Country Mouse

Owen was a little nervous as he walked into the pub. London was a new experience for him, noisy and crowded. Taxi and bus drivers seemed hell-bent on killing everybody who crossed the roads, like this was really their space, and everybody seemed in a constant rush. His guide—his ex-girlfriend Jenny, who’d been here before—had pleaded a headache and stayed back at the hotel.

Owen was pretty sure she’d made eyes with an old boyfriend from her time in London and was meeting him for a little somethin’ somethin’. Well, good for Jenny. Shitty of her to leave him in a new city to fend for himself, but since they were no longer doing that, well, a girl had to get some, right? But then, that left him in the middle of . . . well, wherever the fuck he was.

Somewhere in the West End, which was a crazy area: Chinatown right next to Old Compton Street, which held all the gay bars he could want. And then there was more of Soho, with hard-worn prostitutes lining the surprisingly crooked, dark and dingy alleys, which again were only a few blocks away from the bombastic facades of Regent Street with its collection of luxury stores.

The city was a lot more than he could take in on a first day, and part of him considered just getting a drink and going back to the hotel. The crisp cold certainly hadn’t invited him to stay outside for long or wander the streets.

Still, he wasn’t so sure about this pub. It hadn’t seemed so funky on the outside—just an entrance on a corner in an old brick building (Victorian? That made it more than a hundred years old!)—but inside, it was all dark wood and the tang of cigarette smoke in the air, even though a sign said that smoking was forbidden. Maybe they’d just never re-painted it.

But the large pint glass was dirty, too, and the wood of the bar sticky to the touch. Patrons ranged from a gaggle of Italian schoolgirls sucking on their little Coke bottles, to a few blue-collar guys crowded around the TV showing soccer, to a guy in a smart suit propping up the bar.

That guy, well, he caught Owen’s attention. Short dark hair gelled into spikes, rather incongruous with his gray pinstripe suit and brown pointy-toed shoes. He wore glasses, and looked halfway between twenty and thirty. He’d propped his elbows on the bar, making his suit jacket ride up, showing off very nicely-shaped thighs and ass in the tailored suit. He’d just downed his second vodka shot and was waving for a third.

Owen kept looking at the guy, trying to figure out where he’d come from. His suit was sharp—Owen wasn’t an expert on these things, but it screamed stockbroker or lawyer or (shudder!) politician. Maybe that was the sort of thing loan sharks—or people investing in really seedy pubs—wore in London, but not in the States. That suit, and the fine ass within it, did not belong here.

And he was drinking top-shelf vodka from a dirty glass.

And, oh shit, he was looking directly at Owen.

Owen felt his face go hot and looked down into his lap at his baggy student jeans and Sac State hoodie. Of course, that suit wasn’t the only thing that didn’t belong here, was it?

The rim of his beer glass had mung on it, something three-dimensional and brown, and he picked at it with a well-trimmed nail, wondering what his mom would say about this ill-advised trip to the pub.

Go to Europe, baby. Have an adventure. Buy something you don’t need, see things you only see in movies, kiss someone who looks a little bit dangerous. But be careful, baby. You’re only there on loan.

His mother—a single woman and a free spirit, but not stupid about the perils of the world, or her only child set loose in it. She’d probably approve of this pub, and even approve of him ogling that man, but would maybe tell him to call it a night at the crap stuck to the beer glass.

He looked curiously at the sticky bar again, and wondered who MLM and STR were, because apparently it was TLA. There was a sudden movement at his side, the crisp slink of silk and linen, and Owen turned his head.

“I wouldn’t drink the draft here,” said the man with the glasses. He had an accent beyond the flat London slang Owen enjoyed, and he didn’t even crack a smile. “It’ll give you sepsis.”

Owen pulled up one side of his mouth and took a deliberate swig, then grimaced. Sure enough, it tasted like Satan’s piss in a glass mug. “Well, not all of us are wise enough for top shelf.”

The man arched an eyebrow, one corner of his lean mouth turning down. “I thought I told you not to drink.”

“And I thought you weren’t my mother,” Owen shot back, taking another gulp of the world’s worst beer.

The man quirked a finger at the bartender, and while Owen was still swishing that last mouthful around, trying to work up the courage to swallow, a tumbler of Grey Goose clinked on the bar in front of him. He was so surprised that his throat worked and the beer was gone, and shitty pub and the funky smell and the Italian schoolgirls and working class television-watchers all disappeared.

What remained was the stranger, looking at him sideways with his lean mouth compressed in a taunt, and an actually clean tumbler, two fingers full of first-class liquor.

“What’s this?” he asked dumbly, and the stranger snorted.

“Are your hands clean?”

Owen held them out in front of them and shrugged. “Yeah.” He was unprepared for the stranger’s cool, strong grip as the man seized his hand. Owen was surprised enough to let his hand be dragged to the tumbler and his index finger inserted halfway into the liquid. He glared indignantly and snatched his hand back, pulling his finger up to his mouth to suck off the drop of vodka clinging to it.

He closed his eyes in sudden appreciation and moaned.

“Drink. The Bloody. Vodka.”

The man watched him with what seemed like too-intense interest for a couple moments. His eyes were pale blue, a quarter of one iris blacked out by a spot—making the iris look like a waning moon—and Owen found that getting the glass between him and that glare was the only thing he could do to keep from staring back. It most likely wasn’t anger or aggression; maybe the guy was just high-strung. Or a cocaine addict. Weren’t they supposed to be too loud and a bit twitchy? Not that this guy was twitchy. But his eyebrow arched. Owen took a mouthful of the vodka and swallowed it, the liquid oily, crisp, and extremely strong.

“There you go. Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Owen breathed out hard, the vodka rasping his throat. “Fucking wonderful. Are you going to give some to the teenagers next?”

That arch in the eyebrow twitched, and then the lean mouth quirked back, revealing the hint of a dimple behind it. “That was not part of my plan, no.”

Owen took an experimental sip of what was left. It was still better than the beer. “Then what’s your plan here?”

“Certainly not getting Italian school girls shitfaced. That way lies disaster.” The guy quirked another grin that seemed to suggest he was only temporarily not in a disaster-causing mood. “Otherwise, I’m looking for a hookup, as my original one seems to be stuck in a Tube tunnel or chickened out.”

“Chickened out? Not exactly a stellar recommendation for you as a hookup, is it?” Owen took another sip, the burn from that big swallow giving him courage. “I might be safer with the Italian schoolgirls.”

“Safer, yes,” the stranger said, as though he were actually thinking about it. “More satisfied? I highly doubt it.”

Owen took a deep breath and shook his hair out of his face. He tilted his head back and looked at the mysterious stranger from half-lidded eyes. Slick. Slick and arrogant. Not usually Owen’s flavor, but then, there was always the possibility of something softer underneath the silk-suit veneer. “I’m a bit of a country mouse, here. Do you really think I’m up to your big-city, pricey-vodka seduction? I could be the most disappointing hookup in the history of ever. Maybe you should move on.”

The stranger flicked a finger against Owen’s cheek, and Owen flinched from the touch, which was both impersonal and intimate at once. He’d thought it was Americans who intruded on personal space by British standards. “You talk too much,” he said with speculation. “I’d love to see you gagged.”

When his mother had talked about having an adventure, she probably hadn’t meant, “Find a random British psychopath and get gagged and tied down and dismembered.” That was stuff for the worst news stories, right? Missing American male (23) found in two suitcases on the bottom of the River Thames. Not exactly the role he’d audition for, the sane part of him thought.

But his sense of adventure (fine, other parts, too) readily agreed. Fantasy stuff, things he’d dreamed about but hadn’t been quite ready to contemplate actually doing. But shouldn’t he know this guy better first? At least, you know, have a name or something?

His phone buzzed, and he grimaced, then reached sheepishly into his pocket to pull it out. Fantasies were one thing, but getting picked up in a bar without telling anyone where you were was not practical.

Mysterious Stranger raised his eyebrow, and then leaned intimidatingly close—close enough to see Jenny’s text: Where R U?

Some bar in Soho. He looked meaningfully at Mysterious Stranger, and added Getting hit on by some prick who hasn’t even told me his name.

A soft exhalation told him the man had read that and was highly amused. Good. Let him be amused. But he was going to have to cough up a name before he got Owen anywhere near a bottle of lube and a (shudder) blindfold and plug. (Okay, where had the plug come in?)

Is he cute?! was the reply.

He’s really hot, if you like uptight yuppies with too much hair gel.

The sound behind Owen was indignant this time, and a pointed chin dug into his shoulder as the stranger cast all the rest of his personal space in the crapper and got close enough behind him to breathe in his ear. Which, of course, so not fair.

But you DO like uptight yuppies with too much hair gel! Jenny complained, and Owen closed his eyes in embarrassment. Of course—the problem with friends was that they knew you.

“You’ll like me, I swear,” Mysterious Stranger promised.

Aren’t you supposed to be getting laid? Owen asked Jenny, scowling.

Yeah, but that was a SHORT performance. He could almost hear her answering scowl in the words on the small screen.

“Sign off,” Bossy Stranger muttered in his ear. “You talk too bloody much on the phone, too.”

“Not until I get a name,” Owen replied pertly. “I need to tell her who to have the police searching for when I don’t show up in the morning.” On the phone he texted, Yeah, sometimes, with quickies, shortness is guaranteed.

“No such thing here,” Mystery Man said. Owen should probably call him Jack the Ripper, just to rile him up more. But then the man said, “Malcolm. Kavanagh. Only one in the City, you can check me out on Facebook or something.”

Malcolm ran his hands along Owen’s flanks, a strong grip promising control.

“Fucking queers,” somebody muttered from the corner.

Owen jerked, and Malcolm half-turned, but let him go only slowly, reluctantly. “This can go two ways,” Malcolm said. “Either we depart now, or I’m taking that arsehole’s teeth first.” First being the operative, very-much-emphasized word here.

“Are you going to need help with that?” Owen asked, “or can you take on a shitload of rednecks all by your lonesome?” On the phone he texted, Malcolm Kavanagh, so you know which guy to bail out of jail with me, and Malcolm turned to look at him.

“Well, I’d like to think you’d help.”

Owen shrugged, but stood up. His cousins had been a rowdy bunch of kids; he’d never backed down from a fight.

The gaggle of guys in the corner measured them for a few moments, doing some quick calculations, but clearly the thought that the queers wouldn’t just scamper off hadn’t figured. “No hard feelings, mate,” one of them said and lifted his beer glass. Thankfully, somebody on the TV scored a goal just then, and the men turned quite touchy-feely themselves with hugs and shoulder slaps.

“Opium for the masses,” Malcolm said. “Let’s go before they realize how gay they look.”

Owen snickered, then covered his mouth. He took one more look at his phone (which was still clenched in his hand) and told Jenny, Give your guy a lick-me-up, and see if he’s good for another round. I have a feeling I’ll be late.

* * * * *

Malcolm inhaled the more-or-less fresh air deeply. Why was it that fresh air rarely sobered, only made him more aware that he was getting drunk? Drunk—the thought made him snort. If he’d eaten anything at all today, he wouldn’t even be feeling the three shots. They’d barely have counted as a warm-up during his apprenticeship at the trading desk. But then, he’d learned under Bill “Water Buffalo” Porter, whose idea of a drink after work was to lay waste to at least one bar and one strip club.

Good old days. He rolled his neck. “Nicer bar, food, or my place?” he asked the wide-eyed Yank he’d somehow acquired in that pisshole.

The Yank was cute, looked innocent, but Malcolm had really only decided to fuck him when he’d faced the bullies, too. He didn’t like queens in distress, so this was a refreshing change. He was well-built, too, really quite pretty. Not that Malcolm always had the highest standards.

“Food,” said the Yank. “I’m starving.”

“Aren’t you young enough to survive on other fuel?” Seriously, where was the spirit of adventure in this man? Sure, he’d been willing to stand up to the proles, but otherwise, he seemed to be milking the “country mouse” bit way too hard.

The Yank stopped suddenly in the street. “Hi,” he said, his face flat and unfriendly. “My name is Owen Watson. I’m twenty-three, bisexual, and I’ve been in your country exactly seventeen hours. In that time, I’ve eaten some shitty beer and half a shot of vodka. Before I see how serious you are about a gag, I’d really like a fucking burger, if you don’t mind.”

Oh, this was much better. Malcolm found himself smiling—not a quirk of the lips, but a full, dimple–to-dimple grin. “Do you expect me to pay for that?” he asked, although he fully intended to.

“Only if you plan to top,” Owen said sourly. “That’s how we do things in the States. If you’re gonna get fucked, you get dinner first.”

Not a rule Malcolm recognized from his brief stint on Wall Street, but he did like that the kid was making him work for it. Kid. He was barely six-and-a-half years older. “I know just the place. If it’s still there; places in London have recently been opening and closing faster than a cheap whore’s legs.” He glanced around, got his bearings and headed down one of the dark alleys, cutting through the occasional group of tourists braving the cold, but he kept an eye on Owen to make sure he was following. “Bisexual? Aren’t we all a bit? Girlfriend? She the one you’re texting?”

Owen shook his head. “No, she’s a friend. She had the money, wanted a friend on the trip. I wanted the trip, didn’t mind being a friend.”

“So,” he asked, still amused, “how bisexual are you?”

“I’ve had three serious relationships.” Owen sounded resentful, as if wondering who Malcolm was to ask him to quantify. “Two female, one male. They all ended well, we’re still friends, but my ex-guy is dating my ex-girl, and Jenny’s currently getting banged by the guy she had before me. Are we all caught up now?”

“Serious? And you’re still friends? You’re the forgiving kind.” Or a pushover. Or possibly really a well-adjusted kid. It would be interesting to find out which.

“I’m all about the forgiveness,” Owen said, and Malcolm couldn’t tell if he was being bitter or not.

“Well, nothing to forgive about this place.” Malcolm pointed at the Soho branch of Gourmet Burger Kitchen, then opened the door for Owen and let him pass through first. So what, he could be chivalrous to a guy too.

The Asian waiter eyed them for moment, then led them to a table when Malcolm indicated with a hand signal he wanted one for two.

The waiter gave them the whole “We’re family here” spiel and asked if they’d been there before, but Malcolm waved him off after the drinks order. No more alcohol; he did want all his facilities ready and sharp to deal with the Yank in the most satisfying manner possible. For both of them. Wouldn’t do to miss a hint because he was pissed, or even a bit flaky.

He decided quickly on his favorite—the Bleu Cheese burger—and then watched Owen study the menu. Owen wanted the Wellington, so Malcolm headed to the counter, where he ordered, quoted his table number, and then returned to his seat. And couldn’t help imagining what he’d do to Owen. With him. It was always two who played that particular game.

His BlackBerry buzzed in his pocket, and when he pulled it out he saw a spark of sarcasm in Owen’s eyes. He winked, checked the number and answered, leaning backward, one arm outstretched and placed on the table as if he were pushing himself away from it. “Yes?”

“Shit, Malcolm, I’m so sorry, the train . . .”

“Don’t worry about it.” Peter? Paul? John? Something. “Plans have changed; we’ll have to move the meeting.”

“What? Are you serious? I’ve come up all the way—”

“I’m not waiting for an hour in some Soho pisshole for a chance to whip your ass red. We need to introduce a little respect into our ‘relationship,’ and we’ll start today. Spend the weekend thinking about how to make amends, and I might talk to you again. And don’t you dare call me before Monday.” He disconnected, slipped the phone back into his pocket and studied Owen for a response. “Looks like I just freed up all weekend.”

Owen was not looking impressed. “Excellent. Who are you picking up after we’re done eating?”

Malcolm flushed. “I didn’t say I was going to whip your ass red. That has to be earned.”

Owen rolled his eyes. “Bullshit.”

“Bullshit?” It wasn’t his word, and his inflection at the end of it proved it. Owen arched his eyebrows, and his eyes—plain, ordinary brown—were suddenly dark and arresting. Malcolm found himself swallowing.

“Bollocks,” Owen said smugly. “Tripe. Shite. Waste. What-the-fuck-ever. A dinner? Yeah, sure. I might even kiss you goodnight on the cock. But I’m nobody’s fuck toy, so get that straight right now.”

Malcolm recovered himself—indignation did that to you. “He’s not my fuck toy—that sod was begging for what I had to dish out.”

Owen rolled his eyes again. “I’m sure he was. But don’t expect me to beg for a damn thing, okay?”

He looked like a kitten—jeans, school sweater, little-boy hair—but he was showing the same backbone he’d shown in the bar, and Malcolm liked it. He smiled in admiration, but those brown eyes didn’t soften.

Malcolm let out a little bit of the starch in his middle. “I swear to you, Yank, if you’re begging by the end of the night, it’s because you really want something you know I’ll give you. Now do you care to tell me about that incestuous little disaster of ex-fuck-all, or are you going to let me make up my own story?”

Owen looked moodily at the counter, like he could will his Wellington faster, and Malcolm resisted the urge to do the same. It was somehow easier to talk about hard stuff if you weren’t gnawing on the table to stay sane.

“My mom’s very liberal,” Owen said with a little smile. “She told me my whole life I could kiss anydamnone I wanted.”

Malcolm snorted. “And you did.”

“No!” Owen protested, picking at the table. “No. Just the people that turned my key. But . . .” He sighed. “I like commitment, okay? I like it a lot. And they didn’t. But they still cared about me. And good friends are harder to get than lovers—”

“Who cheated first?” Malcolm demanded, not wanting to hear him defend them anymore. Besides the Jenny girl, who was hopefully getting fucked raw by who-the-hell-cared, he was pretty sure there were bad guys in these relationships and the Yank kitten wasn’t one of them.

