by Con Riley
Jason’s conversation falters as well. “I-I would get you to help me, but—” He leans over the rim of the tub with sudden intent just as Vanya sits up, his inhale catching sharply when Jason sucks the place he just touched, his teeth a delicious rasp that provokes a shiver. Jason’s shirtsleeve gets soaked as he lowers his hand deeper to stroke Vanya’s cock a few times. “You about done in there?”
Vanya quickly stands, head-rush leaving him dizzy when Jason helps him climb out. He clings tight to kiss him, water pooling around their feet, Jason almost as heat-flushed when he speaks. “You know that most people use a towel to dry off, don’t you?” His shirt is saturated, but he’s pleased, happiness transparent as he grabs for a towel. He doesn’t use it to dab at his wet shirt—he drapes it over Vanya’s shoulders with the care he shows so often, encouraging him to steady himself against the basin as he helps to dry him.
His careful actions spark a wish that’s heartfelt.
Vanya wants to show him the same kindness.
He’ll show him every minute—always—if he’s granted asylum.
The marble surrounding the basin is cool against his backside, Jason’s mouth much warmer on his cock when he kneels to blow him, watching Vanya the whole time, assessing each reaction. He slows his movements when Vanya shudders, then repeats the same suck that caused it. Vanya can’t take the way his eyes twinkle, lines feathering from their corners as he smiles around his mouthful. When Jason winks, it almost kills him.
Words slip out while Jason’s busy. “Should fuck.”
Jason pulls off, his voice questioning. “Yeah?” He wipes his chin and stands, lips plump when they kiss. “Bed?”
“No.” Leaving this steam-filled bathroom where his lies feel hazy means facing a reality that’s hard edged. “Should fuck right here.”
“Yeah? It might be more comfortable for you in bed.” Jason combs fingers through Vanya’s damp hair, not pushing for an answer or demanding a decision, giving him time to think.
Vanya turns to face the mirror rather than see that much consideration, bending over when Jason’s hand rests on his shoulder. Jason slides it to the small of his back, its weight firm and reassuring. “You sure you want it here?”
“Yes.” Vanya spreads his legs. “Want with you anywhere.” In this, at least, he’s honest.
“I’ll make it good.” Jason unzips his wash bag. “I promise.”
Vanya groans when Jason kisses the same path his hand traced—shoulder, spine, and small of his back, where nerves spark on contact—closing his eyes when Jason kneels behind him. His eyelids flutter open at the feel of Jason’s mouth there—right there, where he opens. His knees tremble, almost buckling at the touch of Jason’s tongue. The mirror reflects his blown pupils, steam smudging hectic colour that climbs his throat, lower lip whitening where his incisors dig before he sags as sensation overwhelms him. He clutches the taps to stay upright, his fingers clenching and releasing as Jason’s mouth undoes him. Long licks and wet thrusts are followed by first one and then two slick fingers that press inside him very slowly.
He whimpers when Jason pushes deeper.
“I can stop,” Jason soothes as he stands. “I can stop whenever you want. It’s a lot the first time, I remember.” His lips graze Vanya’s shoulder. “But I’m….”
Big. Vanya silently tests his British vocab. Huge and thick and solid.
“I don’t ever want to hurt you.” Jason leans his forehead where he just kissed. “But you feel so good inside. Hot and tight and Jesus.”
Vanya takes it until he’s up against two thick knuckles.
Jason stops, his next kiss apologetic, his fingers perfectly still inside him. He uses his free hand to unclasp one of Vanya’s from its death grip to lace their fingers together. “You could fuck me instead,” he offers, his voice strained, the damp fabric of his trousers doing nothing to mask his hard-on against Vanya’s bare arse. “You don’t have to be the one doing all the taking.”
“You like that?” Vanya pants. “You like to get fucked?”
