That seemed to be directed at Asher, who shook her head while she dealt with a mouthful of food. "Unfair," she said finally. She held up her left hand, displaying her wedding ring. "We can't all do what we want every year. And I only miss when Dilly's off-world, like last year."
"
I
was here." Cele looked mournful. "I get lonely, you know."
"And I'm always here," Warrick said. "Even if no one else is."
"I see you at work almost every day. That's more than enough." Asher took a mouthful of wine, held the glass up to the light. "This is awfully good."
By the time they'd finished eating, Toreth decided that he'd done very well. He was still passably sober, which was no mean achievement with the available quantities of wine. He hadn't said anything to Asher that could conceivably cause offence, and it was hard to imagine anything that
would
offend Cele. He hadn't even made any excessively suggestive remarks to Dillian. Except for the fuckup with Valeria earlier — not his fault — things weren't going too badly.
Now all he had to do was keep it up for another day and a bit, and he could go home.
Toreth started the night with good intentions.
The house was crowded and he wasn't too sure how thick the walls were. He didn't fancy the idea of sitting through breakfast with Kate — and more especially Tarin — after one of Warrick's more vocal performances. Their sleeping together without fucking wasn't such a rare occurrence these days. Sometimes they were even sober enough that it had to qualify as deliberate. This, Toreth decided, would be one of those nights.
Kate had given them a room together, complete with the double bed in which Toreth was lying. Nice arrangement, if slightly disconcerting. Of course, Warrick was thirty-four, and so it wasn't really any of her business who he had in bed, but still, it was vaguely unsettling to imagine her making the decision, choosing the room. Thinking about them as . . .
Maybe she hadn't. Maybe this was the room Warrick would have had anyway. Maybe even his old room, from when he'd last lived here. Toreth looked round it. Dark carpet, light walls, bed, two chests of drawers and a wardrobe in an unobjectionable dark blue. Nothing said 'teenage boy's room'. On the other hand, that just meant Kate had redecorated the place. There could still be other clues lying around.
He slipped out of bed and started opening drawers. Most were empty. Some held old pairs of curtains, carefully pressed. He decided against searching underneath them. A couple of drawers held the clothes they had brought, neatly folded — Warrick's handiwork. The presents had already been added to the pile in the living room.
Finally he opened the wardrobe. Empty, apart from their hanging clothes and a dusty box of unpaired shoes.
All of which left him no closer to discovering whether this was Warrick's old room or not. Of course, he could just ask Warrick. He thought about it for a moment longer, then dismissed the idea. No point getting into long, boring family history crap. He couldn't even remember why he might have cared.
He heard Warrick's footsteps in the corridor, closed the wardrobe, and jumped back into bed. Before Warrick opened the door, Toreth heard Dillian's voice.
"Keir? Have you got a minute?"
The footsteps halted, then grew fainter. Dillian's room must be somewhere nearby.
Minutes passed, and Toreth wondered what the two of them were talking about. Voices raised in indistinct laughter and then faded out again. He imagined them sitting together, side by side, dark hair and dark eyes. On the bed, maybe. Warrick in his dressing gown, Dillian in . . . a dressing gown as well? A nightdress? With her generally excellent taste, he'd be willing to bet she owned some nice nightclothes. Satin. Plain, probably, as she wasn't the lacy type.
Starting to think about Dillian was dangerous, but she was so intriguing and attractive that it was difficult not to. Not that Toreth ever intended to do anything about it. For one thing, she wasn't interested in him, and at the moment the disinterest seemed to be verging on hostility.
Which just made the whole idea more fascinating.
What would it take, he wondered, to change her mind? Stopping having anything to do with her brother, for a start. Practical, but dull. Beyond the fact that she was perfectly fuckable in her own right, the idea of having her was so compelling only because of Warrick. They were so alike, it would be a fascinating comparison.
Fucking her, then Warrick. Warrick, then her. Or, as Sara had told him once, what he really wanted was to have them both at the same time. Cele's comment at the table had brought the idea back in full force. God, talk about things to regret on your deathbed that you'd never done.
