True to his word — because he’d never be anything else — Will was waiting for him when Taylor got off the plane at Charles de Gaulle Airport.
Taylor scanned the crowd, and there he was: tall and square-shouldered and ridiculously handsome in faded Levi’s and a navy T-shirt. Will’s glossy brown hair fell boyishly across his forehead, and his blue eyes lit at the sight of Taylor. His face broke into a wide, white grin.
Taylor forgot his weariness and grinned back.
“You son of a gun,” Will said. Or words to that effect. It wasn’t the words; it was the tone.
Taylor had no idea what he answered — if he answered at all — because the next moment they were hugging.
Hugging and laughing and pounding each other on the back. So much for the famed Gallic effluence or effusion or effervescence or whatever it was. Will and Taylor were putting their fellow travelers to shame. Taylor ruffled Will’s hair, and Will tried to put Taylor in a headlock.
Well, you had to do something when you’d never kissed in public.
They hugged again, not looking each other directly in the face so that any too-bright eyes could be safely ignored.
“I can’t believe I’m here,” Taylor said finally when Will stopped choking him and relieved him of his bags. “Jesus, you look great.”
Understatement of the year. Will looked fantastic. Paris agreed with him. Taylor couldn’t help feeling like he suffered by contrast. He needed a shower and a shave and a sleep. Though not as much as he needed Will.
Will growled, “I can’t believe it either. I was ready to come and get you myself.”
They exchanged quick, rueful looks. Twice Taylor’s leave had been canceled due to pressure of work. The DSS, like every other State Department, was underfunded and understaffed.
“Hey, I’m here now.”
“Yeah, you are. And you’re going to have the best vacation ever.”
Taylor smiled back at Will. His vacation had already improved drastically over the day before. In fact, he was only too happy to shove any thought of work and retired terrorists to the back of his mind.
They walked out of Terminal 2 to the crowded, covered parking. Taylor briefly admired Will’s black and unmarked G ride, a Cadillac Escalade, the usual American-made light duty special utility vehicle that screamed Diplomatic Service to anyone paying attention.
“Did you get the memo over here on alternative fuel vehicles?”
Will snorted. “Yep.” He unlocked the door for Taylor.
Taylor climbed in and closed his eyes for a moment while Will threw his bags into the back. He was so tired he felt delirious. Or maybe the giddy feeling was seeing Will again.
Will came around to the driver’s seat and slid in beside Taylor.
Taylor opened his eyes and smiled at him.
Will smiled back. “Long time no see.”
Taylor nodded. The laughter drained out of him. “Will.”
They reached for each other again.
Will’s mouth was warm and tasted familiar, and eleven months was as nothing while Will shared his breath for a couple of heartbeats. Taylor moaned, and it was only part pleasure because it hurt like hell to love anyone this much, to be whole only when that person was by your side — in your arms. Will muttered something back between fractured gasps.
They were going to leave bruises on each other, but Taylor welcomed it. Welcomed the pressure of a hard, seeking mouth, of hands that sank into muscle and bone in an attempt to hold on to what was always going to be, at most, fleeting. Will’s mouth opened to his demand, and their tongues touched almost shyly after eleven months.
French kiss.
The thought made Taylor smile, and, feeling the smile, Will opened his eyes and pulled back a little. He shook his head, but it was affection, not reproof. He kissed Taylor again, kissed his upper lip, his mouth, the corner of his mouth…trying for gentleness but rapidly heating up again.
It was hard to stop once they got started. That hadn’t changed.
Taylor drew back, gulping for air. Will kissed him below his jaw, trailed hot, velvety kisses down his throat to his collarbone.
“Do you think…we should…finish this somewhere more private…” Taylor panted.
“Tinted windows.”
“…Still…”
Will rested against him for a moment. Taylor lowered his cheek to the top of Will’s head. Will’s hair was soft and smelled like herbal shampoo. For a second or two they didn’t move, breathing softly, unevenly.
