Wanting (18 page)

Whether Banks’ claims to hear the dead are true or not, we applaud him in his dedication to helping fight crime. With the state of our city, we…

Oliver stopped reading and scrunched the front page of the newspaper into a ball. The use of ‘apparently’ by the journalist with regard to him hearing the dead pissed him the hell off, but there was nothing he could do about it now. His editor boss had listened avidly as Oliver had told him as much information as he’d been allowed and reminded him that now the Queer Rites case was basically over, he ought to get himself into the office kitchen and make a round of teas. Make himself bloody useful.

He sighed, home now after a long day spent making those rounds of teas and fending off the editor, who had kept pushing for more titbits than Oliver was comfortable giving. He reckoned he’d have to find another job for the times in between helping the police, because the money the Force paid him now didn’t equate to anything he wanted to shout about, nor could he afford to live solely on that. It was a token gesture, the pay of an informant really, and he’d never get rich on it no matter how many times he helped out. Working at the newspaper had seemed like a Godsend at the time he’d landed the job, but his boss was becoming increasingly insistent on pushing for information, and Oliver was uncomfortable with it.

Still, if he stayed, he realised he might always feel this way about being the local rag’s tea-making boy. Returning to that kind of work after the thrill—and fright—of accompanying Langham on a case was a huge letdown. No adrenaline flowed, the hours dragged by and he had the sense he accomplished nothing at all. Unless he counted slaking people’s thirsts as the highlight of his day.

Langham wasn’t home from work yet—dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s made overtime compulsory despite him having had no proper sleep for God knew how many hours again—so Oliver felt the loneliness more keenly. He’d given their flat a bit of a tidy up, stuffed some washing in the machine and drank several cups of tea, a drink he would no doubt become sick of if the dead didn’t speak to him again soon.

He paced the living room, remembering a time much like this one when he’d waited for Langham to come home. He hadn’t officially lived here then, and they had been due to go out for a meal. They’d gone and Langham had dropped the bombshell that he wanted their relationship on a more permanent footing, and here they were.

Glancing at the clock, it showed only six minutes had passed since the last time he’d looked, but he could have sworn it had been longer. Time passed so fucking slowly when he waited for Langham. When all he wanted to do was bury his face in the man’s neck and breathe the scent of him in. To feel his hands on him, fingers teasing, exploring. His cock twitched, and he was tempted to go into the bedroom or bathroom and have a wank. Although it wouldn’t satisfy him as much as Langham always did, it would take the edge off. He was antsy, full of nervous energy, and his lover could arrive any minute or several hours from now. Not knowing was what pissed Oliver off, yet at the same time it lent some excitement to his life, wondering, waiting, drowning in anticipation.

Fuck it.
He went into the bedroom and stared at the made bed, trying to talk himself out of getting on it and taking his cock out. His hand never did the job quite right, his grip never hard enough, his strokes never at the right speed no matter how often he’d tried to emulate Langham’s. His balls throbbed as the detective’s image came to mind, Langham’s naked body sprawled on the bed, legs wide, dick tip reaching for his navel.

Jesus Christ!

Oliver fumbled with his jeans button, popping it open, pulling his zip down then digging his thumbs between his skin and the waistband, feeling guilty that he was about to slip his clothes off and fist-fuck himself because he couldn’t wait for his man to come home. The sound of the key sliding in the front door lock made him re-button and zip up his jeans, though, and he rushed out into the living room, meeting Langham in the doorway.

Breathless. Needy. Full of want.

“Thank fuck you’re home,” he said, cupping Langham’s cheeks. “I was just about to—”

“I know. You have that telltale blush.”

Langham kissed him hard, pushing his tongue into Oliver’s mouth at the same time he pushed him backwards. Oliver returned the kiss, his cock straining,
throbbing
, his bollocks aching. He ran his hands up Langham’s chest, the heat from his skin seeming to sear his palms. He slid them beneath his jacket and worked to remove it while Langham still cupped his face. Oliver gasped for breath, easing his mouth away.

“Get this fucking thing off,” he said. “And this!” He unbuttoned Langham’s shirt, removing it quickly, then let his hands drift down so he could attack the man’s belt buckle. Still being propelled backwards, he freed Langham’s cock, the feel of it in his palm like nothing else, as though his cock was meant to be a permanent fixture there, something he could hold all the time. And he would, given the chance.

