for the greenness of Gale’s eyes and the lush, sensual promise of his mouth. The tip of Gale’s tongue appeared, held between his sharp white teeth. “You’re that desperate for a taste of me, are you?” “Yes.” Matthew was sure he’d explode before three minutes were up. Forget about maybe ten, which meant maybe more. Besides, he knew a challenge when he saw one, and be damned if he wouldn’t prove himself up to the gamble. Gale cocked his head to a side, daring Matthew to do what he dreamed. “And what’re you going to do about it, eh?” “This.” Matthew tugged his hand free of Gale’s. He flat-palmed Gale’s chest, and though nowhere near a match for Gale in upper body strength, Matthew successfully pushed Gale up against the wall—perhaps the surprise was his advantage, or Gale’s whim allowed the rough manhandling. The rigid bulge packed under Gale’s zipper jerked visibly. “Oh, you’ll never get me to let you go, you won’t,” Gale whispered. “And now what?” “This.” Adrenaline surged through him. Matthew welcomed it, letting the rush go to his head and take him to his knees exactly as he’d lustfully dreamed of back at the ring. He nosed into the firm line of Gale’s cock under his fly, rubbing his cheek over the length before reaching for the top button.

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“Ah, ah, ah,” Gale chided. He grasped Matthew’s collar and pulled. It was either stand up or choke, but Matthew groaned in protest at being yanked away from his prize. He could almost taste the salty tang of Gale’s cock and feel the weight on his tongue. He glared at Gale. “What’s your problem?” “No problem at all, love.” Gale kissed Matthew brutally and quickly, stroking their tongues together and tickling the roof of Matthew’s mouth. Matthew gasped as Gale thrust his hand down the front of Matthew’s slacks, wrapping tight around his cock. “I’m not a selfish lover, is all.” He drew his finger around the head and flicked his fingernail at the most sensitive spot underneath. “And you, I think, need to take the edge off.” Matthew clung to Gale, digging his fingers in Gale’s shoulders. “I’ll come if you don’t stop,” he tried to warn Gale. “Oh—oh, God—don’t stop!” Gale’s chuckle shook both of them. He slid his fist to the base of Matthew’s cock and back to the head, playing Matthew as if he’d known him all his life and knew exactly how to bring him off. “That’s it,” he crooned. “Give it up. Want your spunk dripping through my fingers. Bet you’re sweet, love.” “Fuck me,” Matthew begged, thrusting into the circle of Gale’s hand. “Want you to—” “Shh, shh, I know you do,” Gale replied, dropping his head to lay a line of biting halfkisses up Matthew’s throat. “This, though, is what I want right now.” He rubbed ruthlessly along the thick vein on the underside of Matthew’s aching cock. “Right now.” Matthew shuddered almost violently and came apart. His cock jerked, spilling thick and creamy jets over Gale’s fingers. He lifted his head blindly, fumbling for Gale’s kiss, and found Gale’s mouth to ease him as the last of the cum slipped away. Gale took his long, lazy time with the kiss, soothing Matthew through the aftershocks of orgasm that shook him. He petted Matthew to gentle him as he lapped over Matthew’s lips, finally drawing away with a tantalising nip. Matthew stared at Gale, drunk on satisfaction, burning for him. “What about you?” he slurred. He itched for more of Gale’s magnificent cock. “Can I finish what I started?” “Want me so bad, do you?” “Yes.” “Fine, then.” Gale withdrew his hand and lifted it to his mouth, licking his fingers

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clean. Matthew moaned as he watched, libido rising and sore cock doing its best to revive. Gale polished the last of the digits and winked at Matthew. “Ten more minutes, I said. And then you can do what you like with me.” “You’re kidding,” Matthew said, dismayed. “Not until we get to your apartment?” “I’ll make it worth the wait.” Matthew had no doubt that Gale would, the only thing that kept him from taking a swing out of frustration. Gale leered, teasing him. “So impatient. Aren’t you pretty when you’re angry? Tell you what—sooner we’re there, sooner I’ll spread you open and fuck you. Yeah? So shake a leg, you. We’ve only just gotten started.”

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Chapter Three

“This is where you live?” Matthew turned in a circle and craned his neck, trying to see everything and only getting a little, enough to tease and no more. They’d travelled through alley after alley, each one more strangely medieval than the next, and ended up in what only the unimaginative would have called an abandoned warehouse. In the darkness, Matthew could see the floors and intact windows were as clean as everything else in Kingsoak, but better than that, the same graffiti artist who’d worked his magic on the pavement near the street-fighting ring had spent a burst of genius on every wall—and on the ceiling? Matthew wished he had a flashlight. “Home sweet home,” Gale said airily, as if he’d grown so used to the wildly coloured flights of fancy transforming the warehouse into a cave of wonders that they no longer registered. He relieved Matthew by winking. “Pretty, innit?” “Amazing.” “Mmm. I’ve found something more to my taste. Give us a kiss, would you?” Gale wrapped his arm around Matthew’s waist and pulled him close. “The kisses of your mouth are sweeter than honey,” he misquoted from the Song of Solomon before he pressed his lips to Matthew’s, coaxing them open with his clever tongue. Matthew surrendered without a fight. He draped one arm over each of Gale’s shoulders and laced his hands behind Gale’s head, holding him snugly close. Gale’s lips were swollen from kissing when he finally let Matthew go who knew how many minutes later. “Ready to see where the other half lives?” The pejorative made Matthew frown. “You’re not ‘other’ anything.” “It’s only a turn of phrase.” “Don’t. ‘Other’ makes you sound like less than you are.” Matthew reluctantly detangled himself from Gale and chafed his arms. The warehouse might dazzle the eyes, but like any cave it was chilly. “You’re more than what you seem, Gale. Don’t put yourself down.”

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“Ha!” Gale seems to approve of that. He chucked Matthew’s chin. “Good on you, and I won’t mock myself if you don’t have a go at yourself. Fair?” Matthew’s mouth opened and closed. “I don’t—” “The hell you don’t. I can see in there.” Gale tapped Matthew’s forehead. “Not literally, no, but it’s written on your face and dampening the glow in your eyes. You’ve spent all night wondering ‘how could a bloke like me get so lucky?’” Matthew fidgeted, uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation.

“How about

‘extra’, then? Extraordinary? That suits you.” He could tell he hadn’t distracted Gale, not one little bit. Gale assessed him thoughtfully. “Don’t think you’ve dodged this bullet for long,” he warned, confirming Matthew’s suspicion. “And it’s not me being conceited, mind. You feel free as a bird here, don’t you?” Matthew blinked. “I…” “You do.” Gale snagged Matthew by the collar and reeled him in for a hasty kiss, artless, their teeth clacking before they softened, lips clinging. “Kingsoak is a rare place,” Gale said when he pulled away. “Extraordinary doesn’t do it justice.” “Or you,” Matthew admitted, unable to look away from Gale, who glowed with zest for life and enjoyment in living. “You’re both…” He raised his hands helplessly. “I don’t know how to describe it.” “You’ll figure it out.” Gale kissed the top of Matthew’s head and took him by the wrist. “Just through here.” He indicated a narrow service hallway to their left. Peering down the dim length, Matthew could barely make out a door at the far end. As they approached, Matthew’s jaw dropped in wonder. The most intricate, wildly coloured and amazing graffiti yet decorated the entrance to Gale’s home, an interlocking puzzle of rings and loops and whorls, at first as dazzling as LSD spider webs, then breathtaking with its intricacy. Matthew reached out to touch before he thought. Gale laughed at him, though not with malice. “Like those?” “More than you know,” Matthew said absently, tracing a detailed pattern in cerulean and saffron. “I work at an art museum.”

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“Do you, now? Interesting.” Gale propped himself on the corridor wall. “So these are what, child’s play? Talented amateurism?” “Hardly. It’s masterwork.” Gale made a surprised noise and tried to cough to cover it. Too late. Matthew could be plenty sharp on his own when need be, and turned to stare at Gale. “You did these, didn’t you? All of them.” “Yeah, well,” Gale muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re not so—” “Hey!” Matthew interrupted him. When Gale blinked at him, surprised, Matthew pretended severity. “Our deal,” he reminded Gale. Gale let out a bark of laughter. “There’s good hope for you yet, friend. ‘Spect you could teach me a lesson or two. You do have balls of brass under that thin sensitive skin; you only need a bit of toughening and someone to love you proper every night and send you off in the mornings with a daft smile on your face.” “Speaking of which,” Matthew suggested, feeling free to be bold. He indicated Gale’s door while snaking a hand between them to cup and massage the rigid length of Gale’s cock, the denim of his jeans damp over the head. Matthew brushed over the tempting organ, more desirous than ever of having it in his mouth, and hooked Gale by the empty belt loops. “I think I owe you a debt. I want to pay up.” “Do you?” Gale changed from introspective to lustful in a heartbeat. “Of your own free will?” “And then some.” “How much so?” “Either get me inside and fuck me now, or I’ll explode.” “Ha! Good enough.” Gale turned the latch and nudged the door open with his foot. “After you.”

**** Once inside Gale’s digs—whatever they might look like; Matthew couldn’t tell in the closer dark—Matthew closed his eyes and inhaled. Unlike the main floor of the warehouse, this smaller space exuded a sense of being lived in, spiced with the scents of man, candle

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wax, and tea. Even if no one had told him so, Matthew thought he’d have known right away that he’d entered a home. “Like it, do you?” Gale murmured in Matthew’s ear, wrapping his arms around Matthew from behind. “Shall I turn a light on?” Matthew sighed and relaxed, letting Gale bear him up, it seemed to make both of them happy. “It’s a safe haven, isn’t it?” “It is. So’s all of Kingsoak. ‘Bring me your tired, your hungry and your poor’, right? Not so much of that in the civilised world that I’ve seen, not what folks like me expect if all they know about America’s what they’ve seen on the telly or forgotten after the last O level.” “That’s not just the States,” Matthew objected. “No, true enough, it’s not. There’re places like this, too, everywhere there’s a hard, cold world that don’t care for misfits. Them who don’t get a fair shake otherwise; for them, there’s Kingsoak. We take care of our own.” “It sounds too good to be true,” Matthew admitted, turning in Gale’s arms to face him and steal a lingering, lazy kiss. Gale had been right—once Matthew had taken the edge off his sexual hunger, he was good to make his second round and Gale’s first last for ages. “Too good or not, it’s still true.” Gale rocked his hips, brushing the iron firmness of his cock against Matthew’s, full and nestled snugly behind his fly. “All I’ve lacked so far is someone to come home to.” Matthew stilled. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying,” Gale informed him before pulling back Matthew’s collar, all the better to use his mouth on Matthew’s throat and collarbone, “that I’m planning on winning your heart as well as your body on the strength of that marker.” “Gale…” Matthew pushed him back. To his credit, Gale went, though the Brit growled low in his throat at being distanced from the prize he so obviously wanted to claim. He rotated his neck, the motion sensed more than seen in the lack of light, and said, “You’re not used to hearing that, are you? Anyone caring for your heart?” Matthew’s throat wanted to close up on him. “I can’t—I don’t—” He gave up. “Just fuck me. Would you?” He felt for Gale’s erection, still solid and still tucked away in his jeans,

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and stroked up the length. “I want this,” he whispered, leaning forward until his words touched Gale’s lips. “This’ll make me happy.” Gale shuddered softly. “That’s not all I want.” “I know. But—for now?” Matthew kissed Gale, needy and hungry, plundering Gale’s mouth. “Okay?” he asked when he broke away in need of air. “I’ll not fuck you,” Gale said, sounding as if he’d gritted his teeth as soon as the kiss paused. “I’ll make love to you later, if you like.” “But this—” “I’m not a boy, that I can’t wait, and I care about more’n getting my rocks off.” Matthew had never thought he’d have cause to hate a sense of nobility. “Fine,” he snapped, seizing Gale’s hand and dragging it to his own urgent hard-on, moulding it tight and rocking into the delicious friction and pressure. “If you care so much about me—” and Matthew didn’t know how he could; there wasn’t any such thing as love at first sight. Was there? “—then help me out.” “Careful, love, or you’ll tempt me too far.” Despite his words, Gale’s nimble fingers flicked open the top button on Matthew’s trousers and drew the zipper down, its rasp loud in the quiet only otherwise broken by the raggedness of their breathing and the sound of blood rushing in Matthew’s ears. “How can I do this if I’ll never see you again? I’m not that kind of man.” “Maybe not.” Matthew reached for Gale’s cock and tried to force his hand inside the man’s tattered jeans. “I want to give this to you, too,” he murmured, almost too softly for Gale to hear him. “Let me?” Gale groaned. He took Matthew by the waist and pulled him along as he took three steps backward and came up against a wall. “You’re a menace, you are,” he said, voice shaking slightly. “Only this and nothing more.” He groped Matthew’s ass and pulled their groins flush together, then rocked into the cut of Matthew’s hipbone. “Promises to keep.” He thrust, the blunt solidness of his cock and the rough denim abrading Matthew’s naked erection. “All right?” “Yes,” Matthew replied. He reached out blindly and found the wall with his palms, bracing himself, and copied Gale’s lazy thrust-and-roll. Gale arched and hissed, teeth coming

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together with a clack of bone on bone. His grasp on Matthew’s ass tightened as he increased speed. Matthew lost himself to the heat and pressure, the sound of Gale’s soft uh, uh, uh grunts and gave himself up to the frantic kisses Gale could snag. He tasted Gale everywhere he could, clumsily landing his lips over cheekbones, jaw, beneath Gale’s chin, and as often as he could, sucked on Gale’s nimble tongue. “God, you...” Gale breathed, losing his rhythm, the rocking of his hips becoming irregular, off-centre. His hard muscles quavered with what Matthew knew was an effort not to lose it. “I’d have made this last.” “Shhh.” Matthew sealed his mouth over Gale’s and rested his weight fully on one hand. This time, when he opened Gale’s fly, Gale didn’t demur or tease, only thrust hard and eager into Matthew’s palm. Reckless and far more courageous than he’d ever known himself to be, blood burning hot with a fierce need for completion, he licked over Gale’s lips while he gathered the strings of slippery fluid dripping down Gale’s shaft, then teased one finger down to Gale’s balls, drawn high and knotted tight. “What…what are you…” Gale asked breathlessly. “I love this,” Matthew said, biting the underside of Gale’s jaw. “Maybe you will, too.” He rolled Gale’s nuts, tugging gently, then slipped his finger beneath and pressed at the dimple of Gale’s perineum, sharp and hard. “Oh, fuck—” Gale gasped as he came. His cock spasmed, releasing creamy spurts of cum with enough force to splatter Matthew’s chest. Matthew devoured Gale’s mouth, working his shaft, easing him down.

“You too,” Gale insisted, breathless, kneading

Matthew’s ass. He dug his fingers into the crease, the pressure and promise enough despite the cloth barrier, to flood Matthew’s head with the knowledge of what it’d be like for Gale to spread him and finger him open. Matthew hissed, bit down on Gale’s shoulder, and, shuddering, released the heavy load of semen from his aching balls. Warmth and wetness spread between them, both men moaning their way through their completion. Matthew fell into Gale, his strength deserting him. He reluctantly released Gale’s softening cock and sought out one last press of mouth to mouth, no skill left to make it a kiss, but a caress all the same. Gale rearranged the distribution of their limbs so that he cradled Matthew, nearly rocking him.

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“I’ve not changed my mind,” Gale said in the darkness. “I want you to stay with me, love. For good.” “God. Don’t ask. I can’t,” Matthew tried to protest even as he tried to burrow further into Gale’s strong, capable arms and soak up his warmth. “You’re sending me mixed messages, you are, and here’s the thing.” Gale stroked the back of Matthew’s head, and nosed half-kisses over his temple. “You ‘n me, Matthew, we’ve got something between us. Did from the start, when you had the brass ones to bet against me winning the street fight.” “Why do you do that, anyway?” Matthew muttered. “Do what, bare my heart and soul, or fight?” “Either. Both.” Gale sighed. “For the latter, it’s ‘cos we need colour and life and a bit of excitement ‘round here same as everywhere else to keep the spark alive, yeah? Gives folk something to look forward to of a weeknight.” He tugged Matthew’s ear. “And so far as the former goes? There’s no point in hiding your heart, not if you know it’s pointed true. I see more’n you’re willing to see in yourself.” “How could you—” “‘Cos I don’t look with my eyes alone. I listen to you, I feel your body rise, so eager for the excitement, all crazy to be free, and I know you want the kind of life you could find here. With me.” Gale tipped Matthew’s chin up. “Say yes, now. Say you’ll stay with me.” Matthew shut his eyes tightly. He wanted to. God, did he ache to say “yes”, and stay here in this mad artist’s dream for the rest of his life. The real world had nothing to compare, and Matthew knew his lonely bed would be far emptier now that he’d tasted what a passionate lover like Gale, who actually cared about Matthew’s pleasure, could do for him. But…how could he walk away from his job, his responsibilities, his life? “Love?” Gale inquired, nosing under Matthew’s jaw, sucking on the soft spot beneath Matthew’s ear. “What d’you say?” Matthew loathed himself for a coward, but he couldn’t make any other answer. He was too old to run away from home, and he had obligations in the real world. “I’m sorry. No. I can’t.”

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Gale exhaled heavily and sagged against the wall. “I’m sorrier than you say you are, to hear those words and know you think they’re true.” “Gale, that’s not fair. I —” “No.” Gale covered Matthew’s lips with his fingers. “What’s said is said, and you’ve made your choice. Your marker’s paid by your own free will; there’s an end to it, and it’ll be time to get you back to where you came from. I’ll walk you home.”

**** The sun rose in seemingly slow increments as Gale led Matthew back to the city, as if time itself dragged its heels to match the growing uncertainty in Matthew’s thoughts. Gale’s crazy for even asking, he argued within himself. A man can’t just up and leave his entire life. Is it a life worth keeping? a small inner voice asked. To that, Matthew had no answer. He shook his head and attempted to wipe his thoughts clean as he walked by Gale’s side, step by step. The dawning daylight illuminated the inner circles of Kingsoak, the tumbledown warehouses and abandoned factories, with merciless clarity. Yet though they were ramshackle, the last thing they were in need of was a coat of paint. Gale’s inspired graffiti decorated at least a patch of each building in wild, intricate swirls or Escheresque interlocking patterns. Beautiful? Beautiful wasn’t strong enough of a word for the fierce pride and magnificence of the designs. To think of leaving them behind forever wounded Matthew’s art loving soul. He tried to slow down, to savour the sight of each one, but every time Gale glanced at him, one eyebrow lifted and, shamed, Matthew quickened his pace again. His legs ached with the effort of keeping up after his night’s strain and effort, he was desperately in need of a shower and a cup of coffee, and the thought of never seeing Gale again tore at him with the sharpness of a knife. I can’t, Matthew argued with his stubborn, gnawing doubts. It’d be the stupidest move I ever made, tossing everything in for a chance with a man I’ve only known for a handful of hours. Do you really think that, or are you trying to convince yourself? the inner voice rebutted.

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Indignant, Matthew drew to a full stop. Three steps ahead of him, Gale did the same. Before Matthew could open his mouth, Gale beat him to it and nodded at a bend in the cracked road. “Just up there, and through a ways,” he said, his voice toneless. “That’ll take you as far out as you need to get to your car. Mind, I’m not sure how much’ll be left of the poor machine. It’s not quite Kingsoak proper here and there’s a good few toughs who don’t mind our laws.” Matthew blinked. “Laws?” Gale screwed up his face. “Did you not see the way we work back there?” he asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “How clean the streets are kept, how the only fights are in the ring, nor how no one bothered us a bit?” Matthew glanced back at the streets they’d just walked through, frowning. He’d seen, but he hadn’t analysed. “I—” “Kingsoak takes care of its own,” Gale said, lifting his shoulders in the smallest of shrugs. “Could take proper care of you, too. We collect the misfits here—and don’t you go getting offended, now, ’misfit’ is what you are. I can see the emptiness in you when you think of going back to your old life, and I can bloody well hear the arguments rattling around in your skull.” “Please. Don’t.” “Sorry, love, but I have to.” Gale closed the distance between them swiftly and surely. He reached to cup Matthew’s cheek, feathering strokes of his thumb directly under Matthew’s eye, gentle as a breath. “Can’t let you go without a fight, can I?” Matthew tried to backpedal. “You don’t even know my last name.” “Doesn’t matter, does it? I know your heart.” “Stop it.” “Try and make me, if you like.” Gale regarded Matthew with the sort of frank intensity inherent to his nature, a penetrative sort of gaze Matthew simply wasn’t accustomed to in the world he came from. “I’ll ask you what you’ve got to go back to, though I know the answer isn’t anything warm or welcoming. What’s there that’s so important?” “Gale…people don’t just do what you’re asking. Run away from home, drop everything.”

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“Most of the folks who live in Kingsoak now have done. We’re a ragged lot of outlaws, and we make up a family together. But that’s not what I asked, is it? Why can’t you leave? Is it because you don’t want to?” “I—” Matthew fell silent. Gale seized the advantage and pressed his case with the precise savagery of a tiger shark. “You do want to.” “I can’t.” Gale curled his fingers around Matthew’s arm and pulled him closer. “Can’t is another word for won’t.” “Not always,” Matthew protested, recognising how weak his objections had become. He wanted to stay. More than anything. But… “In this case, they’re one and the same word.” Gale slipped his arm around Matthew’s waist and held him steady. “We could have something right good together, you and me. I’m sure of it. It’s a surer thing than chancing your luck out there,” Gale said, infusing his last two words with a distaste that spoke worlds of the cold, callous cruelty in the big city. “You’ll have to do better than that. Tell me what’s out there that’s so important, eh? Got a man to go home to?” Matthew bit his lip. He couldn’t lie. Gale would see through any falsehoods, and he couldn’t make himself utter them when faced with the compelling green of Gale’s eyes. “No. There’s no one.” “No family, either? Mum and Dad, brothers or sisters?” Matthew shook his head mutely. “D’you want a man?” Gale leaned to touch his forehead to Matthew’s, then moved slightly so their lips brushed with each syllable. “D’you want a man who’ll be heart-glad to see you at the end of every long and weary day? Who’ll drink a pint with you to ease off your troubles, shower with you and wash off the cares weighing you down, who’ll go to his knees to suck you dry—who’ll not just fuck you mad, though he’ll do that, too—who’ll sleep with you, in the same bed? Or who’ll stay awake with you till dawn if that’s what you choose?”

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Matthew began to tremble, a fine quavering in his weary limbs and his hands. “Of course I do. Everyone wants that.” “Then methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.” Gale kissed him gently. “Not everyone wants the dream you’ve pictured, love. Only them with common sense, which is most uncommon these days. So tell me true what’s calling you back so strong that you daren’t take a chance on love.” “My job—” “Do you love your work, then?” This Matthew could answer without hesitation. “Yes. I do. It’s challenging and there are long hours, but I couldn’t live in a world without art.” He looked over Gale’s shoulder, his gaze landing coincidentally on the last of Gale’s breathtaking designs in spray paint. “I do love my job,” he said, almost breathless. “Then keep it.” Gale tapped Matthew’s chin to draw his attention back to Gale. “No one says you have to stop earning bread out there. I’m not asking you to disappear forever, just to make this your home you come to at night. To give you and me a chance and see what becomes of us. I said I’d keep you, and I’m a man of my word. And it’s what I want with my whole heart. I suspect you do, too, only you’re deliberately blinding yourself.” “It’s too good to be true,” Matthew blurted. “I’m sorry. I am.” Gale gazed levelly at Matthew for a moment, then sighed. “Right. Your car’s just ahead, as I’ve told you. Go on, drive back to your life. I won’t stop you.” His abruptness startled Matthew. “But I—” “No. I’ve done arguing.” Gale stepped away, leaving Matthew’s arms cold and empty. “But know this, love. If you change your mind, I’ll have you back. No one who belongs in Kingsoak, no rebel against the harsh ways of the proper world, is ever turned away.” Comprehension, slow to dawn, rolled through Matthew’s mind. “You’re their leader, aren’t you?” he asked, breathless. “You’re the one they all look to.” Gale lifted one shoulder in a nearly flawless gesture encompassing confirmation and the acceptance of his role. He turned away at the end of his motion, fluid as a tiger, and began to walk away. Matthew’s heart twinged with a sharp pain. “Gale?”

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Gale said nothing as he progressed further, already smaller in the artistic perspective. Soon, he’d be gone. Matthew stood frozen with indecision. Now or never, the inner voice prodded Matthew. He inhaled sharply as he finally recognised the intonations. The part of him that knew better than to argue for a stubborn return to a life that didn’t want him spoke with Gale’s voice. Matthew squeezed his eyes shut. His heart in his throat, he nevertheless found enough breath to call, “Gale? Wait!” And Gale turned around, the rising sun behind him, its light far less bright than Gale’s smile. “Ready to come home properly now?” he asked.

**** In the real world, passion fades after time has passed, Matthew thought, dropping his head forward on his arms. With Gale, time only makes us better together. He moaned at the exquisite sensation of friction as Gale circled his opening with his thumb, then again in eager anticipation when he heard the twin thump of Gale hitting his knees followed immediately after by Gale spreading open his ass cheeks. Then—oh, God—the best of all, a sensation of warm, wet slickness spearing into him. Matthew shouted for pleasure, demanding more at the same time. “Like this, hey?” Gale fisted Matthew’s cock, pumping slowly, then faster, from base to tip, squeezing the head. Matthew groaned, intoxicated by the mix of arousal and pain. Hurts so good. “Faster,” he urged. “What’ll you give me if I do?” Gale withdrew long enough to tease, but came back immediately after to do as Matthew asked, alternating wet, hot licks at his asshole and thrusts of his tongue inside. He crooned encouragements while Matthew swore and licked salty sweat off his lips. “Close,” Matthew warned, the taut heaviness and growing ache in his balls increasing.

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“Good,” Gale said, his breath searing in Matthew’s ass. He bit one ass cheek, thrust his tongue inside the opening and inserted a finger on the slickness of his own saliva. At the same time, he rubbed hard over the leaking slit of Matthew’s cock head. “Give it up for me, now.” Matthew pounded the dresser with his fists, scrabbling his nails uselessly across the surface, bucked into Gale’s hand and shot, cock jerking in spasms, coating Gale’s hand and splattering both of them. As soon as Matthew could, he laughed, out of breath, his chest heaving. “All you ever have to do is ask,” he observed half in satisfaction and half in wonder. “Once I gave in, that was it. I can’t not give you whatever you want.” “And you’re far the happier for it,” Gale said, thumbing spirals over Matthew’s lean hips. “As am I. Think you’re loose enough for me to fuck you now?” “God, yes.” Matthew forced his body to work with him despite the spreading lassitude following fast on the ecstasy. He spread his legs as wide as he could and still keep his balance, riding the last muscle tremors from his orgasm all the while, and looked over his shoulder at Gale. “Bring it on. Champ.” “And don’t you forget it.” Lewd and wonderful, Gale used Matthew’s cum to lubricate his hole, scissoring his fingers open brusquely. Matthew moaned low and eager, his body alternately tensing and opening for the coming invasion. “So hungry for it,” Gale said, speaking through gritted teeth. He withdrew his fingers and replaced them with the blunt heat of his cock head at Matthew’s ass. “Say pretty please.” “Fuck me.” “Good enough.” Gale sank in without any more playing around, sliding firmly and without hesitation until his balls slapped Matthew’s ass. He grasped Matthew’s cock, working it firm. “Think you can go again?” Gale asked, sliding out and slamming back in. “Think you can get there before I do?” Matthew closed his eyes and let himself swim away on the rush of the building heat in his groin, the delicious ache in his abused cock and the burn in his balls, moving with Gale’s thrusts, pushing back to meet him.

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Gale swore, butting his forehead to Matthew’s shoulder. “Gonna be the death of me,” he choked. His rhythm grew unsteady, the strokes choppy. His thrusts lost their pattern, dragging back only an inch or so and then slamming back home, trying to get deeper every time. Matthew’s second orgasm took him by surprise; he rolled his head on his neck and moaned with pleasure while slimmer strands of cum sprayed up, misting his stomach. As he arched, his muscles reacted and clamped down around Gale, wringing out every drop of bliss. Gale groaned deep within his throat and gripped Matthew’s hip, the driving ache hurting him down to the bone; Matthew knew he’d have fingerprint-shaped bruises there later, and love each one. This time, Matthew was the one to croon to Gale, caressing him with eager, hungry praise as Gale lost his control and came, spilling as deep within as he could go. They came down slowly and together, Gale chuffing breathless laughs on the back of Matthew’s neck. “Never was a happier day than the one I met you,” he said, ghosting caresses over Matthew’s sticky chest. Matthew twisted to look back at Gale, who moved obligingly up so that they were sharing breath, tasting one another. Gale’s face, slack from orgasm and with a sleepy tiger’s look of satisfaction in his eyes, drew ripples of satisfied pleasure through Matthew. “Like I said before,” Matthew said, “You saved me.” “From what?” Gale chuckled, nosing Matthew’s neck. “I know right enough, but I want to hear you say so.” “You saved me from myself, as you know damn well, you cocky British bastard. Now shut up and kiss me.” “Sweeter words were never spoken.” Gale obliged, slipping his tongue between Matthew’s lips. Matthew closed his eyes and surrendered, exhaling a long, contented sigh. It was good to be home.

About the Author Willa Okati can most often be found muttering to herself over a keyboard, plugged into her iPod and breaking between paragraphs to play air drums. In her spare time (the odd ten minutes or so per day she's not writing) she's teaching herself to play the pennywhistle. Willa has forty-plus separate tattoos and yearns for a full body suit of ink. She walks around in a haze of story ideas, dreaming of tales yet to be told. She drinks an alarming amount of coffee for someone generally perceived to be mellow.

Email: [email protected] Willa Okati loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

UNDER THE LAW J.P. Bowie

Dedication For Phil

Trademarks Acknowledgement The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Jockey: BBC: YMCA:

Jockey International, Inc. The British Broadcasting Corporation National Council of Young Men's Christian Associations of the United States of America

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Chapter One

London, 1973 The dark haired, slender young man, dashing up one of London’s busy streets glanced at his watch as he hurried. Peter Buchanan was late. His audition for a part in a new West End musical had run longer than he’d anticipated. Dodging traffic on London’s busy streets, he raced toward the pub where he was meeting his sister Janet for lunch. He hated the idea of keeping her waiting. She’d sounded so distraught on the phone earlier in the day, and he knew the reason—always the same reason—her damned husband, Rob. The Salisbury on St. Martin’s Lane was a lively, busy pub at most times of the day, and especially popular with tourists, but the food was good and the beer reasonable. Britain had recently gone ‘decimal’, and while the Brits struggled to identify the strange new coins they’d been lumbered with, some establishments had taken advantage of the situation, and raised their prices alarmingly, but not the Salisbury. Arriving slightly out of breath, Peter spotted Janet immediately, and his blood boiled when he saw the bruised eye she was sporting. Damn Rob, he thought. Now, I’m really going to lay him out. Tough thoughts, but Peter knew in a bout of fisticuffs he was nowhere in his brother-in-law Rob’s class. The creep had been in the Royal Marines, an elite squad of tough commandos whose reputation was without parallel. Still, Peter would love to land one on that smug, supercilious face. “Janet…” He sat beside her and pulled her into his arms. “Why do you put up with this?” “Because I’m pregnant,” she whispered against his cheek. Peter looked at her, shocked. “You’re pregnant, and he’s hitting you? Why, that fucking bastard—” “He doesn’t know, yet.” “Oh, like that’s an excuse? Janet, you have got to leave him. Go home. Mum and Dad will take care of you until the baby’s born.”

