Author: L.A. Witt, Aleksandr Voinov
Publisher: Riptide Publishing
Excerpt:
That was a first.
Callum sat up straighter, watching in the limo’s side mirror as
his employer headed down the sidewalk towards the car . . . alone. James never left Market Garden
alone. Oh, no . . .
Cal tossed aside his
spiral notebook and pen, grabbed his black cap off the passenger seat, put it
on, and got out. At this point in the evening, he was usually biting down on
some red-hot jealousy while a sexy, leather-clad rentboy slid into the back of
the car with James, but he couldn’t even find any relief that it hadn’t happened
tonight. It took every shred of self-control he had not to jog across the
pavement and put his arms around his boss. He schooled his expression and
posture, refusing to let his concern or surprise show.
Not that James would have
noticed, and that in itself was weird. He was usually outgoing and
exuberant—well, as much as any dignified British man could be—but he was
strangely subdued tonight. Shoulders down, eyes down; even his customary
scarlet tie seemed to sag, the knot lower than usual. He was definitely not
himself. He was always tense and sometimes even a little depressed when he
asked Cal to take him to Market Garden, but never when he left.
“Ready to leave, Mr.
Harcourt?” Cal asked cautiously.
James’s eyes flicked up,
briefly meeting Cal’s, and he grunted an affirmative. Definitely not himself.
What’s wrong? Talk to me!
But Cal said nothing. That
fantasy of being James’s confidant and source of comfort was just that, a
fantasy. In the real world, Cal was the help, and that meant he couldn’t help
James the way he ached to.
With his heart in his
throat, he pulled open the door and stood aside while James climbed into the
back of the car. No way had he been knocked back by any of the guys. If his
jaw-dropping good looks didn’t attract the rentboys to him—and Cal couldn’t
begin to fathom that—the contents of his wallet surely would.
Cal shut the door and went
back to the driver’s seat. He looked in the rearview and said over his
shoulder, “Home, sir?”
“Yeah.” James’s gaze was
fixed on something outside the window. And not Market Garden, either. “Let’s go
home.”
This wouldn’t be a late
night, then. Thank God. Market Garden nights usually weren’t—Cal would be
dismissed shortly after dropping James and his rentboy du jour at the house—but
some nights, James met colleagues from the office or entertained clients, and
partied into the early hours of the morning before arriving home in the grey
predawn. By that point, Cal would be shattered and James would be drunk or
already asleep. Getting him out of the car, through the door, and up the stairs
into bed was a whole operation. Many times in the year—had it been that
long?—since the man’s wife had left, Cal had been the one to take James
upstairs, pull off his suit, and put him to bed after those liquored-up outings.
Okay, so it wasn’t exactly in his job description, but he couldn’t bear the
thought of leaving James to show himself to bed when he was in that state. A
little bit of awkwardness and frustration were a small price to pay so James
could maintain his dignity.
On the way home tonight,
James left the privacy screen open. Cal was used to that except on Market
Garden nights. If they were heading home from the brothel, that screen was
invariably up, leaving Cal’s fertile imagination to provide the details. Sometimes
Cal heard things—leather creaking, a groan, and once in a while a laugh so
sadistic he wondered if James had Loki himself back there—but he never saw
anything. Whenever James emerged from the car with one of his rentboys, he’d be
flustered, visibly hard, and sometimes already sweating a little. What Cal
wouldn’t have given to know what exactly the rentboys did to him during that
thirty-minute drive.
What I wouldn’t give to join them.
He shivered and gripped
the wheel a little tighter, focusing on manoeuvring down the narrow streets on
the route back to the house. A route he’d driven so many times, he could almost
do it in his sleep. But tonight, with that screen open and James just sitting
there, alone and staring off into space, Cal struggled to concentrate on the
road.
Glancing in the rearview
again, he cleared his throat. “Is, um, everything all right, sir?”
Leather creaked softly
behind him. James sighed. “Everything’s fine, Callum. Don’t worry about it.”
Cal gnawed his lip, but
didn’t say anything more. Sometimes, when he wasn’t preoccupied with business,
James chattered endlessly from the backseat, going on about anything—a client’s
antics, whatever he and the children had done during their visit the previous
weekend, something in the news—and at least appeared happy to have Cal’s full
attention. It didn’t seem to bother him that Cal was paid to be there and it
was only professional for an employee to listen politely to his employer and
comment when asked. Then again, that didn’t bother James about the rentboys,
either. It took a lonely, lonely man to ignore the fact that someone was being
paid to give him their undivided attention.