“In that bloody bedroom,” Langham said, taking off Oliver’s T-shirt.

With unsteady steps, each of them fumbling with the other’s clothing, they made it to the bedroom. Oliver was even more breathless than he’d been when greeting Langham, his chest tight as he struggled to regain natural in- and exhales. His pulse ticked in his throat, the vein feeling pronounced, too full, and his cock felt the same. He needed Langham’s hand around him, squeezing, stroking, jamming up and down so his foreskin retracted to the point of pain. He needed Langham’s hot mouth, his tongue a bed for his cock to rest on, suction strong and unyielding. He needed…fuck, he just needed him, all over, every-fucking-where at once.

Oliver fell back onto the bed, and Langham landed on top of him, taking his mouth in a punishing kiss. Oliver’s lips would be bruised, swollen, but he didn’t give a shit. He kissed back, pressed back, their teeth clanking, tongues adopting an uneven rhythm as they swirled. Oliver couldn’t get enough, couldn’t get close enough, so pulled Langham down, pressing his hands on his back so their chests were joined from collarbones to navels. Oliver shifted one hand, applying pressure to the small of Langham’s back so their hard cocks mashed together. Langham writhed, kissing and grunting, rutting on Oliver, creating friction that threatened to have Oliver coming in his jeans.

Reluctantly, he pushed Langham up then reached between them, yanking down his jeans. “Take yours off. I can’t fucking wait.”

They scrabbled out of the remainder of their clothing, and Oliver went on all fours, shoving his arse out.

“Get the lube,” Oliver said. “Slide off in my crack and wank my cock.” He eyed Langham over his shoulder, saw the struggle playing out on Langham’s face—should he obey or fling out a few commands of his own?

Oliver won their silent battle. Langham reached under a pillow and brought out the lube, then squeezed some onto his fingers. Oliver watched Langham slick his own cock—so damn hot!—then position himself between Oliver’s legs. Warmed lube on Oliver’s arsehole felt good, and Langham spread it up and down, giving his hole a little attention, skating over and around it before leaving him clenching it in expectancy. Langham squeezed more lube on his palm then drew close, seating his cock in Oliver’s arse cleft. Langham leant forward and grasped Oliver’s dick with his lubed hand, immediately doing his thing, the thing Oliver could never get right on his own.

Hard, rigid strokes. A tight, unrelenting grip. A series of jerks that had the ability to make Oliver come on the sheets within seconds.

Oliver held off, though, clenching his arse cheeks so they held Langham’s cock more snugly. Langham moved his hips in time with his hand, his cock rubbing Oliver’s hole as it glided up and down. Heat built there, almost to an uncomfortable burn, but Oliver loved it, wanted more of it.

“Faster,” Oliver said. “Rub off faster. Wank me harder. I’m nearly there. Come on!”

“You’re a sexy fucking bastard, you know that?” Langham fucked Oliver’s crack, hand-fucked Oliver’s cock. “You know that you’ve turned into…ah, fucking hell…turned into a…filthy, needy little…ah-ah-ah…little slut.”

Oliver stared at Langham’s hand working faster. His dick glistened from the lube, and the glide the gel provided also made his cock as hot as his arse. The sight had him clenching, his balls lifting, his arsehole spasming, and he released a long breath through gritted teeth, the air whistling.

“Yeah, a fucking…slut,” Oliver said. “Yeah, you do it just like that, just the way you’re doing it. Fuck me like that…harder, go on, fuck my crack harder.” The filth that spilled out of his mouth was something Langham said he enjoyed, so Oliver went for more. “You…fucking ride me, you…ah…make me come. Rub your dick…yeah, harder, like that…and come all over…ah…my back. Hot cum. Make me come over your hand…”

Oliver couldn’t say any more. Langham was panting, the fronts of his thighs gliding over the backs of Oliver’s, sweat-slicked and fucking glorious. Heat poured over Oliver, almost as hot as his arse crack, his cock, and he pushed back, no space between them now, Langham’s pelvis smacking Oliver’s arse cheeks. Oliver’s orgasm hit without its usual warning of his cock thickening, the veins there bulging. Spunk shot out of him, shooting onto the quilt.

“Ahhhh, fucking
hell!
” he ground out. “More. More.”

