The Administration Series (99 page)
Toreth leaned forwards, touching his lips to his ear. "Do you want me to touch you? Let you come?" He ran his hand down Warrick's chest, moving it across at the last moment to sweep down his hip and thigh.
"Mmh . . . yes."
"Say it." He brought his hand back up to cup Warrick's balls, squeezing gently.
Warrick moaned harshly through gritted teeth. "Please. Please . . . let me come."
"Then keep your eyes open."
After a moment's consideration, he put his hand back over Warrick's mouth. No one had disturbed them yet, but that didn't mean no one would notice an undamped Warrick. The precaution was justified almost as soon as Toreth took hold of him, stroking too gently — teasing.
Muffled whimpers and pleas from Warrick, and he started twisting again, trying to thrust forwards into Toreth's hand. Toreth shook his head, and tightened the hand over Warrick's mouth.
"Don't move. You come when I let you. When I tell you to. Do you understand that?"
Warrick nodded at once, stilled himself against the wall except for shivers running through him as Toreth's thumb circled slowly.
"When I allow it."
Another nod.
Satisfied, Toreth settled in, keeping a slow rhythm. Watching Warrick's eyes, fascinated by the dark, glazed surrender. Wondering if Warrick could still see him and, if not, what he saw instead. It didn't really matter, as long as Warrick was here and this was better than whatever he'd done with Girardin.
His. Wanting him and needing
him
.
Warrick was growing loud now, making a noise Toreth always loved — harsh, sobbing breaths, begging without words. So very ready for it.
"Now," Toreth whispered.
Speeding up, giving Warrick, finally, what he needed. A moan that was almost a scream, and again, much louder, as Warrick's wide-open eyes went wider and his fingers dug hard into Toreth's arms as he shuddered and came.
After the reception — after too long spent trailing round listening to technical conversations he didn't understand — after having to swallow laughter as Warrick sat down a little too hard — after all that, when everything was over, they went back to the room.
Toreth lit the fire while Warrick disappeared into the bathroom. Then he switched off the light, kicked off his shoes and socks, loosened his bow tie, and sat in front of hearth, watching the flames licking at the dry wood. By the time Warrick re-emerged, in a dressing gown once more, it blazed brightly.
Warrick stopped, surveying the scene. Silence, then he spoke as if he hadn't paused. "Would you like a drink?"
"Please." Toreth had made an effort to stay sober at the reception because, fuck or not, he didn't fancy meeting Girardin except when in full control.
Warrick poured drinks and handed one to him without comment. He stayed standing, behind Toreth, staring into the fire.
Toreth patted the rug and said, "Join me?"
Warrick looked down at him, eyes dark and unreadable, then nodded and sat. Toreth moved round so that his bare feet were next to Warrick's, sunk deep into the thick fur. They sat in silence, watching the fire eat its way through the wood.
After a while Warrick said, "That was very good, wasn't it?"
"Yes." Real fear and real danger were so much sharper than the play versions. But Warrick's question hadn't been just a compliment.
"Yes. But — " Warrick looked at him. " — it's never going to be good in quite that way again, is it?"
That wasn't regret. "Never."
Warrick nodded, and returned his attention to the fire.
It was, Toreth thought, unnecessary and somewhat annoying, because he'd already said that. He'd already promised never again, outside the game. Maybe, in view of how good it
had
been, it wasn't entirely surprising that Warrick wanted to emphasise the point when they were both . . . calmer. Still, he wouldn't need to promise anything at all if Warrick hadn't fucked —
Toreth took a deep breath. Forget it.
He lay down on the rug and after a moment Warrick followed suit, lying in front of him, also facing the fire. He blocked most of the heat from it, but Toreth didn't mind. He was quite warm enough in the DJ.
