Chapter One

 

 

 

“You need your head read, young man. You treat photography like an extreme sport.”

“And your bedside manner needs some work, Doc.” Brock winced and gritted his teeth as another needle punctured his flesh.

“Would you rather I patted your head and gave you a sugar lump?”

“Is that what you did in the army?” Brock often thought that his doctor forgot he was now dealing with delicate civilians.

“Most squaddies would run away screaming at the sight of a needle if it didn’t mean disciplinary action. I often wish the same principles could be applied to my patients here.”

Brock squirmed. “I don’t remember vaccinations ever being this painful.”

The doctor grinned. “Probably because you never had to have six at the same time before. Okay, that was the last one. You can pull your trousers up.”

He peeled off his gloves and threw the used syringe into a special bin that his nurse held out for him.

“You may experience some flu-like symptoms over the next twenty-four hours, and you’ll probably get some bruising, but if you feel any worse than that, give me a call. When are you traveling?”

“Ten days’ time.” Brock smiled and got to his feet. “Then I’ll be out there for four weeks.”

“Well, good luck. Stay safe. Bring me back another picture for the wall in reception.”

Brock pulled the consulting room door closed behind him but still overheard the doctor as he said, “Colombia! I don’t know whether he’s brave, stupid or just too young to know any better!”

Brock waited for the nurse to respond, but nothing happened.

“Linda! Quit mooning over him and get the room ready for the next patient.”

“But he’s so gorgeous, Doc. I could definitely be tempted to get unprofessional with him!”

Brock winced. Not in this lifetime.

The doctor chuckled mischievously. “Forget it! He’s more likely to go for me than you.”

There was a groan. “Oh, for goodness sake, why are all the pretty ones either married or gay? That is a serious loss to womankind.”

Brock shook his head, stepped quietly away from the door and headed for the exit. Outside the surgery, the weather was doing its best impression of a tropical monsoon, though without the heat. The rain beat down onto pavements already awash after days of continuous downpours. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously and the sky had a threatening purple hue that spoke of more rain to come.

Brock looked up just as lightning split the sky. The rain got even harder. Stoically he turned up the collar of his waterproof coat and grimaced at the trickle of cold water that immediately slid down his neck. In seconds, his hair was soaked and plastered to his head. Brock hunched his shoulders and lengthened his stride toward home. It wasn’t strictly his home. He was just house-sitting while his brother, sister-in-law and two young nephews spent their annual fortnight’s holiday on one of the Balearic Islands—he couldn’t remember which one.

Brock spent such a lot of time traveling on photographic assignments that he’d never bothered to get his own place. When he was in England, he spent the time with his brother’s family or returned to his mum and dad’s rambling old place in Northumberland. Their house was so big, and they were both so busy with various pet projects and charities, that he could probably have lived there full time without them even noticing his presence. Brock smiled to himself at the thought—he was very fond of his eccentric parents.

Brock soon arrived at the edge of the new estate where his brother’s house sat on a decent-sized plot, halfway down a tree-lined avenue. Despite the miserable weather, he felt uncomfortably warm and was glad to make it to the sanctuary of the front hall, where a small puddle gathered around his feet as he stripped off dripping outdoor clothes and boots. Feeling progressively worse, he met his own piercing blue eyes in the hall mirror and grimaced. His skin looked clammy and his hands shook a little.

“Bloody vaccinations,” he muttered. He climbed the stairs slowly, passing a number of his own, neatly framed photographs and headed for the guest room bed. “Better just sleep it off.” He grabbed a towel from the en suite and gave his hair a rub then stripped to his underwear and went to draw the curtains. He frowned at the sheets of driving rain. A tall man sheltered under a tree opposite the house. “Blimey, he must be soaked.” Brock shrugged. His only concern was how quickly he could get into his comfy bed and sleep away the after-effects of his inoculations. He pulled the curtains closed and slid gratefully between cool sheets as his body reacted to the cocktail of drugs swimming through his system. Sleep came quickly and he drifted into dreams of distant jungles and the amazing pictures he would take.

 

* * * *

 

Outside, under the dripping tree, Kyle Dawson shifted uncomfortably. He had just been treated to a glimpse of the most tempting body he’d seen in some time and his cock had started dancing to its own tune despite the cold, damp conditions. He shook water droplets from the caped shoulders of his long, waxed coat and tilted the brim of his hat forward a bit further. Kyle knew exactly where the subject of his observation had been that day, indeed for the last two weeks, though today was the first time he had gotten close to Brock’s home.