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She nodded. “I know I have to. I want this baby, Peter, and I’m afraid that he’ll…” She choked on the words Peter knew she was trying to say. He held her tightly pressed to him, and kissed her cheek while she cried. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a couple, obviously American, regarding him with some suspicion. Lord, he thought, am I the errant husband trying to placate my wife after a secret affair has come to light, or the bastard boyfriend breaking it off? Either way, I’m a shit, in their opinion. Janet hiccupped and pulled back from his arms. “I need a drink,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “You’re not the only one,” Peter chuckled. “And while I’m getting them, perhaps you’ll explain to the couple giving me the evil eye, that I’m your loving brother, come to give you comfort in your hour of need.” “You do go on,” she said, wiping her eyes and trying to smile. “I’ll have a white wine— a large one. It’ll be the last ‘til after the baby’s born.” When Peter returned with their drinks, he found Janet deep in conversation with the American couple who, by the sounds of it, were encouraging her to go home to Scotland, that beautiful country they had apparently just visited. “And we were so lucky,” the wife gloated. “The weather was so much better than here in London.” “I’ll say you were lucky,” Peter said, plopping down beside Janet and handing over her glass of wine. “Last time I was home, it snowed—in June!”

**** Outside the Salisbury, Peter gave Janet his spare door key. “You can stay the night with me—then, if you want to, we’ll find out about train times.” “Won’t Scott mind my being there?” Peter grimaced. “Scott moved out two months ago. I just haven’t got around to telling you. You’ve had enough worries of your own.” “Oh…I’m so sorry, Peter. I had no idea.” “I know. I should have told you, but you know…”

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“I had worries of my own.” Janet sighed. “Now I feel even worse. You’re always there for me, and where was I when you were all upset and lonely?” “It wasn’t that bad really.” Peter gave her a hug. “Now, off you go. I’ll see you later, when I’m done over at my audition.” “Good luck,” she whispered. “If they don’t take you, they’re daft.” But after his second audition that afternoon, Peter felt that he might be the daft one if he accepted the producers’ offer. After trying to put some life into some of the most insipid dialogue he’d ever read, Peter decided he could care less if he got the part or not. He was quite convinced the show wouldn’t last a fortnight. Peter had migrated to London from Aberdeen, his home town five years earlier with ambitions to become an actor and singer on the West End stage. The first two or three years had been rough, forcing him to temp in offices and wait tables while waiting for his ‘break’. A couple of provincial tours in the chorus and acting as understudy to the leads had garnered him good reviews and an agent who kept him busy in London’s night club scene. Too busy, he sometimes thought, and he’d give it all up for a role in a West End musical or play. Still the steady work was important, and had helped him get over the absence of his boyfriend Scott. Scott… How easily he had charmed Peter with his playful boyishness, and ultimately seduced him with his sensuous kisses. But thinking of Scott now only brought back the heartache of too many broken promises – “I’ll never leave you, Peter. You and I were meant for one another…” Well, now Scott was meant for another all right, and even though their parting had been painful at the time, Peter had survived, and more often than not, actually relished his newfound freedom.

**** The Butterfly Bar, one of the two clubs where Peter sang on a nightly basis, was busier than usual for a Friday night he noticed, as he made his way to the back of the bar where he could change into his evening suit. He’d left Janet at his flat after bringing her an Indian take-

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away from the restaurant on the corner, and strict instructions not to give in to any of Rob’s demands that she should come back to him. He said hello to Pat, the resident piano player, who sat having a smoke in between sets. “Busy night,” Peter remarked. “Bunch of coppers,” Pat said, blowing smoke through his nose. “Celebrating a birthday or something.” “Policemen, eh? What’re they like?” “They like jazz. Dinah’s going down a treat.” “Hmm…better include Green Dolphin Street, I suppose.” “Yes, that’s a good one for you…and maybe one with Dinah…you know like when you and her scat a bit.” “If she’s still sober by then,” Peter said, laughing. “She’s behaving tonight. Only had a couple so far.” Peter looked across the room to where a large group of men were seated. Nice looking lot, he thought. Wonder what they look like in uniform? His eyes were met by one of the men who smiled at him and raised his glass. Well, well. Peter smiled back. Do you have the time, Mr. Policeman? “Hello, Peter.” He turned at the sound of the girlish voice behind him. Dinah Sherman had once been the toast of the West End and New York’s night life—even appearing with Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald at the Blue Note—until the booze had shot her down. The sweet lady with platinum blonde hair loved the gay boys, her two poodles and her bottle of rum—not necessarily in that order. “Hello, Dinah.” Peter gave her a peck on the cheek, trying to ignore the smell of rum. “So, you had a good crowd tonight?” “They loved me,” she crowed, flinging her arms round Peter’s neck. “We’ll duet after your set, okay?” “Okay.” Peter hoped she was still on her feet by then. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find one of the waiters standing behind him, a drink on a tray. “The tall copper sent you this,” he said. “Says to join them for a drink later.” “Tell him I’d be delighted, if he’ll let my mother out of jail.” The waiter gaped at Peter. “Your mother’s in jail?”

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“No, that was a joke—but tell him that anyway.” Peter took the drink then headed back to what was laughingly called ‘the dressing room’. It was a tiny storage room, filled to the ceiling with boxes of restaurant supplies—no booze. That was kept under lock and key in case any of the waiters or performers got a little light-fingered. An even tinier space had been allocated for Peter and Dinah to hang their clothes and change. Peter was gentleman enough to give the space to Dinah while she got ready, but the lady always managed to be in there with him as soon as he dropped his trousers. Like just then… “Hello again, Dinah.” Her eyes lingered over Peter’s Jockey-clad bulge. “I was thinking we could do Lady is a Tramp as our duet,” she cooed. “Do you know it?” “Yes, I know it. We did it last week, remember?” “Oh,” she giggled. “That’s right…silly of me.” Peter sighed and pulled off his shirt. “You do know I’m gay, don’t you Dinah?” She giggled again. “Of course, I know, but you can’t stop me from dreaming.” The fact that she was old enough to be his mother didn’t seem to faze her either, but Peter was too kind to mention that. He slipped on the bright red silk shirt he was wearing for the show. “What d’you think?” he asked. “Honey, you’d look good in my father’s hand-me-downs—or even better, in nothing at all.” She reached behind him and patted his bottom. “Oooh…” She shivered dramatically. “Get your trousers on before I get the idea you’re trying to seduce me.” Peter chuckled, zipping up his trousers. He gave himself a quick check in the mirror, then followed Dinah across the club floor as she got ready to introduce him. Grabbing the mike she cooed, “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for you to sit back and enjoy the vocal stylings of the man with the golden voice—let’s hear it for Mr. Peter Buchanan!” The group of police officers gave Peter a good hand as he walked on stage carrying his microphone and the drink one of them had sent him. He raised the glass to the table. “Cheers!” he exclaimed then launched into his opening number, For Once In My Life. His set went well, and he couldn’t help but notice that the man who’d smiled at him earlier seemed to be thoroughly enjoying every song, even going so far as to shush the other men if they starting talking. Then Dinah arrived, a little unsteady on her dainty feet.

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“Isn’t he wonderful?” she gushed. “Let’s have a big hand for my favourite man, Peter Buchanan!” The band played the intro for the duet, and off they went, Dinah leaning heavily on Peter for physical and vocal support. He reckoned she must have played catch-up on her drinking. Somehow, they got through it, even though he had to prompt Dinah on the lyrics every now and then. To a smattering of applause, Peter helped Dinah off the stage and led her to a corner table, where she slumped down, a dazed expression on her face. He found a waiter and ordered her some strong coffee. “Don’t leave without me,” Peter told her sternly. “I’ll see you home.” Then he walked over to the ‘police table’. “Gentlemen,” he said, nodding politely. “I hope you’re enjoying your evening.” A chorus of “Very much,” “You were super,” and polite smiles greeted him. “Sit and have a drink with us,” the one who’d smiled at him earlier said. “I’m John Reed, this is Harry, Clive, Bob, Alan and Alaister. We’re from the Tottenham Court Road station.” He waved a waiter over. “What’ll it be?” “Vodka tonic, please. What’s the celebration?” “John got promoted to Inspector,” the one called Harry explained. “Congratulations, Inspector Reed,” Peter said, smiling at the man and liking what he saw. John Reed was handsome, with close-cropped fair hair, twinkling blue eyes, and a ready smile. Peter guessed he was about thirty, thirty-one. He found himself gazing at John’s lower lip. It was full, and inviting. Peter gave himself a little shake and grabbed for the drink the waiter held out to him. “Cheers,” he said. “And congratulations again.” Everyone raised their glasses and another round was ordered. “You’re Scottish,” John observed, looking at Peter with unabashed admiration in his eyes. “Mmhmm…from Aberdeen.” “Nice town. How long have you been living in London?” “Six years. Are you a Londoner?” “Born and bred in Wimbledon.”

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“So, what’s your Mum in jail for?” Harry asked, interrupting their conversation. Peter laughed, and the others joined in. “I knew he was joking,” Harry mumbled, going red in the face. “Do you have another show tonight?” John asked. “Yes, but not here, I’m afraid. It’s over at the Lido in Soho, and…” He looked across the room to where Dinah sat propping up her head in her hands. “…I have to see Dinah home first. She’s a little in her cups, and I don’t want her wandering about at this time of night. I’ll get a taxi to take her home, then I’ll go on to the club.” John’s eyes met Peter’s in a look of admiration. “That’s very nice of you, Peter.” He leaned in closer, and murmured, “But how will you get home?” “That’s easy. I live just round the corner from the club—on Charing Cross Road.”

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Chapter Two

Lord, Peter thought, as he leaned back against the taxi seat with some relief after dropping off Dinah. What a day—and night. The only bright spot so far had been in meeting Inspector John Reed. He hadn’t missed the obvious message in the policeman’s eyes, and he hoped John had seen that Peter liked him, too. Still, a copper. Problems there, for sure. Better put that one right out of your little head, he told himself. But I wouldn’t mind giving him a little head. It was a dead night at the Lido Club. Located on Frith Street, just off Old Compton Street, it was generally a lively spot, picking up some patrons from Ronnie Scott’s jazz club after they’d closed for the night. But for some reason, there were few people about as Peter got out of the taxi and ran down the long flight of stairs that took him into the dimly lit, smoky club. He’d been performing there for over a year, and he didn’t mind the place since it happened to be within walking distance from his flat. Even late at night, he’d never had a problem getting home from this notoriously seedy part of the West End. After saying hello to the trio, he ran to the men’s room and tidied up. Some of Dinah’s face powder was evident on his jacket lapel, and his hair needed combing. He sighed as he gazed at his reflection in the pockmarked mirror and hummed a few bars of There’s Gotta Be Something Better Than This! Denny Forbes, the comedian who preceded him, had seen him come in and was starting to introduce him, eager to get away from the non-receptive audience. “No peace for the wicked,” Peter muttered, straightening his jacket and walking onstage, all smiles. Grabbing the mike from Denny, he was about to start his first song when he spotted John Reed sitting by himself at a corner table. Well, well…maybe there would be something better than this, after all. His set finished, he wandered over to where John sat, a big smile on his face. “Hello again,” Peter said, sitting opposite him. “This is a nice surprise.” John’s smile got even bigger. “I think I’m becoming your number one fan. You’re really very good, you know.”

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“Thank you.” Peter returned his smile with a shy one of his own. “I’m trying not to blush.” Their eyes met, and to Peter’s amazement, John covered his hand with his own. “I wouldn’t have thought you guilty of false modesty.” He squeezed Peter’s hand gently, and Peter did blush as his cock hardened at the other man’s touch. John’s hand was dry and warm. Strong. Peter shivered as a sudden vision of John’s naked body pressed to his flashed into his mind. Oh, my god, control yourself. “I ordered you a drink,” John said, still holding Peter’s hand. “You don’t have to get me drunk, you know.” “That’s good.” He looked up and released Peter’s hand as the waiter arrived with the drink. “But I think I need one right about now.” Peter chuckled then took a long sip. He winked at John. “You’re a man of many surprises, aren’t you?” “How so?” “Well, sending me drinks, showing up here alone, holding my hand—which by the way, felt very nice.” “Yes, it did.” John’s smile was slow and sexy. “Can I surprise you some more with a confession?” “I can’t wait.” “I think you are the most attractive man I have ever met.” “Now I really am blushing,” Peter said, laughing. “I mean it. Those green eyes of yours are a distinct turn on.” “Well, thank you…” Peter reached across the table and touched John’s fingers. “So, what happens now?” “Don’t you live just around the corner?” “Inspector!” Peter laughed. “What are you suggesting?” John grinned at him and ran his fingertips over the back of Peter’s hand, sending shivers all through the young man’s body. “I think you’re not that naïve.” “No, I’m not.” Then his smile faded as he remembered. “Damn.”

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“What’s wrong?” “My sister…oh, shit…she’s staying the night. Her bastard husband has been smacking her around. She’s pregnant, and—” “Wait.” John leaned across the table, staring into Peter’s eyes, his own now hard and cold. “Has she reported this to the police? Beating up a pregnant woman, any woman for that matter, is a criminal offence.” “Believe me, John, I’ve tried to get her to go to the police. She won’t hear of it. The sad thing is she still loves the oaf.” John shook his head. “The times I’ve heard that one.” “And now that I’ve remembered her—and feeling like a complete shit for not doing so earlier—I have to go.” Peter rose from the table. “I’m sorry about this, John.” “I’ll walk you home.” “Oh, there’s no need.” “Yes, there is.” He gave Peter a quick smile. “And don’t ever argue with the law.” “Sorry ossifer,” Peter joked. John threw some pound notes onto the table. “Let’s go.” Peter had to admit it felt good having John’s tall, wide-shouldered presence striding along at his side as they made their way through the darkened streets. He stole occasional glances at the handsome man and smiled to himself. Damn, but John was attractive. “So, you walk this every night?” John asked. “Uh huh. I’ve never had an escort before.” That wasn’t exactly true as Scott used to sometimes meet him at the Lido and walk back home with him—in the days when Scott cared enough to do that. “These streets can get rowdy some nights.” “Yes. I’ve been lucky, I suppose,” Peter remarked. “A friend of mine was chased up Charing Cross Road one night by a knife-waving thug.” John chuckled. “And what d’you suppose your friend did to deserve that kind of attention?” “Ah well, he wouldn’t say exactly. But knowing Terry, it was probably something quite outrageous. Here we are,” Peter said as they stopped at an imposing oak door with Victorian carvings. He pulled his door key from his jacket pocket. “I’m sorry I can’t ask you up.”

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“So am I.” John produced a notepad from inside his coat. “What’s your phone number?” He scribbled down the number Peter gave him then stowed the pad back in his pocket. “Can we step inside for a moment or two? I’d like to say goodnight properly.” Peter’s hand trembled from anticipation as he inserted the key into the lock. A goodnight kiss. John’s lips on his. That plump, full, lower lip to nibble on. He was hard again. He pushed open the door, and suddenly, he was wrapped in John’s arms, his mouth covered by a moist, sexy warmth that brought him an instant brain meltdown. He was dimly aware of the door slamming shut behind them, then it was all John and only John he could hear, and feel and smell. Peter’s long drawn out gasp of pure pleasure was trapped when John’s tongue slipped into his mouth, sliding over and caressing every part it could reach. Peter wound his arms tightly around John’s neck, holding him a willing prisoner while their tongues tussled inside each other’s mouths. Peter shivered with delight as John reached inside his shirt, stroking and caressing his bare skin. His body bucked as John’s hand then slipped inside his fly, holding his erect cock in his warm grasp, slowly pumping it with a sure, steady stroke. Peter buried his face against John’s neck, inhaling his maleness overlain with a faint touch of cologne. His hands roamed over the taller man’s body, finding that part of him that throbbed and pushed against its confinement. Feverishly, Peter pulled at John’s belt and opened his fly, releasing his impressive erection. His breath quickened as he grasped the hot, hard flesh. Both men groaned as their orgasms tugged at their balls. “Wait, oh, wait,” Peter murmured, unwilling to let this exquisite feeling go. “Don’t hold back,” John whispered into his ear. “Let me feel you come.” They came together, their bodies shuddering as their orgasms surged through them, their semen coating each other’s hands in creamy warmth. Their mouths joined again in a long and rapturous kiss, then John brought his fingers, glistening with Peter’s semen to his mouth and slowly licked at the opaque essence of their union. Peter watched, feeling a sensuous charge flit through his body, then he too raised his hand to his lips and licked at John’s semen. “That was beautiful,” he whispered. “Tell me I’ll see you again.”

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“You will.” John smiled into Peter’s eyes. “But not in a draughty doorway!” They chuckled together, then John had produced a large white handkerchief which they used to clean up. They straightened their clothes, zipped up then kissed again. They could taste one another in that kiss, and it caused a spark of desire to rekindle in both of them. “Dear God,” Peter murmured. “I feel like I can’t let you go.” “Hold on to that feeling,” John said, his voice smoky with desire. “’Til the next time.” After another, even longer kiss, he whispered, “Goodnight, Peter.” “Goodnight, John. Thank you. For everything.” Just before he moved away, John gripped Peter’s arm. “If your sister needs any help,” he said, gruffly, “you know where I am.” Peter nodded. “Thank you.” He closed the door quietly behind John’s tall figure then made his way up the winding staircase leading to his second floor flat. Once inside, he peeked into the bedroom, happy that Janet was fast asleep. He made his way into the kitchen and saw the note she’d left him.

Dear Peter, Thank you for letting me stay here tonight. Rob phoned and was his usual petty self, blaming me for everything and you for listening to my lies! I have decided to leave him and go home to Mum and Dad, at least until I have the baby. I called King’s Cross and reserved a seat on the eleven AM train. Perhaps you could go with me to the station if you haven’t got appointments? See you in the morning. Love, Janet

“Thank goodness,” he muttered, pouring himself a glass of water. He carried it and the note into the living room and sat on the couch, staring into space, remembering what had just passed between him and Inspector John Reed. Who would have guessed that such a shitty day could have such a wonderful ending? He could still feel the warmth of John’s skin, taste him on his tongue, and he hesitated before drinking his water. Sorry to wash away a part of the grand time you gave me, he thought. But you made me very thirsty!

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**** The days that followed his sister’s departure were hectic ones for Peter. His agent, Morrie, phoned to say another West End club was interested in having him appear there three nights a week and could he manage to fit it in? “The money’s good, Peter,” Morrie said to encourage him. “And you know they play host to Princess Margaret and her crowd. Good prestige for you, my boy.” Peter groaned mentally. Nightclubs were not where he wanted be—good money or not. “Nothing in the theatre?’ he asked. “Not yet, but I’m still keeping my ear to the ground for you.” “All right. I’ll do it, but try and get me a rehearsal with the musicians. I hate going in cold.” “Will do, my boy, will do.” But of course, he didn’t, and the first night at the new club was less than stellar. Peter left there in a bad mood, blaming himself more than anyone else, but nevertheless disappointed that it had not gone better. He had to admit, too, that part of his bad mood was due to the fact that he had not had the promised phone call from John. He’d tried to tell himself a policeman’s life was a busy one, particularly for John as he’d just been promoted. He’d get around to phoning eventually. Still… Peter’s mood got progressively worse as he turned onto Old Compton Street and saw Rob, his brother-in-law, standing on the corner of Frith Street, obviously waiting for him. “Oh no,” he groaned. “Just what I don’t need tonight.” “Peter!” Rob marched straight at him, his face a scowling mask. “Sorry, Rob, I’m late for my set at the Lido—” “Too fucking bad,” Rob snarled, catching Peter by the arm. “You’re going to call that sister of yours and tell her to come back where she belongs. Your mother won’t let me talk to her.”

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“I’ll do no such thing,” Peter seethed, twisting from Rob’s grip. “She’s better off without you.” Peter glared at the other man for a moment. “You know, I should punch your lights out for what you’ve done to Janet. She’s pregnant, you bastard, and you were still slapping her around!” “You’re threatening me?” Rob laughed in Peter’s face. “You little poufter. You think I’m scared of you? What are you going to do? Hit me with your handbag?” “No, with this.” Peter punched Rob squarely on his chin, sending the other man reeling backwards, more from surprise than the force of the blow. Peter held his fist with his other hand. “Ow! That hurt.” “Not as much as this will,” Rob said through gritted teeth and punched Peter in the face. Peter went down on his bottom, wincing from the blow then from the vicious kicks Rob delivered to his ribs. “Hey, stop that!” Peter was aware of a woman’s voice raised in anger. “You bloody bully!” He looked up to see Dinah flailing away at Rob with her fists and feet. “Get off me, you old bag!” Rob yelled, but by then, a group of people had gathered and started shouting at Rob to leave the poor old lady alone. “Old lady? Old lady?” Dinah screeched her outrage and delivered another kick, narrowly missing Rob’s balls. “Piss off,” he roared, taking to his heels amid laughter from the crowd. “You can all piss off, too,” Dinah told them, bending over to help Peter to his feet. “You all right, love? Ooh, you’re going to have a nasty bruise on your cheek.” “I’ll have to borrow some of your pan-stick,” Peter joked, trying to sound better than he felt. That bastard had really hurt his ribs. “Who is he, anyway?” Dinah asked as they walked slowly towards the Lido Club. “My brother-in-law, believe it or not. Janet left him last week, and he wanted me to phone her and tell her to go back to him. Stupid arsehole. As if I would, after what he’s done.” “He’s a bad egg,” Dinah muttered. “I’ll buy you a drink when we get inside, love.” Peter felt completely deflated as he sat listening to Denny the comedian vainly trying to amuse a crowd of mostly retired school teachers out for their annual ‘night out on the town’.

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His less than clean jokes just weren’t doing it for the ladies who sat thin-lipped and disapproving through his entire set. “Take my wife…please!” Silence. “If she lived in India, she’d be sacred!” he declared gamely. Once more, silence reigned supreme. Cutting his losses, Denny, quickly introduced Dinah, rolling his eyes at her as he handed her the mike. Poor Dinah didn’t fair much better. Her platinum hair and sparkly dress drew sniffs of displeasure from the frosty crones. Dinah did not help matters by asking at one point if she should phone for the undertakers. “Thanks, Dinah,” Peter groaned as he prepared to go on. His face and ribs were still throbbing from Rob’s vicious attack, his head ached and he felt more like puking than singing. Who the hell said the show must go on? As he took the mike from Dinah, his head buzzed, and he staggered, dizzied for the moment by the pain. He fell to his knees, holding his side. “Oh, how disgusting,” he heard one old biddy say. “He’s drunk!” “He’s not drunk,” Dinah yelled at the startled women. “He got beaten up outside!” “I’ll take care of this.” The strong deep voice at his side made Peter look up through pain-filled eyes. “John,” he gasped. “Come on, let me help you up, Peter.” Before the amazed eyes of everyone in the room, John lifted Peter into his arms and carried him off the stage. “Bet you’ve never seen anything like that before in your miserable old lives,” Dinah taunted the women’s group. “Old bitches!” she added under her breath. The band quickly launched into a rendition of There’s No Business Like Show Business. John carried Peter to a deserted corner of the room and laid him down on a bench. He called over a waiter and asked for some ice and a damp cloth—and a large brandy. Gently, he smoothed back Peter’s hair from his forehead and gazed into his eyes with a worried look. “Who did this to you?” “My brother-in-law. But I punched him first.”

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“The swine kicked him when he was down,” Dinah said, peering over John’s shoulder. “Got him in the ribs.” John frowned. “You should be at the hospital, Peter. He could’ve cracked a couple of your ribs.” “I’ll be fine…but thanks for what you did. I really don’t think I could’ve got up by myself.” “You shouldn’t have even tried to go on.” He took the cloth and ice from the waiter and laid it on Peter’s cheekbone. “We need to have your ribs x-rayed.” “No, really, I’ll be all right.” “Please don’t argue. I’m taking you over to Charing Cross Hospital as soon as you can stand up.” He smiled down at Peter. “My car’s outside—at your disposal.” “Ooh, Peter!” Dinah exclaimed as John lifted him to his feet. “Fancy, you being taken away by the police!”

**** Three hours later, John and Peter left the hospital, Peter’s ribs securely strapped up, but with the good news that only one had a hairline crack and would heal quickly if he was careful and rested. “Well,” John said ruefully as he helped Peter into the car. “There go my carnal intentions of ravaging your body tonight.” “Oh?” Peter gave him a cheeky grin. “And just who was going to give you permission to sully my honour, Inspector Reed?” “I was hoping you would. Come on now,” he added, as he settled himself beside Peter. “You know you want it.” Peter laughed then winced as his ribs reminded him of what had happened to them. “Ouch,” he mumbled, holding his side. “Okay, no more jokes.” “Jokes?” John looked at him with mock affront. “Jokes?” “Stop it,” Peter choked. “You’re killing me.” “Sorry.” He pulled away from the kerb and drove towards Peter’s flat. “I’ll just see you safely indoors.”

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“Safe with you?” Peter teased him. “How safe is that?” John gave him a look that was at once both tender and serious. “Very safe, Peter.” Peter covered John’s hand with his own. “Thank you. I’ve missed you since our tooshort time together. I’ve thought of you often.” “Yes, things have been rough since I took over at the station. There’s a lot of catching up to do, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking of you.” “You said you’d phone.” "That’s why I came to the club tonight. It seemed a better idea than just phoning to say, sorry I haven’t phoned.” “I’m glad you did.” There was no parking allowed outside Peter’s flat, so they drove around for a bit until they found an empty space two streets away. “I could carry you,” John offered. Peter chuckled. “As much as I would love that—and for all my jealous friends to see it—I really think I should walk. I’ll be fine.” He did let John help him up the stairs as the climb proved difficult. “You need to take those pain-killers as soon as you get inside,” John said, his arm around Peter. “No argument there,” Peter said, panting slightly. “Come on in.” “Nice place,” John said, looking around. “How’s your sister by the way?” “Better, now that she’s away from that arsehole of a husband.” “I’ll get you some water, so you can take those tablets.” Peter carefully eased himself onto the couch as John disappeared into the kitchen. He smiled up at John as he came back with a glass of water. John knelt at his feet as Peter popped the tablets into his mouth and took a long drink of water, then he leaned forward and kissed Peter’s moist lips. “Don’t worry, I won’t get you all worked up this time.” “More’s the pity,” Peter murmured, savouring the touch of John’s lips on his. He put his hand behind John’s head and pulled him in for another long, sweet kiss. As their tongues meshed, desire rose in his blood, but when Peter tried to put his arms around John, a knifelike pain in his side caused him to wince. John pulled back, concern etched on his handsome face.

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“We’ll have to wait ‘til you’re better,” he said, his voice low and husky with emotion. “Yes, I’m afraid so,” Peter agreed with regret. “So tell me, where I can find your brother-in-law?” “Earl’s Court, but don’t arrest him, please. He’ll just whine to my sister about how I’m trying to break them up, which of course, I am.” “That wouldn’t be a bad thing, surely?” “No, but it has to be her decision. For some reason, she still loves the bastard.” “Good looking?” “Very. A Royal Marine. All muscles and butch bullshit. If only he lived up to the image he presents. When I first met him, he was Mr. Charming, trying to impress Janet’s big brother. Ugh. If only I’d known then what he was really like. Anyway…” Peter stroked John’s face gently. “Thank you again for looking after me. I think you must be the knight in shining armour every gay boy dreams of meeting.” John’s eyes clouded for a moment. “Don’t put me up on a pedestal, Peter. I might not live up to your expectations.” “You’ve already exceeded them,” Peter said, smiling through sleepy eyes. “Oh, those pain killers are making me woozy.” “Come on then. Let’s put you to bed.” Gently, John lifted Peter from the couch and carried him into the bedroom. He lowered him onto the bed then stripped him of his shoes, socks, shirt and trousers. “Are you going to have your way with me?” Peter mumbled, only half awake. “Not tonight, although seeing you lying there, naked and defenceless, the temptation is almost too much to resist.” John smiled as Peter closed his eyes and began to snore softly. He covered Peter with the sheet, then bent to kiss his lips. “Sleep tight, sweet prince,” he murmured. “I think I love you.”

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Chapter Three

Peter woke the next morning, feeling like he’d been hit by a ten-ton lorry. After he’d come to terms with the knowledge any movement, like sitting up, was going to cause him exquisite pain, he managed to carefully manoeuvre himself out of bed and, wrapping his arms around his ribs, made it to the bathroom to relieve himself. Looking in the mirror, he grimaced at his bruised face. Bloody Rob. The bastard had put him out work for several days by the looks of things. Not only that, he had completely wrecked his chance of making love to John last night. The phone rang, making him jump then wince as pain spiked his ribcage. “Damn,” he muttered, limping across the bedroom to pick up his phone. “Hello?” “It’s John. How are you feeling?” “Better, thanks.” “Liar.” John chuckled. “I know the day after is nearly always the worst. How’re the ribs?” “Sore. Thanks for seeing me home last night. And sorry you didn’t get to ravish me like you wanted to.” “You mean, like you wanted me to.” “Touché, Inspector. Where are you?” “At the police station. We had an IRA alert early this morning. Turned out to be a false alarm, but it got the boys out of bed faster than they like.” “Why don’t you stop by when you get off duty? Looks like I’ll be flat-bound for the next couple of days or so.” “Uh…I’d like to, but I have some things I have to take care of.” “Oh.” Peter tried not to sound too disappointed. “Well, when you can.” “Maybe tomorrow…but I’ll phone you first.” Peter put down the phone, a strange empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He really would have liked to have seen John. There was something so secure about him. Something

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that made Peter feel safe…and wanted. A wanted man. Isn’t that what policemen went after? Smiling a little at his silly joke, he padded into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Later, he phoned home to see how Janet was doing up in Aberdeen. “She’s pining for that idiot she married,” his father told him. Jim Buchanan was a man who did not mince his words. “Your mother’s taken her out shopping for baby clothes. Take her mind off him hopefully, for a wee bit anyway. How are you, son?” “I had a run in with Rob last night. Don’t tell Janet or Mum. He wanted me to tell her to come back to London. Of course, I refused, and we got into a bit of a barney.” “He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Peter chuckled, not about to tell his father about his visit to the hospital. “Don’t fancy my chances against the commando, eh? As a matter of fact I got in the first punch.” “Peter! How’d it go?” “Not for the full ten rounds,” Peter said. “I went down in the first.” “That bastard. I’d like to get my hands on him.” “Wouldn’t we all. Anyway, Dinah—remember her? The blonde bombshell who tried to steal you away from Mum that time you came down on holiday?” “Oh aye, I remember. What about her?” “She’s my new bodyguard. Fairly gave Rob what for. Almost kicked his balls off.” His father laughed then turned serious. “Peter, be careful. There’s no telling what that nasty piece of work is capable of.” “We know what he’s capable of, Dad. Smacking Janet around, the coward.” “Aye…well, she’s not going back to him if I have anything to do about it.” Peter wasn’t so sure, but he spared his father his thoughts on Janet’s seeming fixation on a man who treated her so badly. He’d read about the ‘battered wife syndrome’ and all the reasons for it, but he didn’t understand it. No way would he put up with physical abuse from anyone. He and Scott had had their problems—slanging matches galore—but they’d never resorted to hitting one another. Slapping each other’s bare bottoms was as far as they’d ever gone. And that had been for enjoyment. He wondered what it would be like to slap John’s bare bottom. A nice bottom, he remembered. It had felt round and smooth under his hands. He groaned aloud, feeling the start of an imminent erection. This was going to be a long day.

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**** Around six o’clock, he turned on the TV to watch the news. His interest was immediately sparked by the report of an IRA threat that had the London Metropolitan Police on full alert. But John had said it was a false alarm. And suddenly there he was, his handsome face filling Peter’s television screen as he talked with a BBC reporter. Peter turned up the volume. “So Inspector, one of the terrorists relayed a message to you. What did he say?” “Oh, the usual stuff,” John replied, his voice calm and unruffled despite the press of people around him, jostling and thrusting microphones in his face. “Chap with an Irish accent gave us a list of locations of possible bomb sites. Of course, we checked out all of them immediately and found nothing. However, we are maintaining our highest alert level, just in case this was some kind of diversionary tactic.” So, that’s why he couldn’t come by, Peter thought as John’s image faded from the screen. God, but he looked so damned fine there. He kept watching as a studio newsreader took over. “That was Patrick Johnson interviewing Inspector John Reed only two hours before the Inspector and two other police officers were injured in a bomb blast near Goodge Street Tube Station. All three men were admitted to Charing Cross Hospital, but so far, no report of their condition has been released. In other news…” “No!” Peter leaped to his feet, then doubled over from the pain that shot through his ribs like a knife. “Oh Jesus, John,” he moaned, falling to his knees. His eyes filled with tears of pain, he staggered to the phone and dialled ‘O’. “The number for Charing Cross Hospital, please.” He jotted the number down, then quickly dialled. An engaged signal. He tried again. Still engaged. Of course, everyone would be trying to find out the condition of the officers. Oh, please let him be all right, he prayed silently. He could go over there, but what could he do? There was no chance that he would get to see John. There would be police swarming all over the place. It would be chaos. Maybe there would be some news later.

