Slumping with his butt resting against the kitchen island, Ryker turned his lips upward in awe and suppressed a snicker. Fumbling with a soapy dish over a sink was the most relaxed Ryker had ever seen Timothée. Of course, it was apparent that Timothée had never washed a dish in his life and didn’t know what the hell he was doing. Who rinsed dishes using cold water? But Timothée had volunteered with the cleanup, and Ryker hadn’t been about to refuse a chance for Timothée to slip out of his suit coat and roll up his sleeves to flex some muscle. Granted, the only body part displayed was his forearms, but Timothée did have sexy wrists. Hell, everything on him was sexy. However, what was sexier was when Timothée cast aside the hard exterior he presented to the world—even if only momentarily—and chilled. Well, as much as Timothée chilled.
Rubik’s Cube enigma, Ryker decided. On his eleventh birthday, he’d been gifted the cubed puzzle. The toy had been wrapped in sparkly silver paper with a curly cue bow atop—too pretty to want to unwrap but too tempting not to. Then, once unwrapped, he hadn’t known what to do with it. Did he leave it alone in its unadulterated state of uniformed colored sides or mess it up and hope to solve it?
Turned out that was a decision he hadn’t had to make. His sister scrambled it for him the same way the world had muddled Timothée’s life. And like that damn cube, every time Ryker worked out a solution for one side, there were five other sides that remained screwed up. One wrong turn and he was back to square one.
Finally he’d marched into his dad’s study and plunked the toy on his desk.
“Dad, what’s wrong with this damn thing?” he’d boldly asked, to which his father had laughed.
“Nothing. You need patience and a strategy. But first, you must decide if it’s something you want to solve. If not, there’s no point.”
Was there a point in attempting to solve the enigma of Timothée Croneau? Was there even a solution? It wasn’t like they could have a relationship. Could they? Of course not. Timothée was a client. Although… technically, he was Lesley’s client, which might make it okay if Ryker fixed his mouth just right, pretended business ethics didn’t exist, and resided in the land of make-believe in a kingdom far, far away.
Stop that. All the rationalizing on the planet wouldn’t make it okay. Any client of the agency, despite the agent, was a no-go.
But what did it matter anyway? Timothée didn’t seem the type to want a long-term relationship. If ever there existed a commitment-phobe, he was standing at the sink drying a half-washed plate. And how did Ryker know this? Because Timothée didn’t trust people—except Aidan—and pinned up all his hurt. That shrilling scream he’d emitted in the funeral home had said it all. He’d staggered out, supported by Aidan. But the instant the front door opened, he’d straightened and reeled it in as if nothing had happened. The world would never be privy to Timothée Croneau’s vulnerable side.
Ryker had seen glimpses of that vulnerability several times. However, Timothée refused to allow him into that inner circle—like Aidan. How could Ryker be in a relationship with a man who didn’t trust him, who constantly shut him out—mixing up the cube colors? Yet here Ryker was: hoping and wishing. Idiot.
Besides, how many times had he been told that someone his age shouldn’t be entertaining the thought of any type of serious relationship or settling down? That he should be going on oodles of dates and having frequent hot monkey sex hookups? He possibly would agree if he didn’t find those things exceedingly draining and mind-numbing. He preferred trudging the single life than suffering through the incessant rigamarole of barhopping, cyber dating, and blind set-ups. Work and travel easily filled the void—well, mostly. Thankfully, he was ambidextrous when it came to handling certain randy matters. Occasionally, his path crossed with someone attention-grabbing enough for an early evening drink or a late-night coffee. However, none had been as fascinating as the man currently occupying his kitchen.
Timothée placed the last plate—which Ryker would rewash later—in the cabinet and faced Ryker. “What should I do with this?” He held up the towel he’d used for drying.
“Toss it in the washer.” Ryker pointed to a pair of metal bifold doors.
“In there?”
“Yes.” Laughing, Ryker moved from the island to the doors. They squeaked as he pulled them open.
“So tiny.”
“Efficient,” Ryker corrected. He lifted the lid of the washing machine. “Toss them in so we can watch a movie,” he added, making an executive decision. He wasn’t ready to say goodnight, and Timothée didn’t seem eager to want to leave. Plus, Ryker didn’t want Timothée to be alone after such a difficult day. A movie would be a nice way to relax while their food digested.
“Well, that was unsatisfying,” Timothée griped as he watched the credits scroll. “The special effects sucked. I’ve seen scarier pet rocks than those monsters.”
