Men of London 04 - Feat of Clay (15 page)

“Really?
Despicable
Me
tissues? What’s next—Pooh Bear pyjamas?”

Clay laughed softly and Tate opened the
packet and blew his nose loudly then wiped the wetness from his
cheeks and eyes.

He relished Clay’s arms around him and leaned
against his lover’s chest, feeling his beating heart as he closed
his eyes. The comforting, rhythmic sound soothed him, eased his
aching soul and he never wanted to lose that feeling of belonging.
Now he knew Clay didn’t resent him or what he’d done, he felt
lighter than he had in months. The storytelling
had
been cathartic.

“I didn’t want you to see me as weak, Clay.”
Tate whispered. “Or as some sort of slut. It was the only time I
ever did that because I believed the end justified the means. And—”
he swallowed, “I never thought I could have
you
.”

Clay’s answer to that was to drink in Tate’s
lips like a parched man needing water. Tate surrendered gladly to
that possession, heart gladdening that he was still wanted. His
lips devoured Clay’s with a possession of his own. Finally they
came up for air. Both men’s lips were swollen and wet.

Clay rubbed a finger over Tate’s lip and Tate
sucked it in, delighting in seeing Clay’s eyes blacken as his
pupils expanded.

“I’m not going to push you for more, but
don’t think I didn’t notice you evaded my question about ‘the
rest.’ You’ll tell me in your own time, and if not, I can live with
that,” Clay murmured as he watched Tate’s mouth suck his finger,
his eyes passionate. Tate’s cock hardened at that look. “You went
through hell and kept this all locked inside you. I don’t see you
as weak. I’m not happy about what you did. Another man having you
that way? It hurts. I won’t lie to you. But I can’t be jealous of a
sadistic, manipulating bastard who hurt you in unimaginable ways.
You did what you thought you had to do and I know that feeling
well. Following orders, making the mission successful.”

He gripped Tate’s jaw tightly, forcing him to
look at him. “You ask me how I cope with everything. I was trained
by one of the best fighting forces in the world. They teach you how
to deal, how to compartmentalise and rationalise what you do. I
don’t say it’s easy, just that it’s easier to believe in it when
you’re doing it for a cause. For your country and for the benefit
of other people who will live because of what you did.” He kissed
Tate again fiercely and Tate moaned at Clay staking his claim. He
wanted so badly to be taken, possessed by this man.

“We had a choice to perform that service or
not. You didn’t. You had that taken away from you with Armerian
when he tortured you. That doesn’t make you weak. You didn’t
deserve what you got just because you were sleeping with the guy.
In battle we often do things we never thought we would.”

Clay’s eyes smouldered as he brushed a hand
over Tate’s hardened cock. “I need to show you how I feel. Make
love to you again until you come so hard you explode. Show you that
sex with someone you love is better than with someone you merely
lust over. And make no mistake; you are mine now and no one else’s.
I’d fight somebody to the death for you.”

He didn’t wait for Tate’s reply, just slid
under the covers and sucked the skin of Tate’s stomach into his
mouth. Tate’s back arched as Clay ran a hand over Tate’s thigh,
then stroked between his legs, finding that sensitive part of him.
When Clay’s mouth finally found Tate’s cock, and that hot, wicked
mouth licked and sucked with abandon, Tate had no choice but to
forget and surrender.

He cried out loudly as he came into Clay’s
hot, greedy mouth; and when Clay pinned him down, Tate’s body
rejoiced in being loved, being cherished by Clay’s loving thrusts
inside him. Tate’s hands never left Clay’s skin; his need to hold
his man close and absorb him was so desperate he thought he might
stop breathing. His arse ached from Clay’s passion, his mouth was
bruised from Clay’s possession and his mind was so in tune with his
lover’s that they were one.

Make me yours. Possess
me.

“You are mine,” Clay growled as he jerked
inside Tate with the force of his orgasm. “I will always be here
for you no matter what.”

Tate felt the warmth of Clay’s seed inside
him, marking him, owning him, and he pressed his face into Clay’s
neck, finally acknowledging that the truth may just have set him
free.

Two weeks
after his emotional confession, on a warm early July afternoon,
Tate went back to Castaways. He was feeling positive about it being
a great day to give a group of kids a talk on what he’d done as a
policeman all those years ago. When he got to Castaways and saw
Randy and Jen’s harassed faces greeting him at the door, he stepped
inside with a frown.