Other times, James was
like this. Quiet. Withdrawn. Except that was always before a visit to Market
Garden. Never after.
The drive tonight felt
like it took three times as long as usual, but finally, Cal pulled up the long
driveway that wound around to the front of James’s lavish home. He parked, left
the engine idling, and went around to James’s door.
It seemed to take all the
energy James had to extract himself from the car and stand. He was sober, that
much Cal could tell—he rarely drank all that much at Market Garden—but he
looked exhausted.
“Are you sure you’re all
right?” Cal asked.
“Yes.” James faced him and
smiled, but it was thin lipped and didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”
Cal nodded silently. He
closed the door after James had stepped away from the car, and waited.
James looked up at his
house, and Cal watched him silently, wondering what was going through the man’s
head as he stared at his massive, empty house and its closed front door. His
gaze was distant. Gravel crunched and his dress shoes creaked softly as he rocked
back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet.
Again, Cal fought the urge
to put his arms around James and comfort him. Something was off, and whatever
it was, Cal desperately wanted to fix it. Change it. Help him somehow. Hell,
just hold him the way he’d imagined doing so many times.
Cal tried to force that
thought out of his mind. Maybe that was one fantasy that needed to stop.
Imagining himself having sex with a man who was out of his league was one
thing, but imagining himself consoling someone who was standing right there,
looking that lost and that vulnerable . . . it wouldn’t take much for the line
between fantasy and reality to blur. And if that line did blur, he’d probably
realise it one awkward hug too late.
Eyes still fixed on the house,
James broke the silence. “Would you like to come in for a drink?”
Cal’s heart skipped.
Really? This night just kept getting stranger.
“A drink?”
James turned his head, and
a weak smile appeared on his lips. “Yes. A drink.”
“I . . .” Shouldn’t. No way. Cal, don’t . . . “I should park
the car.”
“Just leave it outside the
door.” James fiddled his keys from his pocket. “Not like I’m expecting
visitors.”
Cal glanced up at the
overcast sky, but London weather was all over the place, and though it didn’t
look like rain, it might very well rain tonight. He really didn’t want to leave
the car out in case the weather turned nasty, and putting it away would give
him a moment to come to his senses and—
“Don’t worry about the
car,” James said quietly.
“All right.” Bad idea. Very bad idea. But Cal took off his cap
and placed it on the driver’s seat, then killed the engine and locked the
doors. Heart racing, he followed his boss through the front door and into the
enormous living room.
James always left several
lights on when he headed into the city, which made the house less empty and
forlorn, but that illusion didn’t last for very long.
“I could put on the fire.”
James sounded undecided, certainly not quite there.
“If you like, sir.”
“I love the flickering. Do
you?” He looked at Cal, hazel eyes brownish in the warm light.
Cal had never lived
anywhere that had a live fireplace; they seemed unnecessary and inefficient.
The house wasn’t cold, but maybe James found it comforting. Cal nodded. “I do,
sir.”
“Good.” James took off his
jacket, walked over to the fireplace and crouched down to start the fire with
paper and kindling. Cal found himself staring at the man’s fine white shirt
pulled taut over his body, and the small, trim arse just hovering over the heel
of his polished black shoes.
Snap out of it, Cal. You shouldn’t even be
here.
This was a mistake. It
wasn’t a good idea to do social time, but now that he was here, he couldn’t
really bow out without being impolite. He’d have to make up some kind of excuse
to vanish into the tiny cottage behind the house. The living quarters were one
of the main perks of the job, even if they seemed a little too close tonight.
“What are you drinking,
Callum? Wine?”
Wine, whatever. He’d drink
what the boss was drinking, but not much. Just enough to be sociable. “Yes,
sir.”
“I’ll grab a couple of
bottles from the wine cellar.”
“Actually, I—” His
last-ditch attempt to bail and get the fuck out of there halted when James
looked into his eyes again. Cal swallowed. “Uh, I can get the wine.”
“Are you sure?”
No. God, what am I doing? But something was
wrong, and Cal couldn’t walk away from James and just leave him here with
whatever was on his mind, and if company and a glass of wine were what he
needed, then maybe Cal could give him that much. “I’m sure. Any, um,
preference?”
