“I’ve never needed one before.”
“Well, you do now.”
Brock gulped. “Aconcagua. Not a word I’m likely to scream in the throes of passion.”
“It’ll do. Now…I really hate these fucking pajamas.”
Kyle slid the knife down until it met the resistance of a button. The blade slipped through the threads and descended to the next. In seconds, all five buttons had been sliced free, allowing him to push the gaudy cloth back and expose golden skin and small dark nipples.
“A little better.”
Kyle trailed the knife down twitching stomach muscles until it reached a tartan waistband then followed it round to a slim hip. Slowly, he drew the blade down the entire length of the leg seam, slitting the fabric with ease. Then he did the same the other side. He started on the arm seams and, when he was done, pulled the ruined garments from Brock’s body.
“Improving all the time.”
Brock’s sweet whimper was all the encouragement Kyle needed. He licked his lips at the sight of tight trunks hugging a barely restrained erection and he ran the tip of the knife across the bulge. He pushed one finger beneath the waistband and stroked Brock’s abdomen. Brock’s muscles tensed beneath his touch and small moans escaped his compressed lips. Kyle slit the elastic at each side and tore the fabric so that only tattered rags covered Brock’s cock and balls. He stroked his thumb down the exposed flesh between hip and thigh and Brock bucked, losing the remnants of material covering him.
“Perfect.”
Using just one finger, Kyle stroked lightly. He circled the gleaming tip of Brock’s dick and spread the liquid down his shaft. He fondled his swollen sac then paused. “One word and I stop.”
The silence was telling. The only sound was the rapid breathing coming from Brock’s parted lips.
Kyle wasn’t as gentle with his mouth as with his fingers. He plunged his head down and pulled back with fierce suction. Brock tasted bittersweet, his flavor spreading across Kyle’s tongue as he licked. Kyle nuzzled Brock’s inner thighs as he transferred his attention to smooth, firm balls then returned to swallow him with confident skill. He pushed Brock’s thighs even farther apart, taking him deep. Brock’s back arched as Kyle used his teeth to make an impression in delicate flesh.
Brock’s needy moans grew more urgent, telling Kyle that he was close. Kyle renewed his efforts. He rode the movement as Brock bucked. He pushed Brock down and mouthed him harder. As warm fluid coated his tongue, Kyle swallowed greedily. Finally he pulled away and sat back. Brock’s pretty eyes were squeezed shut. The muscles in his arms were hard and defined as he pulled on his bonds. He looked stunning.
Kyle wriggled out of his underwear. “Look at me, Lysander.” He kept his tone gentle but firm and Brock responded. He opened his eyes wide as Kyle moved until his cock touched Brock’s lips.
“One word and I stop.” Kyle held his breath then let it out with a hiss as Brock parted kiss-bruised lips. Kyle didn’t hesitate. He fucked Brock’s mouth with controlled aggression. He wanted to own the beautiful man beneath him—possess him, mark him. To Kyle’s surprise, Brock responded as best he could, using his tongue as much as Kyle allowed. Kyle intended to pull away before he came, but the moment arrived with such force that he flooded Brock’s mouth with his cum. Brock didn’t struggle or fight it. He swallowed again and again, taking every drop.
After a few recuperative seconds, Kyle clambered off the bed.
“Don’t go away.” He grinned at Brock’s irritated expression and headed for the bathroom to clean up. He took his time, enjoying the thought of Brock lying there, restrained, the taste of Kyle’s cum lingering on his tongue.
When Kyle returned to the bedroom and released Brock’s wrists, Brock sat up and ran a hand through his tousled hair.
“I…we…shouldn’t have…”
“Stop thinking. Use the bathroom then get to bed—the other bed.” Kyle issued the order in a tone that brooked no argument and Brock meekly did as he was told. When he was done cleaning up, he joined Kyle in the main bedroom and slipped beneath the covers, lying as far away from Kyle as possible. Kyle grunted and dragged Brock closer. He spooned against Brock’s back, making sure that his semi-soft cock rested in the channel between Brock’s arse cheeks. He flung his arm over Brock’s warm body, held him in place then dropped into sleep.