“Sometimes.” Jason shifts his fingers inside Vanya a tiny fraction. “I like it all with the right person. There’s plenty we can do apart from this. So many different ways to love you.” Another kiss to his shoulder lingers, followed by ones that climb his throat to his ear where Jason makes quiet suggestions. “I could fuck through your thighs right now, if you wanted. Wank you off while I do it. That would be close to fucking.” He grinds his cock against Vanya’s hip as he whispers some more, his words interspersed by kisses. “I love your arse. Love getting my mouth on it. Could easily slick up my cock and rub off between your cheeks.” His voice lowers. “I’ve been thinking about something all weekend long that would make trying things out much easier.” He waits until Vanya lifts his head, their eyes meeting in the mirror. “I want you in my home.”
He can’t know why that sentence is so devastating.
“We don’t have to fuck every time to make everything good,” he continues. “Just having you there more often would be magic.”
There’s a spell in his words, Vanya decides. Some kind of enchantment that has him nodding to what Jason describes next.
“We could kiss on my couch while watching TV, and I’d give you the slowest hand job ever so you missed your last train and had to stay over. That way, we could blow each other the next morning.” His lips are so soft on Vanya’s skin. “I’d spoil you rotten, if you let me. Bring you breakfast in bed. A full English, made exactly to order.”
Vanya pictures it all, gasping when Jason catches the lobe of his ear with his teeth. It isn’t the bite that makes his eyes sting. It’s Jason’s description—small details of a simple future he wants with his whole being.
“We can fuck however, whenever, wherever you want,” Jason insists. “I don’t care about the location, like I don’t care who does what tonight, if at all. It doesn’t matter how long it takes until you’re ready.” His voice lowers. “Just as long as you know that we can stop right now if you don’t want to go any further. This is enough. You’re enough, exactly how you are right now.”
Vanya can’t inhale or exhale, but it isn’t panic that restricts his breathing.
It’s sheer force of will to share at least one truth with Jason.
“I’m want you so much.”
He does his best to rock back against Jason’s knuckles, his eyes closed so tight that his nose wrinkles.
“Hold it.” Jason insists. A click signals the spread of more lube, Jason twisting his fingers until they’re coated. “Okay, but only if you’re—”
Vanya lifts up on tiptoes and something changes, shifting like Jason’s fingers, which slide further inside him and tilt.
His next gasp describes shocked pleasure.
“There you go!” Jason spills relieved praise just like the moans that flow from Vanya each time he’s touched just right. His cock is hard again when Jason reaches around, precome wetting his fingers. “So sexy,” Jason grits out, fucking Vanya steadily now with his fingers, the sound of him lowering his zipper distinct over Vanya’s panting. “Can I?” he asks again. “Tell me you really want this.”
Vanya agrees in English as well as Russian, feeling so strangely empty when Jason pulls out.
Jason curses as he sheds his clinging, damp clothes, and a wrapper crinkles as it’s opened. Then Jason’s behind him again, holding him in place with one hand as he pushes inside, his cock thick and wide and oh God.
It’s a brand new feeling that Vanya can’t quite parse—a stretch that spreads from head to toe when he’s pulled upright against Jason’s chest, supported by one thick forearm. He groans as Jason grinds, barely shifting his hips, while gravity has Vanya sinking until Jason has nothing left to give him.
They rock, hardly moving, yet Vanya’s displaced all over again, neither immigrant nor exile while Jason holds him tightly.
“Can you brace?” Jason asks ages later, his voice a very low rasp.
Vanya does, bending
over once more, both palms flat against a mirror that reflects his growing pleasure. There’s a bite of sharp sensation that’s almost overwhelming when Jason takes him harder, but it quickly transforms into something so much better, stronger, sweeter, like the man behind him. Jason fucks him until he sobs, Vanya’s face wet and creased with pleasure, semen streaking across swirls in the marble counter when he comes with a shout.
Jason’s brow is creased too after his own climax, only with concern at Vanya’s trembling. His quietly voiced, “Was that good?” once they’re both in bed, curtains drawn to keep the rest of the world out, is yet another sign of caring that leaves Vanya silent.
Good doesn’t even come close.