“Laurie slept with Peter after I’d broken up with her and was dating him,” Owen said, and Malcolm had to cross his eyes to do the math.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re both wanker fucktards. First class. Stop being so bloody nice to them.”

Owen shook his head, looking relieved when the waiter started to weave his way from the counter toward their table, carrying a tray with two sodas and two baskets with thick slabs of meat on puffy, toasted buns. “If you can’t order me around in bed, I’m not going to let you order my social schedule.” His whole body glowed when the waiter dodged the couple nearest them—she was crying and he was looking uncomfortable—and pulled their burgers and drinks off his tray.

“Thanks,” Malcolm said tersely, and arranged his food once the waiter had left them alone again. He looked back at the Yank. “Well, get some meat into you. Can’t have you faint on me or attack a bystander.” He gave the Yank one of his best, brightest, bad-boy grins and wished he’d ordered fries, just for the suggestive shape of them. But he already had a lot more carbs on his plate than his personal trainer would normally let him get away with.

“Thing is, Owen”—he repeated the name mostly so he’d remember it later—“if you play nice, people walk all over you. Trust me on that one. You’re a nice guy, but that’s like blood in the water. Attracts all kinds of unpleasant people who’re just trawling for a weakness. Any weakness.”

Owen met his gaze head on from under that fall of brown hair. “Kindness is not weakness, Malcolm. Forgiveness isn’t lack of backbone. Forgiveness is the thing that lets human beings not strangle each other after a half an hour’s acquaintance. It’s not something you in particular should shit on, you know?”

Malcolm grimaced. “I know? No, I don’t know. Forgiving people gets you on vacation with your ex-bitch-wanker who’s getting laid while you’re drinking piss-water in a shitty bar. Punishing people gets your cock licked, and maybe your toes if you’re in the mood. Tell me which one you’d rather have.”

Seemed he’d touched a nerve, because Owen glanced down at his food for a few moments too long.

“It’s not unreasonable to ask for a little respect. It’s the very least I ask of my hookups, and if they approach the whole thing with the proper attitude, I play nice, too. I can be very nice if I want to.” Maybe I’m even in the mood to play nice tonight. The Yank might tickle out his softer side if he kept a level head.

“They respect me,” Owen said, and an evil little smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. “Sometimes they fear me.”

Malcolm looked at him curiously, suddenly more convinced he’d remember this one’s name. “Yeah? You make them pay for kicking you in the nads?”

Owen groaned. “Not the way you’re thinking. Let’s just say that a conscience isn’t always a cricket, and leave it at that.”

And now Malcolm was thoroughly disgusted. “You lectured them to death?”

Owen laughed. “Ouch! That would be awful. No. It was personal, but they felt better, I felt better, and now we’re friends again. Forgiveness. Sometimes it really is a pleasure.”

Malcolm took a deep breath and let it out, but it didn’t stop the stirring, the tingle, wrapping itself around the skin of his cock. Personal? He could only imagine. But God, the things he could imagine. He busied himself with his burger, eating with no more passion than if he were wolfing down whatever his desk neighbor deigned to bring him, right there in front of his six-pack of screens. “How’s the food?”

Owen took a big mouthful, chewed slowly. He closed his eyes before he swallowed. “Awesome. Absolutely awesome.”

Malcolm swallowed, too. Anyone who could take that much pleasure in a hamburger? What else could he take pleasure in? Time to find out. “Let’s talk about what we’ll do when we get to my place.”

“No,” Owen said, eyeing his hamburger with carnal greed.

Well, he could give him ten minutes. Okay, five at the speed the Yank was eating. Malcolm took another bite, but mostly enjoyed watching the kid eat. “No as in we’re not going to my place, or no as in you’re not going to tell me what your safeword is?” Malcolm made sure the irony was so thick even an American wouldn’t be able to miss it.

Owen stopped eating long enough to raise his eyebrows. “Safeword? I know what it is,” he muttered, forestalling the explanation Malcolm was about to spew. “I just mean, I’m the one who’s going to need it?”

Malcolm took a few deep breaths. Was the Yank being irritating on purpose, or had Malcolm given him too many points for intelligence? “Well, I am buying dinner,” he ground out, and Owen winked.

“Hamburger.”

“Yes, Yank, hamburgers for dinner.”

“Nope. Hamburger for safeword. I’m not likely to spit that out in the middle of sex unless I mean it, right?”

“Unless you’re having a flashback to the meal,” Malcolm grouched, amused despite himself at Owen’s resistance to being tricked or played. Damn, but he couldn’t wait to get home and lock the penthouse doors behind them. “Maybe tell me what you like. Soft limits, hard limits.” Last time he’d discussed this in a cab, and the cabbie had almost hit a bus. This time he’d get these things out of the way where a listening ear wouldn’t get him killed.

Owen looked thoughtfully at his last few bites of burger. “Hard limits? Don’t fucking hurt me. I mean, seriously. A little bruising, a little hard stuff—fine. But I don’t like bleeding. Pisses me off. Soft limits? I guess anything up to there.” Owen took a chip and dipped it in the puddle of vinegar he’d poured for them. “And you? What are your limits?”

“I don’t think you need to know.” Malcolm smiled to take the sting out. Okay, now he had reached the point where he actually cared whether the Yank walked out on him. Normally, that stage involved being turned on beyond recovery; he rarely got there over dinner. “If I were on the receiving end, I’d say permanent damage.”

Owen cocked his head. “You don’t mind blood, then?” he asked, voice soft and curious. If Malcolm didn’t know better, he’d think the man had just turned into a shrink on him.

“I can’t afford to get an infection, but as long as it’s clean and hygienic and means I can go to work next morning, sure, why not.” Not that anybody had ever attempted that. So, was that Yank considering turning the tables on him? Hardly. He didn’t seem like somebody who’d bring out the razor blades mid-sex.

Owen shook his head, and some of Malcolm’s faith in the world was restored. He had to admit, the country mouse had kept him on his toes. “I don’t like hurting people,” he said, looking Malcolm so deeply in the eyes that Malcolm couldn’t shake him off.

“Even if they like it?” Even as he heard the words, they sounded like begging. He cleared his throat, and assumed that Owen’s thoughtful expression meant he was wrestling with the concept. “Then what do you like? Any fantasies you can play with while overseas? Over here, you’re free to do whatever you want to do.” Because you can just leave after, go home and pretend you never did anything. Nothing fixes a mistake like a few thousand miles’ worth of distance. At least, that’s what he’d found.

Owen closed his eyes. “Mm . . . my mom used to watch the X-Files—you remember that show?”

Malcolm inhaled sharply; this could be a whole new level of kink he hadn’t even thought of, but then Owen continued and dashed his hopes.

“I hated it. Scared me shitless. So I’d roll under my bed and pull the covers over the edge, and lie there in complete darkness. Got my first erection down there. It felt so good, and I was so very scared.” Owen opened those fine brown eyes and looked at Malcolm with lazy promise. “I like the dark. I like not being able to see what’s touching me, what’s brushing against me, what’s coming. Will it be in my mouth? Will it be on my ass? Where will it be?” Owen laughed and shivered, and so did Malcolm. Oh, this was not going the way he’d imagined at all.

“I’m game,” Malcolm said simply and took another—last—bite of his burger, almost disgusted with the cold food. The other appetite was by far stronger. He liked listening to Owen’s fantasies; it was so different than the often-rehearsed lists he tended to agree to via email because he found people were more honest if they couldn’t see his face. Or he theirs. “Anything else? Fantasies can be pretty elaborate. I can most likely make it happen. Or at least have a better shot at it than many others.” Money and seclusion and a number of somewhat ruthless friends and acquaintances saw to that.

Owen shrugged. “Nope, that’s about it.” He crumpled his napkin over his remaining chips, and Malcolm grunted in frustration.

“Oh come on, mate, you don’t look unimaginative.” Something. Let him want something only Malcolm could give him. Let him have a reason for Malcolm Kavanagh to make an impression, since he’d just nixed the idea of a mark on his flesh.

“Nope,” Owen said, standing and stretching. He had bloody long legs, Malcolm’s Yank. They’d likely been cramped under the table. “My fantasies are more personal than my impersonal sex, Malcolm. Come on. You’re dying to get this show on the road. Let’s go. You can make me come, or keep me from coming, or whatever it is you want to do, and then you can forget my name.”

Whoa, hang on a minute right there. Those words translated into “You’re gagging for it,” and even though it was true, he didn’t like being reminded of it. Yes, the sub called all the shots, but this wasn’t going as planned. Wasn’t going like he was used to. Shit, he was not going to lose control of this.

He’s just treating you like that random hookup that you dismissed in his favor. He’s learned your method, Malcolm, and in fifteen minutes flat.

Yeah, that sounded about right. It didn’t actually matter, though, because getting them both off was on top of the agenda anyway. Wasn’t like the Yank had come here to make friends. He’d be gone on the day stamped on his ticket, and that would be that.

* * * * *

Owen glanced sideways at his new fuck-buddy as they walked through the London streets. The strange buildings drew his eye, though—and they all sat right next to each other. Every street looked totally different, a cacophony of styles, and he was really starting to like that. It was unpredictable, messy even, like a woman who’d seen much better days but still kept herself with dignity.

And then the “native” he’d met. Malcolm Kavanagh had it all—had the body language of a yuppie asshole, the looks of a yuppie asshole, and, hell, even the pickup lines of a yuppie asshole. Everything Owen despised on sight and on principle, and all the things that he would usually have walked away from in moments, fantasies notwithstanding.

But Malcolm also had a sense of humor. And a willingness to fight. And Owen couldn’t help himself—he’d opened up, just a little, to see if his mother was right. Be decent to people. If you’re decent to people, you’ll usually find out they’re decent people, too. And sure enough, there had been a moment or two there when Malcolm had shown the softer skin underneath the hair gel and the brashness.

And he had that glint in his eye that hinted he wasn’t really that jaded. There was some real interest there, too. How many of his casual fucks just accepted that yuppie asshole attitude in return for a meal and a fuck? Plenty, probably. With the looks and the suit and the arrogance—plenty of people out there wouldn’t even question Malcolm’s facade.

“Right, there’s a cab. We could take the Tube, but that would take too long.” Malcolm stepped close to the curb and raised an arm in a commanding gesture. A cab with its lights on stopped.

“London Bridge,” Malcolm ordered, and the driver nodded.

From the back of the car, the city was just as chaotic and interesting. Malcolm leaned back, regarding him as if trying to read his mind, probing for fantasies and more intimate stuff. Did other people just tell him everything? Owen smiled at the window and at London outside.

When the car stopped, it was in front of a very modern apartment building near London Bridge. City of London. Malcolm paid and tipped the driver, then headed toward the building’s glass doors. The night porter looked up when they entered. “Good evening, Mister Kavanagh.”

Malcolm looked slightly bewildered, as if torn from his thoughts—or trying to remember the guy’s name—then just nodded. “Good evening.” He ushered Owen to an elevator and, inside, waved a card at a sensor before pressing the button for the tenth floor.

The elevator opened right outside a penthouse that took up the whole top floor of the building. Glass all round, looking out over a city that didn’t have that many high buildings. There were some skyscrapers in the financial district, but up here, the view onto the Thames was almost entirely unobstructed. On the balcony stood a telescope directed vaguely at the moon, which was wreathed in dark clouds.

The penthouse was mostly open-plan, with a divider beyond an entertainment area. The bedroom and bathroom were probably behind that.

A group of light brown leather couches were assembled around a fireplace in the middle of the room, a couple logs placed on what looked like a white marble block, surrounded on all sides by glass. The floor was sanded stone tiles, with rugs scattered here and there. A vast TV was on, but set mute to a business channel of some sort—stock prices scrolled incessantly below a talking head. The screen was the only movement in the place, which otherwise lay silent, even serene.

Malcolm opened his jacket and draped it over a coat hanger, then hung it on a hook near the door. “Drink? I have water, wine, red and white, ginger beer, orange juice. Shopping gets here tomorrow.”

“Orange juice, please.” Would that be seen as a lack of sophistication—or just as practical? Powering up for the workout ahead, right?

Malcolm nodded and went to the small fridge, rooting around for a glass bottle of orange juice. He filled a tumbler about halfway, and Owen narrowed his eyes.

“No alcohol,” he said sharply, and Malcolm looked at him in surprise.

“Why else would you want orange juice?”

He decided to try a different tack. “What else are you having for breakfast?”

“Two energy drinks, one large coffee.” Malcolm frowned. “Protein shake on a gym day. I don’t really do breakfast, I have to be at my desk early.”

So, at least for this man, the “full English” was a myth. “Well, no alcohol.”

“Fine. Want orange juice with pulp when they deliver tomorrow? Might be enough time to change the order.”

Which was the oddest way of asking him to stay around for breakfast.

“Without is fine,” Owen said, throwing him a bone, “but if they have bagels and you don’t, I’d be interested.”

“Done.” Malcolm walked to the desktop station in the far corner of the room and booted up. “Plain or everything?” he asked, and then looked a bit flustered.

Owen found it charming. “Maybe something in between?” he suggested, keeping his face straight. “Like an onion bagel and a tomato?”

“They have wholemeal, grain stuff, and cinnamon. There’s a bagel place near my office, though. Not sure they’re open on a Saturday, but I can jog past and check. I think I’ve seen cheese and onion there.”

Owen walked toward him, where he stood, fiddling with the computer keyboard near his waist. “The orange juice is fine,” he said. “Whatever bagel you can order is fine. It was a metaphor, Malcolm. I’ve had a six-course breakfast during Sunday brunch with less fiddling.”

Malcolm looked up at him. “I’m just trying to—” He looked startled to see Owen so close.

“Stall,” Owen finished for him. He watched curiously as Malcolm swallowed, some of the “good host” veneer chipping.

“Be nice,” Malcolm corrected. “I’m trying to be nice.”

“I thought you brought me here to fuck me, not feed me.”

“I do both!” he protested.

“Good,” Owen whispered. The man’s lips were lean, but sensual at the same time. Owen raised a tentative thumb and rubbed the bottom one gently.

“I. Top.” Malcolm asserted, and Owen grinned. He popped his thumb in his mouth and sucked on it, looking Malcolm in the eye as he hollowed his cheeks. Then he took his thumb and rubbed his own lower lip.

“It’s not the same,” he murmured. Malcolm’s eyes seemed fixated on his lips, on his thumb and the gentle stroking.

“Maybe you should let me do it,” Malcolm added with some spirit, and Owen stuck out his tongue and licked his lips, tracking where his thumb had just been.

“Then maybe you should.”

Malcolm rose up and seized the back of his head with an impatient, blunt hand and hauled him down for a kiss. Malcolm may have been shorter but he was damned strong, and the body pushing up against Owen was solid with muscle and smelled of expensive cologne—wood fragrance, tangible and real, even if the man wasn’t. Owen wrapped an arm around the man’s waist, responded to the kiss that was equal parts dominant and exploring, and both parts turned him on.

He was little dizzy when Malcolm broke the contact just long enough to push him toward the couch, then urged him to sit down, no, spread out on the leather. The rich smell of the upholstery complemented Malcolm’s scent of sweat and sharp cologne as he pushed down on Owen, nearly keeping him trapped with his body. His kisses grew abruptly hungrier, demanding more. Owen grinned and began to open the buttons on Malcolm’s shirt, fiddly as they seemed. There was something to be said for a T-shirt and a pullover hoodie.

But he wasn’t complaining, because the chest he bared held all the promises that the suit had made. Gym bunny, clearly, chest hair trimmed but not waxed. He paused, then reached up to Malcolm’s face to remove his glasses. Malcolm jerked back and took them off himself, then lifted a hand to rub his eyes as he adjusted to the new visuals.

“How strong are they?”

“Strong enough to be annoying as fuck.” Malcolm reached over to the coffee table and placed them down, then went back to Owen’s neck, his sucking kisses interspersed with gentle bites that promised so much more and made Owen’s skin tingle. “Help me get your top off.”

Owen pushed up and pulled his T-shirt and hoodie over his head, trapped for a moment in the sleeves, and of course Malcolm seized the opportunity, pushing his arms back over his head and down onto the couch, the sweatshirt acting as a restraint and a blindfold.

Without warning, Malcolm’s teeth were on his left nipple.

“Ow,” he protested, but together with that hand on his cock in his trousers, the pinching bite felt damn good.

“Ow?” Malcolm breathed, his breath tickling Owen’s nipple. “Does that mean stop?”

“Hamburger means stop,” Owen panted. “But suck it . . . harder . . .” The pressure from Malcolm’s mouth increased, and Owen bucked his hips, thrusting his cock against Malcolm’s hard grip. Harder . . . harder . . . oh . . . yes . . . right there . . .

He didn’t come, but something in him stretched taut, relaxed, and suddenly he was there, in the moment, intensely aroused but building, building, as Malcolm bit his nipple again, then moved his mouth to the other one, first biting, as if to make a point, then sucking on the nub. Malcolm’s hand released his package and instead rested flat on his naked stomach, the touch firm enough to make him aware of his breath and his arousal at the same time.

“Keep your arms up there, eyes closed,” Malcolm murmured, his breath chilling Owen’s wet nipple.

Owen nodded and relaxed a bit more, signaling he’d play along, and Malcolm shifted his weight to pull the top off Owen’s arms, hesitating for a moment as if to check Owen was playing along. “I’ll blindfold you,” he said calmly, stretching further to reach something behind the couch.

The movement brought Malcolm’s cloth-trapped cock close to Owen’s face. Malcolm reached for Owen’s mouth then, stopping him from taking that covered cock, and brushed Owen’s pursed lips with two fingers. Malcolm opened his fly and worked his trousers off his hips. Owen stole a glance at Malcolm’s package, tempted to push forward and tease him.