James smiled, and some
tension seemed to melt out of his shoulders. “It’s downstairs. Past the game
room, second door on the left. Get us a couple bottles of red, if you would?
The French ones are all favourites. Pick whatever you like.”
“Sure.” Cal followed
James’s instructions, and peered at the extensive collection of bottles. Pick
whatever you like? Some of those bottles were five hundred a pop. Others just
fifty or so. Did it make a difference if he went for the cheap ones or the
expensive ones? He chose blindly, picking out two bottles of French reds.
He returned with the
bottles, one in each hand, and the fire was flickering, James standing back.
Cal swallowed. “Should I,
um . . .” He nodded towards the kitchen as he set the bottles on the coffee
table. “Get a couple of glasses, sir?”
For the first time all
evening, James smiled. Not broadly, but genuinely, as if the fire had warmed
something in him during Cal’s brief absence.
“You don’t have to call me
‘sir’ anymore tonight. James is fine.”
“All right.” Cal swallowed
again. “Uh, James. The . . .” He’d asked a question, hadn’t he? Had James
answered him?
James gestured at the
couch. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll get the glasses.”
Comfortable. Right.
James brushed past him,
not quite touching him but almost, and then Cal was alone in the massive living
room with two bottles of wine, a crackling fire, and a few million questions on
his mind. But he sat at one end of the couch, leaning his elbow on the armrest
and trying not to fidget or chew his thumbnail or otherwise let on that he was
nervous.
And why the hell was he
nervous, anyway? Just because this was out of the ordinary and perhaps a little
too close to how his most delicious fantasies had begun didn’t mean a thing.
Maybe James was just lonely tonight. That was probably why he’d gone to Market
Garden in the first place—he’d been in an exceptionally depressed mood when
they’d left the house, Cal realised now—and maybe he just wanted some company
without the leather and the—
Oh, God, don’t think about all that. He squirmed on the
cushion, forcing himself to think unpleasant thoughts to keep from physically
reacting to those fleeting images.
James returned with two
glasses. He put them on the table, opened one of the bottles, and poured them
each half a glass. As he handed one to Cal, he smiled. “I hope I’m not keeping
you from any other plans.”
“No, s—uh, I mean, no. No
plans.” He took the glass and swirled it slowly. “I’d expected to be on duty
for a couple more hours, so I hadn’t made any.”
James’s smile faltered
briefly, and his gaze turned distant as he lifted his own glass. “Well, you’ll
still be paid for the same hours. I hope this is all right?”
“Of course.” Cal sipped
the wine. The heady, sweet flavour made his head spin a little, as if he’d already
drunk an entire bottle or two. Maybe it wasn’t the wine. With James sitting
this close to him, barely a couch cushion between them and without the safety
of a privacy screen, Cal probably didn’t need to drink anything at all to get
his head spinning.
“How do you like the
wine?” James asked.
Cal swirled it slowly.
“It’s, uh, it’s nice.”
“It is.” James smiled.
“Château Margaux is always nice. Good choice, Callum.”
“Thank you.” He wasn’t sure what else to say. In response to
James’s comment or, well, at all. Why the hell am I here? He lifted his gaze
and met James’s eyes. And why aren’t you yourself tonight? But those weren’t
questions he could make himself ask. James’s personal life was off limits, and
Cal wasn’t sure he wanted to know exactly why he was here and a Market Garden
rentboy wasn’t.
“Callum?” James tilted his
head slightly. “You’re awfully quiet.”
Cal took another drink and
then put his glass down. “Forgive me if I’m out of line, but are you sure
everything’s all right? You’ve been a little, uh, out of sorts all evening.”
James shrugged. He was
better than two-thirds of the way through his glass already. “Could just use a
little company, that’s all.”
Isn’t that why I took you to Market Garden?
Cal bit down on that
question. This degree of intimacy was disconcerting enough without probing into
James’s unusual sex life.
James swallowed the last
of his wine. He put the glass between the bottles, but made no move to pour
himself any more. Sitting back, he slung one arm across the top of the couch,
his hand dangerously close to Cal’s shoulder. Cal struggled to breathe. He was
tempted to reach for his wine, but was afraid he’d drop the glass. Not that a
splash of red wine on the white sofa and pale carpet would be any more
mortifying than saying or doing the wrong thing right now. Like moving closer
to that casually draped arm. Or moving away from it. He was certain any
movement at all, even a millimeter in either direction, would be the body
language equivalent of a scream of “get the fuck away from me” or a bright red
neon sign buzzing with “please, please touch me.” So he stayed completely
still.
