Owen smiled. “Khakis,” he said decisively. “A nice dinner out. Take home dessert.”
“Take home dessert?”
“I really crave sweets after amazing sex. Since I don’t plan on any other kind . . .”
Malcolm chuckled wickedly. “You, my American friend, are like a hidden landmine of sex appeal. I’m going to have to look out for you.”
“Too late.” Owen raised his face to the unfamiliar smells, breezes, sounds of the city, enjoying them even more now that he knew something of it and it had become personal to him. “I’ve already exploded. You’re caught.”
He tilted his head back and laughed, inviting Malcolm to share the joke, but Malcolm was unusually quiet much of the way back to his apartment.
* * * * *
Malcolm was trying—hard—not to be buried too deeply in his own disappointment and his own head. It was a hookup, right? A random hookup. A weekend thing. A boy, someone to play Dom with, someone—
Oh fuck. Who was he kidding. He wanted Owen to remember him. He wanted to be seen in his city with him. (His city, through which this beautiful, enthusiastic young man who’d closed his eyes in a cathedral and spoken unapologetically about his mum had walked with wide strides and a delighted smile and a laugh for every lame joke or bit of trivia Malcolm could remember from school trips or nights out with a client.) He wanted—even for a night—for there to be a “them.”
He had really wanted to give him something. He thought the suit was all he’d get to give.
“All right,” Owen said as they were stepping up on the curb to Malcolm’s building.
“All right what?” Malcolm asked, startled out of his own head.
“I don’t know why it’s so important to you. If I knew, maybe we could wear something besides khakis.”
Malcolm swallowed. Really? As sappy as he’d been getting over this? Big bad Dom Malcolm was supposed to tell this guy how he felt? The image of Owen closing his eyes in the cathedral came back to him. He’d closed his eyes. Unguarded, unafraid. It had been so simple for him to share something about himself. Oh, hell. So did that make Malcolm a bloody coward now?
“It was just a really good day,” he said as they went through the door. He smiled absently at the doorman, who glanced at him almost like he didn’t recognize him, and he and Owen stood quietly at the lift.
“A gift?” Owen said quietly. “You want to give me a gift?”
“Not like . . . not like, ‘Go buy yourself something pretty,’” Malcolm said. The lift doors opened, and then they were in, and it was almost too close for the two of them. He’d spent a good twenty minutes with this man’s dick in his ass, but he couldn’t spend two minutes in a lift? He needed to clear this up before he climbed out of his own skin.
“Then what’s it like?”
“I want you to remember me,” he said, feeling twee and silly and generally like a fourteen-year-old.
Owen seized his hand.
“Okay,” he said, as though the subject hadn’t just chewed up an hour of what was turning into an abominably short weekend.
“That’s it? Okay?”
“Malcolm, if you think I’m going to need the suit to remember you, I’d better let you buy it for me. I’m pretty sure it’s not necessary, but, seriously. Knock yourself out.”
Malcolm grimaced, then lifted himself to his toes and gave Owen one of those surprising kisses on the cheek that Owen was always giving him.
“Plan to, mate. Seriously plan to.”
Which is how they ended up in a very high end men’s clothing store, looking at the triple image of Malcolm’s American student looking back at the both of them skeptically. Obviously, a fully bespoke suit would have been nicer, even a semi-fitted one, but there was really no time for initial measurements and several rounds of fittings, and how Owen would take to a traditional tailor was anybody’s guess. So he’d opted for the ready-made.
The salesman was perfectly nice about fitting Owen into a dark blue Zegna suit—still pretty casual, overall, but something he could quite easily have gone to work in anywhere in London or Canary Wharf. Black wingtip shoes completed the ensemble, and black socks, of course, since Owen had nothing in his kit but trainers and sweat socks.
Malcolm drew nearer while Owen was still standing in front of the mirror, adjusting collars and cuffs and moving from one leg to the other like he was about to rugby-tackle an enemy. “You’re looking great. Comfortable? You like it?”