Malcolm’s cock was a decent length, and thick, erect enough for his foreskin to have disappeared. Owen gave in to temptation, closed his eyes and stuck his tongue out, arching his neck until he made contact. A shudder went through Malcolm’s body, and he thrust his cock toward Owen’s waiting mouth and then jerked back.

“Not fair,” he ground out, and then a length of cloth was wrapped around Owen’s eyes but not yanked tight.

“I want to taste,” Owen said, and Malcolm’s exasperated grunt actually made him shiver. Malcolm’s frustration was . . . cute. Charming. Whatever. It put a hell of a charge under his skin.

“I thought what you wanted was to be blindfolded,” Malcolm muttered, sliding down Owen’s body, his cock staying in contact the whole time. Owen didn’t have a lot of chest hair, but he wondered if what he did have was rasping along the underside of that wonderful cock. The crown had been broad, he thought, shuddering, wide enough to be uncomfortable in his mouth. Oh, yeah—what would that wide head do in his ass?

“Whatever,” he said and grinned. But just as he was about to open his eyes, cloth tightened over them, shutting off even the occasional stolen glimpse.

“Well, no reason not to blindfold you. No way I know—or would use—to disable your sense of taste.” Malcolm chuckled and aligned his body with Owen’s so their cocks lined up. He rolled his hips, pushing against Owen’s belly. “Handcuffs? Bondage tape? You could still try to blow me tied up.” The “try to” was a clear challenge.

“Mmm . . .” Owen opened his eyes under the blindfold. “I can still tell the light is on,” he said experimentally. “Can we kill the lights?”

“Who are you? Cecil B. De-bloody-Mille?”

“It’s your fantasy, Owen. Have whatever you want, Owen,” he mimicked, hoping his British accent wasn’t too craptastic. “But the one thing I ask for . . .”

“Imposes on me too!” Malcolm sounded young, and put out, and Owen kept his smile to himself.

“Then we don’t have to do this,” he said, reaching for the blindfold.

Malcolm’s hands clasped his wrists, probably harder than Malcolm had intended. “Don’t bloody move,” he snarled, and then got up—probably naked, cock bobbing, which was wonderful to imagine—and disappeared.

The light coming through the fabric grid of the blindfold went away, and he was abruptly, completely immersed in black. His lips came up in a half smile, and he stretched, his jeans making a sliding sound on the smooth leather. He clasped his hands above his head and shuddered, alone and almost naked in a stranger’s dark.

“No bondage tape,” he said thoughtfully, “but if you don’t mind, for a moment, I might pretend there is.”

Malcolm’s hands touched his calves, then, and the grip became firmer, removing his socks. Then fingers slid up his legs and removed his boxers, baring him to the skin on the leather. “I can see just enough in the light from outside,” Malcolm whispered. “Stay still.” The couch cushion dipped when Malcolm shifted his weight, and seemed to be to his left. “Now, where will I touch you, and with what?” Voice low, seductive, betraying that Malcolm had found his stride again and was back to enjoying himself. Default smugness engaged.

Owen jerked when he felt a gentle wet pressure around his cock, and the breath and swirl of tongue gave away what Malcolm was doing. The wet warm pressure intensified as Malcolm sucked him in, then pulled back and blew on the wetness he’d left behind. Then he moved away.

The next thing that touched Owen was flat, hard, and really fucking cold, nearly searing his nipples.

“That would be a knife blade from the fridge,” Malcolm whispered.

Owen clenched his ass cheeks together and moaned. “Wasn’t expecting that in the dark,” he murmured. Then, “Oh God . . .” because that frigid pressure moved to his other nipple and he was shivering and painfully aroused at the same time. “Oh . . .”

Malcolm left the knife lying on Owen’s nipple and moved back to his cock, only this time—

“Oh you bastard!” The knife wasn’t the only thing Malcolm had gotten from the fridge, and the heat of his mouth was tempered with a burning cold as he pressed an ice cube along the length of Owen’s shaft with his tongue.

Owen’s nipple was on fire, burning with the freezing metal, and his nerve receptors were swimming in delicious confusion from the heat and pressure and cold on his cock. He wasn’t near coming, not even close, but God, he had never been so aroused.

And Malcolm gave him no respite, either, now seriously working his cock with his mouth and tongue (no hands, though), the ice cube keeping him too cold, the pressure and friction not nearly enough to set him off.

The wet sounds around his cock, every small swallow, every breath was hyper-real behind the blindfold, and he found himself breathing and gasping almost in step with Malcolm, who had a wicked way of guessing exactly what Owen wanted to feel and then almost delivering it.

Only when the ice cube had melted away and Malcolm’s mouth was beginning to warm up did the bastard bend down lower to suck on his balls, and Owen writhed at the touch of a mouth still cold enough for his balls to contemplate a retreat back into his body.

“Ah, that’s beautiful,” Malcolm said against the inside of his thigh, and added a bite that, while near-painful, seemed less intense than the touch from the ice cube. “I’d warm you up with a cane now . . .” Intonation lifting at the end, turning the remark into a question.

“Your hands, you bastard,” Owen panted. “You want to make my ass red, you’d better feel the sting on your own skin.”

Malcolm hissed. “My God, you’re pushy.” But he was panting too, and Owen could feel the writhing of his body on the couch. He either liked the idea or liked Owen’s participation. Something was turning his key. “Any other requests?”

“I don’t know— oh God!” Malcolm had brushed an ice-cold finger across his taint, teasing his anus. “It’s my fantasy. I’ll— oh!” That icy fingertip barely, barely penetrated, and then retreated.

“Cane,” Malcolm breathed against his thigh. “Along your arse, your thighs, your back. That’s what I want. But you’re right—it is your fantasy.” He shifted weight, then leaned over Owen and kissed him again, mouth still tasting of the ice cube somehow, promising more of the same, or a variation thereof. His cock, still hard, pushed against Owen’s flank for a few moments.

Malcolm reached up and held Owen’s wrists, pressed them against the cushion. “I’m actually pretty good with the cane, believe it or not.” He chuckled, warm breath ghosting over Owen’s face. “Follow my lead. Lie across my lap.”

Malcolm took his wrists with one hand and his shoulder with the other, firmly guiding him into position across Malcolm’s lap. His erection, between Malcolm’s open legs, found no friction or purchase, and that open sensation alone was enough to make him flex his hips. Malcolm moved something, then Owen felt a big pillow pushed beneath his head and chest.

He very nearly relaxed in that position, wrists now crossed at his back. He hoped for more stimulation, but suspected Malcolm would make him work for that. Or at least withhold it for a while longer.

Malcolm ran a soothing hand along his back, up to his neck, fingers carding evenly though his hair, fingernails scritching his scalp, before he stroked down again, the sure, firm touch of a masseur, then down his back, the small of his back, to his ass, and back up again, soothing, relaxing. He couldn’t quite believe it would be that easy, and a gradual tension built up that was more anticipation than arousal, but fueled his need, too.

The hand lifted away, and he expected it would land on his ass with an almighty smack. But it didn’t. He jerked when Malcolm simply slid two fingers in his crack, spit-wet, and began to rub, then circle his anus. “Want something in there? Something nice and big?”

He pushed against Malcolm’s fingers and shuddered when one slid in. “I could always use something nice and big in there,” he breathed, “but I’m pretty sure your cock’s not what you meant.”

Malcolm chuckled and his hand left Owen’s backside. There was a sliding sound, wood on wood, like a drawer being opened, and then both of his hands disappeared. Owen recognized the sound of a tearing condom wrapper and the snick of a cap of lubricant, and then something cool and hard was prodding at his entrance. Owen shuddered and relaxed, welcoming this touch in the dark.

Malcolm was torturous, sliding it slowly . . . slowly . . . slowly . . . and then he stopped, Owen’s ass stretched around the widest part of the plug, and rubbed. Owen started to shudder, his body fighting the urge to push against it, to expel it, and shivering with the sensation . . . Oh God, the burn, the ultimate mix of pleasure/pain, lodged in his ass.

“You want something, maybe?” Malcolm asked, all of that smug self-assurance back in his voice.

“No,” Owen said through a tight throat. “I’m fine. Amazing, in fact. I half expected the plug to be made of ice.”

Malcolm chuckled, that massaging hand rubbing on his backside, soothing, gentling—but Owen’s shudders were getting harder, and he choked back a groan. “I have a mold for that, you know, but no time to prepare.”

“Sorry . . . to cramp . . . your style,” Owen panted, squirming in an agony of pleasure.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you want?” Malcolm taunted, and then, before Owen could answer, his hand fell across Owen’s flank with a practiced snap. Dull red flame burst to life, throbbing briskly out from Malcolm’s first blow.

Owen groaned, his ass clenching at the invasive pressure, his cock, rigid and erect in the space between Malcolm’s knees, thrusting for something, anything, any sort of friction to relieve its seeking need.

“It’s okay to ask, you know?” Malcolm mused, smug, but there was also an odd warmth to his voice. Not as warm as Owen’s skin when another slap hit his ass, just enough to make him jerk and clench again, glad for every bit of support, from Malcolm’s strong legs to the cushion and the floor. “But yeah, I did consider using a metal dildo from the fridge too. Great big head. Personally, I love it.”

The whole thing was just to rile him, that conversational chatter. But just as he was allowing Malcolm’s smugness to get to him, another slap hit him right where the first one had landed.

Owen let out a moan then, even though he was trying to hold back. It all seemed so easy for Malcolm. Feed a date, fuck a date, forget a date. But Owen was fascinated. It was like one of those two-sided puzzles. On one side was a sex robot, a cold, impersonal wielder of cane and crop and dildo (he hadn’t said crop, but Owen figured). The other was . . . well, he looked the same, but instead of the mask of live-steel perfection Malcolm had worn while bossing around the poor Soho bartender, he had the sudden humanity of a man ordering his lover breakfast.

So who was it currently—slap!—warming Owen’s ass? Smack! Oh God, that one had brushed the plug, and a breathless whine started to issue from his throat. He whimpered, wanting that plug (Oh God) deep inside him, wanting the shaking orgasm that was threatening to erupt, crashing down over his cock and ass and vitals like a tidal wave—but not wanting to let Malcolm stop touching him.

“God,” Malcolm panted. Was he aroused? “You’re stubborn.” Smack! “Just come already. Come!”

“You want me to come?” Smack! “Then kiss my hot red ass, Malcolm. Kiss it! Kiss it and fuck me deep!”

“Kiss your . . .?” Malcolm was so surprised he actually stopped spanking, and Owen writhed as the air cooled the heated burn on his ass.

“You don’t have to rim me,” Owen snarled, “just touch me!” And fuck me, he added, but he thought that would go without saying.

Malcolm expelled a harsh breath, and then shifted Owen so his backside was truly in the middle between Malcolm’s hard, hairy thighs. (That hair was rasping Owen’s sensitized nipples deliciously, even as his chest moved past Malcolm’s leg and his hands, still clenched together, touched the ground.) Malcolm had to bend—it couldn’t have been comfortable, and Owen arched his ass up close, and for a moment, Malcolm just panted, hot breaths that gave heat to the banked fire of Owen’s skin. Then, tentatively, his tongue came out and traced a line on Owen’s right flank, and Owen moaned in encouragement.

A fine line, toward Owen’s crease but not in, and then Malcolm lifted his head, and Owen felt lips, soft and exquisitely gentle on his reddened skin. The tongue came out, wet the lips, and there they were again, soft, kind, tiny little kisses, and Owen allowed himself to beg.

“That’s beautiful, Malcolm. Oh God, the plug! I need it so bad. Keep kissing, just . . . oh God . . . the only place that mouth would feel better is on my cock—”

“Make up your mind,” Malcolm groused, but it seemed oddly kind, teasing, and the kiss turning into a scrape of his teeth but nothing more, just the promise of a bite. “Fuck. I want you.” He dipped low to suck Owen’s balls into his mouth, squeezing them carefully, just right, and Owen’s orgasm was building again, one little bit at a time, then rapidly as Malcolm found enough coordination to press against the end of the plug.

Before he could get quite there, Malcolm stopped and ran strong fingers over his ass, kneading the muscle. That slap felt impatient, even slightly irritated. “Get on the couch. I’ll suit up.” Malcolm reached to wherever he’d been reaching before, then guided Owen to get back on the couch on all fours.

He considered protesting the position and turning onto his back, but that was when Malcolm’s fingers played with the plug. Owen groaned and pushed his ass out. When the plug left him, he felt even more vulnerable, empty, but that was just for a moment, as Malcolm pushed two lubed fingers into his hole.

“Just getting you ready,” Malcolm murmured, and shifted his weight again. That small crinkling sound was the condom, and Owen relaxed as much as he could, desperate to come now.

The blunt large head demanded entry, and he moaned when Malcolm pulled his ass cheeks apart, as if to watch himself push in. But such concerns were well past Owen’s capability now, even though he knew how practiced all this was, how much Malcolm the sex robot got out of this, how it had to feed his ego.

Malcolm pushed slowly, and, oh hells, he was bigger, so much bigger than the plug. Owen had loved the dark and the uncertainty of it all, but suddenly he wanted light. He wanted to see it, hold it, know the thing that was invading his flesh, and know it intimately.

Suddenly, just as Malcolm slid home hard and deep and bordering the fine edge of just too goddamned big, he had a hunger to see Malcolm’s face. He wanted to see if this mattered.

Behind him, Malcolm let out a low, pained, tenuous groan. “Hell . . .” he panted. “Oh bloody fucking hell.” He pulled back and slammed forward, and Owen groaned. The sound seemed to spur Malcolm on.

“God, scream for me,” he hissed, thrusting so hard Owen was driven, face first, into the couch. “Spanked you till my hand was raw, you fucking git.” Malcolm’s hips thrust forward again and another low, hard groan tore out of Owen’s mouth.

Malcolm’s hand came down hard on his ass, not with practice or the intent to arouse, but with sheer, screaming frustration, and Owen’s howl was not entirely from need. Malcolm didn’t seem to hear that sound, though, because he smacked Owen again and drove forward, his cock so far into Owen’s ass that Owen could feel their balls slap together. “Just wanted,” thrust, “to hear you,” smack! “come!”

Owen screamed, his entire body one unbearable ache of pain and desire. He reached underneath himself, resting his weight on his shoulder as Malcolm pounded into him, and grabbed his cock, needing to come so badly he didn’t care how it happened. He was literally dripping pre-cum, and normally he liked some play with that, some sweet teasing of the crown, some gentle squeezing, but that wasn’t what he needed now. What he needed now was his fist, tight and hot and hard, pumping until his aching balls pulled up underneath him.

Malcolm thrust again, and the added smack of their balls together set him off, set his cum pumping from his fisted cock.

Malcolm howled, “No, dammit, no!” and then his thrusting grew more frenzied and his hands left marks on Owen’s hip as he ground Owen into the couch with a berserker’s fuck. When he came, he let out a howl and collapsed around Owen, convulsing in orgasm, breathing so hard and fast Owen was worried for him.

As Owen relaxed into the couch, the world around him black and the trembling body of an almost-stranger sweating on top of him, it occurred to him that sometime between his own finger dipped into Grey Goose, the promise of a night to come, and this very moment, his companion had flipped some of his puzzle pieces, become more human and less robot—and Owen had willingly blinded himself to the transformation.

With a little bit of self-directed anger, he ripped off his blindfold and reached over his shoulder to stroke that curly hair. The gel had sweated out, and it was soft and sticky under his fingers.

* * * * *

Shit. Damn. Fuck. Malcolm groaned in frustration, and, if he were being honest, fucking embarrassment. Promising a stranger a good night, fulfilling his fantasy, and then losing it like a fucking schoolboy. He’d had bigger plans, much better plans, had wanted to blow Owen’s mind, and then this.

Total fuck-up, control jumped out of the window in one glorious, sweaty mess, but regardless, this wasn’t like him, and he knew a dozen guys who’d laugh at him for promising much and delivering pathetically little. He could let arousal simmer for hours, could play with denial and need, slowly removing all inhibitions. It worked, he’d done it, knew how to do it, and delivering any less felt like a total failure. Despite the pleasant post-orgasm buzz, despite the fact that Owen had come.

And was touching him.

Malcolm secured the condom (you can do at least that one right, can’t you?) and pulled out, his palms hot from the slapping, sweaty, tingling. He wanted to lean into the touch, because for the moment, Owen felt safe enough for him to do that. Was he?

Malcolm had no fucking clue. “Sorry,” he murmured and got up. He pulled the condom off and near-rushed into the bathroom, where he tossed it in the bin.

In the mirror there, he looked like a tousled, sweaty disaster, squinting at his own reflection in the too-bright light. He leaned forward, seeing the two (okay, three) fine lines under his eyes, that bewildered stare because he’d be damned if he had the slightest clue how he could have lost control like that.

He did remember the accusation from one guy who’d crushed on him a few years ago—poor guy had even waited for him outside the bank after work—who had thrown something like a hissy fit: It’s not a competition, Malcolm. You don’t always have to win.

He tossed some water in his face and then stuck his head under the faucet, washing the sweat off, and the rest of the hair gel, because that stickiness would be all over the pillows once he managed to sleep.

Shit. And how to face the stranger—Owen—when he returned to the living room? He really didn’t want to hear any smartass comments on his performance. Really not. He washed his hands—again—and dried them with the care of a surgeon before an operation. Ideally, when he came out, Owen would just have left and hopefully not have stolen his phone or wallet or something.

He straightened, rubbed his eyes again and inhaled a few times. He could still play it cool. Turn it into something of a compliment. You’re simply too hot—your own damn fault. He snorted. No. He’d only use that if Owen gave him any shit about it.