He closed his eyes and recalled the details of the file he had been given. Lysander Brock, known as Brock to his friends—parents clearly had a thing for Shakespeare because his brother’s name was Ferdinand. Six feet tall, blond hair, blue eyes—stunning blue eyes in Kyle’s opinion—one-hundred-eighty pounds—all completely edible—aged twenty-five. Permanent address listed at his parent’s home in Northumberland. Professional photographer with work published in practically every travel and wildlife publication worth reading. Very well-traveled, with skills that included caving, climbing and hiking. Currently unattached. Two previous boyfriends known, neither particularly serious. Or deserving, Kyle thought grumpily.

He pictured the photo hidden in his inside pocket and licked his lips. He knew he should be maintaining a cold, clinical approach to the task ahead but for Christ’s sake, this guy was stunning and there was no harm in dreaming. After all, he’d been chosen for the job specifically because he was also gay. His bosses had thought he would blend in better if he needed to follow his quarry to gay pubs and clubs, though in the end, that had not been necessary. Lysander Brock led a very quiet life when he wasn’t working.

“You’d have no chance, you idiot,” he muttered under his breath, “even if you weren’t about to ruin his day.”

Kyle looked around carefully to make sure he was unobserved then crossed the road. The appalling weather worked in his favor, as very few people were out and about. Confident that there was no one around to witness his swift journey across the garden and through the unlocked gate, he slipped down the side of the house and in to the back garden of the property. Tall hedges and mature trees shielded it from the neighboring houses, giving him all the time in the world to pick the lock on the door and slip quietly into the kitchen.

Kyle found the back door key on a wall hook. He relocked the door, slid the additional bolt shut and removed the key, tucking it safely into his pocket. Taking his time, he removed his wet coat and hat and hung them over a chair. The layout of the house was firmly stored in his head so he could move confidently to the front door and set the dead bolts. Secure in the knowledge that Brock would not be able to run, he crept up the stairs and peered around the door of the guest bedroom. Kyle had to bite down on his lip as he saw the young man in the bed, sleeping deeply. Brock had pushed the covers down to his hips, one arm was flung out to the side and his smooth, hairless chest rose and fell gently as he breathed. His face was a little flushed but other than that, he seemed perfectly at peace. Kyle resisted the temptation to pull the covers down a little farther, backed away and headed silently downstairs to the kitchen. He took one of the chairs set around the kitchen table and turned it so that he could face the door to the hall then he settled down to wait.

 

* * * *

 

When Brock awoke, it was already very dark. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was then it all came back, along with awareness of a pounding headache hammering at his temples. He climbed carefully out of bed, trying not to jog his head too much, and stretched.

“I need aspirin. Lots of aspirin,” he whispered and felt his way along the bed to the door. He didn’t bother to dress—he was wearing a pair of dark gray trunks and had no intention of doing anything other than taking painkillers, swallowing a glass of water and returning to his cozy bed.

After a quick visit to the bathroom, he fought momentary giddiness and descended the stairs, holding tightly to the banister. The darkness was soothing and he didn’t need lights to find his way around, so he made it to the kitchen, filled a tumbler with tap water and grabbed tablets from a drawer without too much fumbling. He pulled open the door of the fridge to get some ice from the small freezer compartment and left the door open as he turned to eject some cubes into his glass. The bright light from its interior lit the room with a blue-white glow, giving shape to the dark figure seated in a chair across the kitchen units from him.

Ice cubes shattered and slid across the tiled floor as Brock dropped the tray.

“Who the fuck are you?”

He groped for the knife block but soon realized that it was gone and there was nothing else to hand that he could use as a weapon.

“Please calm down, Lysander. I don’t intend to hurt you unless I have to.”

The voice was deep, sonorous and scarily calm.

“How do you know my name? Who are you?” Brock felt extremely vulnerable, semi-naked in the company of an intruder who clearly had an advantage over him.

“Come over here and sit down. Then I’ll tell you.”

Brock shook his head and edged away then he turned and ran for the hall. He yanked at the front door but it was locked and there was no sign of the key to release the dead bolts. The stranger followed him into the hall and now stood blocking any other escape route. Brock turned and pressed himself back against unyielding wood.

“There’s nowhere to run. The back door is locked too. Now, come and sit down.”

The voice betrayed no sign of impatience, but there was an edge to his tone that suggested he was used to being obeyed. Brock tried to calm his pounding heart and played for time. “Can I at least put some clothes on?”

“No. I like you just the way you are.” The intruder examined him from head to toe, pausing a little too long in the middle. “Nowhere to hide any sharp implements.” He gestured at the kitchen door and waited for Brock to move.

The gap was narrow and Brock was forced to brush against him, the skin-tight fabric of his trunks rucked up to expose the curve of his ass and he thought he heard a hiss of frustration behind him.

Brock sat at the kitchen table and tried to ignore the sensation of cold wood against his thighs. He winced as the light went on, remembering the reason he had come downstairs in the first place.