Owen shrugged and turned to look at himself from the side. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Great.” He ran a hand along Owen’s arm. “I’ll make it very much worth your while when we get home.” He winked at Owen, and caught a fond little smile from the salesman. The understanding there was immediate, and while the guy tallied everything up at the counter, he asked, “Your boyfriend from the States?”
Malcolm hesitated, and figured if it weren’t for Owen, if this had been a random hookup (not that he bought them suits), he’d have denied everything and slipped the sales guy his card, but he found himself grinning. “They lost his luggage at Terminal Five. Fucking Heathrow.”
“Oh, I know how it is,” the sales guy said, and ramped up his camp a little more as he handed him the PIN pad. Malcolm quickly typed in his PIN and took the receipt when the sales guy handed it all back. “Well, have a great evening, sir.”
It was like a prophecy, really. Dinner was brilliant. Owen was acceptably awed by the plush and colorful array of London’s oldest Indian restaurant (hell, potentially the oldest Indian restaurant in Europe, period), and by the history of it. He said he felt like one of those noirish characters in a 1930s film—all that was missing was the small mustache, the white kerchief, and a woman in a really bizarre dress. That got them both talking about old movies and how either one of them would have banged Cary Grant in a hot second, and the conversation went fast from there to favorite movies, past and present (Owen liked a movie called Drive, and Malcolm had recently become a fan of District 9), and music.
They had a lot of non-alcoholic mint and ginger coolers, and then a bottle of red with Owen’s Nihari lamb and Malcolm’s Nizamu Murgh. Wow, Josh would absolutely murder him and feed him to the “other pigs,” as he called it, but feeding Owen great food and enjoying his own was completely worth it.
Of course, to complete the irony, a bunch of American tourists did come in, and half the group was wearing jeans. Malcolm managed to not break out in helpless laughter.
He also managed to settle the bill without Owen seeing how much it cost, and then stepped out into the street with Owen and called a taxi. Perfect evening that it was, the first cab coming around the corner stopped for them. “My lucky day,” Malcolm murmured into Owen’s ear and opened the car door.
* * * * *
The ride back to the flat was a miracle of tension. They didn’t hold hands, but Malcolm did sit close enough to press his thigh against Owen’s, and the heat coming through the (fine, crisp, soft) fabric of that amazingly fitted suit was enough to make Owen’s mouth go dry.
God, he was pretty.
The dark hair and pale blue eyes—they weren’t a usual combination, but beyond that. There was the evenness of the features, the strength of the short jaw, and a sort of . . . hidden sweetness that had Owen totally captured.
Malcolm had so badly wanted him to enjoy the night. He’d enjoyed buying him the suit, had put his hand possessively in the small of Owen’s back as they’d walked away from the clothier’s. Owen could swear that Malcolm had chosen that restaurant just for his enjoyment. Malcolm wanted Owen to like it here, and in spite of his initial appearance of not giving a damn who he fucked, he wanted Owen to like him.
Owen did. Owen liked him a lot. He especially liked the way he wanted them to be equals—both in bed and out of it. God, Malcolm had loved being on the bottom.
Conversation stalled for a moment, and Owen glanced at him. He was peering into the darkness as the city lights bled by, looking out the window li
ke he couldn’t wait to get where they were going. Owen leaned over in the darkness of the cab and whispered, “Do you want me to top again?” and actually felt that powerful, dominant, tightly wound body melt next to him.
Now Malcolm reached out and clasped his hand, bringing it to his lips and turning it, palm up, to place a kiss, sinking his teeth delicately into Owen’s palm as he pulled away, leaving his tongue out to taunt until the last moment. He leaned over and whispered in Owen’s ear, “As long as you want me to spank you again,” a surge of blood rushed to Owen’s cock, the sensation so powerful he actually gasped.
Malcolm caught his eyes in the darkness, his own gleaming behind his glasses. “Serves you right,” he muttered. “I can barely walk.”
Good. That was damn arousing to know.
The cab arrived and the two of them got out, clenching each other’s hands and stumbling up through the lobby to the lift like drunkards fumbling their way home.
