Tom groped around behind him and gripped Jake’s cock, wishing he was flexible enough to lean back and return the favour, like Cass had so many times for him. He felt a deep flush heat his skin and knew they couldn’t play this game for long.
He pulled out of Jake’s mouth and tapped his lips with the head of his dick. “You bottom?”
“Always, at least so far.” Jake stuck out his tongue and licked Tom lightly enough to make Tom’s eyes roll. “That okay?”
It was more than okay. Tom clambered off Jake, walked on his knees to the bedside table, and fumbled with the drawer. He rolled a condom on, slathered lube onto his dick, and turned to find Jake relaxed and ready for him.
Tom considered his options. True to his word, Jake hadn’t ticked at all since they’d taken their clothes off. It was hard to believe he was the same frustrated waiter who’d lost his cool in the restaurant. He offered his hand as he lay back and stretched out. “Come here.”
“Want me to ride you?”
Hell yeah. “Yeah.”
Tom sat up on his elbows, watching as Jake sank down on him. He took his time easing Tom inside his body. Tom’s cock was thick and long, and Jake’s brief discomfort was clear, until it faded and he bit down on his lip in a way that made Tom’s toes curl.
Jake flexed his muscles, then he lifted himself up so slowly Tom couldn’t hold back a low groan.
Jake smirked. “You like that?”
He growled. “Do it again.”
Jake obliged, and it was the start of the most languid fuck Tom had ever had. He’d first put his hands on Jake with a clear image in his mind, an image that saw him bending Jake in half and driving into him, perhaps even flipping him over and pushing his face into the pillow. But it didn’t happen. Jake worked his magic and with every long, slow roll of his hips, Tom fell deeper and deeper into something he didn’t quite understand.
Tom took his weight off his elbows and raised his arms over his head, gripped the edge of the bed, and arched his back.
“You look so hot right now.” Jake leaned down and pressed their chests together, trapping his cock between them. “Even more than I thought you would.”
Tom thrust his hips up. Made them both gasp. “Yeah? You look pretty fucking beautiful yourself.”
Jake’s eyes widened, like Tom’s words had sent a jolt through him. Or maybe it was something else. With his quivering thighs and sweat-sheened skin, Jake seemed on the edge of release.
Tom gathered himself and drove up into Jake, heeding his spine-tingling pace, but twisting his hips, searching for the angle that would unravel Jake’s smirking composure.
He found it on the third go.
Jake fell slack on top of him and moaned, low and plaintive. Tom grinned and pushed Jake’s hand towards his cock. “Make yourself come.”
Jake resisted. “Don’t need to. You’re doing it.”
Tom thrust harder, and Jake gave in, jacking himself until he seized up and came over Tom’s chest. “Oh God . . . Fuck.”
“Yeah?” Tom drove his hips up, absorbing every clench and spasm of Jake around him. His world narrowed to the dark, flushed man writhing on top of him, the feel of hot skin on skin, and the heavy scent of sex in the air. Then pleasure twisted his gut, drove the breath from his lungs, and forced a guttural groan from deep in his belly.
He came with a yell that was smothered by Jake’s frantic kiss. He met Jake’s embrace, and they collapsed together in a tangle of clumsy hands and rough, biting kisses, the kind of kisses he had imagined when he’d first set eyes on Jake.
When it was over, they lay breathless and exhausted. Jake shivered. Tom hooked the rumpled sheets with his foot and drew the duvet over them. Jake hummed his appreciation. “Your bed smells nice.”
Tom smiled into the darkness and touched the soft mane of inky hair he felt like he’d known forever. “Stay awhile, if you like.”
“Careful. I sleep like a log. You’ll need a foghorn to wake me up.”
Tom rubbed Jake’s shoulder. He didn’t sleep much, never had, but he knew someone else who slept like the dead once he finally found rest, and it was a characteristic he found endearing. He tightened his arms around Jake and listened to his unfamiliar breathing even out. Felt the faint tics ripple through him and felt his affection for him grow with each shudder and jolt.
Jake wasn’t the man he’d longed for in his bed that night, but though he missed Cass enough for his chest to ache, Jake’s slender bones wrapped around him felt pretty bloody perfect.
