by Clare London
“I just did, didn’t I? You obviously know it, you chose it—”
“No, not like that. I want to hear what you think of the effect, not just the taste.”
“Is this a joke?”
Alex rolled his eyes. The man was infuriating! “Tate, can’t you take a rest from defense for once? I’m not out to fool or humiliate you. I mean it genuinely.”
Tate still looked bemused. “Why do you want to know? It’s obvious you know just as much, if not more, than I do.”
“Well, yes. I suppose you could say… wine is my hobby.”
“A damned sight more than that, I reckon. But okay, I’ll play along.” Tate was slightly flushed. God, but he was even more gorgeous when he smiled. Alex watched carefully as Tate took another slow sip.
“It’s smooth. The alcohol is there, I get the buzz. But it seeps in slowly, seductively. No pulp, no fiber, no sugar. Just the flavor, the essence. Blackcurrant, like we said, but also a hint of sweet pepper. It fills my mouth, it’s rich in my throat. I smell it as well as taste it. Weird, but delicious. It’s like summer—the heat, the flowerbeds, the cut grass.” He laughed self-consciously. “I can’t express it properly.”
Alex realized he’d stopped breathing while Tate spoke. Tate’s tone had been softer than usual, more thoughtful. Their rustic fish soup had arrived but neither of them had reacted. Tate’s eyes were slightly dreamy as he concentrated; Alex had such a strong desire to put out a hand and caress Tate’s cheek. To kiss the words as they drifted out of his mouth.
“You just have,” he said softly, awed. “Perfectly. You have an excellent palate. You should apply for the sommelier track at Bonfils.”
Tate flushed even deeper. “Shut up.”
Alex rolled his eyes and laughed along with Tate, but he hadn’t been lying. Tate obviously did have a talent for both tasting and assessing wine. God, he wanted to share many more wines with Tate Somerton. He’d love to introduce him to a fine St. Emilion, even a Chateauneuf-du-Pape. And they could share many bottle of Angel’s Breath, until the bubbles ran through their blood, the light, sparkling taste of British summer suffusing them and their kisses. He would woo Tate with sweetness and sensuality, with richness, and delightful, enchanting, irresistible sensations.
But would he get that chance? Something inside him twisted again; the doubt made him nauseous. Was this what caring for someone felt like?
Tate was staring back. He’d broken some bread for the soup but was still holding it between his fingers, as if suddenly distracted. “Am I… what you said earlier. About me not taking a rest. Is that how you see me?”
“Defensive? Overcautious? Downright off-putting to a date?”
“To hell with you, too.” But Tate’s mouth twitched at the corners. The wine must have mellowed him.
Alex determined to speak the truth, as usual. “You’re a hard man to get to know.”
Tate’s face fell. “Well, if that’s more than you can cope with, you can just—”
“Stop!” Alex grabbed Tate’s hand so hard, Tate dropped the bread into his soup with a plop. “But I want to. So I’m sticking with it. Your principles do you credit.”
Tate’s smile was like a candle in itself, suddenly lit, casting brightness over the whole table. “No one has understood before. There’s such a lot of unfairness out there. Injustice. People taking advantage. I want things to be right, not just for me, for everyone.”
Alex nodded. Maybe it wasn’t something he’d ever spent much time thinking about, but in Tate’s voice, with Tate’s bright eyes and earnest expression… it was perfectly understandable. “So that’s why you do so much work?”
“Huh?”
“I know how many committees you’re on. Community associations. School trips when you can get time off.”
“How the hell?” Tate frowned and sighed. “Gran told you.”
Alex smirked. He’d only met Gran that one evening, plus a brief chat when he and Tate arrived home late one night, but he really enjoyed talking to her. And that was in spite of—or as well as—her championing of her grandson.
“I just help out. I want things to be… fair.”
Tate must think his life had been desperately unfair, to feel this so deeply. Alex wondered what had happened to his parents. “Don’t get defensive. Again,” he half joked. “That’s a good thing.”
They started on their main courses. Alex had pheasant, and Tate the steak poivre. The food was hot and fresh and very tasty. For a while, they just enjoyed the meal and wine, occasionally praising it to each other, or just smiling over the table.
