by Amy Lane
Oh, yes. It filled Owen’s senses, surging into his mouth, drizzling pre-cum down his throat. It was salty, fleshy, full and hard, and Owen hated to pull his head back, even to breathe. He did, though, and lunged forward again, needing it inside him, hard and demanding, needing Malcolm’s hands, tugging his hair, stinging his scalp. He wanted . . . oh God he wanted, and Malcolm was groaning above him, lost in the pleasure, thrusting in Owen’s mouth even while he ceded control to Owen. Owen didn’t let him down.
At the last, Owen simply held still, allowed himself to be locked in place by Malcolm’s hands on his head, and opened his mouth and his throat. Malcolm’s thrusts were frenzied, and Owen used the spit slicking his balls to slide his fingers behind Malcolm’s taint and there, right there, into Malcolm’s very sensitive entrance.
Malcolm’s scream would have brought the whole building down if there’d been people in the offices, and he buried himself in Owen’s mouth while Owen swallowed and swallowed. He squeezed and fondled Malcolm’s balls as he came, milking him, draining him of everything he had, finally pulling away when Malcolm’s grunt told him he was nearly in pain.
“God,” Malcolm panted, sliding down the wall with his knees bent. Owen grinned at him triumphantly. His own cock ached behind the placket of his jeans, and his whole body was on high alert, but the satisfaction of seeing Malcolm completely undone, gel sweating out of his hair, lips swollen from kissing, cock limp and drooling in his lap . . . Owen would have walked through London naked just to know he’d done that.
Malcolm looked at him through lazy eyes. “Come here,” he said, his voice rough and wobbly, and Owen scooted, grabbing the pillow so he could lean his elbow on it when he put his head on Malcolm’s shoulder.
“Now, do you want to keep that charge until later—” ironic-questioning eyebrow lift “—or we switch places? Or would that shut down all the synapses you need for computer taming?” He gingerly tucked himself back in, lips quirked, gaze open, emotions close under the surface.
Owen hauled himself up from his knees and grabbed the pillow, and felt a yearning for a place he could maybe sit down and relax.
“You know?” he said as he put the pillow back on Wendy’s chair, “Whatever we do, I’d really just like to do it back at the flat.”
He was surprised by Malcolm’s hand at the small of his back, up under his T-shirt. That sudden intimacy, the rougher skin of Malcolm’s palm against the silky skin of his lower back, gave him the warmth he needed.
“We can do that,” Malcolm murmured. He startled Owen—and then himself, possibly—with a yawn. “Can we stop for take-out on the way?”
Owen chuckled weakly. “Yeah. Something not chicken, okay?”
Malcolm grunted. “Curried tofu?”
“Great. Sounds like a plan.”
“I know just the place,” Malcolm said, his face lit up in that way he had when he was going to show Owen something. Well, good, the ultimate in compromise. Week six may be looming on the horizon, but week three had just begun with a bang.
Owen grabbed Malcolm’s hand as they walked out the door, and was surprised when Malcolm kept it there, until they passed the invisible postcode line under the street where he felt compelled to let go.
Oh shit hell fuck damn bugger!
Malcolm eyeballed the readout on the elevator to his flat and then looked at his watch again. Jesus, Owen was going to kill him.
Well, maybe not kill him. Owen didn’t really get angry, not that Malcolm had seen yet. Mostly, he just looked grim and disappointed before he took a couple of deep breaths and either forgave Malcolm or dominated him into apology.
He never let it just lie.
This time, though, Malcolm’s apology was at the ready because it was his fault for being stupid beyond stupid and losing track of time. US defense contract information had been leaked, and the recent cuts to the military had sent stocks plummeting—and Malcolm’s department into a tailspin of activity. Malcolm had gotten into the zone—the place where he was trading well and fast, with just enough of a “touch” to look good in front of his boss. It wasn’t until a ragged intern had brought in his third coffee that he realized he’d needed to take a piss since six o’clock. And that’s when he realized it was after eleven.
He’d finished his trade, gone for that piss (which fixed one long persistent misery—he’d been surprised), and then gotten the hell out of there.