He opened the door again and saw one of the reading lamps near the couch was switched on. The blindfold lay near his glasses on the table. He headed back and didn’t look into Owen’s eyes. The guy was following his movements with his gaze. He was sitting up, still naked, not bothering to cover himself with any of his clothes strewn on the ground.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and Malcolm grimaced. Ah, the ultimate insult.

“Bloody great. I’m sorry about that last bit,” he said, still not looking. “Here, we can go into the bedroom. It’ll get cold in here in a bit.”

“Can I wipe off your couch for you?” Owen asked, and for a moment Malcolm startled, thinking they were playing the kinky servant game, but then he realized his little country mouse was just being nice.

“I’ll get it,” he mumbled. He moved to the puddle of his clothes and found his silk boxers and put them on, then threw his dress shirt on because he felt just a little too bare. And he wasn’t kidding. Half his flat was windows—it would be damn cold very shortly.

He walked to the kitchen and reached for a dish towel, squinting and wishing he’d put on his glasses, and was good and truly surprised when that lanky, athletic body showed up right behind his. A pair of long-fingered, narrow-palmed hands landed on his shoulder, and Owen whispered, “I can get this, Malcolm. We had sex. Here, gimme.”

Malcolm was undone enough to let him, and he had to admit that since Owen hadn’t put on his boxers, the view of his naked backside, stretched and red as he bent over the couch and wiped it off, was a treat. He put his glasses back on, and in the new-found clarity, spotted the red marks on Owen’s hips and grimaced.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and Owen followed his gaze and straightened, grinning faintly.

“Not going to forget that in the morning, am I?”

“I didn’t mean to do that,” he muttered, tortured by having to explain. Didn’t mean to do that? Malcolm didn’t mean to do something in bed?

“I’m well aware,” Owen said, smiling that gentle smile again. He stood up and walked the dish towel to the sink, rinsing it out like he knew his way around. He draped the cloth over the spigot to dry, dried his hands and said, “Here, I owe you something.”

“What? A graceless fuck in a stranger’s flat?”

“Haven’t gotten one of those yet,” Owen said, taking Malcolm’s hand from its resting place on the counter. He picked it up, his hands cool and drying, and Malcolm still felt the heat and sting from smacking so hard. “I made a request, you followed through.” And with that, he pulled Malcolm’s hand to his mouth and placed a warm, wet, open-mouthed kiss on his palm.

Malcolm shivered, the tenderness of the kiss soothing all sorts of sting. Owen’s lips kept moving, and his tongue came out to tease the center. Then he pulled Malcolm’s finger into his mouth and suckled on that. He released the finger, teased the webbing with his tongue, and moved to the middle finger, laving that one too.

Malcolm gasped and tilted his head back, leaning against the counter and feeling strangely helpless to stop that gentle, playful caress of tongue and lips. Owen stopped, eventually, but not before all of the tension, the pain, of the last few embarrassing moments had faded away, and Malcolm was left, strangely relaxed and a little floaty, leaning against his kitchen counter.

Owen pulled back and placed a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth, and then reached around his shoulder, his chest brushing Malcolm’s as he did so. It was such a natural, intimate thing to do, after the almost frightening escalation into sex they’d had before, that Malcolm leaned forward, just to prolong the contact—and then jerked back because he felt needy, and he was never needy.

“You left the orange juice out,” Owen said, pressing his groin and stomach intimately (and a little high up, actually) against Malcolm’s, and leaning back so he could raise the bottle to his lips. “You’re not a stickler for this, are you?” He tilted his head back and his throat worked as he took a couple of swallows.

Malcolm watched him, that neediness assailing him again, and when Owen grinned and offered him the bottle, he took it and swallowed the last bit in two gulps. He numbly set the bottle back on the counter and gave in to temptation, putting his hands on Owen’s lean, naked hips.

“You were right,” Owen said softly, feathering cool lips along his temple.

“About what?”

“It’s getting damn cold here in the kitchen. I’d love to take you to the bedroom, get under the covers, and kiss you some more. Or is that too personal?”

Malcolm swallowed and managed a crooked grin. “No, no—you’ll be on your way out of town soon. Nothing’s too personal for a stranger.”

He hadn’t quite meant it to hurt, just as a rationalization. He had planned for breakfast (but under different circumstances, admittedly), had calculated to spend a bit more time, all casual as could be.

He’d also had loads of fucks that left after the sex to catch the last Tube or bus. Those were fine, too. Especially on a work day (and really, what day wasn’t?). Getting up at six to be jogged, showered, suited, and booted at the bank by a quarter past seven for the news roundup from the research department didn’t really leave time to be terribly nice to some conquered piece of ass he’d brought in from God-knew-where.

Nothing’s too personal for a stranger.

But damn, Owen was the nicest stranger he could think of. “I didn’t mean it that way, you know.”

Owen nodded, like he’d just said something completely clear that didn’t actually bear repeating. “Bedroom?”

Kissing and touching. Yeah, he really wanted that. “Just going to brush my teeth. I have a spare toothbrush if you want it.”

They did that part in companionable silence, like some married couple, no squabbling over space in front of the mirror, and he couldn’t help but think that Owen looked good there, brushing his teeth slowly and deliberately, whereas Malcolm was what his dentist referred to as a “mad scrubber.” Maybe part of that irritation was just frustration right now, remnants of the embarrassment. He washed out his mouth and headed to the bedroom.

The large bed was made (this place came with cleaning service), the sheets all clean, because he liked nothing more than to sink, freshly-showered, into a completely fresh bed, whatever else he’d gotten up to the day or night before.

The Egyptian cotton sheets felt almost too crisp on his skin, at least for that moment until they took his body heat. He’d only shed his dress shirt and kept his boxers on. Owen, though, was still naked, and that suited him beautifully, too.

The touch on his chest was more politely gentle than tentative, and he almost sighed. It did feel good to lie back and not be expected to do much. He’d likely be able to go a second round, but right now, he was just relaxing, and how rare an occurrence was that while he had a hot guy in his bed.

Double spearmint taste in his mouth when Owen leaned over to kiss him, one hand stroking his face as he did, thumb nearly tickling his lip and the corner of his mouth. But it was the good kind of tickle. Malcolm smiled and relished the skin-on-skin feeling, the touch, even the eye contact. “Why are we here? I get you probably ended up in an overpriced shithole of a hotel—”

“I really like your mouth.”

The shape and feeling, maybe, not what was coming out of it. Malcolm smiled. He couldn’t help it. Damn, the guy was cute. Really cute.

“So you’re spending the night at my flat because you really like my—” Both of Owen’s hands came up, burying themselves in the curly mass of his hair, and Owen positioned him just so, and then touched his lips harder, possessively, and his tongue swept in deeper, with authority.

Malcolm groaned, opened to him, surprised that someone who’d been so eager to submit to him could take the lead with such ease. When his blood had surged to his skin some, including a healthy dose all points south, and his breathing had quickened, and someone (him) had made a breathless moan into someone’s (Owen’s) mouth, Owen pulled back and placed gentling kisses on the corner of his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead, his chin.

Malcolm felt stranded, panting slightly for breath, as he clung to Owen’s shoulders (hard shoulders—not massy at all, but hard; Owen was no stranger to a gym) and tried to capture Owen’s mouth.

Owen refused to be captured. He kissed down Malcolm’s stubbled chin and pulled back, grinning.

“What?” Malcolm had never felt so vulnerable.

“You’ve got a good shadow here,” Owen said, scraping it with his thumb. “I’m jealous.” He flashed a powerful grin and brought a hand to rub across his own barely-stubbled jaw. “I tried to grow a goatee once. It came out more like a Chia pet. We called it ‘Chia beard.’”

Malcolm chuckled, resisting the temptation to put his hand over his mouth. He touched Owen’s cheek instead, liking the feel of the almost-smoothness under his palm. Owen had a long jaw and a narrow, pretty face. His eyes—plain brown at first glance, were dark and liquid and framed with lashes that were blond at the tips.

“Your face is too pretty to hide under a beard anyway,” he said, trying to sound older and decisive. Instead, he sounded . . . dreamy, but maybe Owen liked dreamy, because he smiled softly and lowered his head for another kiss. “Good chin, great jawline.” He traced it, fingernail scraping gently along the soft skin beyond the bone ridge. He liked to suck on that, bite a bit, depending on mood and timing. “Great body, too,” he added, wondering why he felt the need to compliment Owen. He liked him. No harm done, right? It wasn’t a competition, not in this case. If it had been, he’d have ended it by losing the game back on the couch. He could be gracious in defeat. Maybe. Try to. It wasn’t Owen’s fault. No, Owen had stayed around and was still touching and kissing him.

The kink seemed to be completely gone, which was fine. Right now, he felt mellow enough to kiss and explore and accept what Owen did to him. Which was to keep him relaxed and drifting in this very aware yet almost sleepy state, with some arousal thrown in. He pulled Owen close for another kiss, half-turned toward him, noticed him getting aroused too, Owen’s dick brushing against his thigh.

He glanced down, and Owen grinned, knowing exactly what he was thinking. “Do you only top?” Owen asked.

Malcolm hesitated. That tended to be his chosen role these days. First, tops got a lot more play. A lot. At least from the casual hookup sites, so he’d slowly dressed up his profile to make himself look like an exclusive top. He wasn’t. Had never really been. It was just simpler, played into his image. And he really never wanted to encounter a business client who frequented the same sites and saw him being anything but in control.

“I’d really like to fuck you, but it’s okay if you don’t want to.”

Nothing’s too intimate for a stranger. Malcolm’s heart was suddenly pounding. No risk here with Owen. The Yank would be gone soon enough. And if he really wanted—well, it was a way to say “sorry” for the first part of the performance. “Sure.”

He reached out to the nightstand, opened the top drawer, pushed the dildo to the side (yeah, such a top in private too, eh, Malcolm?), and dug out the lube and a strip of condoms. He placed them to the side on the mattress, within easy reach for Owen.

Owen smiled faintly, seeming to pass no judgments at all. He placed a short, sweet kiss on Malcolm’s lips, and then . . . tended to him.

Malcolm was confused at first—Owen kissed the side of his neck, down his collarbone, between his gym-bunny pectorals, and Malcolm writhed. It was seduction, and for an absurd moment, he wanted to laugh. The deal’s sealed, mate. Take me already!

But Owen didn’t. Each kiss was hard and purposeful and necessary, enough that he craved more and harder, and with every movement—his sensitive ribs, the soft skin and hard muscles of his stomach, the divot between his hip and his groin—he wanted more. He knotted his hands in Owen’s hair, thrilled there was enough of it to grab, with the solid intention of bossing this Yank around and making him head for ground zero, damn it, when Owen knelt at his side, teasing his inner thigh.

Owen’s left hand covered Malcolm’s chest, smooth, hard palm against all of that newly nibbled skin; and the right hand rubbed his thighs, behind his knees and, with a reach, his shins. Malcolm, aroused and humbled and a little frustrated, was suddenly being petted, and the sensation was so bloody fucking marvelous he wanted to cry.

Then Owen traced his length very gently with a pointed tongue, and he cried out. His erection, which had been returning in its own time, was suddenly very hard and very urgent.

“Oh God,” he panted, writhing from the playful touch of Owen’s tongue around the ridge of his uncut cock. “Oh God . . . are you just going to tease me to death?”

Owen lifted his head and Malcolm whimpered. Shame threatened to creep up and stall things, just when they were going so well, but . . . Nothing’s too intimate for a stranger. It became his mantra.

“I love your noises,” Owen confessed, and then made up for deserting Malcolm’s cock with his mouth by seizing it in his fist. His fingers were long and bony and hard, and reminded Malcolm of why he liked this side of bi sometimes more than the other. “It’s like you groan with a British accent.”

“Oh bloody—”

Owen engulfed the head of his prick with a hot, wet, tight mouth, and Malcolm didn’t even have the wherewithal to finish swearing. Owen chuckled with Malcolm deep in his throat, and Malcolm grunted and thrust deeper.

Owen wet two fingers then, sliding them inside his mouth at the same time, getting a little bit sloppy which usually Malcolm abhorred, and then skated them down the predictable path, over Malcolm’s testicles, down into his crease.

Malcolm bent his legs at the knees, spread them wide, feeling vulnerable and needy and all sorts of unaccustomed things. He felt those two fingers rubbing at his rim, softening it, getting ready to enter, and he shuddered, made another helpless animal sound, and spurted a little in Owen’s throat.

Oh shit. He pulled away, panting, “You almost made me come!” accusing and a little panicked—you didn’t do that to a stranger without permission. Quickly, because God, he was ready, so goddamned ready, he rolled over onto his hands and knees and raised his ass, snapping, “Now stop fucking around and put on the bloody condom!”

The only response he got was something that felt like a rugby tackle, even if Owen would probably call it football. It involved a lot of strong body covering him and taking all his limbs and wrestling him over onto his back before he could protest or put up much of a fight.

“Shit, Owen,” he grunted. “Fuck me already.” He wouldn’t say “please,” although, granted, he might. Not far off, that. Shit.

“I will, but not like that,” Owen said close in his face, close enough that his vision blurred. Owen shifted again on his bed and opened Malcolm’s legs, pushed against his shins and moved between them.

At this point, Malcolm really didn’t care which way things were going; the only thing he cared about was watching Owen tear the foil packet and roll the condom over his dick. While Owen was busy with that, he grabbed the lube, squirted some in his hand, and was about to get himself ready when Owen stopped him, took the lube from him, and then pushed two slick fingers into him.

Malcolm hissed with pleasure, and the stretch a bit, but he really didn’t want to hear any more—

“You all right?”

—of those. “Yeah. I’d tell you if I weren’t.”

Owen grinned. “No doubt.” He put more lube on the condom, and for a moment, Malcolm thought he could watch Owen touch himself like that forever. If he didn’t want that cut cock more. He lifted his legs, watched Owen fit between them.

Owen pushed into him slowly, gently, and Malcolm was just so grateful for no slow one-two-three finger routine. He hated that. Finger-fucking wasn’t the same. He liked to see his partners lose control, too.

Owen thrust in further and Malcolm moaned. He fully expected Owen to stay on his knees and fuck him from there, but instead, Owen moved forward, toward him, very nearly covering his body, one strong hand resting near his head and the other encouraging him to tilt his hips.

Yeah. Malcolm nearly choked on his next breath. Perfect. Oh, this was good, despite the unfamiliar intimacy. He hadn’t been fucked face-to-face in like ever. He reached up and twisted Owen’s nipples. “I feel you,” he whispered. “And you’re fucking beautiful.”

Owen was glowing with something far beyond desire and sex. He glowed with life, enthusiasm, something pure and intoxicating, and if Owen wanted to fuck him like this, then, well, he’d better remember fast how to be a good bottom. Not that it would take much.

“Me?” Owen grinned that quiet, cocky grin and thrust his hips—Oh yes! “I’m just a . . .” He closed his eyes as something exquisite happened, and Malcolm scritched blunt nails across his nipples, wondering if the conversation would ever end. “. . . barbaric Yank,” Owen breathed.

He thrust again, his back and backside making a curiously graceful undulation, one that put him just . . . Malcolm closed his eyes, turning his attention inward because what was going on in his ass was just fucking at its finest.

Kisses, soft ones, under his eyelashes, made him open his eyes. “Don’t stop now, idiot!” he snapped, writhing, needing more of that steady, hard movement.

“Look at me,” Owen whispered. “Look at me until you can’t anymore.”

Malcolm opened his mouth to protest, but then Owen thrust again and withdrew, and he gasped instead. He closed his eyes again, so close, so on the edge of something truly tremendous . . . until Owen stopped, his long, muscular arms barely trembling as he held the pose.

“Please, Malcolm?” Owen asked, and Malcolm had to. It was the first thing Owen had really begged for in a night that was supposed to have him on his knees. His eyes opened, and he saw that sweet grin again, and then Owen really started to fuck him, hard, steady, slamming long and nice into his sweet spot, and Malcolm had to fight to keep his eyes open because . . . oh God . . . oh God . . .

“Ahhh!” He was shaking with the need to come, with the perfection of it. His eyes closed because he couldn’t keep them open anymore, and Owen’s position shifted, all his weight on one arm while he reached between them and grabbed Malcolm’s cock and squeezed.

Everything went up in lights, fireworks, blazes of nerve endings, violent, aching, slow and tearing pleasure, and Malcolm dug his fingers into Owen’s shoulders and wrapped his legs around those lean, almost skinny hips and shouted, begging, gibbering, because, oh God help him, it was glorious.

Owen’s hand was coated in cum, and he kept up a gentle pressure, but his hips started to buck, to heave, and he let go of Malcolm’s cock and started his own thrusting frenzy, growling, “Yeehaw!” which almost made Malcolm laugh because Owen’s eyes twinkled with mischief and humor too. Before long, Owen lost all pretense of a rhythm and fucked Malcolm to a gasping, begging pulp. He was deadly accurate, nailing Malcolm’s prostate unerringly, and Malcolm spurted, and again, tiny little shudders that didn’t seem to quit until Owen shouted again and heaved one last time before shuddering and collapsing on top of him, burying his face in Malcolm’s shoulder and sobbing breath into his ear.

Malcolm couldn’t help it; he gentled the man, touched his shoulders and hair, whispered inane things like, “That’s a good boy . . . God, you did yourself proud,” first with irony, but he was oddly raw and meant it.

Owen’s shoulders shook a little with laughter, and when he caught his breath, that grin appeared again. His face was sweaty and his hair was a mess from Malcolm’s fingers, but that grin was undimmed.

“Hooray for the red, white, and blue,” he said, and Malcolm closed his eyes and laughed helplessly, their bodies still locked together.

