Malcolm’s face heated. “That obvious, am I?”
“Well, that wide-eyed stare gives it away.” She laughed at him.
Ha bloody hah. Who knew where the kids on the walls came from—they’d likely been left behind after one screaming fit too many in a public place, or maybe their parents had been lynched because they couldn’t keep the critters under control on a packed train. “Uh, I’m still riding my caffeine high. The kids have nothing to do with it.”
Escape route. Someone help!
Of course, Owen helped. “Oh come on,” he ordered as he emerged from whatever squalid cubbyhole he’d been tinkering in. Smiling, he ushered Malcolm past the little gate in the partition and through the cluttered office. “All the state secrets are in the computer, and since I’m the IT guy, I can keep you out of the important stuff. We were going to game-plan, right?”
“Is that a verb?” Malcolm said stupidly, his eyes darting from one wall to the next in increasingly hyperactive horror. “I’m not sure we can actually do something if it’s not a verb. Holy fucking shit, are those triplets?” His voice rose as he came face to face with a five-by-seven photo in a frame on somebody’s desk. They were (possibly) all boys, their faces the cream-and-coffee complexion of a mixed heritage, their hands filthy with mud, their overalls riddled with it, and giant, unfathomable smiles on their chubby-cheeked little faces as they held up a (ugh!) toad like he was the World Cup itself.
“Yes, and they’re Roger’s own children, so don’t plotz all over them, okay?”
“Plotz?”
“It’s a term.”
“A British term. Yiddish? East London?”
“I’ve been here a week, Malcolm—it’s not that hard to pick up a couple of those. Now you said you were going to get me here and take me somewhere so we could be ready for the weekend. Come talk to me while I work—I’ve got about another forty-five minutes on this bitch before I can leave.”
“Forty-five—my God, Owen, I thought I was a workaholic.”
Owen grinned cheekily at him over his shoulder. They passed the big, serviceable, metal and Formica nightmare with the picture of children in squalor and ventured back to an even more crowded space, a tiny six-by-eight room dominated by another military grade monstrosity of a desk piled so high with files that they practically obscured the Tyrannosaurus-Mac on the top.
“If that’s what you’re fixing?” Malcolm said numbly. “Give it up and shoot it. Then we can leave.”
Owen had the nerve to roll his eyes. He looked over his shoulder through the door, where Emmaline was hunched over her own dinosaur (this one looked like a pterodac-Dell, but Malcolm couldn’t be sure) and then Malcolm’s starched suit shirt was rumpled in Owen’s long-fingered hand, and Owen’s mouth was firm and open and invading.
At the first touch of his tongue, the first taste of him suffusing Malcolm’s senses, Malcolm’s entire body went limp, melted into Owen’s long, encompassing arms.
Owen pulled back, looked at him seriously, and then went in for another kiss, this one even more demanding. Malcolm actually felt his knees go weak and he fumbled around behind him so he could brace himself on the desk. Owen pulled back and smoothed Malcolm’s lower lip with his thumb and smiled gently.
“There, now. Is the nice Malcolm going to come out so we can talk, or do I have to go find some twist ties and a flogger in somebody’s closet so he can be human.”
“You’re full of crap, mate,” Malcolm breathed, still wobbling from the kisses. “If you were into that even remotely, I would have had you at my mercy by now.”
“The ties are for you, Mal, since that seems to be your glitch. Anyway, what sort of plans do we have tonight?”
Malcolm cleared his throat and watched incuriously as Owen dropped to his knees between the desk chair and the hard drive tower. The tower was open and Owen was doing something magical in there with tiny screwdrivers and wires.
“You . . . don’t you deal with software? What are you doing in there?”
Owen looked up at him and grinned, and Malcolm felt a sudden surge of blood to his groin as he thought of that grin while they were doing something less wholesome than fixing computers. “I’m versatile,” he said, and Malcolm scowled because Owen was fully playing up the double entendre. “And you’re right—this shit is hella old. About the only way I can get it all to sync and extend its life is to install some stuff so it can handle all of the newer programs. I’m going to be doing it for the whole building, but this place first. They really need for their computers not to go down.”
