Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Rory
Tam is either asleep or doing a very convincing impression of it.
I have been lying in my bunk for forty-five minutes conducting a covert assessment of Tam’s sleeping status, and I am still not certain.
He is on his back. He is not snoring, which he usually does, which could mean he is in a lighter phase of sleep or could mean he is lying there completely awake and aware that something is happening and is waiting to see what it is, because Tam is perceptive in a way that I find very inconvenient at times like this.
I wait another five minutes.
Tam does not move.
Right. Fine. That is sufficient evidence. I am going.
I sit up with the careful slowness of someone defusing something, every movement considered and deliberate, and the bunk immediately produces a sound like a small explosion.
I freeze. Tam does not move. I wait ten seconds and try again and the bunk does it again, louder this time, with what I can only describe as enthusiasm, as if it has been waiting for an opportunity to be as loud as possible and has recognized this as its moment.
I get out of the bunk one limb at a time over the course of approximately three minutes. By the time my feet touch the floor, I have aged significantly. I stand very still and listen.
Tam breathes. Slowly and regularly, and with the deep unconscious rhythm of someone who is either genuinely asleep or a trained professional.
I reach for my jeans.
The zip sounds, in the profound quiet of the cabin at past midnight, like a space rocket blasting into orbit.
I do it in stages. Little increments. It takes an eternity.
Then I pull on my hoodie, and the fabric makes a sound against my t-shirt that seems deeply unreasonable given that fabric has no business being that loud.
And finally, I stand in the middle of the tiny cabin, fully dressed and breathing very carefully.
Tam has not moved.
I pick up my trainers and carry them to the door and ease the handle down with the focused precision of a man who has done this before, which I have, many times, though usually the stakes were considerably lower and the destination was somewhere less significant than the cabin of my supervisor who has invited me back and who I am absolutely not thinking about in any specific detail right now because I need to be functional.
The door opens. I slip through. I ease it shut behind me.
The corridor is empty and lit with the harsh fluorescent lighting that makes everything look slightly unreal. I put my trainers on and stand up and allow myself one small, quiet exhale of victory.
Right. The corridor between here and MacLeod’s cabin is not long. I know this corridor. I have walked it many times in daylight and once before at night. I know exactly where I am going and all I have to do is walk there without encountering anyone and without doing anything stupid.
I start walking.
My trainers squeak.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a small, rhythmic, completely unavoidable squeak with every left step, the specific sound of rubber soles on the particular grade of metal flooring that this corridor is made of, and I cannot stop it.
I try adjusting my weight and my stride and the angle of my foot, but it squeaks regardless.
Cheerfully and consistently, announcing my presence to the empty corridor with every step.
I walk faster. The squeaking gets faster. I slow down. The squeaking slows down, but does not stop.
I accept the squeaking and move on.
The first junction I come to is empty. Good.
I take the turn and the second corridor stretches ahead of me and I am nearly halfway and everything is fine and this is completely fine and I am a grown adult man of twenty-two visiting another grown adult man in his cabin at midnight and if anyone asks I have a completely reasonable explanation.
I run through the explanations I have prepared.
Option one. Sleepwalking. This is my first option, and I am not entirely sure how it works as an alibi given that I am visibly awake and wearing trainers, but it has the advantage of being difficult to disprove.
Option two. Looking for the toilet. Solid, classic. Except for the fact that everyone knows that I’ve been on this rig long enough to know where all the toilets are, including the one in my cabin.
Option three. I heard a noise. A good one. Responsible even. I am a safety conscious crew member investigating a potential issue. The fact that I cannot specify what the noise was or where it came from is a minor detail.
Okay, Option four, I am delivering something. But this requires me to be carrying something, which I am not.
Fine, option five. I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk. This is the most plausible one, and I have been saving it as a last resort because it is boring and I don’t like it.
Or perhaps option six. I am visiting my supervisor to discuss a professional matter that has just occurred to me. This is insane. I love it. I am keeping it in reserve.
I reach MacLeod’s corridor without encountering anyone, and feel the specific relief of a man who has prepared extensively for a situation that did not occur.
The corridor is quiet and empty and the lighting makes everything harsh and still and MacLeod’s door is right there, at the end of it, same gray metal, same handle, same door that has now featured in my life in ways I could not have predicted.