* * * * *

Owen woke with Malcolm still nestled against him, resting on his arm. He glanced over, looked at Malcolm’s dark hair standing up this way and that, and then the eyebrows next, oddly graceful, well-defined for a guy. Short, strong nose and dark stubble more visible now than yesterday, covering his cheeks and chin and throat, framing those lean lips that seemed made for sneering but rarely did. Not recently. Or, at least, not once things got to sex.

What a night. He turned, careful not to wake Malcolm, and studied him from a closer angle, watched his chest moving, breathing, all peaceful right now. He remembered being inside him, remembered the way Malcolm had looked at him, almost shell-shocked with pleasure.

He’d bet whatever cash he had left that Malcolm had been surprised at his own responses. So much for the trained and practiced Dom act. Malcolm had a much softer side, but how many people saw it? God, how tightly wound was that, to hold back the best of himself? For what?

Owen leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, pleased when Malcolm smiled sleepily. He pulled his arm from under Malcolm’s neck and sat up. Malcolm shifted on the bed, then flopped over to fill up the now-vacated space.

“Going, Yank?” Malcolm mumbled, and Owen rolled his eyes.

“Cleaning up and coming back to bed. I’m not leaving you until I’m sure you know my name.”

“Owen,” Malcolm murmured, burying his face into the warmth Owen had just left. “Not going to forget Owen.”

Aw . . . jeez. You think you know a bossy British one-night stand, right? Owen walked to the washroom, appreciating the clean efficiency of it. And oh, nice big walk-in shower—wonderful. But not right now. If ever there was a man in need of a good night’s sleep, it was Malcolm—Owen would have to be blind to miss the circles under his eyes. The man was wound tight; letting him stay in bed was a kindness. Owen removed the condom and washed up, then wet the cloth good and long with warm water and padded back to bed.

Malcolm barely reacted as Owen moved the cloth between his backside, washing away the lube and the evidence of their exertions. Then he nudged the man over, thinking he’d be a stout, scrappy little guy without his poise and confidence and all those pretty gym muscles to keep him lean.

Malcolm moaned and squinted at him. Owen was starting to find that squint endearing: the last piece of the puzzle that needed to be flipped over before Malcolm became completely human.

“Didn’t have to do that,” Malcolm said, and Owen bent forward and dropped a chaste little kiss on his forehead.

“Nope. Didn’t have to at all. Roll over and go back to sleep, I’ll be right there.”

He hurried this time, rinsing out the cloth and then going to the living room to find his boxers. He didn’t mind being naked, but when he slept that way things tended to get tangled. Malcolm had been right— it was damn cold at night—and Owen didn’t linger. He slid into bed behind Malcolm as quickly as he could and wrapped his arms around that sturdy chest and spooned.

Malcolm grunted and relaxed into him, and Owen’s last thought was that he’d forgotten to text Jenny but would do that in the morning when he knew what his plans were. That he and Malcolm had more to do was never once in doubt.

* * * * *

Wow, eleven o’ clock. Malcolm woke with a near-start that tore him from deep sleep. As groggy as that would normally make him, he was wide awake as he fumbled for his phone. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, listened to the tone for a few moments, then, when he heard rhythmic music in the background, hurried to speak. “Hey, Josh, sorry. This is Malcolm. Kavanagh. We kinda had a training appointment at, uh, eight.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Josh said on the other end. “You don’t sound ill. Or dead.”

“Er, no.” Shit, Josh’s no-nonsense attitude really didn’t encourage apologies. “I overslept.”

“He worth it?”

Damn Aussies, waltzing all over subtlety. “I don’t know yet. Figured it would be rude to kick him out of bed that early.”

“Well, you know the policy. You gotta cancel 24 hours in advance or there’s nothing we can do about the fee. My hands are tied.”

“Yes, that’s clear. I did read the contract. Sorry for not canceling.”

“Well, I did try to reach you after sitting on my arse for half an hour.”

“I slept like the dead.”

“Sure thing, no problem. Maybe go for a nice little run when you’ve sent Romeo home, and keep watching the carbs. Next one same time, next Saturday?”

“Sure, yeah. Works for me.”

“Great, I’ll make a note. Have a great weekend, Malcolm. Watch those carbs.”

“Will do.” He tapped the screen and sank back against the head of the bed with a groan. Josh would make him suffer for it. At five foot four, Josh paired a Napoleon complex with hardcore sadism. If anything, that had gotten even worse after his sex change. Or “gender-reassignment surgery” or whatever the current PC term was. Gender-affirming?

He pushed out of bed, found his boxers near the foot of the bed and ran a hand down his stomach. Damn hard work, that, and he really shouldn’t skip the training, but this was a real life issue, involving real people. He headed into the kitchen, started water in the kettle, rummaged through the fridge and grimaced. Nothing really all that edible or interesting. He returned to the bedroom. “I’ll just get those bagels. Wait here? I’ll make breakfast. Can probably even round up some eggs and bacon, if you’re interested.”

Owen smiled sleepily and brushed his fall of brown hair out of his eyes. “Sounds amazing,” he said through a yawn, and then blinked, hard. “Oh crap—what time is it?”

“Eleven.” Malcolm grimaced. “I know—it’s later than I’d planned too.”

Owen sat up in bed. “I’ve got to text Jenny. Oh God—she had the day planned to a T—she’s going to be pissed.”

Malcolm paused as he was pulling his jeans up his hips. “What did you have planned?”

Owen looked a little self-conscious. “Tourist shit. But, you know—I really wanted to do it. Trafalgar Square, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace . . .” He cleared his throat. “Shakespeare’s house. You know. Tourist shit.” Owen looked away, a faint flush blotching his neck and shoulders, almost like the sex-flush he’d worn last night. “Probably sounds stupid to you, doesn’t it?”

“No, not at all.” Malcolm pulled up his jeans and then threw himself across the bed, stomach first. “Look—text your ex-bitch-harpy whatever and tell her to get on with her plans. I haven’t had a Saturday off in . . .” He shook his head and realized he was really close to those amazing brown eyes. Owen’s nose was long and straight—not too long, mind you, just unapologetic. For the eyes to overshadow it—well, they had to be something. Malcolm swallowed. “In forever,” he said quietly. “And my trainer is going to make me pay out the arse and bloody eyeballs for it. Let’s make it count, all right?”

Owen’s smile was damn near blinding. “Really? You’ll take me to do all the tourist shit? That’ll be awesome. Wait until I tell Jenny—she’ll be green. She likes to think she knows Europe because she’s been here like a thousand times but . . . but you live here.”

Owen scrambled out of bed, apparently taken with excitement, and rushed into the living room to start rooting for his cell phone. Malcolm watched him go with bemusement. He wasn’t sure he’d seen that much enthusiasm in anyone outside a schoolroom, and it was . . . charming.

He pulled on a T-shirt and sweater and then socks and a pair of trainers, listening to Owen mumble over his texting in the living room. When Malcolm joined him, he was standing next to the couch in his underwear, frowning at his phone.

“Dammit, Jenny, I didn’t mean to oversleep. Isn’t that what vacations for?” he muttered, and then sighed, hit a button, and put the phone to his ear. “I didn’t mean to.” He paused for a moment and sighed, letting some of the exasperation out. “Look—you found a hookup, I found a hookup, let’s just go with that. When are we taking the Eurostar to France?” The disappointment on his face was gratifying. “Monday morning? Really?”

Malcolm took two strides over and got his attention. “Get your stuff from the hotel,” he said quietly. “You can cab it to the station.” Owen raised his eyes and smiled.

“Yeah?” he mouthed, and Malcolm nodded. “Jenny? Look, I’m going to swing by and grab my stuff, and I’ll meet you at the station at—what time? Oh Christ, that’s early. Okay. I’ll be there at eleven a.m.—give us some time to do whatever. Yeah, I will. You have fun too.”

Owen tapped his phone and then frowned. “I do need my stuff. I’ve got my phone charger there. And clean underwear.” He grinned at Malcolm wickedly, and Malcolm’s stomach flipped over. “Think I’m really gonna need clean underwear.”

Malcolm swallowed past a suddenly dry throat. “I should certainly hope so,” he said, and then, impulsively, he gave Owen a peck on the cheek before grabbing his wallet off the counter and heading for the door.

He squelched the pang of bad conscience about work. Normally, he’d go through his trading strategy, work out better ways to make money, but at the end of the day, he was mostly paid anyway to act as a market-maker, and that was by necessity a client-driven business. And in this shitty kind of market where even hard-bitten traders sat on bags of uninvested cash and whimpered softly, whatever proprietary trading went on was mostly flying blind.

Hell, even Peter “Short the Bitch” Connolly didn’t do much trading right now. When the whole mess had started, he’d announced he’d leave the market for a year or two, sit on a terrace somewhere in Bali, and come back when the market was calming the fuck down. Malcolm figured they all should have done that, really.

He should probably go to that drinks thing that the commodities research house was hosting tonight, but then, expensive prostitutes and sugar traders were really not who he wanted to spend his Saturday evening with. Taking Owen along occurred to him, but Owen wasn’t really the type to enjoy financial people getting loud and drunk, and there was so much more to London than an admittedly atmospheric cellar bar.

He jogged down toward the bagel place he remembered, just fifteen minutes away, got one of everything (probably still very limited), then picked up some Italian ham, cheddar, and Cornish brie at the supermarket, and headed back, a thought forming in his head. Okay, not forming. Crystallizing. Taking shape and getting edges, that sort of thing.

When he opened the door, the breakfast bar was laid and orange juice poured, and Owen was standing in the kitchen as if he belonged there. Ouch. That pang of—something—actually hurt a little.

“They’re still warm,” Malcolm said, dumping the bagels onto the table in their paper bag. “Cheese here, the local stuff—not London, but British—and yeah, Josh is going to kick my arse for all those carbs, but that’s okay. I’ll go back on lean roast chicken and salad later.” Coffee was made, too, so Owen had learned the Italian coffee machine. Malcolm picked up his mug from the counter just as Owen finished them.

“I’m thinking, if you need anything more, like, I don’t know, clothes, stuff . . . It wouldn’t be a big deal, you know.”

Owen frowned and started rooting through the paper bag. “What wouldn’t be a big deal?”

“Never mind,” Malcolm said, feeling suddenly self-conscious. Here he’d been about to offer something tremendous, and the stupid Yank didn’t even see what he was about.

“Oh wonderful,” Owen breathed, pulling out a bagel and some cream cheese. He turned around and took the bagels to the counter, then pulled out the little wooden cutting board and started to slice them up. Then he pulled out the tomato and the cheese and sliced that up too.

“What do you want on yours?” he asked, looking at a bemused Malcolm. Malcolm couldn’t help it. The boy (well, he really was a man, but a young one) was just so . . . natural. Everything he did, from making coffee to fixing their breakfast to . . . (Malcolm swallowed) cleaning him up and tending to him after sex. It was so easy for him. He accepted, which was funny to think, because he hadn’t stopped challenging Malcolm once, but that was really only when . . .

When Malcolm wasn’t being himself. It was like Owen saw who a person was, and would accept nothing less.

“I’ll have what you’re having,” Malcolm said, trying to define that thing he wanted again. The least he could do was make an effort to take him somewhere decent. “Look, I’d like to go someplace posh tonight—you got any clothes for that, back at your hotel?”

Owen grimaced. “Khakis and a dress shirt. Not really posh, I guess, but then, Jenny doesn’t show me off to her rich friends, so it was all I needed.”

“Look,” Malcolm said delicately, “I could take you shopping, you know. I’ve got the coin, it’s no big deal.”

Owen grimaced. “No thanks. Honestly—I want to see the tourist stuff, but if it’s too rich for khakis and a button-down, it’s probably too rich for me.”

Malcolm took a deep breath through his nose and gritted his teeth. “I was just saying . . .” Owen turned and regarded him levelly, and Malcolm was suddenly overcome by an emotion he rarely, if ever, had any contact with whatsoever.

Patience.

If the day went well, maybe Owen would want to see the pricier side of London enough to let Malcolm shop for him after all. And seriously, for what Owen had done for him, he’d have spent at least that much money on a shrink or a rentboy. Or a guy who did both. He chuckled at the thought of Owen as a high-priced escort, and felt an odd churning in his stomach. Jealousy and hunger made an awful combination.

“Shit, I can smell the starch from here. Let’s eat.” Josh would have his ass. But then, Mr. One-Million-Crunches-at-Lunchtime would have his ass anyway.

He settled down and started on the orange juice, a rare indulgence. “Those clothes are fine, by the way. You wouldn’t believe what people wear in this place. But then, I remember meeting a Japanese tourist who actually showed up in a pinstripe with a bowler hat. I wasn’t sure if the guy was being ironic or had used a tourist guide from the seventies and thought he’d fit right in.”

Good; given the way Owen almost snorted his coffee through his nose, the diversion tactic was working. “We’ll start at Trafalgar Square. What about Madame Tussauds? Wax figures? I think they have Hitler and Lady Gaga there now. And the Beckhams, of course. Kylie. We’ll grab a day pass on the Tube, it’s all pretty much within half an hour of each other, and then it depends what kind of food you like. If you’re more for Indian, I’ll take you to Veeraswamy; if it’s more Japanese, we’ll do Nobu.” He’d find a way to pay the bill without Owen working out how much it cost. Maybe that was the way to do it—get the Yank tired enough with sensory overload to exhaust him into financial complacency.

“Sounds good,” Owen said, seemingly taking a lot of pleasure from that bagel now, and Malcolm reminded himself to eat. Mouthful of carbs, but wow, it was nice.

“Great. We’ll start at London Bridge, which is just outside the door.”

* * * * *

They set out soon after that, although Owen felt a sudden arrow of vanity as they were leaving and pulled out the knit cap he kept in the pocket of his hoodie. In spite of the fairly mild weather, he put it on as they stepped outside of Malcolm’s building. When Malcolm looked at him in askance, he felt his face heat and looked away.

“It’s a fashion statement, okay?”

“And what exactly is it saying?”

Owen pulled up a corner of his mouth. “It’s saying my hair’s too long to stay neat in the wind, that’s what it’s saying.”

Malcolm laughed at that, which was good, because it was true. But after that, Owen nearly forgot about the cap and the hair and his embarrassment. London was bigger than all of that put together—and then some. Massive groups of tourists, and they went to Trafalgar Square first, which was really impressive. Malcolm pointed out a guy with a huge bird of prey on his arm across the square. “I bet you didn’t know London has an official hawk keeper . . . whatever they’re called, oh yes, falconer. The stupid animal rights people hate him, but he does keep the pigeons under control,” Malcolm said in that off-handed kind of way, just before they headed into the National Gallery.

“That is so. Fucking. Cool.” Owen’s eyes were probably the size of dinner plates, but he didn’t care.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Yanks,” he said, but Owen could see him smiling too.

The gallery itself was enormous, so they only had time for highlights, like the painting with an optical illusion that, if you looked at it from a certain angle, had one elongated smear across the bottom turn into a three-dimensional skull.

“Here’s the da Vinci Dan Brown wrote about.” Malcolm’s voice held suppressed excitement—certainly no tour-guide boredom. Owen could listen to him for hours. “For a while, you could barely get into this room. Or, of course, the Templar church. Want to see that? Should be open. Unless there’s a posh wedding going on. But it’s a nice walk along the Thames, anyway, if you’re interested.”

Owen grinned. Why not?

Getting into the Middle Temple area was a bit of an adventure, as the place was fenced off and housed a fair amount of lawyers and barristers in London. Those old houses, with the cobblestone streets and paths and small gardens in between, looked like something out of Dickens—a village where only law people lived.

Malcolm led him through the gardens and past fountains, saying, “Apparently this is one of those spots where some famous writer or other liked to hang out,” but he couldn’t remember who exactly.

Then there was a church that looked worn around the edges; it was clearly ancient. White stone, worn sculptures on the ground inside. Those were actually graves, and kings and Templars and national heroes lay here. Owen had thought they were all in Westminster Abbey, but clearly not.

“There, those two knights on a horse. Seemed some people thought they were arse-fucking,” Malcolm announced cheerily, pointing at a pillar standing just outside the church.

A tourist cast a baleful glance at Malcolm and hissed a “tsk.”

Owen snickered, but Malcolm seemed oblivious. Either that, or he’d just recovered far more of his brashness than was healthy for him. “Not, mind, that there’s anything wrong with arse-fucking. Hey, if it was consensual and all.”

“I imagine it was,” Owen said suggestively, enjoying Malcolm losing a beat, and they then walked down a busy street on the bank of the Thames.

“There, Houses of Parliament coming into view. The place Guy Fawkes was trying to blow up?” Malcolm pointed ahead. “And that tower there is Big Ben. Of course, the tower isn’t called that, it’s the name of the bell in the tower.” He grinned, visibly proud of his city. “You know why Parliament is built right next to the water? I mean, there’s nothing between the water and the building, see?”

Owen nodded, leaning his arms on the stone railing and looking at where the building practically rose out of the water. “Dunno? In case there’s a fire?”

“Almost. They built it there so in case there’s a riot and people want to hang all these bastards, they can evacuate over the water. Pretty clever, huh? Don’t trust a good British lynch mob, is what I’m saying.” Malcolm grinned.

“Better system than we have,” Owen muttered. “They keep trying to arrest our mobs back home.”

Malcolm’s grin widened. “It’s because you people don’t mean it. That’s what I’m saying here—we want to hang a politician, we mean what we say! You just want to talk them to death.”

Owen shot back a grin. “Well, you know. Sometimes talking’s hot.”

And just that quickly Malcolm was flustered, and they were back in bed, Owen deep inside him, doing the things Malcolm wouldn’t ask for. “Right. Um, okay. On to the next bit, okay?”

