by Allan, S. H.
When Tom had finally brought up the problem with them a couple of weeks ago, Paul had gone into a long explanation about how he and Rosie both had families, which—Paul said—made weekends and evenings so much more difficult to manage for them than Tom.
Rosie hadn’t said anything, just sat next to Paul, silently backing him up, and somehow Tom knew they’d talked about this. Agreed how to approach it. Discussed—and agreed—that Tom’s personal life wasn’t as important as theirs.
Somehow that had stung more than if they’d just been completely thoughtless, like Simon.
He hadn’t told them that, though. He’d calmly pointed out they weren’t being fair and that they had to do more. And they’d agreed—a little resentfully, but he could live with that. Until, that was, he realized they were just like Simon—their promises were empty. When the shit hit the fan, they all disappeared, leaving Tom to deal with the crisis.
Well, he was fucked if he was going to do it any longer.
Tom sat in the front seat of his car, leaning his arms on the steering wheel and staring out the windscreen. Suddenly it all seemed very simple. Come Monday morning, he was going to call a partners’ meeting and give them one last chance—they’d agreed at the outset that they couldn’t afford any temporary help, but they could afford it if they all agreed to reduce their monthly salaries. And if the rest of them weren’t up for that, he’d pick up the phone to Jo Kennedy and arrange to meet her for that coffee both of them knew would have a business proposition at the end of it.
For a few minutes Tom sat there, contemplating the hugeness of that decision, taking stock of how it made him feel. Weirdly, as scary as it was, he felt as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. In fact, he felt better than he had in ages. Better, but angry. Angry at his partners for their behavior and even angrier at himself for putting up with it.
He’d let down Owen again today, after promising all week to go cycling with him. He’d watched Owen plan the route on Thursday night, watched him get the bikes in from the garage and check them over, even watched him mend a puncture on Tom’s. Tom had been too busy working to do much more than grunt his agreement to Owen’s happy chatter at the time. He’d worked till after midnight that night, determined to get ahead so he could leave at a decent time on Friday and guarantee Saturday free, but on Friday morning, one of Kate’s cases had gone tits up, and it had put him behind again.
But then, one of Kate’s cases always went tits up. Why should Owen’s plans be upset every time it happened? Why couldn’t Paul or Rosie deal with it? Or even one of the others? Why was it always Tom?
It had to stop.
And he had to show Owen he was sorry for taking him for granted so much over the last few months.
When Tom got home, he’d make a start with an amazing blowjob. Just lead Owen straight into the bedroom and go down on him for ages. Tom shifted in his seat, his cock growing hard at the thought. Five years together, and just the thought of blowing Owen still made him hard. Just the memory of the other man’s taste in his mouth, musky and sweet.
At first he’d thought it couldn’t possibly work between them. The age difference had bothered him a lot. Owen had been nineteen when they’d met, Tom a decade older. Both sets of parents had freaked out, particularly Owen’s dad. Tom had understood. Owen had only come out six months before and was still a teenager when he’d brought home his bearded twenty-nine-year-old boyfriend.
Tom still winced when he remembered that first meeting. He’d lost the beard the next day. He’d started wearing too-young clothes and listening to new music too. He’d even bought a fucking skateboard in his quest to bridge the chasm of that decade. And why? ’Cause the alternative—giving up on each other—wasn’t an option.
Tom loved Owen way too much for that.
It had been one of those clichéd love-at-first-sight things. He’d seen Owen across a crowded bar—a beautiful young guy, just a little shorter and a bit broader than Tom with that dark-blond hair—and his heart had cranked to a standstill. Of course, it wouldn’t have been love at first sight if Owen had turned out to have a crappy personality, but he hadn’t. Owen had been clever and funny and self-deprecating too. Just as Tom had known he would be from that first glance across an empty bar. He’d looked at Owen and felt like he knew him, inside and out.
