by Tinnean
“Thank you.” He kissed the corner of Max’s mouth, smiled, and drew back to observe his lover. Max stood there with his eyes closed and a faint, pleased smile on his lips. His tongue peeked out, an action that always aroused Smitty, and this time he swooped down and kissed Max properly, on the mouth.
Smitty wanted to let the kiss linger, but they both had work. He broke from it so he could pour two cups of coffee. He took a seat at the breakfast bar and set the cups down, while Max dished up two portions of the frittata and sat down beside him.
“What plans for today, amoureux?” Smitty raised his coffee cup to hide his smile at Max’s wince. He supposed he shouldn’t tease him like that, but he couldn’t resist. He just hoped Max wouldn’t have his head when he realized Smitty actually spoke decent French.
“I thought I’d do some research at headquarters until it’s time for the Christmas party. And you?”
“I’ll be at the DC morgue.” More and more of the work Smitty did was for the WBIS, but on occasion he still did autopsies for the medical examiner’s office.
“Will you be able to come to the party?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Excellent. I’ll bring your suit, shall I?”
“I’d appreciate it. And you’ll wear yours?”
“But of course.”
“Good.” Smitty had been dismayed to realize how little Max had in the way of clothes—the scrubs he wore at the WBIS, a pair of trousers, some sweatpants and sweatshirts, and a pair of jeans, and Smitty wanted to punch Browne for not taking better care of Max when they’d lived together. “You’ll look gorgeous.” He reached down, gripped Max’s butt, and tugged him close. “What did you get me for Christmas?”
Max leaned back and gave him an affronted look. “You cannot expect me to tell you that.”
“Okay. But I had something in mind in case you didn’t get me anything.”
“Of course I would get you something. Aren’t you my bien-aimé?”
“Yes, but…”
“What did you want, Avery?” When Max used his name like that, it let Smitty know how serious he was.
“I wondered if you’d…” His words petered out. He didn’t want to come across as needy or desperate for what he wanted, although truth to tell, he was.
“Quoi, Avery?”
Smitty could feel heat rise in his cheeks. He tried to back away a step, but Max held on tight and wouldn’t let him. Smitty looked away, but when Max cradled his cheek and urged him to meet Max’s gaze, he surrendered.
“I was wondering if you might agree to me…well…topping you?”
Max sighed, and Smitty got a cold feeling in his gut. He’d learned Browne always fucked Max—he wouldn’t call it making love. Browne had never…never…given Max the opportunity to top him. Had he just handed Max the perfect reason to walk away from both of them?
“Never mind, it isn’t important.” He tried to step back, to turn away, but Max still held onto him.
“I have been a bad, bad boyfriend,” Max said.
“What? What are you talking about? You’re a wonderful boyfriend!”
“But it never occurred to me that you might enjoy making love to me sometime, and it should have.”
“Does that mean you wouldn’t mind?”
Max’s smile started slow, then lit his entire face. He took Smitty’s hand and brought it to his lips before he dragged him off to bed.
And oh my God, did that turn out to be the most amazing experience of his life. Max’s hot, tight channel closing around Smitty’s cock like a velvet glove, the rhythmic squeezes that drove him toward a powerful climax…
As a matter of fact, Smitty could understand—albeit grudgingly—why that asshole Browne had taken every opportunity to top the little Frenchman.
But Max was his, and from now on, Smitty didn’t intend to let Browne anywhere near his lover.
Chapter 8
M. Wallace always permitted the day of the WBIS Christmas party to be a pleasant, relaxing occasion. Work, what there was of it, was light, and most of the agents went around the building with a sprig of mistletoe behind their backs, whipping it out to hold above the head of any secretary—or sometimes even another male agent—they came across so they could steal a kiss.
Max dressed in his usual blue scrubs. As he’d told Smitty, he planned to do some research. Lately he’d become intrigued with genetics, and he was attempting to find a test to determine parentage that wouldn’t take as long as what was now available.
