Stockholm Syndrome [01] - Stockholm Syndrome (42 page)

down. He's not going slow any more, he means business, and only minutes later he's got his head thrown back and he's whimpering and coming over his fist, over the sweat starting to cool on Lindsay's body.

"There," he says, grinning inanely and looking as smug as a cat as he climbs off and flops down onto his back with his limbs all splayed out, taking up far more of the gigantic bed than he really should. "That was nice. Go on, you can finish yourself now. Hands only til we're married, they're the rules."

"I

don't
think so." Valentine laughs and makes a really poor attempt at a struggle when Lindsay pounces but he doesn't mean it, he hooks his legs up around Lindsay's body and tangles both hands in his sweat-damp hair to hold his face close enough to kiss. There's no more taking it slow from either of them now: "Why are you such a brat?" Lindsay asks and Valentine laughs in gasps again, hot gusts of breath against Lindsay's cheek because he's fucking him so hard now it's impossible to keep up the kissing.

"Cos I like when you try and show me who's boss."

"What are you talking about,
try
?"

Valentine's all flushed and bright-eyed and looking like he's never been so happy in his whole life. "You can boss me round as much as you like, long as you keep buying me cars and taking me nice places. I don't mind being your mistress, not really."

"What, you wouldn't love me if I didn't have money?"

"No way, I'd dump you quick as you like, start shagging Danny instead."

"Oh Jesus, don't. That's a moodkiller if ever I heard one."

"Sorry!" He's silent for a moment, biting his lip, then his mouth curves up into a slow smile and he slips into the only French he's ever able to hold on to, dirty words and promises and pleas he learned off the internet and honed by watching porn. You're the only person in the world who watches porn for the
dialogue
, Lindsay told him one night, but he closed his mouth obediently when Valentine turned the volume up on the telly and slipped his hand into Lindsay's 339

C H A P T E R 2 9

trousers, whispering
Je vais lecher ton foutre8
in his ear.

"Lindsay," he's saying now. "Regarde-moi bien.9" As if he needs to tell him to do that. Lindsay can't look away, he's hypnotised by the wicked smile and the pink in his cheeks, and the little hitch in his voice that shows he's not
quite
as in-control as he's making out, never mind how slowly and precisely he forms the sound of his words. "Baise-moi. Tu aimes me baiser, non? Je sais que tu l'adores.

Je veux juste te faire plaisir.10"

"Stop it," Lindsay says, and really kind of hopes he doesn't. He slows again, slides out, slides back with a single long, smooth stroke that makes them both gasp. "You don't know what you're saying."

"I

know

exactly
what I'm saying. Can't count or order dinner or nothing, but I know how to get you to fuck me. You're easy." He won't stop smirking.

Lindsay kisses him to wipe it off, hard, and picks up the pace until the bed's creaking again and Valentine's hair's a black tangle on the pillows, sticking in messy strands to the sweat on his face and catching in his eyelashes. He's still got that look on his face, he's not going to give up so easily, he just says
oui
and
yes
and
Lindsay
and
oh
, and
oui, comme ça, juste comme ça, je t'aime, j'ai besoin de
toi, je t'en prie, baise-moi, fais-moi voir les étoiles11
and then he stops because he's giggling, he seems to think it's
funny
when Lindsay loses it and can't find his rhythm and ends up just thrusting into him all messy and desperate like a teenage virgin overexcited by his first time fucking something that's not his own hand.

"Je vais tuer quelqu'un ce soir," Lindsay mutters. He's going to come.

He doesn't want Valentine laughing at him when it happens but doesn't know how to shut him up.

"I don't know what that means."

8 I want to swallow your come

9 Look at me properly

10 Fuck me. You like fucking me, don't you? I know you love it.. I only want to please you.

11 yes, like that, just like that, I love you, I need you, I beg you, fuck me, make me see stars

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S T O C K H O L M S Y N D R O M E

"I'm going to murder somebody tonight."

"Oh

yeah?"

"Shut up. You're not helping."