Inside the elevator, Malcolm turned and raised himself on his toes, throwing himself at Owen with enough ferocity to drive Owen back against the wall. Owen captured that holy-God-tight ass under his palms and pushed up, gratified when Malcolm grabbed hold of his shoulders and lifted his legs, wrapping them around Owen’s ass and grinding their groins together. He tasted like gingermint and chocolate kulfi and something stronger and more powerful, something like want and need, and Owen drank him in and gave him back, dying for him in the subjective three hours it took to get to Malcolm’s floor.
The doors opened, and Malcolm slid down his body, and neither of them bothered to take a breath before they grabbed hands and ran for the apartment door.
“You’d better,” Malcolm panted while fumbling for the key, “let me hang up these bloody suits.”
“As long as you help take it off me,” Owen said as the key clicked.
They spilled inside and made it to the bedroom, where Malcolm said, “Stop. Stop right there and let me undress you.”
For once—partly because he really did like the suit and didn’t want to wrinkle it, but mostly because he liked doing what this man told him to sometimes—he didn’t argue and didn’t backtalk. He paused in front of the bed, facing the wall, and looked at Malcolm in the dark.
Malcolm was looking back with a self-satisfied smile on his face. “Are you finally listening to directions?” he asked, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.
“Until it suits me not to,” Owen said with just enough heat to remind Malcolm he knew what he was doing when he took over. He went to loosen his cufflinks, fumbling a little with the old-fashioned pin, and Malcolm took over.
“Well, until you learn how to wear civilized clothes, it needs to suit you, Yank,” Malcolm said, with barely an eyebrow raise for the pun. There was more affection in his voice than Owen thought even he knew.
“Yes, yes, master,” Owen said dryly, rolling his eyes. “Undress me at your leisure.”
Malcolm grimaced, struggling with his second cufflink. “Well, if you’re going to be that way about it, it takes away all the fun.”
Owen chuckled and leaned just close enough for Mal to feel his breath on the shell of his ear. “And this is all about fun, isn’t it, Malcolm?”
Malcolm’s fingers fumbled on his cufflinks. “Is that what you think?” he asked, something in his voice almost hurt, and Owen was quiet until Malcolm met his eyes in the dark. Tenderly, Owen pulled his wrist away from Malcolm’s ministrations and pulled off Malcolm’s glasses, leaning close enough that his face wouldn’t be just a blur in the dark as their eyes met.
“No, Malcolm. It’s a lot about fun, but not all.”
Malcolm smiled then, hesitant, shy—not a smile Owen would have suspected from the bossy little shit who’d bought him a shot of vodka the night before. “Good,” Malcolm murmured, and then slid that wonderful suit jacket off Owen’s shoulders, being careful to hang it up.
“What are you going to do with that once I’m gone?” Owen asked, and was unprepared for the stricken look Malcolm gave him over his shoulder.
“I . . . you’re supposed to take it with you.”
Owen grimaced. “I’m living out of a duffel bag,” he said, and then brightened. “Hey—maybe we can mail it home.”
Malcolm nodded as if that made sense, but Owen couldn’t shake the feeling that something else besides getting him undressed was going on in Malcolm’s head.
“That would mean I’d have to give you my address,” Owen said, teasing, and Malcolm came back to unbutton his shirt.
“That could be dangerous,” Malcolm said softly, avoiding his eyes.
“Yeah.” He put his hands up to cover Malcolm’s. “Never know when some bossy Brit will show up, telling me to bend over—”
“And then shoving your arse on a plane back to England,” Malcolm said, and he sounded like he was trying to keep his voice light, but his hands were shaking under Owen’s, and suddenly the task of taking the suit off without rumpling it felt like too big a thing, even for the both of them.
Owen placed both hands on either side of Malcolm’s face and kissed him, hard, with possession, like he had a right to be there and Malcolm had a right to expect him there. Malcolm opened his mouth and crushed Owen to him, responding ravenously, as if his hunger for the kiss was staving off a crueler, deeper hunger.
Owen didn’t stop kissing him, even when Malcolm’s fingers fumbled for his buttons and pushed the shirt down from his shoulders. He had the presence of mind to drape it over the end table, and then Malcolm was sliding his hands beneath Owen’s white undershirt and over his skin, and Owen gasped, that warmth shocking, his stomach tightening at all that lovely attention.