It was 9 a.m. when Tom’s phone rang the following morning. He fumbled for it among the stacks of paperwork on his desk, prepared to do battle with yet another cowboy supplier, but then he saw the photo ID of the caller and his heart skipped a warm, pleasurable beat.
Cass.
Tom smiled and pressed the speakerphone button. Cass was the executive chef at their flagship restaurant, his business partner, lover, and soul mate of the last nine years. “Morning, gorgeous.”
“Morning.”
“You okay?”
Cass hummed in reply, throaty and deep, like he’d just woken up. “You left something pretty in bed.”
Tom’s grin widened as he checked the time. Cass had spent the night at the flat above Pippa’s, their restaurant in Shepherd’s Bush, and he wasn’t much of a morning person when he didn’t have to be. What was he doing in Hampstead so early? “Very funny. How do you know that? I thought you were going straight to the house after the stock take this morning.”
“Couldn’t sleep. I did the stocks last night instead. More productive than counting sheep, eh?”
“You’re preaching to the choir.” Tom leaned back in his chair and stretched the kinks out of his spine. His own inability to sleep past dawn was what had driven him to leave Jake alone in bed in the first place.
Tom got up from his desk and walked to the window. He felt lighter, like he always did when he told Cass he’d been with another bloke. Their relationship was a mystery to many, but it worked for them. They shared a life, and from time to time fucked other people. Didn’t change the fact that they loved each other to death.
“So, who is the pretty thing you left in bed for me?”
Tom let Cass’s teasing question hang. Pretty was just the half of it. He’d watched Jake sleep for hours, traced his tattoos, counted his tics, and admired his fragile beauty. Cass was the only man who’d ever captivated him so completely . . . and so fast.
“Earth to Tom?” Cass chuckled, and even through the phone, Tom felt his presence like a second skin. He had the dirtiest laugh on the planet. “Sounds like he’s something special. Shame he didn’t hang around for me to see it for myself.”
“He left?”
“Yep. Think I scared the shit out of him. I offered him a cuppa, but he scarpered like a bat out of hell.”
Tom winced. He’d never have left Jake if he’d known Cass was going there. Jake wasn’t the first bloke one of them had brought home who’d assumed the other would be out for his blood. “I didn’t tell him about you last night. I was going to head back soon, buy him brunch, and do it then.”
“Wasn’t a one-night thing, then.”
It wasn’t a question, but Tom considered it anyway. Did he want to see Jake again? Naked or otherwise? Yeah . . . yeah, he did. “Did you get a chance to talk to him?”
“Not really, but I gave him the note you left. He took it with him, if it’s any consolation.”
It wasn’t, and Tom had a feeling Cass knew it. “Anyway, aside from insomnia, what are you doing at base camp? Everything okay?”
Base camp was their nickname for the Hampstead flat, but in reality, Cass rarely made the long Tube ride across the city when he stayed late at Pippa’s. He worked hard enough without adding a hellish commute to his day, a reality Tom often found tough to swallow when he was missing Cass as much as he had been recently. Cass sighed, like he’d heard Tom’s lonely thoughts. “I thought we could drive home together for Manday Monday. I fo
rgot you had to work today.”
“Sorry, babe.”
“Any idea what time you’ll be back?”
Tom felt a twinge of guilt twist his gut. Monday was the only consistent day of the week Cass didn’t work, and Tom did his best to keep the day free so they could spend quality time together at their real home, a ramshackle house away from the city. But life didn’t always work out that way, and today he’d be lucky if he made it home in time for supper. “Don’t wait up.”
Cass sighed again, but it was pissed off rather than rueful this time. “Okay, but don’t forget I took tomorrow off as holiday. We should do something.”
He hung up before Tom could admit he had forgotten Cass had a few outstanding lieu days to use up before Christmas.
Tom wandered back to his desk and tossed his phone on an open folder. He had back-to-back meetings scheduled for most of the following day too, one of the cons of running six businesses that had nothing in common. He rubbed his neck and sighed. Life would be far easier without principles.