"I think you'll find I am." He puts his arms up over his head, finds the bars on the headboard and wraps his fingers around to brace himself so he doesn't go cracking his skull open from the force of Lindsay's shaky unrefined thrusting. He's not going to stop smirking like that, there's no way. Lindsay closes his eyes instead, concentrates on everything else, the heat of him and the slide of sweat between their bodies, Valentine's heel pressed against the base of his spine, their uneven breathing and the smell of roses drifting up from the hotel gardens. The kid's talking again, urging him on, he's saying, "J'aime ta bite dans moi, j'aime quand tu es... je ne sais pas le mot12, you wanna buy me a book of dirty French phrases or something, ohfucking
christ
don't stop that," and Lindsay gives in, he feels like a right idiot but he gives in, he says he won't stop as long as the kid doesn't, so Valentine laughs breathlessly and fumbles on, mixing his languages like he mixes his drinks. "J'aime quand tu deviens13... hard, really really très hard, je te sens dans moi14, si deep, oh fuck, fort, yeah? No? Fuck, I can't
talk
no more, I can't
focus
."

"Don't stop," Lindsay mutters, breathing hot and desperate and defeated against Valentine's neck. "Remember that time you threatened to kill yourself when your batteries started running out?"

"I'm glad I'm just like a massive vibrator for you." He laughs, though, still clutching the bars and still trying to match Lindsay's rhythm even though there isn't much of one any more, it's all just a frantic mess. "Come on, then, baise-moi, do it harder, je l'aime, s'il te plaît." He's struggling for words even before Lindsay does as he's told, it just gets worse when he shoves Valentine's knees up against his chest and picks up the pace and the kid starts swearing like 12 I like your cock in me, I like when you're... I don't know the word 13 I like when you get...

14 I can feel you in me

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hell and laughing and breathing in gasps all at once, everything sticking in his throat and the words coming out all strangled. "What's
wrong
with you, why ain't you come yet? Donne-moi ton foutre15, is that dirty enough? You ain't hurting me, it's okay, you know I can take it hard, please, I wanna feel you so deep you're in my throat, can you do that?"

"I feel all... timewarped," Lindsay says a minute later, weak against Valentine's damp neck and trying to recover enough to move. "Like I've lost an hour."

"I can tell you exactly how long you've been there – too fucking long.

Get off me, you're squashing me out like Flat Stanley."

Lindsay rolls over onto his back with a satisfied groan. He likes his space after and Valentine's getting better at letting him have it but he still can't quite manage to leave him alone entirely, he's got to be pestering him somehow.

Now the kid's running his fingertip lightly over the gunshot scar near his collarbone, and it's not quite enough to be annoying so Lindsay doesn't bother smacking him away.

"If you put as much effort into learning proper French as you do into winding me up, you'd be fluent in a week."

"Yeah? Well, if you put as much effort into baising moi as you do into nagging me we'd both be much happier."

x. Monday morning. Paris hotel #2.

Valentine follows him into the shower. He says it's to save time and water, but Lindsay suspects he may have other motives when he finds himself pressed against the cold tiles with a leg between his own and the kid's tongue in his mouth.

"You've worn me out," he says. He doesn't feel properly awake yet. "I'm 15 Give me your come

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old. You're killing me." Still, he moves to swap their positions, press the kid up against the wall and slip a wet hand down over his arse, but Valentine turns away.

"Yeah, I'm a bit sore, actually. You should let
me
have a go. Cos we're going home, and everything. Last chance."

Lindsay smacks his hands away, laughing in echoes around the little cubicle. "
No
chance."

"Oh, go on. Look... whoops." He reaches around Lindsay's arm and flips something off the shelf. "Dropped the soap. Just bend over and pick that up for me, will you?" Now Valentine's laughing too, and pretending to protest, but he goes down on his knees quite willingly when Lindsay pushes him.

"Okay, okay," he says, curling wet fingers around Lindsay's cock and stroking him hard. "Wash my hair while I'm down here, then. Y'know, for that saving time and water thing."

"You tart." It's not easy, trying to find the right shampoo bottle and tip its contents all over somebody's head when the head in question is rocketing up and down with its mouth full. "If you want me to... play with your hair you don't have to trick me into it, just
say
."

"Less talking, more hairpulling."