“Would you like those painkillers now?” the intruder asked, placing a glass of water and the tablets on the table.

Brock nodded. There was no need to refuse them just for the sake of being awkward. He swallowed the pills and kept his hand wrapped around the heavy glass, thinking it might provide a useful weapon.

“I’m not going to be able to trust you, am I?”

Before he could react to the words, the stranger produced a pair of rigid handcuffs, pulled Brock’s arms roughly behind the chair and locked his wrists into unyielding metal bracelets.

“Better. Now we can talk without me wondering what you’ll try to brain me with.”

Brock tested the security of the cuffs but they were bruisingly tight and he soon realized that struggling was futile. His captor sat and smirked at him, though his eyes seemed to drift hungrily downwards at regular intervals.

Brock took the opportunity to take a good look at the man opposite him. He was tall, maybe a couple of inches taller than his own six feet, and more heavily built—very muscular. He had short, dark hair and smoky gray eyes. No beard, but enough stubble to suggest that shaving once a day would probably not be enough. Brock had to admit that he was very good looking, even with the scar that ran from the corner of one eye, down his cheekbone. Dressed all in black, it was clear that he was in good shape. Arms jutting from rolled up sleeves were firm and tanned, dusted with dark hair. Against his will, Brock’s dick gave a little jerk. It obviously didn’t care about the circumstances and knew what it liked. He peeked up into amused eyes.

“So, now you’ve had a good look, do you think we can be friends?”

“Fuck off.” Brock was defiant but he shivered a little, though whether from fear, cold or arousal he wasn’t too sure.

“Are you cold?”

“Do you care?” Brock snapped back a little quicker than sense would have dictated considering he was handcuffed to a chair in his underwear. However, he was feeling angry, humiliated and vaguely feverish, so to hell with the consequences.

“Feisty, aren’t you?” The stranger threw a sheaf of photographs onto the table then walked around the table to stand behind him. “Perhaps these will make you a little more compliant.”

Brock’s stomach knotted as he took in pictures of his nephews on the beach and in their school uniforms, his brother at the gym and his parents in their garden. They had all been taken in recent weeks.

“My organization wishes to engage your services. Agree to help us and your family will never know that they are being watched. There will be no need for things to become…unpleasant.”

Brock knew when he was beaten. There was no way he would put himself before the safety of his family. Two large hands curled over his shoulders and squeezed, warm breath caressed his neck and a deep voice sounded in his ear.

“Do we understand each other?”

He didn’t respond. The man grabbed his hair and yanked his head back sharply.

“All right! I understand.”

His head snapped forwards as he was released. Brock trembled as his tormentor stroked his arms and chest before pinching his nipples hard.

“Good. I’m glad we’re going to be friends.”

Brock squirmed in his chair, willing his cock not to respond to the sensation of strong hands on his body, but it was no good. Fear did not stop it visibly hardening beneath his trunks, pushing against the thin material until it bulged lewdly.

There was a deep chuckle from behind him. “Mmm. Very nice.”

Ashamed of his involuntary reaction, Brock dipped his head, his face heating.

“Look at me.” The voice was sharp enough to make Brock obey. The stranger had moved silently around him and taken the seat opposite.

“We are going to be spending some time together. You need to know why.”

“Is there any point in asking you to free my hands?” Brock really wanted to cover his bulging crotch.

“Absolutely none. I’m enjoying the view far too much, so shut up and listen.”

Brock’s groin fired up again at his tone and he groaned and whispered to himself, “For fuck’s sake, find some self-respect.”

Kyle stared at him with knowing amusement.

“You can call me Kyle. You are my new best friend because my organization needs some pictures taken and you are the chosen photographer. It’s as simple as that.”

“Pictures of what, you son of a bitch?”

“That information will be given to you when you need to know. In the meantime, you will pack a few things. In the morning, we will be going somewhere where it’s easier for me to keep an eye on you. “

“Oh good, that sounds like fun.” Frustration at his helplessness gnawed at Brock’s mind.

“There’s no need for sarcasm. Now I expect you’d like to go to bed?”

Kyle walked over and released him from the handcuffs. Brock massaged his bruised wrists and tried to ignore the cool grip on his upper arm as he was led firmly toward the stairs. His captor was so close behind him that he could feel Kyle’s thighs brushing his ass as they climbed upwards.

“Do you need to use the bathroom?” Kyle asked.

Brock shook his head. Kyle pulled him in to the small en suite regardless.

“Well I do, so come in here where I can watch you.”

The cuffs came out and Kyle attached one bracelet to the towel rail and the other to Brock’s wrist. Facing him, Kyle unzipped his fly and released a large cock unencumbered by underwear. He turned away with a sly smile and relieved himself before zipping up and turning back. He washed his hands thoroughly before releasing Brock’s wrist and pushing him into the bedroom.