“I think you’re using the term ‘computer’ in a sarcastic British way,” Malcolm muttered into his tie knot. “You’re acclimatizing well; I approve.” He arched an eyebrow at a teddy bear that looked like it had served as pedophile bait circa 1950s, and shook that image from his head. It was like being trapped in a wrecked nursery school thrown out on the trash pile of history, housed in an ex-brothel inhabited by computers that his BlackBerry would leave coughing and wheezing in the dust. “Do you like Queen? The band? Are you old enough to remember Freddy Mercury?”
“Is that a trick question? Doesn’t everybody remember Freddy Mercury?”
“He’s been dead like twenty years last year. A whole generation out there has grown up on cover versions.”
“And this has to do with where we’re going, how?” Owen said patiently, and Malcolm tried to align his thoughts. From teddy bears to Owen on his knees to the insufferable amount of dust in this heap, it was all going to his head.
“I got some tickets for the Queen musical. It’s on in the Dominion Theatre. I heard it’s a good one, and less depressing than War Horse.” And with far fewer children than War Horse.
“Oh awesome!” Owen’s brown eyes glowed at him like he’d hung the moon, and Malcolm was glad he hadn’t added that last bit. “Do I have to wear my suit?”
“No, jeans and leather and . . . whatever.” Leather. Dominion. Uhm. Was his brain really that fucking predictable? “I mean, it’s like a rock opera type thing. Very . . . uh, eighties.”
Owen nodded, then looked down at his computer again, tinkering, and then looked up. “Perfect. When does it start?”
“Half seven on Fridays. We could go there right after you’re done computer-whispering.”
Owen looked at the clock over Malcolm’s shoulder and grimaced. “I won’t finish in time,” he said, and then leaned back so he could see into the larger office. “Hey, Emmaline—is it okay if tuck the innards back in and then come back tomorrow morning to finish up?”
Malcolm felt a little stab of betrayal that must have rippled over his face, because Owen winked.
“Don’t you have a gym appointment tomorrow morning anyway?”
“Uh. Yeah. I guess.” Like he was looking forward to that after skipping out of the other one. Josh would make him bleed. “I could pick you up after that for late breakfast or early lunch somewhere. Or, I don’t know, show you some sights . . . Cambridge is quite nice, or one of those other places that sound great in the tourist brochures but . . .” He wasn’t selling it very well, so he stopped himself. He wanted Owen to enjoy England and London and everything else around it. “It’s really nice,” he ended.
Owen’s level gaze over the desk was still and quiet, and Malcolm shifted his feet. “I’m sure it will be lovely,” he said. “But I’m not a tourist at the moment. I’m living here with my boyfriend, and it may have been a whirlwind, but I don’t want him to put himself out to impress me.”
“Point taken, but I don’t want you to get bored in my flat. There’s lots of stuff to see, and I haven’t seen a great deal myself because I came to London to work and that pretty much ate everything else up.”
Owen’s wide smile stretched his face, and his shoulders jerked like he was thinking about leaping to his feet before his attention to his job yanked him back. “You mean you haven’t seen it either? We could see it together? Like, you know . . . exploring?”
“Not much of it.
Had to attend a wedding just outside Cambridge for a work mate. But the center? No.” Malcolm nodded, suddenly so lost in that innocent enthusiasm that he might have agreed to anything, including, “So, it’s like a cliff? And we could jump off it together? And it would be like . . . you know, flying?”
“I’d love to do that.” Owen nodded, that ebullience getting even stronger. “I want to see you experience something new.”
Like falling hard for you was something I’d done ever in my life? “Right,” Malcolm said crisply. “So, stitch up the patient there, Doctor Doom, and we can start cliff diving together.”
Owen blinked and thought about it. “Cliff diving? That would be fun too.”
“White cliffs of Dover, here I come,” Malcolm muttered to himself. “You could talk me into anything, though I think those are protected—national monument or whatever.” He grinned because Owen was definitely not getting any work done during the banter. “I’ll get your coat. You wrap up here.”
Owen was good to his word, and they made the show with time for Malcolm to down a shot of vodka at the bar. He tried to order for Owen, but Owen made a face.
