by B. D. Roca
Those blue, blue eyes searched Kemp’s face. “I missed you, Kemp. More than I want to say.”
“I’m so sorry, Charles.” Eyes closing, Kemp wound his arms around Charles and pressed his face against the one man in the world he knew he’d always love with every inch of his dark, dirty heart. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry that I just left that way. It was gutless. Weak. I just didn’t know how to explain it to you back then.” He swallowed, arms tightening about his man even as Charles’ arms came up around him. He pulled back to look into Charles’ eyes. “I’m so glad you came back into my life again. I’m so glad I walked into that dressing room and saw you standing there like every fucking fabulous birthday, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve rolled into one.”
Charles gave a shaky laugh. “You weren’t exactly happy to see me.”
“Because you were as much of a threat as ever. I just couldn’t fight it any longer. I needed you in my life. I told myself that somehow, I could be with you and protect Viva’s secrets at the same time. At times I thought I’d go insane with it. But not once, Charles, did I ever believe I could end it with you again.”
Charles gave a single shake of his head, looking away.
Kemp ran a hand over Charles’ jaw, bringing Charles to face him, and said urgently, “I was a dumb teenager. I told myself it was a big wide world and we’d both get over it. You walked back into my life eight years later, and I’d seen that big wide world. I knew I’d never gotten over it. I just wasn’t so sure about you. I never knew if it was something special for you or just… You were older and tougher, and I figured you liked what happened when we hit the sack and you liked the way I wasn’t interested in the dough.”
Charles’ mouth quirked. “Poor Kemp… a trophy fuck and a stud.”
“Hey!” Kemp burst out laughing at the sudden, welcome mockery in those clear eyes, nudging Charles’ leg with his own.
Charles glanced down, took Kemp’s hand. His thumb ran over Kemp’s palm. “I think we should go back to the house.”
“That might be a plan.”
“Unless you had other ideas for how the day should progress.”
Kemp chuckled. “Always so formal, Chaz.”
That candid gaze flicked up to his. “Does that bother you?”
“Never. In fact, it turns me the fuck on,” Kemp growled. “So let’s go back to that little harbourside shack of yours and see just how fucking formal you can get.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Charles felt himself soaring as Kemp pushed him to face the wall in the master suite, hands pinning Charles’ wrists to that pristine white plaster above his head. Kemp’s lips opened against Charles’ nape. The velvet press of his lips, the heat of his breath was delicious. Kemp licked a line up the side of his neck, and the rip of pleasure was almost intolerable.
Charles shuddered. His skin felt too hot, too tight to contain the blood beating within.
Kemp hummed under his breath. He pressed Charles’ palms to the wall and muttered, “Do not fucking move.”
Charles made a sound of disbelief.
Kemp grabbed two fistfuls of the hem of Charles’ white cotton shirt and attempted to rip it. Nothing.
Kemp swore, forehead dropping briefly against Charles’ back.
By now Charles was openly laughing, palms still to the wall, his jeans feeling washed-out, tight, against his skin, bare feet flexing on the polished boards. Kemp slammed a knee inside one leg, then the other, spreading them.
Charles stifled a groan. It didn’t help. Behind him, Kemp laughed softly.
He whispered against Charles’ ear, “Shit, you are the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen…”
Charles’ eyes closed heavily. Daylight outside. But in the darkness, the words, the pleasure, consumed everything. Kemp ran a palm over his arse, found him through the thin, pale denim and palmed him, ran a hand over his swollen length.
Charles grunted in hot pleasure. Kemp’s fingers squeezed his hardening flesh, just enough as he brushed aside wind-mussed hair to take a nip at Charles’ earlobe, to graze Charles’ neck with his teeth, to gently bite.
“Oh Christ,” Charles hissed. His head fell forward. “That’s so—”
“Good?” Kemp supplied helpfully, voice wicked gravel.