The alarm of the car parked next to Taylor’s side chirped. Taylor jumped. Will sat up fast. Taylor automatically straightened his collar, staring at the side mirror, watching warily for whoever was headed their way.
A family of five with enough luggage and parcels for ten.
His eyes slanted toward Will. Will met his look and grinned ruefully.
“Home?”
“Mais oui, mon ami,” Taylor agreed.
* * * * *
According to Taylor’s guidebook, which he’d read cover to cover because he’d been too restless to sleep on the plane, the best time to see Paris was in the spring. From June on, tourists flooded the city, though supposedly June was still better than later in the summer. The jazz festival was in full swing — in fact, it was the season of festivals, and Parisians were celebrating everything from the French Open to Gay Pride — and the wisteria and chestnut trees were in bloom. The temperature was mild and sunny, and the sidewalk cafés were doing a brisk trade.
The spring would have been nice. So would dead of winter. Taylor was there to see Will, so much of the beauty of the city was lost on him. Not completely lost because he was aware that they were passing landmarks — France was unquestionably beautiful — and Will was dutifully pointing out things of interest as they drove south into the heart of the city. He filled Taylor in on all the entertainment possibilities in the week ahead.
“Sounds fine to me,” Taylor assured him. He really could not have cared less about seeing Notre Dame or the Louvre or Moulin Rouge or the Eiffel Tower or any museums or art galleries or parks. That didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in the things Will enjoyed about the city. He liked hearing Will enthuse about everything from the gendarmes on rollerblades along the Seine — in light body armor with small machine guns, no less — to watching the old men play pétanque or the children sail small wooden boats in the fountains at Jardin des Tuileries.
Will was happy in Paris, and that was good. Taylor couldn’t help wishing that Will wasn’t quite so happy, but hey…
“By the way, happy birthday.” Will broke off the travelogue for a second.
Taylor’s eyes widened. “Jesus. I totally forgot.”
“I didn’t. I’ve got something special planned for tonight.”
Hopefully not dinner out at some fancy, overpriced restaurant. “Yeah? Does it involve silk sheets and passion oil?”
Will chuckled. “Not sure there will be any passion oil left after this afternoon.”
Taylor laughed. He gazed out the window. “How far is your place from the embassy?”
“Not far. The Métro is about a four-minute walk from the apartment. You know Paris.”
Actually, he didn’t. Japan, Afghanistan, and a very brief stint in Haiti. So far.
Will launched off into tour guide mode again, and Taylor listened dutifully.
Will said suddenly, “This time last year you’d just been cleared for field duty. Remember?”
Like he was ever going to forget getting shot in the chest? “I remember.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Huh?”
“Are you okay? That lung’s not still giving you any trouble, is it?”
“What? Nah.”
“Nah.” Will mocked him gently. “That’s right. I was forgetting bullets bounce off you, Superman.”
Taylor nodded. “You have any tall buildings I can leap? Something more challenging than the Eiffel Tower?” He was trying too hard — they both were — and he fought the urge to keep talking. Since when had he and Will needed their silences filled in?
After what was starting to feel like an eternity, they arrived at Will’s apartment, located on rue du Colisée.
Will unlocked the garden gate and led the way to a very pretty and newly renovated single apartment with a private entryway through the garden.
“Nice.” It was nice. The living room was painted in soothing earth tones. It had high ceilings and elegant floor-to-ceiling French windows opening onto the garden and shops along the street. Next door to the old apartment building was the café where Will said he had his petit déjeuner of strong coffee and flaky croissants while he watched the world go by.
The furnishings were a mix of antiques and modern pieces: comfortable chairs in a cozy plaid, a pretty dining table, and a long, wide beige couch with fat cushions. On the opposite side of the room was an entertainment cabinet with a television and stereo.
“Three levels,” Will told him. “The entryway and living room are on this floor. Bedroom and full bath on the second floor. The kitchen and half bath downstairs.”
“Nice,” Taylor said again because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He couldn’t picture Will living in a place like this, but Will not only lived here; he loved it here.
