Blue On Blue

by Dal Maclean

  Conversely, Tom’s uneasiness with being fucked had less to do with the act of taking another man’s cock into his body—which Tom had very obviously loved the first time Will had done it—it was more, in Will’s opinion, the issues of power and trust that affected his views of relationships.

  He knelt upright behind Tom’s braced body and leaned forward to pull apart the cheeks of his arse. Tom gasped, his muscles stiffening in anticipation. Will studied Tom’s cleft, the pristine pink clench of his anus, the total absence of hair.

  “Still waxing,” he murmured with amusement. He kissed one cheek of Tom’s bum.

  Tom flinched as if he’d been burned.

  “A promise is a promise,” he said, voice wire-tight.

  “In there though,” Will wondered as he stroked the cleft again. “It must be agony.”

  Tom pushed back, pressing his bum impatiently into Will’s hands. “You like it though,” he said with meaning.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Will said doubtfully. “They missed a big bit.”

  “Where?” Tom tried to push upright but Will dived in at once, laughing, to lick over the nerve-rich anus with the flat of his tongue.

  Tom yelled, as Will had intended—a mixture of outrage, surprise and arousal.

  “Bastard!’ Tom moaned, half laughing. Will licked again. Tom’s stiff arms gave way, leaving him balanced on his forearms, head hanging, bum in the air, ready for use.

  He’d used the shower gel Will bought for himself, though the bathroom was filled with a bewildering array of Tom’s own grooming products. High-end freebies, mostly, sent to Tom as a potential social media influencer. Instead, Tom had chosen to smell like Will. And Will loved it.

  He grasped Tom’s hips in both hands, and went to work.

  He played his tongue skilfully over the smooth, sensitive skin of the cleft, teasing, tickling, arousing, until Tom was begging him loudly to get on with it. Then he began to ease in, stimulating and softening the guardian muscle.

  His own dick was hard as iron, brushing tormentingly against the sheets.

  When he pulled back, his jaw was sore and Tom’s hole looked soft and wet with spit, clenching on nothing.

  Tom was breathing heavily, his muscles trembling, erection and balls hanging swollen between his spread thighs.

  Will closed his eyes against the image and grabbed the base of his own hard-on, to try to ease the pressure building inexorably in his groin.

  He fumbled for the foil square on the sheet beside Tom’s knee, ripped it clumsily open and slid the condom on to his dick. Then he squirted a gout of lube on to his palm and coated his shaft with as light a touch as he could manage.

  “Fuck . . . .” Tom sounded desperate. “What’re you doing? Come on.”

  And Will found he needed that desperation; he needed it even more than he needed to fuck.

  He shuffled into position, the head of his latex-covered penis dragging over the skin of Tom’s thighs and arse.

  “Come on what?” He sounded bizarrely in control, considering his heart-hammering arousal. For good measure he gave one cheek of Tom’s buttocks a firm smack watching the flesh jiggle with the impact.

  Tom made a strangled noise and spread his thighs wider. His willingness made Will’s dick ache even more.

  But, “Come on, what?” Will repeated. He put a hand between Tom’s shoulders and pressed. Stay down.

  Tom moaned loudly, and it sounded wildly aroused.

  Domination even as pale as this was a Pandora’s box neither of them had tried to open before.

  But then Tom barked, “Stop bloody dicking around and fucking fuck me!”

  Will made a sound of strangled amusement, though he wasn’t remotely surprised. Tom really didn’t take naturally to submission. And Will almost pulled his controlling hand away.

  But something made him keep going. Maybe the quality of that first moan.

  “You want to take my fuck,” he said clearly. “So what d’you say?”

  “For fuck’s sake!” Inevitably. Tom began to try to struggle upright against Will’s hand. “Jesus!” he spat.

  Will pushed down between his shoulder blades and slid his erection upright between the cheeks of Tom’s arse. Tom stilled and wriggled against it.

  “Wrong answer,” Will said tightly.

  “Will,” Tom groaned and clenched the formidable muscles of his arse round the pole of flesh between his cheeks. The perfection of his profile was sharp and lovely against the purity of the pillow, like some tormented angel. “Please. Will. Let me.”