As he packed both suits in a garment bag, he whistled Edith Piaf’s “Non, je ne regrette rien.” He paused for a moment, decided no, he regretted nothing, then resumed packing the button-down shirts, ties, and shoes he and Smitty would need later in the day. He also had the joint Christmas gift they had purchased for Granger’s baby.
Max was waiting outside when the driver, assigned by the WBIS to pick him up, pulled up to the curb in a Dodge Intrepid. He had to smile. Everyone at the WBIS drove a Dodge, even Dr. Paget, now that she was a permanent employee. He opened the passenger door and got in.
“Morning, Doc.”
“Good morning, Ford.”
Max hurried to fasten his seat belt, because he knew Ford would wait until Max was buckled up before he drove anywhere. Sure enough, as soon as Ford heard the snick, he put the car in drive and steered the sedan away from the curb.
“Will you be at the Christmas party?” Max asked him.
“You bet your—Uh, yeah I will.”
Max hid his smile, and the rest of the drive passed in discussing their plans for Christmas. Max had the day off and would spend it opening presents, watching A Christmas Story, and cooking a magnificent dinner for Smitty, but Ford was part of the skeleton crew that would work this holiday.
“Do you have family in Washington?” Max asked him. Oddly enough, they’d never really discussed their private lives.
“Don’t have any family…”
That was something Max had noted. Few WBIS agents did.
Ford grinned at him in the rearview mirror. “…but I’m seeing a real pretty girl. She helped me pick out the present for Granger’s baby.”
“That was kind of her.”
“Oh, yeah, she’s a sweetie. I’ve got the late shift, but she’s making me an early Christmas dinner, and we’ll open presents before we eat. I…uh…got her a lace negligee, black with red satin ribbons.”
“It sounds lovely,” Max said politely, although he was unfamiliar with ladies’ lingerie, in spite of the fact he was a Frenchman.
“Thanks. I hope she likes it. What did you get your boyfriend?”
That was one excellent thing about working for the WBIS: very few cared about a colleague’s sexual orientation.
“I got him a piece of sand art that resembles the aurora borealis.”
“Sand art? Sounds…uh…lovely.”
Max saw Ford’s wink in the mirror and swallowed a laugh to have his words given back to him.
“It’s soothing.”
“Right.”
“Well, I hope you have a good time.”
“Oh, we will.” And he went on to tell Max what else he and his girl had planned, which included watching as much of A Christmas Story marathon as they could before he had to leave for work.
* * * *
Before Max knew it, it was early afternoon and time to get ready for the Christmas party. He’d hoped Smitty would return to the WBIS in time for them to go to the party together, but that was unlikely. Smitty had phoned Max just after lunch to say complications had arisen, and he was still involved with the autopsy he’d told Max about, but he would arrive as soon as he could.
Max showered and shaved, then slicked back his damp hair and dressed in the clothes he’d brought. He admired the cut of the black moiré suit Smitty had given him for his birthday. None of Max’s other lovers had been so thoughtful.
Satisfied he would do Smitty proud, Max gave a final tug to his jacket cuffs, picked up the pres
ent, and left Medical. He chose to take the stairs to the cafeteria on the second floor rather than the elevator, since it was only one floor down. He chuckled to himself. M. Vincent was rubbing off on him. Everyone knew the director of Interior Affairs never took the elevator.
The cafeteria was decorated in all its Christmas finery, including a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room. Mistletoe was something Smitty had apparently forgotten, but Max wasn’t bothered by the lack since his family had always followed au gui l’an neuf, the old French custom of reserving kissing under the mistletoe for New Year’s Day,
At any rate, as far as Max was concerned, these decorations couldn’t compare with the glory that was Medical.
This was Max’s second Christmas at the WBIS. The year before, in spite of how well Smitty had treated him, he’d still been a little raw from Charles’s months of callous disregard, so he hadn’t enjoyed it very much. Charles had watched him from across the room, and Max couldn’t tell if it was with lust or with loathing, so he’d concentrated all his attention on the man who had taken him in and never held it over his head.