Easy. Tom thought of Cass, and, not for the first time that morning, thought of Jake too. Yeah, life could be easy, but who wanted that?
Not Tom. He spent the rest of the morning wrangling with advertising firms and rescheduling his Tuesday meetings. It was nearly lunchtime when his phone rang again. The caller ID for Pink’s, the tiny fish café they owned in Covent Garden flashed up. “Morning, Nero.”
Nero, the grouchiest chef in the world, grunted a response. “The rep from the recycling company called here for you. Said he was confirming your meeting tomorrow.”
“Shit. Is that really tomorrow?” Tom thumbed through his diary and found the appointment—Barry Herbert, Green Stuff Logistics—neatly written in for the following Sunday. Bloody Sunday? What the fuck was I thinking when I wrote that? “Shit. I had it down for the wrong day. Don’t suppose you want to fill in for me, do you?”
“You taking the piss?”
Nero had a point. The bloke was blunt on a good day, and bloody rude the rest of the time. “Did he leave a number?”
Nero reeled it off and hung up. Tom called the rep and tried for a reschedule, but it wasn’t good news.
“Could be difficult. I’m heading home tomorrow night. Do you want to liaise with my PA and set something up with head office?”
Not really. In fact, it was the last thing Tom wanted to do. Green Stuff Logistics had their home in bloody Reading, and Tom barely had time for meetings in London.
Still, there wasn’t much he could do but agree and make the appointment. He’d built his company from scratch and put everything he had into making it thrive, but nothing was more important to him than Cass.
Even so, it was close to midnight by the time he staggered off the last train into Berkhamsted and caught a cab home. He let himself into the old Victorian house and followed the sound of the TV to the living room, hoping to find Cass awake, but no such luck. He was stretched out in front of the fire, fast asleep. Tom hovered in the doorway a moment, enjoying the view, but Cass’s presence reeled him in, like it had the moment they’d met nearly a decade ago. He dumped his bag, kicked off his shoes, and padded across the bare wood floors they hadn’t had time to varnish yet. He crouched down and pushed Cass’s hood back so he could see his face. Chiselled cheekbones and dark stubble greeted him. He waited a moment to see if Cass would reveal his moody-blue eyes, but the love of his life remained asleep.
With a reluctant sigh, Tom kissed his cheek, dug some breakfast supplies out of the freezer, and went to bed alone.
Tom woke at dawn to find Cass had crawled into bed with him during the night. He held him awhile, breathing him in, but eventually his usual restlessness got the better of him, and he left Cass to sleep.
He trod softly down the stairs, through the unpainted hallway and derelict dining room, and headed for the kitchen, the only finished room in the house. He put the kettle on the range and warmed himself over the hob while the water came to the boil. Then he took his mug of hot tea and stood by the kitchen window, one of his favourite pastimes when he was lucky enough to wake up at home. The garden was wild and beautiful, a tangled mess of gnarled branches and overgrown shrubs, and after a week in the city, watching the birds dance in the trees was a balm to his tired eyes.
There was a scrabbling noise at the back door. Tom wandered over and granted entrance to the lean streak of feline attitude who fought him for Cass’s affection.
Souris sashayed into the house, shooting Tom a glare that left him in no doubt of his place in her world. The tiny tabby belonged to Cass, and only deigned to come home when she knew he was there, or at least sensed he was imminent. She spent the rest of her time with the old lady across the road and treated Tom with disdain. This morning, she stalked past the food he put in her bowl and disappeared into the house to find Cass.
Tom returned to his post with a wry smile. Perhaps the cat had the right idea. Was there anything better than a lazy day with Cass? Probably not, but as Tom stood by the unpainted kitchen window, his mind drifted to another dark-haired man who’d recently shared his bed. In the misty light of the early morning, he took a moment to appreciate the similarities between Cass and Jake. Some were obvious—tattoos, dark hair, and slim bones—but others less so. Others were things most people wouldn’t notice, especially in Cass, like the vulnerability that drew Tom in until he couldn’t let go.
Cass, Jake, Cass, Jake.