Apparently oblivious,
James absently loosened that rich red tie with his finger. “Do you recall that
one rentboy I brought home not long ago?”
One? Yeah, which one?
Cal cleared his throat.
“I’m not sure.”
“The blond kid. Nick.”
Nick. Oh yes. He’d only come home with James once, but Cal
remembered him well. He’d had a commanding air about him, like well-earned
arrogance, that was hard to forget. Not that he’d interacted with him much,
just letting him in and out of the car, and then offering coffee the next
morning before driving him back into town as he sometimes did while James slept
off the night before. And he remembered feeling the need—which he’d managed to
resist—to subtly encourage Nick to get out and stay out.
Cal coughed again and
lifted his glass to his lips. “I think I remember him, yes.”
James sighed. “I was
hoping he’d be there tonight.”
Something tightened in
Cal’s chest, and he gritted his teeth. “Wasn’t he?”
James shook his head.
What a shame. “Is that why . . .”
“I was hoping to hire him
tonight.” James smiled, gaze distant, but then he shook himself and lifted his
arm off the back of the couch. He reached for the bottle again. “Anyway. He’s
not there anymore, apparently. Moved on to bigger and better things, I
suppose.”
“You, um, liked him, then?” Of course he did. Come
on, Cal. Don’t be stupid.
James laughed softly. “You
could say that. I’ll have to find someone else who can do the things he did.
Was only that one time, but there was just something about him that . . .” He
glanced at Cal, and his cheeks darkened a little as if he’d suddenly remembered
who he was talking to. “More wine?”
Give me the whole fucking bottle. “Please.”
Cal waited for James to stop pouring and resisted the urge to toss
the Château Margaux back like vodka or some medicinal tonic that might blur his
mind so it would stop taunting him with those images: James’s body, how he
looked and moved when he staggered out of the car with one of his rentboys. How
he’d refocus, usually just long enough to tell Cal he’d have the rest of the
night off. James had no idea how many hours Cal would spend after leaving them,
imagining himself in the rentboy’s place. Not that Cal believed he could really
do whatever it was those guys did. James had a thing for the cocky, arrogant
rentboys, the ones who radiated attitude from their pores. Controlled,
sometimes bossy. No, usually bossy. What they did when they were
alone, Cal could only imagine—and often did imagine—but he doubted they turned
passive or obedient once they were behind closed doors.
And the next day, James
would sleep like the dead and be in a great mood for the next few days. What
Cal wouldn’t have given to be the reason for James’s relaxed good spirits.
He took a mouthful of the
wine and swallowed, then glanced at James. What was going on here? Was James
trying to get him to relax, perhaps so he could take advantage? Considering the
calibre James sought, Cal wasn’t in the same class. He was all right, he
figured, but nothing like those leather-clad men from Market Garden. James
could do much better and usually did.
James sat back with his
topped-off wineglass, laying his arm across the back of the couch again. “It’s
never occurred to me until now, but . . .” He met Cal’s gaze, and paused for a
long moment, eyes narrowed just slightly as if he were looking for something in
Cal’s expression. “Does it— The night jobs. The trips to Market Garden.” He
tilted his head. “Does it bother you that I’m . . .” He paused again, breaking
eye contact and absently swirling his wine as if trying to find the right
words. “That I’m involving you?”
“N-no, sir. James.” Cal
swallowed most of the contents of his glass in one go. “I’m only here to drive
you from place to place. Beyond that isn’t my business.”
“You would object if I had
you drive me somewhere to commit a crime, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, you do work in the
financial sector.” Cal laughed cautiously. “And I still drive you to work,
don’t I?”
His boss stared at him.
Cal’s throat tightened. Too far. Shit. Way too—
James snorted, wagging a
finger at him. “Touché, Callum. Touché.”
Relieved, Cal laughed
softly. “To answer your question, though, it doesn’t bother me. It’s your
business. Not mine.”