Five years on and look at them: Owen had spent today cleaning the house. It wasn’t what most twenty-four-year-old guys would be doing. Christ, when Tom had been twenty-four, he’d been doing, well, everyone. He’d had a lot of lovers. Owen had only really ever had Tom. Other than some het sex with his one and only girlfriend and a couple of exploratory blowjobs with a guy at uni, he’d done nothing before they got together.
Tom had been his teacher.
Quite a responsibility, that. Especially when he found himself in love for the first time, so that everything they did together felt new to Tom too. New and beautiful. Innocent. He’d wanted to protect Owen’s innocence. Had felt entrusted with it, especially when he’d looked into the worried eyes of Ken, Owen’s dad, at that first meeting.
It’s okay, he’d wanted to say. I’m a good guy. I’m not going to hurt him.
He smiled to himself, remembering that. Owen certainly wasn’t innocent now. The only worry Tom ever entertained these days was whether he was preventing Owen from trying out new things he wanted to experience. Like last week when Owen had brought a ménage flick home. Did that mean he wanted to bring another guy into their bed? Tom didn’t think he could handle that. And yet he’d had quite a few threesomes himself before he met Owen. Was it hypocritical to want Owen to forgo trying that out?
Owen was enough for Tom, but Tom had gotten all that experimentation stuff out of his system long before they’d met. What if Owen decided one day that he wanted other lovers, new experiences Tom couldn’t give him?
And then there was the age difference.
When Owen was his age now, Tom would be forty-four.
Forty-four. Christ, nearly fifty.
Hell, right now, he might as well be ninety for all the fun he was giving Owen.
Well, that was something Tom could change, and he’d take the first step toward sorting it out on Monday morning. He was going to start putting Owen first for once.
Suddenly he couldn’t wait to tell Owen what he’d decided.
He turned the car onto Cedar Drive, excited to be nearly home. He was on autopilot now, slowing down on cue for the speed bumps, turning right, then left, before cruising down that one last stretch of road and swinging into the drive in front of the house.
The lights were on, the blinds down. The place looked warm and inviting, and Tom smiled as he locked the car up and walked to the front door.
He toed off his shoes in the porch and hung up his jacket, calling out, “Babe, I’m home.”
No answer.
“Owen?”
He pushed open the door to the living room and came to an abrupt halt at the sight that greeted him. Owen. Naked. Kneeling. Eyes downcast. And on the coffee table beside him, some very familiar magazines and DVDs.
“Owen—oh Jesus, you found—” Tom broke off, face flaming, voice dying in his throat.
Owen didn’t even look up. He just knelt there, in a classic submissive pose, hands at the small of his back.
“Owen,” Tom pleaded. “Please look at me!”
At last Owen raised his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he said softly. “Did you think I’d be disgusted or something?”
“No, I—” Again Tom broke off, distracted by Owen’s nakedness and submissive pose. “Could you get up? I can’t think with you sitting like that.”
Owen didn’t move an inch. “You should have told me, Tom. I don’t want you to hide stuff like that from me. If you want this, I’m cool with it. You know I trust you.”
“Yes, I know,” Tom replied, and he did. “I just—look, seriously Owen, get up. I just can’t—I can’t stand it! Please!”
Owen started
at that, a hurt expression growing in his silvery eyes, but somehow Tom couldn’t find the words to apologize for his sharp words. He rubbed the back of his neck, watching as Owen slowly got to his feet, his gut clenching and unclenching.
“Sorry,” Owen muttered. “I just thought it might be a nice surprise for you, coming in and finding me waiting for you, like one of the boys in your magazines. After you’ve been working so hard, and I was such a brat this morning and—”
“Owen—”
“And then I find out you’ve got this secret kink I didn’t even know about—”
“Owen—”
“And I just thought if I could show you that I’m okay with trying—”
“Owen, I’m not a dom!” The words burst out of Tom’s mouth before he could think through the wisdom of saying them. He just had to stop Owen talking. Had to stop him standing there, expecting Tom to start ordering him around or something.
Owen immediately fell silent.
