By CLARE LONDON (24 page)

He was staring at my cock and he licked his lips. Yeah, I thought. Perhaps that’d be next. “Do it, Seve. Don’t touch me—touch yourself. I want to see it.”

He paused only a moment, as if he weighed up his appetite for it. And he obviously found he was hungry enough. He took a step back, leaned his hips against the washbasin and tugged gently at his cock, freeing some sticky hairs. I could see his shiver—I could see how much he wanted satisfaction. For a second or two, he looked hesitant, but then he curled his hand around his cock and began to stroke himself.

I gave a moan and his gaze darted up to my face. His eyes were only half-focused. He spread his fingers and started to run them up and down his cock. There was no sound except for the musical trickle of water from the shower, and Seve’s low panting. The soles of my feet squeaked on the tiles as I sought for better purchase to support myself.

“Is this what you want, Max?” His gaze was now fastened on my groin as I fondled my dick. I couldn’t have held back on pain of hideous torture—the sight of Seve was too exciting. His free hand gripped the edge of the basin, the knuckles whitening. His lips were slightly parted, moist with his saliva, and his mustache looked damp on his top lip. All the time I watched, his hips moved against his hand. The muscles of his arm tightened and relaxed; the definition of his chest and abdomen flexed sharply as he rolled his palm around his cock with a deep, familiar deliberation.

“Yeah. That’s just what I want.” I could feel the terrible, tortuous ache of need coiling in my groin again. He was gorgeous—he was a work of art. He was doing this for me.

“You want more, Max?” The words came out on a series of staggered breaths. Seve took his free hand away from the basin and slid it down behind his back. “I want more.”

I blinked some stray water out of my eyes. “You got toys?”

Seve gave a thin smile. “Not here.” The inference was I’m not moving right now.

I took a deep breath. “So you know what to do.”

He nodded. “And you will watch.”

I stared, fascinated, as he wriggled his arse and reached his hand down between his cheeks. I couldn’t see, of course, but I had a bloody good imagination. He leaned forward, his buttocks still balanced against the basin and his other hand firmly around his cock. He winced very briefly. The muscles of his lower arm flexed as he probed into himself.

“Shit.” I realized how quickly a tease could turn into playing with fire. I wasn’t really aware of how tightly I was clutching my cock—only of the sudden desire to start pumping. I braced my legs so my footing was more secure in the tray of swirling water, then leaned against the shower wall and thrust into my hand in earnest. My other hand helped support me, until I gave in to temptation and moved it around my hip to reach my buttocks. I sucked in a breath and brushed a fingertip over my entrance. The sensation made my cock jerk and my skin shiver with need.

Seve moaned and his eyes closed briefly. I wondered how many fingers he had inside him. How often he did this to himself. Whether he’d let me do it to him—and soon! Then his eyes flashed open again and I could see new sweat on his brow. His hips were rolling steadily between the pressure of his hand at the front and his fingers at the back.

“Is this what you want?” he repeated. The atmosphere seemed a hell of a lot steamier in here than it had been fifteen minutes earlier. His cock strained up out of his fist, the fierce red tip shining, damp from precome and the water vapor in the room. The tendons on his hand were raised, the veins purplish.

“Come for me, baby,” I said raggedly. I dipped the very end of my finger into my hole, letting it be sucked into the soft heat. “Are you close?”

“Damn close.” His eyes were glazing over, even as he stared back at me.

“So, come.”

He did. His eyes widened, his mouth opened in a soundless cry, and he thrust back against the fingers up his arse. He gave a couple more strokes to his cock and it jerked inside his grip. The tip swelled, then the seed spilled out the top and over his hand. His fingers clamped on tightly like they’d become part of the stiff column of flesh, and the arm hugging his arse went rigid. Through it all, his gaze was on me, his dilated pupils fixed on my face. It was the most exciting thing I’d ever seen.

“Seve….” I never finished any coherent sentence. My cock thickened in my fist and my belly clenched instinctively. My wet hair fell over my eyes and my vision was misted, but I could see Seve staring back at me, smiling wearily and fondling his softening cock. Then I yelled and together we watched the come burst out of me and splatter onto the tiles of the shower floor.