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His ribs ached from his sudden leap from the couch, so he downed two pain tablets along with a shot of brandy then lay down on the couch, his eyes glued to the TV screen. He awoke to the flickering light of the television screen casting a half light into the room. Groggily, he peered at his watch. Three AM. My God, he thought. I’ve been asleep for hours. John. Would there be news of his condition by now? Gingerly, holding his ribs, he raised himself from the couch. Not too bad. He picked up the phone and dialled the number for the hospital. “Charing Cross Hospital.” “Hello. I’m calling to enquire about Inspector John Reed.” “Are you a family member?” “Yes,” Peter lied. “His cousin Peter, from…uh, Lancashire.” Lancashire? He started to laugh then thought better of it. “Hang on, please.” After what seemed an eternity, the operator was back. “Inspector Reed is in stable condition.” Peter breathed a sigh of relief. “And what about—?” Click. The operator had hung up. “That’s all?” Peter asked the static on the line. “But will he be…all right?” He was alive, that was the main thing. Lord, how had this man, whom he didn’t even know a week ago, suddenly become so important in his life? He let his thoughts drift back to those minutes at the bottom of the stairs when they had held each other, when their lips had met in a kiss so powerfully erotic, that it had seared itself in his memory forever. He closed his eyes and relived that moment when he had first felt John’s warm skin under his hands, the hidden strength in the lean muscles of his torso, and the comforting power in his arms when he’d lifted Peter so effortlessly from the stage at the Lido. He shuddered at the thought of what the bomb blast might have done to that beautiful body. He couldn’t bear to think of John, lying there, maimed for life, maybe missing a limb or an eye. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Stop that now. He’s going to be fine, just fine.”

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After several cups of tea, another pain killer and a hot bath, Peter began to feel much better. Those exercises at the YMCA must have paid off, he thought, struggling into a clean shirt, careful not to irritate his ribs too much. He’d made up his mind to attempt visiting John in the hospital. He could take the Underground down there and walk the short distance without too much trouble. If he couldn’t see him, then at least, he might be able to leave a message saying he’d popped by, just to say hello. His ribs ached slightly as he got off the Tube and walked across the street to the hospital entrance. As he had expected, there were police and reporters mingled with the regular stream of out-patients and visitors swarming in and out of the doors. He let himself be caught in the crowd and was soon inside the cavernous, people-packed registration hall. He decided it was probably better if he didn’t risk being told he couldn’t see John, so he wandered over to the ward directory and scanned the list of options. ‘Special Unit’ had the right sound to it, and it was on the top floor. He could start there anyway, and if he got lost, he’d ask a policeman. There were plenty of them around. He took the lift to the top floor and started looking in each door he passed. After twenty or so doors, he was about to give up when he heard low voices coming from one of the rooms. One deep voice had a familiar ring to it. He pushed the door slightly open and peeked in. His breath caught in his throat as he saw John, propped up in bed, his hand being held by a very attractive, dark-haired woman, who gazed lovingly into his eyes. Peter stepped back quickly before he could be seen. Oh, shit. It had never, not for one moment, occurred to him that John might be married. But, why not? Loads of gay guys got married—and in the police force, it was probably expected. Fool around in your own time, as long as you go back to the little woman at the end of the day. Peter’s shoulders slumped with despair and disappointment. That’s the end of that, he thought. At least, I know he’s okay. “Hello! Peter, isn’t it?” Peter looked into the room from where the voice emanated. At first he didn’t recognise the man in the bed, then he remembered. He was one of the policemen sitting with John in the Butterfly Bat the night they’d first met. What was his name again? “Hello…” Peter entered the room slowly. “Harry…”

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“Right, Harry.” He approached the bed and held out his hand. “So you were in that bombing too?” “Yes,” Harry said, accepting Peter’s handshake. “Good of you to come by to see us. Expect you’ve seen John?” “I looked in…but he already had a visitor.” “Joan, probably.” Joan. So that was his wife’s name. John and Joan…sweet. Peter felt his throat constrict and he coughed into his hand. “So, how are you, Harry?” “Oh, not too bad really. Could have been worse for all of us. They’ve already released Clive…” “That’s good…” He looked behind him as a smiling faced woman bustled in carrying a fruit tray. “Here’s the trouble and strife,” Harry said, beaming. “Gladys, this is Peter. He serenaded us the night we took John out on the town.” “Oh, lovely.” Gladys bent to give her husband a kiss. “Ever so nice of you to visit the lads,” she told Peter. “Least I could do,” Peter murmured. “Well, I’d best be off. Get better soon, Harry. Nice meeting you…Gladys.” A chorus of “Byes” followed him through the door. He dragged his feet to the lift and went back down to the milling crowd that still streamed in and out of the hospital. Maybe I’ll walk back home, he thought. Give me time to put all this in perspective. He walked slowly past Trafalgar Square then headed up St. Martin’s Lane, taking his time, stopping occasionally to look in some shop windows and catch his breath. His ribs throbbed now. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. But he was nearly there. There was pub at the corner up ahead. He could stop there, have a half…get his breath back. It was quiet in The King’s Arms. The barman gave him a quizzical look. “You all right, mate? You look a bit green around the gills.” “Cracked rib,” Peter said, holding his side for effect. “I’ll just have a half of Red Barrel.”

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He found a small table and sat at it, resting his elbows on the well-worn surface and pondering life in general. What a fuck-up. Just when he’d thought he’d found Mr. Right, he’d turned out to be Inspector Wrong. Well, at least he’d found out before he was head over heels in love with the man. “Who’re you kidding?” he muttered into his beer. “You’re already head over heels in love with the man. Damn him.” Married, no less. And he’d seemed so sincere, so genuinely caring. “How safe am I with you?” Peter had asked him, teasingly. John had answered with such seriousness, “Very safe, Peter.” And later, when Peter had thought of that moment, he’d believed it to be true. That his heart would be safe in John’s keeping. But then he’d thought the same about Scott—and look where that had got him. And when he really thought about it, it wasn’t their fault, but his, for believing the lies. Next time, if there was a next time, he’d be much more cynical and not so damned ready to fall in love. Just over a week and his heart was broken. What an idiot you are, Peter Buchanan, he thought. Maybe you should go home to Aberdeen, too. Let Mummy and Daddy look after you, along with your sister. You could share your sob-stories. He threw back the last of his beer and got up, pushing his way out of the bar as he felt impotent anger build inside him—anger at his own gullibility and his inability to stop the feeling of desolation that had swept over him. Life was so fucking unfair. And as if to compound his feelings of abject misery, it started to rain.

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Chapter Four

It took another two days for Peter to feel like he wanted to go back to the clubs. He didn’t really want to go back at all, but his agent had been on the phone telling him they would replace him if he didn’t show up soon. So he went back to the nightly grind, trying to look and sound like his heart was in it, when of course, it was not. Didn’t We Almost Make It? a song in his repertoire now took on an extra bitterness, and he told the trio leader to take it out of his set. Of course, invariably, someone just had to ask for the damned song most every night. Most mornings, his phone would ring around nine o’clock, and intuitively, he knew it was John. He didn’t dare answer it. If he heard that deep sexy voice on the line, he’d cave and agree to see him if that’s what he was calling about. Peter hadn’t phoned the hospital again. What was the point? he reasoned. The man was married. There was no future in their relationship—their very brief relationship. Best they both get on with their lives—John with his wife, and Peter…well, with whatever lay ahead. He was thankful that Rob seemed to have given up badgering him. He’d stopped calling Peter’s parent’s home trying to talk to Janet, and his threats of knocking on their door and dragging her back to London had come to naught. Still, Peter was always wary as he approached the Lido Club on Frith Street. There was no telling what the sneak might be up to next. Then, one night, what Peter had dreaded, and at the same time secretly longed for, happened. He was halfway through Spinning Wheel when he saw John’s tall figure being ushered to a nearby table. Peter was so startled, he almost lost track of the lyrics but, thankfully, pulled himself together and continued with his set, despite his nerves jangling in the pit of his stomach. There was no avoiding the inevitable meeting, so squaring his shoulders, he jumped off the stage and, with a big fixed smile on his face, marched over to where John sat, two drinks in front of him on the table.

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Peter held out his hand. “Good to see you up and about, Inspector Reed,” he said, just a shade too loudly. “You too, Peter.” John’s hand was as warm and strong as Peter remembered, and he felt a shiver of desire pass through his body at the man’s touch. Peter sat opposite him, and John pushed a drink towards him. “Vodka and tonic,” he said, smiling. “Thanks.” Peter took a long sip on it. “So, you look well. No bad effects from the bomb?” “No, thank goodness. I was lucky. How are the ribs?” “Better.” Peter rubbed his side. “As good as new.” “Peter.” John studied him for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t come to see you sooner. The doctor wouldn’t release me until yesterday. But I’ve phoned you almost every day. I thought you might have come to visit me in the hospital.” Peter coloured, and looked away. “I…I tried, but they wouldn’t let me see you. I did phone, and they said you were stable and all that, so I let it go.” “You let it go? What does that mean?” “Um…I’m not sure.” For some reason, he just couldn’t bring up the fact he knew John was a married man. Fortunate that Harry must not have mentioned seeing him in the hospital. “What’s wrong, Peter?” John was asking. “You’re acting strangely.” “I’ve missed you, John,” Peter blurted. “I hardly know you, but I’ve missed you, terribly.” “And I’ve missed you. I couldn’t wait to see you again.” “Really? Even though you—” He broke off, the words dying in his throat. “Even though I what? What’s wrong?” John reached over and took Peter’s hand. “Tell me.” Peter’s breath shuddered in his chest from John’s touch. Oh God, but he wanted this man. Wanted to feel his arms hold him again, wanted those warm, full lips on his—and if he said now what was troubling him, none of that would ever happen again. “I…I just want you so much,” he mumbled. “Are you finished here?” John asked.

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Peter nodded. John stood up, and held out his hand. “Then, let’s go.”

**** For a long moment after Peter had closed the door to his flat behind them, he and John simply stood gazing into one another’s eyes. Then, tentatively, Peter reached out and touched John’s face, gently stroking the smooth skin with his fingertips. “I’ve longed for this moment,” he murmured. “You have no idea how much I have longed for this. Just to be alone with you, here.” He slipped John’s jacket over his shoulders and flung it to one side. “And without a cracked rib.” John smiled and pulled Peter into his arms. His lips on Peter’s were warm and soft, grazing lightly across Peter’s mouth, the tip of his tongue licking at Peter’s lower lip before seeking entrance to his moist heat. Peter gasped as John’s tongue slid inside his mouth, probing every corner, swirling across his own, bringing with it an erotic charge that caused his body to buck and stiffen with desire. Peter moaned, and John pulled back slightly. “You even moan musically,” he said, grinning. “I was blessed with rhythm, too,” Peter whispered. “Mmm…” John kissed him again, his hand on Peter’s rump, pulling him in close. “I want to feel that.” Their arms around one another, they hurried to the bedroom and fell across the bed in a tangle of arms and legs, tugging at each other’s clothes. Peter felt the hardness of John’s naked arousal pressed against his own. He grasped it by the base, squeezing gently, then brought the hard shaft to his lips. He ran his tongue over the moist head, licking and teasing it with urgent flicks that had John groaning with pleasure. “Wait.” Peter gave him an anxious look. “Are you injured anywhere? I don’t want to press where I shouldn’t…if you know what I mean.” “Just a couple of burns on my shoulder. Here.” He pointed to a reddish area on his skin, then gave Peter a shy smile. “You can kiss it better if you like.”

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“I like…” Peter touched John’s shoulder gently with his lips. “Thank God you weren’t badly injured. When I heard the news report, I was devastated.” “Well, let’s forget about that, shall we?” John murmured. “The best moments of my day are happening right now. You’re all I care about.” His lips found Peter’s, his tongue gliding sensuously over Peter’s soft palette. Peter’s breath quickened in his chest, and his heart raced from the sheer eroticism of John’s kiss. His hand grasped John’s erection, and he scooted down so that he could take it back into his mouth. John shifted position, his lips tracing a path over Peter’s torso until, with an audible sigh of pleasure, his took Peter’s hard cock into his mouth. Peter’s body spasmed as he felt John’s lips close around his erection. John’s hands cupping Peter’s bottom, pulled him in closer, deeper into his mouth. Peter could taste the juice that spilled from John’s cock, and it sent his senses on fire. He wanted it all in his mouth; he wanted to feel John come over his tongue, to taste his essence. He sucked harder, stronger as he heard John moan, and at the same time felt his own orgasm surge through his balls Their arms tightened about one another, their hips bucked and thrust as they fucked each other’s mouths, then with a sudden rush, their cum flooded over each other’s tongues, and with gasping cries of joy, they clung to one another, elated by the rapturous moment of belonging and of owning. Peter held John in his mouth, savouring his taste and scent, reluctant to release him until he felt his erection begin to soften. He wanted time to stand still, to hold this man in his arms forever and never let him go. And even though he knew that was impossible, even though he knew John had another life away from him, he wanted to hold onto this incredible moment and keep the memory of it for the rest of his life. For sadly, that’s what it would become—only a memory. The thought of that brought a soft moan of despair to his lips. John moved under him, rolling him over onto his back, his strong hands stroking his face with the gentlest of touches. “What’s wrong, love?” John whispered. “Nothing.” Peter gazed up into the blue eyes above him and brought John’s face close to his own. “Except, that I’m falling love with you.” “And what’s wrong with that?”

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Peter felt his chest tighten with emotion. He wanted to yell, “Because you’re married to a woman, and I can never have you all to myself!” Instead, he smiled, kissed John’s soft lips and said, “You haven’t said you love me.” “Then let me say it now. I love you, Peter.” His lips closed over Peter’s in a kiss that left him in no doubt that he meant it, at least for now… He held John tightly in his arms. “I’d like to feel you inside me,” he murmured, his lips pressed to John’s ear. If this was to be their only time together, he wanted it all. He reached over to the bedside table and pulled a tube of lubricant jelly from the drawer. “Let me do that.” John took the tube from him and coated his fingers with the slick substance. Gently, he inserted one then two fingers into Peter’s anus. Peter flinched slightly at this cold invasion, then as John probed deeper and warmth stole through him, Peter bore down, his sphincter muscles clenching tightly around John’s fingers. “Fuck me, John.” Peter’s eyes were locked on John’s as he raised his legs and wound them around the taller man’s waist. He gasped as the head of John’s cock pushed against his resistance. Oh, he was so big. Peter bit his bottom lip as he strained to take John in. John held back a little, his eyes searching Peter’s face. “All right?’ he whispered. “Yes.” Peter lifted his hips to meet the downward thrust of John’s pelvis. Then, oh yes, glorious. John’s cock, so hard and hot slid all the way into him, gliding over his prostrate, sending electric jolts of pleasure throughout his body. He reached up, pulling John’s face to his own, laving his jaw and mouth with sweet, moist kisses. “I love you, John. I love you,” he cried as John pounded into him. His cock slid in and out with such force, Peter was sure he wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week. At that moment, he couldn’t have cared less. This was what he wanted, what he would remember forever, even after—he didn’t want to think of that now. John was here, was fucking him, and was his. He raised himself up in John’s arms, meeting every thrust with a buck of his hips, his lips fastened onto John’s right nipple, sucking, licking, nibbling. “I’m coming,” John groaned, and Peter exulted, grabbing his own hard cock and bringing himself to the brink. As he felt John’s hot semen surge into him, he cried out, hugging the bigger man to him and writhing beneath him as his own orgasm overtook him.

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“John,” he shouted, before his lips were taken in a kiss that seared itself into his brain and left him spent, breathless… and completely in love. “Oh, John,” he murmured, kissing the hard, warm shoulder pressed to his chest. John’s weight on him was like a welcome shelter, and he stroked and caressed the smooth skin under his hands. “Beautiful,” John murmured, raising his head to look at Peter. “Yes, you are.” “You, silly. You have the most beautiful green eyes I’ve seen on any man.” He stroked Peter’s dark hair, and kissed the tip of his nose, smiling as Peter snuggled into his arms. For a while, they were content to simply lie there quietly together, each man basking in the sweet afterglow of their lovemaking. “Will you stay?” Peter asked, after a while. “Sorry, can’t. Duty calls, my boy.” “At this time of night?” “At any time of night or day.” He tapped Peter on the chin. “Something you’ll have to get used to, if you know what I mean.” If only that was all it was, Peter thought, I could get very used to it. Aloud he said, “Will I see you tomorrow?” John smiled down at him. “What’s it worth, then?” Peter stared up into John’s blue eyes. “Everything I’ve got.” “Then I’ll be here.” They kissed again and again and soon desire overtook them once more. Duty called, but right then, John’s duty was to keep Peter happy.

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Chapter Five

Next morning, Peter awoke to the sound of the phone ringing. “Damn,” he muttered and almost ignored it. He wanted to lie there in the warmth of his bed and relive those wonderful hours he’d spent with John. But better answer it. It might be John. “Peter.” It was his agent Morrie. “There’s a new show going into the Palace,” he said, in his usual vague way. “Something about Victorians. They want a baritone voice for one of the parts. Not sure which one. You interested?” “Of course,” Peter replied with some impatience. Hadn’t he told him to send him any West End shows? “All right. I’ll let them know you’ll be there. Oh, it’s this morning at ten thirty.” “What? Ye gods, Morrie. A little notice would’ve been good!” “Well, it’s just down the street from you. Good luck.” “Damn again,” Peter muttered, banging down the phone. He hurried to the bathroom and started to fill the tub. An hour to get himself ready and warmed up. He’d wanted to have a leisurely morning, basking in the glow of his evening with John. After he’d left, Peter had thought through all the possibilities for keeping their relationship going. So John was married. He obviously wasn’t happy or he wouldn’t be looking for sex elsewhere, would he? But his wife had looked lovely, and there had been love between them. Peter had been able to see that, even at a distance. As he sank into the tub, he asked himself if he really wanted to get between John and his wife. Figuratively speaking, of course. There were enough problems in most relationships without the added tension of having to lurk about in the shadows—not going places together in case they were seen, never meeting each other’s friends. But their time together had been so wonderful, and even though it would be better if he nipped this in the bud and told John he couldn’t see him anymore, he just didn’t know if he would ever find the strength to go through with it.

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**** When Peter arrived at the theatre slightly out of breath from the gallop down Charing Cross Road, he was surprised to see very few people waiting to audition. “Not much of a turn out,” he remarked to the stage manager as he gave him his name. “Private only this morning,” the man told him, with a friendly grin. “The peons will be here this afternoon. What are you singing, by the way? I overheard them saying they want to hear up-tempo numbers.” “Oh, thanks. I won’t do Some Enchanted Evening then. I don’t want them falling asleep.” He pulled out his music for Show Me from My Fair Lady. “This might be the ticket.” “They’re calling names alphabetically, so you’re on first. Off you go…and good luck.” “You’re Peter Buchanan?” a disembodied voice from the stalls asked. “That’s me,” Peter replied, smiling and handing his music to the pianist. It wasn’t Brian, more’s the pity. He could rely on Brian to play anything well. He walked downstage as the pianist fumbled through the introduction. Fortunately, Peter knew the song well enough to go it alone if he had to, so he launched into the chorus ignoring all the wrong chords behind him. “Nice, Peter,” the voice called out when he’d finished with a resounding, ‘Show me, now’ taking the last note, high and clear. “Do you have a ballad?” “Uh, yes… Is Some Enchanted Evening all right?” “Lovely.” The pianist managed a passable intro for the verse, and Peter gave the song everything he had. “Very nice, Peter. Can you stay behind?” “Yes, of course.” “Good. We’ll talk to you after we’ve heard the others.” “Thanks.” Peter walked offstage, and the stage manager announced the next hopeful. Peter wandered backstage and found a step to sit on while he listened to his competition, some good, some not very good. By the end of the morning, the producers had only asked five singers to stay behind, then they called them all onstage.

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“Gentlemen, thank you for waiting.” The producer climbed up on to the stage and smiled at them. “What we’re looking for is a good blend of four voices.” Peter left the theatre in fair spirits. He could tell the producer liked him, and although he’d have to wait a couple days for their decision, he felt quite confident that they would choose him. Then he could only hope for a long run and good money so he could give up some of the club work. He wondered if John had phoned him while he’d auditioned. He’d said they would get together at some point in the day, but he wasn’t sure what his schedule would be. Peter told himself to be patient, and make the most of what they could have together, if only for the short time he knew they had. “Peter!” He turned to see Don Hamilton, an actor he’d worked with in a show a few years ago, waving from the other side of the street. “Fancy a coffee?” “Love to,” Peter said, smiling. He liked Don. They had gotten along famously during the show’s run and had kept in touch ever since. “Come on then. Stockpot’s round the corner.” Peter darted across the busy street and found himself enveloped in Don’s arms. “Long time, no see,” Don said, laughing. “Saw you coming out of the Palace. You up for something, then?” “I auditioned for a new show. Something Victorian. No title yet. They’re still working on the book.” “Oh, one of those, eh? Don’t hold your breath. The town’s full of these would-be producers these days.” “It sounded promising.” “Well, good. Here we are.” They entered the tiny café and sat at a table by the window. “Watch the world go by,” Don said, as they sat down. “So, how have you been?” “Just fine. Yourself?” “Busy. My agent’s got me doing some television commercials. I didn’t want to at first, a bit tacky, I thought. But if old Larry Olivier can do it, why shouldn’t I? And the money’s damned good, I must say. You still nightclubbing it?” “Yes. Five shows a night. It’s getting to be a bit wearing, I have to admit. But like you, I only do it for the money.”

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Don waited for the waiter to deliver their coffee, then he said, “I saw Scott the other day.” “Oh yes?” “He told me you two had split up. I can’t say I was surprised. Never did think he was for you. Bit of a sneak, I always thought.” Peter laughed. “A sneak?” “Yes. Always fingering the dancing boys’ bums…” “Don!” “It’s true, Peter. Saw him myself when we were doing that panto at the Palladium. I always thought it showed a lack of respect for you.” “Not to mention the ‘dancing boys’.” “Oh, one or two of them quite enjoyed it.” “I’m sure they did. That’s why we broke up, as a matter of fact. He was just too lavish with his affection—for other men.” “Cad.” Don sipped his coffee and winked at Peter. “So, are you bonking someone else?” “Of course,” Peter said, chuckling. “And that’s all you get to hear, for the moment.” “Married man, is he?” Peter almost choked on his coffee. “What on earth made you ask that?” he spluttered. “Well, there’s a lot of them about, isn’t there?” “Is there—I mean are there?” “Oh yes. Had one myself a year or so ago. Lasted a few months ‘til his old lady found out, then all hell broke loose. They got into a right barney, and the poor bugger had a black eye to prove it.”

**** As Peter made his way back to his flat, he couldn’t help but think on what Don had said. He didn’t quite know if he found it humorous or sad. Of course, he knew there were many men who had affairs outside their marriage, sometimes with women, sometimes men. He’d just never been faced with this kind of situation before, and he wasn’t sure he wanted it now.

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He loved John—there was no doubt in his mind about that—but he couldn’t agree to be the ‘little bit on the side’. That just was not his style at all, and somehow, he didn’t think it was John’s either. He couldn’t imagine John saying, “Well, if it’s all right with you, I can come over Tuesday afternoons, and we can fuck to our heart’s content.” He sighed as he contemplated the moment when he would tell John about seeing him and his wife together at the hospital. How would John react? Would he be angry at being found out, or was it something he thought they could both overlook? No, he couldn’t believe John could be that callous—or unfaithful. But he had already been unfaithful, hadn’t he? With him… He heard the phone ringing as he opened the door to his flat, and he ran to answer it, thinking and hoping it might be John. “Hello?” “Peter, it’s Janet.” “Oh, hello Janet. Something wrong?” “It’s Rob.” She sounded close to tears. “He was on the phone reading Dad the riot act, saying he had rights and was going to come up to Aberdeen and take me back to London. And if Mum or Dad tried to stop him, he’d call the police. The law is on his side, he said.” “What a bastard,” Peter muttered. “I just don’t know what to do. I don’t want Mum and Dad mixed up in any trouble.” “Well, they’re certainly not going to stand by and see you dragged out of their house by that arsehole. Wait, I have a friend in the police force here. I’ll see if I can get a hold of him, and ask him what we can do. I’ll ring you as soon as I’ve talked to him.” “Oh, would you? I knew you’d know what to do.” “Well, hopefully he’ll come up with the right answers. I’ll speak to you soon.” “Thanks, Peter. I love you.” “Love you too, sister mine.” Peter put the phone down with a curse. That damnable Rob was determined to make Janet’s life a misery. After hesitating for a moment, he dialled Rob’s number. “Rob?” he barked as soon as his brother-in-law picked up. “What d’you mean by threatening my family?” “Fuck off, Peter,” Rob growled. “This is none of your business. She’s my wife and—”

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“What? That means you can knock her around whenever you feel like it? She’s not coming back to you, so just lay off, and forget about going up to Aberdeen. My Dad will set the police on you if you dare come near his house.” “Listen, you little queer. I’ve talked to the police, and they say I have every right to request my wife comes back with me—” “But, I’m guessing you didn’t tell them you blackened her eye and smacked her around before she left, now did you? I have a friend with the police in London, Rob, and he told me beating a woman, regardless of who she is, is a criminal offence. You could go to jail.” “Oh, shut it,” Rob yelled. “If you don’t keep your fuckin’ nose out of my business, I might go to jail for cutting your balls off. They’re no good to you anyway, you fuckin’ poufter.” “My God.” Peter’s voice trembled with rage as he spoke. “To think that my sister has had to put up with rubbish like you. To have suffered your filthy hands and mouth on her person—it makes me want to puke, you disgusting piece of shit!” There was a long, loaded silence on the line and then came a screaming garble of expletives, half of which Peter didn’t even understand. He started to laugh, and that brought even louder cursing. He put the phone down then picked it up again quickly and dialled the operator. “Can you give the number for the Tottenham Court Road Police Station, please?” “One moment please…” Peter wrote the number down, then dialled it. “Is Inspector Reed there?” “Who may I say is calling?” “Peter Buchanan.” “One moment. Putting you through, sir.” “Peter…” John’s deep voice was slightly coloured by concern. “I called you earlier.” “Yes, sorry. I had to run to an audition. My agent sprung it on me at the last minute.” “Oh. How’d it go?” “All right I think. Listen John, I need some advice.” “Go on.”

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“My brother-in-law is threatening to force Janet into coming back to London with him. He says he talked to the police here, and they told him he had every right to insist she goes with him. Is that right?” “Well, he does have certain conjugal rights as her legal spouse, but his history of abuse would nullify that, if she filed a complaint against him.” “And of course, he didn’t tell them that part of it. I just got off the phone with him, and he went bananas when I told him he was a piece of shit.” John chuckled. “He probably didn’t know you cared for him that much.” “I’d like to lay him out. Well, okay, thanks for the information. I’ll let Janet know she has to file a complaint.” “And she should do it right away. If you like, I’ll call the Aberdeen Police and make them aware of the situation, just in case he gets nasty.” “Oh, would you? That would be nice of you, John.” “Anything for you. What’re you doing later?” “Hoping a policeman comes a’calling.” “That’s what I hoped you’d say. I get off at six.” “See you then. I’ll make supper.” “I’ll bring dessert.” “You are the dessert!” They both laughed, then John said, softly, “I can’t wait to see you again.” “That’s what I hoped you’d say,” Peter said, smiling. “See you at six.” Peter glanced at his watch. Half past four. He just had time to run to the market for some wine and groceries then back for a quick bath…then John. Not such a bad day after all.

**** Peter was splashing about in the bathtub when he heard the door bell ring. He’s early, he thought, standing up and grabbing a towel. Well, there’s nothing like an eager beau. Wrapping the towel around himself, he hurried to the door and flung it open. His eyes widened with shock as his brother-in-law’s scowling face was revealed.

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“Rob! What the hell are you doing here?” His instinct to slam the door on Rob’s snarling face was thwarted when the big man threw his shoulder against the door panel, sending Peter crashing into the wall behind him. Peter slumped to the floor, the wind knocked out of him. “Get up, you little shit,” Rob yelled. “Get up!” He reached for Peter, jerking him to his feet. “You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you? You and your snobby parents, always trying to make me look bad!” “You do a fair job of that yourself, Rob,” Peter said, pulling himself free of Rob’s grip. He tightened the towel around his waist as he glared at the other man. “You have some nerve coming here. You think this is going to endear you to Janet, when I tell her you came barging into my flat like some bloody maniac?” “Shut up, you fucking pouf. You make me sick with your fa-la-la ways.” “Fa-la-la ways?” Peter laughed out loud. “Where did you hear that one? You really must get out more, Rob.” “I said, shut up.” He took a step towards Peter and swung at him. Just in the nick of time, Peter ducked out of the way, losing his towel in the process. “Well, well,” Rob sneered. “The little man’s not so little.” “I didn’t know you were into cock, Rob.” Peter danced out of the way as Rob tried to grab him. “But this is one you’ll never have!” Too late, Peter realised he’d backed himself into the corner by the window. “So, what’re you going to do? Beat the shit out of me? Prove to yourself you’re a man by beating me up? I’m not my sister, Rob. I’ll fight back, and—” Roaring with rage, Rob launched himself at Peter. Peter went down under the other man’s weight, his head bouncing painfully on the parquet floor—and then, just as quickly the weight of Rob’s body was gone, and Peter’s eyes grew big as he saw Rob struggling to get out of the fierce-looking headlock a tall, fair-haired man was inflicting on him. “Ow…ow…let go of me you bloody sod,” Rob wailed as John applied even more pressure to his neck. “Who is this blighter?” John panted, straining to keep Rob locked up. “My brother-in-law.”

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“Oh, the one who smacks pregnant ladies around, eh?” John squeezed harder, and Rob began to bellow with pain. “There’s a pair of handcuffs in my back pocket, Peter. Get them will you?” He eyed Peter as he stood up. “And where are your trousers?” “I was taking a bath,” Peter said, grinning at him. He picked up his towel and wrapped it around his waist, then he pulled the handcuffs from John’s back pocket. “Slip them on this bugger, while I hold him.” “With pleasure.” Peter grabbed Rob’s wrists and after a bit of struggle got the cuffs on him. “Now then.” John released Rob from the headlock. “Would you mind explaining why you were attacking this young man?” “He was coming on to me,” Rob yelled. “Look at him, all naked, bloody poufter…” John and Peter looked at one another, then burst out laughing. “You’ll have to do better than that, I’m afraid,” John drawled. “The way I see it, it’s a case of forced entry, assaulting the occupant of the flat, resisting arrest…” Rob, gaped at him. “You’re a bleeding copper?” “’Fraid so, and you, young man, are nicked.” “What d’you mean?” Rob snarled. “I mean, I did a little background check on you, Robert McLeod, recently moved to London from East Lothian. You have a probation officer who has been looking for you for several weeks.” “What?” Peter gasped. John nodded. “Seems your errant brother-in-law got into a little scrape with the law a few months ago—receiving stolen goods was the charge. Lucky bugger got probation in lieu of a jail sentence. But he hasn’t been keeping his end of the bargain, so its back behind bars you go. This time we’ll add attempted bodily harm to your charges, Mr. McLeod.” Rob glared at Peter. “Janet’s going to love you for this. When I get through telling her what you are, what you did—” “Oh shut up, Rob,” Peter snapped. “With any luck, she’ll never want to talk to you again. Not when she finds out, that on top of all the other heinous things you are, you’re a damned petty thief, as well.”

