Chapter 6 #3
It’s still stupid what I do, but knowing it doesn’t stop me.
I push my hand down between our bodies and cup it over the bulge busting his fly.
His cock bucks hard against my palm at the contact.
It at least doesn’t care about stupid labels, or expectations, or the threat that might still be lurking nearby.
All that matters to it is whatever friction I’m willing to provide.
I serve it up. Rubbing. Squeezing…until he’s shuddering over every single touch and making croaky groans into my mouth and then my hair, and then my skin as he makes bite marks on my poor exposed neck. I can’t stop stroking him, and I suspect some of the needy noises I hear are being made by me.
“More,” he sighs between two raspy breaths. He widens his stance, giving me more room to work. His cock is an iron bar and he trembles each time my thumb circles around the head. Moisture leaks through his trousers. He’s that turned on.
I wonder as I stroke, faster and faster, not letting him escape whatever force it is that’s driving us both, whether if I just…
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Hell, yeah!”
I lift my gaze as his cock jerks and watch him come for the second time tonight. The first time has nothing on this. His expression is riddled with wonderment and bliss. And the sigh that oozes up from his lungs is so raw it almost rings an orgasm out of me.
He falls silent as the tremors fade. His fingers straighten out and he disentangles them from his hair.
There’s not a lot of space behind him, but he makes use of what little there is to put some distance—well, about an inch—between us.
He blinks slowly. The blue of his irises is startlingly bright and ringed with sapphire all around the edges.
I see the colour in all its glory as the overheard lights blink on.
Whatever madness occurred is over.
Slowly, Dylan’s expression transforms. He shivers, as if someone just ramped up the air conditioning to arctic wind level. He looks down at my palm still wrapped around his cock and he’s horrified.
“What… Oh, shit, no! We can’t… Kira, we can’t be a thing. We can’t do this.”
I hate to break it to him, but, “We just did…” We just did.
“Why the hell did you… You know I’m not straight?”
Oh no, he’s not laying this all on me. There were two of us involved.
Two of us interacting. If he thinks I’m going to stand still and listen to him pretend he wasn’t into it, when the evidence is absolutely there to the contrary, then…
I take a deep drawn breath, while my heart hammers hard against my ribcage.
My gaze locks onto the wet patch on his shirt, and a second larger one across the front of his trousers.
They’re only noticeable because they’re fresh and I’m standing so close.
The dark colour of his suit will mask them given a few minutes of drying. Maybe. Hopefully.
Irritably, he won’t make eye contact any more, even when I attempt to put myself right in his field of vision.
“Dylan Drake, don’t you dare make out you weren’t willing. I would never have acted if I didn’t think the attraction was mutual.”
His kissable lips squeeze together into an angry pout. “What just happened, you need to forget it happened.”
Not bloody likely!
“I’m serious, Kira. The last few minutes never were.”
I’m beginning to notice a pattern. If something happens he doesn’t know how to handle, his instincts are to pretend it never happened.
It’s like he mentally takes a road trip away from the association.
It’s how he’s managed to convince himself the threatening letter that arrived with his breakfast one day was nothing of any consequence.
Well, I’m not going to cave in to his self-delusion.
I curl my fingers around his wrist. His heart is still racing.
I know he wants to pull away…run, but I can’t allow that to happen.
“I understand this is a big thing for you. Probably a shock and you need time to digest it, take it in—”
“I don’t—”
“Sometimes we surprise ourselves. Find out things we thought we knew for certain aren’t the actual truth.”
“If you’re about to suggest that I’ve been straight all along, and that I’ve simply been denying that fact, then I’m going to have to conclude that you’re as delusional as Rosie.”
Nope, that’s not what I’m saying at all. “On balance, I hardly think one handjob counters the plethora of gay sex you’ve engaged in, but maybe your tastes are not quite so polarly aligned as you previously believed.
“I’m not fucking bisexual,” he snarls as if I’ve just hurled the worst sort of insult at him.