“A bottle of water,” he said soberly. “I haven’t eaten since lunch, and this looks like a great show.”
“And I thought vodka was our drink,” Malcolm teased. He nodded to the young girl serving him. “Anything else? Something to nibble on?”
“Popcorn?”
Malcolm ordered him a small bag and Owen tossed a piece of popcorn in the air before catching it with his mouth and then looked around the Dominion with bemused eyes. He’d adored the giant bronze-colored statue on the awning, which Malcolm had always thought of as tacky, but Owen didn’t seem to think of things that way. Malcolm thought of the cluttered little office space, and Owen’s seeming devotion to a group of people who were frittering their lives away on nose-mining ankle biters and helplessly yearning yuppies.
Owen thought of a lot of things differently, didn’t he? Malcolm looked at the stupidly tall young man at his side, staring about the theater with that unapologetically wide-eyed excitement that hadn’t seemed to dim in the past week, and swallowed a hasty sip of vodka.
How differently was he looking at Malcolm, to see someone to change the entire course of his life for, all in one savage burst of romanticism in a train station? Because Malcolm thought about those gamine urchins and those tacky women and wanted to run in the other direction, but if he ran too fast that way, he’d run right out of Owen’s reach. And that was a depressing thought. What kind of price was embracing a little tackiness and shedding a cynical layer (or fifteen) to keep Owen?
Maybe he had it all wrong, and Owen really was in the right there.
Damn. I’m trying.
The show was loud and flashy and boisterous—he and Owen were right up near the stage, where it was almost too loud and bright, but wow, it was good fun.
If anything, the fact that Freddy had been dead long enough that a fair amount of people in the audience couldn’t possibly have seen him alive just reminded him that life was too bloody short and death really didn’t care one whit about talent or beauty or any of that. Life was short, but it could be loud like this, fun and a really good ride.
When the whole audience gave a standing ovation, pulse pounding with the exhilarating energy of the show, he grabbed Owen’s hand and squeezed and thought, Yeah, I’m going to enjoy this. I’ll do my best, anyway.
They took the program and the CD, and Malcolm also bought Owen the T-shirt (he could even pull the look off)—the one with the British flag across the chest—and Owen wore it over the one he’d worn in, which made Malcolm even warmer and fuzzier.
They caught a Tube train home because they both had an early start, as usual, and right now, happy and glowing, Malcolm was in no mood to share Owen with the rest of the world. They would have to catch their own Yank. Fuck ’em.
They tumbled into the penthouse, still breathless, and Malcolm found he was looking up at Owen in the darkened flat as Owen grinned back, his pleasant face lit from the glow of the city through the window, his eyes and teeth shiny against the darkness. A stunning bolt of want sucker-punched Malcolm right in his gut, and he swallowed, silent, as Owen looked down into his eyes.
Just that quickly, Owen seemed to catch his mood, and his advance was slow and sure. His long hands framed Malcolm’s face and his head lowered in a lingering, scorching kiss that left Malcolm breathless and needing and pliant.
Owen took the lead.
Kiss after kiss, Owen walked them backward into the bedroom. He was relentless, not hard, not hurried, but not letting Malcolm stop to pick up his suit jacket or his trousers as they puddled on the floor either.
Malcolm found himself drugged with kissing, flat on his back, looking into Owen’s eyes with a sort of dependence that he would have loathed a week ago. And Owen?
Owen was stretching Malcolm with lubed fingers, sheathing himself with unveiled strength, and thrusting into Malcolm’s yearning body with absolute confidence that this, this right here, was exactly the place he belonged.
Malcolm could do nothing but clutch at his shoulders, wrap his legs around the back of Owen’s thighs, and hang on, trusting that Owen would do what was best for him, helpless to tell him no.
Owen didn’t let him down. As his movements inside Malcolm sped up, became more frenzied, he pushed himself up and grasped Malcolm’s cock, bringing Mal off in a cresting wave before Owen went after his own pleasure. Malcolm was still spasming, still moaning in breathy little gasps, when Owen shuddered above him and came, his cum scalding and wet in Malcolm’s body.