This year it wouldn’t take any effort at all to concentrate on Smitty; Max was certain this party and Christmas itself would be a much happier time for him. He smiled fondly, thinking of Smitty’s stunned reaction when je t’aime had slipped from Max’s lips. He’d intended to say the words at some point, just not then. He was glad, now, that he had.
The cafeteria was crowded with agents, directors, deputy directors, and support staff, waiting for M. Wallace to make his yearly speech. Max knew things wouldn’t get…interesting…until after the man they all referred to as The Boss left.
A section of the tables, along with their chairs, had been pushed back against the walls to make space for dancing after M. Wallace’s speech. A buffet had been set up, mostly with triangular sandwiches and various salads, with a huge punch bowl off to one side. Max smiled at the memory of Smitty adding a quantity of alcohol to the punch last Christmas and the amusing results, although truthfully, he shouldn’t have found Matheson so tipsy he held a conversation with a fedora and an overcoat hanging from a coatrack amusing.
Off to one side, the senior directors stood chatting, holding cups of punch, casting sideways glances toward M. Vincent and the man who was living with him, a former CIA operative whom Max had helped when the operative had been kidnapped by Prinzip. It was because of his endeavor in keeping M. Mann alive that M. Vincent had brought Max to the States and seen he was able to practice medicine again, and Max would be forever grateful.
Most of the senior directors appeared unhappy to be around M. Vincent, but he ignored them, taking M. Mann’s arm and leading him toward where Granger and his ladies sat at a table piled high with gifts for the baby girl Ms. Parker cradled. Meanwhile, Ms. DiNois rubbed her lower back, looking uncomfortable and even more pregnant than she had the other day. May le bon Dieu keep her from going into labor today, Max pleaded silently, with an upward glance.
Max had already brought the gift from him and Smitty to Granger. He’d thanked Max but muttered, “I told you the new baby was going to get rooked.”
Ms. Parker stroked his hair. “Gabriella will share.”
“Yeah, but—”
Max had thought it a good idea to let the little family discuss the matter in private. He’d wished them a merry Christmas and wandered off.
Now he made his way to the punch bowl.
“Just a second, Dr. Futé. I’ll get you a cup.” Barbra, one of the kitchen staff, turned to take a crystal cup from the box on a small table behind her. Only directors were given those cups; as head of Medical, Max was entitled to one.
And since he knew the reasoning behind only directors being given crystal cups, Max understood why.
Barbra ladled some punch into the cup and offered it to him with a smile. “Merry Christmas.”
“Joyeux Noël.” Max returned her smile and accepted the cup.
He wandered around the cafeteria, pausing here and there to exchange Christmas greetings with the agents and support staff he’d come to know, then returned to the directors to…schmooze, as he’d learned to call it.
The chatting continued until M. Wallace tapped his huge signet ring against the crystal cup he held, and as soon as there was silence, he began to speak.
“Once again, this agency has done very well, and I’m proud of you all for your hard work this year. It’s thanks to you that the WBIS remains the agency that handles operations none of the other…” He cleared his throat. “…companies can deal with.”
There was laughter and applause, and he smiled.
“I’m certain all expectations for the New Year will be met, and as you’ve seen, the WBIS’s appreciation of all you’ve done has been reflected in the bonuses you found with your last paychecks.” He was a smart man who believed in keeping his speeches short. He raised his cup in a toast. “May you all have a very merry Christmas and a most prosperous, healthy, and successful New Year.”
This was met with more applause, and after everyone drained their cups, the reason for plastic became obvious as they were flung to the floor and stomped on.
If Max hadn’t been the head of his department, he would have joined in. If only Smitty had been there. It would have been fun.
M. Wallace made the rounds of his employees, shaking hands and having a word with each of them, then said, “Now, enjoy the food, the music, and the company.”
A final round of applause followed him as he left, and then everyone bolted toward the buffet.