Owen smiled at him, letting his eyes hood over with lust, and Malcolm shot him an exasperated glare and continued the tour, delightfully huffy.

He guided him across Parliament Square, Westminster Abbey (which was very impressive, but also closed to tourists), and then down the street toward Victoria (whatever that was), and they detoured into a strange building that looked like it belonged in the Middle East.

“Strangest Cathedral Ever,” Malcolm said at the red-brick, uh, church with gold mosaics and oddly Byzantine look. “Westminster Cathedral. Smell the incense? This is one of the few real Catholic churches we have. It’s not really old, but quite pretty. Looks more like mosque, right?”

It did, but the quietness and the incense swept over him in a sweet, almost familiar feeling of peace. He paused for just a moment, eyes closed, a half-smile on his face. “I like this place very much,” he said after a moment, comfortable with the spirituality. “My mom was . . . well, you’d probably call her a hippie, but she’s not really. She’s got a computer and a job and if you didn’t know her, you’d think she’s totally normal. But she . . .” Owen kept his eyes closed and smiled again. “She would like a place like this. She’d say you could feel the Goddess here—which would probably freak out anyone who heard her because I don’t think that’s the point.” He opened his eyes again and looked around, then caught Malcolm’s entranced look and cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to go on.”

“No worries. I take it you miss your mum?”

“Text her every day,” Owen said without apology. This morning she’d warned him not to get too attached to whoever he had in bed. “What’s next?”

They had a walk around the many small side altars and looked at the mosaics, but it was also really quite full and Owen was getting hungry. Malcolm ended up taking him to a quick Japanese restaurant down a side street.

“It’s just a chain, but the food is okay. Mango Tree’s not far away in Grosvenor Gardens, but it’s maybe a touch formal . . .” Malcolm looked so worried over it that Owen had no choice but to grin and tell him he would really just like to eat something, anything, that didn’t involve much waiting. When he suggested McDonald’s, Malcolm acted like it was some sort of crime, and instead dragged him to the Japanese place, where they actually managed to score a pile of food in under ten minutes. They also did a ginger and white chocolate cheesecake, which, Malcolm insisted, was the best thing on their menu. Even though he hadn’t tasted the other seventy or so items, Owen agreed readily. It seemed he was ready to trust Malcolm on a lot of things, something that probably would have surprised almost anyone else. But Owen had been raised to trust his instincts—to close his eyes in a holy place and allow himself to be guided. So far, this man didn’t seem to be steering him wrong.

“Okay,” Malcolm said after some internal deliberation that Owen figured involved scales and an abacus, since it dragged on so long. “That’s a solid half day’s work in terms of tourism. Buckingham Palace is just down the road, too. If you ask me, it’s an ugly old box and inside it’s as tasteless as any place I’ve ever been, but we can do it.”

“I didn’t ask you,” Owen said, and then leaned over and kissed Malcolm soundly on the cheek, in spite of the people flowing around them at the restaurant. “And thank you for taking me anyway.”

When they came to the front of the palace, the wall opened to a large wrought-iron fence, and policemen in dark blue were guarding the single entrance. Lots of tourists were taking pictures in front of the fence, and Malcolm pulled out his phone and shot a couple of Owen.

“I’ll email them to you, no problem.”

Was that Malcolm’s “really clever” way to score his email address? Sounded like it, right? Excellent.

“Here,” Owen said, giving Malcolm his phone. “Put in your digits, and I’ll put in mine.”

Malcolm nodded and they sat down at the monument in front of the palace for a minute, entering in phone numbers and email addresses and such, and then Owen said, “Here. Let me take one of you. That way your picture will flash up when you call me.”

“I’m going to be calling you a lot?” Malcolm’s voice was funny, like he couldn’t decide if he was being sarcastic or begging.

“Well you’ll have to,” Owen said gently. This was a commitment of sorts, wasn’t it? In a no-strings-attached one-night stand? “You’ll return my calls, right?”

Malcolm nodded eagerly. “Absolutely.”

“Then you’ll be calling me a lot.”

The smile Malcolm gave was almost winsome, and very brilliant. Owen looked at it and swallowed. How much was that going to suck, seeing that face pop up on his phone and knowing its owner was half a world away?

Something about his silence must have reached Malcolm, because he said, “Here, let me look. That’s not a bad picture.”

“Did you doubt it?” Owen laughed, but his voice was still a little off and he knew it.

Malcolm shrugged, but he looked pleased. “You had enough of the tourist gig, then? Ready to go collect your clothes and make some plans for the night?”

Owen looked around and realized the shadows were lengthening and the sun had escaped the veil of low clouds to reach, chill and orange, across the horizon. It was time to start thinking about the night. “Why not?” he asked, determined to have an amazing night with the man who had made him smile and taken time out of what was, apparently, a hellaciously busy life to play tour guide. “What did you have in mind?”

“Could have a really nice dinner—you wouldn’t be allowed to look at the prices, though, okay? Or go clubbing, or grab some takeaway and go back to mine. Have plenty of great sex, you know, the usual.” Malcolm delivered the last part with a completely straight face, which meant he was being either sarcastic or ironic—or protecting his feelings.

“You really want to take me out to dinner, don’t you?”

Malcolm hesitated. “I want to dress you up and take you out to dinner, yes,” he said, not looking Owen in the eyes, and Owen had to admit the silk and wool of Malcolm’s work clothes the night before had felt fine under his palms, and Malcolm had looked outstanding in it. Anywhere this man wanted to take him would probably have a dress code—or at least a way of making Owen feeling really gauche if he wore the wrinkled khakis and button-down in his duffel bag.

“You think better clothes will make me less of a hick from the States?” He managed to keep any defensiveness from his voice. The man was trying to offer him something nice—something he wouldn’t likely get on his own.

“I think you’d stand out in a crowd no matter what you wore,” Malcolm snapped, and then turned away from the palace and the sunshine, and, it seemed, the really great day. He blew out his breath when they’d crossed Green Park. “Also, to be honest, I’ve seen Yanks in Veeraswamy wearing shorts and T-shirts, and the people serving there are perfectly nice about it. I mean, they wouldn’t let you feel it, and they are just off Regent’s Street, so you probably get some funny walk-in customers. I’m fine with that. I just—I don’t know. Maybe I don’t want you to feel like I’m your sugar daddy or something. If we’re both wearing nice clothes, that makes things more equal, you know. But then . . .” He chuckled, and whatever was funny, it was very funny, because he broke into laughter. “I probably have some khakis somewhere. So we can both play tourist there.” He grinned at Owen. “Whatever you want and feel comfortable with. I’d be okay to ask them to deliver, and we can eat on the couch, fireplace on, and get all nice and cuddly.”

Owen smiled. “Khakis,” he said decisively. “A nice dinner out. Take home dessert.”

“Take home dessert?”

“I really crave sweets after amazing sex. Since I don’t plan on any other kind . . .”

Malcolm chuckled wickedly. “You, my American friend, are like a hidden landmine of sex appeal. I’m going to have to look out for you.”

“Too late.” Owen raised his face to the unfamiliar smells, breezes, sounds of the city, enjoying them even more now that he knew something of it and it had become personal to him. “I’ve already exploded. You’re caught.”

He tilted his head back and laughed, inviting Malcolm to share the joke, but Malcolm was unusually quiet much of the way back to his apartment.

* * * * *

Malcolm was trying—hard—not to be buried too deeply in his own disappointment and his own head. It was a hookup, right? A random hookup. A weekend thing. A boy, someone to play Dom with, someone—

Oh fuck. Who was he kidding. He wanted Owen to remember him. He wanted to be seen in his city with him. (His city, through which this beautiful, enthusiastic young man who’d closed his eyes in a cathedral and spoken unapologetically about his mum had walked with wide strides and a delighted smile and a laugh for every lame joke or bit of trivia Malcolm could remember from school trips or nights out with a client.) He wanted—even for a night—for there to be a “them.”

He had really wanted to give him something. He thought the suit was all he’d get to give.

“All right,” Owen said as they were stepping up on the curb to Malcolm’s building.

“All right what?” Malcolm asked, startled out of his own head.

“I don’t know why it’s so important to you. If I knew, maybe we could wear something besides khakis.”

Malcolm swallowed. Really? As sappy as he’d been getting over this? Big bad Dom Malcolm was supposed to tell this guy how he felt? The image of Owen closing his eyes in the cathedral came back to him. He’d closed his eyes. Unguarded, unafraid. It had been so simple for him to share something about himself. Oh, hell. So did that make Malcolm a bloody coward now?

“It was just a really good day,” he said as they went through the door. He smiled absently at the doorman, who glanced at him almost like he didn’t recognize him, and he and Owen stood quietly at the lift.

“A gift?” Owen said quietly. “You want to give me a gift?”

“Not like . . . not like, ‘Go buy yourself something pretty,’” Malcolm said. The lift doors opened, and then they were in, and it was almost too close for the two of them. He’d spent a good twenty minutes with this man’s dick in his ass, but he couldn’t spend two minutes in a lift? He needed to clear this up before he climbed out of his own skin.

“Then what’s it like?”

“I want you to remember me,” he said, feeling twee and silly and generally like a fourteen-year-old.

Owen seized his hand.

“Okay,” he said, as though the subject hadn’t just chewed up an hour of what was turning into an abominably short weekend.

“That’s it? Okay?”

“Malcolm, if you think I’m going to need the suit to remember you, I’d better let you buy it for me. I’m pretty sure it’s not necessary, but, seriously. Knock yourself out.”

Malcolm grimaced, then lifted himself to his toes and gave Owen one of those surprising kisses on the cheek that Owen was always giving him.

“Plan to, mate. Seriously plan to.”

Which is how they ended up in a very high end men’s clothing store, looking at the triple image of Malcolm’s American student looking back at the both of them skeptically. Obviously, a fully bespoke suit would have been nicer, even a semi-fitted one, but there was really no time for initial measurements and several rounds of fittings, and how Owen would take to a traditional tailor was anybody’s guess. So he’d opted for the ready-made.

The salesman was perfectly nice about fitting Owen into a dark blue Zegna suit—still pretty casual, overall, but something he could quite easily have gone to work in anywhere in London or Canary Wharf. Black wingtip shoes completed the ensemble, and black socks, of course, since Owen had nothing in his kit but trainers and sweat socks.

Malcolm drew nearer while Owen was still standing in front of the mirror, adjusting collars and cuffs and moving from one leg to the other like he was about to rugby-tackle an enemy. “You’re looking great. Comfortable? You like it?”

Owen shrugged and turned to look at himself from the side. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Great.” He ran a hand along Owen’s arm. “I’ll make it very much worth your while when we get home.” He winked at Owen, and caught a fond little smile from the salesman. The understanding there was immediate, and while the guy tallied everything up at the counter, he asked, “Your boyfriend from the States?”

Malcolm hesitated, and figured if it weren’t for Owen, if this had been a random hookup (not that he bought them suits), he’d have denied everything and slipped the sales guy his card, but he found himself grinning. “They lost his luggage at Terminal Five. Fucking Heathrow.”

“Oh, I know how it is,” the sales guy said, and ramped up his camp a little more as he handed him the PIN pad. Malcolm quickly typed in his PIN and took the receipt when the sales guy handed it all back. “Well, have a great evening, sir.”

It was like a prophecy, really. Dinner was brilliant. Owen was acceptably awed by the plush and colorful array of London’s oldest Indian restaurant (hell, potentially the oldest Indian restaurant in Europe, period), and by the history of it. He said he felt like one of those noirish characters in a 1930s film—all that was missing was the small mustache, the white kerchief, and a woman in a really bizarre dress. That got them both talking about old movies and how either one of them would have banged Cary Grant in a hot second, and the conversation went fast from there to favorite movies, past and present (Owen liked a movie called Drive, and Malcolm had recently become a fan of District 9), and music.

They had a lot of non-alcoholic mint and ginger coolers, and then a bottle of red with Owen’s Nihari lamb and Malcolm’s Nizamu Murgh. Wow, Josh would absolutely murder him and feed him to the “other pigs,” as he called it, but feeding Owen great food and enjoying his own was completely worth it.

Of course, to complete the irony, a bunch of American tourists did come in, and half the group was wearing jeans. Malcolm managed to not break out in helpless laughter.

He also managed to settle the bill without Owen seeing how much it cost, and then stepped out into the street with Owen and called a taxi. Perfect evening that it was, the first cab coming around the corner stopped for them. “My lucky day,” Malcolm murmured into Owen’s ear and opened the car door.

* * * * *

The ride back to the flat was a miracle of tension. They didn’t hold hands, but Malcolm did sit close enough to press his thigh against Owen’s, and the heat coming through the (fine, crisp, soft) fabric of that amazingly fitted suit was enough to make Owen’s mouth go dry.

God, he was pretty.

The dark hair and pale blue eyes—they weren’t a usual combination, but beyond that. There was the evenness of the features, the strength of the short jaw, and a sort of . . . hidden sweetness that had Owen totally captured.

Malcolm had so badly wanted him to enjoy the night. He’d enjoyed buying him the suit, had put his hand possessively in the small of Owen’s back as they’d walked away from the clothier’s. Owen could swear that Malcolm had chosen that restaurant just for his enjoyment. Malcolm wanted Owen to like it here, and in spite of his initial appearance of not giving a damn who he fucked, he wanted Owen to like him.

Owen did. Owen liked him a lot. He especially liked the way he wanted them to be equals—both in bed and out of it. God, Malcolm had loved being on the bottom.

Conversation stalled for a moment, and Owen glanced at him. He was peering into the darkness as the city lights bled by, looking out the window like he couldn’t wait to get where they were going. Owen leaned over in the darkness of the cab and whispered, “Do you want me to top again?” and actually felt that powerful, dominant, tightly wound body melt next to him.

Now Malcolm reached out and clasped his hand, bringing it to his lips and turning it, palm up, to place a kiss, sinking his teeth delicately into Owen’s palm as he pulled away, leaving his tongue out to taunt until the last moment. He leaned over and whispered in Owen’s ear, “As long as you want me to spank you again,” a surge of blood rushed to Owen’s cock, the sensation so powerful he actually gasped.

Malcolm caught his eyes in the darkness, his own gleaming behind his glasses. “Serves you right,” he muttered. “I can barely walk.”

Good. That was damn arousing to know.

The cab arrived and the two of them got out, clenching each other’s hands and stumbling up through the lobby to the lift like drunkards fumbling their way home.

Inside the elevator, Malcolm turned and raised himself on his toes, throwing himself at Owen with enough ferocity to drive Owen back against the wall. Owen captured that holy-God-tight ass under his palms and pushed up, gratified when Malcolm grabbed hold of his shoulders and lifted his legs, wrapping them around Owen’s ass and grinding their groins together. He tasted like gingermint and chocolate kulfi and something stronger and more powerful, something like want and need, and Owen drank him in and gave him back, dying for him in the subjective three hours it took to get to Malcolm’s floor.

The doors opened, and Malcolm slid down his body, and neither of them bothered to take a breath before they grabbed hands and ran for the apartment door.

“You’d better,” Malcolm panted while fumbling for the key, “let me hang up these bloody suits.”

“As long as you help take it off me,” Owen said as the key clicked.

They spilled inside and made it to the bedroom, where Malcolm said, “Stop. Stop right there and let me undress you.”

For once—partly because he really did like the suit and didn’t want to wrinkle it, but mostly because he liked doing what this man told him to sometimes—he didn’t argue and didn’t backtalk. He paused in front of the bed, facing the wall, and looked at Malcolm in the dark.

Malcolm was looking back with a self-satisfied smile on his face. “Are you finally listening to directions?” he asked, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Until it suits me not to,” Owen said with just enough heat to remind Malcolm he knew what he was doing when he took over. He went to loosen his cufflinks, fumbling a little with the old-fashioned pin, and Malcolm took over.

“Well, until you learn how to wear civilized clothes, it needs to suit you, Yank,” Malcolm said, with barely an eyebrow raise for the pun. There was more affection in his voice than Owen thought even he knew.

“Yes, yes, master,” Owen said dryly, rolling his eyes. “Undress me at your leisure.”

Malcolm grimaced, struggling with his second cufflink. “Well, if you’re going to be that way about it, it takes away all the fun.”

Owen chuckled and leaned just close enough for Mal to feel his breath on the shell of his ear. “And this is all about fun, isn’t it, Malcolm?”

Malcolm’s fingers fumbled on his cufflinks. “Is that what you think?” he asked, something in his voice almost hurt, and Owen was quiet until Malcolm met his eyes in the dark. Tenderly, Owen pulled his wrist away from Malcolm’s ministrations and pulled off Malcolm’s glasses, leaning close enough that his face wouldn’t be just a blur in the dark as their eyes met.

“No, Malcolm. It’s a lot about fun, but not all.”

Malcolm smiled then, hesitant, shy—not a smile Owen would have suspected from the bossy little shit who’d bought him a shot of vodka the night before. “Good,” Malcolm murmured, and then slid that wonderful suit jacket off Owen’s shoulders, being careful to hang it up.

“What are you going to do with that once I’m gone?” Owen asked, and was unprepared for the stricken look Malcolm gave him over his shoulder.

“I . . . you’re supposed to take it with you.”

Owen grimaced. “I’m living out of a duffel bag,” he said, and then brightened. “Hey—maybe we can mail it home.”

Malcolm nodded as if that made sense, but Owen couldn’t shake the feeling that something else besides getting him undressed was going on in Malcolm’s head.

“That would mean I’d have to give you my address,” Owen said, teasing, and Malcolm came back to unbutton his shirt.

“That could be dangerous,” Malcolm said softly, avoiding his eyes.