  Will closed his eyes again and gritted his teeth, before pulling his hips back an inch of two to free his erection and grab it in one hand to position the head against the dimple of Tom’s anus.

  “Let you what?”

  Tom made a sound close to a whimper. “Let me take your cock.”

  And at last Will began to push inside, past the first tight rings of muscles, deeper. Tom moaned again, a high sharp noise of intense pleasure and satisfaction.

  Will released a sharp exhale as he slid inside, pushing in to the tight dense heat; out again, then back, deeper until his whole length was buried, Tom’s hole stretched pinkly round the base and his balls rested against Tom’s arse.

  He leaned a little further over Tom’s back and slid his hand up into Tom’s long pale-silk hair, gripping a handful, tugging lightly again. Tom’s head fell back obediently.

  “How does it feel?” Will asked. “Tell me.” He tugged on Tom’s hair again, as if he was pulling on a horse’s reins.

  “Big,” Tom slurred. “Stuffed full.”

  And there was the bad porn dialogue they teased each other with when they were messing around. It shouldn’t feel so powerful now. Will pulled back a little, tried to shift his hips to angle himself differently for maximum pleasure and fucked in again. Tom howled. And Will couldn’t pretend to hold back anymore.

  He started to dick into him, hard and fast, and he felt as if his whole body was ablaze with its pleasure. He wanted to get in deeper, deeper than he could ever manage, so that Tom could never forget how it felt to have Will inside him. And Tom stayed still and shaking under him, not touching his own bobbing erection, held by the fist in his hair, and took it . . . no longer speaking or moaning, just making incoherent sounds of encouragement as Will pumped into him.

  Will wanted badly to mark him to suck bruises into his skin, but the power of the impulse in itself stopped him. Nothing though, could temper the controlling possessiveness of his fuck.

  He wanted Cam to hear.

  He accepted that in the moment—that he’d driven Tom to be as loud as he could make him. He didn’t have the attention to give to feeling shame about it.

  “Feels so fucking good,” Will panted out each word in time with his thrusts and he could sense the first fluttering contractions of Tom’s imminent orgasm round his shaft. But he managed somehow to slide his hand under Tom’s belly and grip his cock, squeezing and tugging.

  “Come,” he said. “Come for me. Tom.”

  And Tom, already trembling on the edge, howled and began to shudder and spurt all over his own belly and Will’s hand and the sheets beneath him.

  Will came a thrust or two later, emptying his balls into the condom with so much force he felt as if his heart was going to shudder to a stop, his body turning inside out with the force of his ecstasy.

  They froze for a few moments in the absolute bliss of aftermath, hauling in oxygen, then Tom collapsed flat onto his front, and the movement dragged Will’s cock partly out of him. They both groaned. Will grasped the base of the condom with rubber fingers and pulled the rest of the way back.

  He sat back then, dazed, on his heels, still holding the condom over his deflating cock, and slowly came back to earth, to face the embarrassing impulses that fuck had unearthed. Like turning over a stone to see things scuttling away from the light.

  The petty need to stage that loud, domineering fuck to prove to Cam that Tom wanted him. To prove i
t to himself.

  Tom loathed anyone thinking they could own him. Will sat still and his stomach grew cold with dread, bracing himself for Tom’s reaction.

  It seemed to take a very long time for Tom to animate himself to roll over. But it was probably only seconds. He peered up at Will.

  And then, amazingly, he gave a mocking grin.

  “So,” he said. “That was hot as fuck.” He gave another of the feline stretches that had set the whole thing off and his grin widened. He looked happy Will realized, in a way he hadn’t looked since he got back. Replete and satisfied and untroubled. Maybe he’d just needed sex. “If you’d thought ahead . . . you could have worn the uniform.”

  Will made a sound of amused outrage, but he had to say, “I should have asked your permission first.”

  “If I didn’t like it,” Tom said simply, “I’d have said and you’d have stopped.” And he frowned slightly then, as if he couldn’t believe Will didn’t know that.

