Loverman

by B. D. Roca

  And now, Charles’ cock was rigid against his, scorching hot and silken and slick. With a rough grunt, Kemp pushed up against him, a slow roll of his hips, legs shifting, tangling as he arched and rubbed up against the silken muscularity of the man.

  God, he was fucked, he was so fucked, and not in any good way.

  Charles’ mouth slid down his neck, soft lips against stubble, fingers curling around Kemp’s totally with the program treacherous cock, and every good resolution dissolved in a blaze of lust. “You are so beautiful,” Charles muttered. He circled one of Kemp’s nipples with his tongue and grazed it with his teeth.

  Kemp shuddered. “Fuck, that’s good.”

  “I’m glad,” Charles murmured, silky classy bastard that he was. He trailed his tongue over Kemp’s ribs, nuzzled the dark hair at his armpit. “You smell so good.”

  “Mmm.” Kemp couldn’t help it. He released one clenched hand, tangled his fingers in Charles’ hair, and dragged his mouth up to his for a kiss. Words burbled out before he could stop them. “Fuck, I missed you when were away. Hated it. Missed you when you were overseas and I was here and we couldn’t talk about… hell, just the everyday stuff. Couldn’t talk about the work, have you right here, being a part of it—”

  Charles had stilled against him. Fuck. It was the wine he’d swilled during that bloody karaoke, Kemp told himself. Had to be. His mouth running away from him and—

  Finally, a low laugh against his throat. “There was Skype,” Charles reminded him, voice a little cool, removed, as if he didn’t quite trust what Kemp had spilled, but somehow still full of smutty remembrance, his next words a husk of sound. “We did make up for certain things with that…”

  “Mmm.” Since he could no long trust himself with words, Kemp released his hold on the brass bars overhead and twisted over on the bed, Charles landing beneath him. He kissed Charles and shifted deliberately, rigid cock sliding against Charles’ own erection. “But I missed you too much. Hated it. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Charles murmured against his mouth. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  He dragged his blunt nails up Kemp’s side, fisted his hand in the hair at Kemp’s nape, drew him close for a kiss, and it was on.

  Dozing in the aftermath, Kemp brushed his lips over Charles’ chest, enjoying the abrupt rise and fall of Charles’ ribs as he circled Charles’ nipple with his tongue. Charles released a shaky breath, and Kemp chuckled.

  “Mmm. It’s like that, huh?”

  “Yes.” Charles sounded husky. “It’s like that.” There was a faint pleasurable sting as Charles tangled his fingers in Kemp’s hair, fist tightening in the strands as Kemp drifted a kiss up to Charles’ throat. “I have the suspicion that it always will be.”

  That veneer of formality amused Kemp. He curled his fingers around Charles’ hardening cock and stroked. “Always?”

  “You know the effect you have on me.”

  The hard dick in Kemp’s grip testified to that, but reluctance laced Charles’ words. Kemp didn’t like that. Pointless to care, considering he still had to sort out the Maxine situation. Not to mention that he was pretty fucking wary of just how deep Charles was digging beneath his skin. Christ, and he’d called Charles contrary. He sat up, lips parting on a word, and an explosion of barking echoed down through the garden from the main house.

  “Fuck—”

  He bit back what he’d been about to say and reached to grab Charles’ wrist, checking the battered watch he often wore. In the dim lamplight, he could just about read the dial. “Just after two. Dylan and Ben must have arrived. Guess Moon’s made sure they’re welcome.”

  “So much for sneaking in.” Charles reached for his phone. He started to check his messages and froze. Watching him, Kemp frowned.

  “What is it?”

  Charles shook his head. He tapped some answer into the phone and returned it, facedown, to the bedside table.

  Kemp took one look at his taut profile and scowled. “What’s so important that you’re answering it at two in the morning?”

  Those blue eyes widened on his, but they told him nothing. “Nothing. Housekeeping.”

