Needing (18 page)

“I’m not that bad, am I?” Langham teased, gently easing Oliver’s T-shirt up his chest.

“No. It’s not that, it was—”

“Shh. I’m messing.”

“Oh.”

Oliver lifted his arms to allow Langham to finish removing the shirt. Steam encompassed him, cloying and hot, and he wondered if he’d set the temperature too high. Wondered if Langham liked it cool or boiling. Whether he would step into the shower with him and explore his body like he wanted him to. Wanted yet didn’t. It was all so exciting, so terrifying, he didn’t know what the hell he wanted.

“If you just calm down,” Langham said, unbuttoning Oliver’s jeans, “you’ll find this a lot more pleasurable. Pretend you’re dreaming, if you like. You do dream about me, right?”

Even though Oliver had his eyes closed, he knew damn well Langham was smiling. That tone of voice, the one he used every day when they fucked about, rang out as clear as the peal of Sunday church bells.

“Yeah, you got me,” he managed, swallowing hard.

“Ah, good. Can’t have you not dreaming. Not wanting.”

Oliver’s stomach flipped, his cock springing free of his boxers as his man drew them and his jeans down his legs. Something brushed his cock—Langham’s hair? Was he kneeling? Down
there?
—and it swelled harder, the swiftness of it filling almost painful.

“You smell good,” Langham said.

Oliver swallowed again, stepping out of his clothes as they reached his ankles, careful not to make a dick of himself by slipping on the condensation-covered floor. He didn’t have the courage to open his eyes, not yet, so kept them closed and waited for what Langham would do next.

Nothing touched him, and he stood there all alone, naked, bared for Langham to drink in. If he was touched, at least he’d know where Langham was. But if he opened his eyes, what if he caught an expression of disgust on his face? What if Langham didn’t like what he saw?

“Fuck, you’re
nicely
turned out,” Langham said, the appreciation in his tone something even Oliver couldn’t brush off.

Relief swept through him, and he dared to crack open his eyes a touch. Through the grey steam, he saw Langham standing close, eyeing him up and down, hot-as-fuck grin pulling one corner of his mouth up. He wanted to laugh, too damn pleased the detective looked at him that way.
Him,
Oliver, Mr Inadequate in the Bedroom.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Langham breathed. “And all mine.”

Now
that
sent a surge of heated lust straight to Oliver’s groin. He grinned, feeling so much better now, but not quite at the point of comfortable ease he wanted to be.

“You want some help in there?” Langham jerked his head towards the shower cubicle. “I give a mean wash.”

Oliver nodded, stepping into the shower, conscious that his arse was on show and hoping it didn’t have any blemishes. What the fuck was up with him, thinking like a girl? He ought to pack it in and just enjoy himself. Still, the thought persisted, nagging at him, laughing at him.

“Nice arse.
Very
nice arse.”

Oliver’s stomach rolled yet again. If he wasn’t careful he’d throw up bile. This was too much—too exciting and too damn everything. He just needed to calm down like Langham had said. He moved over, hoping the bigger man would fit inside with him. He did—a snug fit, but that was okay, he could deal with that now. Langham wasn’t touching him, but he was close enough to if he moved forward an inch. His body would press against Oliver’s. His cock would too.

Lord, that cock touching his, touching any bloody part of him might make Oliver shoot his load too soon. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, letting the water cascade over his face and seep into his mouth. He’d wanted to brush his teeth, to make the fuzz of the day go away, but warm water would have to do. Better than nothing.

The cold shock of shower gel on hot hands against his skin had his head snapping forward. He stared down at Langham’s fingers, unable to meet his gaze. He needed a minute to adjust, to accept what Langham was doing. Those broad hands, they glided over his skin, white bubbles seeping between Langham’s fingers, oozing down to coat his wrists. His touch, so soft yet firm, sent Oliver’s pulse racing. The lump on his head from the car accident ached a little, as did his finger, but he pushed the discomfort aside. His heart
hurt,
damn it, beating too fast like that, throbbing inside a too-tight chest. His ribs seemed to squeeze his lungs, pushing out the air they contained and refusing to allow any more in. Oliver gasped, jump-starting his lungs to work again, and they inflated, the rush of air making him dizzy.

