Men of London 04 - Feat of Clay (19 page)

“Yeah? You liked that? Maybe we need to role
play. Cop and villain. You can bend me over the interrogation table
and fuck me when I don’t tell you the truth.”

“Jesus, Tate, don’t say things like that just
when we’re both so exhausted. I don’t need another boner when I’m
trying to get to sleep.”

The smile in his lover’s voice warmed Tate.
He grinned against Clay’s skin. “I see me with my trousers down
round my ankles, arse in the air just begging for it, you wearing
my old uniform trousers, unzipped, your big, thick cock pushing
out, and then you push me facedown onto the table and ram into
me—”

His words were broken off as Clay’s hand
clamped down over his mouth.

“Enough, you bastard. Go to sleep. Hell, I’m
sporting wood now.” Clay’s voice was aggrieved. “How am I supposed
to sleep like this? Arsehole…oh hell, that feels good.”

Tate grinned as he wrapped his hand around
Clay’s semi-hardened dick and took his mouth in a dirty, open
mouthed kiss. His man’s recovery time was admirable and a hand job
before bed was a definite sleeping tablet in his book.

****

Clay emptied the coffee refill into the jar
as he waited for the kettle to boil. He moved the two coffee cups
around the kitchen top as if playing a game of cups and balls. The
feeling of nervousness that had plagued him since he’d made up his
mind two days ago to do what he was about to do was still there. He
could make life-or-death decisions in an instant but something like
asking Tate to move in with him permanently was freaking him
out.

He shook his head ruefully then grimaced at
the pain. Hangovers were not conducive to rapid head movements.
Luckily he and Tate were recovered from their car accident, and the
last two weeks had been fairly normal as their lives went. Clay’s
part in the toxic dumping affair was over. He’d found the man
he
was looking for and now it was up to the
police to see what they could do with the remnants of the case.
Their informant had been taken into protective custody and the
whole toxic waste dump affair was unfolding like a concertina.

He stared out at the wild garden of his
backyard. He hadn’t had much time lately to maintain it and it was
looking overgrown—beautifully tangled and wild, but still overrun
with thistles and weeds.

He turned as Tate came into the kitchen,
dressed in tight green briefs and an open white shirt. His hair was
growing and what had once been a close buzz cut was now more a
spiky auburn mess, a mess Clay really liked. It made Tate look
younger, more vulnerable and less like the hard-arsed undercover
agent he’d once been. Hazel eyes crinkled in welcome as Tate saw
Clay standing there.

“I could die for coffee,” Tate said, throat
still husky no doubt from the deep throating he’d done last night.
He and Clay had come home last night from a visit to Rick and his
girlfriend, where they enjoyed a dinner worthy of Gordon Ramsay,
but without the foul language. They’d also drunk far too much, and
had stumbled into Clay’s place in a veritable fit of giggles at
something they’d seen or heard on the way home that had seemed
hilarious at the time but in the stark light of day, probably
hadn’t been. In fact, Clay couldn’t even remember now what had been
so damned funny.

Whatever it was, Tate had been determined
that he could ‘buck the trend’ and decided to swallow Clay’s cock
the minute he’d gotten home—with gusto. Tate was particularly
skilled at blow jobs, having an impressive ability to take Clay
deep—a favour Clay wasn’t able to quite return although he didn’t
do too badly, thank you very much.

“You sound a bit rough,” Clay smirked as he
made Tate his coffee, strong and black.

Tate snorted. “Yeah, well, what the hell was
I bloody thinking last night? I definitely had one too many tequila
shots.”

Clay nodded. “I think we both did. And what
the hell did we think was so funny you had to prove you could stick
my dick down your throat until it reached your stomach?”

The two men stared at each other in
bemusement for a while, trying to recall the memory then burst out
laughing. Clay lost his breath both with his own laughter and his
sheer relief at the sound of Tate’s. It had been a long time since
he’d heard his lover make that incredibly infectious noise, a mix
of belly laughter and snorting at the same time. Finally, the
hilarity ceased and they both wiped their eyes and picked up their
coffee cups.

“I guess we’ll never know,” Tate chuckled
with a teasing glance at Clay’s crotch. “I guess as long as you, me
and Clayzilla down there enjoyed it, there’s no harm done.” He took
a sip of his drink.