He rests against the chest of a man he wants a chance to truthfully love, now much more than ever, trailing fingers that still shake through dark hair that glints with silver, so overwhelmed he’s tongue-tied. It’s devastating, on reflection, that he ever thought a one off hook-up with an online stranger was the best he could hope for.
“Was better than good,” he eventually whispers.
“And I didn’t hurt you?” Jason’s worry comes with a kiss. “You’re really okay?”
He’ll be okay. Vanya nods as Jason holds him.
He’ll be just fine, as long as he gets to keep this.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jason doesn’t talk much on the return trip to London. Instead he reads a newspaper and watches Anna beat Vanya at cards over and over. She’s quick to raise the stakes from Polo mints to small change, teasing Vanya for his run of bad luck until he pulls out his wallet, making a big deal about the lone five-pound note he pulls out. The ticket inspector interrupts the game, their conversation moving on once their tickets are clipped, wallet, purse, and playing cards abandoned on the table as Anna pulls out a notebook. She lists everything Chantel still needs for the wedding, speaking half the time in Russian Jason has no hope of understanding, but that doesn’t matter. He listens instead to their tone, relaxed and easy-going, the satisfaction of great sex still singing under his skin. They arrive at Paddington before he knows it, all of them hurrying to stuff scattered belongings into carrier bags before disembarking.
Jason holds onto an overhead rail once they make it onto the Tube. He sways as it picks up speed, Vanya leaning on him when new passengers nudge them closer. He misses that weight against his side as soon as it’s gone, like he misses his company even before they’ve parted. It’s ridiculous to use words like miss, he tells himself as sternly as he can muster, especially about someone he’s going to see tomorrow night for dinner. Besides, following Vanya and Anna around shops this afternoon as they hunt down the last few wedding items won’t help him catch up with his work backlog.
Vanya meets his eye, his gaze lingering and so warm.
Maybe work can wait a little longer.
The idea of spending the rest of the day with Vanya is a small seed that takes root as they travel. Jason comes up with other reasons to extend their time together. Perhaps he could take care of whatever’s wrong with Vanya’s hot water. Making sure his place is cosy is very appealing now that it’s getting colder. If the way Vanya’s drawn to warmth is any measure, his heating system may be affected as well. It’ll be no problem to take a look at it this afternoon, if Vanya agrees, and then stay over with him this evening.
The Tube isn’t exactly quiet as he thinks through his options. The carriage clatters over rails as it takes a corner, and children make a ruckus, but all Jason hears is a repeat of Vanya’s whisper against his chest last night.
It was so much better than good between them.
Jason hears the same soft tone when Vanya murmurs his goodbyes at his Tube stop. The plastic handles of his carrier bag twist around Jason’s fingers as he dithers.
So what if work waits for him at home? And so what if Dom expects him to scout for some new projects right away? The man’s already a millionaire many times over. He can wait for a few days.
Jason comes to a snap decision as Vanya alights, guiding Anna along the packed platform, one hand on her shoulder.
Yes. Work can definitely wait until tomorrow.
He slips between the Tube-train doors just before they slide closed and hurries to catch up with them both, but spotting them isn’t easy. The tiled passages leading to the city surface are clogged with tourists. Vanya’s nowhere to be seen when he gets to street level, and neither is Anna. The breeze is an icy slap to his face—a wake-up call from his daydream of spending the whole day together. The reality is that he can’t see either of them through the traffic, and now that he’s in Vanya’s neighbourhood, he has no idea which direction they might have taken.
It’s luck that has him catching a glimpse of a scarf caught by the breeze, flapping like a flag just as Anna takes a corner. And that luck continues when he darts across the busy street without getting crushed by black cabs or bright red double-deckers. It seems like his luck might hold even longer when he spots Vanya in the distance, one arm still slung around Anna as they turn right into an alley.
That luck runs out when he runs to catch them.
They should be here, he could swear, when he comes to a halt.
They should be right here, between these two buildings. He’s so sure that he’d bet money on it.
Jason jogs all the way to the alley end, past scaffolding and netting covered with For Sale signage.
He’s been here before, he realises as he turns in a slow circle.