“Perhaps it isn’t. But
should it ever become an issue, you can speak up.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Cal drained his glass. He was tempted to refill it, but resisted. Two glasses
that fast and his head was definitely getting light; any more than that and he
was liable to put his foot in his mouth. Again. The finance joke had been
uncharacteristically risky for him. Thank God James had seen the humour and not
taken offence, but Cal silently chastised himself for it. He’d definitely had
enough alcohol, so he left the wine well enough alone.
He sat back. A split
second too late, he remembered James’s arm behind him. His shoulder blade
bumped James’s hand, and Cal sat up sharply as James jerked it back.
“Sorry,” they both
muttered.
This was definitely a bad idea. Social hour with the boss was fine
and dandy when it didn’t reduce them both to inarticulate schoolboys. Though
they had recovered from more awkward moments. Like the time when a very, very
drunk James had slid a hand over the front of Cal’s trousers while Cal had been
helping him into bed. Over a year later, Cal still heard that hiss of breath
and the groaned “oh my God, Callum” in his dreams, and he still felt
that clumsy but very deliberate squeeze. That had only made things awkward for
a day or so. Mostly because Cal wasn’t entirely certain how much James
remembered.
Cal chanced a look at
James. His usually confident boss met his eyes.
“Sorry,” James muttered
again.
“Don’t worry about it. My
fault.”
More silence. More eye
contact. There was no hope of pretending one or both of them wouldn’t remember
this tomorrow. They were both relatively sober tonight.
Cal’s eyes flicked towards the open wine bottle and the empty
glasses. They were both relatively sober tonight so
far.
“Callum.”
He faced James again. That
uncertainty was still there, but strangely mixed with renewed confidence.
Determination, maybe. A decision made, but not quite enough bravado to go
through with it.
Cal cleared his throat.
James put his glass on the
table. Then he casually rested his arm on the back of the couch again, relaxing
a little as he returned to the position he’d been in when they’d made that
unexpected contact a moment ago. He held Cal’s gaze, and the decisiveness still
lingered in his expression.
“Do you remember, oh, a
couple of months ago? When I hired that pair from Market Garden?”
Cal shifted, trying to get
comfortable without leaning back against his boss’s arm. How the hell could he
forget those two? That cocky kid and his slightly shier—but strangely cocky in
his own way—partner. Maybe it had been part of their gimmick, but Cal thought
they might’ve been a couple. “I remember them, yes.”
A knowing smile pulled at
James’s lips. “You weren’t fond of them, were you?”
“What?” Cal sat up a
little straighter. “What do you mean?”
James lifted one shoulder
in a barely noticeable shrug. “Am I wrong?”
Cal gulped. “I barely saw
them. Just on the way in and out of the car.” And he’d heard devilish laughter
through the privacy screen. Caught the scent of sweat and leather when they got
out of the car. He hadn’t missed the way James’s cheeks had been flushed and
the slightly quieter rentboy had wiped at his lips just before stepping out of
the car. Cal had ground his teeth until long after the three of them had gone
into the house, and had fantasised about letting them find their own bloody
ride back into—
James chuckled quietly.
“That’s what I thought.”
Cal’s face burned. “What
exactly are you getting at?”
“You tell me.”
Fuck. James wasn’t as out
of sorts as he’d been earlier, that much was for sure. Two glasses of wine?
Really? That was all it took?
“I’m just curious.”
James’s hand rustled softly on the couch behind Cal. “Was there something about
them that you didn’t like?”
Besides the fact that I knew they were
teasing, tormenting, pleasing, fucking you all bloody night? And I wanted to—
He cleared his throat.
“They just gave me an odd vibe, I guess.”
“Care to elaborate?”
Cal’s mouth went dry. His
boss’s scrutiny unsettled him, but he couldn’t make himself look anywhere but
right at James. “I. Um.”
“Relax, Cal.”
Cal? Not Callum? That was
a switch.
“I’m . . .” Cal took a
breath. “Why exactly are we having this conversation?”
James opened his mouth as
if he were about to speak, but hesitated.
Movement drew Cal’s
attention to the back of the couch, and he shifted his gaze just in time to see
James lift his arm. He held his breath, watching James’s hand hover in his
peripheral vision for a couple of seconds.
And then his hand was on Cal’s shoulder. Warm. Heavy. Undeniably there.
He looked James in the
eyes, and that confidence in James’s expression faltered.
Should I be doing this? Should
we be doing this? What the fuck are we doing?
Cal’s heart pounded. James
swallowed hard. His hand lightened slightly on Cal’s shoulder.