“You feel good,” Langham said, moving his hands slowly, giving Oliver time to adjust to being touched this way.

A fluffy ribbon of soap slunk down Oliver’s belly, seeping into his pubic hair, a featherlight swarm on the base of his cock. He wondered if Langham could touch him like that, with those hands as big as shovels, his strength held at bay. As though the detective had read his mind, he slid one hand downward and lightly grasped Oliver’s dick. Oliver gasped, the curl of fingers around him sensuous and right, something he’d never thought he’d feel. Hell, dreams, they were one thing, but reality was another. How had he struck so lucky? How was it he was staring down at that hand, his dick, the man he’d dreamt about in the shower with him?

It was happening, wasn’t it, this wish of his? For real?

“All right?” Langham asked.

Finally,
finally
Oliver found the courage to look up. He nodded, hands useless by his sides, itching to curve his fingers around Langham’s length. Could he do that? Really? Now?

Before he could stop himself, he lifted one hand, gaze fixed on Langham’s face. The detective, he bared his essence, those eyes of his inviting Oliver in, through the windows and into his soul. Something happened then, a subtle shift of emotion that hummed between them, and as Oliver drew his hand up, snaked it between them and held that wide, hefty cock, he knew he was safe.

He’d found home.

Chapter Fifteen

Fresh from the shower, the heat of the pattering water and Langham’s touch still zinging over his skin, Oliver left the bathroom. Langham had left before him, going into the bedroom, giving Oliver a glimpse of his arse for the first time. He hadn’t dared look whilst they’d been in the shower, or as Langham had stepped out, their soft encounter under the stream still making him reel. He’d needed a few seconds to compose himself, pinch his arm to make himself accept this was real. Oh, the way he’d been touched was real all right, he knew that, but the experience was so
sur
real he had trouble processing it.

In the bathroom doorway, he looked across the bedroom at Langham, who was at the open, head-height window, body shielded from any prying eyes. Oliver was glad—he didn’t want anyone else looking at his man, seeing him like that. Like Langham had said—‘
And all mine.’

That arse, he appraised it now, taking in the swell of each cheek, the deep cleft between them, all shadows and mystery inside. What would it feel like to part them, to peek in there at the pucker he’d long wanted to pierce, the heated sheath tight and relentless around him? Langham struck him as a man who liked to be inside another—would he want to take turns? There was so much he didn’t know about him, so much yet to learn. Okay, he had a good handle on his personality, his sharp wit, the fact that he cared a lot about his job and doing it right. But what of personal things? Yeah, Langham liked pizza with too many onions for Oliver’s tastes, and cheese toasties with barely enough cheese to make it worthwhile, but those kinds of things weren’t what he wanted to know.

Was he a morning person or a night owl? Was he happiest spending his free time reading, watching TV, or did he have some wild and whacky things he did, like extreme sports? How could Oliver work with him and not know anything like that?

He wanted to find out. Know every bloody thing about him.

“I know you’re watching,” Langham said.

“How?”

“I can see your reflection in the glass. See the way it slants because it’s open? Been watching you too. You’ve got yourself one damn fine body there.”

For fuck’s
sake!
Did that man know
all
the right things to say? Oliver’s ego boosted, fear and worry scuttling off to the far recesses of his mind, and his muscles relaxed—muscles he hadn’t even been aware were scrunched tight.

“Got a fine damn body yourself,” he said, inordinately happy the words didn’t falter, didn’t sound stupid, make him
feel
stupid. They fitted somehow, in this time, this room, with Langham facing away from him like that. Maybe that was Oliver’s problem. Being close, naked, the detective scrutinising him with that raking gaze of his… Maybe Oliver just needed Langham unable to see him for now. Well, Langham could see him in the window, but that was all right. It wasn’t so blatant, his image wasn’t so real.