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“Come on, chum.” John took Rob by the arm and marched him from the room. He turned and winked at Peter, then mouthed, “See you later.”

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Chapter Six

After John left with Rob in tow, Peter finished his bath, slipped on his dressing gown, then called home to tell his sister what had happened. She cried as he related the fact that Rob had been charged with receiving stolen goods and avoiding his visits with his probation officer. “Did you know what he was up to, Janet?” he asked, gently. “Not right away,” she replied, gulping back her sobs. “He told me he was going to make a pile of money. I knew it had to be something illegal, but I just kept hoping it would all go away.” “Well, he’s going away for some time, I’m afraid. You really mustn’t think of going back to him. The man is dangerous—to himself, as well as others.” “I know, I know…” Her voice shook as she continued to cry. “I just wish I could get over him. It’s hell to love a man too much, Peter.” “But now you have the baby to think of.” “Yes, and if I am completely honest with myself, I know Rob would make a terrible father. It’s just that…well, I know you would never understand this, Peter…” “Janet, believe me, I do understand—well, perhaps not as far as Rob is concerned—but I do understand about loving the wrong person.” “You mean Scott?” “Uh…yes. That’s what I meant. Anyway, love, you take care. I’ll talk to you soon.” Peter put down the phone, and with a sigh, pressed his forehead against the window pane. He looked at the bustling crowds below him, at the surge of traffic speeding up towards Tottenham Court Road, and wondered why life had to be so damned difficult at times. He didn’t want to equate what was going on in his life with Janet’s more serious problems, but nevertheless, he just wished at least one of them was having a better go at things. John had said he’d be back after taking care of Rob, and Peter had promised him supper. He wandered into the kitchen and started preparing a casserole that took little effort

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and was delicious. Got to feed my man—if only he could be my man, he thought grimly, chopping at some carrots and onions. Perhaps it was time to bring things out into the open and tell John what he knew. But only after they had made love again. God, but he was so wonderful in bed. Peter wiped at his eyes. Damned onions… A little after seven, John phoned to say he was on his way. “Your brother-in-law won’t be coming to call anytime soon,” he said, chuckling. “But I’ll fill you in on all that when I see you.” “I can’t wait,” Peter murmured. “To see you, that is.” “Be right there.” Peter set the table and opened the bottle of claret he’d bought at the market. He lit some candles then turned on the stereo, filling the room with the soft sounds of mellow jazz. This might just be the last time he’d ever get to do this for John, and he wanted it to be perfect. That thought filled him with despair, but he was determined not to give in to the depression he could feel welling up inside him. The chime of the doorbell sent him running to answer it, and when he saw John standing there, looking so handsome in his dark suit and holding a bouquet of flowers, he almost lost it. The flowers got crushed as they embraced, holding each other without speaking, for a long time. John’s lips on Peter’s had both men trembling with desire, and everything was forgotten, but their need for one another. The flowers fell to the floor as John picked up Peter in his arms and carried him into the bedroom. Clothes were stripped off, and naked bodies were pressed together as carnal urges overtook them. Peter gasped with a sensual pleasure as John’s lips travelled over his torso, pausing over each nipple, his tongue lapping at each tiny nub, bringing them both to small, stiff points. John gazed down at his lover, his hands massaging Peter’s chest in slow sensuous movements. Their eyes were locked on one another, small smiles of implicit desire curling their lips. John moved his hands down each side of Peter’s body, over his hips, his thighs, stroking and caressing. He grasped Peter’s pulsing erection, pumping it slowly, visibly exulting in the effect it was having on Peter and loving the soft moans of delight that escaped his lips. “You are so adorable,” he whispered, lowering his face to Peter’s and kissing him, gently at first, then with a demanding hunger that had them both panting with desire.

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“Oh, John…John,” Peter breathed, holding the man tight in his arms and squirming with ecstasy beneath him. The sensation of having John’s hard, powerful body pressed to his own was enough to bring Peter to the edge almost too quickly. The danger was increased as John moved south, taking Peter’s erection into his mouth, laving the underside of the head with his tongue and sending jolts of pleasure through Peter’s body. John’s mouth engulfed Peter’s cock, his lips sliding up and down the length of hard flesh, bringing moans and whimpers of bliss from his lover. He fondled Peter’s balls, caressing the soft, velvety skin, then let his fingers stray into the tight puckered hole, so tantalisingly near. Still with his mouth on Peter, John reached for the tube of lubricant, smeared some over his fingers then probed gently into the depths of Peter’s core. Peter moaned and arched his pelvis, the sweet sensation of John’s mouth on his cock, and his fingers caressing his prostrate sending him heavenwards. He sighed happily as John withdrew his fingers and replaced them with the head of his cock, pushing slowly forward past Peter’s brief resistance. John thrust himself deep inside Peter. He lowered his face to Peter’s and kissed him gently on the mouth. Peter wound his arms around John’s neck and pulled him in for a long, languorous kiss that had both men moaning into each other’s mouths. They started a slow and sensual rhythm, their bodies moving together in unison, their mouths joined in deep sensuous kisses. Peter cupped John’s bottom, pulling him in even deeper, while his fingers stroked the puckered hole he could feel deep in the cleft between John’s buttocks. He pushed gently, and John moaned into Peter’s mouth at this added sensation. His body stiffened, his hips thrust harder, faster, carrying Peter into an almost overwhelming tumult of emotion. His legs tightened round John’s torso, his pelvis arched upward, giving John even greater access to the silky heat within him. A deeper thrust, and Peter felt his orgasm rush through him. Thick white cum shot from him, coating both their bodies and splashing onto his chin. John groaned as his own climax neared. Peter clung to him, covering his mouth and face with kisses as his body shuddered and bucked under the force of his ejaculation. Both men cried out as he came, Peter writhing in rapture as he felt John’s hot seed pour into him. “Ah, Jesus.” John fell gently on top of Peter, covering the smaller man’s body with his own, holding him as if he would never let him go—which was exactly what Peter yearned for.

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“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you, too,” John replied, and at that moment, Peter believed it to be true. He lay in John’s arms, sheltered in the warm glow of what had just passed between them. John’s lips touched his cheek, and he turned to smile at the man who had made love to him so sweetly and passionately. “You’re wonderful,” Peter whispered, snuggling into John’s arms. He loved this moment almost as much as when they were making love. To lie here in this warm shelter was something that had been missing from his relationship with Scott. After sex, Scott would give out a satisfied grunt and roll away, leaving Peter with an empty feeling of wanting more. But John fulfilled him in ways he would always remember as sweet and wonderful. If only things were different. If only they had met before John had married, before Peter had met Scott, before all the circumstances that now would take John away from him. Trying to dispel the feeling of sadness that had suddenly enveloped him, he pushed himself deeper into John’s arms. “Mmm, that feels nice,” John murmured. “You’re quite the cuddler, aren’t you?” “My favourite thing.” “Really?” John chuckled. “Now, I would have thought it was something else.” “Well, almost my favourite thing,” Peter conceded, laughing lightly. “I hope I didn’t wear you out.” “Well, you certainly know how to work up a man’s appetite,” John replied, smiling. “Ah, you’re hungry—for food this time. Come on then…” Peter slipped out of John’s arms, and ran to the bathroom to fetch a wash cloth for them to clean up. As he pulled on his clothes he said, “You can tell me all about my bastard brother-in-law while I pour you some wine.” “That’s the way to ruin a very pleasant evening, all right.” Peter watched as John stretched his long, leanly muscled body before pulling on his shirt. Lord, but he was going to miss this man more than he really wanted to admit. John looked at him, a question in his eyes. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing. I was just admiring your rather lovely body.” John grinned at him. “And it’s all yours, young man.”

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Peter turned away before he was tempted to challenge that remark. “Come on, copper. Let’s have some wine.” He practically fled from the bedroom, leaving a puzzled John staring after him. “Something’s bothering you,” John said, watching Peter pick up the bouquet of crushed flowers from the floor. “Oh, it’s just this thing with Rob and Janet.” He fluffed the flowers up a little before pushing them into a bowl of water. “How’d it go with him anyway?” “He never stopped whining. Wanted to call his wife, he said. She’d explain everything. That it was worrying about her that got him into all this trouble.” “What a liar,” Peter sneered, pouring out two glasses of wine. “He’s never worried about her one day in his life. I just hope and pray that Janet tells him to fuck off—but I know she won’t. She’s in love with him, and even though she knows he’s all wrong for her, she can’t let him go.” “Well, he’s in custody for a few days ‘til we get a court date. D’you want to press charges?” “I’d love to,” Peter said with some vehemence. “But, I don’t know if Janet would appreciate that.” “It is a bit sticky,” John agreed. “But if you want to get him out of the way for a time…” Peter nodded. “I’ll think about it, if that’s all right? Well…” He clinked his glass against John’s. “Cheers, anyway.” “Cheers.” John sipped his wine then leaned in to kiss Peter gently on the lips. “Or should I say, cheer up?” “Sorry. I just get upset when I think about the way that sod has treated Janet.” They ate the meal Peter had prepared, and John murmured his approval. “Delicious,” he said, raising his glass. “Almost as delicious as the chef.” Peter smiled then gritted his teeth. As much as he wanted nothing more than to complete this perfect evening by whisking John back into bed for another round of hot sex, he knew what had to be done. It was going to kill him to let John go, but… “John, there’s something we have to talk about.” John’s smile faded as he put down his wine glass. “I knew there was something troubling you—something more than just the situation with your brother-in-law.”

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“Yes, I’m afraid I lied to you when I said they wouldn’t let me see you when you were in the hospital. Actually, I didn’t ask, I just went in search of you, and I saw you…and…and…” “And?” “There was a woman with you. A very lovely woman…your wife. I just felt like I shouldn’t interfere, so I left. But John, I was so worried about you, I just had to make sure you were all right, so it was good that I saw you, you know, sitting up and looking…well…even though I couldn’t come in and sit with you and…I wanted you so much, that even when I found out you were married I just couldn’t break it off…but now I feel that, well…it’s wrong of us to do this…so—” “I’m not married, Peter.” “So you see—” Peter looked up, his mouth slack, as John’s words sank in. “But, the woman with you…” “Was my sister, Joan.” “You…your sister?” Peter croaked, his face flushing with colour. “Oh…then you’re not married.” “That’s what I said. I’m not married.” Peter covered his face with his hands. “I feel like such an idiot. All this time…” John reached across the table and took Peter’s hands in his own warm grasp. “But the most wonderful idiot I’ve ever met.” “Even though I didn’t come to visit you when your were languishing on that hospital bed? Oh, I could kick myself for being such a fool!” John stood, and pulled Peter into his arms. “Let’s turn that kick into a kiss, shall we?” Their lips met, and Peter felt he might really swoon with happiness. John wasn’t married after all. They were both free to see one another as much as they wanted—and oh, he wanted that so much. “John?” “Mmm?” “What are you doing the rest of your life?” “Spending it with you—if you’ll let me.”

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“Well…” Peter teased John’s lower lip with his tongue. “I might be an idiot in some things, but I’m far too clever to let you get away, Inspector Reed.” John’s chuckle came from deep inside his chest. “Actually, I brought along some preventative measures, just in case you tried.” “What measures?” “Reach inside my jacket pocket.” Peter did as instructed and laughed as he pulled out a set of handcuffs. “Oh, Lord. I hadn’t taken you for the kinky type.” “Well, you did tell me once that I was a man of many surprises.” John grinned at him. “Here’s one more.”

**** Six months later Sometimes, life can most definitely take a turn for the better, Peter thought as he listened to his sister chattering on and extolling the beauty of her newborn child. “She’s adorable, Peter. Just perfect in every way.” “She must take after her uncle then,” Peter said, laughing. “There is a faint resemblance,” Janet conceded. “What’re you going to call her?” “I was thinking Catherine, after Grandma.” “Mmm, that’s nice.” “So when are you coming up to see her?” “Very soon. John and I are working on getting some time off together…I’ve got a week off from the show before we go on tour, and John has masses of holiday time he’s never used.” “I can’t wait to meet him. Mum said he sounded lovely on the phone.” Peter chuckled. “I can assure you he’s even lovelier in person.” He hesitated for a moment, before saying, “I hope that husband of yours has been keeping his distance.”

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“Don’t worry,” Janet said. “I haven’t heard from him since he got out, and I’ve started divorce procedures. The solicitor said it should be fairly easy, considering everything.” Peter could hear the sadness in her voice. “Things will get better,” he said softly. “I know they will. You’ll meet some bloke who’s worthy of you, one of these days.” “Just like you did?” “Yes…although I sometimes wonder if I’m worthy of him.” After he put down the phone, Peter peeked into the bedroom, where John was still asleep after pulling an all night shift. He’d said to wake him before nine, so they could spend some time together before he went back to work. Peter sat on the edge of the bed and smiled down at his lover, his face smooth and untroubled in repose, a faint shadow of blond stubble outlining his jaw. Gently, he traced John’s jaw line with his forefinger, then bent to kiss his lips. “’Morning.” John opened one bleary eye then rolled over onto his back, pulling Peter into his arms. “No rest for the wicked with you around,” he mumbled, holding Peter pressed tight against his body. “Hey, I was being quiet as a mouse,” Peter chuckled, kissing John’s neck. His hand slid down John’s long torso to find and hold his hard arousal. “You, on the other hand, are as rampant as ever.” “Aren’t you the lucky one, then?” “Yes…” Peter kissed him, long and lovingly. “Yes, Inspector Reed. I am the lucky one.”

About the Author J.P. Bowie was born in Scotland and toured British theatres in numerous musical shows including Stephen Sondheim’s Company. Emigrated to the States and worked in Las Vegas, Nevada for the magicians Siegfried and Roy as their Head of Wardrobe at the Mirage Hotel. Currently living in Henderson, Nevada.

Email: [email protected] J.P. loves to hear from readers. You can find his contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

Also by J.P. Bowie My Vampire and I My Vampire Lover The Set Up Summer Bliss Ride ‘Em Cowboy

BOUND TOGETHER Jane Davitt

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Chapter One

Simon studied the binding on the book he held and sighed. Shredded beyond repair on the spine and the cover was spotted with damp. He opened it carefully and ran a gloved finger down one badly foxed page, smiling as he caught a familiar sentence or two. Kidnapped had been one of his favourite books as a child. With a final, friendly pat, he set the book aside and took out another from the box on the floor, enjoying the flash of anticipation. He’d bought the box the day before at an auction sale, contents unseen. Lot 399, assorted children’s books. They could have been dog-eared copies of abridged Enid Blyton paperbacks; they might have been something collectable by Brent-Dyer or Oxenham, tales of girls at boarding schools, not to his own taste, but they’d be greeted eagerly by some people he knew. Or they might have been much older as was the case here, much-loved, often-read, but stored in appalling conditions and really, virtually worthless. It didn’t matter. He treated himself to one of these grab bags from time to time after the serious bidding was over; his reward for a tiring day making small talk with fellow book collectors. His work at the British Library, one of the team dealing with keeping the books in as perfect condition as possible, meant that his professional life and his hobby flowed into each other. Sometimes it got a little too much and he needed to remind himself that collecting books was something he enjoyed. He put the book he held back into the box without identifying it, suddenly restless. Spring had come to London in a flurry of flowers and rain and the air smelled faintly of something other than exhaust fumes and the exhaled breath of too many people. Simon found his thoughts turning to Mole, who had felt a similar distaste for the mundane and left his home to find the river and Ratty. The river didn’t appeal, but going out for a drink did, even if it was Monday and most places would be dead. And if he ended the night in a hotel room somewhere, smiling at a stranger whose name he wouldn’t bother to remember in the morning, well, that was another form of treat and it had been too long since he’d indulged himself.

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He was twenty-eight, but sometimes he felt as if the numbers that made up his age had been flipped. Shaking off his unsettled mood, he went to take a quick shower and was about to unbutton his shirt when he heard a knock at the front door. His house was a high, narrow one, sandwiched between two others that had been converted into offices—which meant that it was quiet in the evenings, but parking was impossible. Visitors were usually looking for his neighbours. He tugged at the front door, which had a tendency to stick in the damp, and pushed the tails of his shirt back inside his trousers with his other hand. “Yes?” The man on the doorstep was young enough to be one of the office workers, who all seemed to be in their early twenties, a phone permanently clamped to their ears, but he lacked their brittle polish and the piercings in his left ear, three of them, jagged-edged heavy hoops, were a world away from a discreetly fashionable statement. All swagger and spit. Simon eyed him coolly, noting the muscles under the leather jacket and the short, bright gold of his hair, unabashedly artificial. It would feel stiff against his hand, and dry, and he’d let his hands wander in search of where it grew darker, softer, crisply curling. My type? Oh, fuck, yes, but somehow I doubt he’s here to offer me a complimentary blow job. “You Weatherly?” The voice was mellow, a startling contrast to the pale grey eyes and angular features, heavy with a northern accent. The abruptness of the question and the use of his name made caution flare up. Simon gave his visitor an appraising glance and still didn’t recognise him. If he’d picked up this one, no matter how drunk, he’d remember it, he was certain of that. Which meant, unlikely as it seemed, he was here in response to the ad Simon ran once or twice a year, looking to fill some of the gaps in his book collection. “You’ve got something for me?” “A book. Yeah.” He patted a bulge in his jacket that was vaguely rectangular. “Want to see it?” Simon wanted to rescue the book before the corners were rubbed and bent and the light rain falling now meant that his doorstep wasn’t the place to do that, but he wasn’t keen on inviting the man in. His hesitation must have been easily read; the man smiled, a knowing curl of his lips, well-shaped, the lines clear and the lower lip generous and lush. “Don’t worry, mate. I won’t touch anything and I don’t have fleas.”

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If he’d expected that to fluster Simon, he was doomed to disappointment. “No? I did once, courtesy of my cat, but as he’s long dead, let’s hope the fleas are too. Come in.” The man nodded and walked into the main room directly off the hallway, glancing around with interest, if not approval. Simon decorated his walls with books—people either loved it, or didn’t get it, there wasn’t much middle ground. He didn’t commit the sin of locking a book away where it couldn’t be touched, held, read, but all the pictures of the walls were framed facsimiles of dust jackets, bright and gaudy, and most walls held bookshelves, placed out of direct light—not that Simon opened the blinds often, never in some rooms. He waited for the expected banalities—‘Have you read them all?’ was the most common—but they didn’t come. The man looked, nodded again, and then put out his hand. “Chris Ross.” Simon shook it out of habit and murmured his own name back for the same reason. Warm and strong, the grip of Chris’ hand sent a not unpleasant jolt through him. God, it really had been too long since he’d hooked up with someone, hadn’t it? “So what do you have for me?” He wasn’t expecting much, in fact, he was baffled as to how the man had found him. The ad he ran was placed in a monthly publication—The Book and Magazine Collector—which meant that it had a knowledgeable, but limited, readership. He couldn’t really picture Chris poring over the small print of the magazine or being interested in the articles. Not to mention the fact that the ad only gave a phone number. “You know, you should have just called me. Described the book, so I could tell you if it was what I wanted and saved you the trip if it wasn’t.” Chris paused, the book—in a brown paper envelope, at least, Simon noted—halfhidden behind his jacket. “Yeah? I was in the area. Sorry if I’m intruding.” The mocking twist to the last words was unmistakable. Simon held out his hand for the book. “You’re not, but I’m curious about your ability to work out my address from a phone number.” “Looked it up somewhere.” Chris met his eyes blandly. “Here you go.” Simon accepted the book and went over to his desk, leaving Chris in the middle of the room, standing relaxed and at ease, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans. He pulled on the thin gloves he wore when he handled old books and looked up at the amused snort

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from Chris. “Fingers can leave oil and marks on books,” he told him, aware that he sounded stiff and was using his lecture voice. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want that to happen.” “Probably top myself if it did,” Chris said. “Life wouldn’t be worth living.” Simon shook his head, more amused than annoyed now as there was something in Chris’ expression that invited him to share the joke. “I’m sure it wouldn’t.” He drew the book out of the rain-spotted envelope and placed it on the desk. His breath caught, an involuntary reaction he knew hadn’t escaped the watchful Chris. Showing his true reaction was a poor basis for negotiation of price, but he really couldn’t have kept his face expressionless. Not faced with this. “Do you mind telling me where you got this?” he asked, his voice calm, a little bored. Too late for that subterfuge, but he’d try at least. “Jumble sale.” Simon dragged his gaze away from the book. “Try again.” “Look, what does it matter?” There was an edge to Chris’ voice now. “It’s mine and for the right amount of money it can be yours, if you want it.” “It’s not what I collect,” Simon said slowly. He hadn’t opened it yet. Didn’t need to. There was a faint mark in the lower right corner that he remembered wincing over. “If you’d read the ad, you’d know that. Children’s books. Mint condition, with jackets.” The book in front of Simon was too old to have been shrouded in a dust jacket to protect it; the irony being that over time the jackets became worth more than the books themselves, pictures prized over words. “So you don’t want it?” Simon watched Chris’ tongue pass across his lips, his confidence visibly flaking away, which helped to calm Simon. “It’s—I can do you a good deal on it.” “Really?” Simon raised his eyebrows. “And just what were you planning to ask for it?” Calculation flickered in Chris’ eyes. “Thousand quid.” Simon laughed, startled by the naivety of the blunt request, like a child asking for a million presents for his birthday and expecting to get them. “What? I don’t think so.” “It’s worth more than that.” Chris shifted on his feet, combative, poised. Fight or flight? For all his outward toughness, Simon didn’t feel threatened by Chris. Intrigued and attracted, yes.

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“Value is relative.” He tapped the calf binding. “First edition. Good condition. Not as shocking as his earlier book, nor as well-written, but it would have sold well after all the fuss about the other one.” “What?” Chris shook his head. “Don’t know what you’re going on about.” “The Memoirs of a Lady of Pleasure.” No reaction. “Fanny Hill?” Oh, that registered. Well, of course it did. “This book; Memoir of a Coxcomb, came out in 1751 as a sort of sequel.” “I don’t give a fuck. Are you going to buy it or not?” Simon stood and walked over to Chris, leaving the book on the desk. “It’s hardly a children’s book.” “It’s old. Worth money.” Chris bit at his lip, hard enough to leave it flushed and slightly swollen. “It’s porn, right? Or are you into kiddies, as well as their books?” Simon rolled his eyes. And we’re back with the obvious comments…“Nice try at insulting me, but no. I’ll spell it out, shall I?” He got close enough to feel each exhaled breath from Chris, who held his ground, his head tilted back. “I like men. Not boys. Men. And I collect children’s books partly for their own sake, partly because they’re good investments.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the desk. “That book doesn’t fit on my shelves and I’ve no interest in keeping it.” He saw disappointment, profound and bleak, and then Chris sighed and stepped back. “Sorry to have wasted your time.” He let Chris get as far as the desk and then, just as Chris was reaching out for the book, said, “Wait.” Chris paused. Positioned as he was, bent slightly forward, one hand braced on the desk, Simon allowed himself a moment of appreciation before saying casually, “Five hundred.” “Eight,” Chris countered swiftly, straightening. The energy was back in his voice, a crisp crackle of it, as if he was on familiar ground now. “And cash, I don’t want a cheque, all right, so don’t waste my time offering.” “Six-fifty and that’s as high as I go,” Simon said flatly. He was insane, had to be. Why he was doing this, when—oh, the hell with it. He knew why. He folded his arms across his chest. “Well?” “Got it on you?”

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Simon snorted. “Who keeps that much cash around? No.” He glanced at his watch. Just past eight. Plenty of time to deal with this, even if the rest of his plans for the evening would have to be postponed. “There’s an ATM around the corner.” “The book stays with me until I have the money.” “If you think you’re taking it out in the rain —” Simon couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. “No,” he said, without leaving any room for debate. “It stays here. If you want a deposit, I’ve got about a hundred in cash, how about that?” Chris frowned at him. “Are you really that bothered about it getting wet?” “It’s over two hundred and fifty years old,” Simon told him. “But I wouldn’t take any book out in the rain, so yes, I am.” “You’re nuts.” Chris’ gaze drifted over to the book and then back to Simon. “Oh, what the hell. It can stay.” “I’m not leaving it out on the desk,” Simon said. “I’ve got a safe…” Suspicion returned to Chris’ face and Simon sighed. “How about I put it in a lockbox and you can hold the key until I pay you?” Chris considered that and then nodded and smiled for the first time, his grey eyes warming. “That works for me.”

**** An hour later, his bank account considerably lighter and the key to the lockbox in his hand, the edges digging in, Simon sat on the couch, the room dark around him. Luke’s number was still on his speed dial. He just had to reach out, pick up the phone and— “Yes?” The bored voice of a busy man. “Luke? It’s Simon.” There was the expected, impatient breath. “Simon, not that it isn’t nice that you believed me when I said let’s still be friends —” “I’ve got something of yours.” The tiniest of pauses. Simon knew just how wary Luke’s expression would be, and how much he hated being thrown off-balance like this. “Did I leave behind a sweater or a

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toothbrush? It can’t have been important whatever it is. I certainly haven’t missed it. Or you.” Simon winced, not at the cruelty of the gibe, but the lack of subtlety. “Try a Cleland first edition I bought from a rather enterprising young man called Chris.” The pause was longer this time. “What?” Luke’s voice was tight with anger. “That—he —” Simon tapped the key against his thigh and took an unholy pleasure in listening to Luke reduced to incoherence. He was starting to think that he’d underestimated Mr. Ross. Anyone who could piss Luke off this much had to have more going for him than a fuckable mouth to match his arse. Much more. “Do you want it back?” he said, cutting into what had become a whine about ungrateful little shits, eloquent enough, but not very interesting. “Do I want it back?” Sarcasm next…God, why hadn’t he noticed how very predictable Luke’s tantrums were before this? “Well, what do you think? Of course I fucking want it back!” “It’ll cost you.” Simon smiled and echoed Chris’ words, if not his accent. “A thousand quid.” “A thousand pounds? What the hell are you playing at?” Luke sounded genuinely baffled. “Why should I pay you to get my own property back?” “Because I paid him,” Simon said, “and why should I be out of pocket dealing with your fuck-ups?” “You paid him?” Cue incredulous chuckle, right on time. “Well, I hope you got your money’s worth out of him.” “I paid him for the book,” Simon said evenly. “Nothing else.” Though I knew as soon as I saw it who he was…your leavings, your reject, just like me. Now, tell me why would I want to fuck that? Except, he did… “Your misfortune.” Luke’s voice was light now, a lilting, supercilious flip to it. “Send it by courier, will you? I’ll pay for that, if you’re so hard up a few pounds matter.” “I’m not sending it anywhere.” He hung up. His glass of whisky was mostly empty but he picked it up anyway and tilted it until the liquid, dark in the shadows, lapped at the edge, a drip spilling out, falling to splash, aromatic and pungent, against his waiting, cupped palm.

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He licked it off as his phone began to ring, a furious, long-distance tapping at his door. He let it ring until all that he could taste was wet skin and then picked it up. “If you ever hang up on me again—” “Oh, spare me.” Simon stared across the room at the fireplace, cold and empty. The books meant that he never used it; too much dust and there was always the fear of fire. Luke had taken him up against it once, Simon’s fingers curled around the wooden mantelpiece, his skin as flushed with heat as if there’d been real flames before him, licking hungrily at his swollen, aching, untouched cock. “So it wasn’t one of your little presents?” “I very much doubt he reads more than the sports section in some tabloid rag. Why the hell would I give him a sodding book?” Just because it wouldn’t mean anything to him. Just to make him feel awkward. Just to hurt. The same way you gave me the score of the opera you went to with Carla as a birthday present and expected me to be grateful because once we’d listened to it together, drunk and happy. “Just answer the question.” “No, I didn’t give it to him. I showed it to him—well, I showed him some porn and he asked why it was in there and like a fool I told him how much it was worth.” Showing off your high-class erotica? My, my…he was honoured. “So when I kicked him out, I suppose it was his version of a tip for services rendered.” “He was living with you?” Now, that was surprising. Simon had spent the night at Luke’s place often enough, but he’d never been encouraged to leave anything there that might suggest that he was more than a visitor. Luke grunted. “He lived in the flat over the garage. Carla wanted renovations doing and he needed a place to stay…Look, he was convenient, okay? He knew it wouldn’t be for long.” But he might have expected that to mean the job, not your relationship, you dickhead. A thought struck him. “You owed him wages, didn’t you?” Tight-fisted when it came to the small matters like buying a round, lavish when it was something he wanted. Simon could well see Luke rationalising away the need to sign a cheque for a previously agreed upon amount on the grounds that he’d given Chris board and lodging. “Or, given his insistence on cash with me, let me guess—you paid him with a cheque and then stopped it? You really are the most parsimonious git, you know that?”

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“Are you going to send back my book, or do I give the police the details and let them handle it?” Simon closed his eyes. Oh, that would end well, wouldn’t it…“You do, and he’ll talk.” “I’ll make damn sure he doesn’t.” The words were weighed down with a threat Simon knew was sincere. “In fact, I’m so bloody pissed off that I think I’ll do it just to see the cocky bastard go down for a year.” “He’ll get community service and a rap on the knuckles,” Simon said without thinking and cursed himself. The last thing he wanted was to endure one of Luke’s rants about the judicial system’s failings. “Listen, I’m involved now, and I don’t want the cops coming around here.” “Why not? You’re out. All the way out. Nice for you, isn’t it?” “You could be, too—oh, forget it.” Simon needed another drink. Two. “Leave Chris out of it—I mean that. You don’t go near him or make any trouble for him—and I’ll send you the book back for nothing.” “Really?” Luke sounded almost friendly. “Well, I suppose I could do that. Though the little toerag deserves—” “Luke!” “Oh, all right.” Pettish replaced friendly. “But this had better be the last time I hear from you or him, understand?” “Oh, fuck off,” Simon said wearily and hung up. Luke wouldn’t call back. Why would he, when he’d got what he wanted? He packaged up the book, ready for dispatch in the morning, the small, familiar details involved comforting in a way, and then went to bed when the whisky bottle stopped looking good.

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Chapter Two

When he got back from work two days later, Chris was sitting on the front step talking into a cell phone, his free hand resting against the concrete step, fingers spread wide as if he was soaking up the coolness. He met Simon’s enquiring look with a blank stare and ended his conversation with a clipped, “Got to go.” “Oh, please,” Simon said. “Don’t let me stop you.” “You didn’t.” Chris stood in an easy upward flow. “I was just taking care of something.” He jerked his head at the front door. “Got a minute?” “And if I don’t?” Chris smiled, a swift grimace with no humour in it. “I’ll take it anyway. I’ve been sitting on my arse for the past hour waiting for you to show your face. I’m all out of patience.” Simon shrugged. “Not my problem, but for the sake of your numb backside I suppose you can come in. I’m not interested in buying anything else right now, if that makes a difference.” “It doesn’t,” Chris said, with more violence than the words merited. “So open the bloody door and let’s get this over with.” Simon fitted his key to the lock, the intensity of Chris’ emotions lapping over him and leaving his skin prickling in an atavistic warning of danger ahead. A wise man would have insisted that they stayed in the street but wisdom had never been Simon’s favourite virtue, not when he was attracted and intrigued. Luke was proof of that. Once inside, Simon’s coat hung neatly in the hallway, his shoes kicked off, he poured himself a drink from the waiting bottle of whisky and then, wondering what Chris would do, held up the bottle in a wordless invitation. Chris shook his head. “I don’t want your fucking booze. I want to know why you bought that book and then turned around and handed it back to that piece of shit.” Simon felt a stab of anger at himself for trusting Luke to keep quiet. He should’ve known Luke would want the last word.