  “Bullshit.” Kemp could feel the knot of his brows. “Something shook you. What’s happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  Kemp’s lips parted on an obscene retort, but Charles moved, sat up in the bed, and caught his fingers at Kemp’s nape, dragging him close for a deep, hungry kiss. His tongue pushed inside Kemp’s mouth, and Kemp groaned, mind blanking.

  He was being manipulated. He knew it. And right in that moment, he allowed Charles his way.

  He had the feeling he’d allow this man anything. Allow him to cross any line, push any boundary. Once that would have had him running fast in the opposite direction.

  Right now, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Charles slung his camera case and overnight bag—his laptop stowed in with his few items of clothing—into the back of the Lexus. The sky overhead was still brushed pink with dawn, the morning air sharp and clean and ringing with birdsong. He slammed the boot shut. He travelled light. He always had, and the clothing had been enough to get him through his travels of the last few weeks, a down jacket thrown, unused once he’d left the UK, on the back seat of the vehicle.

  He glanced over as the front door of the house opened and Dylan Mulroy stepped out, barefoot, in ragged blue jeans and a leather jacket over his bare torso. Yawning, the painter scrubbed at his curls with one hand as he came down the stairs.

  “Charles, mate, it’s six in the a.m. Don’t tell me we’ve driven you out.” He gave Charles the same wide white grin that had worked so well in front of Charles’ camera. “Stay and have some breakfast at least.”

  Charles shook his head. “Business emergency. I’m sorry, but I have to get back to Sydney ASAP.”

  A skittering of paws and Moon bounded, barking, down onto the gravel. Dear god. This was anything but a quiet getaway. Kemp was going to explode. He’d left him sleeping, scrawled a note on a discarded envelope and propped it on the pillow beside his lover’s head.

  He hadn’t wanted a discussion about it, but after that early morning text from Edward Williams, his head of security, he’d wanted to head back immediately.

  He’d delayed till dawn.

  “I’ll have to pass on breakfast.” Charles headed around to the driver’s side of the Lexus. “The vineyard’s wonderful. Please pass my thanks for the stay on to Ben.”

  Dylan bent and scooped up the dog. Moon let him. Seemed like Dylan could charm even dogs with that laid-back calm. “Will do. And you know, Ben would say you guys are welcome again anytime, so maybe sometime in the future we’ll see you both here again.” His mouth curled at Charles’ curt, awkward nod. “I want you to meet Ben. He really liked those shots of me from your show. You could say they helped bring us together.”

  He gave Charles a smutty wink, tanned face alight, and Charles reluctantly smiled. “I’m glad I helped your love life along, Dylan. I’ll consider it payment for this weekend.”

  Dylan’s teeth flashed again, Moon shifting in his arms as Charles got in the SUV and started the engine up. Even as Dylan waved and then turned, heading back into the house with the dog, Charles was focusing on the morning ahead and what it might bring.

  He wasn’t looking forward to it. His shoulders were knotted with tension.

  His security chief had texted him in the early hours, the minute there had been a security breach. As he had required.

  Break in at the Vaucluse property. Intruder escaped. No apparent theft detected.

  But Charles knew exactly what that thief had been looking for, and one hand on the wheel, he turned his wallet in his free hand. The USB stick in it seemed to tick like the bomb it truly was.

  No apparent theft detected, Williams had decreed. Standing in the study of the Vaucluse house, Charles had to wonder at his sense of humour. The man waited as
Charles looked around. The place had been thoroughly turned. Drawers pulled out, contents dumped. Locked cupboards jimmied open. An avalanche of papers scattered on the mellow honeyed parquetry of the floor. Thank god Stephen was still away and the Rottweiler with him. He didn’t want to think what would have happened if the house had been occupied.

  He could guess just how determined his uninvited house guest had been to get into the property. He doubted that he had been unarmed.

  He cut a sideways look to the man standing in the doorway, dark suit, as ever, understated. Another two men, his operatives, had already scoured the house and grounds. No, no trace. They were currently in the main living area, going over the security footage once more.

  Not that it would tell them anything. The system had been expertly bypassed.