Max was about to cross the room to join the line when a hand on his arm stopped him. A glance over his shoulder revealed M. Vincent and M. Mann.
“Joyeux Noël, Monsieur Vincent, Monsieur Mann.”
“Merry Christmas, Max.”
“Yeah, merry Christmas,” M. Vincent said. “I’ve been introducing Quinn around.”
Max was interested to note that while all the support staff and a few directors stopped by to wish them season’s greetings, most of the directors avoided M. Vincent and M. Mann.
“Assholes,” M. Vincent growled. “They act like Mann having been CIA will rub off on them.”
“Give them time, Mark. There’s been a lot of hostility between the two agencies, and you can’t expect it to mend overnight.”
“Yes, I can,” he muttered, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to pursue that line of thought when he asked, “Where’s Smitty?”
“Here I am.”
Everyone except Max greeted Smitty. Max stared and swallowed heavily, for a moment unable to catch his breath. Smitty was wearing the blue-black suit Max had brought in that morning.
Finally, he was able to speak. “You look très élégant—” His words petered out as he wondered once again if he could…should…call Smitty mon cher?
But it was as if Smitty knew what he’d been about to say. “It’s okay, mon cher. You can call me mon cher.”
Max laughed and blushed.
“As a matter of fact…” Smitty reached into his pocket and retrieved a sprig of mistletoe. “I knew I’d forgotten something, and look where I found it.”
“In your suit pocket?”
“Yeah.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Surprised the hell out of me. I was going to hang this in the doctors’ lounge, but…what the hell?” He dangled it above Max’s head and stole a kiss that was all too brief.
“Merde, Smitty, you can’t do that here.” Not when he knew his kisses melted Max into a puddle.
“I love when you talk French, even if it’s just to swear at me.”
Just for that, Max let out a long string of swear words, comfortable in the knowledge no one in the room would understand.
Except, perhaps, M. Vincent, who was laughing. And M. Mann, who was smiling. And…actually, quite a few agents were regarding him with amused expressions. Merde, he should have kept his mouth shut.
“But I like when your mouth isn’t shut,” Smitt
y said, leering playfully at him.
Max hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. Merde, merde, and merde once more.
“If you prefer, I can always wait until we return to Medical to kiss you.” Smitty’s suggestion was hardly welcome at this point.
“Of course not,” Max said with a huff.
“Thought not.” Smitty kissed him again, then looked so smug that Max had to struggle to keep from laughing. Smitty replaced the mistletoe in his pocket, slid an arm around Max’s waist, about to urge him to join the line for the buffet.
“How was that autopsy?” M. Vincent asked, and somehow, Max wasn’t surprised he was aware of where Smitty had been.
“Interesting. I found this—”
“Shut up, Schmidt,” a director heading for the buffet line snapped. “What you found when you cut up a body is the last thing anyone wants to hear about when we’re about to eat.”
“Wuss.” Max glared at him. He wasn’t going to let anyone disparage his lover.
“Way to go, Max.” M. Vincent curled his lip at the director, who turned pale and slunk away, neglecting to fill a plate with food. M. Mann poked M. Vincent, and he frowned. “What? I didn’t say a word to him.”
“No, you didn’t, Mark. You have a way with looks, though.”
“Huh. Okay, you’ve met everyone. Let’s get out of here.”
“Someone’s set up the karaoke machine,” M. Mann observed.
That was right, Max thought. This was his first time at the WBIS Christmas party, and he was unaware of what occurred each year. Max wondered if he’d be around next Christmas. He hoped so, since he liked both men and wished nothing but the best for them.
There were groans at the sight of the karaoke machine, and M. Vincent grabbed M. Mann’s arm. “Okay, we’re out of here. Merry Christmas, everyone.” He hurried M. Mann out of the cafeteria, murmuring something about everyone being more comfortable when he was gone.
“But I enjoy Monsieur Vincent’s company.” Max stared after them.
“So do I, but there’s no accounting for tastes. Want some food, Max?” Smitty asked.
“Bien sûr.”