Kyle wrapped an arm around Brock’s chest while the other hand dipped to massage Brock’s arse through the fabric of his trunks. Brock shuddered and fought Kyle’s hold, but he was too strong.

“Get your hands off of me!”

“Keep still. I’m thinking.” Kyle obviously didn’t need his hands to think. “I need to sleep, and I know I can’t trust you to behave, so this is what we’ll do.” He pulled the covers back and shoved Brock down onto one side of the bed.

Once Brock was flat on his back, Kyle yanked his arms above his head, cuffing them to the wooden headboard. Brock glared up at him and got a look of barely restrained lust in return. Then Kyle turned away and undressed, stripping to bare skin. His body was hard all over, muscles clearly defined, his thick cock proudly erect. Brock stubbornly turned his head away, refusing to display any interest in the view.

Kyle gave a low chuckle as he slid into bed next to Brock and pulled the covers up. He turned on his side and pushed a few stray tendrils of hair away from Brock’s face then slid one hand beneath the sheets and began to explore Brock’s body, touching and stroking his way across his chest and stomach. He dipped lower, tracing the pelvic bone to the waistband of Brock’s trunks.

Brock bucked his hand off and snarled, “Very fucking brave, aren’t you, when I can’t fight back.”

Kyle smiled patiently. “I’d like you to fight me, Lysander. I’d like to feel you struggling beneath me as I fill that perfect ass and fuck you senseless. I think you’d enjoy it too, though our situation means you must take the moral high ground and pretend otherwise.”

Kyle turned away and began jerking his cock with smooth, rapid motions until he came with a grunt of satisfaction. When he returned from cleaning himself up, he took a peek beneath the covers, much to Brock’s embarrassment.

“It’s a shame you can give yourself no relief from the rather sizeable problem you have there, Lysander. I’d be very happy to oblige, but as you’ve already pointed out, that wouldn’t be fair. I have no intention of forcing myself on you. I think in a few days you’ll be begging me to fuck you.” He turned over and closed his eyes. “Sleep well.”

Within minutes, Kyle was asleep, leaving Brock to suffer the discomfort of his own unrelieved need. He tugged on the unyielding metal cuffs and swore under his breath but it was no use. He stared daggers into the back of a dark head until he finally drifted into an uneasy doze.

 

* * * *

 

Wet heat, steamy humidity that soaked through clothing and sapped his strength surrounded him. The jungle was full of movement, unexplained noises and dripping, vibrant vegetation. A canopy stretched beneath the trees formed a shelter of sorts and slung underneath it was a large hammock made from netting. The edges of the scene were ragged and Brock knew he was dreaming, but he didn’t fight it. In the way of dreams, he was suddenly naked, his body slick and shiny with moisture, blond locks clinging damply to his skin. His muscles seemed more defined, his raging erection painfully hard as he watched Kyle stroll out of the trees. Kyle didn’t pause but grasped Brock’s neck and kissed him roughly, his breath as hot and sweet as the jungle air. He pressed Brock back to the hammock and waited while he climbed in. The fine net dug patterns into his skin as Kyle forced Brock’s hands through holes that then held him securely in place. Kyle pushed the edge of the net back until Brock’s backside was at the very edge and threw his legs over the suspending ropes. On his knees, Kyle leaned in to Brock’s perfectly exposed ass and stabbed with his tongue, probing and testing the resistance of his small, dark entrance. The hammock swayed as Brock jerked and twitched, thrusting his ass wantonly toward the pleasure of that tormenting tongue. Kyle stood and stripped, positioned his huge cock then thrust forward. Heat upon heat enveloped Brock’s body as his tight passage gave way to the massive intruder. Entangled in the netting, he screamed with pleasure and pain as Kyle used the swing of the hammock to add to the force of his penetration. Eyes bright with lust and concentration, Kyle leaned forward to wrap one hand tightly around Brock’s slick shaft. He shouted his triumph and thrust again and again until…

 

* * * *

 

Brock awoke to a cool flannel being pressed against his forehead. He was soaked with sweat but shivering with cold at the same time and fought the clinging embrace of tangled sheets.

Kyle’s deep voice penetrated his confusion. “Calm down. The fever’s broken. You reacted badly to the vaccinations.”

A fresh cloth replaced the first. Kyle used it to wipe down his glistening chest and stomach.

“Try to sleep now. Everything will be fine.”

The cool, deep voice was reassuring but somewhere in his sub-conscious, Brock knew that things were far from fine. He was vaguely aware as Kyle tidied the covers and pulled them up over him. The last thing Brock heard was Kyle apologizing.

“I’m sorry, Lysander, but there is no other way.”