Malcolm groaned a little, the pleasure of the nakedness between them great enough to not ping any alarm bells. It wasn’t until Owen collapsed on top of him, his breath still labored, his body slick with cooling sweat, that Malcolm realized what that meant.
“Again?” he asked, frustrated by his own inability to remember the simplest things.
Owen laughed softly. “Oh, Malcolm. Did you think I left the States without getting tested?”
“But you . . .” They’d gone in together, the afternoon after Owen got the job.
“I wanted to get tested with you. You were so worried.”
Malcolm closed his eyes against the sudden beat of his heart in his ears. Yes, he’d been worried. He’d been with scores . . . oh fuck, was it hundreds? Of men. He’d damned well slept his way through half the local scene. Of course, not once, not with all those men, had he forgotten the condom. Also, he was pretty much always on top. Sometimes, the sex was just about the D/s stuff, and getting off only an addendum after the mindfucking.
“I was worried,” he said, the “was” given lie to by the edge in his voice. Owen heard his tone—he must have, because he didn’t answer him with words. “Shhh . . .” he murmured, and then quieted Malcolm’s panic with a kiss.
Love. Damn. Who knew it was the biggest mindfuck of them all?
Week 2: Trainers and Eggs
“What’s it with the baggy T-shirt?” Josh asked by way of greeting when Malcolm had rushed up the stairs to the stretching corner.
“Morning, Josh.” Malcolm plonked down on the mat and started stretching his legs. After a five-second pause that Malcolm read as severe disapproval, Josh leaned against his foot. The whole five-and-a-bit foot package was ripped muscle, the abs taut and defined even through the tight shirt he wore. The short sleeves stretched around Josh’s biceps and equally impressive triceps with every oh-so-casual movement.
“So, what’s up?” Josh continued to fish. They stretched the other leg muscles out while Malcolm won time with noncommittal shrugs. He’d have to answer eventually, but he’d put his ducks in a row first.
“I kind of met somebody,” he eventually conceded, stretching his arms.
“Kind of?”
“Yeah. I did. Messed up my last weekend. And the rest of the week.”
“Right.” Josh looked skeptical and motioned him towards the weight bench. “Same
guy?”
“Yes. Same guy.”
“One guy?” Josh casually loaded a bar with weight plates. “I remember that sex club or whatever it was on Ibiza. That kept you busy for a week. And too sore to work out.”
“Yeah, well.” Malcolm blew out a breath. In hindsight, spending a whole week fucking and being fucked seemed somewhat . . . cheap. Was cheap the word? He’d enjoyed it, but didn’t feel tempted at all to repeat it.
“There.” Josh lifted the bar up with that casual arrogance that had endeared him to Malcolm enough to hire him. Here was a guy who could kick his arse. It may have been applied masochism, though Josh had delivered results. And kept an eye on him ever since.
He took the weight from Josh, feet up on the bench, and gave an undignified “ooof” when the weight almost dropped to his chest. Shit, that was heavy.
“See, you’re already feeling the week without exercise,” Josh muttered. “Should I take some off, banker boy?”
They were already at the teasing-and-derision stage. Malcolm gritted his teeth and forced himself to breathe as he pushed the weight back up towards Josh’s waiting hands. Josh of course stayed out of reach, just close enough to interfere if the weight went out of control and squashed him.
Malcolm breathed and gritted his teeth and cursed his trainer. But he did feel the week of rest. No doubt.
“No,” Malcolm ground out. “I’m peachy.”
“Yeah?” Josh asked, taunting him by wiggling his fingers again. Malcolm grunted, but he was feeling the groove now.
“Yeah.” Malcolm breathed and clenched and lifted again. He thought about the delight Owen seemed to take in his body, and that made it worth the next extension.
Having finished his rep, he allowed Josh to help him settle the bar back in the cradle, and once he was no longer lifting, Josh pried like a crowbar.
“Is this one worth it?”
“Time will tell, I suppose,” Malcolm said, massaging his overtaxed pecs.
Josh wasn’t fooled for a moment. “Bollocks. Now stop feeling yourself up and get ready for round two.”
City Mouse Page 4