Will switched on the stereo and the familiar, bell-clear tones of Emmylou Harris rang out in “Hard Bargain.”
That helped a little, but Taylor still had the uncomfortable feeling he was a visitor here, a stranger. Not a feeling he enjoyed, and he forced it down. “This is really nice,” he tried again, peering out the window at the garden. Lots of flowers. A bird was singing cheerfully from a small ornamental tree.
“Wait until you see the bedroom.” Will’s voice was husky. He wrapped his arms around Taylor, pulling him back against his own muscular length. Taylor gave himself up to it, tilting his head back, shivering a little as Will kissed the ticklish underside of his jaw and his throat and the curve of the side of his throat.
Will whispered, “You want to take some of these clothes off?”
“I guess I can spare my socks.”
Will laughed, and Taylor turned in his arms to face him. Will’s hands slipped under Taylor’s blazer, warm through the thin cotton of Taylor’s shirt as he pulled him closer still.
Taylor could feel the hardness of Will’s erection straining against his own. He angled his head in search of a kiss. Oddly, this time when their lips met, it was a little more tentative than it had been in the airport parking lot.
Taylor’s tongue traced the familiar shape of Will’s teeth, and Will smiled, speaking against his open mouth. “Wanna make love?”
So formal? Since when?
Taylor batted his lashes, camping. “Why, I thought you’d never ask.”
“I don’t think I’ve thought of anything else for eleven months.”
“Must make for some interesting paperwork.”
“Especially after some of those phone calls.” Will was giving him an odd look. “Christ. You are…” He shook his head, words seeming to fail him.
Taylor wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. In fact, he could feel his cheeks warming. He’d had to do something to keep Will’s attention across six thousand miles, but Will could be disappointingly conventional sometimes.
No. Not disappointing. More like…disconcerting.
He refused to give in to insecurity and suggested throatily, “Inventive?”
“Worth every penny of my long-distance phone bill, that’s for sure.”
“I hope you didn’t try to expense those calls.”
“Mm.” Will rocked gently, insinuatingly against Taylor’s hardness, and Taylor closed his eyes, savoring the warmth, the strength, the desire there. Will’s mutter gave words to his own thought. “God, you feel good. And you smell good too.”
“Yeah right. I need a shave.” Taylor smiled, opening his eyes again. “And a shower.”
Will’s murmur was protest. “You’d just have to shower again afterward.” He half walked, half danced Taylor toward the sofa.
“True.” Taylor let himself be maneuvered backward, sparing a quick look as they tumbled to the cushions. They narrowly missed knocking over the pretty oval coffee table. Taylor started to laugh, his breath whooshing out as Will landed half on top of him.
“Ow. No, it’s okay. I didn’t need that testicle anyway.”
“You’ve got more balls than anyone I ever knew,” Will agreed.
Taylor laughed again, but he quieted at Will’s expression. “What?”
“What do you want?” Will asked softly, intently. His eyes seemed to track every movement of Taylor’s mouth.
Taylor licked his lips. “I want you. I want to fuck you.” In fact, he needed to fuck Will. Needed to feel like Will was his, that Will belonged to him, that he could control…something. Even if just for a few minutes.
Will’s grave face creased into his familiar smile. “Okay. Whatever you want. I want it too.”
It hadn’t always been that way, but Taylor wasn’t about to argue.
They shifted around, sofa springs squeaking, and Will nearly knocked the coffee table over again as he shoved it aside to get whatever he needed from upstairs. His footsteps pounded up the little staircase, then receded.
Come to think of it, why weren’t they doing this in the bedroom? Too much performance pressure on both of them? This way they still had the illusion of spontaneity. Whatever. It didn’t matter. They would negotiate the curves.
But they both were trying too hard. Trying too hard to prove eleven months had made no difference at all. That everything was the same as it had always been.
Taylor wriggled out of his clothes in a couple of agile moves and waited patiently, resting on his side, head propped on his hand.
Will’s footsteps pounded back down the stairs. Taylor laughed as Will’s shirt preceded him into the room, floating down to land on the footstool. Will appeared a second later, grinning but seeming self-conscious.