Chapter Three
It was raining again in the morning—relentless, heavy rain from a low, oppressive sky. It was dark enough that when Brock woke, he thought for a while that it was still the middle of the night. He listened to the drumming beat against the window and glanced at the clock—six-thirty—not early for him. He turned onto his back and froze as warm fingers brushed his thigh. “Oh shit.”
In a rush, the previous night came back to him. Strong hands on his body, a demanding mouth doing things to his cock that he had never experienced before.
“My willpower is about as strong as melting jelly,” he muttered under his breath. Kyle had given him the chance to stop it and he had stayed silent. Now here he was, millimeters from the man that had driven him to an incredible orgasm, a man he should not desire. Instead he craved his touch almost as much as he wanted to run and hide from his feelings.
“Good morning. You think too much.” Kyle’s voice broke into his thoughts, deep and amused.
Brock didn’t look at him. “What do you mean?”
“I can hear the cogs whirring—you’re trying to understand why you like me. I’ll give you a way out—you were chained to the bed and couldn’t stop me.”
He raised one knee and put his hands behind his head.
“You would have stopped if I’d asked you.” Brock’s voice was quiet but sure.
“Of course.”
“I didn’t ask you to stop—because I didn’t want you to.”
“Is it so hard to accept that you’re attracted to me? Or do I repulse you? Was it just a physical reaction last night? I know I’m not the prettiest man in the world…maybe I’m just not your type?” Kyle sounded hurt, but resigned.
Brock turned onto his side and gazed at Kyle. It was time to face up to the truth of how he felt.
“You’re gorgeous, Kyle. How could you not know that?”
Kyle swallowed. “Not like you—you’re beautiful.”
Brock flushed. He’d been complimented on his appearance by plenty of men, but none of them had ever made him feel the way Kyle did. He turned onto his back again and closed his eyes. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I can’t look at you without wanting you to touch me. Just the sound of your voice makes me nervous. Last night, when you took control, it felt amazing. You could have done anything and I would have let you.”
“Now you tell me!”
“It can’t happen again, Kyle. It can’t.”
“Are you finding it hard to ignore the fact that so far I’ve stalked you, invaded your privacy, broken into your home, threatened your family…?”
Brock snickered. “You’re not doing a great job of promoting yourself. But no, that’s not it. I don’t know you. Such sudden, intense feelings scare me. I can’t ignore that.”
Brock flinched as Kyle snaked a hand across his bare stomach and stroked his skin persistently.
“I think I could make you ignore it.”
Brock groaned. “I know you could. That’s the problem.”
He clambered out of bed, avoiding Kyle’s steely gaze, and pulled on underwear and jeans before turning to face him.
“I’ll do what you ask because you are in charge of this mission. I’ll even sleep in this bed if you insist on it. But please don’t touch me again. I need time to understand why I feel the way I do.” He turned away and left the room.
Kyle clenched his fists in frustration. He loved his job, but sometimes it seemed to get in the way of any chance he had for finding real happiness. He sighed. It had been a nice dream while it lasted. He wouldn’t give up—that wasn’t in him—but for now the mission had to come
first. He got up, showered and dressed quickly. Downstairs, he found Brock sitting at the small dining table eating a bowl of cereal. He didn’t make eye contact but Kyle detected a slight blush highlighting pretty cheekbones. Kyle grinned, pleased that Brock wasn’t going to find it easy to resist his feelings.
In the kitchen, there was a pot of coffee brewing. Kyle poured himself a mug and slammed a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster. When it was done and slathered in butter, he carried his breakfast through to the dining room and joined Brock at the table.
“So, today you get to show me why you have the reputation of being the best in your field.”
Brock glanced up curiously. “Today? What’s happening today?”
Kyle chewed on his toast. In between bites he said, “Have you ever heard of Imber?”
Brock frowned. “Yes, of course. I did a series of location shots a couple of years ago on lost villages. The magazine I worked for wanted to feature Imber but couldn’t get permission from the military.”
Kyle sipped his coffee. “The village was evacuated in November 1943 to facilitate training of American troops for the D-Day landings. The village has remained in military occupation ever since. It’s only accessible to the public on a few days per year.”