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“Once I bought it, it was mine,” Simon said. “If I’d chosen to burn it, rip it to shreds, or—” He broke off, unable to visualise himself doing anything of the sort. “My business. Not yours.” “It’s my business when I get a call telling me it’s down to you I’m not answering questions at the nick.” Chris pushed his hands through his hair, leaving it ruffled, golden stalks sticking up, before he smoothed them back impatiently. “Why did you do it?” Simon sighed. “I don’t know. I didn’t want the book myself—I told you that—and from what Luke told me, it wasn’t straightforward theft.” Chris opened his mouth to speak, his face flushing with what Simon thought was indignation, not shame or guilt. Simon shook his head, forestalling him. “You wanted to hurt him, that’s all, and knowing him the way I do, he probably deserved it.” “You got that right.” “Yes. He’s a vicious bastard, though, and I had the feeling that your victory wouldn’t be much fun if it meant you got arrested so I…well, I bailed you out.” “He wouldn’t pay you back, would he?” Simon smiled sourly. “No. Luke’s not fond of spending money. He couldn’t imagine any good reason for paying for his own book—and he’s got a point, I suppose—and he’s equally incapable of accepting that pleasing him is no longer my reason for living. He told me what he wanted and waited for me to make it happen.” “And you did.” There was a world of scorn in the three words but Simon shrugged it off. “Not entirely. I bargained with him. I took away something he was looking forward to.” “Nailing my arse to the wall.” “That’s right.” Simon scratched his forehead reflectively. “In his eyes, I behaved disgracefully, not that I give a toss about that. He’ll keep his end of the bargain though. He’s too fond of his self-image as a man whose word is worth something.” Chris snorted in derision. “Dream on.” Tiring of the discussion about a man he’d come to dislike, much though he’d wanted him back after the split, love and logic being total strangers, Simon drained his drink and

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gave the door a pointed look, hoping to nudge Chris into leaving. “Well, you’ve had your moment and you’ve had an explanation. Now, I want to eat, so…” Any of his friends would have already been murmuring apologies and heading towards the door, but then, he’d never have had to be as blunt with them. Chris stood where he was, unmoved by the restrained impatience Simon was trying to project. “I can’t give it back.” “What? The money? Did I ask you to?” “I needed it to pay off my van. I lose that and my job’s gone, see? I had five hundred owing on it and the rest, well, I put a deposit down on a flat, ‘cause I had nowhere to go but my dad’s place when—” “It doesn’t matter,” Simon said, desperate to stem the flood. He didn’t want to know what Chris had done with the money. Didn’t want to know these trivial, intimate details of a stranger’s life. Didn’t want to watch Chris’ mouth move and wonder what it would be like to kiss, to lick open, to fuck wide. The man was attractive in more than looks. There was a vitality about him that called to the boredom within Simon and offered an escape, if only a temporary one, for as long as it took to get naked, get off, get dressed. “It does matter,” Chris insisted. “Shit, you think I want to owe you?” “What?” The emphasis on ‘you’ was puzzling and not all that flattering. “When I know what he did to you—” “Look,” Simon said, bewilderment filling him. “I don’t know what he told you—Christ, you’ve got me doing it—Luke, I don’t know what Luke told you, but it wasn’t anything all that bad. Splitting up hurt, yes, but I got over it.” “He took you for everything you’d got.” The flat words and the simple truth of them left Simon breathless, wordless. Yes. All of his trust, all of his certainty that he knew sincerity when he heard it. “And then he got rid of you because that Carla came around and he thinks he can get it up for her for long enough to stop people talking about the times he goes for men.” Simon grimaced at the reminder of Luke’s one blind spot. “People—and Carla—know he’s bi for God’s sake. They just don’t really care as long as he’s discreet. And he is. Mostly. Then he sees someone he wants and he just—he can’t help it.”

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Chris rubbed his hand across his mouth. “He’s good,” he said reluctantly. “Good in bed, good at making you think you matter.” “Can we stop talking about him? Please?” Simon met Chris’ gaze with an effort. “Look, it’s over. You and Luke, me and Luke. Over. And I wouldn’t take him back. Once, yes, but it’s been months now and I’m just—I’m done with him. This has brought back a lot of bad memories, but it hasn’t really changed anything.” “If I made you get in touch with him when you didn’t want to, I owe you more than money.” “You didn’t make me do anything and you don’t owe me anything,” Simon snarled, frustration sharpening his voice. “I do.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Simon bit his lip, the small pain helping to distract him from the urge to bundle Chris out of his house together with his scruples, his sense of obligation and his truly sinful mouth. God, since when did he get fixated on something the way he was about that mouth? It was the lush lower lip against the angularities of the face and the squared off chin, he decided, studying it until Chris raised his hand to touch it, his face perplexed, his fingers exploring as if in search of a smudge or stain. “Why don’t we just leave it that you owe me a favour?” Simon said hoping that would satisfy Chris. “Maybe I’ll need something moving one day and you can use your van?” “I want it dealt with now.” Chris’s mouth was set in inflexible lines and Simon gave in, a spurt of bad temper goading him into being reckless. “Fine. Then tell me your hourly rate.” “My what?” “Six-fifty. How many hours of your time would I get for that much?” Chris leaned against the back of the couch. “We’re talking payment for what I do for a living, are we?” he asked, his voice soft, thoughtful. “Not for anything else you might want from me?” Simon felt arousal sizzle through him, all heat and brightness. There was a knowing, teasing sparkle in Chris’ eyes but Chris didn’t think that his offer would be taken seriously. Well, why would he? He’d got Simon written off as a loser, kind and weak.

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“If I owned you for a few hours, I wouldn’t waste time making you put up shelves.” He made his voice deliberately cool and crisp, green apple-sharp. “That good enough or do you want specifics?” “I’m a craftsman, not an odd-jobber,” Chris told him. He put his hands on either side of him and gripped the couch, his tanned hands pale against the dark brown leather. Then he shifted position casually, spreading his legs wider; just a few inches, but it was enough. “I want details or I can’t do a good job. Can’t leave you a dissatisfied customer.” Simon couldn’t help grinning. “Cue the cheesy porn music,” he said. “Look, I mean it; how many hours? Because joking aside, there are a few jobs you could do that I never have time to deal with.” “Forty-eight,” Chris said abruptly. “That’s too much, but so was what you did for me. You tell me the day and the time and I’ll arrive when you say and stay two days. You want to keep me busy, you do it, but if you want to fuck me, you can do that, too.” As Simon stood, silent and stunned by the matter-of-fact words, Chris took out a card and set it down on the table. “Call me. I’m not with anyone right now and I’m clean. Got myself tested after—well.” “Wise move,” Simon said. “Me, too. Both of those things, I mean.” Eloquence had departed, along with most of the air in the room. Chris looked at him, unsmiling, his forehead furrowed. Then he walked forwards, three paces, quick and certain, and slid one hand behind Simon’s neck. “Want to see what I can do?” This close, the grey eyes looked darker, the blond hair softer. Chris was an inch or two shorter than Simon, which he found he liked, and all bright contrasts. Simon felt muted in comparison, a sepia print, with his dark brown hair and hazel eyes. Dull, safe. Boring. Boredom piled on monotony seemed to fill his life recently. Chris was offering a respite from that, at least, and really, if they’d been in a bar and Chris had made the same offer, he’d probably have gone along with it. He took a moment to convince himself that the location wasn’t important and then, as Chris’s thumb dragged slowly up and down, leaving the skin on Simon’s neck tingling, he cupped the back of Chris’s head and pulled him closer. Chris’s mouth fitted against his without clumsiness or hesitation and Simon had a flash of irritation that Chris seemed so

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calm about all this, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary, whereas he was floundering. It wasn’t the way he normally reacted when someone tried to pick him up but there was something so different about it taking place here, in his home, not at a bar or a party, no matter what he told himself. Then Chris edged closer still and Simon felt the hammer-beat of Chris’ heart; felt it, heard it echoed in the seashell roar of blood in his own ears. Okay. Not calm. Good. It made it easy to regain his confidence, easy to make the kiss spin out longer, a messy, slick-wet tangle of tongues, harsh sounds escaping them as they breathed in seconds snatched from the kiss, always returning to it. Simon felt a wall at his back and realised that they’d moved in swaying, staggering steps to reach it. He let it take his weight and Chris’, one less thing to think about, when all that he wanted to concentrate on was the way Chris’ lip felt when he bit it—yielding, hot, already swollen; tangibly tender, the next time he did it—and the way Chris no longer tasted of anything, because they’d kissed for too long for them to taste of anything but each other and that was too familiar to register. Chris moaned, rich and heady, an exhalation that spoke of arousal as much as the dig and press of his cock against Simon’s hip. “Not enough—” Too soon to fuck him, Simon thought, but he was already picturing the sun of Chris’ hair against his sheets, navy cotton washed to a softer blue. It seemed that ‘not enough’ also meant, ‘can’t wait’ though, because Chris went to his knees a moment later, and nuzzled fiercely at the shape Simon’s cock was making behind what felt like too many layers of clothing, a quivering exclamation point. He unzipped and released it, hot and hard in his hand, a well-known weight, but, like the flirtation, out of place here in this room, with the early evening light pale behind the blinds and the dazzle of the lamps he’d flicked on as he entered hiding nothing. He rarely looked down when he jerked off. He closed his eyes, conjured bodies to touch, to fuck, wove loose, slipper-comfortable fantasies around them. He didn’t watch his hand curve and grasp flushed-red flesh, didn’t track the welling up of transparent fluid from the deep slit, didn’t follow his thumb as it smeared it around in a glaze. He did all that as Chris knelt back, his gaze fixed on what Simon held, his tongue passing over his lip, lingering where Simon’s teeth had bitten and Simon’s mouth had sucked it raw.

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“Let me?” Chris murmured it, soft words against the quietness filling the room. “God, I want to—” Simon arched forward so that the tip of his cock touched Chris’ chin and then guided it higher, painting a line he wanted to lick along, until it was centred on Chris’ lips. They were closed now, not firmly, in denial, but lightly touching, needing—waiting—to be parted. He liked that. He liked the imagination behind it, the playfulness. Most men would have just lunged forward, hungry, avid, and though that would have worked, Simon liked this better. He moved his hand along the shaft of his cock until he could stroke a fingertip across the warm, damp skin of Chris’ mouth, and then pushed gently, in a signal. As Chris’ mouth opened, Simon completed the paused movement forward and slid inside, past lips, past teeth, to rest on the bed of Chris’ tongue, curved and ready. Chris made a sound of welcome, a grunted, appreciative hum, and put the palms of his hand flat on the wall, on either side of Simon’s hips. It didn’t feel like being fenced in, more of a reassurance that he was the one setting the pace. Except, if this was how Chris liked it and it looked like it was, then really, all that Simon was doing was following Chris’ lead. That amused him for the space of one breath in, one breath out, and then Chris began to prove just how sincere he’d been about wanting to do this and there was no space for amusement because Simon felt filled, suffused with sensation, radiating out from his cock, yes, as it was sucked and licked, lavish, delicate, ruthless attentions, as unpredictable as Chris himself. His hands went to Chris’ hair, too frustratingly short to grip, but leaving his fingers singing with a sense-memory of snatching at long grass as he ran through a field as a child, and then he put them over Chris’ on the wall, his fingertips against Chris’ wrists. Chris flexed his hands in acknowledgement, his knuckles bumping the base of Simon’s fingers. His teeth scored the underside of Simon’s cock with a precision Simon appreciated, the rake of sharp, almost-pain the perfect contrast to the lulling sweetness of the sucking. He snarled out something that was a ‘fuck, yes’ in his head, and ground his hands against Chris’ as he arched forward again and again, bowed and bent convex, fucking the waiting warmth of Chris’ mouth without holding back. And Chris let him. Opened wider, closed his lips tighter, licked and lapped and closed his eyes in prayer, showing Simon, if he wanted to look and see, the face of a man close to coming just from this and once he’d looked, he came, surging forward helplessly, needing to

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be as deep inside as he could when he came. Chris choked, swallowed, and drew back, his chest heaving, his eyes watering. He sniffed, swiped carelessly at his mouth after licking it once, and grinned up at Simon, a wavering, hazy grin, still caught up in the act. Simon couldn’t smile back. His muscles weren’t working in the usual safe, accustomed way. He felt that if he tried to smile, he’d do something else instead, blink, or shrug, or sneeze. He settled for a nod and watched Chris’ smile acquire a satisfied air to it before it faded, replaced by an unguarded openness. “God, I want—” Chris’s hands fumbled at the button of his jeans and Simon tracked the press and swell of hardness shaping the loose fabric. “No,” he said without thinking. “Don’t.” “What?” A muscle jumped in Chris’ cheek, a pulse-beat. He rocked back on his heels and then rose to his feet without using his hands. “Fine, I’ll find a bathroom, but I need to deal with this or I’m going to have trouble walking out of here.” “I don’t want you to deal with it,” Simon said, ideas, fantasies half-formed, some impractical, swirling dizzily in his head. “I want you to stay like that, aching, hard.” “Well, thanks for nothing!” Chris shook his head, his mouth pinching shut. “This a game, is it?” he said after a moment, some of the indignation missing now. “I suppose so,” Simon said cautiously. He raised his eyebrows. “Want to play?” That got him a reluctant chuckle. “Maybe. I’d need to know the rules, though.” Chris reached down to adjust himself and Simon stopped him, his hand finding Chris’ wrist, the bones sharp under thin skin. “One rule. No touching. Not until this is all over. Oh, if you need to take a leak, or clean up, sure, but if you’re hard, you keep your hands away.” “Kinky,” Chris decided. He spread his hands and nodded down at his cock. “You do it, then. Because if it stays squashed up like this for much longer, it’ll never straighten out.” “I like you bent,” Simon said and ignored the well-deserved eye roll. He unzipped Chris’ jeans and slid his hand inside black boxer briefs, soft and warm, until his fingers found the angled cock. He couldn’t resist squeezing it gently, but when Chris sucked in a sharp, desperate breath, he stopped, freeing it to lie comfortably and then re-fastening Chris’ jeans. “It’s Wednesday,” he said. “Suppose you come on Friday, around nine?” “Friday until Sunday?” When Simon nodded, Chris sighed. “Yeah. I can do that. So what do you want me to bring? Dungeons have a dress code, do they?”

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Simon blinked at him. “Dungeon? Oh, no, God, no…I’m not into anything like that. No bondage, no pain—” “No gain?” Some of the tension went out of Chris. “Okay. Not that I mind it getting wild, but…” “You don’t know me,” Simon said, understanding that easily because he felt the same way. “Honestly, I just want to…” He paused and finished lamely. “Try something.” “Tell me.” Chris moved away and sat perched on the arm of the couch, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. Simon followed him and sat on a chair where he could see Chris’ face, even though they were too far apart to touch. Better that way. Chris’ arousal was simmering now, starting to cool down, but it wouldn’t take much to bring it back to a roiling, spitting boil. “Control? Is that it?” “Maybe.” Simon gestured helplessly. “Christ, I don’t know! It was just an impulse when I saw what you were going to do. I—I like to make myself wait. It’s so good when it’s drawn-out, slow, but most people don’t have that kind of patience.” Luke never had. “I don’t think I’ve ever done that.” Chris’ voice was thoughtful, he was clearly giving the idea some consideration rather than dismissing it, which helped to ease Simon’s embarrassment. Talking like this to a virtual stranger wasn’t easy. “I’m usually trying to get off as fast and often as I can. You want to make me wait the whole weekend? Because I don’t think I could do that.” “Not the whole weekend, no—and I’d be waiting too, you know. Just…let it build. Let it get, oh, I don’t know? Intense?” Chris grimaced. “Speaking as someone who’s already there, it might not be as much fun as you think it is.” He ground the heel of his hand against his thigh, a bare inch or two away from his cock, the tacit agreement to go along with his plan not lost on Simon. “You’re going to make me wait until Friday to jerk off?” “Do you think you could?” Simon was curious. He could easily go that long if he was tired or busy, but that was different. It was a choice without pressure and one he could always reverse. “I wouldn’t know if you did, I suppose…” “Oh, I’d tell you,” Chris said. “I wouldn’t lie…just not sure I can make it.” He shrugged and stood. “Something different, anyway.” “If you change your mind,” Simon said. “About any of it—”

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“I’ll call you.” Chris gave him a sidelong glance. “Stay there or I’ll do something I’ll regret like humping your leg.” Simon laughed, surprised by how relaxed he felt. “You take everything in your stride, don’t you? I’m going to wake up in the middle of the night and cringe at the thought of telling you all this.” Chris pursed his lips. “Cringe all you want,” he said. “Just keep your hands where they should be. And, mate?” “Yes?” “You owe me one, seeing as you got off and I didn’t.” He ran his tongue over his lips. “Yeah. So if I don’t make it, well, we can start equal on Friday.” “You can do it,” Simon said and stripped the assurance bare of doubt. “You asked what to bring? Nothing more than a change of clothes and your toothbrush. But I want you aching. I want you to walk in here hard.” Chris closed his eyes and moaned. “I’m counting to ten, no, twenty…I’m going to come in my fucking jeans if you keep saying stuff like that—eighteen, nineteen, fuck—”

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Chapter Three

Waiting for Friday, which Simon found he was doing, unable to push the thought of it aside, went by in a series of stop-starts, with the time dragging endlessly, or rushing past, never simply ticking away at a measured pace. The rushing came mostly when he was trying to anticipate what they would do, preparing for something that was outside his experience. He got in plenty of food, though he wanted to go out at some point too, and changed the bed on Friday morning before he left for work so that it would smell fresh without being too obviously so. The house was reasonably clean because he kept it that way. Living alone, it would have been too easy to have become a slob or obsessive about order. He tried to find a balance between the two extremes. Luke had stayed over for the weekend sometimes, but that had been a mundane series of hours, most spent outside the house socialising, with the quiet time together Simon had hoped for never quite happening. He’d known Luke, though, well enough that the prospect of time with him wasn’t at all stressful. Chris was too new an acquaintance for Simon to be sure of what they could talk about when they weren’t naked. That part, at least, they seemed to have no problems with. His body swam in remembered heat and arousal yet again. Fuck, fuck, he chanted silently, and tried to keep his expression intelligently interested in the closing speech of a meeting he’d been present for only in part, his mind elsewhere. There had been one phone call from Chris, late Thursday night, a call that Simon had answered with a lurch of disappointment unfolding, spiky-edged in his chest as he waited for Chris to cancel or tell him that he’d been joking. “We still on for tomorrow night?” “Yes.” Please, yes. Chris had made a sound, half laughter, half groan. “Gone past aching, Simon. Way past.”

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He’d hung up then, leaving Simon to listen to the echo of his name in Chris’ voice, the sharp edges of his anticipated loss fretted soft, shredded away.

**** Chris arrived on time, dressed in jeans and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, with a leather jacket over one shoulder and a sports bag in the other. He stood on the doorstep, looked pointedly at his watch, and then walked in, brushing past Simon close enough that the sleeve of his jacket swept, cool and heavy, across Simon’s chest. Simon was wearing jeans too, belted, like Chris’. Barriers and locks… The cranberry shirt he was wearing suited him, he knew, but he wouldn’t turn heads the way Chris would. He reached out impulsively and fingered the three hoops in Chris’ ear, silver now, plain and cool against his touch. He stroked the baby-soft skin of the lobe and felt Chris shiver. “Yeah, I am,” Chris said without being asked. “All fucking day, off and on. How about you?” “About the same,” Simon admitted. “Anyway come in, and just leave your bag there. Want a drink?” “Friday night? What do you think?” Chris put his bag on a chair in the hallway and unzipped it, the sound making Simon remember the rasp and hiss as he’d unfastened Chris’ jeans. Chris turned and put a four-pack of Stella Artois into Simon’s hands, the cans slippery with cold. “Here.” “Thanks.” He didn’t bother to tell Chris that he shouldn’t have. The gesture, small though it was, was welcome. Luke had never brought anything with him. He walked to the end of the hallway and into the kitchen and put two of the cans into the fridge. Chris picked up one of the two left out on the counter, popped the top and raised it up. “Cheers.” The sharp fizz of the lager was nicely uncomplicated. Simon drank, his gaze on Chris, who was looking around the kitchen with an appraising eye. “You weren’t wrong when you said you had a few jobs needed doing.” Chris nodded at the sink and the puddle around the base of the cold water tap. “Tap leaking?” “Only when I turn it on.”

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“Mmm. Probably just needs a new washer.” “Well, I can do that myself,” Simon began. Chris gave him an indulgent look. “Not without someone to nag you into doing it. I’ll see to it tomorrow, if you like. Might need something to distract me from my blue balls.” “About that,” Simon said with a wince. “Are you—God, now you’re here, it all seems—” Chris took the can from Simon’s hand and put it and his own drink down on the counter. “Come here.” But it was Chris who moved and Simon who stayed still, waiting for the cool, strong press of Chris’ mouth to free him from his indecision as it had done before. “Stop thinking about anything but how you’re going to make me beg to get off,” Chris said, the words tickling Simon’s mouth. “And how fucking desperate you’re going to be by the time I’m done with you.” He pulled away enough that Simon could see his grin. “Shouldn’t have given me two days to think about what I’m going to do to you.” “I had two days, as well,” Simon reminded him. “You the organised sort? Made a list, did you?” “Long list,” Simon said, and bit down on Chris’ shoulder through his shirt, tasting cotton and heat. The intervening two days telescoped to nothing, disappeared, until he could almost believe that Chris had only just risen from his knees and that his cock was still damp from Chris’ mouth, shiver-pulses throbbing through it. “Huge.” “Glad I inspired you.” Chris ran his hands down Simon’s back. “So where do you want to start?” “How about we finish our drinks and get to know each other?” “Not a good idea,” Chris said. “You’ll bottle out. Besides, there’s nothing to tell.” Simon stepped back, picked up their drinks, and nodded at the main room off the kitchen where he spent most of his time. “In there. My time, remember? I get to decide how we spend it.” For a moment, Chris looked mutinous, but he sighed and followed Simon through and sat down on the couch. Simon put the cans on the coffee table and without giving Chris time to start arguing— which he was sure Chris had been about to do—he sat down himself, straddling Chris’ lap.

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“Comfy?” Chris asked, but his hands were already steadying Simon and he was starting to smile. “Yes, thank you.” Simon settled himself, his backside snug against Chris’ thighs, his hands free to touch. “So what’s a guy from…Manchester?” Chris nodded. “Doing down south?” “Me and my dad moved here when I was fourteen.” Chris lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Mum died. Breast cancer. Didn’t feel the same without her, so we— Do you want to hear this or not?” Simon rubbed the ball of his thumb hard over one of Chris’ nipples after teasing it up with light brushes of his finger. It hadn’t taken long. “I can listen and do this at the same time.” Without asking—he was relatively sure if he did something Chris didn’t like, he’d hear about it—he unbuttoned Chris’ shirt most of the way and hummed appreciatively when he saw the nipple ring on the other side. “I thought I could see this through your shirt…nice.” “Pain in the arse if it catches on something,” Chris said. He made a soft sound, throatcaught, as Simon explored his new toy, tugging it gently and then bending to trace the stiff point of flesh with his tongue. “So we…uh, we—God!” Simon raised his head. “Did I bite too hard?” he asked solicitously and grinned when Chris dug a knuckle into his ribs. “As I was saying—” “Mm?” “Oh, fuck it. Went to college, studied architecture, God alone knows why, hated it, dropped out, went to work for Andy, this friend of my dad’s and he—” The swift patter of words ended in another groan as Simon began to bite and suck at Chris’s chest, leaving the skin flushed and wet. Chris had washed himself recently; Simon could taste faint traces of soap, but the headier, earthy smell of an aroused male was rising up from Chris’ skin and doing as much to turn Simon on as the urgent clutch of Chris’ hands on his sides. “He?” Simon prompted. He kissed the hollow of Chris’ shoulder, inhaling the tang of sweat and licking at the salt-spiced skin. “God, you taste good…” “Taught me stuff. He’s…I suppose you could call him a carpenter, but it’s more than that. He says he’ll stick around until I’ve learned to tell my arse from my elbow and let me

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buy him out.” The words were spoken in stuttered gasps and Simon smiled, his fingers busy tormenting Chris’ nipples, his mouth equally occupied in finding every place of Chris’ neck that made him shudder. He was squirming against Chris now, his body betraying him, his cock blindly seeking something to rub up against, and Chris was doing the same. “Okay, enough.” Simon got off Chris’ knee in a graceless scramble. He stayed sprawled on the couch for a moment and then reached for his drink. “God.” “That’s it? You’re stopping?” Chris’ voice was an incredulous croak. Simon cupped his erection through his jeans with a hand that seemed on the unsteady side and tried to remember that this delayed gratification deal was his idea. “For now. If I’d left it any longer I wouldn’t have been able to, if that’s any consolation.” “None what-so-fucking-ever.” Chris gestured at the table. “Pass me mine, will you? I’m not sure I can bend forward the state I’m in.” By eleven, they’d finished the lager and a bottle of red wine. Simon felt a mild buzz that left him clear-headed enough but horny as hell, though that might not have had much to do with the alcohol. They were both bare to the waist, shoes and socks kicked off, and although they were still wearing their jeans, the belts were two coils of leather on the floor somewhere and the jeans had been unbuttoned and unzipped. They lay facing each other on the couch, kissing between murmured words that Simon had stopped trying to make into real conversation. More important to tell Chris how much he liked the scratch-scrape of Chris’ fingernails over his backside or to move a little, yes, like that… Simon flexed his hand, wedged down the front of Chris’ boxers, until his fingers met the crisp tangle of hair and then shoved it even lower until he could just feel the soft squash of Chris’ balls. That couldn’t feel comfortable. “Want to take these off?” he asked, easing his hand out and tugging at Chris’ jeans. “I don’t know. Going to let us come?” “No.” Chris sighed, wine-ripe breath warm against Simon’s cheek. “It’s been hours…” “Hours…” Simon whispered in agreement, his mouth so close to Chris’ ear that he didn’t need to do more than that to be heard, a lazy somnolent way of speaking where all

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that he had to do was form a thought, shape his mouth and exhale. “And it’s almost too easy.” “So up the stakes.” Chris arched his hips. “Get me naked.” “You think if I see you, I’ll crack.” He didn’t need to see the small, secret smile Chris wore. He could hear it when Chris said, “Maybe. Or maybe I just want to see you with your kit off.” “Oh, I’m nothing special,” Simon said. “I’m sure the sight of all my rippling muscles won’t have any effect on you at all.” “Right now, you could have muscles like knots in string and I’d still be on my knees begging for—” “For what?” Simon asked, when Chris fell silent. “Just about anything.” Chris tilted his head back and Simon met his gaze with a jolt of awareness of the moment cutting through the sensual haze. Kissing, eyes closed, he’d allowed himself to forget that this was an interlude and one he’d paid for at that. The implications of that weren’t something he wanted to examine too closely. Chris’ mouth had been eager enough to kiss, his hands coaxing a response Simon had gladly given but it had all been dreamy and distant enough that Simon, half-drunk, and tired after two restless nights, could accept it without question. “You’re really here…” The quirk of Chris’ eyebrow was eloquence itself. “Yeah. Want me to pinch you?” “I’ll pass. Anything?” Chris’ gaze dropped, not out of shyness, given what he was looking at. “I want to suck you again for starters.” Simon moved to his back, his position precarious. The couch was wide, but not really designed for two men to occupy stretched out. He put one foot on the floor to brace himself and realised how blatant an invitation it was an instant before Chris made a sound that came close to a growl, his hand hovering over Simon’s erection before he snatched it back. “Really, really want to get naked,” Chris added plaintively, spoiling the effect by tacking on a patently false, “Promise I’ll be good.” “I know you’ll be good,” Simon said. “I remember just how bloody good you were.” Chris smiled. “I can do better. First times…they’re always a bit iffy.”

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“Yes, they are.” Simon stared up at the ceiling. His bedroom was up there with a wide bed and soft pillows and, more importantly, lube and condoms. “Fancy an early night?” Chris followed the direction of his gaze. “Early to bed, early to rise, that’s me.” Simon stood, fighting off dizziness, and then bent over to palm the thrust of Chris’ cock. “I think you did them the wrong way around.”