Sipping his drink, Toreth watched the embers beginning to fall through the grate. With the reds and pinks rippling over their surface, they made a pretty novelty, but he found he couldn't concentrate on them. The earlier part of the evening had returned, nagging at him. He resisted for as long as he could, then reached over Warrick to deposit his glass on the hearth. He rested his hand on Warrick's waist, feeling the heat of the fire on the back of his hand and in the warm cloth.
"Girardin," Toreth said.
He felt Warrick tense. "What about him?"
"You said you kissed him."
He nodded, guardedly.
Toreth slid his fingers through the belt of the dressing gown and pulled, turning Warrick over onto his back. Then, moving very slowly, he leaned down and kissed him.
Warm, sweet mouth, tasting of toothpaste and alcohol and Warrick, and as beautifully responsive as the rest of the body pressed against him. Toreth did a careful, thorough job, and when he pulled back he said, "Was it like that?"
"No." Warrick smiled, then smoothed the expression away as if he wasn't sure it would be welcome. "No, it was nothing at all like that."
"Was he — "
Warrick put his hand up, touching the lapel of his jacket. "Toreth, leave it. Please."
"No. Tell me — was he a better fuck than me?"
Warrick sighed. "No, he was not." He looked up at Toreth, his eyes clear and only a hint of exasperation in his voice. "If there is anyone out there who is a better fuck than you, then I can only pray that I never meet them, because I sincerely doubt that my nervous system would stand the strain."
Do you mean it? Do you really mean it? Tell me again. He suppressed the words, the hunger for reassurance, and said, "Good."
After a short silence, Warrick said, "Finished?"
When he nodded, Warrick turned his head away a little, towards the fire, eyes closing again. "Tired?" Toreth asked.
"Somewhat. It's been a long day."
"Want to go to bed?"
"Not especially, no — but as you prefer." After a moment, Warrick added. "I wondered whether, since the conference finishes tomorrow, you might like to stay on for a couple of days after that. Over the weekend."
No distractions taking up Warrick's time. No Girardin. "Yeah, that'd be good."
"I'll speak to the hotel in the morning."
Since Warrick didn't seem to be in any hurry, Toreth stayed where he was, watching the fire burning slowly down. After a while, he leaned over Warrick again to throw on a few more pieces of wood. Warrick didn't react, either to the crackle of new flames or the brightening of the firelight.
Toreth shifted on the rug, suddenly noticing the aches in his legs. A satisfying, post-exercise feeling, from skiing and the fuck. The nice thing about this place was that he'd be able to eat as much as he wanted of the very classy food, without worrying or resorting to anything pharmaceutical to balance the calories. More skiing tomorrow. More fucking in the evening, if he was in luck. And so on, for the next three days.
An attractive idea, bringing a subdued, lazy arousal with it.
"Do you want to fuck?" Toreth asked, more to find out if Warrick was still awake than as a serious offer.
"Mm?"
"I said, would you like to fuck?"
"Mm, yes." Warrick smiled, without opening his eyes. "In theory, at least. But I'm afraid that, practically speaking, I have to say 'not a chance'."
Toreth nodded, then added, "Okay."
It wasn't a bad summary of his own feelings, but it unfortunately curtailed the evening. The closeness was pleasant, but it had begun to stir unease. It wasn't that he needed an excuse to hold Warrick, as such, it was just that he always had one. Fuck-in-progress, post-coital coma, moving together while they slept — they were acceptable. Other situations were not. Why, he had no idea; he never questioned it, he simply knew it was true.
On the other hand, they weren't precisely lying together with no purpose. They were watching the fire. He looked down at Warrick, whose long lashes and straight nose cast shadows in the firelight, and amended it to enjoying the fire. Making the most of the luxury on corporate expenses. Now they'd lit it, it would be a shame to waste it. He stretched out, resting his head on his arm, and closed his eyes.
Wood smoke. Warm spirits from the glasses on the hearth. Smell of Warrick's hair, newly washed. The embers crackling musically as they slowly consumed themselves. Soft fabric under his hand, shifting in time to Warrick's breathing.
