Keeping (20 page)

“You…just…take it,” Oliver grunted out, his eyes half closed, his lips plumped up from their earlier kiss. “You just take…every fucking…bit of it.”

Oliver stared down at his cock sliding in and out, fully opening his eyes then half closing them again. He snuck his tongue through the seam of his mouth to rest it on his bottom lip. Langham wanted that tongue in his mouth, on his cock, circling his hole—he wanted it everywhere at once, knowing the pleasure it could bring him.

“Yeah,” Oliver went on. “You should see this. You should see what I see. Hard, wet cock in your arse, hard cock in my hand. My dick throbbing, yours throbbing. Christ…you’re…fucking tight. Fuck. Ing. Tight.”

Shit. It was too late for Langham to hold back. The heated surge from his balls into his cock took him by surprise with its swiftness, and he rocked, shoving himself into Oliver’s fist with forceful jerks. If he could have every bit of Oliver inside him he would, the pair of them so completely fused they’d never be apart again. Christ, he loved him. Fucking loved him.

“Come,” Langham shouted. “Come with me.”

“Yeah,” Oliver breathed. “Oh, yeah. I’m coming.”

The wet, hot bliss of Oliver’s cum filled Langham’s arse, easing his way some more. It enticed his own cum to spurt, several shots of spunk slapping onto his belly, drizzling into his navel. As pleasure threatened to rip him apart, he watched Oliver’s body judder, watched him close his eyes and bare his teeth, the sight he knew he’d see. It sent his mind to a place where everything but them failed to exist, where he was suspended in time, drowning in sensation and letting it seep into his bones, into his soul.

He faintly heard Oliver moaning out, “Yeah, that is nice. So damn
nice
…” then he returned to himself with a snap of his hips where Oliver gave one last, arse-stretching jolt into his hole.

This
was what it was all about. Him and Oliver, striving to meet in the middle, there for one another all the damn way. And Oliver stilled. The pair of them collapsed onto the bed. Langham stroked his lover’s hair and battled to regain his senses.

His phone trilled, scooping him out of his cushioned state and into reality, where what he did for a living came crashing back in. He swore, several different words, their volume getting louder with each one, and gently eased Oliver off him. He wished that whoever was on the phone would end the call now so he wouldn’t have to bother answering it. That someone else at the station had come along at just the right moment, giving him a reprieve. He contemplated letting it ring, saying when asked tomorrow that he hadn’t heard it go off, that fuck, he must have been out for the bloody count. But he tossed the notion aside. He couldn’t do it—didn’t have it in him. What if they needed him,
really
needed him? What if it was a case of a criminal getting away if he didn’t get his arse into gear and get back to work?

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he reached into his trousers and took his phone from the pocket. Surely it couldn’t be Fairbrother. Surely the man could handle whatever new case had come in by himself and explain everything to Langham at shift change in the morning.

Please, please just let it be a cold caller
.

It wasn’t.

Fuck.

He accepted the call. “Langham. Right. Yep, I understand. If I come out it’ll just be to assess the scene for an hour or so, all right? I seriously need some sleep, man.” He cut the call and turned to Oliver. “Got to go to work.”

“I gathered.” Oliver swiped the back of his hand across his brow.

How the hell was it real life intruded so cruelly? How could it erase the past twenty minutes as though it had never happened? His cock hadn’t even had a chance to deflate when that damn phone had started ringing. It still flickered with aftershocks, a mean taunt that he wasn’t going to be able to lie there and feel the twitches, to fall asleep with cum drying on his belly.

“Want company?” Oliver asked.

“Not until—or unless—you can contribute. You know the rules. Only on the team if you’re contacted.”

“I hate that.”

“Yeah, me too, but that’s the way it goes.” Langham used his shirt to wipe off his cum then began pulling on his trousers.

“What’s happened?” Oliver sat up against the headboard and watched him.

“Woman found battered. Well, two have, but it appears it’s by the same person—same MO—so while Fairbrother visits one scene, I get the other. I shouldn’t be long. Just got to make sure things go smoothly, tents get set up and whatnot, then I’ll be back home.” He glanced at the clock. “I should be back before midnight.”