“Oh, it was definitely enjoyable,” Clay
murmured. “And honestly—
Clayzilla
?” Tate’s
snigger of amusement was cut off by Clay leaning in and taking his
lover’s mouth in a deep, coffee-tasting, good-morning kiss. Tate’s
breath and his low moan into Clay’s mouth clearly made Clayzilla
happy too.

They were interrupted in their tongue
calisthenics by the ringing of Tate’s mobile phone.

They unglued their mouths and Tate swore.
“Christ, it’s only nine on a Saturday morning.” Tate reached over
and picked up his phone. “It’s Rick,” he answered. “Rick, you just
interrupted morning sex with my man. You’d better have a damn good
reason for calling me this early.” He winked at Clay who chuckled.
There was a loud squawking on the other side of the phone.

Tate rolled his eyes. “What do you mean, TMI?
You’ve never had morning sex? You don’t know what you’re missing.
It’s the best time to make use of morning wood.”

Clay shook his head in amusement as the
squawking grew louder. “Stop baiting him,” he whispered with a
snigger. “The man’s going to have serious issues.”

He frowned as Tate’s face darkened and his
mouth slid into a tight line at whatever Rick was now saying.

Something was
wrong.

Clay took another gulp of his sweet, strong
coffee and watched the rest of the conversation play out. Emotions
rippled across his boyfriend’s face—sadness, anger and resignation
all appearing. Some minutes later, Tate sighed and passed a hand
over his eyes.

“Yeah, thanks for telling me. I ’preciate it.
Tell that sister of mine I say hi and it’s time we got together for
that roast dinner she promised me.”

Rick rang off; Tate put his phone down and
turned to face Clay. His face was set, a trace of sadness on
it.

“What is it?” Clay asked softly.

“They found out who Lily really was,” Tate
said quietly. “And it’s not a pretty story.” He picked up his
coffee cup, made a face and then put it down. “Her real name was
Amy Knight. She was fourteen years old and had been on the streets
for about a year.”

Clay reached over and placed his hand on
Tate’s. “That’s shitty, being on your own like that. What else did
Rick say?”

Tate huffed, his eyes distant. “It’s a bit
stereotypical really. She had an argument with her parents about
her not being able to see some boy, got the hump in and ran away
from home. They never saw her again. They’d been trying to find her
but it wasn’t until her picture appeared in a local newspaper up
north that they recognised her. They contacted Rick yesterday and
drove down from Manchester to identify her body. How she managed to
get to London is anyone’s guess. Her mother told Rick she had an
online friend down this way—perhaps she was trying to find her.
We’ll never know.”

Tate stared at Clay with troubled eyes.
“Apparently she was quite a regular at the clinic down the road,
not far from where I met her.” His face tightened and the welling
emotion was evident in his face. “She was treated for various STDs
and pneumonia. She was coughing blood when I saw her.” He went
silent and Clay saw the pain in his eyes when he looked up. “When
she died, she was also six weeks pregnant.”

Clay’s stomach lurched. “Christ, that poor
kid, and the baby. Stupid question I know, but do they have any
idea who the father might have been?”

Tate shrugged. His body language made Clay
want to pull him close and never let go. He wasn’t sure that was
what Tate wanted right now so he held off.

“They have no idea. I doubt they’ll try and
find out either.” Tate’s hands clenched. “She stood no fucking
chance. She was young and vulnerable and chose to kill herself
because she was in trouble, with nowhere to go.” His voice
thickened with rage. “If I ever find out who made her pregnant,
I’ll bloody well kill them.”

“You think she knew that she was pregnant?”
Clay asked softly as he ran a finger down the side of Tate’s fisted
hand.

Tate nodded. “She said something about it
being too late for either of them. At the time I didn’t
understand.” He stopped then blurted out, his expression anguished,
“I should have nagged her more. I should have made her go to that
damned hospital.”

And now it was time for Clay to pull his
tormented lover into his arms and murmur words of comfort in his
ear. “Baby, you did what you could. There’s only so much you can do
for someone. You’re spending time at Castaways trying to help kids
who need it, that’s something. Those kids love you like a big
brother from what Dr Jakes told us in our sessions. So please don’t
let this one thing fester inside of you. You need to let it
go.”