But he hadn’t even called Owen, and that left a churning in his gut.
At Owen’s request, they’d stayed in the weekend prior, and Malcolm had to admit, it had been nice. They’d played “How would you change the apartment” on the computer, and were still at odds about bringing in some prints that weren’t blue/gray toned and stark, and it had been . . .
Well, domestic and lovely, actually. Malcolm had been surprised at how much fun two men could have in their own home. They’d spent part of their time looking up recipes, since Owen liked to cook, and that had been nice too. For a few brief days, Malcolm had reaped the benefits of emotional maturity in a quiet way he’d never expected.
Then work had started Monday morning and he hadn’t seen Owen since.
Well, that wasn’t fair. They had seen each other, but usually late, and usually, Owen would be sitting on the couch, working on his laptop while watching television. Malcolm had found it hard to believe he either saw the show or got any work done, but apparently stock traders weren’t the only ones with professional attention deficit disorder, and Owen could carry on a conversation while he was doing it. It was almost fun to watch him.
Which was what Malcolm usually did while he ate his late meal and then nodded off. They’d had sex—once—this last week, and Malcolm was panting for some right now.
If he were still doing hook-ups, he could just have it.
But he wasn’t doing hook-ups, was he? He was doing a relationship, and he’d left his lover high and dry for the better part of a week.
God knew what he expected to find when he walked in that door.
Owen, naked on the couch, a towel around his waist while he worked on his laptop, was not what he expected.
But that didn’t mean his cock didn’t approve.
“I’m sorry I’m . . .” he began, off balance.
Owen looked up at him, his eyebrows raised. “Did you eat?” he asked, smiling.
“Uhm.”
“Did. You. Eat? It’s not that hard a question, Malcolm.”
“I, uhm. No.” In fact, he’d been living on coffee all day.
“Look in the fridge,” Owen said, and Malcolm hung up his coat, dropped his keys on the table, and did just that.
Inside the icebox, his attention was arrested by two things. One was a series of plastic containers, and his face lit up. “You made curry,” he said, excited, and then, “And you ordered out?” He poked at the white wrapper around what appeared to be half a . . . he lowered his head and sniffed. Oh God. Hamburger. The gooey kind, with lots of cheese and mushrooms and some sort of sauce.
He closed his eyes and breathed in again. Yes, the smell of the curry was overpowering even in the refrigerator, but he could still sense that lovely hamburger.
“Is this some sort of test?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at Owen.
Owen looked startled. “Oh Jesus! Eat whatever the hell you want, Malcolm. I’m sitting on your couch in a towel; when did you become incapable of playing along?”
Malcolm found he was chuckling as he pulled the hamburger out and set it on a small plate for the microwave. “I thought the carbs were part of the game,” he said, feeling foolish. “Honestly—who puts a hamburger next to diet tofu curry unless they’re trying to buy your soul?” Oh God, some sort of gravy was leaking out of the hamburger and onto the plate. He’d have to eat this with a fork, and lots of napkins. He looked at the brand on the wrapper, and felt suddenly, stupidly hurt.
“I don’t recognize this place.”
“It’s in Brixton. They’re amazing.”
> Malcolm looked at him in exasperation as his hamburger heated. His eyes got big, and it occurred to him . . .
“Speaking of amazing—have you been . . . I don’t know? Toning? Working out? Something?”
Owen gave an exaggerated nod, like finally Malcolm was getting on track. “Yes, actually,” he said, stretching his arms over his head. His lats flexed, and his triceps bunched, and Malcolm’s entire body screamed in hunger, and he wasn’t sure if it was the hamburger or the naked man on his leather couch. “I’ve been using the gym in the basement. The guys are great—I’ve got this twenty minute workout thing I’ve been doing, so I can shower and eat lunch and everything—”
“And I didn’t know this?” Malcolm’s mouth was watering. He and Owen had been together for four weeks as of this exact night, and he hadn’t noticed that Owen’s body had become harder, stronger, and more amazing than it had been a month ago?