The couch dipped as Ryker shifted on the other side, his feet propped up and crossed at the ankles on the coffee table. He didn’t look at Timothée. “You do realize this movie was made in 1934.”
“What does that have to do with caramel in peanut brittle? You think 1934 movie crowds didn’t know fake shit when they saw it?”
“Different time, different reality. If the original viewers had been able to watch some of the modern CGI effects, the Orson Welles radio scare would have never been a thing.”
“Do you believe in that?”
“In what?”
“Time travel.”
Now Ryker did look at Timothée and debated whether the question was being seriously asked or more tongue in cheek. He determined it was the former. “Supposedly, science supports it. Remember tenth-grade science and Einstein’s theory of relativity?”
“I went to Catholic school. We skipped those chapters.”
“Oh.” Folding his hands across his stomach, Ryker twiddled his thumbs. “Basically, it states gravity warps, and this affects the rate of time. So if there’s enough bend in the curve….” He trailed off, catching the glint in Timothée’s eye. Oh, what’s going on in that head of yours now?
A lengthy pause ensued before Timothée asked, “Would you? Travel in time, that is.”
Ryker shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Backward or forward?”
“Forward probably. I already know what’s behind me.”
“There’s nothing you’d change in your past? Not one wrong you’d make right?”
“Change one thing and you’ll alter many, including the good stuff. It’s called a paradox. Mistakes shape us. Teach us.” He grasped Timothée’s knee and squeezed. “Some mistakes are blessings waiting to be discovered.”
“Like what?”
“Once, I accidentally let my sister’s cat out. We ended up with a beautiful litter of kittens.”
“You didn’t drown them?”
He punched Timothée’s thigh. “No! That’s damn cruel. How could you ask that?”
“It’s a cruel world. Some people do.” There was another space of silence before Timothée spoke again. “I’m glad you didn’t. I like cats.”
“You do?”
He nodded. “But I prefer dogs. I always wanted one growing up, but Luca would have no part of it. I think my mother would have caved, though, had she….”
“Had she what?”
Timothée blew out a long breath through his nose and examined his fingernails. “I think the time travel theory is a load of crap. People say random shit to explain what they don’t understand.”
Evasive as usual. The pain Ryker witnessed in Timothée’s golden eyes caused him to feel it, too. Again, he wanted to soothe it all away and reassure Timothée that everything would be okay. But would it?
“You know,” Ryker began slowly, “it’s my job to advise you, to present a brand of you to the world. To show them a small slice of what you’re willing to share. I’m not trying to change who you are.”
“The world doesn’t accept me for me.”
“Well, I do. And more of the world would, too, if you gave them half a chance. You have so much good in you. I see it no matter how you try to disguise it with your antics and smart mouth.”
Timothée pointed an index finger at himself. “I have a smart mouth? What about you?”
“Let’s not deflect again.”
Timothée’s lips parted but then shut, and he tilted his head. “Why are you saying this?”
Swallowing hard, Ryker combed his fingers through his hair and stared at his feet. His heart galloped painfully. “Cos one of us has caught feelings.” Oh, you’ve chucked it at the fan now. Ryker inhaled deeply, released, and braced himself for the quake if what he said slanted sideways quickly—which was a real possibility.
“What kind of feelings?”
Is he for real?
Eyes flickering up, Ryker scrutinized Timothée’s expression, trying to get a read on him. He couldn’t. Timothée’s face was blank. Ryker considered his next move for a moment. Balls deep in, there was no backing out. At this point, all he could do was hope Timothée didn’t stomp too hard on his heart.
“Don’t be obtuse, and don’t toy with me. You know the types of feelings I’m talking about.” Dummy. You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you? You just had to tell him. Now deal with it. His heartbeat thumped loudly in his ears in the second that seemed like hours awaiting Timothée’s response.
Timothée’s eyes flashed with a streak of excitement and then clouded. “You’re serious.”
“Look, I get that you didn’t ask for this and that I’m nothing more than a fly-by-night trade. I can… no, I will keep it strictly professional from now onward. I just need you to know that anything I do on your behalf is because I truly care.”
“You’re not rebounding?”
“God, no. I loafed around my apartment in my ratty bathrobe with a bottomless bowl of rocky road for two weeks. That, and eight pounds, was enough to get over him.”
“Good. I’m not rebound material.”
“What you are is taboo.”
“Mm.” Looping his hand behind Ryker’s neck, he hauled him forward until their foreheads touched. “That makes me sound exotic.”
“Only you would say that.”