IT TOOK me a longer time than usual to dry myself and gather my wits. My muscles ached, both from the earlier bruising and from the excitement in the bathroom. I glanced in the mirror and winced at the tangled mess of my hair that’d need some serious combing in the morning. But I’d rarely felt so deliciously exhausted. The light was dimmed when I went into Seve’s bedroom, and I didn’t bother putting my boxers back on. No point in being coy now. Seve was already in bed, lying on his side, propped up on a hand. Watching the doorway—waiting for me. There was a sheet over him, but it left very little to the imagination.

“Come to bed, Max.”

I slid in beside him. It was a shock of delight to feel his fresh, cool skin against mine again. I almost groaned when I felt my cock give a little hiccup of hopeful lust. Whatever I wanted of Seve, I didn’t think I’d be up to much more tonight.

And—surprisingly—Seve seemed just as relaxed about it. I could feel the life returning to his cock as well, nudging at my stomach under the sheet. But he didn’t make another move on me. For a while, all he did was kiss me and stroke gently at my skin. I began to relax. I was ready for a bloody long sleep, which meant I’d probably have to cry off the overtime I’d half promised over this weekend, despite needing the double-time pay. Seve was bad for my employment record.

“So…,” he said. “Baby?”

I flushed. “It was in the heat of the moment,” I protested. “It didn’t mean anything, okay?”

He chuckled. “I don’t mind. At times like that… call me what you like.”

I tried to drift off to sleep, but obviously not hard enough. My mind returned to our earlier conversation. “Seve? What will happen to you if the police catch up with your uncle?”

“Hmm?” He sounded half-asleep already. “I’ll be fine. I’m not involved, right? Mama will handle it.”

“Your mother?”

He yawned, his jaw pressing on my shoulder. “If I find any evidence, she says she’ll take it to the board. They won’t dare to ignore her. She’s a Medina.”

True, but she was also only one person. For some reason, I wasn’t as reassured as Seve obviously was. “I have evidence, Seve.”

Seve’s fingertips stroked aimlessly down my arm. “Then you must meet my mother!” He chuckled again, but tiredly. “Talk about it tomorrow, Max. We’ll work it out tomorrow. Decide what to do, who to see. Okay?”

I lay still, thinking.

Seve continued, “This man Peck… I don’t want you to come up against him again. You mustn’t put yourself at risk. I don’t want anything to hurt you. I want you in my bed again. I want you in my bed every night.” His voice was lower now, and it lulled me in a warm, comfortable way, like hot chocolate on its way down my throat.

“I have my own bloody bed,” I said. It just sounded childish.

Seve made a sharp tsk noise. “I don’t want to own you, Max. For God’s sake, isn’t there a middle ground? I don’t know how to say it… I’ve never said….”

And I didn’t want to hear—not at that moment. There was something else attracting my attention. The sound of a door lock being cracked open was unmistakable. To me, that is, who’d broken into a few deserted buildings in my time as a squatter. But I’d never entered an occupied one. I sat up in the bed.

“Max?”

I put a hand to Seve’s mouth, warning him to be silent. He understood immediately and nodded. I listened for a few seconds more and couldn’t hear anything. But that didn’t mean things were okay.

“Stay here,” I whispered. I slid off the side of the bed, groping for my jeans. I didn’t want to face a burglar—or any other threat—stark naked.

Seve mouthed, “What is it?”

There was a sudden rattle from the kitchen, as if someone had knocked over a crockery mug on the counter.

“Stay here!” I couldn’t get enough urgency into a whisper without alerting the intruder. “Call 999. There’s someone else in the flat.” From the hopeless way Seve cast his eyes around the room, I realized he didn’t have a phone or a mobile nearby. And where was my mobile? On the table beside the empty water bottle and the other contents of my jeans pocket, in the living room where we’d sat and made out earlier tonight. I’d never been to Boy Scouts, but I should have been better prepared for any trouble.

Go and take a look, Max. I moved as quietly as possible to the bedroom door and peered into the hallway. The lights were off, and it took me a moment to get my bearings in the dark. There was no sight or sound of movement from the kitchen, but the door was wide open. I was sure we’d closed it behind us on our way to the bathroom and bed. A dim light from inside the room lit the doorway. It was probably from the streetlights outside, filtering through the kitchen blind. I took a few more steps down the hall.

An alien aroma seeped into my nostrils—not the remnants of whatever Seve had eaten for supper or the scent of soap and water from the shower. This was much less appetizing. It made me gag, like the fetid smell of rotting vegetables or very stale body odor. Or maybe both laced together. I was alarmed by the instinctive memories it conjured up: the smells of damp pavement, metal, and blood—the gut-churning feelings of misery and pain. I inched myself around the kitchen door frame, starting to sneak into the room.