Naked and in bed, keeping up the teasing was difficult. They’d undressed on opposite sides of the bed, eyeing each other, both grinning, but once in bed, Simon had found it impossible to keep up even a pretence of casualness. “You’re going to let me fuck you?” he said, on top of Chris again, his hands holding Chris’ wrists, pinning them without force against the pillow. Chris’ body was all hot, smooth skin and his cock was rigid, glossed over and wet at the head. It had left a damp patch on his stomach. Simon bent down and licked at the smear, ignoring the bob and nudge of Chris’ cock and loosening his grip so that Chris could move his hands down. “If you want me, make me beg for it.” “That gets you off, does it?” Simon bit down at the taut skin, his teeth leaving precise dents for a second before fading. “Maybe you can spend tomorrow building me a dungeon. There’s a cellar; it’s a bit spider-infested, but that’ll just add to the ambiance.” Chris snorted. “You can laugh, but I know a man who does that. Straight up. Converts room to playrooms, and I don’t mean the kind that have Winnie-the-Pooh on the walls.” “Really?” Simon let go of Chris’ wrists and pillowed his head on Chris’ stomach. “I don’t think I’ve got the space.” “Too many books.” “There’s no such thing,” Simon said automatically. “Every time you say something, I can feel this breeze,” Chris said, changing the subject. “It’s like you’re touching me.” Simon smiled, pursed his lips and blew a stream of air over the drum-tight cock a few inches away from his face. “No, that’s too much,” Chris said. His voice was drugged, drowsy. “Too done on purpose. Just talk and let me feel it. God, I think I could come just from that.” Simon stroked the back of his fingers along the hollow of Chris’ hip and Chris sighed and spread his legs

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wider, one trapped under Simon’s thigh, the other bent at the knee. “This—what we’re doing—it’s like I’m tied down. Like I’m cuffed. If we weren’t, I’d have my hands all over you right now. I’d be clawing and scratching and telling you to fuck me or bend over so I could do you. I’d have lube on my hands and that itch building—you know —” “Yes,” Simon said, and watched Chris’ cock flinch and quiver. “I would, too, and it’d be good, I know it would, but I’m not going to let you.” Chris exhaled, a sob of a breath, too loud to be voluntary, raw and real. “Downstairs, I could do it. Fooling around, that’s all. But here, both of us in bed, God, Simon, it’s killing me. Two days. I’ve been thinking about you for two days.” “Me, too,” Simon murmured. His thumb made circles on the concave skin beside the point of bone, restlessly spiralling, his arm resting across the top of Chris’ thighs. “You’re responsible for me coming very close to gluing a page in upside down. Unheard of. And every time I walked past that wall in the main room downstairs, I saw you there, on your knees, sucking me, and got hard.” “Let me suck you now,” Chris said. “Please?” Simon hesitated, tempted but too committed to the idea of waiting to give it up easily. Pushing himself to his limits was appealing, though, he didn’t like easy. “I’ll come,” he said, a warning to himself as much as Chris. “And I don’t want to, not yet.” “Do it with me like this, on my back” Chris said. “Then you can stop when you get close.” His hand threaded through Simon’s hair, persuasive, imploring. “God, go ahead and tie me to the bed if you don’t trust me not to hold you in place.” His cock jerked as if the idea spoken aloud was a caress, and Simon swallowed, his mouth filling with the thick sweetness of saliva, watering as though he’d been offered something good to eat, not Chris’ mouth to fuck. “Okay.” He got to his knees and looked down at Chris who smiled back, with a resurgence of cockiness. “You’re a manipulative bastard, aren’t you?” “Sometimes,” Chris admitted easily. “When it’s something I want.” His face slackened, softened by arousal, and he reached out, cupping the air around Simon’s cock. “Like this. Fucking want this. Want you.” “I’m not going to tie you up,” Simon said. He straddled Chris’ chest, fitting his knees into the curve of Chris’ armpits, the soft fuzz of hair there tickling them. “But you can hold

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onto the headboard if you want to, it won’t break.” It was solid cherry wood, stained a deep, natural red, made up of horizontal bars, narrow enough in width to fit Chris’ palms, though he supposed the edges would dig in. Chris reached up and took an experimental hold of one of the bars, the muscles in his arms and chest flexing. “Feels okay now, but it won’t when I really grab it. Tie me.” “I thought you didn’t want—” “That was then, this is now.” Chris left one hand holding on and ran the other down Simon’s chest, pausing to pinch at a nipple. “You can’t trust me not to grab,” he said, the words accompanied by a matching action. Simon grunted sharply as the tight heat of Chris’ hand wrapped around his cock. “Stop it!” “Tie me up and I’ll have to.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Simon got off the bed and rummaged through a drawer until he found two ties he didn’t particularly like. Without looking at Chris’ face once he’d seen the satisfaction gleaming in his eyes, he knotted them around Chris’ wrists and then attached them to the headboard. “There. And if you start to get pins and needles…” “I’ll tell you.” Chris tugged once and then again, with more force. The smugness became a flash of panic followed by a grimace. “I can’t get loose. God, this feels weird…” “If you could pull free, there wouldn’t be much point in doing it,” Simon pointed out. The break had reduced his arousal to more bearable levels but there was something about the sight of Chris struggling that was jacking it up again. Maybe because the grimace was one of pure lust; Chris was flushed, his nipples hard, his cock leaking. “God, you really like this, don’t you? Have you done it before?” “No.” Chris closed his eyes. “Have you?” “No, but I might if it feels that good.” Intrigued by Chris’ reaction, Simon fingered the silk-wrapped wrist closest to him. “You look—you look hot like this. Sexy.” Chris opened his eyes. “So do something with me. To me.” Positioned over Chris when he was tied up was very different to straddling him when Chris could easily dislodge him. Simon leaned over, his hands resting on the top of the headboard, and looked down, watching his cock as he dragged it across Chris’ face with

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small, random movements of his hips. Chris whimpered, turning his face to capture a taste, a lick, sometimes managing it, sometimes not. “Let me, fuck me…” Chris wasn’t being demanding now, the words were a soft plea, ragged and submissive. “Tell me you’ve never done this before,” Simon said and barely recognised his voice. “I don’t care if you lie, just tell me no one else has seen you like this.” Chris focused on him, his eyes intent for a moment. “Not going to lie to you, even if you don’t care. Got that?” “So you have.” “No.” Chris shook his head. “No. Just you, only you. God, until I met you, I never knew I wanted to. You stopped me coming and I let you. Do you have any fucking idea what that was like? Giving that to you? You just—you told me I couldn’t touch myself —” Simon swallowed dryly. It had been an impulse, that was all, and one he hadn’t really examined too closely in the days that followed. Maybe he should have, because this was taking everything further than he’d ever gone. Waiting to come; making it last, that hadn’t sounded too kinky, but it was a piece of string dangling from a huge, knotted, tangled ball, not a snipped-off length. Scary. Intimidating. But looked at another way, he was still holding the end of the string, he was in charge. And it wasn’t boring. “Yes, I did.” He rocked forward, idly, carelessly, bumping the head of his cock against Chris’s chin, his nose. “That goes for the weekend, too. Your balls itch, I’ll scratch them.” “Going to let me wash it off in the shower?” Simon grinned. “No, but I’ll tie your hands to the shower rail and wash it for you. Slowly.” “Fuck, you would, wouldn’t you?” Chris groaned. “You’re too good at this.” “I’m really —” Simon paused and changed his mind about denying it. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t, but Chris didn’t want to hear his doubts. “I’m going to let you suck me now.” “Thank Christ for that.” “You come—you even look close—and I’ll send you downstairs to change that washer. And you can use your tongue but keep your head on the pillow and if I pull back, your teeth

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had better not be in the way.” Giving orders was addictive, especially when Chris was staring up at him, the challenge in his eyes muted, all yearning, pleading need. “Ouch,” Chris murmured, and while his mouth was still soft and open, Simon slid his cock inside. Too much. Too good. He froze and realised his mistake when Chris’ tongue began to lap and lick at what was no longer a moving target. That and the sounds he was making, the liquid, luscious drag of tongue on cock, the small, fervent moans, were assaults on Simon’s resolve, but he couldn’t stop this soon. He pulled back and pushed in again before Chris could voice a protest, slow, shallow strokes, making it seem like a tease, a choice, when it was pure necessity. “That’s it, that’s good, isn’t it? No more than this, no, you don’t get it all…” Chris closed his eyes and Simon allowed his expression to show what he was feeling, a teeth-grinding mix of elation and lust. His cock, wet, as hard as it could get, see-sawing over that perfect lip, leaving it swollen, red. He’d never used this position to get blown before but the novelty was the least of the attraction. He got to the point where he felt his balls tighten, his climax imminent, and peeled his hands off the headboard and edged backwards reluctantly. The sound Chris made was incoherent but he got the message. “Shhh,” he said and leaned down to kiss the beautiful, furious mouth. “I had to.” He stroked the taut arms. “How do you feel? Too tight?” “No!” Chris turned his head away and took a deep breath before meeting Simon’s gaze again. “Just—don’t stop, okay? From that to nothing, you can still touch me, can’t you? Because if you’re so fucking close that you can’t do that, then you’ve gone past it.” Simon frowned. “I am touching you,” he pointed out. Chris, more limber than Simon, brought his knee up and gave Simon a kick with the side of his foot. “Not where I want you to.” Simon began to shift position, intending to get between Chris’ knees so that he could return the favour, and then paused. “Just out of curiosity, what do you want me to do?” “Tell me I can come.” Simon shook his head. “You’re not even close to needing to yet.” “How do you know?”

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“You’re still talking.” Chris grinned. “You’d have to gag me to make me shut up. Or shove that cock of yours down my throat again.” “Sweet-talker.” He twisted around and got a look at Chris’ cock. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you are just about at your limit.” As he’d expected, put like that, Chris wasn’t going to agree. “Hey, anything you can do…” “You can do better?” Simon ran his tongue around Chris’ nipple. “Prove it. I’m going to work my way down and when I get to your cock, you tell me how much you think you can take and I’ll tell you if I agree.” “Bring it on,” Chris said and closed his eyes, which left Simon feeling alone, as if Chris was somewhere else and all that was left was a shell. “No, watch me.” Simon cupped Chris’ cheek in his hand and kissed him, because Chris’ mouth was right there and why not? “I watched you.” Grey eyes stared up at him. “I know. I saw you. Why do you think I’m so hard when you didn’t even touch me? The look on your face…fuck.” “I want to see you look like that,” Simon told him and went back to exploring Chris’ body, every warm, responsive inch of it. Chris liked extremes, he discovered, a sharp bite and a whisper touch both got the same moan and shudder. Chris was fighting Simon, trying to stay still and not react, but it wasn’t a struggle that his body wanted him to win. Simon broke him finally by simply reaching up and pushing two fingers into Chris’ mouth for him to suck at and lick, which he did with a desperate hunger that made Simon moan himself. His free hand lightly stroked Chris’ stomach over and over until the skin was sensitised to the point where he could get the same clench of muscle just by a sketched movement, the tips of his fingers never touching skin. He pulled his fingers out and dragged them down Chris’ body, chin, chest, stomach, a slow, deliberate rake of his fingernails that ended with him kneeling between Chris’ legs, his hands framing Chris’ cock. “So how much do you think you can take?” His voice wasn’t steady, but it was clear. “If I take this in my mouth, all the way in, then pull off —”

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“I don’t know,” Chris said. “I don’t fucking know, but do it.” His hands were clenched into fists, and his body was a taut stretch of muscle and bone. Simon worked his thumbs into skin, not too hard, but enough to get his point across. “You don’t tell me, you don’t get any.” “Fuck!” Chris fought the ties holding him, bucking up against Simon’s hands, writhing in frustration. “Five. Five times, okay?” Simon shook his head. “I think you can take more than that.” Chris stilled and glared at him. “You,” he said distinctly, “are out of your fucking mind, you know that?” “Take ten and I’ll let you choose where you come,” Simon said. “In my mouth, on me, in me, you decide.” “In you?” “With you still like this,” Simon said. “Me on top.” Chris narrowed his eyes. “No. You fucking me. And you don’t come until I have.” Simon had to appreciate the neat way Chris had upped the stakes. It would’ve been much easier to hold off climaxing if he was the one getting fucked. “Competitive bastard, aren’t you?” “You have no idea.” Chris glanced down with a flicker of his eyes. “Off you go then.” “Bossy, competitive bastard, “Simon muttered. “So make me regret it,” Chris said. “You’re going to be the one using my dick as a lollipop.” “I crunch them up, I don’t suck them.” As Chris winced theatrically, without looking too worried, Simon slid down and wrapped his hand around the base of Chris’ cock. The warm, musky smell was like catnip to a kitten, he breathed it in and shivered happily. He loved doing this. Loved the power of it. Luke had always treated it as something beneath him, assuming that anything that put him on his knees was to be avoided, but Simon didn’t see it that way. Kneeling was just convenient, that was all. With a cock in his mouth and its owner breathless, moaning, needing what he was doing to get off, Simon knew exactly who was in charge of the situation. It had, he realised, been a small rebellion for him to think that way every time Luke had pushed him down, his hand heavy on Simon’s shoulder.

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And he loved the gift it could be. He could make this good for Chris, and he wanted to, just as much as he wanted to watch Chris struggle to stave off his climax. He laughed aloud. “I don’t know who I want to win here, me or you,” he confessed. Chris rolled his eyes. “Come back up here and kiss me, you soft sod.” When Simon had leaned in and given him a kiss, intending to make it an exasperated token and getting lost in the taste of Chris’s mouth, Chris said more gently, “It’s a game, remember. Something we’re doing for fun, not because we have to. And it’s a game inside another game.” Simon frowned. “What?” Chris sighed, his gaze sliding away for a moment. “Simon—this isn’t clearing what I owe you. Not really. Think about it, I get to spend the weekend in a nice house having sex with a guy I’d have picked out of a crowd as being the one I fancied the most, yeah, real hardship that. And the way you make me feel…God, I should be paying you.” “No,” Simon said wanting to make Chris just shut the fuck up. “No. This wipes it clean, you said so.” “You know I said I couldn’t afford to pay you back?” Chris didn’t wait for Simon to answer. “Well, I can’t, every spare penny I’ve got I’m saving to buy Andy out if he ever retires. My dad, though, he’s not short a bob or two and he hates Luke’s fucking guts. He’d have lent me the money in a heartbeat if I’d asked.” “So why didn’t you ask?” Simon felt coldness where there’d been warmth. “Why did you agree to this when it was a lie?” “A lie?” Chris tried to reach out to him and for the first time since Simon had tied him up looked genuinely upset that he couldn’t move. He yanked hard at the ties and when that just left the knots tighter he slumped back against the bed. “Fuck. It wasn’t a lie.” “You’re going to give me the money back, aren’t you?” Simon demanded and saw the flicker in Chris’ eyes that told him he was right. “You were never going to let this be enough.” “Well…” Chris bit his lip. “I suppose. But it’s like I said, this is something I wanted to do, Simon. You had to have known that it was just a handy excuse to see you again.” Simon reached up and began picking at the knots with fingers that, he noted distantly, were shaking.

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“Don’t.” Chris was begging now, his voice breaking on the word. “Simon—please—I’m sorry—no, fuck it, I’m not sorry! Christ, what the hell is wrong with you? This changes nothing!” The knot loosened and Simon pulled the tie free. Chris’ wrist was chafed and reddened, but the skin wasn’t broken. Numb with the familiar ache of betrayal, he reached for the second knot. Chris’ hand stopped him, clamping down over Simon’s wrist painfully tight. “No. I can do it myself if I want to and I don’t. Leave it.” “No.” He continued to work the knot loose. Chris swore under his breath and moved his hand, sweeping it down Simon’s side to rest on his backside. Too gentle, too intimate…Simon closed his eyes against the sting of tears and paused. “Simon…” It was a murmur, no more than that. “Listen to me. Why do you think I came to you with that book? Agreed to this? I didn’t feel like you were a stranger, that’s why. Luke, he talked about you—” “Oh, I bet he did.” Anger burning bright now, Simon gave up on the knot which, given the way his eyes were blurred was proving impossible to undo. He blinked away the wetness in his eyes before it could fall and knelt back on his heels. Chris wriggled up so that he was leaning against the headboard and waited in silence. “I’m sure he loved telling you about his last bit of rough, he’d enjoy making you feel like there was someone to be better than.” “You?” Chris frowned. “You’re not —” “You think I’m like him, don’t you?” Simon said, his mouth twisting. “Posh.” “Well, yeah.” Chris jerked his head. “Nice house, good job, and you sound all BBfucking-C.” “I work for a living,” Simon said coldly. “Not some cushy boardroom position with three hour liquid lunches. I work damn hard for not much money. I inherited the house from my grandparents and I picked the accent up because it makes things easier.” Chris shrugged. “I kept mine. What the fuck do I care what people think about the way I sound?” “And Luke would’ve probably mimicked you behind your back.” It was cruel, but he wanted to hurt Chris right then, as much as he’d been hurt.

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Chris grinned, not noticeably bothered by the idea. “He might have tried, but I bet he did a piss-poor job of it. Look, he talked about you and I saw some pictures…you sounded okay. Not like him. So when I finished the job and he said thanks for all the sex, now sod off and by the way, forget about the itemised bill, because this is all you’re getting, well, I decided to kill two birds and all that. Get at him, meet you.” Chris’ expression was serious now, open and pleading. “And I did. And you were just so…God. If I hadn’t had that call from Luke I’d still have come back to see you, talk to you, ask you out and see where it went.” “Why?” Simon couldn’t doubt Chris’ sincerity, but it just didn’t make any sense. He gestured at Chris. “Look at you. Those earrings, your attitude…You’re, what, six, seven years younger, and you could walk into any club and have your pick of men. I’m not your type. Most nights, I’m here. By myself. I’m just…boring.” “Not to me.” Chris clicked his tongue against his teeth impatiently. “Come off it, Simon! You’re not telling me you couldn’t pull if you wanted to. The pity party would work better if you had a face like the back end of a bus, but you don’t.” His gaze travelled over Simon like a caress. “No, you don’t…” He nodded down. “See? Hard again, just from staring at you. I’m not faking that.” “I still can’t do this,” Simon said. “Not now. It feels like—it’s like I bought you, not the book.” “It won’t once I’ve paid you back.” “And then Luke wins,” Simon said. “He gets everything. He screws you out of your wages and you’re not only out them, but the money for the book.” Chris screwed up his face impatiently. “I don’t care. It was worth it to get to meet you. Worth it for this.” Simon shook his head and got off the bed, walking around to undo the second tie. “No, it isn’t.” The knot slipped free easily now his hands weren’t shaking. “I’ll call you a taxi,” he said, not looking at Chris as he said it. “I’ll pay for it. I don’t know where you live, but—”

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“My van’s parked in the multi-storey on Gardiner Street, so forget it,” Chris snapped. He swung his legs around and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing at his wrists. “You’re a stupid, stubborn—” “Just get dressed and go,” Simon said and picked up his jeans because he couldn’t stand being naked around Chris any longer. He made an effort and met Chris’ eyes. “Please?” Chris made a sound that was close to a growl and stood up. “I’m going to go home,” he said, his finger jabbing Simon’s bare shoulder. “And jerk off until my dick’s got friction burns unless you’re going to tell me I still can’t?” Part of Simon—most of Simon—wanted to do just that, but he shook his head. “You change your mind and you’ve got my number,” Chris said and that was all he said. He dressed in silence, with quick, angry jerks at his clothes, and left the bedroom. Simon sank down on the bed and listened to the muffled sounds of Chris gathering up the rest of his belongings, followed by the slam of the front door.

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Chapter Four

He stared at the discarded tie that had fallen to the floor, a creased blue strip of silk against the pale grey carpet, and couldn’t find the energy to pick it up. If he had, he wasn’t sure what he would’ve done with it, throw it away, or wrap it around his wrist. When he woke late the next day, sleet stinging the windows, he still wasn’t sure, so he took both ties and put them back in the drawer. One dramatic gesture per weekend and he’d had his. Downstairs, there were too many reminders of Chris for him to be able to bury what had happened, the cushions from the couch were all at one end and the cans of lager were on the side. He tidied everything away and spent a few hours going through the box of books he’d bought, focusing his attention on them with a desperate determination that cracked now and then, regret seeping through. He hadn’t explained it all very well to Chris. He could see that now, looking back. Maybe because it was all so tangled up in his head. It had been so liberating when he’d thought Chris meant it, a weekend where anything went, because it would make Chris feel better about the stupid fucking debt. A weekend with both of them enjoying it, sure, Simon would never have dreamt of doing anything that Chris didn’t like, but still a chance for them both to take a step to the side of normal. Finding out that Chris didn’t see it that way, that Chris had lied… “I didn’t want your bloody money,” Simon said aloud to the uncaring walls. “I just wanted you.” He looked down at the mildewed copy of King Solomon’s Mines that he was holding and put it down before he threw it across the room in a gesture that would only feel good for the time it took to throw it. Then he stood, grabbed it, and threw it anyway, pages scattering mid-flight, followed by the sickening crack of the spine as it met the wall. He’d been right. It didn’t help.

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**** By the following Friday, Simon was going quietly crazy, with intense regret fighting a nagging arousal that just wouldn’t go away. He was starting to think that he could jerk off as many times as an aching wrist and frankly tender cock would allow and it still wouldn’t help. He didn’t want to come if he was by himself when he did it and he didn’t want to go out and find a warm body, an anonymous and transient partner. He wanted to be with Chris, wanted to feel that wicked, inventive, welcoming mouth on him and see Chris smile. He wanted to do everything he’d promised and hadn’t delivered. A cheque had arrived through the mail on Tuesday, the details printed neatly, the signature a scrawl of black ink. Simon saved the envelope for the return address and tucked the cheque away. Like the book, it was his now, and it was his choice what he did with it. He chose not to cash it and tried not to feel as if it was a gesture that should have a defiantly childish ‘so there’ tacked on the end of it. When it got to nine, he admitted to himself that he’d hoped Chris would appear, beer in hand, offering him another chance, a do-over of the disaster. Really, though, why the hell should he? He’d pushed hard to make Simon change his mind at the time and that had been more than Lu—most people would have done. Realising that any move would have to be made by him, followed by the knowledge that he was going to have to make it because he couldn’t stand another week like the last one, was a gut-punch that left him dizzy. For a man who’d discovered he liked taking control in the bedroom—or the nearest wall—he was crap at doing it in his everyday life. Except that wasn’t quite true, he managed fine at work and when it came to stroppy sales assistants unwilling to exchange defective toasters. Most of the time he was assertive, without being aggressive, the model of a man who’d been to more than enough training courses on that and other time-wasting subjects. He couldn’t blame Luke for the fact that when it came to his love life he was scared shitless of any commitment no matter how minor. Well, he could, but he was damned if he would. Luke just didn’t get to have that much power over him. Not now. It was too late to drive across London, Map Quest directions in hand, trying to locate Chris’ address, his father’s house, presumably. Unless the address was where Chris worked,

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in which case he was even less likely to be there this late on a Friday night. No, Chris would be out at a pub or club, that solid, muscular body on show, his hair bright under the lights, his eyes scanning the crowd for— —having sex with a guy I’d have picked out of a crowd as being the one I fancied the most. Had Chris meant it? Simon got his coat and his car keys. The streets would be marginally quieter at night and at least he could find out where it was. He looked down. His hands were shaking. Oh, this was going to go well… It turned out to be a business address, a small, unassuming building down a side-street with a sign declaring that it was where customers could find Andrew Benton, restorer of fine furniture. The shop itself was dark, but there was a light on in what Simon assumed was a workshop at the back and a van in the small car park in front of the building that could be Chris’. Simon parked facing out in case it didn’t go well, he really didn’t want to reverse and hit Chris’ van. Not unless he could do six hundred and fifty pounds worth of damage. It was a measure of how fucked-up the situation was that he actually gave that some thought as a possible solution to the deadlock. He walked around to the back of the building and without letting himself think too much about what he was doing knocked on the workshop door. It opened a moment later and he saw Chris and behind him a dim space, redolent of sawdust, an overhead light shining down on a workbench. Chris looked tired, the sharp, clean lines of his face blurred by it, his grey eyes dark in a pale face. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” He rubbed his hand over his hair, leaving dust and a wood shaving clinging to it and Simon reached out, plucking the thin curlicue out and letting it flutter to the ground. Chris watched it fall without comment or thanks. “Shop’s closed, but I don’t suppose you’ve got a job for us, have you?” Simon shook his head and glanced around the space, curiosity flaring. “You—you said you were a carpenter. A handyman.” There were several tables, draped with drop clothes and on them stood items of furniture that Simon knew enough about to recognise as antiques, but no more than that; a chair, a chest of drawers, a small table. Chris had been

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working on something more modern, a small box, the width and length of a book, but deeper. “I am, Andy isn’t. And by the time he’s finished training me, maybe I’ll get to touch the Chippendale but right now…” “What is it?” “Birthday present for Lisa, Andy’s granddaughter. She wanted something to keep her bits and bobs in.” Chris shrugged. “Nice kid. She’s just turning ten, so I wanted it to be something special.” “Show it to me?” Simon asked, the breeze behind him a reminder that Chris had yet to invite him in. “Please? I’d like to see it.” Chris hesitated for a long moment and then sighed. “Sure. Just let me lock up, Andy’s never had any trouble here, but there’s always a first time.” The box was deceptively simple, almost plain, until Chris picked it up and tilted it under the light, an ‘L’ appeared on the lid, faint enough not to mar the beauty of the grain, but unmistakable once the eye had noted it. “Inlaid it and then smoothed it over,” Chris explained. “Same wood, so you can hardly see it.” “It’s stunning,” Simon said sincerely. “Always been good with my hands.” It was said too flatly to be flirtatious, a statement of fact, no more. “I’m sorry.” “I think you missed a few sentences there, mate. Sorry I’m good with my hands? No, probably not.” Chris wrapped the box in a clean cloth and slipped inside a drawer built into the worktable. “Sorry you kicked me out last week?” “More than that.” “Yeah? Well, I was sorry, too, but I got over it.” Simon kept his voice steady. “Did you? Really?” Chris turned his head. “Yeah. Really. So cash the fucking cheque—yeah, I know you haven’t—and let’s end this.” “That won’t end it.” Simon felt his certainty return, balance restored, just by being here. So much unhappiness in Chris’ eyes and God, standing this close to him he could feel the

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need to touch rising, inexorable, relentless and knew that Chris wouldn’t push him away. “That’s just—it’s not important.” “It was last week.” Chris’ mouth twisted, his lips clamped together into a hard line for a moment. “Important enough for you to leave us both high and dry. To ruin what we’d got going.” “What if it wasn’t ruined, just postponed? What if I told you I was an idiot with issues and I’ve spent the last week kicking my arse black and blue and not getting over you, not in the slightest?” Chris didn’t smile but his face softened. “I don’t know. You haven’t told me yet.” “Oh, yes, I did,” Simon said and stepped closer still, one hand on the back of Chris’ neck, where the skin was smooth and hot and fit into his palm, the other cupping Chris’ face. “I so fucking did…” He didn’t have to move far to kiss Chris, Chris tilted his head back into the cradle of Simon’s hand and his mouth was just there, all hesitancy gone with the first touch of their lips, leaving nothing but hunger. Chris’ hands were on his backside now, holding Simon in place as he rubbed up against him, his cock rapidly hardening. As an acceptance of Simon’s apology went, it worked better than words. “God, I missed you,” Simon whispered, steadying himself against the work table so that Chris could climb him like a fucking tree if he wanted to. “I hardly know you and I still bloody missed you.” “You know I said I was going to jerk off?” Chris panted, kissing Simon’s neck and throat between words, wet, biting kisses that stung, that hurt, that Simon was addicted to after the third one. “Didn’t.” “Ah.” “You didn’t?” Chris gave him a disappointed look and then chuckled, putting an inch or two of space between them, though they were still holding on to each other. “Oh, Simon, Simon… That’s two you owe me.” “Want them now?” Simon said, a reckless exhilaration filling him. “I can’t promise I won’t come, too, but I’ll let you come first.” “Let me?” Chris asked, his eyes intent. “Still want to play it that way, do you?”

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“You know I do.” Simon stroked a single fingertip down the bridge of Chris’ nose and bumped it softly over the push and pout of his lips. “And so do you.” “Going to keep tying me up?” “With something better than my ties, yes.” “Going to let me go again?” Simon paused, the glib, easy answer ready to be spoken but impossible to say. “Right now, I don’t want to let go of you at all. If I had one of those ties with me, I’d wrap it around our wrists, tie it tight and keep you like that, attached to me close by.” “Not very practical.” “No, but you like the idea, don’t you?” Simon nuzzled Chris’ ear, and licked around the smallest earring. “I could do it if we were at home. I will. But letting you go—I can’t promise anything. It’s too soon.” “No, it’s not.” Chris kissed him, a firm kiss, one that anchored Simon. “Just deal with it day by day. Today, tomorrow, this weekend, are you going to let me go?” That was easy. “No way. No fucking way.” “Good enough for me.” Chris broke free and stepped back, giving himself enough room to pull off his T-shirt. “Now prove it by fucking me and then I’ll walk out of here with you and we’ll do last weekend again, properly.” He raised an eyebrow. “Tell me you didn’t come here to seduce me without packing some slick and a glove?” “I came here because I couldn’t go another day without seeing you, even if you just told me to piss off,” Simon said. “But don’t worry, I was a Boy Scout.” “Not literally, I hope,” Chris said as he went back to stripping, with a cheerful disregard for his surroundings. The windows were high enough up that Simon didn’t think it was likely they had an audience, but with Chris naked and hard in front of him, Wembley at kick-off time would’ve seemed like the ideal setting. “I was a Cub for about two months,” Simon said, remembering how quickly his initial enthusiasm had lagged. “Now I wish I’d stayed long enough to learn some knots.” “I can show you.” Chris ran his tongue over his lips in a deliberate tease. “I can show you everything I’ve got.” “I can see it.” Simon was still fully dressed but he didn’t want to change that beyond what he had to do to get his cock out, he was getting off on the vulnerability Chris was going

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to be feeling any time now, when he was feeling denim and silk against his bare back and thighs, excited by it before it had happened. “Pick something to bend over.” “Just like that?” Chris asked, his voice soft. “I’ve waited long enough,” Simon said. “And you—you’ve gone past waiting, haven’t you?” He walked the three steps needed to bring him close enough to touch but kept his hands by his sides. “You’re aching, just the way I wanted you to be.” Chris closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Simon watched the assurance and confidence get directed into acquiescence, complete, unstinting and when Chris opened his eyes, showing him nothing but patient expectancy, he nodded an acknowledgement. “Andy would have a fit if we used the tables,” Chris said. His cock was hard and Simon could only imagine the effort it was taking for Chris not to touch it, not to jack it once, twice, an instinctive act of self-appraisal and reassurance. “But if you want to go with a wall again, I have to look at that one over there every day.” Simon followed Chris’ gaze to a section of wall between shelving units, tucked away in the shadows. Chris’ skin would be pale against the painted bricks, their rough surface smoothed over by a few coats of green paint so that he wouldn’t have to worry that Chris’ hands would be scraped raw. “Your choice,” he reminded Chris. “But that works for me.” Chris walked to the wall with the same easy grace he showed in all his actions, not looking back. He didn’t need to, Simon was right there behind him, his hand resting on the back of Chris’ neck, the shudder Chris gave when he gripped him there reason enough to do it. He kept it there as Chris put his hands flat against the wall, bracing himself, legs spread, back arched, kept it there as he unzipped, and felt the cool air strike exposed skin. Removed it reluctantly, sliding it slowly, possessively, down Chris’ spine and then twisting his wrist so that his fingers could dip inside the cleft of Chris’ arse, the skin there hot, slightly damp with sweat, catching at his fingertips. Suited up, he got out the small bottle of lube and then paused. “If I took it slowly, lots of lube, do you still need my fingers first?” Chris shivered, goose bumps rising. “God, no. I’d love that.” He used more lube than he needed, so much that the head of his cock slid past its target the first time, but it didn’t matter, he fitted his erection into the narrow channel and fucked it,

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gasping at the sensation, not enough, but still so very fucking good. Chris cried out and tried to guide him inside but Simon just chuckled breathlessly and did it again, slip-slide-glide, his hands clamped on Chris’ hips. “In me,” Chris said, “In me, dammit. Simon—please—God, Simon—” and Simon took the raw edges of his plea and smoothed them with words and his hands until Chris quieted. He gripped just behind the head of his cock, the feel of lube and latex too familiar to be annoying, and rubbed it hard over the small opening until Chris arched back and Simon sank in, an inch, no more, and knew he wasn’t going to go back to teasing either of them. Tight, clutching heat, smooth flesh to surround him…Simon opened Chris with his cock, slowly, gradually, his teeth gritted against the need to sink in with one long, hard thrust, something Chris was telling him to do, his voice frantic, his hands doubled into fists now, his head hanging down between his widespread arms. Every stroke forward, he felt Chris’ body accept him a little more readily, until he was in as deep as he could go and Chris fell silent. Simon reached up and put his hand over Chris’, uncurling the tight fists until Chris’ palms were flat against the bricks again, his fingers flexing like a cat’s claws. Then he kissed Chris’ nape, tasting salt, tasting sweat, pulled mostly out and slammed back in before the space he’d made for himself had time to forget the shape of his cock. It might still have hurt, for all the care he’d taken, but not enough to make Chris flinch away from the second stroke, or the third. He moved, but it was to meet each thrust, and he was strong enough, even like this, with nothing but the wall for support, that Simon didn’t feel the need to hold back. His strength met Chris’, waves breaking over rock, and he felt his world become just this space, just this man, just Chris, all he needed held within his hands. He didn’t want this to end, the usual race to a climax, as if that was the goal… It wasn’t. He was already there, where he wanted to be. He was fucking Chris, making Chris moan and pant out his name, and sweat, skin damp and hot and his to touch. He slowed, barely moving now, short, shallow strokes, just to get Chris to whimper for him, desperate incoherencies spilling out of that perfect, kissable, fuckable mouth. Chris flung his head back, the muscles in his shoulders tensing, flexing. “God, please—”

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“You first,” Simon managed to say and reached around to cup Chris’ balls, close to his body now, full and tight. He rolled them, a rough, loving caress, and then slid his hand up to the waiting cock, wet-tipped and God, so hard, so hard… He worked it until he felt it start to jerk, spunk jetting out in warm spurts to coat his hand and Chris’ stomach. The slick channel he was fucking clenched around him like a fist. Too much. With a sense that his body wasn’t his to control in that final moment, Simon let go, hammering into Chris in jerky, powerful thrusts, and felt his body tighten, muscles locking as his climax ripped through him. Chris cried out, his hand slapping the wall and Simon focused on the glitter of sawdust on the back of Chris’ neck and let it fill his vision, ground him because his mind felt disconnected right then. Simon wrapped his arms around Chris, and eased him upright, still inside him, though that couldn’t last. He hugged him and then, with a feeling of loss, dealt with the process of easing out and cleaning up. Still dressed, his skin felt hot, grubby, sweat and lust held against it. He wanted to shower and he wanted Chris in there with him, slick and clean and smiling. Chris came back after disposing of the paper towels they’d used. “Maybe I should get dressed.” He shivered as he said it, but he was smiling, and Simon gathered him in for a hug without thinking, kissing the side of his head with a fierce gratitude he couldn’t put into words. Chris hugged him back, his body fitting against Simon’s in a snug, perfect fit, and gave a contented sigh.