After the main course, Tate sat back and took a deep breath. He seemed to be bracing himself to say something. “There’s been more trouble at the warehouse. Some pallets of Sauternes have been moved.”
Alex was startled that Tate would now discuss it with him, but this was what he needed to know. “Is that bad?”
“I suppose you wouldn’t know. We have the stock in specific areas, rotated according to orders and shipments, so there’s never any mistake made with a client’s order. These were designated for a select presentation at the Savoy, yet when we came to load up, it was another wine, not as superior. It’s just luck I happened to be there at the time and noticed the wrong packaging. We finally found the right one stacked haphazardly with a group of unrelated wholesale wine.”
“Was anything else moved?”
Tate looked shocked. “Hell. You mean, there may be more mistakes on the shelves? I’ll have to take a closer look. Jesus, Alex. It could be disastrous to our shipping schedule.”
“Do you have CCTV?” They could look at that, see who’d been creeping around the warehouse on their nefarious business.
“It covers the main entrance and dispatch exits only, not the central storage area. It’s there to catch intruders or thieves.”
Alex nodded slowly. “Not to deter mischief from within.”
Tate stared back at him, stark realization in his eyes. “I know that pallet had been moved because I personally booked it originally into the right place.”
“So you understand what I’m saying. It wasn’t a mistake. It’s an inside job,” Alex said. “Someone with knowledge of the stock, and access to the forklifts.”
The waiter called at their table right then to clear the plates, so they fell silent. As soon as he left, Alex rushed to speak again.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll look seriously into this. I’m assuming you will let me help you?”
Tate’s expression was a little dazed. “Looks like I’m assuming it too.”
“But for tonight.” Alex said, lifting his wineglass and gesturing for Tate to do the same. “We’ll just decide on what dessert!”
Chapter Eleven
THE kiss as they prepared to part that night was deeper than usual. Alex drew Tate back against the wall of the bus shelter, his hand around the back of Tate’s neck, his lips searching, needy. He could taste a delicious mix of salt and lemon on Tate’s tongue from the meal.
“Who the hell are you, Alex Goodson?” Tate whispered into Alex’s neck as they huddled together in the chill.
What did he mean? Alex tensed.
“Why are you here?” Tate continued. “Why are you so worried about the warehouse? How do you have the knowledge and the money to make wine your hobby? It’s all a bit of a mystery to me.”
Was it time to tell Tate who he really was? What he was doing here? Surely it was still better that no one knew. He would never suspect Tate of the sabotage, but it was still important to keep under the radar. “There’s nothing sinister, Tate, and I will tell you everything you want to know. One day. Just not right now. Can you trust me just for a while longer?”
Tate hesitated for only a moment, which Alex was going to take as a small victory. “I guess so. After all, you take me to all the best places. The restaurant was great—”
“So was the gig, in some ways,” Alex protested.
“And this is a perfect end to our ev
ening, making out at the bus stop.” Tate chuckled, gesturing at the shelter with its cracked roof, LED letters missing from the revolving schedule, a stooped, half-asleep old man leaning on the frame at the far corner, and a pile of fast food wrappers under the seat.
Alex only had eyes for Tate, but now he took in their surroundings. Yes, it was pretty seedy. “Tate, I wish there was somewhere else.”
“No, it’s okay.” Tate ran his tongue daringly, teasingly along Alex’s jaw. “That was tacky of me. I don’t want to rush you into anything.”
“You don’t—? But I’m the one watching my step.”
“You are?” Tate stared at him, brow furrowed.
Alex gave a shaky laugh. “It’s early days. I’ve only just captured your attention for a few dates. You’ve made it clear you think I’m a smooth-talking playboy. So I assumed you wouldn’t want to get further embroiled with me.” Tate’s mouth was twisted. Was he angry? Or was it the start of a grin?
“Embroiled?” Tate said innocently. “Is that even a word?”
“Yes, it is. Its roots are in seventeenth century France, I believe,” Alex said pompously.