“Well, Mal,” Owen said, and Malcolm cringed, because he knew what was coming, and he knew he had it coming. “You haven’t exactly been around a lot.”
“I’m sor—”
“Don’t apologize,” Owen said, and the microwave dinged so Malcolm couldn’t hear if that was the sarcastic “Don’t apologize” that he expected, or if he was completely sincere. But he should have known better. Owen wasn’t catty, he wasn’t bitchy and snide. Mal’s Owen was playful.
“Don’t apologize?”
“Nope. Just come sit here, eat your hamburger, and—” he stretched again, looking over the back of the couch at Malcolm with a sly tilt to his warm brown eyes “—see what you’ve been missing.”
Malcolm felt some tension ease out of his back. No bitching boyfriend, no confrontation, just some carbs that he’d earned and—
“Hold up, what’s this?” He picked up the pay slip on the table and tried not to lose his mind.
“What does it look like?” Owen was grinning. “That hamburger was part of my celebration.”
“Well, it looks like a pay slip, only smaller.” Malcolm couldn’t contain his horror. “My God, Owen. Is that all you’re making? With your talents? I could get you a real job—you know that, right?”
For the first time, Owen sounded out of patience—or at least his sigh seemed to shake the floorboards. He stood up, secured his towel, and walked around the couch to where Malcolm stood with his hamburger on a plate.
Malcolm couldn’t look at him. He wanted to rant, rave, and disparage over that ridiculously small pay package. Was that actually in euros, or had someone mistakenly paid Owen in the Platinum Ounce? When Owen drew near, it was his size fourteen bare feet, scrubbed clean and trimmed, innocent and sexy all at once, that Malcolm saw first. His eyes rose to Owen’s calves, which were tight and bulging, and then his thighs, which were defined and strong. The towel interrupted the upward view, and Malcolm was absurdly disappointed.
Didn’t he get to see if that had gotten bigger and harder too?
He looked up then, past the tight six-pack—which was new, by the way—and to the ripply chest, and up into Owen’s grimly patient brown eyes.
“Malcolm?”
“Yes?” he said, feeling too small to even curse his height.
“Why are you worried about my paycheck right now?”
“No reason.” What if we don’t work out? What if I fuck this up? I’ve been late every day this week, what if you walk out on me and that’s all you have to get by in the world? How can I keep you safe if there’s nothing between us?
“Because I’m naked under this towel. Did I mention the naked? And I’m willing to do nothing more than watch you eat—nay, devour—every last succulent carb on that plate, and then demand that you wax my knob, which I know turns your key. Are you really going to fight over my job now?”
“No,” Malcolm said through a dry throat.
“Are you going to eat?”
Malcolm reached around and fumbled for the cutlery drawer behind him, because Owen’s gaze was absolutely hypnotic with hunger. He finally found a fork and pulled his arm around, taking a hurried bite.
And then the world swirled to a stop and every nerve center in his body began singing the “Hallelujah” chorus.
“Ohmg thnts . . . mmm.”
Owen pinched his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “Good hamburger, Malcolm?”
Malcolm swallowed, shuddering as he released that little bite of sodium-rich, fat-saturated heaven into his gastric abyss. “That’s fucking amazing,” he breathed, and Owen nodded.
“Is it giving you wood?”
Every nerve ending not on alert from the food suddenly went on alert from the bold question.
And yes. His cock got hard.
He started nodding, and the pay slip was forgotten. “Yes,” he said, all senses on Red Alert.
“Good,” Owen purred, moving into his space. “Now take another bite.”
“Yes sir,” said Malcolm, only partially kidding.
Owen’s eyes glowed. “Now you’re getting the idea.”
Best. Hamburger. Ever.
And the sex afterward was even better.
The next morning, Malcolm rolled out of bed in the brutal a.m. to make his training appointment, only to be stalled by Owen’s hand on his thigh.
“Mal?” Owen said sleepily, and Malcolm turned and kissed his cheek, feeling tender.
“Yeah?”
“Be sure to tell Josh you earned every carb.”
Malcolm laughed all the way to the gym. And he vowed, fervently, never to be that late again.