**** “This one?” Simon took the book from Chris and put it back on the shelf. “No.” “Well, how about this one?” “Chris…” Simon narrowed his eyes. “You’re doing this deliberately, aren’t you?” Chris re-shelved Sue Carter—Trainee Librarian next to Penny—Mother’s Helper and grinned. “Yeah. I like the way your ears turn red when you’re pissed at me.” Before Simon could decide whether to attack or defend after that, Chris grabbed his hand and led him

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down the narrow aisle formed by tall, overflowing bookshelves. The shop was Simon’s idea of heaven, even as the professional in him was groaning at the sight of books in boxes, stacked haphazardly on the floor, spines facing different ways. He’d spent an hour searching through the boxes and his back was aching and his knees dusty, but Chris’ enthusiasm hadn’t flagged. Of course Chris had three books waiting for him at the counter, beautifully illustrated, weighty books about Regency furniture, and Simon was empty handed. “Found something for you,” Chris said, and stopped in a shadowed corner, his eyes sparkling. “Some lazy sod shoved it in with the antiques instead of putting it back where it belonged.” “If it’s another book in that bloody careers for girls series —” Chris gave him a reproving look. “What’s wrong with them?” “Where to start?” “Forget about them.” Chris took a book down, handling it carefully, the dust jacket, as Simon saw immediately, in good condition, slightly faded on the spine, but not chipped… Then he saw the title. “Oh my God.” Chris beamed. “It’s the last one you needed, isn’t it? By that bloke who did the Biggles books?” Simon ran his hand reverentially over The Rustlers of Rattlesnake Valley. “Yes, it is.” “Your ears are going red again.” “Do you want me to express my gratitude later on with a blow job or do you want your arse to match them?” Chris pursed his lips in thought as Simon opened the book to check the publication details. “Both?” It was a first edition. He’d have settled for any version of it, but it was a first… He looked up and met Chris’ wicked smile with one of his own, already planning the evening ahead and at the same time picturing the book on his shelf, completing the set, making it whole, perfect. “Anything you want,” he told Chris and kissed him, dust tickling his nose, the rustle and whisper of the books surrounding them lost in Chris’ answering chuckle.

About the Author Jane Davitt is English, and has been living in Canada with her husband, two children, and two cats, since 1997. Writing and reading are her main occupations but if she ever had any spare time she might spend it gardening, walking, or doing cross stitch. Jane has been writing since 2005 and wishes she'd started earlier. She is a huge fan of SF, fantasy, erotica, and mystery novels and has a tendency to get addicted to TV shows that get cancelled all too soon. She owns over 4,000 books, rarely gives any away, but is happy to loan them, and is of the firm opinion that there is no such thing as 'too many books'.

Email: [email protected] Jane Davitt loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

BULL RIDER Jade Buchanan

Dedication To my sister and her friends for a rousing night of partying at our local watering hole, and to the tattooed man I saw that night for inspiring this story.

Trademarks Acknowledgement The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Ford Super Duty Lariat:

Ford Motor Company

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Chapter One

“You’re kidding, right?” Wes Scott angled forward, eating up his co-workers words. He could barely hear Becca over the mayhem around them. Leaning his elbows on the table they were lucky enough to have grabbed, Wes shook his head at the noise. The table overlooked the dance floor, and had the strategic advantage of being right beside one of the five bars inside the place. Wes and Becca were the only ones manning the table while Jayne was out twostepping, but he expected more people to show up later to keep them company. At least, that’s what they’d told him. This was supposed to be a welcome to Canada party, a little cultural outing for all of them to find out more about the country they’d be living in for a while and the people they’d be working with. It was the only reason he was here tonight having his ears assaulted by the twangy sounds emanating from the band on stage. He wouldn’t have come voluntarily otherwise. Not that he had anything against country music, it just wouldn’t be his first choice. Becca had been in the province for a few months now, but she’d already claimed the Alberta culture as her own. She was originally from Glasgow and she’d already tried to tell him the same story three times now about how Calgary and Glasgow were supposed to be linked. It didn’t make any more sense the last time than it did the first but he’d nodded and smiled anyway. The rest of the blokes he was going to be working with were from all over Britain, all of them coming together here as complete strangers to work at the BFBS Radio Station on BATUS, the British Army Training Unit Suffield located practically in the middle of nowhere. Working at the station was his first posting out of the country—it was practically his first time travelling out of England—but Jayne had assured him they’d be the best of friends by the time they went home. This was her second posting in a foreign country and she’d declared herself the unofficial expert. All the DJ’s were living in Ralston Village, right on the edge of BATUS, but he’d never been more thankful to find out it was only a few hours outside Calgary. Wes was a London boy, himself, and couldn’t imagine living in a small village for any length of time without at

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least trying to go into town to a nightclub or something. Although, he hadn’t quite imagined this when he’d told Becca and Jayne he wanted to go out somewhere for the night. His first time in a country bar and he would’ve assumed he’d stick out like a sore thumb. He’d worn a grey golf shirt over pressed jeans tonight because it was the only thing remotely country-ish that he owned. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly country-ish, but hell, not like he was going to wear chaps and a cowboy hat. Although, he sure would like to see a few of these guys in arseless chaps. There was something about a cowboy that got his blood stirring. Among other things. Surprisingly, he had to admit he was enjoying himself. He wasn’t much for going to bars, but this was actually fun. It might be more fun if he was drinking but he was trying to make a good impression on his new co-workers. He’d be living with them for the next three years, and while he knew he’d make a fool of himself eventually, he wanted them to at least get a good first impression if he could help it. No point in hitting on a cowboy and getting his arse kicked because he was too drunk to stop himself. He was on his fourth glass of water and it tasted just as bad as the first. Luckily, he was totally getting off on people watching. He’d seen everyone from eighteen year olds to eighty year olds. Most of them were milling around, but a few adventurous souls were out on the dance floor, giving him great pleasure by watching them. Man, some of those people really couldn’t dance. “No, I’m completely serious!” Becca grinned, leaning forward on the opposite side of the table. “She couldn’t sit down for a week without groaning afterward.” “What are we talking about here?” Jayne bounced up from the dance floor, leaning on his shoulder and putting her arm around him. She’d had more than a few drinks already and she was definitely a friendly drunk. Wes frowned, feeling strange for a moment. It felt like someone was watching him, a sensation that was distinctly uncomfortable. He shrugged it off, tuning back in to Becca and her bull riding story. “Marcy rode the bull the last time she was here and she ended up with huge black bruises all up and down the insides of her thighs from clenching it so hard! Can you believe it?” Wes grinned, imagining their straight-laced boss riding the mechanical bull set up across the dance floor from where they were sitting. He’d been watching the people get up

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on it all night. Something he’d sure as hell never do, but he had to admire the people who tried it. The machine was supposed to simulate the way a bull would move but it didn’t look like it was too comfortable. The thing bucked and turned nonstop, and nearly everyone that had gotten up on it had ended up flying off arse over tit within seconds. Snorting, Jayne leaned further over onto Wes. “That’s nothing. Tony went on it down in Montana and actually held his beer through the whole ride. Said he was bucked off and damned if he didn’t spill a single drop from the bottle.” “Bollocks. No way would anyone let you bring a beer up on one of those.” Becca frowned. “I swear, it’s true! This was in Montana, remember. They do things different down there.” “Right, and you’re going to tell me Tony wasn’t completely arseholed? I bet he was too drunk to even remember the night.” Wes rolled his eyes at the banter between the two women. The strange sensation came to him again, he felt like he was being watched. He finally looked over to his left, across the dance floor to where the mechanical bull was bucking off it’s latest victim. A man was staring at him, just about boring holes through him in fact. He was big, towering over the people around him. A green T-shirt stretched over his mammoth chest, and his burly arms were crossed. Scrolling thick black tattoos were visible on his forearms and what there was to see of his biceps. Wes swallowed. Hard. The man was wearing a pair of jeans, and his thighs practically strained the material. Wes wondered if he found it hard to buy jeans that big. Christ, this guy was something else. So why was he glaring at Wes? Wes turned around, trying to discover if there was something else the guy might be looking at. Jayne took that moment to burst out laughing, and the man’s frown deepened. Ah, that explained it. The guy probably wanted to get with Jayne and was pissed because Wes was sitting with her. Wasn’t that just his luck? Why were all the good looking guys married or straight?

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At least, the good looking guys that were Wes’ type were all straight. Call him crazy, but there was just something about a big, burly, motorcycle-riding, muscle-bound, dominant top that plain did it for Wes. Unfortunately, on the off chance there were any gay big, burly motorcycle-riding, muscle-bound, dominant tops in the area, they probably didn’t go for the scholarly, former swim captain type of guy that Wes was. Especially considering he wasn’t from around here. It was a crying shame. Really. It wasn’t that he was ugly or anything. He was just pretty average in both height and looks. In his opinion, of course. Although, he hadn’t really had anyone express differently. He just wasn’t the type of guy that got mooned over. It was probably the dishwater dark blond hair and plain brown eyes that did it. Or the fact that while he may be in good shape, he wasn’t the tallest of blokes. Sighing, Wes stood up, shaking off Jayne’s arm. “I’m off to find the little boy’s room.” Becca waved him off, turning to talk to Jayne. The other woman giggled, leaping up to hug Wes and place a sloppy kiss on his cheek. Wes chuckled, finally getting out of her hold. Manoeuvring through the packed crowd, he did his best to avoid any collisions. Within a few minutes he was beside the mechanical bull, and the men’s washroom set up behind it. He stopped to let a couple walk in front of him. Shaking his head at the man stumbling around and hanging onto his date, Wes had to hold back his laughter. Why did people insist on getting fall-down drunk in public? Heat seared his back. He was pulled in tight to the body behind him by a rough grip on his hip. Wes gasped, trying to get out of the way. “Wanna ride the Bull?” A man whispered in his ear, his breath ghosting over Wes’ neck. Wes went still, shuddering when the grip at his hip tightened. He glanced over his shoulder, only to find the man from before standing behind him. This close to the other man it was very apparent how handsome he was. Not Hollywood standards handsome, but just the type to entice Wes. Lowered lids over brown eyes so dark they appeared black, firm lips, strong cheekbones. Wes was held so tightly to the bigger man there was barely a breath between them. He hastily looked around but it was so packed around the mechanical bull that no one would

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notice how close they were. Cowboys weren’t really known for being accepting of two men together. He’d watched Brokeback Mountain just like every other happy gay boy. But damn, he could feel every muscle in the man’s chest when he inhaled, the hard ridge of his cock pressing against Wes’ lower back. The man’s breath wafted over Wes’ hair, sweet smelling. He didn’t smell like he’d been drinking. No, he smelled like…Wes sniffed, leaning back slightly and letting the man take his weight. He smelled like almonds. The man growled, sliding his hand around until his hot palm was pressed against Wes’ belly. Butterflies took up residence behind his hand, dancing along Wes’ stomach. “Well?” The raspy voice sounded again, vibrating through Wes’ body. Wes started, realising he hadn’t answered the man’s first question. “The bull?” “You’ve been looking over here, so I’m guessing you need a long hard ride to satisfy you. I can give you that, and more.” “Uh, oh, I don’t…I mean, I wouldn’t. That’s not really my thing. Riding bulls…” “It’ll be your thing before the night is out, sweet. Don’t you worry about that.” Wes panted, not sure what they were talking about anymore. He was asking about the mechanical bull, wasn’t he? “I, uh, I wouldn’t want to do it with all these people watching.” “That right? If you want privacy, I can take you somewhere, sweet. Just say the words.” The man rumbled, thrusting his hips against Wes’ back. He inhaled again, his brawny chest moving against Wes and just about throwing him off balance. “I don’t even know you. Your name.” Wes tried to think. He wanted nothing more than to get down on his knees and forget himself, but he didn’t think the patrons around them would appreciate it. “Bull.” “What?” “My name.” Wes stiffened. “Wanna ride the Bull?” Good grief, the guy had been talking about himself. “Is that a joke?” Bull chuckled, tightening his hold on Wes. He hadn’t thought that was possible, but the strength in Bull’s arm definitely drew them closer together. They swayed in the crowd, Wes only barely aware of the people walking around them. “Isaac Fintan, at your service. Or, better yet, you’re at my service. Would you like that?” “Isaac?”

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“My friends call me Bull. Believe me, before tonight’s over, you’ll be screaming it out.” Wes shuddered. What was wrong with him? If anyone else uttered those words he’d be rolling his eyes at the utter ridiculousness of the statement. Ego much? But there was something about Bull that had him holding his tongue. Some sense that Bull wasn’t bluffing, that he really would take Wes places he’d never been before. This man was everything physically he’d ever been attracted to. Enormous, tough, dominant. Sexual. Fuck, was he ever sexual. Arching his back, Wes pressed back against that hard ridge that held so much promise. He was betting that was all Bull, no stuffing required for this guy. “And what’s your name, sweet?” “Wes. Wesley Scott. Uh, don’t…it’s just Wes. Nobody calls me Wesley. Well, except for my Ma.” “Yeah? Well, Wesley? You ready to go somewhere and get to know each other?” “I-I can’t. I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m here with someone.” Bull purred, smoothing his palm down until he cupped Wes’ erection in his big palm. “This because of me?” “Fuck, please.” Wes whimpered, wishing he could give in but knowing it wasn’t like him at all. He thanked the stars he’d been drinking water. If he was this bowled over, he couldn’t imagine what would’ve happened if he’d been drinking something harder. His mind was clouded enough with just the scent of Bull. “Who is she?” “Who?” “The girl you’re with. The one who can’t keep her hands to herself.” Despite his painful arousal, Wes chuckled. “Look who’s talking.” “Don’t tease me. I’m probably taking this too fast, but I’ve been sitting over here watching her touch you, and it’s been driving me fucking crazy. Who is she?” “A friend. Co-worker, to be exact. I’m not exactly interested in the equipment she’s got.” “That right?” Satisfaction rang in Bull’s voice. The big man shuddered, releasing Wes from his hold. “Damn, just the thought of you and her. I shouldn’t have, I didn’t mean to come on that strong.”

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Wes turned around, facing Bull directly. “Hey, find me in an hour and we’ll talk again. I’m new here and it probably isn’t a good idea to just skip out on my friends when we’re supposed to be bonding.” “Hmm, I can do that. I’d prefer for us to be doing a bit of bonding, but I’ll wait.” “Yeah?” Wes grinned happily. Bull leaned down, capturing Wes’ lips with his own. They clung to each other, Bull thrusting his tongue in to lick along Wes’ teeth. Parting, Wes quickly looked around. They were in a cowboy bar, for God’s sake. The few men that’d been staring quickly looked away when Bull snarled. “Find me later?” “Count on it.” Wes stepped away, making his way back to his table, trying not to look back. When he reached Becca and Jayne, he couldn’t resist. Turning, he spied Bull staring at him, watching him closely. Blushing, Wes sat down. “Sooo, thought you were going to the little boy’s room. Sure didn’t look like you got there.” Humour rang out in Becca’s voice. “Yeah, well...” “Oh my God, that was hot! Do it again!” Jayne giggled. Grinning, Becca licked her lips. “Bet Wes wants to get his oats with that one.” “Hey, if you don’t make it with Burly over there, I have the perfect guy for you. My cousin Dave’s quite the looker.” Wes dropped his head to the table with a thunk, ignoring the peal of giggles that set off. He just needed to find a way to survive the next few hours.

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Chapter Two

He couldn’t help himself. Every few minutes his gaze was drawn again and again to the hard figure standing across the dance floor. Even when the rest of his new co-workers arrived, he still kept his eye on Bull. He couldn’t believe he was even contemplating going over and letting Bull do exactly what his gaze had been promising for the last hour. Yet, here he was, holding onto yet another glass of horrid water and wondering where he could find condoms in this place. They must have them, because he definitely didn’t. Wes couldn’t exactly remember the last time he’d had a one night stand with someone and while he’d always been careful with his boyfriends in the past he hadn’t expected to hook up his first week overseas. Maybe Bull would know. He certainly still looked like he was interested, Wes hadn’t caught him even glancing at anyone else. Even when the horny redhead tried to flirt with him, Bull had just sat there calmly, ignoring the girl. Of course, that could have been because he didn’t swing that way himself, but the way the girl was packed into her jeans even Wes had looked at her twice. Despite Jayne and Becca teasing him mercilessly, he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to take Bull up on his proposition. They’d have to go somewhere else, since this wasn’t the type of place they could find a dark corner in. “Hey, handsome, you aren’t actually going to let tall, dark and studly walk away, are you?” Wes frowned at Jayne, confused. When she pointed across the dance floor, he whipped his head around, realising Bull was gone. It wasn’t as if he knew the guy. If he wasn’t actually interested in Wes, who cared? Sighing, Wes tried to ignore the fact that he did care and it did hurt. “Come on, up with you. We’re going dancing. That’ll cheer you up.” Letting Jayne guide him onto the dance floor, Wes lost himself in the music for a few minutes. He didn’t know the steps at all, and kept tripping over Jayne’s feet, but she didn’t seem to care too much. Losing his grip when he tried to twirl her, bouncing off a man and his partner behind him, Wes stumbled.

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Hard hands grabbed his shoulders—halting his head dive—before releasing him. Laughing gaily, he turned to thank his rescuer, staring straight at a faded green shirt moulded to a lickable chest. His Bull was back. Biting his lip, Wes angled his neck to look up into Bull’s burning black-brown gaze. “Hey, you left!” Bull’s lips thinned. “You done bonding with your friends?” Wes could only nod, stunned that Bull hadn’t left after all. Bull grabbed Wes’ hand, pulling him off the dance floor. When they reached the side, Bull released him, obviously trusting that Wes would follow him through the crowd of people. “Wes?” He turned at the feminine voice. Jayne had a saucy grin on her face but her gaze was serious. “I’ll just be a second.” “You better be gone more than a second or you’ll ruin all my fantasies, Wes. Go on with you. Have a bit of fun with your biker cowboy and then you can tell sister Jayne all about it in the car ride back to the base.” He rolled his eyes, swatting her when she let out a belly laugh. Waving gaily, Jayne grabbed hold of a stick thin man wearing a massive cowboy hat who’d been standing beside them, pulling him onto the dance floor with a whoop. Hesitating for a second, he tried to decide if he really did want to follow the big man. When Bull looked back over his shoulder, sending another one of those smouldering looks at Wes, his mind was made up. Stumbling forward, he reached out one hand to hold on to the back of Bull’s shirt as the other man ploughed through the crowd. They reached the entrance to the bar, Bull nodding to the two massive bouncers manning the door. A gust of wind nearly knocked him down when they stepped outside, but Bull was there to steady him. The silence outside was stunning compared to the noise inside. His ears were still ringing from the live band onstage. “Where are we going?” “My truck.” “Uh, I don’t know if this is—”

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“What you want?” Bull stopped in the middle of the parking lot, steering them to the side to get out of the way of a cab. “Look, Wesley, if you want to just sit and talk, I’m fine with that. No pressure to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.” Wes beamed. “Yeah?” “I mean it.” “Well, hell. That’s just about the most perfect thing you could have said right now.” Content to let Bull lead him, Wes practically skipped beside the larger man. Of course, that could have been because Bull’s legs were so long his stride was about twice the length of Wes’. Within seconds they were standing at the side of a behemoth of a truck. Wes still couldn’t get over the fact that half the people in the city drove vehicles big enough for ten to fit inside, but Bull’s truck actually had four wheels at the back end of it. Curious, he tried to figure out what the hell Bull would need that for. “What the hell do you need this for?” “It’s a Ford Super Duty Lariat. Useful out in the country. Now, you going to stand outside all night, Wesley?” “Uh, no. Sorry, I was just…no.” He stepped up to the open door, realising this wasn’t going to be easy to get into without a footboard to step up on. A warm grip surrounded his waist before Wes was handily lifted into the truck. Scrambling for purchase, he ended up half sprawled along the bench seat. Well, this was going to be convenient. Bull followed him in, making him realise they’d gone in through the driver’s side door. It was going to take some getting used to sitting on the right and not seeing a steering wheel. “You curious about everything around you?” Amusement shone through Bull’s words. “No, well sometimes. It’s a habit.” “I don’t mind it, but I’d rather you be focusing on something else right now. I don’t want your friends to worry if you’re gone too long.” “Right. My friends.” Wrinkling his nose, Wes hoped Bull couldn’t tell how nervous he was but something told him it was apparent anyway. He’d never really been good at hiding anyway. “Come here, sweet.”

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Happily complying, Wes just about crawled into Bull’s lap, meeting the other man’s descending mouth with a kiss hot enough to melt. He groaned, winding his arms around Bull’s neck, wiggling until he was straddling the other man with one leg tucked against the back of the bench and the other dangling off the edge of the seat. Bull ran his palms down Wes’ back, curving his fingers around him, driving Wes wild. God, his hands were so hot, they were practically searing him through his shirt. He whimpered, hoping Bull would be able to decipher the desperate sound. Lifting his shirt, Bull’s hands were on his skin, sending dozens of nerve endings screaming in joy when the raspy callused fingertips brushed against him. Wes opened his mouth to Bull’s seeking tongue, sucking the appendage hard and moaning again. Those talented fingers were toying along his waistband, sneaking under the denim and just brushing the top of his arse. Wiggling, Wes tried to rise up on his knees to make it easier for Bull, but the man’s grip wouldn’t let him move more than a few millimetres. Bull broke their kiss, running his lips along Wes’ jaw, raining kisses to the underside of his chin and down his neck. Wes angled his head, letting the other man call the shots. Not like he hadn’t been doing that all along, but it was easier to give in and just feel. “Please…” “Please what, Wesley?” “God, please!” “Uh, uh. I need you to tell me what you want. Not going to give it to you until I hear those sweet lips sounding it out. Please, what? You want me to touch you?” “My arse…” “What about it, boy?” “Fucking touch my arse already!” Bull laughed, a dark sound that vibrated along Wes’ sensitive nerves. He was seriously in danger of coming in his jeans and Bull hadn’t even touched anything important yet. He wasn’t so sure he’d survive if he actually had Bull touch him the way he desperately wanted him to. Pushing further into the denim, Bull’s fingers glided to the top of Wes’ crease, teasing him unmercifully. Wes groaned, nipping Bull’s chin before pressing their lips together again. This kiss was wet and hard, exactly the way he needed it.

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He realised his arms were still locked around Bull’s neck. Unwinding them, he ran his hands along Bull’s shoulders, feeling the strength in the man’s arms. Pulling back as far as Bull would let him, he traced the bold tattoos that scrolled down his arms. When he reached the end of the design near Bull’s wrists, Wes lifted his hands and placed them against the heaving chest. Tracing the muscles down, Wes closed his eyes when he felt the bumps of Bull’s abs. He could actually count them with his fingertips. There should be some kind of law against that. Lifting the other man’s shirt, he touched bare skin, leaning forward to kiss Bull’s neck while his fingers played along the man’s belly. Bull shifted, pulling away from Wes and yanking his top off in one move before doing the same to Wes’ grey shirt. They both groaned when they came together again, bare skin gliding against bare skin. Wes slid his fingers along Bull’s chest again, seeking out the man’s nipples. Running his palms against the hardened nubs, Wes tipped his head back. Bull took the hint, immediately placing his lips against Wes’ neck and sucking up what was sure to become a mark. Bull urged Wes to arch his back, his firm hold manoeuvring him into place. Running his tongue down Wes’ skin, he sucked one brown nub into his mouth, working the sensitive skin with his teeth. Wes gasped, shaking with his need to come. He didn’t want this to stop though, and he was terrified that if he came he’d wake up and this would all be a dream. He didn’t do things like this. Coming outside with a practical stranger wasn’t something he normally did on a Friday night. He normally liked to know a guy for more than one night before spreading his legs and begging to be fucked. Hell, he’d never had sex in a vehicle before either, so it was an all around night of firsts it seemed. “Bull…” His breaths were coming choppier now, he was damned near panting. Wes wouldn’t be surprised if the windows completely fogged up with what was going on inside. Moving to the other nipple, Bull worried it between his teeth, treating it to the same torturous pleasure as its now-neglected twin. Wes lifted his own hand, playing with his nipple, pinching it between his fingers. “Too close…I’m gonna…” Bull released his nipple with a gasp, his cheeks flushed. “Not yet, sweet Wesley. I’m not nearly done with you yet. No coming until I say you can.”

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“You better go first then, cause I’m seconds away.” Chuckling darkly, Bull leaned back against the truck door, running his palm down his straining cock hidden by denim. Licking his lips, Wes watched him, waiting. Bull released the first button, sliding his fingers inside his jeans, playing with the light tuft of hair above his shaft. Bouncing, Wes let out a whimper. “Wait.” “Please, Bull.” “Well, since you asked so nicely.” Bull quickly released the rest of his buttons, and it was a damn miracle none of them came pinging off to hit Wes in a tender place. The material had been so strained, it immediately made way for Bull’s shaft. His cock was flushed red, long and thicker than Wes was used to. Bull grasped it in a firm hold, sliding his hand down and then up, squeezing the crown until a drop of pre-come glistened at the tip. Licking his lips, Wes darted his gaze up to meet Bull’s. “Not this time, Wesley.” “Are you clean?” “I am, but you shouldn’t take my word for it. As much as I’d like your lips around my cock, I won’t do it without a rubber and since I wasn’t expecting to get lucky tonight, I don’t have one on me. You?” “Fuck, no.” “Give me your hand, then.” Wes eagerly leaned forward, wrapping his hand around Bull’s straining shaft. Sliding down until he was curved nearly in double, Wes ended up with his head in Bull’s lap. “I said no.” “Not gonna…” He figured actions spoke louder than words. Opening his mouth, he licked the base of Bull’s cock, reaching into his pants with his other hand to fish out the man’s balls. Rolling them in his palm, he glanced up at Bull, taking comfort in the hard planes of his face. This wasn’t going to take long if Bull’s expression was any indication. His own dick was just

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about clamouring to be let out, but he resigned himself to waiting. He just knew it was going to be worth it. Jerking Bull’s cock with one hand, Wes moved his lips down until his tongue was pressed against Bull’s sac. He kissed the skin, running his tongue along and around the firm balls inside. Trying to fit one inside his mouth, he moaned around his bounty, gratified when Bull’s cursed whispers reached his ears. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…Wesley!” Backing up, Wes kept up his firm strokes on Bull’s cock, bumping his finger against the glans on each upstroke. He rolled Bull’s sac with the other hand, waiting for his release. “Please come, please Bull.” “Wesley…” “Please come for me.” Bull arched against the door, the tendons in his neck standing out. His balls drew up firm, and Wes could practically taste his release. He wanted to—badly—but he wanted to respect Bull’s decision. Not like he hadn’t sucked plenty of blokes without rubbers, but he respected when someone else refused to take that risk. Letting out a rumbling roar, Bull shot his release onto his belly, the cum glistening on his tanned skin. Wes whimpered, wishing he could taste it. He slid his hand down Bull’s shaft, stroking up again and sliding his palm along the head in a brief caress. Bull shuddered, panting against the door. With Bull’s release taken care of, Wes was even more desperate for his own now. As if he could read his mind, Bull suddenly sat up, leaning forward for a kiss. Wes met his lips gratefully. “On your back, Wesley. It’s your turn now.” Wes squirmed and wiggled until he was flat on his back, his one leg now held straight up in the air and pressed against the back of the seat. His other leg was spread wide, pressed into the space beneath the dash, leaving him open. Flicking open the front of his jeans, Bull reached in and squeezed Wes’ cock through his underwear. “Jesus!” “Close?” “Oh, God, this isn’t going to take long.”

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“I want these off.” “Take them…do whatever you want.” Bull chuckled, quickly shucking Wes of his pants and boxers and leaving him in nothing but his boots. Folding his body until he was damned near doubled over, Bull licked along Wes’ belly. Wes blinked, shocked at the big man’s flexibility. That wasn’t going to help him hold off his release. Squeezing his cock, Bull gazed up the length of Wes’ body, meeting his eyes. “Lift your hips.” Wes eagerly lifted up, letting Bull support him with one massive hand placed on his ass. Air blew along his shaft before a heated mouth licked a path along his quivering cock. Moving downward before Wes had a stroke from the blinding pleasure, Bull mimicked Wes’ earlier actions. He sucked Wes’ sac, pulling first one then the other ball into the hot cavern of his mouth, his wicked tongue dancing along his skin. Deserting his sac, Bull shifted Wes until his hips were tilted even higher and played his tongue along the sensitive skin of his perineum. Without warning, his tongue was removed completely. “Oh no, please, don’t…” Bull lifted his hand, sucking two fingers deep into the mouth that had been toying with Wes. When his fingers were nice and wet, Bull grinned, lowering his hand until his wet fingers touched Wes’ arsehole. Circling his puckered entrance, Bull tapped against his opening, knocking to get in. With a moan, Wes relaxed his muscles, letting his upright leg fall until it was resting on Bull’s shoulder. It must have been invitation enough because Bull sank one finger slowly into Wes’ hole. “Bull…Bull…yes, oh God, yes.” Wes tightened the muscles of his arse, holding Bull inside when the man tried to remove his finger. Grunting, Bull relented, adding his second finger to the first and sinking them both inside Wes. He spread his fingers, fucking Wes slowly, too slowly. Wes tried to tilt his hips to accept more of him, but Bull kept his firm grip with his free hand. Suddenly, Wes had an idea. Grinning, he lifted his leg, pressing his foot against Bull’s shoulder and kicking lightly. Bull frowned, glancing up.

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“I have something I think you’ll like.” For a moment he wasn’t sure if Bull would comply, but he did reluctantly, sliding his fingers out of Wes. The empty feeling was almost enough to have him change his mind, but Wes had something better in mind. Something one of his ex’s taught him. Not that he’d be telling Bull that. When he was sure he had Bull’s attention, Wes shifted until he was half sitting. This wasn’t the easiest thing to do in a truck, but he figured they’d both already proved how flexible they could be. He’d still like to know how such a big man could move so sweetly, but there was time enough to find that out. Right now it was his turn to blow Bull’s mind. At least, he hoped this would do the trick. Wes sucked the fingers of one hand into his mouth, sliding his hand down and sinking two fingers into his empty hole. Bull grunted, watching his hand move. Grinning, proud that he had Bull’s undivided attention, Wes breathed slowly. He couldn’t be too excited or this wouldn’t work. Fisting his cock in his other hand, he flicked his thumb against the tip, smearing his precome along the flushed skin. Breathing slowly, counting out his breaths until he wasn’t quite so overcome, he squeezed his shaft, bending it back. This was why it wouldn’t do to look at Bull right now. One glance at the man and he’d be too hard to accomplish this and he was definitely eager to show off his skill to the man. Something told him Bull would appreciate it. Removing his fingers from his hungry hole, he reached up and smoothed his balls out of the way, pressing his shaft hard against his pelvis. “Fuck, no…” Bull’s words were quiet, almost whispered, but they were definitely awed. Wes grinned. Experience told him when he was ready. Reaching with his free hand, he caressed the tip of his dick, squeezing his shaft with his other hand. Nature had blessed him with a fairly long cock, but it wasn’t thick like Bull’s. He’d never really been a size queen, but if anyone could tempt him it would be this man. Wes looked up, staring at Bull’s flushed cheeks and glazed eyes while he pressed firmly with his fingers. The head of his cock eased into his backside, aided by the prep work Bull’s fingers had started and his own had finished. His eyelids fluttered, and he grinned, pleased. “God, Wesley, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever…”

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Wes eased the head of his cock out of his arse, pressing it back in while watching Bull’s face. He couldn’t get much in, but it was enough. Apparently, it was enough for Bull too. The other man reached out, touching the shaft of his cock with trembling fingers. Wes couldn’t believe he had the power to make that big body shake but he definitely liked it. Growling low in his throat, Bull slithered down until he had a front row seat to the action. Warm wetness touched his thigh, Bull’s tongue licking along his quivering muscles, tasting him. He pressed his teeth to the soft skin, biting hard enough for Wes to feel it. Wes arched his back, his cock hard and aching now, sliding out of his arse. He fisted it in his hand, unable to bend it without feeling the pain. Not that he didn’t like pain but he needed to come too bad. Bull bit harder, and Wes swore he could feel every tooth sinking into his flesh. “Bull!” His eyes rolled back, stars shooting across his vision. He was barely aware of the hard grip joining his on his dick, milking him of every drop of seed in his body. Bull bellowed, causing Wes to open his eyes in time to see his cock shoot its second load on Wes’ thigh. Dropping back to lean heavily on the door, Wes felt as if every bone in his body had just drained away, leaving him limp and sated. He could happily fall asleep. Damn, what the hell just happened?