“I’m not a dom, okay?” Tom repeated more quietly. “So, thanks for”—he gestured at Owen and the stuff on the coffee table—“all this. But it’s not me.”
Owen just stared at him. Christ, what must he think? Tom couldn’t bear to look into those watchful gray eyes a moment longer. He turned on his heel and headed for the door. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Tom, wait! Does that mean—?” Owen stopped midsentence, as though he couldn’t think what to say next.
Tom stopped walking, but he couldn’t bear to turn round, to look at Owen’s disappointed face. “It means that when I was into that stuff—a long time ago—I preferred to be the guy on his knees.” The silence that greeted that assertion was towering. After a moment Tom huffed out a sigh. “And it’s all ancient history, so please don’t make this into a big deal, Owen. I got over that little obsession a very long time ago.”
And with that, he left the room, taking the stairs to the bathroom two at a time in his hurry to get away.
Owen
OWEN watched Tom leave the room, torn between humiliation at Tom’s rejection and stunned disbelief at what he’d revealed. He realized, intellectually, that Tom wasn’t rejecting him, just what he was offering. But not once had it occurred to him that Tom might see himself in the sub role.
How could Owen have been so blinkered? Because Tom was older and more experienced? Because he’d taught Owen everything he knew about sex? Because he was fucking taller?
Even more stupidly, why had Owen assumed Tom would want him to take the submissive role?
And why hadn’t it occurred to him to tell Tom what he wanted? When he’d watched that DVD this afternoon, it had been the professor he’d identified with, not the student. It was the thought of control, not abandon, that had moved him.
God, had he really thought he could make everything all right with Tom with a gesture like this? Taking his clothes off and dutifully offering himself up for a spanking he didn’t even want? It wasn’t as though he’d want that from Tom. Damn. He should have thought about what those magazines and DVDs meant, what Tom wanted.
It was just that Tom was always in control. Always. Tom did everything. He sorted all the bills and paid the lion’s share of them too, and when Owen protested, he’d gently point out that Owen’s salary was much lower than his, promising they’d change the contributions in future, when Owen’s salary went up.
Tom had guaranteed the loan Owen took out for his car too, and actually, come to think of it, he’d renewed the tax and insurance for it as well. He was the one who remembered everyone’s birthdays—even Owen’s parents—and made sure the cards and presents were sent on time.
Had they fallen into bad habits? Tom always taking responsibility and Owen always letting him? If so, it had been easily done. Tom seemed to naturally assume control. And, in fairness, maybe Owen naturally relinquished it. After all, he’d only lived away from home for two years before he’d moved in with Tom, and even then it had been in a flat-share that was one step up from a pigsty. Moving into Tom’s well-appointed suburban home had felt like moving back home again, with lots of hot sex thrown in for good measure.
God, Tom. How must he be feeling right now? Without bothering to don his clothes again, Owen followed Tom upstairs.
The shower was already running, and when he pushed the bathroom door open, a fog of steam enveloped him. Tom stood in the shower cubicle, his dark head bent under the driving water and his back to Owen, the stiffening of his shoulders the only sign he’d heard him enter the room.
Owen paused for a moment, absorbing the beauty of Tom’s lean frame under the water; then he eased the shower doors open and stepped inside, slid his arms round Tom’s waist, and brushed his lips against the back of Tom’s neck.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against Tom’s golden skin. “I’m an idiot. I should have thought before I jumped to conclusions.”
Tom’s shoulders were rigid. “You don’t need to apologize,” he muttered. “I’m the one who hid stuff from you.” He turned then, and his expression was unhappy. “I’m so sorry.”
Sometimes Owen went weeks just living life, and then he’d have a moment like this one when he’d see Tom—really see him—and he’d realize how much he loved him. It got him all over—in his heart and his gut and his cock all at once. He wished he could explain the feeling to Tom, wished he could put into words how full his heart was.
“Come to bed,” he said instead. “Let’s make love.”