Oliver walked up behind Langham, shitting bricks yet at the same time drowning in courage. That wasn’t right—to feel two opposing emotions like that wasn’t possible. Yet it was, because he felt them right now, warring with one another, courage urging him to take matters into his own hands and see where it took them, the shit bricks, those stinking, hateful bricks jeering that he didn’t have the bollocks to see this through.

I do. I fucking well do.

He reached Langham, faltered for a moment, hands partially lifted, held in place mid-air by a bluff attack of indecision. He lowered them and stared at Langham’s back, eyed the spritz of freckles, so light they were hardly there, then let his gaze rise, settling on the nape of his neck. An upside down question mark of hair rested in the centre, so damp the base of the curve was bloated with shower water. It fled its anchor, dropped onto his skin and zigzagged down his back, losing its bulbous size the farther it travelled until it was nothing.

That wet strip. Oliver wanted to lick it.

“Do whatever it is you’re thinking of doing,” Langham said, startling Oliver from his perusal. “Just do it. I don’t bite.”

Oliver would have usually retorted ‘Much!’ but this time he didn’t. If he spoke it would break the spell, one he’d cast while standing there, soaking up the sight of this man, something he couldn’t imagine tiring of. So he leant forward and licked that wet line from the bottom of Langham’s back to the curl of hair it had dripped from. He drew away an inch, breaths fanning back at him after hitting the nape of Langham’s neck, and waited for more instincts to come, to tell him what to do. Or for Langham to make a move, a noise, anything that indicated Oliver had done the right thing.

Nothing came, and he panicked for a moment, wanting to run back into the bathroom and hide there until morning. But his cock ached, he needed release, and if he legged it he might never get another chance like this again.

“If you’re still unsure,” Langham said, “we can leave it for another time. No rush. I’m not going anywhere. Plenty of time.”

If Oliver looked at the window, he’d see Langham looking back at him, he was sure, so he closed his eyes and lifted his hands again, hoping they would land where he wanted them to and he wasn’t left looking like a complete dickhead, blindly waving his arms about. Relieved when his palms touched Langham’s waist, Oliver slid his hands across, over that stomach he’d admired earlier, feeling out the rippled abdomen, the way each muscle was a tight square. Higher still, he ran his fingers through the coarse hair on the detective’s chest, thrilled by the tickle on his skin. Daring, he rested his cheek against Langham’s smooth shoulder blade and opened his eyes to stare at the wall, seeing nothing but feeling everything. Emotions, they were a strange bunch, careening through him, bringing on nausea, exhilaration and a whole heap of other things that, combined, made him lightheaded and slightly shaky.

Scooting his body closer, he found the courage to press himself to Langham, his cock settling in the shadowy arse cleft like it was made to do so. The contact nearly had him crying out, and he bit his lip to stop any stupid noises leaving him without permission. How long had he wanted this? Too bloody long, and now it was here, he couldn’t quite believe it.

Langham’s hands covered his, and Oliver jolted from the unexpected touch. With his man guiding him, Oliver sucked in the feel of hairy skin, the bump of a nipple as one hand coasted over it. And he was directed down, back across the muscle squares and lower, until wiry pubic hair grazed the sides of his hands.

“Touch me,” Langham said, “right…there.”

Oliver’s hand met Langham’s cock. His own dick stiffened, nestling farther inside the cleft as though getting comfortable. Oliver squeezed his eyes tighter, held his free hand against a hip bone he could imagine licking one day, the skin salty.

“Hold it,” Langham said.

Oliver obeyed, curling his fingers around the hot shaft with more than a little anxiety streaming through him. His heart pattered,
whumping
with accelerated speed. He swallowed to combat his nerves, then grew brazen enough to grip harder. It throbbed in his hand, the vein beating in time with his heart, and he thought of how it would smell, fresh from the shower, his nose buried in the hairs surrounding it.