To hell with it. They’d
already crossed the line, hadn’t they?
James took a breath. “Cal,
I—”
Cal grabbed the loosened
red tie, dragged James across the cushion between them, and kissed him. He did
have the wine as an excuse. James had telegraphed what he wanted, and the fact
that James didn’t jerk away, didn’t push him off or so much as protest, gave
him confidence.
Instead, James opened up
to him almost immediately, tasting of wine and need, and all Cal’s restraint
just went out of the window. He grabbed James by the shoulder, pulled him
closer, sensing all the coiled strength in that body, as if he were ready to
fight, because that was what those damned alpha males did all day, anyway,
right? But James didn’t fight him. Didn’t seem intent on fighting him at all.
The kiss made Cal’s head
spin. He pushed James down across the cushions with his own body weight,
worried that James would tell him to stop, or to loosen his grip, but James let
himself be pressed against the cushions. Cal let go of his shoulder and ran his
fingers down the man’s chest, brushing a hard nipple almost by accident on his
way down, then reconsidered and twisted it. James gave a muffled sound into the
kiss, and Cal twisted it harder, then rubbed it. God, this was hot, but he
wanted skin.
Except that meant getting
undressed, which meant letting go.
Maybe skin was overrated.
He moved further down,
felt James breathe hard, felt the muscles under his touch with nothing but a
fine white tailored shirt between skin and skin. The heat bled through, and the
rest was visual memory, of his chest and abs, that body from running and
weightlifting. He wrecked himself every morning in his own damned gym—Cal had
seen him through the window a few times, and what had really turned him on was
the sweat, the exertion, and those grunts that came through the open window
when James battled on despite the pain.
Cal ran his hand up the front of James’s shirt, feeling those
toned abs quivering under his touch. Though he’d been a little alarmed when
James had thrown himself extra hard into his gym routine right after the
divorce, the man hadn’t injured himself, and the results—fuck, the results. He
curled his fingers and ran them downwards, nails trailing across James’s shirt
with a soft hiss.
James broke the kiss,
arching his spine and tilting his head back. “Cal . . .”
Cal dived for James’s
neck. He kissed the exposed flesh from the stubbly jaw all the way down to the
collar of his shirt, and damn it, now he needed that skin to skin contact, even
if it meant letting go.
He pushed himself up, and
as he hooked his finger in the knot of James’s tie, their eyes met. James’s
gleamed with the same hunger Cal felt. No, not quite the same. He was somehow
more subdued than earlier. Heavy-lidded eyes, blissed-out smile; he was calmer,
whereas Cal was getting more and more wound up by the second.
As Cal pulled the tie
loose and the knot disintegrated into a slightly wrinkled ribbon of silk, James
started unbuttoning his own shirt, his hand brushing Cal’s. He struggled with
the buttons, but managed to get two, three, four undone.
“You should . . .” He
licked his lips. “Yours . . .”
Cal glanced down, suddenly
aware that he was still dressed. He pushed himself up, and with equally
unsteady hands, started stripping off his own shirt. He tried not to think
about the fact that he was now straddling James, who was lying across the
couch, because then he couldn’t concentrate on buttons and getting his arms out
of sleeves and complicated things like that.
Ignoring James’s hard-on wasn’t easy, though, not when it was so
close to Cal’s that the slightest movement made their cocks brush through their
trousers. He’d think about that in a moment. He’d focus completely on that and
get lost in that and get all these fucking clothes out of the way—are
we really doing this?—but not until he’d figured out how to get these damned buttons
to—
James tugged at Cal’s
shirt, pulling it free from his waistband. His hands slid under the shirt, and
Cal forgot what he was doing. His fingers were still on a button that was
halfway through the buttonhole, but all he could think about was those warm hands
sliding up his abs. He closed his eyes and pushed out a long breath, which only
made things worse—better?—because his muscles moved under James’s gentle,
exploring touch.
“Before we get too carried
away,” James whispered, out of breath already, “maybe we should move this into
the bedroom.”
Cal opened his eyes and
looked down at him. “The bedroom?”
James nodded slowly.
Cal pushed the button
through its buttonhole. As far as he knew, James never took any of his
“companions” into his own bedroom. The morning after, they always emerged from
one of the guest rooms.
The bedroom?
Something told Cal they
were too carried away already.