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Chapter Three

Wes panted, sucking air into his lungs. He couldn't believe how intense that had been. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd come that hard. Bull shifted beside him. “You okay?” “Mmm.” “I'll take that as a yes.” Bull's snicker sounded right beside Wes' ear. He found he couldn't even be upset about the smug tone. Bull kind of deserved to be smug right now. He'd just made Wes' legs numb. Of course, Wes was the one responsible for Bull’s two loads, so he was justified in feeling a little smug himself. “Mmm hmm.” Bull moved, reaching around him to grab something out of the glove box. Wes frowned when he pulled out a package of moist wipes. It wasn’t exactly the sort of thing he figured Bull would carry around with him. With quick, efficient movements, Bull slid the wet cloth over Wes and then himself. Within seconds all traces of their seed was removed, leaving Wes with a weird sense of disappointment. He kind of liked the thought of wearing Bull’s cum. “All right, sweet Wesley. Up and at em. As much as I'd love to we can't stay in my truck all night. I'm going to get a cramp pretty soon if I don't move.” “Don’t wanna.” Bull slapped his arse, causing Wes to yelp. Embarrassed, hoping to cover up the sound, he bent to pick up his trousers where they lay forgotten on the floor of the truck. “Move it, Wesley. We’ve already been gone an hour.” “What? Seriously? What time is it?” He couldn’t believe they’d been out here that long, but it was probably a good thing. His last boyfriend hadn’t had any kind of long lasting stamina, so it was kind of nice to be able to fool around with someone who could make him lose his mind enough to lose track of the time. “Shit, I need to get back before Jayne calls in the troops.” “Troops? You part of the crew at Suffield?”

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His trousers halfway up his legs, Wes stopped to stare at Bull. The big man had his jeans pulled up and buttoned and was in the process of sliding his shirt over that drool worthy torso. “You know about Suffield?” Bull snorted. “Nearly everyone in these parts is aware the British Army has a unit at the Canadian Base in Suffield. They’ve been there for years. The new troops are always making their way here when they can to go out to the bars. I figured you guys might be part of that since there were so many of you together.” “Really? Wow, I didn’t realise we’d be so obvious.” He stopped, flushing. “Oh, but I’m not in the Army. I’m a disk jockey at the radio station. I just entertain the troops, so to speak, broadcast music and whatever else we happen to think up for the soldiers and their families here.” For the first time he kind of wished he was a soldier. Saying he was a DJ wasn’t exactly the most awe inspiring of careers. He loved it himself, but he could see why others might look down on him for it. “You just get here?” “Just about fresh off the plane. I’m from London, originally, was working at the British Forces station in Buckinghamshire and my boss told me I should look into some of the international postings. Thought this would be a great way to see the world.” Wes fidgeted with his jeans, finally getting them on all the way. Pulling on his shirt, he smoothed it down his chest, biting his lip. He was desperately trying to think of a way to ask if they could meet again, but it probably wasn’t going to happen. Bull opened the truck door, hopping out before grabbing Wes’ ankle and sliding him out after him. Wes managed to hold in his yelp this time, but it was a pretty close call. He wasn’t used to being manoeuvred like this. Not that he didn’t like it, it would just take a bit of getting used to. Deflating, Wes realised there wasn’t going to be a chance to get used to it. He’d likely never see Bull again. They walked back to the club, getting a nod from the bouncer at the door when Bull stepped up to him. The burly bouncer didn’t even blink, just held the door open. When Wes first arrived, he’d practically been frisked and cavity searched so he wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or annoyed that Bull seemed to smooth the way. Of course, he wouldn’t want to piss Bull off either. He was certainly bigger than the bouncer, and looked twice as mean.

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Standing in the small square of the entrance, Wes stopped beside the coat check. “Well… Umm, thanks. That was—” “Are you always this polite?” “Are you always this rude? You shouldn’t interrupt people, you know.” “I’ve already come twice and right this minute I want nothing more than to go back outside, bend you over the tailgate of my truck and fuck you ‘til your knees are weak.” Wes’ weak knees just about gave out at the visual that statement caused. “Ntt.” He was pretty sure that wasn’t a word, but it was about the best his suddenly dry mouth could produce. “Yeah, I think you like that idea.” Bull’s voice was low, meant just for him. His gaze was shadowed with the dim lighting of the bar, but Wes could feel it undressing him, freezing him in place. His arsehole twitched, just about begging to be filled by that thick shaft he’d held in his hands earlier. “We need condoms. Now. Stay here, and don’t move from this spot. I’ll be back in a second and if I find you gone I’ll be pissed.” Smiling faintly, Wes rolled his eyes. That was enough to snap him out of his frozen state. “What, you won’t fuck me if you’re pissed?” “Oh, no, I’ll fuck you all right, but if I’m pissed I’ll just make sure I pound you so hard you feel me for the next week.” “Is that supposed to entice me to stay here or to wander away in the hopes you’ll pound me like you promised?” Bull rumbled, his words all gravelly. “No moving, sweet.” Fuck, that was such a turn on. Watching the other man plough through the crowd, Wes couldn’t hide his grin. Bull definitely looked like he was desperate for that condom now. “Oy, Wes, we’re leaving.” Wes startled, jumping when Jayne grabbed his arm. He hadn’t been paying attention to the people around him. Looking around, he realised his co-workers were all lined up at the coat check, picking up their jackets. But—” “You coming with us, or not?”

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Damn, he really thought he’d have at least another hour with Bull before having to say goodbye. His arse was going to miss getting that fucking Bull promised. Unfortunately, he knew he had to go with the group. It had taken them almost three hours to drive here this afternoon, and he had no idea how to get back there by himself. Not that it was the most complicated route, straight down the TransCanada Highway, but he didn’t want to do it alone at three in the morning. If they left now they’d just make it back in time for an early breakfast before dropping to bed. Resigned, Wes shook his head. “I’m coming with you, but can you just wait a minute? I wanted to explain to Bull.” “Your biker cowboy?” “Yeah. He just went to…to get something from the…for, you know…right, never mind.” He was sure his face must be scarlet. Jayne grinned, bumping hips with Becca when the other woman joined them. “Right then. Five minutes?” “That’ll be fine.” Wes bit his lip, staring off to the side where Bull had disappeared. He couldn’t just leave but there was still no sign of the other man. Where’d he go? He was coming back, right? He said he was coming back, but it shouldn’t have taken him this long to hit the washroom and get a condom from one of the dispensers. “Do you see him?” Jayne had a look on her face that he recognised. Pure pity. She more than likely thought he’d been stood up by his bar flirt. “No. But he said he was coming back right away.” “Wes, come on, we need to get back. It’s a long drive to Ralston village and you and Tony are the only sober ones in the bunch. Either you need to drive or he does, got it? And we only have two vehicles between us. We aren’t all going to be able to fit in one car while you stay here waiting for your cowboy.” “Right, I know.” “You okay?” “Yeah, let’s just leave.” Jayne grabbed his arm, towing him back towards the door. Wes craned his neck, searching for Bull in the crowd but he could barely see past the people right beside him. They were all packed in like sardines out in the main part of the bar. He didn’t want to go without telling Bull what was going on, though it sure looked like Bull had ditched him.

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Leaving the building, Wes stumbled outside the entrance. “You okay?” “Yeah, I just…” “What?” “Nothing. It’s just I wish I’d grabbed Bull’s number when I could.” “Didn’t get the cowboy’s number?” Becca threw her arm around his shoulders, probably more to hold herself up than for the camaraderie of it. “No.” “You going to be—” “I’m fine. Let’s just go.” It was just his luck. He knew better than to get his hopes up that someone found him worthy of something. Apparently he’d done exactly what Bull wanted, given the other man an hour of pleasure—and two very nice orgasms, if he wanted to brag—and absolutely no entanglements or promises of a repeat performance. Why that made him feel dirty, he didn’t know. He didn’t know Bull, would never see the man again. Wes ignored the small voice at the back of his mind whispering that he’d like nothing better than to get to know Bull. Nothing would ever come of it anyway. He knew better.

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Chapter Four

“Is it alright if I don’t come in tonight, Wes? I feel a bit manky.” “Yeah? No worries, I can stay a bit later if you want, cover the first bit of your show until Tony shows up.” “Thanks Wes, that would be great.” Hanging up the phone on Becca, Wes sighed. It wasn’t as if he had a ton of things he could do if he went home anyway. Might as well stay on a bit longer and see if he could distract himself. It’d been three days since that night in Calgary, and if he could reach his own arse to kick it he’d be doing it. He’d never see Bull again, and it wasn’t a comforting thought, which explained why he wanted to kick his arse. It was a one night stand—okay, more like a one hour stand—and he should really just leave it at that. Wes realised how dumb it was to try and find out more about a man who obviously was finished with him but he couldn’t stop himself from wondering about Bull. He’d told him about what he did, but it was only when he finally woke up the next afternoon that he realised Bull hadn’t exactly reciprocated with the sharing of personal information. Vowing to find out something—if only to get his internal dialogue to finally shut up about the sex god—he decided to see what he could find online. Only, he couldn’t for the life of him remember what Bull’s real first name was. Kind of hard to do a search on the internet for a man when you didn’t know what his full name was. He finally remembered Bull’s last name after an hour of doing nothing but doodling with his pen. Teeny shaded cocks filled the pages in front of him, but they did manage to spark his memory. Typing Bull Fintan into the search engine had made him shake his head and yearn for a stiff drink. After pages of sites about bulls, of the four legged and horny-in-a-completelydifferent-way variety, he was faintly cross-eyed but he did manage to stumble upon an article about the rodeo. Turned out Bull really did have a reason for his nickname. He was some kind of bull rider here in North America. Or at least he used to be.

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Wes had practically drooled over the pictures he’d found, Bull with his face drawn tight in the minutes before seating himself on a huge animal. Throwing his hat in the air after a good ride. Accepting an award for coming in first in one event after another. He may have printed off one or two of the pictures. If he was being completely honest, he may even admit he had jerked off to them a time or two. Or twelve. Damn, the man was hot. The only thing he didn’t find was what Bull’s current address was. A few of the articles had mentioned him retiring from the rodeo circuit, but they didn’t say what he’d ended up doing after. It was probably a good thing he couldn’t find his address, though. Wes didn’t want to turn into some crazy stalker so it was best to remove temptation from him. And yes, he realised he was a milksop for wanting to know more about a man who ditched him. “You have to be the biggest twit in the world, Wesley Scott.” Running his fingers through his hair, Wes tried to pay attention to the article he was writing. Since they were technically paying him to sit here, he should really get back to work instead of mooning over the fit of Bull’s jeans in half the pictures he’d found. The man really did have an amazing arse. Wes had been asked to talk about his experiences in the country in his afternoon show, a little bit of his impressions since arriving in Canada. He was desperately trying to come up with something to talk about for tomorrow, but he didn’t think they wanted to hear about his experiences so far. All he wanted to talk about was Bull. Hell, he’d probably have half a dozen soldiers coming to kick his arse if he was as honest as he wanted to be on the radio. The front door of the station opening interrupted him. Glancing up, Wes figured he should probably go see who it was. “Hello?” Turning the corner, he stopped dead at the sight of long legs encased in worn denim, a burly chest covered by red and white plaid and a tan cowboy hat drawing attention to the wide grin on the face of the best looking man he’d ever seen. “Blow me! Bull?” “Wesley.” Bull grinned, lifting his hand to smooth over his jaw. “Was that an invite?” “What…uh…no! It’s just a…you surprised me, that’s all. What’re you doing here?”

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“I forgot to tell you I was a rancher in these parts, didn’t I? Seems I need to catch a stray steer who ran away from the herd.” Wes frowned. “Is that supposed to make sense to me?” “The steer I’m looking for has light brown hair and these big, fucking gorgeous chocolate eyes. You seen him anywhere?” Grinning, backing up slowly, Wes blinked his eyes up at Bull. He couldn’t believe the man was standing in front of him. Seems he didn’t need Bull’s address after all. “I thought bulls were only supposed to be interested in lady cows.” “Lady cows?” “You start laughing at me and this is going to be over pretty quickly.” Wes shook his finger at Bull, laughing when the other man tried to bite it. Bull stopped right in front of Wes, leaving barely enough room between them to breathe. Standing completely still, Wes waited for Bull’s next move. “Is this going somewhere?” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means you were pretty quick to haul ass the other night.” Blushing, sure his face was completely crimson based on how hot his cheeks were, Wes looked at the ground. “You’re one to talk, you jerk! I waited for you and you didn’t come back.” With a growl, Bull narrowed his eyes. “The machine was empty in the first John I came to and by the time I got to another bathroom and made my way back to the entrance there was no sign of the cute British guy I expressly warned to stay put. You want to explain that?” “My friends.” Crossing his arms, Bull sighed. “Fuck, I can’t argue with that. I guess it is quite a drive back here.” “You seriously live out here or are you stalking me?” “About fifteen minutes away. I have a small spread, nothing to write home about, but it’s enough for me. I don’t need anything bigger and I’m not much of a city boy. Give me a horse to sit on, and miles of country to look out at and I’m happy.” Despite himself, he couldn’t help thinking that it sounded kind of nice the way Bull described it. He’d never been on a ranch, but it sounded like Bull loved it. Squaring his shoulders, he looked at the floor. His shiny loafers contrasted to Bull’s dusty cowboy boots,

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but he didn’t really care. They may have nothing in common on the surface, but he wanted to know more about him and the fact that Bull had chased him all the way out here told him it meant something to Bull. “Why’d it take you so long to come find me if you live here?” “I work some pretty long hours. And frankly, I needed to cool down some. I thought you’d skipped on purpose, and it pissed me off that I was busting my butt trying to get a rubber and it looked like you didn’t care to use it.” “It wasn’t like that.” “I know, and I figured that out after a day of stewing. You didn’t seem the type.” “What type?” “The love’im and leave’im type. Your reactions are too honest.” Well, that certainly summed things up for him. “I’m sorry I ran off without waiting longer. I figured you wanted to get rid of me.” “You telling me or my feet?” “Cut me some slack, would you!” Gently, Bull pulled him into his arms, smoothing his palms down Wes’ back. “I am. It’s the only reason I decided to look you up, trust me. If I didn’t think you were worth more than the little jerk session we had, I’d have cut my losses and just assumed you didn’t want anything more from me.” Wes nuzzled his cheek on Bull’s chest, cuddling closer and inhaling deeply. Bull smelled like almonds once again, but it was comforting this time, not arousing. Okay, fine, that was a lie since nearly everything about Bull was arousing. “Trust me, I’ve been trying to kick my arse for three days now.” He took a deep breath, hiding his face in Bull’s chest. “I looked you up on the internet to try and find your address.” “Yeah? That right?” Bull’s voice was filled with pleasure. “Yeah, there were pictures.” “Pictures?” Bull’s voice dropped an octave. “What’d you do with the pictures, sweet Wesley? Did you jerk off to them? Touch yourself and wish it was me? I bet you did. I bet you fucked yourself with your cock like you did before.” Wes blushed, but he couldn’t deny any of that. “Fuck, just the thought of you jerking off to me makes me crazy. Show me.” “What?”

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“Show me how you did it.” Wes stepped back, stunned. “I can’t here! Tony’ll be here in half an hour.” Bull’s nostrils flared, his cheeks flushed. “I need to see it, Wesley. You’ve been in my dreams for three days. Let me see you touch yourself.” Biting his lip, Wes looked around. He was the only person here now, but wouldn’t be for long. It wasn’t going to take him long once he got his hand on his cock, but he really didn’t want to get fired if Tony happened to come in early and find them in flagrante delicto. His cock jerked, more than happy to put on a show for Bull. Twisting around, Wes studied the space around him. Oh, this was such a bad idea, but he couldn’t stop himself. There was just something about Bull that made him feel wanton and completely reckless. Safe. That was it. Bull made him feel safe enough to explore, to do things he’d never done before. Hell, a month ago, he would never have thought about having sex in the parking lot of a busy bar. Never would have considered pulling his pants down and wanking in the middle of his workplace. Stumbling back towards the cubicle he’d been assigned when he started here, Wes didn’t even check to see if Bull was following him. He knew the man wasn’t going to want to miss this. It made him feel powerful, to be able to capture the attention of someone like Bull. He reached his desk, stopping in front of his chair. Bull came up behind him, catching him in that lovely embrace once again. Mmm, Bull smelled so nice. “Why do you smell like almonds?” Bull chuckled, nuzzling the back of Wes’ neck. His hot breath wafted over Wes’ ear before the wet swipe of Bull’s tongue teased his lobe. “I used to smoke. Stopped it when I realised how dumb it was for me to be an athlete and do anything to ruin my body so I started to carry almonds around with me. I’m addicted to them now.” He grinned, charmed at the story. He wanted to know so much about Bull, wanted to find out as much about the other man as he could. God, this felt so nice, just being in his arms. “I like this,” he whispered, embarrassed to admit it, but needing to say the words. “Me too, sweet.” Bull stepped back, swatting Wes hard on the arse. “Now, get those pants down around your ankles before I decide to forgo the jerk session and just fuck you like you’ve been begging me to since you ran off. I’d rather have a little more privacy for that, though, so move it.”

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Nervous, Wes eyed the opening to his cubicle. “You’ll watch out?” “You won’t get caught, trust me. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you and getting caught jerking off at work would definitely hurt you. Trust me, Wesley. Okay?” “Okay.” Shy again, he toyed with his belt, darting his gaze up to lock with Bull’s intense blackbrown stare under the brim of his hat. “Please, Wesley.” Smiling, Wes undid his belt, reaching for his zipper and quickly shucking his trousers. They fell to the floor, the clank of the metal buckle loud as it dropped. His shirt followed seconds later. Wes stood for a moment, letting Bull get his fill. He was proud of the way he looked, even if he didn’t have the muscle definition or the beautiful body art Bull did. The fact that Bull’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed gave every indication that Bull didn’t give two pence about his lack of muscles. In fact, it seemed Bull definitely liked what he saw. Wes reached for his shaft, sliding his hand along the hard length, grunting at the friction of his dry palm on such sensitive skin. “You might want to sit down for this.” He grinned at the words, turning to pick up a bottle of hand lotion beside his computer. The air here was so dry he was constantly putting lotion on his hands to prevent them from getting rough. The first day of work he’d ended up with four paper cuts just from handling his orientation book. Bull grunted, his only response before he slid into Wes’ desk chair. Standing before him, Wes leaned his arse against his desk, pumping a drop of lotion into his palm before rubbing his hands together. With a smirk, he dropped both hands, the fingers of one sliding along his dick while the other toyed with his balls, twisting and manipulating his sac. Growling in his throat, Bull pawed his own cock through his jeans, his hand rubbing along the massive bulge. Wes released his balls, bringing his hand to his chest, squeezing first one nipple and then the other. Pinching until they were both red and tender. He bit his lip, trying to keep quiet just in case they became too distracted and missed the sound of the front door opening. This was going to be fast and easy, but he wasn’t complaining. He finally had the real thing in front of him instead of a photo and it was definitely better for his arousal. He hadn’t been this hot this fast since their little truck adventure.

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“Your chest, I want to see your chest.” His breaths were coming in pants now, his hand moving along his shaft, thumb flicking his glans before tracing the opening in the tip. He moaned, repeating the gesture, his legs tensing for a moment before he relaxed. God, that felt good. Bull exhaled, reaching up and quickly unbuttoning his plaid shirt, spreading the halves so they framed his immense chest. He reached out, palming Wes’ balls and licking his lips. That was all he needed. Arching, his eyes closed despite his attempts to keep them open, Wes squeezed his shaft hard. “Uh! B-Bull. Oh, Bull…” Jets of cum arced out, landing on that tanned, muscular chest. His seed glistened on Bull’s body, running down in rivulets along his ripped belly. Bull groaned as if it was him that came, bringing both hands up to rub Wes’ cum into his skin. Shocked, almost unbearably turned on, Wes squeezed the head of his cock again, almost afraid he would come again at that visual. He was so sensitive, it hurt to touch himself. He wasn’t going to survive if Bull kept on doing things like that. Leaning forward, Bull rubbed his whiskered cheek on Wes’ softening shaft, his body almost vibrating with a noise that sounded suspiciously close to a purr. “God, Wesley, you’re so fucking hot.” Wes dropped to his knees, sliding into the space between Bull’s spread thighs. He nuzzled the bulge in the denim with his nose, sliding his own cheek along the thick length, mimicking what Bull had just done to him. “Not now, I can wait.” Bull’s fingers threaded through Wes’ short strands, combing through his hair and soothing his scalp with the light strokes. Wes breathed out, leaning up to lick along Bull’s belly, tasting himself. Bull growled, his fingers gripping hard, pulling Wes’ head away. “None of that or I’ll forget myself. You better get tidied up.” Wes grinned, head tilted to accept Bull’s descending kiss. Their lips clung together, parting reluctantly. It was a sweet kiss, no pressure, just soothing. He could hardly believe it with the man’s cock as hard as it was, but Bull obviously meant what he said. It made him

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feel cherished that Bull wanted Wes to find his release but was waiting to get his own until they had more time. This was starting to look like he’d found someone who could really care about him. Wes couldn’t wait to explore more of Bull Fintan.

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Chapter Five

“Holy crap, this is all yours?” Wes craned his neck, trying to see as much as he could. They were in Bull’s Ford Lariat again, but this time he was sitting properly on his side, buckled in safely while Bull drove them to his ranch. His house wasn’t all that big, a one story white building with a welcoming wrap-around porch. Two big chairs were set at one end of the porch beside a cushioned wooden swing. A big barn was set to the left of the house, and horses grazed near the structure as they drove past and parked in front of the house. Two dogs came running up from out of nowhere, big shaggy beasts. Bull jumped down from the cab of the truck, petting both dogs on the head before shooing them off to the barn. Wes was grateful for the move. As much as he liked dogs, those weren’t dogs as much as mini horses. He’d always been more of a lapdog person and those two would probably crush him if they got in his lap. Sliding out the door behind Bull, he let the other man steady him when he jumped to the ground. That was another thing it was going to take some time getting used to. The truck was a behemoth. He was starting to get the feeling Bull liked his pets and toys big. Blushing, thinking of all sorts of big toys Bull could own, he almost missed the small tour Bull gave him as they walked to the front door of the house. They both slid their shoes off, walking sock footed through the living room and kitchen. Once inside, it was apparent Bull lived alone. The man was almost military neat, with not a lot of decorations to clutter his home. Bull quickly led him through the house, ending up in his bedroom, the massive bed dominating the room. “You’re not going to feed me first?” “Oh, you’ll be fed, trust me. But your mouth’s going to be a little busy first in order for you to earn that meal.” “One of these days you’re going to say something like that and I’m just going to come from your words alone. God, you make me so hard.”

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Bull’s cheeks were flushed again, his chest moving with his deep breaths. “Take your clothes off.” Wes toyed with his belt, sliding the loop through the buckle slowly, déjà vu making him smile. Didn’t they just do this? “Please, please, please tell me you have condoms here.” “A whole box. I told you, if you ran from me I was going to fuck you hard enough for you to feel it for a week. Figured I wasn’t going to want to leave once I’m in your sweet ass.” “Oh, Lord.” “Clothes off. Now.” He wasted no time to get undressed, his cock slapping against his belly and leaving a trail of pre-come behind. Bull removed his shirt slowly, the material sliding down his arms, revealing the scrolling tattoos in increments. “I just love those. You have no idea what they do to me.” “Well, I do now.” Bull arched his brow, staring pointedly at Wes’ hand moving along his cock. “Mmm. Hurry.” With a low roar, Bull reached forward, picking Wes up around the waist and tossing him back to the bed. Wes landed on his arse, his legs kicking up in the air. He barked out his laughter, delighted. Lying back among the pillows at the head of the bed, Wes stroked his cock idly, lifting his other arm to rest it beneath his head. Bull’s jeans hit the floor, his socks joining the pile of clothing seconds later. Stalking to the head of the bed, Bull deliberately opened his bedside drawer, pulling out the box of condoms and setting them on the top of the table. “Planning on a long sit in, are you?” “You have no fucking idea.” “Well, what are you waiting for, then? Come on, have at me.” The muscles in Bull’s arms and chest stood out in relief for a moment, the big body shuddering. He tore into the box, grabbing a foil packet and biting it open with his strong, white teeth. Keeping his gaze on Wes, Bull slid the condom smoothly onto his thick shaft, stroking it once it was on snugly. Licking his lips, Wes waited.

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Bull knelt on the bed, sitting back until his arse rested on his feet. That proud cock stood up at attention, waving in front of Wes’ hungry gaze. He glanced up at Bull, seeing the intent gaze staring back at him. Licking his lips again, Wes angled his head, keeping his gaze on Bull’s. His lips touched smooth hardness, tasting latex instead of warm skin like he’d prefer. He wasn’t complaining though. He finally got to feel that wonderful dick in his mouth. He sucked just the head inside, his mouth wide and saliva pooling around the thick cock, dripping down to wet his chin. Moaning, Wes took in more of Bull, moving his tongue along the underside of his cock, feeling the uniqueness, searching out the little things that made this Bull’s cock and not some random strangers. Hell, after three days of searching for the man, dreaming of him, wanking desperately to his image…this man wasn’t a stranger to him any longer. Wes grasped Bull’s hips, holding him steady. One of Bull’s big hands clasped the back of his head, but he didn’t apply any pleasure. Wes was thankful, if Bull tried to hold Wes’ head in place, he might just start gagging. One of his boyfriends had done that once and Wes hated feeling controlled that way. It was a fucking selfish thing to do to your partner. Thankfully, Bull was continuing to be just as thoughtful as he’d been so far. It was nice. His cock was more than nice. Wes could suck this all day. Well, not really all day, because he’d end up with lockjaw or something if he tried that. He definitely wanted to do this someday without the latex between them. He backed off, licking the head of Bull’s cock once before staring up at man. Kissing down the shaft, Wes reached the thick base, mouthing one testis carefully. He drew the skin into his mouth, tasting the salty sweet essence of Bull that he’d missed with the latex in his way. “I love the way you taste.” “I’m more than okay with getting tested, making sure we’re both clean. After, we can both taste each other as much as we like.” His cock jerked, Wes groaned. “Really? You mean that?” “I’m not running away, sweet Wesley. What about you?” “I…I’m definitely interested in more. I wasn’t sure if you were, or…” “Well then, why don’t I show you exactly how interested I am?”

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Bull pushed him back down to the bed, holding him in place with one big paw while he rooted in his bedside drawer again. A familiar bottle was found, the top off and lube drizzled onto Bull’s waiting palm. It was definitely a practiced move. Wes had to grin. “You do that often?” “Christ, it’s not like I can hook up with a guy too easily out here. It’s mostly me and my five fingers getting acquainted in this bed. I won’t last long inside your ass, I’m warning you now.” “Some warning. I bet you’ll be ready to go again minutes later, so I’m not worried.” Bull grinned, not disagreeing in the slightest. He rubbed his fingers together, warming the lube in his hand before reaching down and running his palm across Wes’ dick, over his balls and behind to his needy arse. Wes let his legs drop to either side, spreading as far as he could to give the man easier access. He wanted this so badly. It’d been a while for him too and he wanted that cock inside him so much he could practically taste his own need. A considerable finger was run over his arsehole, teasing his skin before delving inside. Wes bore down on the digit, milking it like he wanted to milk Bull’s cock. Groaning, Bull removed his finger only to immediately thrust two back in. The slight pain made him arch his back, panting for air. Wes closed his eyes, a smile on his face. “No, look at me.” Cracking open his eyelids, his smile grew when Bull repeated his gesture, thrusting three fingers now into his arse. “I’m ready, I don’t need anything else. Please, Bull, fuck me now.” Bull reached up, grabbing a pillow and sliding it under his hips, causing Wes’ back to arch even more. He pulled his own knees up, sliding his hands under his legs to lock them into place. “Now, Bull. Now!” Bull bent his head to press his teeth into the side of Wes’ cock, letting him feel it. He snarled, straightening out and fitting the head of his dick against Wes’ quivering hole. “I need it, need it so bad—uh!” He thrust in without pause, that thick shaft entering him, sliding along his inner walls and abrading every single one of his nerve endings. Oh, that felt…oh, wow. “More, yes, more.”

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Bull pushed up on Wes’ thighs, pressing his knees tight to his chest, getting a good grip. He paused when he was completely seated inside Wes, his eyes closed, his neck corded. Wes leaned up, pressing his lips against that tight neck. Bull roared, snapping his hips, pressing Wes to the bed, holding him in place for his thrusts. Wes panted, reaching for his own cock with one shaking hand, pawing at it until he had a good grip on it. He cried out, gasping for air, unable to breathe from the intense pressure in his chest. He was going to come. Oh, God, he was going to come. “More, more, more…” “Come for me, Wesley, now.” He couldn’t stop himself, his body caught in Bull’s web, completely enthralled with the other man. His eyes shut tight, his body bucked beneath Bull’s strength and he was coming hard, every drop of liquid in his body spraying out onto his belly. “That’s it, sweet, let it out.” Wes dropped to the bed, his stomach loosening, his body nearly boneless. Every bit of tension was gone, he wanted to give that same sated feeling to Bull. “Please Bull, please. I want your cum. I want you to come inside me. Fill me up, come in me. Please. I need it. I need it so badly.” Bull gasped, tensing in place, his body held frozen above Wes before his massive body jerked. Wes could feel him shooting his load into the condom, the latex withholding the seed he desperately wanted inside him. They were definitely doing this again and again until the day they both knew it was safe to let go. He’d never wanted something so badly before. They panted for air. Bull pulled out, landing heavily to the side of Wes, protecting him even in his near stupor. He removed the condom, tying off the end and letting it drop to the side of the bed. Wes turned over, sliding against all that coiled strength, nuzzling in and placing one thigh over Bulls legs. He had no idea how long they lay there, both content to just bask in their afterglow. Finally, Bull lifted one hand, running his fingers through Wes’ hair. “You have plans for Saturday.” “Was that a question?” “No. I’m telling you. I want to see you again. Soon. Unless you’ve got plans?” A frown wrinkled Bull’s forehead, a hint of indecision crossing his eyes.

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Wes smiled gently, reaching up to smooth that frown away. “I have plans now. You’re not going to get rid of me that easily. Just remember you’re the one that chased after me. You’re stuck with me now.” “I’m happy to be stuck with you. Trust me. If I have to hog tie you to my bed, I will. We’re going to be spending a lot of your free time together.” Bull rolled them over until his big body was blanketing Wes. Leaning down, he bumped their noses together before sliding his lips along Wes’ in a gentle kiss. “I’d like that. A lot.” Minutes later, he tossed his head, breaking their kiss. They were both breathing heavy, hard shafts rubbing against each other. He grinned cheekily up at Bull, sliding his hand down the scrolling tattoo covering Bull’s arm. “So, this hog tying thing. Sounds intriguing.” Laughter filled the room, their mirth connecting them as surely as their lips had done seconds ago. Oh yes, he could definitely like spending time with Bull. Moving overseas was the best decision he’d ever made. Without a doubt.

About the Author Jade Buchanan was born in the summer of 2006, out of a slightly shy but definitely warped mind. Jade’s alter-ego spends her days working in the world of safety management consulting, but at night she lets Jade out to play. Preferring to live in the world of fiction in which she was born, Jade can be found wandering through fields of words whenever she can. Now if only she can find her dream man – a time-traveling Scottish laird who was born a werewolf that became a vampire and lived on a pirate ship, only to make his way to the new world and work on a ranch in Montana (with a brief foray in the Navy SEALS), before conquering the space time continuum and becoming a space marauding pirate and ruling the galaxy – she’d be a very happy lady.

Email: [email protected] Jade loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

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