“Take it off, take it ahhhll off,” Taylor ordered in his best German accent.
Will laughed, but that had been the extent of his striptease. He undressed in quick, neat moves beneath Taylor’s smiling gaze.
Will’s body was the epitome of lithe strength and masculine beauty. It was a pleasure just to watch him.
He joined Taylor on the sofa, stretching out beside him.
“Hello, handsome.” Taylor’s cock thrust playfully against Will’s.
Will’s mouth quirked. “Hello.”
“En garde. That’s French for I want to fuck.”
“Touché. That’s French for me too.” Will’s oil-slick hands found Taylor, and he made a fist, pumping Taylor’s cock with quick strokes.
Taylor caught his breath, closing his eyes. “God, Will.”
“Let me. I like to touch you.”
Like Taylor was going to object to anything Will chose to do to him?
He was almost in pain by the time Will finished with him. With heavy, languid eyes he watched Will twist, sliding slippery fingers into his own ass, preparing himself with the little bottle of lubricant he’d brought down.
Nothing fancy. No passion oil, nothing scented or flavored or exotic. That was Taylor’s thing, not Will’s. Will was all about speed and efficiency and proper safety measures — which sounded dull but somehow wasn’t when that eager care was being exerted on your behalf.
Will turned onto his side, and Taylor settled snugly behind him. The sofa was not nearly as large as it had appeared at first glance, but it really didn’t matter. They had managed this in tighter places, hotter places, wetter places…
Taylor took himself in hand, guiding the head of his cock to the shadowy center of Will’s sleek buttocks. He pushed in, slow, slowly…
“How’s that?” His voice sounded strained to his own ears.
“Beautiful. Come on, sweetheart.”
Slowly, sweetly…oh, that felt good. Like nothing in the world. Always good, but so much better with Will. It never ceased to amaze Taylor that Will let him do this. That Will wanted him to do this. But he did. He was making deep, encouraging sounds, pushing back strongly in response to Taylor’s tentative thrusts.
“How do you want it, Will?”
“Whatever you want, Tay. It’s all good.”
That had certainly been true once upon a time. Taylor pushed a little harder, though still careful, still measuring his strokes.
When he’d pictured this, he’d envisioned something frantic and hurried, maybe taking each other in an elevator, a stairwell, pounding each other into the nearest wall, but the reality was he needed to be gentle. Will was tight as a virgin. Not for Will the lonely self-pleasuring of dildos and plugs.
But Will was being just as gentle, just as careful in his way, craning his head for the occasional awkward kiss, stroking Taylor where he could reach him, taking time to tell Taylor how good everything he was doing felt.
Not as cautious as they’d be with a new lover, but conscientious with each other in a way they’d never bothered with before.
Will reached behind, clumsily cupped Taylor’s face, giving a shiver as Taylor sucked his fingers.
Taylor stroked Will’s tanned, muscular chest. He tried to time his thrusts, fighting to keep urgent need from spilling over and ending it all too soon. But Jesus, that fierce clench of muscle sliding up his cock…
“More,” Will urged. “More, Tay. Come on.”
Taylor groaned. He couldn’t have resisted that plea even if he’d wanted to. The heat and smell and taste of Will were driving him to overload. He had to let go or implode. He began to thrust quick and hard.
“That’s it. Yeah, that’s the way,” Will’s hoarse voice spurred him on. Will’s sleek body labored beneath him as they raced toward the finish, and now there wasn’t a hope in hell of stopping that train.
From a distance he could hear Will’s moans, feel that moist velvet clutch dragging against his cock. He buried his face on the back of Will’s head, breathing in Will’s scent, soft hair against his face, damp skin against his lips. He was going to leave new bruises, his fingers digging into Will’s muscles like he was hanging on for dear life.
He felt the wildness uncoil inside him, blazing through his nerves and muscles, pressure building, expanding, filling… Yes, there it was…
Taylor cried out, and he was coming, coming hard in hot jets of salty cream. Filling Will, marking Will, making Will his again. He felt that orgasm rolling through Will like a wave.