“Yeah.” He put his hands up to cover Malcolm’s. “Never know when some bossy Brit will show up, telling me to bend over—”

“And then shoving your arse on a plane back to England,” Malcolm said, and he sounded like he was trying to keep his voice light, but his hands were shaking under Owen’s, and suddenly the task of taking the suit off without rumpling it felt like too big a thing, even for the both of them.

Owen placed both hands on either side of Malcolm’s face and kissed him, hard, with possession, like he had a right to be there and Malcolm had a right to expect him there. Malcolm opened his mouth and crushed Owen to him, responding ravenously, as if his hunger for the kiss was staving off a crueler, deeper hunger.

Owen didn’t stop kissing him, even when Malcolm’s fingers fumbled for his buttons and pushed the shirt down from his shoulders. He had the presence of mind to drape it over the end table, and then Malcolm was sliding his hands beneath Owen’s white undershirt and over his skin, and Owen gasped, that warmth shocking, his stomach tightening at all that lovely attention.

“Fucking hell,” Malcolm said. “Do you have any idea how hard I have to work out to get a stomach like that? You don’t even count carbs, do you?”

Owen chuckled and lifted his arms, ducking as the shirt came off. He lowered his head and licked the side of Malcolm’s neck softly. “It’s not fair, is it?” he whispered, nibbling first, then kissing up to a vulnerable ear. Malcolm let out a long, shaking breath, and Owen kept nibbling. Malcolm tilted his head back and Owen took him up on the invitation, kissing around the front and to the other side. This time he bit a little harder, and suckled the flesh tightly between his teeth. Instead of jerking back, Malcolm yielded, making a needy sound and knotting his fingers in Owen’s hair to hold him closer. Oh, Owen should have known—the subtle bite, the singing edge of pain—Malcolm liked his sex with just that edge.

Owen moved to a spot on Malcolm’s chest, sucking hard, and Malcolm bucked his hips against his just as hard. He lowered a hand, trapping Malcolm there and forcing him to grind into his thigh, hard enough to hurt himself.

“Easy,” he breathed, kissing down Malcolm’s throat, between his pecs—which had definitely benefited from his obsession with fitness—and then moving his hands back to cup Malcolm’s shoulders so he could suck a flat pink nipple into his mouth. Malcolm groaned, and Owen nipped at it, hard enough to sting. This time, the groan seemed to rip right out of his vitals.

Owen bent down and shifted, putting his hands on Malcolm’s hips and sinking to his knees right there on the area rug, still in his suit pants. He unfastened Malcolm’s belt and then fumbled for the zipper.

“I’m supposed to be undressing you,” Malcolm panted, and Owen looked up into his eyes, wondering if Malcolm could see clearly that far.

“Are we back to supposed-tos again?” he said softly. “All we really have to do tonight is make each other happy.” He fumbled with Malcolm’s fly and then shoved the whole works down—boxers, slacks, belt, everything—and stuck out his tongue to tickle the end of Malcolm’s cock. It was thick, but like the night before, he enjoyed stretching his mouth around it and sucking it into the back of his throat until it bottomed out.

Malcolm made a choked noise above him. “That makes me happy!”

For a moment there were no other noises but the suck and slurp of Owen’s mouth and Malcolm’s rapidly escalating breathing. Malcolm’s hands tangled in his hair, and Owen let him control the pace, the depth, even the pressure, until suddenly Malcolm stopped and clenched and pulled him away. He tasted pre-cum on his tongue and stopped, not wanting Malcolm to come so soon either.

He stood, slid his suit pants off and laid them carefully on the end table, then sat on the bed in his boxers and held his hand out. Malcolm took it and sat down with him, and Owen whispered in his ear, “I really want to be inside you again tonight, is that okay?”

Malcolm made a sound. “Already told you, I was planning on it.”

“Am I pissing you off with all this sweetness? You could always spank m—”

Malcolm put a hand on each shoulder and shoved, and Owen found himself on his back. Malcolm rolled him over until he was splayed out on the bed on his stomach, knees on the floor, ass in the air. In a second, Malcolm had shucked his underwear too, and Owen’s cock bobbed against the comforter, engorged and ready.

* * * * *

Malcolm looked longingly at Owen’s ass—taut, lean, clenched lightly in anticipation—and thought of all the things he’d like to do to it. God, so much kink, so little time. Between that and the memory of Owen inside him, face–to-face like the night before, he wasn’t sure he could last.

He wanted to come with Owen inside him again.

He smacked Owen’s rear experimentally, and his palm tingled, still a little sensitive from the night before.

“Stay right there,” he said, and walked around the bed to the toy drawer.

He looked over the bed, aware that Owen’s challenging, ironic gaze was fastened on his every move, and sighed as he pulled out a short leather crop. He gave it a few experimental, whistling passes, and winked at Owen’s rather large eyes, clear even in the darkness.

“You think so?” Owen asked doubtfully.

“I think you’ll like it better than my hand,” Malcolm said, and then, trying not to sound too anxious, “Trust me?”

Owen blinked, and Malcolm’s heart stalled. “Okay,” he drawled, obviously with reservations.

Malcolm nodded. “I’ll make it good, I swear.”

And then he saw the dildo, and smiled. He pulled it out with a couple of condoms and lubricant to boot, and then the leather cock ring too. In for a penny, in for a pound, right?

“Ahem.”

Malcolm was pulled out of his happy musings by Owen’s glare.

“I don’t mean to rain on your big toy parade,” Owen said, “but I usually go more . . . au natural.” He mangled the French pronunciation, which really only made him more dear.

Malcolm held back a frustrated sigh. “Which one offends you?”

Owen rolled his eyes. “C’mere and spank me, dammit—you do not want me to get off this bed and make you.”

Malcolm turned around and glared back. “I will spank you in my own good time.” A tiny, evil smile formed at the corner of his lips. “Besides . . . I think it would do you good to play with toys—isn’t that part of every good boy’s education?”

Owen was still frowning, but his mouth was pursed so he wasn’t talking, and that was an improvement.

Malcolm made his way back around the bed and set up all his little diversions on the towel. First he drizzled some lube on the dildo, and without ceremony parted Owen’s cheeks and thrust in.

“Hello!” Owen gasped, probably from both the cold and the invasion. “Don’t we usually get a little introduction for this?”

“Sometimes,” Malcolm breathed, feeling the heavy, heady ache in his groin just from watching Owen’s backside swallow the thing, reluctantly but smoothly, from hearing the hitch in his breathing and watching the way his back muscles bunched tight. “Sometimes the penetration is the foreplay.” He pushed gently, not wanting to hurt—not now, or with this—but relentlessly, and Owen’s breathing became shorter and more labored, shushing out in shudders, interspersed with gibbered half-words and growls.

Owen gasped as the dildo finally seated in his ass to the balls. All of Owen’s limbs trembled from accommodating the toy so suddenly, and Malcolm smoothed his hands down Owen’s flanks, gentling, before he flicked the end of the dildo and started them all off again.

“Oh God,” Owen grunted. “If you thought this thing would make this last, you’re dead wrong. Fuck, what are you doing?”

The muscles down Malcolm’s back danced in anticipation. First he grasped Owen’s cock—God, long and magnificent—and then shoved the cock ring on it, pulling it back until it was tight at the base and then wrapping it under Owen’s heavy balls.

Owen sighed, shuddered, grunted, and howled as he fought the restraint of the ring and the invasion of the toy, and Malcolm shivered himself, just hearing the agony of desire.

Malcolm made quick work of the condom on Owen’s cock, wishing he could suck him down, but there wasn’t going to be time. He shuddered, holding the thing in his hand, and then shuddered again, riding the high, nipple-tingling edge of arousal, just from hearing Owen’s noises—frantic, terribly erotic noises—as his entire body was clamped in a sexual vice. He pushed himself up and laid on the bed next to Owen for a moment, putting his hands over Owen’s fists, clasped voluntarily above his head.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Malcolm whispered. “You’re gorgeous. Amazing.” He stroked his cock, pre-cum puddling already. He skated his thumb through it and brought it to Owen’s mouth, popping it in and watching as Owen closed his eyes and grunted, sucking on it. Malcolm wanted to be three men then: he wanted to be the one scritching his fingernails across Owen’s nipples and the one getting his cock sucked into that wonderful vacuum and the one who got to whistle the crop along Owen’s backside while plying the dildo in his asshole. Just the thought made him tremble again, but he thought that maybe, this time, if he wasn’t going to be inside that tight body, he could make it last, not come until he was deep inside Owen’s throat, until Owen was so crazy that all he’d have to do was bend over and Owen would fuck him raw.

And to that end . . .

“Here, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.” He pulled his thumb out of Owen’s mouth and dropped his hand to his cock again. He didn’t bother to stroke this time because he was so aroused. He rubbed his thumb back through his pre-cum, trying not to groan, then brought it up to Owen’s lips and spread it there. When he was done, he went back and got some more while watching as Owen, eyes locked on his, licked it off slowly, savoring, and making the need that already had him in its claws grip just that much tighter.

“First,” he whispered when he could no longer watch Owen lick the cum off his lips without coming, “I’m going to take some of this”—he grabbed the lube—“and I’m going to do myself nice and slick. Are you watching me, mate? I’m reaching back and stretching my arsehole for you, right?”

“You fucker,” Owen choked, not even partially kidding.

“That make you hot? Knowing what I’m doing?”

“I’m going to fuck you until you scream.”

Malcolm looked at him tauntingly. “Your hands aren’t tied, Owen. There’s no safeword. You think you’re going to crack, you grab me and you fuck me. I’m all stretched for you, you don’t have to go slow. You’re all gloved up, and you just have to save your cum for when you’re in my arse, you hear me?”

“You’d better spank me good, Malcolm.” Malcolm actually moaned from the sound of his name in Owen’s hot, cum-covered mouth. “You’d better do a bang-up job of it, because when I’m good and ready, I’m going to grab you, and I’m going to bend you over the bed, and I’m going to—”

“Do you want me to gag you?” he asked, eyes closed. “Because if you don’t stop promising me things, I’m going to come right here, all over the bed.”

“You started it.” Owen buried his face into the comforter and shuddered. “God, Malcolm. God. I’m fucking begging you, man . . . God, please, please just spank me dammit. Just smack my ass, just . . .”

“That’s it,” Malcolm whispered in his ear, tracing the shell of it with his tongue. “That’s what I wanted to hear from you from the moment I saw you. I wanted to hear my name in your mouth, and I wanted to hear you beg.”

“Please!” Owen howled, and Malcolm couldn’t have waited any longer if he’d wanted to.

He gathered the crop, breathed calmly, because there was just no way he could get too carried away right now, despite the arousal and the playfulness and the recklessness of them both. But it was a battle, and the first touch of the crop was nothing more than a teasing slide feathering along Owen’s crack down to where his legs started, then underneath the curves of the muscles. As if he had to measure distance, but distance was an odd concept with Owen. Something kept blindsiding Malcolm, blurring his vision, breaking down whatever barriers he might have put in the way. He tapped Owen’s ass with the tip of the crop, landing a perfect blow—a sharp, precise sting—and Owen jumped a little. No more painful than a palm, just more concentrated. He placed an exact copy of that hit on the other ass cheek, then stroked again, making him feel the soft leather. “How’s that for a start?”

“Just . . . a start.” Owen’s voice strained as if he was fighting his own control. Or maybe he was surprised at the sensation.

Malcolm decided that as long as Owen was snarky, he was happy, and he landed two blows close together, making Owen jump. “As long as you don’t finish,” he warned, warmed by Owen’s chuff of air at the sting.

“When I finish, you’ll know it,” Owen snarled, and Malcolm rewarded him with a blow to the side of the red bloom already there. New pain, surprising, and Owen staved off a moan. Malcolm stroked the new place too, gently, wanting to kiss but not wanting to give up his crop.

“You’d better make me know it,” Malcolm purred, giving the dildo a gentle flick. A moan escaped and Malcolm moved the crop to the place he’d smacked twice and caressed that too. He soon found his own rhythm, and an odd playfulness. It seemed much less about control now and far more about proving to Owen that it could be as nuanced and fun as being draped over his legs and taking the spanking that way. And a crop held a surprising range to the uninitiated: from the softest taps that only really registered because of the hyper-awareness the body kicked into when it came to pain, to the searing shock of a hard snap. He played with what Owen was expecting and where, using surprise to his advantage, stopping when Owen moaned because that meant he was too close to the edge.

It wasn’t until he accidentally brushed his own cock with the handle of the crop and found himself wet and dripping that he realized how close to the edge he was, how badly he was in need, and his next touch on Owen’s ass was not with the crop but with his cock, held in his fist, wet and cold on Owen’s hot flesh.

“I’m so close,” he confessed, loving the way Owen strained backward to meet him. “So close. Do you want me to fuck you? I’ve got a condom right here. Say the word, and I’ll fuck you.”

“Argh!” Owen was a mass of shaking, barely-there control. “You had a plan, Malcolm, stick to it!”

“Why?” Oh, he was so close. Just a few movements and he’d be buried deep in Owen’s ass. He’d loved it there but . . . but . . .

“Because I want to taste your cum!”

Malcolm shuddered. No snark in Owen’s voice, no play, just hunger, and Malcolm barely made it over the bed to thrust inside Owen’s wide, wet mouth. Owen met him with the same need, and his brain shut down almost completely, nothing but Owen around him and sucking and teasing with his tongue, eagerly bobbing up and down on his cock.

God, he thought, half coherent, when he realized that yes, he really was going to come in Owen’s mouth, this wasn’t safe, but it was damn near irresistible, given how well everything clicked. Nothing with Owen rang anything less than true, nothing that got in the way, just one glorious rush of supercharged need, and once that barrier was done, he just couldn’t be arsed to hold back. He came hard, tunneling vision and all, barely managed to not grab Owen’s head and crush him to his body, shooting his load and, oddly, strangely aware that the mouth and throat and tongue around his cock belonged to somebody he liked and whose name he actually remembered.

He fell back, or was he being pushed? It so didn’t matter, not when that orgasm was lighting up every nerve ending in his body, and he couldn’t help but laugh when Owen’s weight landed on top of him, pushed his legs up and apart and then pushed a slick, condom-covered cock inside his ass.

Thank God for just that little bit foresight, because he wouldn’t have been able to make Owen stop to put a condom on. He arched and grimaced, tender from his orgasm, but he wouldn’t let that stop him, or Owen, now.

Malcolm could do very little but hold onto Owen as he ploughed his ass, over and over, with more stamina than his desperate speed and strength suggested. Shit, that boy could deliver a pounding he would struggle to forget, ever, and that was probably the biggest thing—he really wanted to remember this. Owen. Them. All of it.

He almost came again when Owen came, just from that burst of intimacy, the joy and passion on Owen’s face, and he pulled Owen down and kissed him breathlessly while Owen’s cock pumped into the condom. “You’re . . . quite something,” he whispered. Something new, different and extraordinary.

Owen just kissed him again.

He could just have happily fallen asleep, but Owen eventually prodded him into action and got him out of bed and into the shower. Personally, he really didn’t need to wash immediately after sex; he’d have been okay with a shower next morning. But Owen had the toy to deal with and probably a sore ass, and he wanted Malcolm’s company, so Malcolm gave in.

The shower was close, intimate, and Malcolm nuzzled Owen under the thick spray, grateful the man wasn’t mocking him for the tenderness. He craved that skin-on-skin feeling, craved the touch and the smell, and didn’t quite know what to do with himself, so he kissed every bit of skin he could reach, until he ended up on his knees in the shower, eyes closed, face against Owen’s belly, Owen holding him close.

There was no self-consciousness, at least for a few moments, while Owen ran hands over his shoulders and neck, stroking his hair back from his face, just holding him while his skin drank in their touch like the water washing them clean. Who could have predicted this? In a thousand years, he couldn’t have seen an Owen walking into his life and making him feel . . . what?

It was big, and complicated, when what he wanted was so simple. He wanted the feeling of Owen’s body next to his, and he wanted sleep. The complicated would have to wait, so when they climbed out of the shower, dried off, and fell into bed, he closed his eyes to the soft sound of Owen’s breathing and slept well.

* * * * *

Owen woke up early, knowing it was Sunday, knowing Malcolm would sleep in. He thought about running out for breakfast, but it was just so lovely, lying in with that warm, dynamic, powerful body breathing softly next to him.

Malcolm seemed to need him.

It was an amazing thought—and not altogether comfortable. Owen’s mother needed him home—or so she said. But his mother had raised him alone, and raised him to be independent, to go out into the world and make his way. She had encouraged his experimentation and his decisions to become the man he was. Surely, she hadn’t done all that to castrate him at twenty-three, right? Make him live with her like Norman Bates until he snapped with the strain?

Malcolm curled into him, seeking heat in the cool morning, cooler now that dawn had broken and the sky outside the bedroom was turning from dark blue to gray. He pulled Malcolm into his arms and kissed a naked shoulder, a solid bicep, then dusted his lips across Malcolm’s ribs. A muffled laugh came from the pillow, and he pulled back before Malcolm’s flailing arm caught his nose.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Way to kill a mood.”

“I usually hate being tickled,” Malcolm confessed, pulling his arm under his chest and looking at Owen sideways. “What were you doing?”

“Touching you,” he said, and then kissed his shoulder again.

Malcolm closed his eyes, his defensive curl relaxing as Owen kissed up his shoulder to the back of his neck.

“What are we doing today, Yank?” Malcolm wiggled, then sighed. He probably had a hard-on. Owen rolled on top of him, his knees between Malcolm’s thighs, his own morning hard-on grinding up against Malcolm’s backside. He shoved a hand between Malcolm’s hips and the mattress and felt it, awakening flesh, and squeezed, letting Malcolm’s gasp roll through him, make everything tremble, wake up his nerve endings and start that ever-present ache that had begun in the depths of his groin the moment those pale eyes had met his over a glass of pissy beer.