Spending too much longer on this train of thought would wreck his plans for a quiet night, providing Warrick ever turned up. Although of course, on his own, he could be perfectly quiet. Nothing wrong with that. He was hard already, thinking about her. Them. Imagining bodies captured on canvas: dark hair, pale skin, deep eyes. All the time in the world to look at limbs and faces.
He propped himself comfortably on the pillows, arm behind his head, and started to touch himself. Just lightly at first. Make it last nicely. He had plenty of time, because when Warrick and Dillian got talking they could be hours.
Warrick and Dillian. She was so like her brother and so different. What would she enjoy? What would she want? What would make her want
him
?
As usual, though, the speculation was turning him on too much to waste time lingering on the setup. Simply begin from where she'd agreed. Moment of surrender — his favourite point in the hunt. Sometimes the fuck itself was a disappointment, although he bet it wouldn't be with Dillian.
He started off with her clothed, couldn't be bothered, and stripped her instead. It wasn't difficult to imagine her body. He'd seen her in a few tight evening dresses, and once at the swimming pool, skin shining with water.
Then he had to decide where. He toyed with a few options before settling on Warrick's flat, because the bed was a good size, and because it was easy to imagine. No need to waste time on creating the detail.
And because it was easy to picture Warrick there as well.
He'd never bothered trying to come up with a how or why, however implausible. By this point in the fantasy he never cared anyway. He was simply there, with them. Warrick, naked, he could call to mind any time. Warrick in any number of states and positions, in fact. A never-ending source of entertainment in boring meetings and interrogations.
The picture changed from pure imagination into the memory of fucking Warrick over the desk in his office at I&I the day they'd dealt with Marian Tanit. One of his favourite fantasy fucks. Warrick hadn't wanted it, or rather hadn't wanted to want it — he'd been keen enough in the end. He changed the picture around, Warrick fucking him, hands holding him tight from behind.
Now it was easy to slip Dillian into the scene, on the desk in front of him. Yes. Slipping into her easily and her head going back, offering her throat, exactly like she did sometimes when she laughed.
Getting close. Warrick hard and deep inside him, arm around his chest (he moved his own arm to mirror the embrace), and Dillian . . . yes . . . Dillian . . .
"Couldn't wait for me?"
Toreth's eyes flew open, but between shock and desperate arousal he couldn't produce a word. In fact, it took a few seconds for him to be able to focus on the speaker.
Warrick leaned against the closed door, arms folded and expression utterly unreadable. What had he heard? Had he said anything out loud? Fuck, he had no idea. He couldn't even manage to think what was likely. Dillian, probably, which was unfortunate enough. But, he hoped, not Warrick's name at the same time. That would be tricky to explain.
No, actually, the explanation would be very, very obvious. And right. He doubted Warrick would approve.
Eventually his language processing functions came back on line. "How long have you been there?" he asked, praying for a clue.
"Long enough."
Bastard. What had he
heard
?
"Was I being too loud?"
"Not at all." Warrick smiled slightly. "I couldn't hear you from outside. Or in Dillian's room, which is probably a good thing, or she might have wondered what you wanted her for."
One out of two, anyway. Fuck. Warrick sounded remarkably calm, considering, and that was rarely a good sign.
The silence stretched out until he decided to try starting a sentence, without having any idea of where it was going, and hope for a helpful interruption. "Sorry, I didn't —"
Warrick shook his head, the faint, impossible-to-interpret smile still in place. "It's hardly a surprise. I've heard it before. You talk in your sleep occasionally, you know."
"I do not!" Not so much a denial but a protest at the very idea.
"How the hell would you know? It's not often, and it's not usually particularly interesting. In general, it's more of a request list, and I've heard most of it before, when you're awake, so from that point of view it lacks novelty."
His tone was pure disdain, but one of the drawbacks of thin dressing gowns is that they make it difficult to lie about interest. At least for certain definitions and consequences of interest.