“Yeah, whatever.” I raise my hands in surrender.
“Have it your way. You’re one hundred per cent authentic gay, and the fact you just spunked your stuff all over your abs had nothing to do with my hand being on your cock.
That was just my fantasy, along with the way in which you were ravaging my lips. ”
He pales, really, genuinely whitens so that even the colour drains out of his love bitten lips. But he’s done talking it through. He pushes past me and marches along the line of parked cars.
He can hate me for it—he certainly curses—but there’s no other choice but to follow on his heels.
“I suppose you think you can just walk away and pretend it never happened?”
He doesn’t reply, or pause until he reaches our ride. It’s easy enough to locate now the lights are on. However, it’s all locked up, and there’s no sign of Johns.
“I thought you said he was supposed to stay with the car,” Dylan huffs while tugging on the door handle. His efforts set the alarm off, which begins wailing, while the car’s lights go full on discotheque.
“He is.”
“So this is suspicious?”
A little. Not that I say that to Dylan. “My boss personally vets every member of his team,” I explain instead. “Therefore what you need to ask yourself is how much you trust Howard Falchard.”
He doesn’t have a ready answer to that, which isn’t a surprise.
There’s an electronic beep, and the car alarm shuts off.
Johns comes striding towards us. “Had to piss,” he explains.
“Typical that it’s at that moment there’s a power cut.
” Unconsciously, my gaze strays down his trouser leg.
The fabric is black, so I’m not sure it’d show even if he had pissed down his own thigh.
“It’s always a crisis when your pants are down,” he complains jovially. “Every bleeding time. It’s never when you’re poised ready for it.”
I get the impression he’s unaware of the shooter on the loose upstairs.
“You know it wasn’t just a power cut,” I say.
“Can we just get out of here?” Dylan shows his exasperation by wrenching open the car door. He slides his butt onto the back seat.
“Sure we can do that.” Johns shrugs his shoulders at me. What’s his problem?
Where would I even begin?
Before we go anywhere, I check in with the boss to make sure that’s what he wants.
Falchard’s relieved to hear that Dylan is fine, or rather, that he’s safe.
My boss doesn’t need to know I just made my charge come in his pants like an overeager youth, or that Dylan’s now denying such a thing could possibly have ever happened.
I wish Dylan would man up and realise the world doesn’t have to be so rigidly black and white, and that it’s not necessary to fit into only one box.
It’s an odd position to be in, considering Dylan’s rainbow embracing portrayal in the media.
Falchard relates that initially indications are that the group who stormed the building are associated with the group of protestors outside the main doors earlier.
Their intention was primarily to cause havoc and champion their belief that acceptance is wrong and that persecution is the only recourse for those who insist on defying God’s order.
Twenty people have been injured in the stampede to flee the scene.
No one—thank God—was shot. I mention the bullet shaped hole in the presentation cheque, but Falchard’s insistent no actual guns were fired.
It seems the noise we heard was actually from a toy, one of those old-fashioned cap guns.
I didn’t think they even made them anymore.
“The cops want statements from you all.”
“Not now.” Dylan snarls.
Falchard consults with the police liaison he has with him, while I endure Dylan’s testiness as best I can. He sits with his arms crossed, hands tucked into his pits.
“The police would prefer to take statements from us now, while our memories are fresh—”
“I want out of here,” Dylan snipes through gritted teeth.
“—but, Falchard has arranged that they’ll speak to us at our convenience tomorrow.”
“Oh!” Some of the tension eases from Dylan’s body. “Then can we finally get out of here?”
“Sure.” I slide into the back seat beside him.
As on the way here, we occupy spaces as far apart as possible.
Johns fires up the engine, and takes us out onto the street.
The situation at the front of the building defies belief.
People are gathered in groups, some of them wailing, Johns doesn’t slow down.
He takes a right at the lights, and once we’re through them guns us back to Dylan’s hotel at top speed.