A full-body shudder ran through Charles’ frame. Kemp applied his teeth again, neck of the shirt dragged aside to permit his mouth access. He nuzzled into Charles’ nape, breathing in his scent. Charles caught the scent of Kemp’s own sun-warmed skin, the scent of soap mingling with the scent of fresh sweat and a tang of salt. Kemp’s hands slid deliciously rough under Charles’ shirt, a remaining few buttons keeping it closed. The others had been casualties to the fierce scrabble of fingers and lips and teeth that hit between abandoning their vehicles out in the driveway and somehow making it to the front door. They’d given the almost unshockable security guard the show of his life.
By now Charles’ couldn’t hide his amusement at Kemp’s impatience. Not that his own didn’t match it. But it warmed him so.
“Piss-taking bastard,” Kemp purred against his ear.
Kemp swiped a slap at his arse, and Charles hissed out a breath at the sting.
For a moment Kemp froze, but then Charles’ deliberately let his body roll and relax into it, spine curving and arse sticking out a little more, palms stretching up, fingers spreading and leaving sweat marks on the wall.
Charles knew what he was signalling: the universal signal for more, please.
Oh yes. This. His lover knew exactly what he needed.
Kemp reached around, grabbed each side of his expensive, immaculate cotton shirt, and yanked it open. Buttons popped and pinged off the wall in front and scattered over the floor.
Charles burst out laughing.
“Keep going,” he said, with an assurance that scarcely concealed the heat Kemp had roused in him. “You’ve destroyed this shirt. The wall will be next. Then, perhaps, the bed.”
Yes, please.
In answer Kemp peeled the wrecked shirt off him and threw it to one side. Charles sensed him take a step back. Felt him run his eyes over the lines of muscle bared to him now. Felt him take in the shift of skin over Charles’ heaving ribcage as he fought to calm his breath under that scrutiny. “I promise that we’ll make every attempt to wreck the bed… to wreck the room…” Kemp trailed a calloused finger down the indented line of Charles’ spine. “And I absolutely promise to wreck you before the day is done.” He pressed a kiss to Charles’ bared shoulder, reaching round to unbutton and unzip his jeans, peeling them open, shucking them down a little with exaggerated care until they caught on the curve of his arse. Left them there.
Kemp had to see the giveaway movement of Charles’ throat as he swallowed. “You promise?”
“With every beat of my big bad heart, baby.”
Which should have made him burst out laughing.
Instead, he spun around to face Kemp, his hands going to Kemp’s face, cupping it as their mouths met in a deep, hungry kiss. Breathless, panting as Charles was, Kemp finally drew back.
This. This was exactly what he wanted.
Kemp’s grey eyes shining open and true into his. That smile on his wide, curling mouth.
Charles walked forwards, and Kemp stepped back until his legs hit the king-sized bed. Those outrageously long black lashes flickered, and his eyes widened. The challenge was clear. Charles felt the smile hit his mouth. He dealt with the shirt Kemp had shrugged on over a tank, threw it aside. Got rid of the tank.
“I need you to need this.” It was a roughened, low whisper, the syllables pouring from his throat before he could catch them back.
“Always, Charles. Always.”
His skin felt so hot, so tight. Yet his hands were steady as they undid the fastenings on Kemp’s torn, ruinous jeans, sliding them free of his hips, catching at his briefs, dragging them down with them. Eyes fixed on Charles, still full of that challenge, Kemp kicked free of the last of the rags th
at passed for his usual clothing.
“Now you.”
Charles peeled out of the jeans and gave Kemp a push that landed him back, across the bed. He was a monochromatic study in black and white, stark against the dense black of the duvet, sunlight streaming through the translucent curtains massed at the windows. Even as Charles took in a rough, unsteady breath, instinctively fighting for control, Kemp’s eyes flickered in understanding.
“No, babe.” He raised himself on an elbow, held out a hand. “That’s not what this is about.”
Charles reached out and found himself hauled onto the bed in a burst of laughter. He tumbled across Kemp, but as sun-warmed skin touched skin, the laughter stilled in his throat.
He stared down at Kemp. Heart pounding, he ran his fingers into that silky black hair. Kemp’s hand ran down his back, and their lips met in an open-mouthed kiss, tongues gliding, everything hot and molten and suddenly intensely personal and unguarded.