“Fucking hell,” Malcolm said. “Do you have any idea how hard I have to work out to get a stomach like that? You don’t even count carbs, do you?”
Owen chuckled and lifted his arms, ducking as the shirt came off. He lowered his head and licked the side of Malcolm’s neck softly. “It’s not fair, is it?” he whispered, nibbling first, then kissing up to a vulnerable ear. Malcolm let out a long, shaking breath, and Owen kept nibbling. Malcolm tilted his head back and Owen took him up on the invitation, kissing around the front and to the other side. This time he bit a little harder, and suckled the flesh tightly between his teeth. Instead of jerking back, Malcolm yielded, making a needy sound and knotting his fingers in Owen’s hair to hold him closer. Oh, Owen should have known—the subtle bite, the singing edge of pain—Malcolm liked his sex with just that edge.
Owen moved to a spot on Malcolm’s chest, sucking hard, and Malcolm bucked his hips against his just as hard. He lowered a hand, trapping Malcolm there and forcing him to grind into his thigh, hard enough to hurt himself.
“Easy,” he breathed, kissing down Malcolm’s throat, between his pecs—which had definitely benefited from his obsession with fitness—and then moving his hands back to cup Malcolm’s shoulders so he could suck a flat pink nipple into his mouth. Malcolm groaned, and Owen nipped at it, hard enough to sting. This time, the groan seemed to rip right out of his vitals.
Owen bent down and shifted, putting his hands on Malcolm’s hips and sinking to his knees right there on the area rug, still in his suit pants. He unfastened Malcolm’s belt and then fumbled for the zipper.
“I’m supposed to be undressing you,” Malcolm panted, and Owen looked up into his eyes, wondering if Malcolm could see clearly that far.
“Are we back to supposed-tos again?” he said softly. “All we really have to do tonight is make each other happy.” He fumbled with Malcolm’s fly and then shoved the whole works down—boxers, slacks, belt, everything—and stuck out his tongue to tickle the end of Malcolm’s cock. It was thick, but like the night before, he enjoyed stretching his mouth around it and sucking it into the back of his throat until it bottomed out.
Malcolm made a choked noise above him. “That makes me happy!”
For a moment there were no other noises but the suck and slurp of Owen’s mouth and Malcolm’s rapidly escala
ting breathing. Malcolm’s hands tangled in his hair, and Owen let him control the pace, the depth, even the pressure, until suddenly Malcolm stopped and clenched and pulled him away. He tasted pre-cum on his tongue and stopped, not wanting Malcolm to come so soon either.
He stood, slid his suit pants off and laid them carefully on the end table, then sat on the bed in his boxers and held his hand out. Malcolm took it and sat down with him, and Owen whispered in his ear, “I really want to be inside you again tonight, is that okay?”
Malcolm made a sound. “Already told you, I was planning on it.”
“Am I pissing you off with all this sweetness? You could always spank m—”
Malcolm put a hand on each shoulder and shoved, and Owen found himself on his back. Malcolm rolled him over until he was splayed out on the bed on his stomach, knees on the floor, ass in the air. In a second, Malcolm had shucked his underwear too, and Owen’s cock bobbed against the comforter, engorged and ready.
* * * * *
Malcolm looked longingly at Owen’s ass—taut, lean, clenched lightly in anticipation—and thought of all the things he’d like to do to it. God, so much kink, so little time. Between that and the memory of Owen inside him, face–to-face like the night before, he wasn’t sure he could last.
He wanted to come with Owen inside him again.
He smacked Owen’s rear experimentally, and his palm tingled, still a little sensitive from the night before.
“Stay right there,” he said, and walked around the bed to the toy drawer.
He looked over the bed, aware that Owen’s challenging, ironic gaze was fastened on his every move, and sighed as he pulled out a short leather crop. He gave it a few experimental, whistling passes, and winked at Owen’s rather large eyes, clear even in the darkness.
“You think so?” Owen asked doubtfully.
Country Mouse_1 Page 7