  Charles had instructed surveillance to be cut back while Stephen was gone. From the look on Williams’ face, the man was holding back commenting on that fact with great effort. It had only been the sighting of a freshly parked car in the previously empty early morning street that had led to the house check.

  Damn it.

  Without a word they left that room behind and continued their tour of the remaining rooms.

  Yes, the break-in had clearly been interrupted, with only a few of the rooms having been turned over—but none of the artwork had been touched. Many of the pieces were worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. He could read his security chief’s tough, urbane face: What kind of thief ignores the only items of real financial value in a house?

  “They look to have been searching for something.”

  Charles ignored that dry comment. He turned his phone over in his hand and checked it. Yes, a text from Kemp, short and to the point.

  WTF Charles? We’ve got to talk

  Wonderful.

  He shoved the phone into the back pocket of his loose navy chinos.

  “I’ll contact the police,” the man said.

  Charles jerked his head around. “No. Nothing was stolen.”

  The man’s eyebrows rose a degree. “Mr. Durant, this is a serious breach of security.”

  “Which is your responsibility, which you will investigate and ensure is not repeated.” Charles gave him an icy stare. “I have somewhere else to be. Let me know when you have any information.”

  The Balmain place had never offered more of a haven. Charles parked the car in the double garage, activating the door shut behind him. An internal door led into the house itself. Keys in one hand, overnight bag in the other, he shouldered his way through the doorway with his senses crawling. Is this even wise? Stupidity had always irritated him, his own so much more than others. No, everything still in place. None of the frenzied disorder he’d just left.

  Still, he was glad—if grimly regretful—that he’d deleted those outrageously erotic images he’d shot of Kemp and himself fucking back at Three Cats. The last thing he needed was to worry about those getting stolen. He’d permitted just one remaining image: in the aftermath, Kemp had picked the camera up and shot them both in the mirror, sprawled on the big brass bed, indigo sheets tangled about their hips. Charles’ arm had been around his shoulders, and they’d both been smiling, Kemp’s warm lips pressed to his temple.

  Such a deceptively romantic, innocent image considering the deliciously filthy performance preceding it. Little wonder he’d been incapable of deleting it. He’d take any tenderness he could get. Although last night had been so special… it had given him real hope he’d never had before.

  Grimacing, he dumped his luggage on the floor.

  He’d reached the kitchen before the heavy, drowning scent of tuberose edged his senses.

  Fracas. He turned his head, half expecting to see Maxine, but no. The space was empty, and that big sofa that she’d once taken with all the ease and assurance of a queen was bare.

  But she’d been here. Her perfume traced the air as she must have known that it would, and not cared. Exactly when had she left? Or had she?

  A flash of movement caught the corner of his eye. A sense of threat. He moved, dodging a blow he sensed coming more than saw, slid into muscle memory of the Krav Maga he’d studied at one point, and somehow connected with solid muscle and bone as he slung the intruder towards the bench.

  He was countered, a kick slamming him into the fridge. Pain exploded. He eyed the butcher’s knives held on a magnetic wall strip. Cold eyes narrowed on him.

  They stood, panting, each waiting for a weakness.

  “Is she still here?” Charles bit out.

  The man sneered at that.

  “Your employer? The woman in the perfume?”

  The man shook his head. He had a tough muscularity. In every other way he was chillingly anonymous.

  “Just hand it over.” He sounded almost bored.

  Charles thought of the slim leather wallet shoved into the back pocket of his chinos. The USB zipped inside it. The damn video file should have been stored on the cloud… but then he’d been convinced it could be hacked.

  Fact was, the thing was atomic, and while it existed there was no safe way of storing it.

  He felt the grip of his Nikes underfoot.

  “You need to get out.”

  A slow shake of the man’s head. “No can do. I’m being paid to retrieve an item. Hand it over now, or I break you.” He paused and grinned. It was unpleasant. “The lady you mentioned was here. She got impatient when I didn’t turn up anything at the other house. Thought she’d try searching here herself. Got a little shitty about it. Didn’t feel like hanging around after, but I did.” He paused, asked flatly, “Aren’t you going to outbid her for my services?”