I walk to it. Quietly. The squeak has mercifully stopped on this section of flooring.
I raise my hand and tap on the door. Lightly. Three small knocks, barely audible, the knock of someone who is very aware of the time and the proximity of other people’s cabins and does not want to wake the entire corridor.
The door opens immediately.
MacLeod is there. In boxers, completely awake, looking at me with those dark eyes, in the industrial light of the corridor, and I have the distinct impression, the very strong and specific impression, that he has been standing on the other side of this door waiting.
His hand closes around my arm. I am yanked inside. The door shuts behind me.
And I am all alone with MacLeod.
Again.
Silence falls around us. Thick, heavy, but surprisingly warm. It’s not a bad silence, it’s more of an anticipatory one. The universe drawing its breath before something profound happens.
“I did the shower thing!” I hear myself blurt.
Immediately, the corner of Macleod’s mouth twitches. An almost-smile, and while I’m proud of that, I’m determined to one day give him a proper smile.
“Good to know,” he says wryly.
The silence lingers. His eyes are very dark. His jaw is very manly. His naked chest is very...
“You’re still wearing clothes, Gallacher.”
Oh. Right. Yes.
Hastily I begin rectifying that problem, and in no time at all I’m naked.
“Bend over the bed,” MacLeod says.
My body obeys him without consulting me, and now I’m stark naked, bent over my boss’s bed with my arse pointing towards him.
A thousand schoolboy jokes about bending over for someone are racing through my mind, but strangely I’m not feeling ashamed, just a little awkward. But mostly a whole lot excited.
As evidenced by how very hard my cock is.
Behind me, MacLeod breathes deeply. He pauses. Breathes again.
“I like telling people what to do,” he says gruffly.
I snort. “Aye, I noticed.”
I sense him move behind me, straightening up perhaps. “We don’t have to do it that way.”
I shake my head. “This way is fine. I like being told what to do. You like telling. I have no idea what I’m doing. You do. It’s all good.”
MacLeod exhales. It sounds like relief. I’m relieved too. I still haven’t fully untangled whether it was the gayness or the being bossed aroundness that rocked my world last time. It could be a combo. I do know it’s MacLeod, and that I don’t want to change a thing.
He moves again. A gust of air brushes over my bare ass. I think he has dropped to his knees.
I figure out what he is going to do a mere fraction of a second before he does it. There is no time to brace myself. No time to mentally prepare.
Hot, wet, softness laps over my rim. The sensation shoots through me, and the noise that explodes out of my lungs is positively unholy.
MacLeod shows no mercy. His large hands take hold of my hips and he holds me firmly in place. Right where he wants me.
And he feasts. He eats my ass like a starving man, while I wail helplessly.
Nobody has ever eaten my ass before. And I’m rapidly learning that is an absolute tragedy. So many wasted years. So much missed opportunity.
MacLeod’s tongue laps over and over. Around and around. It pushes in. It flicks out.
Every single thing he does with his tongue is pure ecstasy. The sensation is electric. My hips are trying to rock. My nipples are pebbled. My cock is leaking. The noises I am making are obscene.
Euphoria builds and builds. My balls tighten, I throw back my head in preparation for yelling my joy.
The crescendo eases. It calms. Everything was ready to crest and brim over, but now the tempo is reducing. MacLeod’s licks have turned soft. Gentle. Teasing.
I whimper in protest. He doesn’t relent. He just keeps licking pleasure into me. Not enough for me to cum, but far too much for me to come down.
I whine and twist and pant.
MacLeod stops. “No cumming until you are on my cock.”
I make a noise of pure dismay. “Both?” I manage to plead.
He huffs. “Don’t worry, boy, you aren’t leaving here until I’ve milked you dry.”
I groan and shudder. That sounds great. Fantastic. Wonderful. But I’m so close right now. So close it nearly hurts.
“It will be more intense if you wait. Trust me.”
“Aye,” I wheeze. Because I do trust him. Trusting MacLeod is easier than breathing.
I yelp as his soft tongue traces over the ridged skin of my rim. The shot of pleasure keeps me tottering on the edge. I relax into it and allow myself to soar.
I’m in MacLeod’s hands and nothing could be better.