Kemp rolled Charles beneath him, hand sliding up his cock, thumb circling the wet, slick head, watching his reactions, and Charles caught hold of his wrist, bringing that hand to his mouth, licking his own salt slickness from Kemp’s fingers.
Even as Kemp hissed in pleasure, Charles flipped him on to his back, reminding him that he was, in fact, the taller, the more muscular of them both, slowly rolled his hips, slid his cock, weeping precum so copiously now, against Kemp’s.
Kemp’s fingers bit hard into his hip. He paused, frowned for a moment, eyes gliding over the bruises blooming over Charles’ skin.
“Dumb late question. Is this okay for you?”
Were his multiple bruises and bumps aching like all hell? Yes. Did it matter? No.
Charles gave him a savage grin. “Don’t like being on the bottom?”
Kemp’s fingers bit harder. They’d leave bruises. More bruises. Good. “Anything you want to give me, babe, I’ll take. I’m yours. You get that, don’t you?”
Charles shuddered, grinding his hips, rigid cock sliding against rigid cock, Kemp’s fingers tight against his skull now, they were kissing, that kiss intensifying as sheer sensation shredded every last instant of nerves and it was just Kemp beneath him, just Kemp as it had always been Kemp, the one who had opened the door for him and shown him how to be free.
And he’d taken that opened door and walked out, alone, but he wasn’t alone any longer, and he was beginning to believe that he might never be alone again. Kemp was sinewy muscle and bone and strength. Heat was radiating against and through him, Kemp’s fingers were digging hard into the muscle of his arse, flexing as Charles pushed closer with each thrust, and it was hot and messy and imperfect and perfect all at once.
Charles lifted his head and stared into Kemp’s drowned, flushed face and saw the look in his eyes.
It was true. Real. Unguarded. It had never felt this intimate, this personal between them before.
“Anything, Charles,” Kemp repeated on a hoarse whisper. “Anything. I’m yours.”
The orgasm he’d been chasing hit him, and he shot against Kemp, shuddering and gasping and racked by it, scarcely aware of Kemp himself coming, the harsh, broken sounds dragged from his muscular throat.
Even as Charles lay, aftershocks running through him, he turned his face a little on Kemp’s shoulder. Looked away. He didn’t know, yet, if he was exactly ready to show Kemp this… this side of himself in the aftermath. The barricades had broken, but the broken teeth of them remained. Yet he couldn’t move away yet, either, not entirely, even as finally he slid to the mattress beside the man and couldn’t quite permit himself to take the hand Kemp extended to his.
Lying on his back, Kemp stared up at the ceiling. They had just been closer, more in tune, physically, than they’d ever been. It had felt as every touch was a truth. Every kiss was a word.
Maybe that was just sentiment, but fuck only knew, Kemp had written—and sung—enough clever words to know that actions spoke louder than any pretty words possibly could. So perhaps it was greedy to still hunger for what words Charles might be comfortable putting to it.
Fuck it, he wanted the words. No guts no glory.
He said, “Tell me exactly what it is you want, Chaz.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Kemp saw Charles sit up, curve an arm around his knees.
Then, quickly, “I don’t want any more secrets between us.” And after a long moment, Charles added, “Can you repeat it?”
Kemp frowned. “Repeat what?”
“That… extraordinary statement you made back in the hospital. Or do you now regret it?”
So formal. But at last Kemp could read that formality for what it was.
“I meant every word of it,” Kemp said steadily. “I love you, Charles. Always will. You’re the only one for me. Always.”
Charles closed his eyes. A pulse throbbed heavily in his neck. A long moment passed. Kemp waited, needing the words, and then heard, “I love you too. And I never thought this moment would happen. I love you, Kemp, so much. So very much.”
“Thank Christ,” Kemp breathed.
He moved then, tumbling Charles roughly back into the pillows and kissing him with joy and fierce hunger and sheer fucking relief. The shock of those words and the pleasure of Charles’ lips and arms and laughter shimmered down through his nerve endings.
Idiot that he was, at last he’d begun to understand everything… even something of the degree of lack of faith, of a sense of unworthiness that somehow dogged this incredible man. He was going to do everything in his power, for the rest of his life, to make certain that his Viking understood just how deeply he was loved.