  His trust warmed Will to the core. They staggered into the ensuite on wobbly legs and wiped themselves down, then made it back to bed and cuddled up together on Will’s side, away from the wet patch.

  “God, I really needed that,” Tom said, contentedly languid, head on Will’s shoulder.

  Will squeezed the arm he cradled round him, in agreement.

  He was aware they hadn’t talked about anything important. They’d fallen back on sex instead. But at that moment he couldn’t regret it. The ostrich approach was popular for good reason.

  He was almost asleep, mind and body finally relaxed and slipping into neutral, no more room for the emotions that had dug at him.

  “I have to go on the telly tomorrow,” he thought to murmur just as he began to slide under.

  There was a sleepy pause then Tom’s head rose. “You have to what?” He dug an elbow into Will’s side.

  “Witness roadshow,” Will mumbled, eyes still closed. His tongue felt thick and clumsy. “With Ingham.”

  The silence that followed was abrupt and dense enough to cut through the haze of imminent sleep and to crack one of Will’s eyes open.

  Tom was looking at him, not trying to fight down a shit-eating grin.

  “What?” Will asked warily.

  Tom laughed out loud and then cuddled closer.

  “Oh, this is going to be so good,” he crowed.

  9

  The sky was a uniform leaden gray. In the distance, across the river Thames, the clock hands of Big Ben moved inexorably toward disaster.

  Eleven a.m.

  The program went live at eleven.

  Will took a deep breath of river air, mixed heavily with exhaust fumes. The crew had set up on a wide area of pavement at the east end of Westminster Bridge beside the South Bank Lion, a large coade-stone statue set on a plinth in a wide, paved alcove. It was all very picturesque, with the Thames and the Houses of Parliament in the background. Like a semaphored shorthand to say, “London.”

  Ingham and Will stood in the plinth’s shadow with two officers from other boroughs, hiding. Will couldn’t help but acknowledge it.

  They were all dressed in their best suits with coats on top, faces covered with foundation, all trying to look calm. Ingham actually looked nauseous. For all she could handle press conferences and MPS meetings with aplomb, James had confided that something about the prospect of doing set-piece live TV unraveled her steel nerves. Until they got on air, and then she was fine. Will could only hope he’d be fine too.

  You couldn’t undo live TV. You couldn’t request an edit if you said something disastrously wrong.

  And the whole concept of doing TV anyway, offended his nature. Will had never enjoyed being the center of attention . . . not reading out his essays at seminars at uni; hell he remembered hating standing up in front of his class in primary school to talk about his hamster.

  “So I’ll start with the Isleworth stabbing and you do the West Ken one,” Ingham muttered to him, for what felt like the twentieth time. Will nodded anyway. The floor manager had talked them through it already. They’d be the first item. The presenter would introduce a prepared film covering both crimes, and then come to them off the back of it. Ingham first, then him. They hadn’t even been his bloody cases.

  It’s only daytime TV. No one’s watching. It’s only daytime TV.

  From the time he’d woken up beside a still zonked Tom, Will had repeated the mantra, and held onto it through his meeting with Ingham in her office to go over their scripts. He’d clung to it as he drove them both to Westminster Bridge, and through Catherine’s smug welcome, and makeup, and the floor manager’s peptalk.

  The sound of laughter jarred him from his preoccupation. The presenter was giggling with a soundman who was fitting her with a microphone pack, just outside one of the massive Outdoor Broadcast vans.

  Will watched with an envy that came close to dislike. The woman was about to go on live national TV, and she was laughing.

  She was a slender, glossy blond—far more beautiful than the usual TV presenter unthreatening level of attractiveness. And perhaps she sensed his glower, because she glanced toward the plinth.

  Will felt a tug of recognition—not unexpected, given her profession. But he realized then that he didn’t just recognize her from TV. She’d been at Magnus’s party, barely covered by a slip of gray silk. Now she wore a no-nonsense dark trouser suit.

  Their eyes met and her laughter sank at once to a sympathetic smile that made Will wonder how bad they all looked. He’d been trying his best to hide his nerves behind a lack of expression.