Lindsay laughs again, breathless. There's water streaming down his arms, washing the suds away too soon, all down Valentine's cheeks, into his eyes and mouth. He's laughing too, though he's choking and spluttering at the same time, and he gives up, leaning over to spit the soap-taste away down the plughole, and has to finish the job by hand.

"That was a rubbish idea," he says, when he's on his feet again and Lindsay's trying to squirm away from being kissed with a soapy mouth. "Don't suggest it again."

They end up in a sort of soggy bear-hug, Valentine's back against Lindsay's front, Lindsay holding the kid's arms down with one of his own and 343

C H A P T E R 2 9

using the other hand to rinse the rest of the shampoo away. "Holiday in general,"

he says, as lightly as he can. "Rubbish idea, too?"

Valentine struggles against Lindsay's hold on him, but lazily as if he's only doing it because it's expected. He's leaning his head back against Lindsay's shoulder, eyes closed and mouth smiling. "Bit melodramatic, weren't it?"

"A

bit."

"It was good, though. Least we're
both
jealous abusive wankers, right?"

He's not sure what to say to that, so he bends his head to press his lips against the kid's pale shoulder, and he stays there with his arms around Valentine and the warm water beating on the back of his neck, and suddenly doesn't really want to go home.

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S T O C K H O L M S Y N D R O M E

The drive from home to Paris took them nine hours. The drive from Paris back home is taking forever, and Lindsay's annoyed with himself for leaving too late, for letting the kid linger too long over lunch when they stopped, for not planning a better route that would have bypassed every single traffic jam in the country instead of getting them stuck in it. It's starting to get dark and they're only just over halfway. Admitting defeat always puts him in a shitty mood, but he's tired as well and there's no other option. It's not like Valentine's in any fit state to drive, sitting there in his socks with his legs crossed like a child, never mind how many times Lindsay's told him to sit properly when they're in the car, dozy-eyed with sleepiness and not saying a word. It's obvious when he's
really
tired and not just playing it up so he can skive off his turn at driving, because it's the only time he ever shuts up. He's gazing out the front window now at the road and the snail-paced traffic stretched ahead of them, glassy-eyed. He began gnawing on the ends of his sleeves a few hours back, when he first started to get tired, until Lindsay pulled the car over to the side of the road to tell him off and roll the cuffs up to his elbows so he couldn't get at them. Now his toy monkey's dangling from his mouth by one soggy threadbare foot instead.

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The traffic stops again. Lindsay smacks the steering wheel hard with his hand, frustrated, then reaches over to yank at the toy's upside-down head.

Valentine opens his mouth immediately so it tumbles into his lap. He's suddenly alert, and he looks frightened as he picks the monkey up again and inspects it.

"You'll rip him. He's old."

"I don't want to see that thing in your mouth again. It's vile. You'll need a tetanus jab or something."

"Aww, Lindsay, come on, you
know
I like having things in my mouth."

It's a half-hearted attempt, though. He begins to settle again once he's sure the monkey's still in its usual ragged condition and there aren't any fresh injuries, leaning against his door and rubbing clumsily at his eyes.

"Suck your thumb if you have to. I mean it, if I see you with that monkey in your mouth again you'll get the hiding of your life. It makes my skin crawl."

"Cos this is so much more normal," Valentine says sullenly, but he falls silent once he's sucking on his thumb. He pulls his legs up so his feet are on the seat and he's hugging his knees, trapping the monkey between his thighs and his body, and stroking its ear with his other thumb and fingertips. Lindsay tears his eyes away to focus back on the road. They're moving steadily, but far too slowly and he doesn't like this niggling urge to slam his foot down and ram the Jag into the back of the stupid little Citroën just ahead.

"Not too far to Limoges. We'll stop and find a hotel, I can't drive any more in this fucking mess." The car dawdles to a standstill again. Suddenly, he's aware of something pushing onto his lap. The stupid monkey.

"Give him a cuddle," Valentine says. He's slid his thumb to the corner of his mouth so he can talk, but it still sounds slurry from the way he's holding it, so it won't fall out. "He'll stop you being all grumpy and stressed. He smells nice."

"It smells like it's rotting," Lindsay says. He picks the thing up and sits it on the steering wheel so he can get a better look at it, trying not to touch its saliva-drenched foot.