There was a sudden draft of cold air and the door slammed into me, knocking me off-balance and forward into the room. I saw a shadow moving in front of the cupboards, a glint of metal. I knew I had to get away, but my shoulder was throbbing again, and everything I did seemed to be in slow motion. While I was still processing the shock, small strong hands shoved me against the wall, and I found myself trapped there, recoiling from a ten-inch open blade at my throat.

Staring into the mad dilated eyes of a kid I knew only too well.

I STOOD totally still. My heart was beating fiercely and I could feel my legs start to shake. When I swallowed reflexively, the edge of the blade nicked my earlobe. A small trail of warm blood ran down my neck, tickling my skin.

My captor stared up at me. I’d always been half a foot taller than him.

“Baz,” I whispered. I couldn’t get anything stronger out of my mouth at that moment. “Baz, don’t do this.”

“Max?” Baz’s squeaky voice was familiar but also new: a strange, reedy twist of its natural state. Drugs, I reckoned. Some bastard had tweaked him up to the eyeballs. His pupils looked way too large and there was sweat on his top lip, but his hand was steady. I didn’t know whether that was good or bad luck for me. I’d never known Baz’s age, and everyone called him a kid because he was short and skinny, but the sly look in his eyes tonight suggested he was older than I’d thought and with far more experience than an ordinary youth would ever have. His face was grubby and he wore dark clothes, including pull-on black boots. No belt, no laces. When I’d known him, we barely trusted him out on his own—it looked like that was still the case. He stank of sweat and the cloying damp-leaf smell of weed. His hair stuck up on one side of his head like he’d slept awkwardly on it, and there was a motley selection of bruises and scars on the forearm pressed against my scapula. I remembered how I’d punched him when he killed Stewart. I wished—for the millionth time in my life—that I’d done a hell of a lot more damage.

“Yeah, Baz. It’s me. Look… can you take this fucking knife away? Way too sharp for shaving, right?”

He didn’t laugh or move. Me and my pathetic jokes, but I was having enough trouble just talking. And now I saw he had another blade in his other hand. It was shorter, but serrated like a hunting knife. He held it out to the side, and I knew that he had the doorway covered—my only exit. Baz may have been a real pothead and sometimes barely able to piss without help, but his control of weapons was impressively robust.

“Can’t do that, Max.” He peered up at me. “I’ve gotta job t’ do. Goin’ t’ be paid an’ everythin’. He asked f’ me, specially.”

It had to be Peck he was talking about. His twisted hero worship still seemed to be in place. “Sure, Baz, I understand.” I tried to sound like I did. “But it doesn’t have to be like this, does it? I’m just on a friendly visit here and then I’m off home. In fact, I’m on my way right now. Why don’t you come with me? We can get an early breakfast at the café, or I’ve got beer and bacon sandwiches back at my place. We’ll chat about the old days in London. Whatever you like.”

I knew it wasn’t working. Baz had always operated on another planet. His eyes remained fixed on my face, his arm holding me hostage to his knife. He didn’t look like a guy to be distracted, not even by an old mate.

“I din’ know you’d be there, Max. Y’know. That night.”

“What?” I thought I heard a rustling noise in the hallway outside, but I’d told Seve to stay put. I don’t know why I ever imagined he’d take any bloody notice.

“In town.” Baz’s voice had a wheeze behind it. “That night. Wiv’ the do-gooder bloke. Din’ know you’d be there.”

Shit. I really didn’t want to think about that night again. Not now, and not when I was under threat of getting my throat cut. This was obviously a favorite weapon of Baz’s. I tried to muster up a reassuring smile, I really did. It just wasn’t happening naturally at that moment. “Sure, I understand.” I didn’t know whether to be pleased about Baz’s need to chat to me. On the one hand, it might give me time to think up some escape strategy. On the other hand, it might just put off the evil hour. I was afraid that I’d disgrace myself—that I’d cry in the face of death, or piss myself.

I remembered the sight of the blade going into Stewart. It had been so fast, so unexpected—I’d no memory of any fear at the time. Just anger and a consuming flood of horror, like immersion in a freezing bath, like the world suddenly snapped into negative. Now I wanted to shake my head, to clear the paralysis that shock can bring. I didn’t dare actually do it.