Distantly he was aware of Will turning his face into the sofa cushions and howling with his release. Taylor held him more tightly, wanting to cushion and reassure, but somehow it was Will cradling him and Taylor clinging as he sank down heavily, exhausted, into the embrace.
Emmylou continued to sing over their ragged breaths.
Will drew soothing caresses up and down his spine. The summer breeze through the window tickled their hair, cooled their damp, flushed bodies.
“What will the neighbors think?” Taylor managed finally.
Will gusted out a little laugh and kissed him.
Taylor dozed. Maybe they both dozed. If so, Will must have woken first, half suffocated under Taylor’s weight, because Taylor came to with kisses, warm and wet on his eyelids, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth.
“The bed will be more comfortable.” Will’s voice was heated against his ear.
Taylor nodded, disinclined to move. He nuzzled Will’s chest, tasted the stickiness there.
Will’s breath caught. “Come on. You need real sleep.”
He sat up, dislodging Taylor.
Taylor sat up too, rubbing his head. He mumbled, “You’re going to have to get these cushions cleaned.”
“I don’t know.” Will’s voice sounded too loud in the hazy sunshine. “I was thinking it was time for a change of decor. I like the loved-in look.”
Taylor studied Will from under his eyelashes. Despite the sex — nice sex it was too — they were still just a little out of sync. Not much, just a fraction of a second off-beat. No big deal. They’d get it back. They — Will — needed to stop trying so much. He reached out to brush Will’s hair out of his eyes.
Will moved his head away, stood, and hauled Taylor to his feet. “Did you sleep at all on the plane?”
“Not that I recall.” Taylor swayed, putting a hand to the base of his spine. “I don’t know if my back will ever be the same.”
“Same here.” Will rubbed his ass, clowning.
Taylor spluttered a laugh, letting Will steer him up the stairs to the bedroom, one of Will’s hands locked on his hip, the other on his shoulder. He had a quick impression of inlaid wood, creamy walls, creamy bedding, sheer veils over a view of the garden and the roofs of other buildings. Nice but not Will’s style. The apartment came furnished.
Will said, “Voilà. Clean sheets. Just for you.”
“I ought to call Tara,” Taylor mumbled, dropping face-first into the cool linen.
“Just what a fella likes to hear after a bout of vigorous lovemaking.”
“My sister, you ass.”
“That’s probably worse.”
The mattress dipped as Will flopped down on the bed beside Taylor. They rolled into each other’s arms.
From somewhere a long way off, Will’s deep voice said something.
Taylor murmured encouragingly and promptly fell asleep in the middle of Will’s answer.
* * * * *
They dined at a fancy, overpriced restaurant called L’Ambrosie.
A sleep and a shower had gone a long way to reviving Taylor. He was all for leaving the car and walking to the Métro when Will suggested it. On foot was clearly the way to see Paris, and he enjoyed the brief walk and even the Métro ride.
Will looked especially handsome and more sophisticated than usual in dark trousers, dark silk T-shirt, and a charcoal blazer. Not that Will wasn’t always a snappy dresser, but this was something more. Something uncomfortably close to elegant. He was wearing his hair a little differently too. It had to be the cut. Nothing obvious but somehow a little sharper, a little more fashionable. He looked good. He looked great. Like someone out of a magazine. Taylor was getting irritated with himself for noticing every minuscule change. Eleven freaking months in a foreign country. Of course there would be some changes. What the hell did he expect?
Every time his eyes met Will’s, Will smiled. Smiled with real pleasure as though seeing Taylor a few feet from him was the best sight in the world. And that was all that mattered.
From the Métro it was another short walk to the restaurant. L’Ambrosie was a seventeenth-century town house in the picturesque Place des Vosges, the oldest and reportedly most beautiful square in Paris. The restaurant was also beautiful — and formal. Warm lighting from a sparkling chandelier bathed the parquet floors, chinoiserie carpets, and honey-hued walls brightened with oil paintings and rich tapestries. The tables were covered in creamy linen, and the chairs were plum or gold velvet. There was an abundance of candles and roses and tall mirrors.