Tom’s eyes glittered; he looked half surprised, half turned on. He let Owen turn off the water and tug him out of the shower, let Owen scrub a towel over his naked body and lead him, unresisting, into their bedroom, guiding him to the bed.
“Lie down,” Owen said.
Tom settled himself down on his back, and for a moment, Owen let himself just look. Tom was perfect, so perfect. Long and lean, his chest furred with dark hair, his abdominal muscles evident but not overdeveloped, a faint olive tone to his skin. Matched with the dark eyes and hair that he’d got courtesy of his Italian mother, that perfect olive skin gave Tom a Mediterranean look Owen loved. Tom always looked amazing when they went on holiday, his skin toasting deliciously in the sun. Not like Owen, with his blond hair and fair skin that freckled and burned scarlet at the drop of a hat.
He straddled Tom’s hips and leaned down, beginning his journey at Tom’s throat. Tom loved being kissed there, loved being bitten too, farther down, at the tender spot where his shoulder and neck met. Owen licked him, gathering up droplets from the shower on his tongue, loving the rasp of stubble against his face and the fresh, just-showered scent of Tom’s skin. Loving too the moan from Tom’s throat.
Their cocks brushed, greeting each other, and Owen shivered. He moved lower, cataloging all the joys of Tom’s body. Hello, small, light-brown nipples. Hello, golden, muscled flesh. Hello, dark treasure trail. He licked and kissed his way over Tom’s body, the journey brisk, a sprint rather than a stroll. When he reached Tom’s cock, he drove his mouth over it, relishing the rude arrival of the bulbous head at the back of his throat.
“Oh fuck, that’s good.” Tom groaned above him, his fingers twining into Owen’s hair, and Owen moaned his own pleasure around the dick in his mouth, slurping inelegantly, though effectively if Tom’s moans were anything to go by.
After another minute of sucking dick, Owen pulled off and moved down to explore Tom’s balls, licking his sac with the broad flat of his tongue, teasing the bollocks inside before pulling them gently into his mouth and mouthing them. Christ, he could never get enough of Tom’s body.
He kneeled up and took hold of Tom’s lower legs, pushing them up to his chest.
“Hold them up,” he ordered roughly. “I want to rim you. Then I’m going to fuck you.”
Tom moaned his agreement, dark eyes gleaming with something beyond the obvious pleasure of the moment. Something Owen hadn’t noticed before. Or rather, something he’d noticed but hadn’t put a name to before.
And right the
n, he paused.
Something clicked into place.
He realized his words just now were more to Tom than a mere statement of intent. They were a command. And that Tom moaned not only from the anticipated pleasure of being rimmed and fucked, but from hearing—and obeying—Owen’s orders.
Owen watched as Tom lifted his legs, gripping the backs of his thighs and tipping his hips up to expose his hole to Owen’s gaze.
Owen didn’t move straightaway. Until just now, he’d been racing toward the finish line, desperate to get his cock inside Tom, but now he paused, his heart beating fast as he considered the potential of this. Of Tom’s suddenly obvious desire to submit and his own desire to control.
He let his gaze move over Tom, traveling from his exposed arse, up the backs of those muscled thighs, and all the way up to Tom’s flushed face.
“More,” he said softly. “Come on. Pull those legs back and show me that hole.”
Tom whimpered. He shifted, gripping his legs even tighter and lifting his arse a tiny bit higher. And God, what a filthy, sexy picture he presented, lying there, as exposed as a man could be.
“More,” Owen said again. “Show me how much you want it.”
Tom’s dark eyes were glassy with his lust, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps as he struggled to obey. He probably couldn’t get his arse much higher but he did his best, and Owen loved watching his earnest struggle to please. He laughed softly, and that seemed to prompt another moan from Tom.
“Good boy,” Owen praised at last. “Now, don’t move a muscle. I want you to keep your arse just like that for me while I get you nice and wet.” Tom moaned again, closing his eyes, a flush of red over his high, sharp cheekbones.