“Right. Well. I still think you’re a smooth-talking playboy, but luckily you have a sense of humor to balance that.”
Alex was trying to keep up with this new development. “I do?”
“You know damned well you do. And… I like that. And so I think you should take me back to your place. If you want to, of course.”
“Fuck. I mean. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” Tate was smirking now. “Here’s hoping you’ll walk the talk, though. Or have I misjudged this whole thing?”
“Jesus. No!” Alex’s head was spinning, and he didn’t think it was to do with the wine. “It’s just… my hotel room is very basic.”
“Well, shit. That’s that, then.” Tate pulled back, his expression glum. “No way I’m having sex with someone who hasn’t furnished through IKEA, at the very least.”
Oh God. Oh God! Alex opened his mouth to defend himself, then caught the twinkle in Tate’s eyes. “You bastard! Now who’s got the sense of humor?”
Tate laughed with him and nuzzled into Alex again.
Oh, joy! Had Alex ever had such weird and wonderful foreplay? “So,” he said tentatively. Me, tentative? “You… um… will be?”
“I will be what?”
Alex gave an exaggerated sigh. “Having sex with me?” Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw the old man jerk awake and shuffle a few steps away. Ah well, it’d give the guy’s imagination something to conjure with on his journey home.
Tate pointed out a bus just turning the corner toward them. “I’m not gonna talk about it all night, Alex. Let’s just get to your place and do it before the rain shrinks my baws to the size of marbles.”
“I love your vocabulary.”
“You could see your way to expanding yours, y’ know.”
“I’ll work on it. But maybe not tonight.” And with that, Alex—now ridiculously pleased he’d learned the bus routes on the ludicrously tortuous system called public transport—hauled Tate onto the bus back to the hotel.
ALEX had never worried about his rooms before. In fact, he’d rarely worried where he had sex, as long as it was relatively comfortable and borderline private. But when he and Tate stumbled through the hotel room door, breathless from running up the stairs, clumsy with the key card, and laughing with desire and some nervousness—well, the room struck him yet again with its bleak aspect.
“I’ve just gotta go for a leak,” Tate said. “And I’ll send a quick text to Gran so she knows I’m not coming home.”
When Tate went to the bathroom, Alex quickly turned off the main light and clicked on the bedside lamp, in the hope of creating some better ambience. What else could he do?
“Jesus, Alex,” came Tate’s voice from the bathroom. “Are all these posh bottles yours? I’ve never seen this shampoo in any supermarket. And is this hairbrush silver?”
“No! I mean… they’re samples. Giveaways. Came with the room. Someone else must have left them behind.” Alex was scrambling for excuses. Suddenly he realized his naivety in thinking he was slumming it here. Luxury was relative—Tate would judge from the point of view of someone who rarely stayed away in hotels, let alone spent nights in the Park Lane Hilton, or enjoyed the hospitality of foreign diplomats and minor royalty. Alex had misjudged things—again—and badly. How arrogant of him! He quickly opened the drawer of the bedside cabinet and swept every piece of junk off the top into it, junk that included his Rolex, his exclusive gold credit card, the personal bits and bobs from his washbag—
“Alex?” Tate stuck his head around the doorframe.
In the middle of kicking his handmade shoes under the bed, Alex was panicking in case Tate noticed the monogram on his socks. “I’m afraid I don’t have any drinks here, and there’s no provision for music apart from on the TV—” He never finished; in fact, he never even had time to settle his tousled hair. Tate’s mouth was on his before he could grab another breath. Oh, but it was fine! Tate’s tongue plunged into his mouth with possessive need, far more aggressively than ever before, with the taste of wine, the chill night air, and the heat of passion. Tate physically pushed him too, his hands gripping Alex’s biceps. Alex took steps backward under Tate’s force, kissing back as best he could, until his back hit the wall beside the bathroom door. The artistically ghastly sea scene hanging beside his head rattled on its hook but stayed put.
Tate paused, his lips still resting on Alex’s, his breath harsh and hot on Alex’s cheeks. “Fuck. I’ve wanted to do that since we left the gig.”
“We should have chosen fast food,” Alex joked. Was that his voice? He sounded years younger, almost as nervous as his first time.