Relief flooded him. Sheer happiness. No secrets. No need to hold back.
And now he knew, in every ounce of his blood and bone, that Charles felt the same way.
It was a glorious day outside the windows, and that was right for the beginning of their new life together. He’d never felt luckier, never felt more blessed, with everything he wanted in the world right here with him in this bed.
He’d never let him go.
Hours later, when they’d finally sated themselves, they went out to raid the kitchen, feasting on last night’s Thai food. Afterwards, gorged on superb dishes, they showered together and tumbled back onto the massive bed in the master suite.
Charles eyed Kemp, sprawled across the black cotton sheets, with satisfaction, as if he was finally exactly where he wanted him to be, and his possessive kiss was totally mutual.
“One thing,” Charles said steadily, when they finally drew apart.
“Yes?”
“You’re going to have to move in here—or we could find a new place, together.” Charles gave Kemp a provocative stare. “Frankly, Kemp, I can’t live with your decorating taste any longer.”
Kemp burst out laughing. “Is that so?”
“It’s a disaster. I’m amazed I managed to tolerate it as long as I did.”
“So am I.” Kemp arched a brow.
Charles said, for all his teasing, still a little awkward, “I can’t live at your place any longer, but I don’t want us to live apart.” Those long, darkly golden lashes flickered as he gave Kemp a sideways glance. “So what do you say?”
Kemp could take a hint. “To moving in here with you?” He smiled. He was going to make it his mission that Charles never felt that uncertainty again. “Fucking hell, Charles. Of course. Although living in this house is going to be a real hardship.”
An answering smile tugged at that beautifully cut mouth. “I’ll have to find Stephen somewhere to live. I can’t just kick him out because we’re… together.”
“More together than we were before?” Kemp was amused and happy and joyful all at once. “He can take over the Balmain place. And he’s got that Rottweiler if the place gets too quiet. Perfect.”
“Not quite, but it will be.”
“No, loverman,” Kemp corrected, taking his hand, his lean, calloused fingers lacing with Charles’ manicured ones. “It’s perfect.”
&
nbsp; Epilogue
Two Years Later, Three Cats Vineyard
Charles absorbed the glorious summer evening. Three Cats had turned on magnificent weather for its first wedding. The peppery scent of lemon gum laced the soft, warm breeze; the lights strung through the tree branches danced. He turned his attention to the bridal couple seated at the head of this, the main table.
In supple lilac silk, Viva had never looked more beautiful, and beside her, Red was his usual looming, wonderfully steady presence.
Seated beside Charles, Kemp’s face was alight with laughter as he joked with Isabelle, an old friend of Dylan’s, seated across the table from them. A baby slept placidly in her arms.
His man looked edgily elegant in black trousers and a crisp white shirt, tie akimbo, sleeves rolled up, black jacket impatiently slipped over the back of his chair. But that was his lover, messy, gorgeous, incapable of staying formal even with his inky hair caught up in a bun and a long gold earring dangling like a pirate’s from one lobe. Even as he studied that clever face, Kemp grinned and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pressed a kiss against his cheek.
“Isn’t this bloody brilliant?” he said, against Charles’ ear.
Charles nodded, amused. He glanced at the tables about them.
Many of the guests at this small, private wedding had become his true family. Perhaps that had been Kemp’s greatest gift to him.
Family. At last, a real, true family of his own.
The vineyard’s owners, Ben and Dylan, were standing off to one side, consulting with one of the waitstaff. That done, Dylan ambled over.
“Hey, Isabelle,” he drawled, dropping a kiss on his old friend’s forehead and holding out his arms. “Let me give you a break. My turn.”
She carefully handed him the baby, and Dylan beamed down at the sleepy bundle nestling in his arms. “Hey, my sweet Tallulah,” he crooned.
Charles turned his gaze from that gentle picture to find Kemp’s pale eyes openly studying him. Kemp smiled and ran his palm over the stubble Charles had left on his jaw; he seemed to like Charles with a couple of days’ beard growth, and what Kemp wanted, Charles was very happy to give.