“Then watch what I can show you.” He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Ryker’s.
Dammit! Didn’t you seconds ago vow to keep the relationship professional? Already he’s made you out to be a liar.
Upon contact, Ryker opened up for him, and Timothée dipped his tongue into Ryker’s mouth, pressing his torso into the agent until Ryker moaned. With each pass of their tongues across each other, the kiss grew harder, deeper, and hungrier. Timothée’s hand drifted over Ryker’s collarbone and yanked at the loosened tie, exposing his strong neck. At the touch, Ryker’s erection sprang up so swiftly that he’d no opportunity to stave it off, and a flush swam up his face.
So now that he’d given a big middle finger to using caution—and probably common sense, too—how did he expect to maintain perspective and not turn to mush at Timothée’s every whim? One glance into those almond eyes and Ryker couldn’t remember his own name. It terrified him how this man made him feel and want to abandon everything. Fuck!
“Take what you want,” Ryker mumbled. “But not here.” Stumbling to his feet, he clasped Timothée’s hand and led him into the bedroom, their mouths never leaving each other and clothing being discarded in the process. By the time they’d made it into the bedroom, they were both panting and half nude.
“Gimme a second,” Ryker stated, turning to tug the duvet from the bed. He was met with his pants and boxers being shoved to his ankles, his face planted into the mattress, his feet kicked apart, and his ass cheeks being spread. “Oh God. So this is how we’re doing it.”
Ryker’s adrenaline pulsed in response to Timothée’s increased aggressive control. It shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did since Timothée wasn’t known for patience or docility. And if the truth be told, Ryker didn’t want passivity. Yet, as eager as he was, he’d never raw-dogged it if that was Timothée’s intention. The thought terrified him, and for anyone else, it wouldn’t be a conceivable consideration. But he was willing to allow Timothée. However, instead of penetrating, Timothée shocked him by swatting his ass several times and then rubbing his splayed fingers across the reddened area to soothe the sting before repeating. This was also a first for Ryker, and he wiggled and yelped with each strike, a strange, unexpected excitement and pain jarring him. His cock twitched wildly. A dark thrill and deep-seated hunger of being at Timothée’s mercy made his body wild for more.
“I knew you would enjoy this.” Timothée chuckled, teasing Ryker’s hole with his index finger.
Guilty. If he didn’t, there wasn’t much he could do about it from the awkward position.
“There’s lube and condoms in the nightstand,” he squawked, finding his voice. “For when you’re ready.”
Timothée delivered several more swats before retrieving the items from the nightstand and smearing the cool gel across Ryker’s rear. Ryker sighed at the relief. Using two fingers, Timothée worked the lubricant in with firm and rapid strokes. A tingle built inside Ryker as Timothée’s long fingers teased in a slow rhythm. Then a thunderbolt of pain zoomed through Ryker but quickly dissipated and was followed by a sweet sensation of bliss as his asshole stretched and molded around Timothée. Grunting, he reveled in the pain tangled in pleasure.
“Fuck!” Ryker wailed, biting his lower lip.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” Timothée pulled back, rubbing all the outer nerve-rich areas, but didn’t withdraw completely. “I’m going to ride your ass hard like it’s never been ridden. Then I’m going to spank you again.” He thrust, the motion rough but stimulating. Rushing his hands up Ryker’s torso, he pinched Ryker’s erect nipples and then gripped his shoulders to secure them together before thrusting again, his hips coiling and writhing as his speed increased.
With one of his hands, despite the balancing issues it posed, Ryker pressed back, urging Timothée to take more while stroking his own dick.
Dammit. There. Right there. Yes. Timothée had hit that magic spot. Each stroke produced a sizzle beneath Ryker’s flesh. His grunting rose to a crescendo with his toes curling, and the honeyed bliss of his orgasm exploded seconds later, coursing throughout his body. His eyes glossed as ecstasy diffused across his face.
Thwack! As promised, Timothée delivered additional blows in an even tempo as he continued mercilessly plunging in and out of Ryker until the agent was reduced to whimpers. Ryker had never allowed a man to control him this way, and there was an edge of fear in it.
Just when he thought he couldn’t take any more, another wave thrilled through him, and his cock leaked like a fountain onto the duvet. So much for avoiding a trip to the dry cleaners.
From behind, Timothée stiffened and withdrew. Seconds later, Ryker heard the pop of latex, and Timothée’s warm seed splashed up his spine.
Tears gathered and bunched in Ryker’s eyes. There was no chance he’d walk away without a broken heart.