“No. The meal was… it was lovely.” Tate chuckled shyly, his hands still tight on Alex’s arms. “And Jesus, you taste so good as well.”
Alex felt the laugh ripple through his own skin, Tate’s chest hard against his. He could feel Tate’s heart beat, his pulse race. Alex’s cock hardened, frighteningly quickly. “Better than the wine?”
“Yes. Much better. And there’s way more than a glassful or two of you.”
“Are you saying I’m full-bodied?”
Tate was laughing freely now, his shoulders shaking, his hair tangled over his forehead, those eyes—those eyes!—expressing pure, simple, perfect joy, full of amusement and anticipation. “No. Human. Sexy human. Very sexy human—”
“Enough. Yes. Enough of my stupid questions.” Alex gasped and pulled Tate back in for another kiss. Oh, the joy of laughter in among lust! Alex had never appreciated it so much before.
Tate wouldn’t let go of him, not that Alex was trying to escape, and they stumbled back across the room toward the bed. Alex stubbed his toe on the cabinet, and as they staggered against it, the lamp fell over. The room went dark as the light now illuminated their feet rather than the walls. Alex’s reading book fell onto the floor with a thud.
“Shit.” Tate tried to twist around to see what they’d swept off the unit, but Alex held him too tightly. “Was that important?”
Wine Legends of Bordeaux? Alex wasn’t admitting to that expensive tome, especially not a first edition signed by the author. “A minor novel. Secondhand. Maybe third. Anyway, it’s nothing. N-not like you.” He could barely make sentences. Enough talking! Tate was warm and hard in his arms, and nothing was going to distract him. He felt clumsy, stupidly overeager, as unlike his usual self as he’d ever been. His heart was beating so fast and his throat was so tight, words lodged in his throat like pebbles. Tate’s skin was salty on his lips, Tate’s throat taut and shiny with sweat as he swallowed hard.
“I’m still sweaty from the gig.” Tate gasped. “We could shower—?”
“No! Later. Not now.” Alex could hear the panic in his voice. Tate was smiling at him, laughing at him, but there was a fond, almost tender look in his eyes. “Tate, I can’t wait—”
> “Shhh,” Tate said, whispering the sound into his ear. “Let me.”
It was a time of ongoing discovery, Alex thought, as Tate tumbled him onto the bed. He wasn’t used to being on the receiving end, he was so often the initiator. Tate straddled Alex’s hips, his deceptively strong arms locking his upper body in place as he leaned down to Alex’s mouth and kissed him, then kissed him again and again, until Alex’s head began to spin from an overload of sensation. The bed creaked underneath them, and the bathroom fan was whirring noisily since Tate had turned the light on and off again. There was a chemically floral smell lingering in the room from the products used by the hotel’s daily cleaning staff, and Alex knew that on the hour, the boiler behind the hotel kitchen would groan and knock as it reset itself.
But nothing bothered him tonight. Nothing.
YEAH, Alex’s hotel room was plain, but Tate barely noticed. Why the hell would he, when he had such a delicious specimen as Alex Goodson to attend to? Besides, they were warm and comfy here, the door didn’t stick like it did at home, and there wasn’t any risk of being heard by Gran over the late-night TV or being interrupted with Amy’s occasional nightmares.
Maybe it had been the wine: maybe it had been the pleasure of a more intimate evening with Alex. Whatever the reason, Tate realized he’d suddenly begun to relax. The kids were all okay tonight—though, my God, he’d owe Gran and Lou a million favors after being out so much these last days!—and Alex had proved himself great company, and understanding of Tate’s situation. There hadn’t been many men who met those requirements over the last year. And more important? His desire for Alex hadn’t eased off in the daily workplace. It had grown, until he couldn’t bear to wait to touch him properly.
Alex was spread beneath him, arms now outstretched, legs pliant and graceful, his dark hair fanned out on the pillow. Tate nudged Alex’s shirt up his torso, revealing the soft skin and defined muscles, running his finger through Alex’s paler treasure trail until Alex sucked in his stomach and moaned aloud.