“‘Should’ is such a wanky word because it never works out that way, man.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no problem. Go and do your thing, and if someone pipes up, I’ll ring you.”

Langham nodded and left the room, cursing a blue streak that he couldn’t just climb back into bed and fall asleep beside the bloke who made everything worthwhile.

Coming Soon from Totally Bound Publishing:

Beautiful Sunset

Sarah Masters

Released 31
st
January 2013

Excerpt

Chapter One

That heron, it’s here every day, standing tall in the lake or resting on the center island. Sometimes, I can’t see it at first—it hides in the foliage or the reeds—and I panic, but as soon as I rustle the bread bag, it appears. I’ve been coming here all through summer and the first week of autumn, and the heron is as much a part of my day as waking each morning. I’d be sad if I didn’t see it. Funny how you get used to things, how you form daily patterns, rituals, and if one thing is missing, it throws your whole day off-kilter. Kind of like my life before I started visiting the lake.

At first I came here to think, to sort through the mess my mind had become and to make sense of my feelings. A broken relationship does that to a body—sends you screwy with self-blame, what ifs and was it me?

Was it? I still don’t know, and to be honest I’ve given up trying to work it out. Sort of. There’s only so many times you can knead dough before it loses its pliancy, and when baked it turns into a hard, crumbling, indigestible thing. Jack is gone from my life, we have ended and I have grieved—kind of.

At night I long for someone to cuddle up to. Someone to share my woes, my happiness, and help me through the difficult times. But hey, you can’t have everything. Besides, I’m not sure whether I’m ready to trust again. Not after…after Jack…did what he did. I still can’t face up to that, you know, still can’t talk about it. I keep it inside my head, and it swirls, festers, mocks, until my anger grows or tears wash it away for a time.

‘Yeah, I did tell them I barely felt your prick up my ass. And yeah, I did tell them you don’t know how to suck cock. Satisfied? That what you wanted to hear, huh?’

I imagine they—those work friends of his in their posh suits and expensive shoes—either laughed with him, or, if any of them had any sensitivity, thought him an arsehole. I’d
thought him alien then, spouting words that had sounded foreign coming from his mouth—a mouth that had soothed my fears and kissed away worries. How had it come to
that
? How had someone I’d thought so caring, so right for me, been reduced to such spite in order to end our relationship? Couldn’t he have just said? Just told me it was over?

Those work friends of his, I see them sometimes, and they smile, nod or raise a hand, but they don’t speak. I blush, nod, raise a hand and wish the ground would swallow me up when their gazes switch from my face to my crotch to see if it
is
small. Humiliation must be one of the worst feelings, I reckon. Still, Jack’s gone, I’m here and so is the heron.

I sit on the wooden bench beside the lake and rustle the bag. The heron wades across the water, two triangular ripples in its wake, then strides up onto the bank. It stands before me, so trusting, so
big
, and waits while I dip my hand into the bag and bring out a slice of bread. Absently, I toss pieces to the mulch-covered ground and watch them be devoured by that brown, pointed beak. A thick layer of soggy leaves cover the bank, obscuring the heron’s spiky feet. The trees beside me have almost lost all their summer clothing.

Will the heron remain here for winter?

Bread all gone, the heron stares at me, hoping for more.

“You’ve eaten it all, buddy.”

It opens its beak and closes it again as though sighing, then turns and plops back into the water. At the island, it steps ashore and disappears behind a brambly hedge. Does it have a family in there? If it does, it’s more than I’ve got.

“Shit, stop it with the self-pity, will you?” My voice had sounded like someone else’s, like Jack’s, and I clamp my lips closed and stare ahead.

The late afternoon sun lowers, and a slight breeze holds a hint of chill.
It’ll be a hard winter, then.
Will
I
remain here for that? Can I keep coming here as snow coats the bench and the lake freezes over, twinkles of rime on its surface?