“What’s wrong? Are the kids all okay?”

Randy flapped a hand at him, as he shook his
head. “Oh no, they’re fine. Well, all except one.” He pursed his
lips. “Our Mister Jackson Grady—Jax—has been pitching a hissy fit.
He’s locked his bedroom door and refuses to let anyone in.”

Tate’s heart sank. “What happened? Do you
think he’ll talk to me?” He’d storm up the stairs if need be and
insist Jax talk to him.

Randy’s face brightened. “Would you mind?
He’s quite fond of you. I know the two of you have been in touch. I
can’t get anything out of him other than the command to fuck off
and leave him alone. Jax doesn’t swear often so we know it’s bad
when he does. He’s not usually so disrespectful.”

Jen touched Tate’s arm. “I’ll go pop the
kettle on,” she said softly and left the hallway.

Tate nodded his thanks as he hung his
windbreaker on a hook on the wall alongside various coloured
cardigans and jerseys belonging to the kids. He grinned when he saw
a baseball cap there with the words ‘Diesel Rules’ emblazoned
across the top and a picture of a scowling Vin Diesel on the front.
He conjured his own fantasies about the man and tried not to blush.
“Who’s the Vin fan then? He has good taste.”

Jen glanced at the cap and smiled. “Oh that
belongs to Krispin. He adores the man. His bedroom is plastered
with pictures of him.” She shrugged. “He’s eleven and Vin is his
hero and Krispin thinks Vin would protect the little blighter from
his dad.” Her tone was sad. “His dad’s been in prison for child
abuse for quite a few years now so he won’t be calling anytime
soon, but still Krispin worries.”

Tate’s throat ached at the story of a child
who could need a hero like Krispin did. “I’ve seen people do bad
things, but abusing a kid has to be the worst of the worst.” A loud
bang from above made them both look up the stairs.

Randy sighed heavily. “That’ll be Jax. He
tends to throw stuff when he gets upset.” His face twisted in a wry
grin. “Thank heavens it’s not often. That young man has a temper on
him.”

Tate smiled. “I know the feeling. Let me see
if he’ll talk to me.” He made his way up the stairs to the sight of
two wide-eyed kids sitting on the landing, half-eaten sandwiches in
hand, staring at a door that Tate presumed was Jax’s. It was the
little kid who’d made Tate eat liquorice—Damon, no, Damien—with an
older child Tate hadn’t seen before. They gazed at him
curiously.

He lifted his chin in greeting and gestured
to the door. “Is that Jax’s room?”

Both kids nodded solemnly.

“He’s not feeling so good, huh?” Tate
crouched down beside the two children and smiled sympathetically.
“Anyone know what put the bug up his arse?”

Both kids shook their heads. Damien giggled a
bit at Tate’s words.

“He just got grumpy and said he was going to
his room,” the unknown child muttered. “He got a text and it made
him mad.”

Tate filed that away for future reference.
“Do you know who it was on the phone?”

Again there was the shake of two small heads.
Damien spoke softly. “Krispin said we should maybe go downstairs
and ask Jen if we can bake him a cake to make him feel better. Jax
likes chocolate cake and maybe it will make him smile again.” His
lower lip quivered. “I don’t like it when Jax is sad. It makes me
sad ’cos he’s always so happy.”

Tate’s heart ached. “That sounds like a
really good idea to me,” he agreed, looking at the kid he supposed
must be Krispin, lover of all things Vin Diesel. “Why don’t you go
down and ask her and I’ll see if I can talk to Jax and find out
what’s wrong with him?”

Both boys looked doubtfully at each
other.

“You can try,” said Krispin quietly.
“Normally we just leave him alone and he comes down to dinner
sometimes.” He stood up and took little Damian’s hand. “Come on,
squirt. Let’s go downstairs and see if Jen will let us bake.”

He nodded his head at Tate and the two boys
made their way down the stairs. Tate took a deep breath and knocked
on the door.

“I told you all to fuck off!” An expected
reply said vehemently.

Tate sighed. “Yeah, well I’ve just arrived
and I have no intention of leaving just yet. Stop being such a damn
drama queen and open the door and let’s talk.”

There was a silence. Then, “Who the hell are
you?”