Langham gave him more and then some, his semen slapping the base of Oliver’s spine and dripping towards his cleft. Langham rode on, stuttered grunts and moans coming out of him, humping Oliver’s arse and jerking his cock until they both released more streams of cum. Oliver’s thighs shook, and he flopped forward, landing on his cum, cold on his belly. Langham followed, settling on him but slightly to the side, hand trapped beneath Oliver, whose cock tweaked with aftershocks. Langham massaged his spunk into Oliver’s skin, long, sweet strokes that made Oliver close his eyes and concentrate on breathing properly. His throat was dry from panting. He swallowed to ease it, cheek hot against the bed.

“Fuck, it’s always so damn good,” Langham said. “Every fucking time. I’ve said it before, but—”

“Yeah, we’ve got this thing.
Got
this fucking thing.” Oliver smiled, his lips catching on the quilt. “Shit, I missed you today.”

Langham kissed his shoulder. “I missed you. Paperwork’s a bitch. Takes so long. Not something I want to be doing when I know you’re waiting for me at home.”

“It’s the job.”

“It is.”

“Want to shower?”

“Yep. Then eat. I’m bloody starving.”

Three months later

Adam shovelled pigs’ shit and contemplated how their lives had altered since they’d moved to Lower Repton. Life was good for them now. They’d settled into the new way of things well, and Adam was relieved the mess of splitting up hadn’t happened. He thought about how he’d been prepared to give Dane up if it had meant he couldn’t fully be himself. Although he felt guilty that he didn’t love Dane enough to disregard his own feelings, that he’d been prepared to let it all go just so he could be happy in his own skin, he knew if they’d have gone their separate ways Dane would have always held a special place in his heart.

Still, things hadn’t gone down that road, and he was proud of Dane for being able to accept how things had to be. It had been a lesson for Dane, too, learning that it wasn’t all about what he wanted—looking after Adam like he was some kind of broken toy in order for Dane to feel worth something. Adam could make decisions by himself now without having to have reassurance from Dane that he was doing the right thing, and even though a couple of times Dane had slipped back into his old ways—“Let me do that for you, man. I just want to help…”—for the most part it was all okay.

Thankfully, he hadn’t heard any voices since that night he’d followed the Golf to the barn. The men had been apprehended, and he supposed that them being silent, but not denying they were involved, meant there was some deeper meaning to what they had done. A reason that went beyond anything Adam could understand, one they didn’t want to share.

Secrets, ones that can stay that way as far as I’m concerned.

Who knew why they’d selected men to kill. It all seemed so…so fucking weird, and if Adam allowed himself to think about their reasoning, he might not sleep too well at night. As it was, he had an average of one bad dream per week, seeing that dead man strung up, blood everywhere, the stench of it acrid. It was from guilt, he realised that—guilt that he hadn’t listened to that voice and done something to prevent the man’s death. But it was done. He’d made decisions based in the moment, ones that had seemed right at the time. He couldn’t change the past, and so long as he listened to any voices he might hear in the future, he was sure that would go some way to lessening his remorse.

* * * *

Oliver was drifting to sleep, belly full, his heart content, erotic thoughts of him and Langham dancing beneath his eyelids. He felt his body sinking into the mattress, fully relaxing after one of the most boring days he’d endured at the newspaper in some time. No fantastic stories were coming in, just the usual pieces about yet another new shopping precinct nearly being complete and a court update on a man who’d been caught speeding while his baby daughter played in the passenger footwell of his car. Although the latter was outrageous, it hadn’t fired the editor up, and he’d spoken to Oliver as though it was his fault he wasn’t able to give him inside information.

He really ought to find himself another job, but he hung around because how many other bosses would let him have time off so he could help the police? Not many.

The soft breathing of Langham beside him helped to further lull Oliver towards sleep, the sound of it mesmerising, something that he usually tried to match his to so he wasn’t far behind him in drifting off. He snuggled his head more comfortably into the pillow, the duck down inside crackling with his movement. Their old-fashioned, wind-up alarm clock ticked, a steady beat that usually helped him to nod off if he concentrated on the rhythm. Tonight it was proving a little irritating. He didn’t have the energy to get up and hide it under a pillow, though, it being on Langham’s bedside cabinet, and if he did, they might not hear the startling jangle so well in the morning. That was why they’d chosen it—to shit the life out of them so they woke with a start, almost jumping out of bed. Kind of defeated the object if he dulled its ring.