The crack of a twig has me spinning in my seat to see what, or who, had made the noise. It’s not unusual for people to walk their dogs here, but they are few and far between, and for the most part I have the lake to myself. Not today. A man stands on the path a little way behind my bench, naked trees and bushes a backdrop. With his hands in black trouser pockets, beige casual jacket over a white shirt partially open to the dip below his throat, he stares at me. His outfit couldn’t be more different to mine. My jeans and the white T-shirt I’d put on after leaving work, along with my leather jacket, complete with elbow scuffs, makes me feel untidy in comparison. I should be alarmed, really, what with the level of attention he has on me, but the tweak of his lips erases any unease. The breeze jostles his wavy, medium-length hair, and a streak of brown whips across his eyes. He lifts a hand to push it away then places those long, slim fingers back in his pocket.

I offer a smile and move to turn toward the lake, but his brow furrows and his mouth downturns.

“Uh, hi.” I nod and smile again.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks.

“Um, yes. I mean, no. Go ahead.”

He walks down the bank, taking his hands out of his pockets, then sits beside me, resting them in his lap. He gazes ahead, and
I
gaze at the tawny hair peeking out of the V of his shirt. A blush creeps into my cheeks—a redhead’s exasperating affliction, the way it appears far too quickly—and I turn away, look at the row of detached cottages on the other side of the lake. Indecision roils inside me. Should I say something or wait for him to speak? His thigh is almost touching mine, I sense its closeness, and my heart picks up speed.

Christ, it’s just a man. A sexy-as-fuck man, but all the same, he might not be
—

“You come here every day, then,” he says, statement not a question. “Surprised that heron eats your bread. They don’t usually.”

“Oh, right. I hadn’t thought about it. I mean, I came to feed the ducks, and the heron, he uh, he came and took some.”

“It trusts you.”

“Um, yeah. I suppose it does.”

“Would have to, to come right up to you the way it does.” He pauses, sighs. “Bit like me.”

I stop a full frown forming and keep my sights ahead.
What did he mean by that? He doesn’t know me to trust me.

“I sense whether I can trust someone,” he supplies. “That’s what I was doing back there on the path. Sensing.”

“Oh. Right.” I should really be feeling odd right now—I mean, what he just said sounded weird—but no, I don’t feel odd, just…content.

“Been hurt, haven’t you.”

I turn my head and look at him, at the breeze lifting his hair again. “I don’t much fancy talking about it, to be honest.”

He shrugs, a casual movement that shows I didn’t offend. “The name’s Thomas, by the way.”

In a split second I take in his green eyes, the slope of his nose, the strong jaw line. “Oh, um, mine’s Matt.”

He shifts to face me, lifts a hand to shake, and I take it. His eyes seem to bore into mine, and for a moment I’m lightheaded, disoriented. I savor skin on skin, the warmth of his touch, and all too soon he lets go, returning his hand to his lap. I blink, and the world comes back into focus, my head clear.

What the fuck?

“You felt that?” he asks, one eyebrow quirked.

“Uh, depends on what you mean.” My hand still feels as though he’s holding it, and I flex my fingers, look down at his lap to make sure he really has let go.

“Did you feel strange?” he asks. “When I touched you, did you feel strange?”

“Well, I, uh, felt a bit off, yeah, but not in a bad way. Just…yeah, strange.”

“Ah.” He smiles, dimples forming in his cheeks, and straight white teeth peep from between his lips. “Then I’m still a… Never mind.”

What?

“You’re guessing you’re meant to think I’m weird. Aren’t you?” he says. “But you know I’m
not
weird. Logic tells you to run—after all, not everyone encounters a man who acts off like me and lives to tell the tale—you know, freaky guy equals murder in the bushes—but deep inside, you know I’m all right.”

That smile of his wipes some doubt away. He’s right. Yes, at any other time I’d have felt uncomfortable, would have got up and left the lake, gone home and thanked my lucky stars I’d evaded a nut-job, but… There’s something about him. Like he already knows me. Like he’s been sent to find me.