Toreth smiled at him, stretching a little, watching Warrick's eyes follow his movements. Might as well take every advantage he had. "I dream about turning up to work naked sometimes. Doesn't mean I'd do it. Don't you trust me?" he added, with a stab at innocent enquiry.
Warrick laughed. "
Trust
you?"
There was, Toreth thought, such a thing as overdoing the disbelief.
Warrick looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. "With some things. But with Dilly? Not this side of clinical insanity. Luckily, I do trust
her
."
No closer to knowing whether he'd said Warrick's name as well or not. If he had, it would probably need an apology, or something. But if he started the apology and Warrick didn't know . . . but if Warrick did know and he didn't say anything . . .
Fuck it. He didn't care anyway.
"If you don't want me to think about her, you'd better come over here and distract me," Toreth said.
Warrick's eyebrows shot up. "Don't we usually
finish
the argument before we get on to the make-up fuck?" he asked, although he sounded far from averse to the idea.
"Are we arguing?"
"I thought so." Warrick switched off the main light, leaving the dim glow from the bedside lights. Then he shed the dressing gown, walked over, and stood by the bed, looking at Toreth looking at him. "But I'm willing to consider that I might be wrong."
"Makes a fucking change." Toreth pulled him down into bed, rolled him over and pinned him down just long enough to feel him start to react to the restraint, then reluctantly let him go.
"How would you like to be distracted?" Warrick asked, somewhat breathless.
Holding Warrick down and fucking him until he screamed the house down would do the job nicely. With a display of willpower he found mildly impressive, he said, "Quietly."
Warrick's blinding smile almost made him change his mind. "I'll do my best. No promises."
So they practised quiet fucking. Face-to-face, pressed together, delicious friction of skin on skin. Moving slowly and then not so slowly. Not-quite fucking, as Toreth thought of it. But even if it wasn't quite, it felt good, and Warrick smelt good — he always did, of course — and tasted good. And looked good. Not shifting his gaze for a second, he slid his hand down and took hold of Warrick's cock. Watching his face, hearing him gasp.
Somehow he always forgot how much he enjoyed this. They should do it more often.
They'd shifted so that his own cock wasn't getting the contact that he needed. On the other hand, it was good to have the slight detachment to enjoy watching Warrick's reactions. And with one of them holding back there was at least a chance of keeping the noise down.
A small chance. Warrick was biting his lip hard enough to whiten the flesh around his teeth, but also moaning deep in his throat, a steadily rising note in time with the movement of Toreth's hand. Toreth was so used to the sound he hadn't noticed how loud it was getting.
They were still lying on their sides, but with a bit of an effort he managed to get his other hand free and pressed it lightly over Warrick's mouth. He felt him shiver in response, arching into him. Warrick's head went back and he moaned again, louder. Then he shook the hand away.
"Don't do that," he gasped.
"You're making a lot of noise."
"I don't . . . mmh, yes, don't stop . . . but that's . . . that won't help."
Irresistible impulse. Toreth leaned forwards, without losing the rhythm, and pressed his mouth firmly against Warrick's ear. "It will," he whispered, "if I do it harder."
Warrick shuddered again, moving faster, pressing closer. "Oh, yes. Yes, do it. Do it. I —"
Toreth got his hand back in place just in time to muffle what was nearly a shout.
Afterwards, he lay still, listening to Warrick's breathing slowing, trying to be patient. He licked his fingers clean and wondered vaguely whether there was much of a mess. He should probably find some tissues or a towel or something before it got everywhere and . . .
The fact that he was worrying about the state of the sheets suddenly struck him as terribly funny. The hastily stifled laugh roused Warrick, who looked up, then grinned. "I know," he said. "I feel as though I ought to be sneaking back to my own room afterwards. It's like being sixteen again."
"Fourteen." Although Toreth bet the circumstances were very different.
Warrick shook his head. "You're so damned competitive," he said, without heat.
"Whereas you, of course, are happy to come second every time."
Apparently stuck for a reply, Warrick changed tactics. He shifted round and began to rub his hip against Toreth, who moaned appreciatively. There were worse ways to lose an argument.