Though Cass owned his heart, Tom knew he’d see Jake again. He had to . . . that is, if he could get to Camden anytime soon.
Wiry arms slid around Tom from behind. “What are you thinking so hard about?”
Tom closed his eyes and absorbed the warmth that spread through his chest. “You?”
Cass chuckled and pressed his face between Tom’s shoulder blades, biting gently through his T-shirt. “Yeah, and the rest?”
Tom turned away from the window and pulled Cass to him in a long, hard hug. “What are you doing up so early? Thought it would be gone noon before you showed your face.”
Cass was silent a moment, his face hidden in Tom’s chest, then he shrugged. “The cat punched me. Think she’s hungry.”
“She’s not hungry; she’s an arsehole. I already fed her.” Tom inclined his head at the full cat bowl. “I’ll feed you too, if you like. What do you want for breakfast?”
Cass lifted his head and grinned, his sleep-tousled hair sticking up in every direction. “Make me a cuppa and surprise me.”
He sloped off to the shower, leaving Tom to roll his eyes and throw some bangers under the grill for sausage baps. Cass was a typical chef: he worked hard, played hard, and only ate a proper meal when someone else cooked it and put it in front of him. Tom’s repertoire was basic, compared to Cass’s at least, but when he had time, there was almost nothing he liked more than taking care of his boy.
They spent a lazy morning on the sofa. Cass put his head in Tom’s lap and dozed through reruns of Top Gear and Only Fools and Horses, while Tom balanced his laptop on the arm of the couch and answered the emails he couldn’t ignore. True to form, it was gone noon before Cass decided he was awake enough to go out.
They wrapped up warm and left the house for their habitual walk through the woodland that surrounded their home. Tom shut the back gate and held out his hand. Cass grasped it, and they set off down the bridle path that took them through the nearby Ashridge country park. The woods were peaceful and almost deserted, populated only by a few dog walkers. A young labradoodle pup ran up to them and pounced on Cass.
Cass laughed and scratched its ears. “I want one.”
Tom thought of their contrary cat and snorted. “No chance. You have to come home at night if you have a dog.”
“Says you.”
Cass kept his gaze on the pup, a longing smile on his face, and Tom had to fight to remain unmoved. His position was fair, in his mind, at least. Cass’s insistence on remaining on the front line of their business was a major bone of contention. He
was an equal partner in their company. There was no need for him to work seventy-five-hour weeks in the kitchen. He could do anything he wanted—
Tom caught his train of thought and reined himself in. Cass was doing what he wanted. Anything else would bore the arse off him, and working seventy-five hours a week was far better than how Cass had spent his time before he’d found his calling selling artisan sausages on London’s famous Borough Market. Didn’t make being apart any easier, though, and knowing it was unnecessary grated at Tom’s nerves, even on a good day. Why was it so hard for Cass to just . . . be?
The dog’s owner whistled. The pup woofed and scampered away. Cass reluctantly watched him go. Tom fought again to ignore the yearning in Cass’s gaze, and reclaimed his hand. They walked until they returned to the canal and stopped at a pub by the water’s edge. Cass went inside and brought back pints of ale and three bags of crisps to the table Tom had claimed.
Tom rolled his eyes. “Quavers? Really?”
“Piss off.” Cass ripped the bags open and pushed one bag Tom’s way. “I know you’re not too posh for Quavers.”
Tom gave Cass the finger. His private school education was something Cass liked to poke fun at. Cass’d grown up in the back end of Tower Hamlets, and to him, Tom’s childhood seemed like a Disney film.
“So tell me about the lanky hottie in our bed yesterday.”
Tom swallowed a mouthful of beer. Though Jake had been on Tom’s mind, Cass hadn’t mentioned him all morning, which Tom had taken as a sign he wasn’t that interested. “What do you want to know?”
“Where did you meet him?”
“In Camden. I grabbed some dinner in one of PBG’s places.”
Cass wrinkled his nose. “What the fuck for? I’d rather starve.”
“I know, I know. The food was rubbish, but the scenery wasn’t bad. Jake was my waiter.”
Cass smirked. “You picked up your waiter? That’s so cheesy.”
Misfits Page 3