Tate rolled his eyes. “We’ve spoken enough on
the phone, Jax. You know who it is. It’s Tate.”

“Just go away. I don’t want to talk to
anyone.” There was a soft muttering from behind the door and Tate
grinned. No doubt Jax was asking himself why nobody wanted to
listen, to leave him alone. Tate had done it often enough
himself.

He sat down on the landing outside Jax’s
door. “I’m not going anywhere, so I’ll just wait here until you
open the door. I have a cup of tea on the way and maybe a piece of
chocolate cake too. I’m in no hurry.” He got comfortable sitting
against the wall next to Jax’s door and took out his mobile and
texted Clay.

Guess what I’m doing?
Trying to talk a sulky teenager out of his room.

He closed his eyes as he leaned back and
smiled. Clay had done this often enough to him, wheedling, cajoling
and finally threatening Tate out of a locked room. Tate knew how
this all worked. The key word was patience. His mobile buzzed. He
sniggered when he read Clay’s message.

Talk about payback. See
what it feels like on the other side of the door. Good
luck

Jen arrived then with his cup of tea. She
snorted and placed it next to him.

“You might have a long wait,” she advised.
“He’s a stubborn little cuss.” Her voice rose loudly at the last
words, no doubt hoping Jax heard them.

Tate shrugged. “I have time. I’m busy mulling
over my speech I was going to give the kids, which has now been
delayed.” He deliberately spoke louder too. Jen gave him a soft
smile and disappeared into one of the bedrooms. Tate shifted,
getting comfortable.

There was a scuffling on the other side of
the door. “Why are you being such a dick?” the voice asked
sulkily.

“It’s in my nature.” Tate said airily. “My
partner accuses me of it all the time, especially when I lock
myself in my room and refuse to talk to anyone. Normally his use of
the word dick is preceded by another bad word which I won’t repeat,
because there are small ears around.”

There was a soft snort from the other side of
the door and Tate’s heart lifted. “That’s not all he calls me
either. His favourite is usually preceded by the bad word and has
arsehole after it. So I guess he’s an equal opportunity insulter,
insulting both my front and my back side.”

There was a louder snort now. Tate waited.
Then there was the click of a lock turning and Tate stood up, his
scarred arse cheek stinging from sitting on it. He tried the door.
It swung open and he walked into a darkened room, leaving the door
part open behind him.

A huddled shape lay on the bed, duvet cover
over his legs and hips, facing away. A dim bedside light was on.
The curtains were closed and under the sweet smell of incense,
which burned on a side table, the room stank of stale sweat and old
deodorant.

Tate’s nose twitched. “Quite the aroma café
you have going on here. Do you mind if I open a window?”

“Yes.”

Tate sighed heavily. “Fine. I’ll just
asphyxiate with teenage odours.”

“I didn’t ask you to come in. You bullied
your way in here. So put up with the
aromas
.”

Tate once again rolled his eyes.

Heaven save me from
teenage angst. I think maybe I should have stuck to psychotic drug
dealers.

He walked around to the chair by the window,
one in front of where Jax lay. He sat down and observed the face of
the young man on the bed, lying in what looked like a sweatshirt
and jeans. Even in the dim light, he could see the swollen red
eyes, the pink nose and the duvet tightly fisted in one pale hand.
Jax had been crying and Tate wanted to find out why. He had an
overwhelming need to be of solace to this boy curled up in his bed.
He was uplifted by the fact that Jax had let him in; it meant he
wasn’t as averse to being helped as he pretended.

Everybody needs somebody
to talk to—even you.

Clay’s words echoed in his head and Tate
scowled. He wasn’t sure he liked being on the other side of the
equation. It meant Clay was right.

“Why are you scowling like that?” Jax’s voice
was thick with crying and from a blocked nose. “You look like you
want to punch someone. Is it your partner—your work partner?” His
tone was indifferent but Tate heard the underlying curiosity about
his use of the word.

“Yes and no. I work for him but he’s also my
life partner. Clay is my boyfriend.”

Jax stilled. The hand clutching the duvet
unfurled and Tate heard a slight gasp. He leaned back in the chair
and stretched his legs in front of him, and waited.

Finally the bundle of clothes and duvet moved
and Jax sat up. His eyes stared at Tate and while Tate couldn’t see
the expression, his tone indicated surprise—wonder even.