“I remember now. Weren’t the villagers told they would be able to return to their homes after the war but then never were?”
“That’s right. If you looked on a map now, you wouldn’t even know the village was there at all. There’s just a big blank space.”
“So, what does this have to do with me?”
Kyle stared at Brock. “Do you ever regret your career choice?”
Brock rubbed a hand through his hair. “No. Never. The fact that I can make a good living doing what I love never ceases to amaze me.”
“How did you know that you wanted to be a photographer?” Kyle pushed a little, trying to get Brock to reveal some personal details.
Brock chewed his lip. “I wanted to be a wildlife photographer from the moment my father gave me a disposable camera and pointed out the squirrels romping around our local park. From that moment, I was hooked. School and university provided opportunities to develop the skills that give me an edge. It’s a competitive field.”
Kyle drummed his fingers on the table. “Your reputation has been built on your willingness to shoot in the most inhospitable, inaccessible places on the planet. In the last two years, you’ve taken assignments in Alaska, Irian Jaya, Vietnam and Botswana.”
“Yes, and in a few weeks I’m supposed to be heading to the cloud forests of the eastern Andes to photograph a range of local wildlife and explore some of the deep cave systems in the area. I have a commission from National Geographic.”
“Yes, I know, which is the perfect cover for our mission. However, my employers are keen to test your abilities first.”
“In what way, exactly?”
“There is a church in Imber, kept in reasonable repair because it’s Grade One listed. It’s called St. Giles. The tower was built around 1400 and there are even some ancient wall paintings that have survived.” He paused. “The church tower provides the perfect vantage point to observe military activities going on in the area. Tomorrow night, a small anti-terrorist unit will be engaged in training exercises in and around Imber. You are going to take pictures of them.”
Brock looked incredulous. “Without them knowing?”
Kyle nodded. “I want you to trespass on military property—at night—climb a crumbling church tower without ropes and yes, take pictures of a bunch of elite troops who will be mightily pissed off if they catch you.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh.”
“What happens if they do catch me?”
“I’ll disappear from your life and you’ll be able to take your trip as planned. We will seek alternative help for the mission in Colombia. Oh—and someone will get you out of military custody, of course.”
“Charming. So it’s succeed or get dumped? I’m not sure I like the options.”
Kyle shoved his chair back and was behind Brock in an instant, yanking his head back by the hair. “You don’t have a choice. I don’t question my orders and you will not question mine. Understand?” Kyle resisted the urge to bend down and give Brock a punishing kiss as he fought Kyle’s hold.
“Let me go!”
“Show some respect or I’ll put you over my knee.”
Brock ripped himself from Kyle’s grip, sacrificing a few golden strands of hair. He sat, trembling, his face flushed.
Kyle grinned. “Or maybe that’s what you want?”
“Fuck off, Kyle. Show me what camera equipment I’ll be using so I can start to prepare. The sooner this is done, the better.”
* * * *
Brock jerked awake, heart pounding, and for a moment couldn’t remember where he was. Lights streaked toward him, blue-white out of the darkness, then flashed by. A car…he was in a car…and the hood Kyle had put over his head when they’d left the cottage was gone. He groaned and rubbed at his eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”
“An hour or so. We’re nearly at the drop-off point.” Kyle looked utterly relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear stick. “There are glucose tablets in the glove compartment. I suggest you take a couple now.”
Brock found the packet and chewed a couple of the chalky tablets. “You want any?”
Kyle shook his head. “I’ll be dozing in the car while you’re romping around Salisbury Plain.”
“Good to know. I wouldn’t want you to be biting your nails worrying about me,” Brock said, with more than a hint of sarcasm.
“We’re here.” Kyle pulled in to a deserted garage, switched off the headlights and drove to the rear of the building. “This place was abandoned years ago. It’ll be easy enough for you to get back to and it’s highly unlikely that any patrols will pass—military or local plod.” He turned off the ignition. “Let’s get you ready.”