He’s been here before, on the hunt for a new project.
There’s still no sight of Vanya or Anna. Jason backtracks until he has to accept he’s lost them. He pulls out his phone, about to call when doubt overtakes him.
They’re probably shopping by now.
He should likely leave them to it.
Jason takes another look at the building to his left, seeing again why he first dismissed it. Ugly post-war blocks built in the 1950s are ten-a-penny around here. The warehouse to the right, on the other hand, is the 1800s treasure he remembers, a brand new For Sale sign the only difference since the last time he saw it. He uses his phone to take a photo. Then he takes another from a different angle to capture the high curve of its old windows and the rusting hoist on an upper storey that adds architectural interest.
A shiver of potential tickles.
This place could make an amazing renovation.
Plans take shape in his head as he puts in a call to the property company listed on the signage, and then he waits in a nearby pub until a sales agent can meet him. He rummages in his carrier bag intending to finish the crossword he started on the train, but Vanya’s wallet falls out from between the newspaper’s pages.
Jason sends him a quick text just as the agent arrives.
I just found your wallet!
It’s a short walk back to the warehouse with the agent, excitement mounting the whole way that he doesn’t let show on his face in case it provokes a price rise. She unlocks a door that’s twice Jason’s height at least, and he knows, just like he has on so many projects, that this one could be a winner.
The building hasn’t been touched in an age.
It’s absolutely perfect.
“Sorry about the smell,” the agent says as they climb rickety stairs up to the next floor where goods used to be unloaded. It’s cavernous and echoing, graffiti tagging each wall and the floors littered with detritus. The stink of pigeon shit is overwhelming, mildew so thick in the air that it’s awful. “At least the smell puts off squatters.” As Jason inspects window frames and lintels, the agent recounts damage squatters have inflicted on other buildings she’s sold. “They’re worse than rats,” she offers, her voice echoing across the vast interior as Jason pokes at crumbling plaster. “You know nearly all of them are foreign scroungers. I can’t wait until the whole lot get thrown once Brexit kicks in.” She only quits her rant when her phone rings.
Jason climbs another staircase to survey a second floor ripe with conversion potential while the agent
answers her call. The final staircase he finds is narrow. He climbs it alone, checking each stair tread very carefully before gingerly applying his weight, the creaks underfoot almost masking the pings of new texts arriving.
They’re messages from Vanya.
Thank you.
I’m think I lost wallet on train.
And thank you for best weekend.
Jason quickly types. No need to thank me. He should be thanking Vanya. Without him, so many outcomes would be different. He’s helped make this whole wedding—an event Jason dreaded—into something he can hardly wait for. Getting to be Andrew’s best man for a third time will be a pleasure, and Vanya should get credit for that. Lord knows he clearly doesn’t need to work so hard to make Chantel’s wedding special. Yet he’s done so without question, refusing to take money for all the time he’s invested lately.
Jason’s almost at the top of the staircase when another text pings, Vanya’s reply so closely echoing his own feelings that he almost missteps.
Wish we were still there.
At the hotel? Jason asks. Glad it was fancy enough for you. It warms him inside, despite the damp chill of this old building, to know that Vanya enjoyed their time there.
His answer arrives just as fast. Fancy not important, Vanya sends, like he doesn’t live in an expensive part of London or wear designer outfits daily. Being with you is.
What are you doing now? Jason types before trying the door to the roof. The latch is stiff. It takes a little encouragement with his shoulder to ease it open, another text arriving as he sets foot outside, the breeze a welcome respite from the dank smell inside. The roof isn’t in bad shape, he notices as he edges along a walkway, making slow and careful progress as he snaps some more photos with his phone of the central London skyline beyond. Then he switches from photo mode to video as he turns to capture more of the location so Dom can assess it.
He’s still recording as the agent emerges from the rooftop doorway. She huffs and puffs her way towards him. “There you are,” she gasps, and then looks across the alley in the same direction his phone points. Shadows flickering inside the building opposite catch both of their attention. “See what I mean?”