  The woman said something to the soundman, who threw a glance in the direction of the waiting officers and smirked. Then he attached a microphone to her lapel and stepped back.

  The woman strolled toward them and Will watched her approach with an automatic appreciation of her beauty, and intense apprehension about what she was going to say to them. Ingham and he both stayed silent as the presenter chatted to the other two officers first, both broadcasting virgins, like Will. There was a DS from Westminster called Joyce, and Andy, a chubby, bearded PC from Lewisham.

  Then the woman turned to Ingham. “Jo. We met very briefly at James’s party! It’s lovely to have you on the program. You’ll be a pro at this after Crimewatch though.” Her accent was neutral. Expensive. Ingham visibly thawed. “And you’re Will? Emily Dalton.” Will took her proferred hand. Her grip was firm. She had beautiful, thick-lashed dark brown eyes, unusual and striking with the pale color of her hair. “I saw you at the party too. I was Catherine’s plus one.”

  “How’re you enjoying doing the roadshow?” Ingham sounded better. More herself.

  “Oh, I love it! It’s such an opportunity. We have the diving unit on tomorrow!” Emily grinned at her, then she said to Will: “Catherine strong-armed you into this, didn’t she?”

  Will shot a speaking glance at Ingham. “Let’s say I didn’t volunteer.”

  “None of us did,” Ingham said tartly. “We’re all human sacrifices to public outreach.”

  “Well,” Emily said to all of the group. “For any people who haven’t done live broadcasting before, my tip is not to accept what’s happening. The cameras are just bits of metal, with people moving them around. The audience doesn’t exist. They’re in the ether. Just focus on what you can see and hear.”

  Will frowned. Self-delusion wasn’t a strong point.

  “It pays to have no imagination,” Emily finished. Will sighed and rubbed his forehead. Emily though chatted on to all of them about her addiction to TV cop shows and her disastrous efforts at chopping onions like Gordon Ramsey the night before, and the history of the South Bank lion. She was funny and clever and kind, and Will, as he watched her in action, putting people at ease, couldn’t help but feel a tug of attraction, and the automatic guilt that went with it.

  When he thought about it, she was the first woman he could say he’d really noticed that way since Tom had come back into his life. But Emily was hard not to react to—Andy
looked ready to roll onto his back in the desperate hope she’d tickle his tummy. Of course, charisma and accessibility were vital currency for a TV presenter. The ability to seem like the best friend you didn’t know you needed. Almost the opposite of models, whose value seemed to derive from unattainability.

  When Big Ben finally struck eleven and they went on-air, Will watched as Emily took her cue and began to talk animatedly to the camera, all her attention focused on it, exactly as if she were chatting to a person. Then Matt, her copresenter in the studio, took over for his own introduction.

  Ingham and Will were the first items on, and Ingham was practically vibrating while their crime reconstruction videotape was playing. But once she began to talk, she seemed her usual confident self. When it came to Will’s turn, he tried to take Emily’s advice and ignore the camera. He reeled off his prepared answers exactly as if he were answering a non-hostile reporter in the street, while Emily nodded gravely and radiated encouragement and appropriate reverence for the law.

  After all the waiting and tension, it was over in what seemed like seconds. Then Will and Ingham were ushered off the set, handed wet wipes to remove their makeup and freed into the wild.

  Will felt almost stunned by the swiftness of it, like emerging from the exam hall after a terrifying test which had taken months of preparation.

  He retreated with Ingham to the shadow of the lion’s plinth.

  “It’s times like this, I wish I smoked,” he muttered with feeling.

  Ingham threw him a quick sideway glance. “You didn’t look worried.”

  “I will never ever laugh at Jamie again.”

  “He’ll appreciate the company next time the whole unit takes the piss,” Ingham replied.

  Will made a sound of pained amusement and they relaxed into companionable silence as they watched the rest of the show progress, two colleagues who’d come through the fire together.

  Emily was talking animatedly to Joyce, waving an elegant hand marred only by the sticking plasters that covered her onion wounds, when Ingham asked, almost idly. “So, tell me what happened with June.”

  Will took a moment to process that, and to formulate a reply.