Both men got out of the car and circled around to the boot. Brock wore matte black climbing gear with a hooded fleece over the top. He had on light hiking boots and thin gloves. Every inch of his pale skin was covered, apart from his face. Kyle opened the boot and rummaged in a bag. He pulled out a stick of camouflage paint. He smeared the black goo over Brock’s cheeks and rubbed it in.
“Better. Make sure you keep the hood up, your hair is like a fucking Belisha beacon.” He handed Brock a small rucksack. “Right, in here you have climbing shoes, camera and a bottle of water. Here’s your map—” He handed over a small square of laminated paper. “Keep exactly to the marked route. You’ll be crossing a live firing area and there may be undetonated shells. Do you understand me, Brock? Do not stray from the path.”
Brock shouldered the pack. “You do care.” He pulled on a pair of night vision goggles and let his eyes adjust to the eerie landscape.
“You have five hours. You may not need it all, but that’s the safe limit for darkness. It’s a cloudy night and there’s no moon, so conditions couldn’t be better. Forecast said there was a chance of rain. Remember, some of the ground is boggy. Take your time—you don’t want to pick up an injury.”
Brock shrugged the pack into a more comfortable position. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. I’ll do what I have to do. I’m good at this, remember? That’s why you want me to help you.”
He moved to the edge of the building and checked for traffic. There was no sign of life or light for as far as the eye could see. He sucked in his breath as Kyle gently squeezed his shoulder.
“Be careful.”
Brock shrugged off Kyle’s touch and sprinted across the road, into the darkness.
Finally alone, Brock found running through the night therapeutic. Being close to Kyle had made him jittery and tense. He longed for the man’s touch. Running gave him time to think, to analyze the way he felt. From time to time he glanced at his little route map, but he had memorized every feature and so far it proved to be accurate.
The path hugged crumbling walls and fence lines, skirting open spaces as much as possible. Brock kept low and tried to move at a steady pace, grateful for the night vision goggles that allowed him to negotiate the rough terrain safely.
At one point he saw a line of figures moving in the distance and ducked into a ditch, holding his breath. He crouched in the damp, muddy channel for what he thought was a safe time then poked his head out cautiously. It was all clear, so he carried on, heart pounding. He couldn’t get caught. Someone was watching over him because he had just crossed a narrow rutted track when a tank rumbled over a nearby ridge and sped down the hill toward him. Brock threw himself down and froze—careless of the boggy ground. Scant feet away from his prone form, the hunk of metal trundled past without stopping. Too close. Brock pushed down a sob of relief and carried on.
When the church finally came into view, Brock found a relatively dry spot and changed into his climbing shoes. He took the small camera Kyle had supplied from his pack, hung it around his neck, then stashed the pack—and his boots—under a bush. The biggest obstacles between him and his goal were the rolls of razor wire that blocked the lanes around the tiny hamlet of Imber. Abandoned buildings loomed from the darkness like a scene from the apocalypse. Brock shivered and focused on his goal, moving carefully toward the church. This was where things got unpredictable. Though Kyle had shown him pictures of the tower he had to climb, he hadn’t been able to tell him about the condition of the stone. Brock had to climb freestyle, without ropes, and he didn’t like the uncertainty. It was dangerous.
He paused at the base of the squat tower and looked up. Black forms flitted in and out of the uppermost window like shadowy confetti. His destination was apparently home to a colony of bats. He took a moment to double-check the settings on his unfamiliar camera, an expensive model designed to cope with the lack of light without a flash, and took a couple of test shots, which seemed fine.
Adjusting the camera strap around his neck, Brock then felt for his first hand and toe holds and started upward. The ancient stone held firm and there were plenty of niches to dig his fingers into. As climbs went, it was one of the easiest he’d tackled from a technical perspective, but his heart still raced with the fear of being seen. Just below the opening that the bats were using, there was a narrow projection in the stonework. Brock used the extra stability to hold on with one hand and pull himself over the ledge. The rickety floor of the tower room was thick with bat guano and Brock cringed as his thin climbing shoes sank deep into the muck. He hunkered down and rested his camera on the ledge. He found himself assessing the angle and proportions of the scene below and shook his head. Just take the pictures, you idiot! Aesthetics are not important right at this moment.
Testing Lysander Page 4