Tomorrow. Skiing and fucking. The bed had sturdy enough posts, so he could come back early and set things up for the game. Have everything ready and perfect for when the seminars finished. Warrick would appreciate that. There were soft straps in Toreth's luggage — he had packed the ones that could be left tied for hours without leaving marks, because Warrick wouldn't want visible bruises at a conference. Not that it mattered now.
Anticipation stirred, mixing agreeably with the warmth and relaxation; he loved planning. It was attention to detail that made it work. He would order room service for dinner, and feed it to Warrick piece by piece while he was blindfolded. Finger food — lots of different flavours and textures. Some good wine, or maybe even champagne. That would do very nicely to start the evening. And then . . .
He pictured Warrick's body, naked in the firelight, dark hair and pale skin lit red.
Bound and on his knees. Blindfolded. Breathing quick and shallow, waiting for instructions.
Ready to be taken — completely his.
Toreth smiled, imagining voices.
"Say it."
"I'm yours."
Of all the evenings Sara could choose to be late, Toreth thought as he waited in her hall, it would be this one. The irony of his complaining about someone else being late didn't escape him, but the idea of what might be happening in his absence still made him grit his teeth.
"I'm really, really sorry," Sara called as she flew across the hall from bathroom to bedroom in a blur of golden-toned skin and blue towel.
He'd have preferred it if she'd sounded at all repentant. He crossed the hall to stand closer to her bedroom door, from where he could see her reflection in the window. "So you should be. You know we need to be there in plenty of time."
"Bastard got hurt and I had to take him to the vet. Poor little baby. I couldn't leave him there all on his own until I knew he was going to be okay."
The absence of a skulking, psychotic shadow hadn't yet registered with Toreth. Not surprising, because the place still smelt the same.
"I had loads of trouble getting a taxi," Sara continued, her voice briefly muffled, "and then I had to stay there while she looked at him and decided what to do. She wanted to put him under first so she wouldn't hurt him when she examined him."
Thereby suggesting Sara's hapless vet wasn't a complete idiot. Actually, anaesthetising the cat before approaching would be a good idea when it was perfectly healthy.
"What happened to it?" he asked.
"He lost a fight."
"Jesus, what with? A freight transporter?"
She was facing away from the window, giving him a nice rear view, but he heard the exasperated sigh and imagined the rolled eyes that would go with it. "A fox, the vet thought. Or maybe even a small dog."
Or possibly an escaped lion. "Much damage?" he asked hopefully.
"Not as much as I thought when he crawled home. His tail's broken in a couple of places and he's got bites all over his back, but he's going to be fine. The vet thinks his tail might end up with another kink in it." Sara turned for the door and he took a tactical step back.
She came out of the room, brushing her still-damp hair while shrugging into a dress. "Another 'nother kink, I mean. Can you get my zip?"
He zipped her up and asked, "Ready?"
"One minute. Not even thirty seconds."
She dived back into the bathroom, and glass and plastic began to rattle. He was about to start a protest when she reappeared clutching a black bag.
"I'll do my make-up in the car."
All very well, he thought as they left the flat, but that wouldn't get him back the time he'd already lost.
The place was packed when they arrived and Toreth handed his jacket to Sara as soon as they got inside. It was her fault they were so bloody late, so she could brave the chaos at the temporary cloakroom.
Toreth always liked to arrive early, to scope out both the prey and the competition. Most of the other seniors did the same, so every year the group estimate of 'early' crept back slightly. Now an event which nominally started at eight o'clock was always busy by seven.
The end of year training parties at I&I took place in the largest canteen there, spilling over into surrounding rooms. Organised by the Human Capital and Training department, they were slightly more civilised than the drunken bash Toreth remembered from his own interrogator training at Justice, although the food and drink were just as bad. Attending were this year's final classes of interrogators, investigators and para-investigators, plus the training staff and any of the senior staff looking to fill vacancies in their teams.