“We’re staying in bed,” he said, grinding up against Malcolm and feeling him thrust into his hand. “We’re ordering in. We’re fucking like lemmings and talking like friends. Can you stand that?”

Malcolm groaned and thrust into Owen’s hand again, then ground his ass against Owen’s cock, and then again, and then again, and then again.

“Can I get you a condom to start that off?” Malcolm asked, and Owen could tell he was gasping for sanity at the end.

“You don’t need one,” Owen whispered. “I’m going to come on your ass, not in it.”

Which he did, while Malcolm spilled himself again and again, hot and slick, over Owen’s pumping fist.

Owen cleaned them up, then crawled back in bed. When Malcolm lay on his side and looked at him, Owen turned his head, suddenly embarrassed. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he said unexpectedly.

“About what?”

“I came in your mouth last night—”

Owen grimaced, annoyed. “I wanted it.”

“But I know better!”

“You’re not my big brother,” he said. “Thank God. Grown up here, having sex, making a decision. My risk to take.”

“You’re very young,” Malcolm said.

Owen turned around and laughed at him. “Are you even thirty yet?”

Malcolm flushed. “A couple of months,” he mumbled, and Owen laughed some more.

“See? You’re barely older than I am.” He rolled on his side and frowned. “So why?”

“Why what?”

“Why the whole Dom thing? You were a total shit to that guy on the phone Friday, but that’s not you at all. Why are you all locked into that when you’re not even thirty?”

Malcolm turned away. “It is too me,” he said, and Owen rolled his eyes.

“Is not.”

“Is too!”

Owen’s face split into a grin. “Is not is not is not, infinity, I win. Now cop to it. Why?”

“Brat,” Malcolm said, which Owen cut off with “Sub!” before the word was even out of Malcolm’s mouth.

“Fuck.” Malcolm put his back to Owen, and Owen snuggled up to him, wrapping an arm solidly against his resisting chest.

“Aren’t you the one who said it’s easier to be intimate with a stranger?” he asked gently, stroking Malcolm’s chest from behind.

“It’s easier. Are you happy now?”

“Sure I am. I’m in bed with an amazing, sexy man who fucks like a god and gives his brat a good spanking when he needs it. Now explain yourself.”

“It’s easier to find a date through the scene, okay?”

“Don’t you have, like, I don’t know, real-life friends?”

Malcolm huffed. Was that a no?

“Okay. Work?”

“You kidding? At the trading desk? You’re a faggot if your tie’s too pretty. Stupid macho culture. Also, we’re all competing against each other. Even if I managed to hook up with one of them, he’d be worried I’m really after his trading strategy, not his arse.”

“School?”

“Two hundred miles up north; I see more of them on Facebook.” Malcolm shrugged. “It’s the job. I can’t really hook up with a client, I can’t do anything inside the bank—and I’m not seeing much of the outside world in any case. My brain’s all about the markets, that’s pretty much 24/7, or at least 16/5.” He grimaced. “That’s the deal you get when you sign up with a bank. You give them ten years of your life, and after that you can walk away with a boatload of cash and, if you’re half smart, never have to work again.”

“So how far into those ten years are you?”

“Uh, about five. Add a couple years to that because the economy has been an absolute nightmare. I should have gone into metal trading or oil and gas. Mates of mine made a pile in commodities, but I didn’t want to shuffle around grain and rapeseed oil futures between here and fucking Winnipeg.” He chuckled. “So, yeah. I’m a deprived workaholic. Doing this BDSM stuff just helps with the stress.”

“Mmm.” Owen folded his body behind Malcolm’s even tighter. “So how’s your stress level now?”

Malcolm sighed and went limp in his arms. “What stress?” he asked, and Owen thought that was about right.

They dozed. The respite from traveling was a welcome change, and just lying there, holding that warm, vital body was almost like a Red Bull and a shot of B12. They woke up and ate day-old bagels, and Malcolm was going to make plans for takeout, but they walked to Leadenhall Market instead. They talked, about everything, just as they had the night before, and Owen discovered that Malcolm really was quick to smile and quick to laugh, and that he enjoyed the give-and-take banter, even when they weren’t dressed to the nines and Owen wasn’t trying to be James Bond.

They made love after a lunch of broiled chicken and salad, and again after a dinner of stir-fry soy cakes and broccoli. They talked until three in the morning, when Malcolm fell asleep mid-sentence in a story about a client who didn’t know futures from rainbow crystals, and Owen had just enough presence of mind to double check the alarm on his cell phone to make sure it could wake him from where it was charging in Malcolm’s kitchen.

The morning marched toward them with an inescapable relentlessness they could not hide from, even in sleep.

* * * * *

The alarm buzzed Malcolm awake at six, and even though he sometimes didn’t go to bed before midnight, getting up on three hours of sleep was brutal. Especially considering that, for once, he had a guy over on a Monday morning.

He managed to roll his legs out of bed and sit up mostly with the momentum while he reached for the phone and disabled the alarm. And the next one. And the one after, too.

He wanted nothing more than to fall back and just forget about Monday, but that wasn’t going to happen, and he knew it. Wasn’t like anybody else would trade his stuff for him. Short of needing CPR, he couldn’t even call in sick. Way too healthy, no sick days since his start day. It was a bit of a crazy, all-masculine competition, too. And sick on a Monday just screamed hangover, and hangover meant he couldn’t hold his alcohol.

Great. He ran a hand along Owen’s flank, pulled the covers back into place (Owen was fine, but Malcolm felt like fussing, however perfunctorily), and got to his feet. It was inhumane to wake him just to ask when exactly he’d leave. Something about noon? Cab? Something. He jumped under the shower, shaved there, got dressed and sat in the kitchen for five minutes trying to pull his brain together and wake up. Didn’t work that well, so he just grabbed a Post-it from a drawer and a few banknotes from his wallet.

“Get some breakfast and/or lunch, and a cab,” he wrote, considered it, decided it was too bossy, then decided Owen would read it how he’d meant it. Maybe he’d find the tone funny. Also, there wasn’t that much space on a Post-it. “Please get in touch, okay?” Too late to strike out the needy “okay?” there, so he threw that note away, re-wrote the first sentence, then the second: “Do get in touch.” Much better. Now what? “See you, Malcolm.”

There. He was happy. He put the Post-it on top of Owen’s phone, and stood for a moment, looking at it with blurry eyes. Sure. The kid would get in touch. He seemed to have been raised right—at the very least a thank you when the suit arrived on his doorstep, right?

Excellent. He’d just grab his keys and his coat and walk away. Good. Just head for the door.

Owen stumbled out of the bedroom while he was standing there gazing with sightless eyes at a Post-it.

He looked up and swallowed. “I hated to wake you up.” His voice was gravelly, and Owen grimaced.

“A Post-it? Classy, Malcolm.”

Malcolm swallowed his resentment. “I labored over that Post-it,” he snapped, and Owen looked at him sideways.

“I bet you did,” he said, shedding Malcolm’s bad temper like so much water. He walked up to Malcolm in his boxer shorts and caught Malcolm’s chin in his thumb and forefinger. “Kiss me like a man, Malcolm, and tell me to have a good journey, or my feelings will be hurt, okay?”

Malcolm closed his eyes. “It’s a good thing you’re going,” he said gruffly. “That much emotional honesty would fucking kill me in a week.”

Owen’s breath—still rank from sleep, not like Malcolm cared—brushed his face. “You’re tougher than you think,” he said, and brushed his lips softly against Malcolm’s. Malcolm’s body woke up, though his brain was still mush, and he raised his hands into Owen’s haystack of hair and pulled him closer, because he didn’t care about morning breath and he suddenly didn’t care about looking calm and in charge—he just cared that Owen was leaving, and that his throat was almost too tight to breathe.

The kiss grew hard, grew brutal, and Owen pulled back from it and wrapped those long arms around Malcolm and held him, his whole body taut and fighting the embrace. Owen just stood there until Malcolm accepted it and sagged into him, a little bit of misery seeping out.

“I’d hate to hurt your feelings,” he whispered.

“I’d die before I hurt you,” Owen whispered back.

“Have a safe journey, Yank. Call me. Come visit. Send me a fucking Christmas card. Something.”

He ducked out of Owen’s arms then because he couldn’t do this anymore, and strode for the door, grabbing his keys and wallet from the counter and his coat from the coat rack and fleeing the apartment before he could make an ass out of himself and ask for the impossible and the ludicrous from a man he’d known barely sixty hours.

* * * * *

Owen swallowed as he watched him go, then headed for the shower in this stranger’s apartment. He had four hours before he had to be at the Eurostar terminal to meet Jenny, and they stretched out in front of him interminably. Forever. Years.

Okay, basics. The three S’s: shower, shit, and shave—every man could do that in his sleep.

So he did.

He managed his complete morning routine in a mental and emotional coma. It wasn’t until he went back into the bedroom to make the bed and scan for any last thing he’d left that he turned around and saw the suit, neatly hung in the closet, his address on a Post-it safety-pinned to the bag.

He sat down on the now neat bed and looked at it and swallowed against the tightness in his chest. Malcolm had run out of the flat, just run, as if afraid of what he’d do next. As if terrified he’d say or do or show the wrong thing, and Owen had watched him go, thinking, You can’t go. I’m the only person on the planet who knows who you are.

And Malcolm was the only person on the planet who could see him—son of a hippie, starving student, recently graduated IT guy from the backwoods of California—in a suit like that.

And Malcolm had tried to leave him by Post-it note because . . . Because that last kiss in the kitchen had hurt too much, he thought with a swallow. And who wanted to face that if they didn’t have to?

Fucking suit. Fucking suit, fucking Post-it, fucking Brit, fucking trip to see the world.

Fucking wish that this apartment, spare and modern as it was, could possibly be his home too.

* * * * *

After a huge coffee—half a liter of cappuccino, plus extra shots because all that milk just didn’t do anything—Malcolm made a game attempt at breakfast during the morning call while his Bloomberg terminal booted. Pile of papers and printouts on his desk, the whole trading department a labyrinth of flat-screens, assembled into three pairs per desk. Six screens had seemed excessive when he’d started—surely trading wasn’t like flying the USS Enterprise, and Sulu only got one screen—but that was before he’d known some traders used eight.

Normally plenty of feed was coming in to keep himself busy. Client calls, getting a feel for the Asian market based on the Bloomberg headlines. Just a quick scan to catch the mood in the frantic white noise that was the capital markets.

But he couldn’t concentrate. He realized that when he kept staring at Bloomberg and the tidy rows of information streaming across, which usually formed his lifeblood and his heartbeat, looked as alien and meaningless as love poetry from Jupiter. Nothing even left so much as dew on his brain. What on earth was going on in the market?

He mumbled a “good morning” as his colleagues arrived and logged in, bragging over exploits of the weekend. Alcohol consumed, sexual practices, one guy was gloating over his ex-Royal Marines personal trainer as if the guy’s toughness was somehow to his personal merit. Usually, he liked that, but he really wasn’t in the mood today.

“Hangover?”

Yep, predictable at that. Best response—no response. He made a few trades, did some client business, but he couldn’t get into the headspace. It took as little as looking at his neighbor’s desk (which had a photo of his wife; at least he assumed she was a wife) to shock him out of the place he went where the decisions happened.

From between getting an order and fulfilling it, he couldn’t remember the most basic thing. He ended up totally botching a trade—yep, last time we checked, Malcolm, buying is not the same as selling, arsehole, and thank God you put in all the right numbers at least—and the entire world was skewed only two hours into the trading day. Then there were rumors about the European Central Bank possibly mulling an interest rate hike, and obviously the market went completely apeshit.

He was staring blankly at the red and green numbers when suddenly everything turned red. He couldn’t work out what it meant, or how to respond, or why it was important at all. Those slim windows of opportunities in which to recover from a drop like that, he just didn’t see them. Or he did, but they weren’t numbers at all; every opportunity boiled down to him walking out the door, leaving Owen alone in his flat, watching him go. He lifted his hands gingerly away from the keyboard.

“What’s wrong with you, mate?”

Migraine sounded too much like drinking-related. “I think the Chinese yesterday was a problem.”

Not great either, considering, but the best he had right now. He got up and went to the head of trading, made up some bullshit about Chinese food and prawns, and was duly snapped at and then dismissed for the day. Thank God. He managed to slink out of the bank like somebody ill, then dashed around the corner to snatch a cab.

When he arrived at home, though, Owen was gone. His footsteps in the empty flat rang like a cathedral bell, and for moment, he was back in the church with Owen, who had closed his eyes so trustingly. He was gone. That young man was gone. Oh hell. When had he left? Only recently? Fuck, why hadn’t he paid any fucking attention to the departure time? St. Pancras. Owen was headed for Paris and Brussels next, right?

He looked around frantically for a clue, but there wasn’t any, so he ran back downstairs, and the ten minutes it took to secure another cab were almost worse than arriving with Owen gone. He only wished that elevator feeling in his stomach was bad Chinese prawns.

When the taxi ended up in a traffic snarl not far away from St. Pancras, he overpaid and dashed out to run the rest.

The station was fucking enormous, people milling around, and it felt as if he had to traverse the whole fucking station to get to the Eurostar terminal tucked away in a side entrance between a coffee shop and a supermarket.

Owen was taller than pretty much everybody else—okay, minus that enormous Nigerian and his wife over there—so it shouldn’t be too fucking difficult. But Malcolm didn’t see him, and his stomach roiled some more. Oh please . . . please please please please let his oversized Yank be in this crowd!

He checked the screen, but there were several trains to Paris on there, and the people manning the gates to the Eurostar terminal looked at him, bored and impassive. He peered past them, to where some people were just going through the security check. He didn’t think any of them was Owen.

He couldn’t have missed Owen. He couldn’t have. His only option after this was taking a flight to the States to the address tacked to the damned suit. The phone. He reached into his pocket, but didn’t find it. Checked the other pocket. Empty. He must have left it in his flat. Had he taken it off the charger this morning?

Back to the main concourse. He almost ran past the coffee shops. Thankfully, they were all completely glass-fronted and There! There was the familiar brown muddle of hair and the hooded college sweatshirt and the almost impossibly wide shoulders. He’d nearly run right past Owen because he wasn’t used to seeing him with a girl. Well, young woman. Tucked away in a corner, having breakfast.

Thank God. Thank fuck. He rushed into the cafe and almost ran over a Latino waiter who had materialized to show him to a free table. “Oops. I’m with . . .” Malcolm gestured in the vague direction of Owen. “Friends. Just meeting friends. Thanks. No. Sorry.” Get out of my way, arsehole.

He skidded to a halt in front of their table, almost too crazed for words. “Owen?”

The look on Owen’s face was . . . amazing. It was a slow, sunshine realization, and for the first time since Malcolm had run out of his flat that morning he could breathe again.

“Yeah?” Owen’s brown eyes were just as tired and just as sad as Malcolm had felt all morning. Owen stood, which sucked because it meant Malcolm had to look up, but suddenly Malcolm didn’t care.

“You can’t.” It was all he had.

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t . . . can’t just go away. Can’t just . . . You can’t get on that train and charge out of my life. It’s not fair. I can’t work, dammit! I . . . I made a bad trade. I made a bad trade. How dare you? How dare you walk into my flat and . . . and then just . . . just walk out again? How can you even—” His voice was shaking, and Owen, blessed, blessed Owen, didn’t make him suffer.

Those arms—those long, muscular arms—were suddenly around his shoulders, and now he could do more than breathe again, he could think again.

“How could you just let me?” Owen asked, his voice as ragged as Malcolm’s.

“I’m the emotionally repressed one,” he said against Owen’s chest. “You’re the one who’s supposed to know better.”

“What now?” Owen dropped his head to nudge Malcolm’s temple with his chin. “How does this work?”

“You stay. You have a visa—”

“A work visa, actually.” Malcolm looked at him, a little shocked, and Owen shrugged. “I’ve got a degree in computer engineering, Malcolm; I’m not completely helpless over here, you know.”

Malcolm found himself laughing, surprised, shocked out of his desperation by simple, everyday good fortune. “Good. If you want to work, you can. I mean, I wouldn’t tie you to the bed or anything, I just want you to stay. Work something out that’s good for both of us. I mean, my flat’s enormous, you wouldn’t need to—”

“You’re babbling, Malcolm.”

“God forbid,” he groused. “Just . . . just stay. Don’t go. I’ll pay for the rest of your trip if you can’t stand me after a week. I’ll come with you for the rest of it, if you can wait until my next holiday. Whatever. I don’t care. Just stay. Walking away from you was like walking away from the best part of me. I almost didn’t recognize him.”

Owen laughed and cupped his face with those long, encompassing hands. “Please tell me he’s the guy I loved last night, and not the guy who made me drink vodka.”

“Yeah,” Malcolm agreed, falling into that wonderful embrace and forgetting that pride had ever been a thing. “That’s the one.”

“Good,” Owen said, and kissed him, hard and with possession and with promise. Behind them, the blonde girl with the expensive tits stood up and patted Owen on the back. “Thanks a lot for sending me to France alone, asshole,” she said, and then walked away and left them, dragging her flowered carry-on with her. Malcolm didn’t care, and Owen didn’t stop the kiss until they were good and ready.

When it ended, they pulled back, resting foreheads together. “And here,” Owen breathed, “I thought you weren’t going to remember my name.”

“Owen,” Malcolm said. It was familiar enough to feel like his own. The blizzard of St. Pancras station whirled about them, but it felt like Owen was the only other person on earth. Malcolm, the big bad Dom, clung to his sweet country mouse like Owen could shelter him in any storm.

The End