  Christ. “Would that work?”

  “It might. Depends on the offer.”

  The USB was burning a hole in his pocket. The bastard could not be permitted to get close to it.

  He needed to get him out of the house. “Double whatever she’s paying.”

  That irritating damn smirk deepened. “Not triple? You don’t even know the amount.”

  Charles’ fists tightened. “Frankly, I don’t care. Name it.”

  “Well, in that case—”

  A door slammed. A voice called out. Kemp. Even as the stranger cut his eyes back to Charles, Charles exploded into movement, watching him dodge that flying kick, and when he surged back, hooked into him with his fist. It was that or grab a knife, and something held him back from actual murder, even in self-defence. Insanity.

  The guy reared forwards again, blood streaming down his face. A payoff would no longer work. He looked murderous.

  “Jesus Christ—”

  Neither Charles nor the intruder glanced over at that stunned voice. It felt like a freight train slammed into his body. There was a flash of white pain and then nothing.

  Kemp swung Zelda—his treasured Gibson guitar—like a baseball bat over his head and slammed her with maximum adrenaline-powered force into the guy pummelling the shit out of Charles.

  Zelda’s momentum—she’d always been a tough, take-no-prisoners woman—sent the guy and his split skull flying from Charles, across the room before landing on the concrete floor. Kemp went for him again, but the shit was scrambling to his feet. Zelda crashed across his upraised arm. Blood sprayed across the kitchen cabinets. He stumbled back. Clutching a splintered Zelda, Kemp glanced back at Charles.

  Christ.

  There was no question.

  He dropped to his knees by his man. He was unconscious. Unmoving. Kemp heard the slam of the distant front door.

  For a split second, Kemp couldn’t make sense of what he was seeing.

  His hands were moving desperately over that muscular, wrong-angled body. “Jesus, fuck no—”

  No no no no— no he could not be dead, he could not be— but he was so fucking still.

  Charles’ face paper white. Blood trickling down his temple. His body crumpled weirdly on the floor.

  The broken guitar discarded, Kemp put his fingers to Charles’ throat. He needed to find a p
ulse. He needed to hear breath. A sound. He needed any sign he could find—

  Charles was still. So still. Kemp was shaking violently.

  This isn’t real, it isn’t real, it’s a fucking movie—

  Ambulance. Cops. A doctor. Even as he was dragging his phone out of his jacket pocket, Charles suddenly moved, coughed violently, gagged, lurched sideways to spit blood, and tried to push up against the cabinets. Kemp paused in the middle of punching in 000.

  He’d never been happier to see someone near vomit. He gripped Charles’ shoulder. “Christ, Charles, please—”

  “My pocket.” Charles’ voice was thick. A forced whisper. “In my pocket.”

  Kemp shook his head, trying to push the blood-wet hair from Charles’ face, hunting for his injuries.

  “Don’t move,” he gritted out. Blood smeared over the phone screen as he began punching in the emergency number again. “I’m getting an ambulance.”

  “My wallet. The USB.” Charles’ eyes blazed into Kemp’s. “Please—”

  “Christ—” Kemp shook his head wildly, thought he had the operator on the other end of the line. Yeah, he did. “An ambulance,” he bit out. “I need an ambulance here right now. A man’s been attacked.”

  The operator was saying something, but it was lost in Charles’ agitation. He’d grabbed Kemp’s arm, the phone skittering to the floor as he clawed him closer. “The USB. For god’s sake, you’ve got to keep it safe, do you understand? For Viva. It’s in my wallet, Kemp. It’s in my wallet.”

  It was the last thing Charles said as he slid back to the floor, eyes wild.

  Kemp had never thought much about Charles’ money. Since he had no interest in designer shit, drove a forty-year-old car, and was currently quite happy to have destroyed a prized possession in the name of trying to save Charles’ life—in fact, had totally powdered it in that pursuit—he didn’t think it surprising that he’d never thought about its advantages.