Whatever was going on in Malcolm’s work world, it was dire—absolutely, utterly dire—because when he walked in through the door, his entire body lit up to see Owen there.
Unfortunately, he’d been walking through the door later and later as the week went by. This was Friday night. Five weeks ago, Malcolm had shown up at Owen’s workplace and taken him to see a musical. Tonight? He walked in around midnight, bent down and kissed Owen’s cheek, and then went to pee.
For five minutes.
Owen had gone to stand in the bedroom doorway, waiting for Malcolm to wander out, still drying his hands on a face towel that he chucked back into the bathroom.
“Do you think the maid is going to pick that up?” Owen chided, and Malcolm looked blank.
“Didn’t she come on Wednesday?”
“Yes, but I cleaned the flat on Tuesday night because I was sort of embarrassed. She did the scrubbing, I did the straightening. She’s a nice girl—you should give her a better Christmas bonus than last year. She told me so herself.”
That had been cruel—Malcolm’s blank look became almost painfully self-aware. “I don’t even know her name,” he said, and Owen took pity on him. The girl had been embarrassed to have company—she saved Malcolm’s flat until almost five o’clock for the simple reason that he was never there at five o’clock on a Tuesday. Until this week, Owen hadn’t been either, but he had been hoping . . . just hoping that there would be a Malcolm in the evening.
“Don’t hurt yourself. God, you look like hell. You weren’t kidding about them keeping you chained to your desk, were you?” he asked, not laughing at all. He looped an arm around Malcolm’s shoulders and steered him into the living room, thinking that maybe just the hope of sex would wake Malcolm up.
Malcolm’s expression—made pretty grim by the lines of sleeplessness at his eyes and mouth as it was—curdled like milk and orange juice.
“I keep forgetting,” he muttered. “It hit me in the cab home that I hadn’t taken a piss for hours, and I’d been living on coffee.”
“Well, let me get you some dinner.” Owen walked Malcolm to the couch and left him, not minding playing the wife for the moment. It was better than playing the stranger wanking off in the bedroom, which was what he’d been this past week.
Malcolm nodded and sank down onto the couch. “Why aren’t you pissed off?”
Owen grunted, rummaging through the fridge for one of the turkey patties he’d made three nights ago. He’
d made a big batch, like his mother used to, so he and Malcolm could just warm them up, put them on some bread, and go.
“No, seriously.” Malcolm’s voice was getting sharper, more cantankerous, like he always did when he’d been living on coffee, and Owen braced himself. Here it came. “I’m late—don’t you care that I’m late? I mean, it’s been miserable, and you’re—”
“I’m not pissed,” Owen interrupted. “I have a life here too, Mal. I worked late tonight—thanks for calling, by the way, I appreciate that. I could work late, now I’ve got tomorrow off, you’re done after your training session, and we can talk about this then. Right now, you’re done in. I get it. Starting a fight with you now when you’re asleep on your feet is a shitty idea. Let me get you some food, we’ll have a snog on the couch, and tomorrow, when we’ve both had some sleep, we’ll talk about why we hate each other’s jobs so much.”
“Are they still paying you that shitty salary?” Malcolm asked sharply. “Didn’t you tell them you could get three times that in any bank in the city—you’ve got connections, you know—”
“Malcolm?” Owen’s temper tore, and he held onto the ragged edge of it with both hands. “Do you really want to talk about my job right now?” He threw the turkey patty into the microwave with unnecessary force and set the timer.
“Never a good time to talk about your job,” Malcolm muttered.
Owen snapped, “My job paid for most of the groceries.”
Malcolm sat up straight. “Why did you do that?” He sounded truly distressed. “Now you don’t have any money for anything else.”
“I do my own laundry and eat the same food. I don’t run around in your circles, Mal. I take a bus to the job, and there you go. Expenses paid.” Okay, whole grain bread, fat-free spread, some tomatoes and lettuce . . . good. Perfect. Sandwich almost achieved.
Malcolm groaned and flopped back on the couch, seeming to wake up for the first time since he had arrived. “That was not the point. How are you going to save anything—”