Every single table in the place was filled. Great. Taylor had been hoping for quiet and intimate. In fact, he’d been hoping for dinner at Will’s place and an early night.
But it was what it was, so he needed to make the most of it. He scanned the menu and nearly dropped it on the elegant flower arrangement. “Jesus, Will. Eighty-six euros for hors d'oeuvres? If we order wine and dessert, this meal is going to set you back a grand or more.”
“Simmer down. I’ve been planning this meal. I want this night to be special.”
“Sure. We can mark it down as the night we officially went into debt.”
Will’s smile faded a little. “Would you knock it off, MacAllister? I’m trying to do something nice for you.”
Taylor knew better than to say it, but the words popped out anyway. “You must have one hell of a guilty conscience.”
Now Will was no longer smiling. His eyebrows made one dark, uncompromising line as he scanned the menu. He said curtly, “The langoustines in curry appetizer are supposed to be phenomenal. The langoustines melt in your mouth. So I’ve heard.”
Langoustines being just a fancy word for lobster. Taylor swallowed that comment and said instead, “You come here often?”
“Of course not. I was here once before for an embassy dinner.”
“How are the steaks?”
Will’s head shot up. “Steak? You’re the guy who always wants to experiment and try something new, but suddenly you’re going to come to Paris and eat steak?”
“Jeez, Will —”
“What happened to trying not to eat red meat?”
“What the hell are we arguing about?” Taylor asked softly.
Will’s hard gaze fell. He shook his head. “Sorry.”
Taylor studied Will’s downbent head, caught his own somber expression in one of the long mirrors across the room. They looked more like two guys saying good-bye than enjoying a reunion dinner.
He took a deep breath and then let it out silently. “You pick the wine and appetizers, okay? I’ll pick the dessert.”
Will looked up and smiled. “Okay. It’s a deal.”
The food was good. Not the best meal Taylor had ever had in his life and not, in his opinion, worth the money — other than after the last eleven months he would have been willing to pay anything for dinner with Will again — but well-prepared and nicely presented. They started with piping hot gougères, a cheesy puff pastry fresh from the oven, and ended with a delectably light chocolate tart. Will chose, as he frequently did, sea bass, and Taylor went for the chicken stuffed with morel mushrooms and white cream sauce. They drank a good deal of very nice wine and relaxed a little further with each sip.
Will raised his glass. “Happy birthday, Taylor.” His eyes were dark with affection and more — much more — so that Taylor’s face warmed and he forgot all about the price tag of the meal.
They toasted, crystal glasses chiming with silvery sweetness.
Taylor said slowly, “You know this is another anniversary as well.”
Will’s look was inquiring.
“It was five years ago yesterday that we were first partnered.”
Will’s smile was very white in the candlelight. “There are marriages that don’t last that long.”
They sipped their wine, both thinking.
Taylor tried to keep his tone casual, but it needed to be asked. “Has your RSO given any indication whether they’ll want to extend your stay?”
He could read the reluctance to answer in Will’s face. Will expelled a long breath. “I haven’t accepted.”
“Yet.”
“I haven’t accepted,” Will repeated. “That’s not a decision I’m going to make without talking to you.”
Taylor nodded noncommittally.
“I don’t want to stay. But…”
“But we both knew it was a possibility.’
“Yes. We did.”
“And that’s kind of the object here. To move up the ladder.”
Will stared at him. “It is. Yeah. But not at the expense of everything else. Not at the expense of us.”
Taylor hoped his laugh didn’t sound as bitter as it felt. “I think I can simplify the choice for you. I’ve got my next posting as well.”
Will’s dark brows drew together. “Shit. Overseas?”
Taylor nodded. “It’s an RSO position. Like we thought.”
“Congratulations,” Will said without enthusiasm. “Not France obviously. Where?”
“Iraq.”