Inside Clay raged that each step forward that
Tate took, there always seemed to be a step backward attached to
it. Some sort of piss-poor karma delivered by a fate that loved
playing sick jokes on people who were already hurting.

Clay held Tate close for a while as they both
stared out into the unruly garden and watched the next-door cat try
and catch an unsuspecting sparrow. The sparrow realised its
vulnerability at the last minute and eluded the cat with an
indignant chirp.

“It’s looking like damn Borneo out there,”
Tate muttered as he pulled away from Clay. “We need to get a
gardener in here and get it seen to before the tigers breed and eat
us in our beds.”

Clay chuckled softly. “I don’t believe there
are any tigers in Borneo. Some civets maybe and definitely
orang-utans.” He was glad Tate appeared to have taken his advice on
board. Time, however, would tell how far
that
went. His man was a stubborn as hell. It was what
had kept him alive in the past.

Tate gave him a look of disdain. “Listen to
you, David Attenborough. Mr bloody know it all.” But his soft grin
took the sting out of his words.

Clay cleared his throat. “Speaking of the
garden. I’m glad you said ‘we.’ There’s something I’ve been meaning
to speak to you about.”

Tate’s face flushed. “Sorry, when I said ‘we’
I obviously meant you. I mean it’s your house.”

Clay ran a hand down Tate’s cheek. “Unless
you want it to be
our
house. I’m up for
that if you are.”

Tate’s eyes widened. “What are you
saying?”

Clay scratched his head. How come this was so
damned awkward?

“I mean maybe you want to move in here.
You’re here most of the time anyway, and half your clobber is in my
spare room. So now we’re out and proud, and everyone knows about
our relationship, and I’ve stopped being such a protective Daddy
Bear, then I thought perhaps…” his voice tailed off. Tate’s face
was a picture in…something…and Clay wasn’t sure whether it was good
or bad. His boyfriend hid his eyes behind his arm and his body
shook. Clay was a little peeved. It looked like Tate was laughing
and Clay didn’t think the request was that funny.

“What the hell is so damn amusing?” he
growled, his pride a little hurt.

Tate snorted as he moved his arm away and his
eyes shone with mirth. “Protective
Daddy
Bear
? Oh my God.” He collapsed in a fit of giggling. “And
yes, you crazy bastard. I’ll move in with you.” His eyes softened.
“I thought you’d never ask.”

Clay grinned his heart filling with both
relief and joy. Tate never giggled. This was pretty new and he
liked it.

“Yes,” Clay purred, moving toward Tate and
gripping his hips, pulling him against his body. “All the better to
eat you with, or however that damn fairy tale goes. Or was that
something else? I’m not very good with fairy tales.”

Tate was still chuckling when Clay hefted him
onto his shoulder and took him into the bedroom where he proceeded
to show the man writhing eagerly beneath him exactly how a Daddy
Bear ate someone.

Galileo’s
buzzed with activity as Clay walked back from the bar with a round
of drinks. His friends were all seated in a corner booth, chatting
animatedly. He grinned at Tate who already looked a little under
the weather as he tried to convince Eddie of the benefits of briefs
versus boxers. Eddie gave Clay a ‘please help me’ puppy dog look
which Clay ignored. He knew exactly what happened when Tate got
onto that subject, Clay being a boxer man himself, and he didn’t
want to get involved. He smothered a laugh as he sat down and heard
the words ‘dangling junk’ seeing Eddie’s panicked look around the
restaurant to check if anyone else had heard Tate’s rather loud ode
to the delights of wearing briefs to keep his junk “contained.”

Taylor waved his beer bottle in Clay’s
direction. “More booze. Just what we needed.” He slugged down the
remains of his current drink and picked up another one.

His fiancé, Draven, sighed. “Tay, remember
what happened the last time you got drunk? You gave Tate hell, and
then it ended up with Gideon politely kicking you and me out of the
restaurant with poor Clay as the babysitter.”

Clay laughed loudly. “I remember that night
well. I thought poor Gideon was going to pitch a fit.”

“Poor Gideon
did
pitch a fit,” was the dry rejoinder from behind and Clay turned to
see the man in question standing there. He was immaculately clad as
always in a grey suit, as befitted the owner of Galileo’s. He sat
down in the empty chair beside Eddie and leaned over to kiss his
cheek.