Men of London 04 - Feat of Clay (18 page)

Tate shrugged. “One less villain in the world
to worry about if Walkerman’s dead.”

Both of them watched as the ambulance and two
police cars pulled up. Anne was closer and she approached them,
gesticulating wildly, obviously explaining what had happened.

“She’s a nice woman,” Tate said softly. He
grinned. “Very happy we didn’t pulverise her into a hedge like
bramble jelly. Her words, not mine.”

Clay laughed as he stretched, trying to ease
the kinks out of his body. “I guess we have a lot of explaining to
do,” he sighed. “This is going to be fun.” He cast a jaundiced eye
at his SUV. “And that’s a fucking write-off. I s’pose I have an
excuse to buy a new one now. A faster one.”

Tate groaned, no doubt hearing the relish in
Clay’s tone. “Really? Like this”—he waved at the mess in the
road—“wasn’t enough for Mr Adrenaline Junkie?” He winced and held
his ribs. Clay sat down beside him and draped an aching arm over
his shoulders.

“I’m just glad we made it out of that wreck,”
he said quietly. “I’m glad we can sit here together and laugh about
it. I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to you.”

Tate smiled at him, his agreement obvious
beneath the pain. “Ditto.” His eyes narrowed as a paramedic walked
toward them. “Heads up. Looks like we’re going on a ride.”

Clay turned to look at the paramedic and
sighed. “Yep. I guess we’re both going to get checked out at the
hospital if that’s the only way I can get you to go. No doubt the
cops will be there too, wanting an explanation. Especially with the
dead guy down the road and the bullet holes.” He leaned over and
kissed Tate gently on the lips. “Sorry we won’t get that romantic
night away. Looks like we’re going to be busy for a while.”

Tate lay in
bed at Clay’s house, the warmth of the duvet on his naked body a
welcome solace to his aching bones and limbs. They’d both been
patched up at the hospital; Tate had bruised ribs, a couple of
stitches in the torn flesh of his shoulder and a swollen lip. Clay
had a nasty gash in his head, which had required cleaning and
taping and not much else. Both men knew they’d been past lucky.

Tate settled down with a sigh into Clay’s
king-sized bed. It had been the afternoon from hell what with the
accident and then the myriad questions at the hospital and police
station. The dead man had definitely been a complication. Thanks to
some eyewitness testimony from a young couple who’d been parked in
the woods making out, heard the noise and seen the BMW’s blowout,
it looked like he and Clay were off the hook as far as actually
causing his death. The bullet holes and shattered front windscreen
had of course taken some explaining, but Tate had managed to impart
that it had been purely in self-defence. There was probably still a
little fallout to come, but both Tate and Clay were confident that
they’d weather that storm, given the connection to the Met case and
Rick’s intervention.

The car had been towed off but was probably a
write off. It looked like Clay would definitely be getting a shiny
new toy.

Tate was still edgy. They could have lost
each other today and for Tate that was a scenario that he couldn’t
accept. Life without Clay in it meant nothing.

His skin prickled as if being teased with
tiny surges of electricity that ebbed and flowed as he moved. His
legs couldn’t keep still, moving restlessly beneath the covers. His
dick ached, hard and needy. He tried taking a few deep breaths to
calm the raging soul inside him, but it didn’t appear to be
helping. And when Clay came into the room, dressed in boxers, the
dark hair on both his head and chest matted with moisture from the
shower, Tate’s cock immediately took notice. He growled softly and
Clay’s eyes narrowed, his lips curving in a soft grin as he
observed the rapidly tenting cover under which Tate lay.

“Feeling agitated? Danger does that to a
man,” Clay murmured as he slipped his thumbs into his boxers and
slid them off. He threw them onto the rattan chair in the corner as
he regarded Tate with heated eyes.

Tate’s cock hardened further at the sight of
Clay’s own hard-on, and the fine line of hair leading down to his
dark-haired groin. Clay’s toned stomach contracted and tensed as he
moved, flat planes of skin and golden muscles that Tate wanted to
bite and ravage with his mouth and teeth.

Clay chuckled softly. “No need to ask what
you’re thinking about.” He lifted the cover and got in beside Tate,
pulling the duvet down over their waists. His warm legs pressed
against Tate’s, the touch of heated skin and flesh against flesh
making a seductive sound. “Are you up to this now? I know you
bruised your ribs, and that cut on your shoulder doesn’t need to
start bleeding again.” Clay grimaced. “My head is feeling better,
but it still aches like shit.”

At this stage, Tate really didn’t care about
his injuries. He’d taken his painkillers. Right now, all he wanted
was Clay. If truth be told, he was having a little trouble
breathing, his need and desire to fuck so strong he wasn’t sure
he’d be able to control himself from literally riding Clay’s dick
there and then, lube and aches and pains be damned. He was as horny
as Hellboy, no doubt from the adrenaline residue in his blood and
the knowledge that they both could have been killed today.

He shook his head as he pulled the duvet off
their bodies and swung his legs over to straddle Clay’s hips. His
balls made contact with the tight skin of Clay’s lower stomach and
he hissed in pleasure at the sensation.

“No time for thinking, only fucking,” he
moaned as he leant down and violently took Clay’s mouth in a kiss
that made them both gasp in pleasure. Tate tasted blood from his
split lip and probably from where one of his teeth had nipped
Clay’s lips. Emboldened by the taste of blood and the pain, he
thrust his tongue into Clay’s mouth roughly, tasting his man,
feeling the wetness of his mouth against his.

The noise Clay made, part growl, part groan
made Tate harder than he thought he’d ever felt in his life.

“Christ, I am going to come just like this,”
he groaned, as his wet, swollen cock pushed against the bare skin
of Clay’s stomach. “I’m just so damn turned on, I can’t think—”

He gave a moan of frustration as Clay’s mouth
left his but his disappointment was soon overshadowed when strong
hands gripped his hips, fingers digging deep, hurting, and no doubt
bruising his flesh.

“Up on your hands and knees, over me,” Clay
growled hoarsely. “I need to feel my fingers inside you, opening
you so you can ride my cock. Want to split you open.” He reached
under the pillow for the tube of lube. Tate’s heart stuttered as
Clay opened it and squeezed fluid onto his fingers. His balls
contracted and he nodded desperately, the sight of Clay’s pupils,
black and dilated, the snarl of ferocity on his face nearly undoing
him.

“Yes,” Tate panted as he did what he’d been
commanded. He leaned forward, placing his hands on either side of
Clay’s waist and leaned over so Clay had easier access to the eager
hole. “Need to feel you in me. First your fingers then that big,
beautiful cock of yours. Want to ride you ’til I can’t think.”

Clay snarled and thrust his fingers deeply
into Tate, pushing and twisting Tate’s hole until he cried out. As
he loomed above Clay, half lying, half sitting over his body, the
feeling of those rough fingers inside him was exactly what he
needed. As Clay opened Tate up, his other hand gripped Tate’s jaw
and pulled his mouth down to his. Lips and teeth ground together
and both men moaned in pain and pleasure. Tate’s cock was squashed
against Clay’s flesh, every move causing friction and he cried out
as the slick wetness of his pre-come coated Clay’s stomach and left
trails of white across Clay’s belly.

“Don’t come yet,” Clay commanded him, his
lips glistening and swollen, eyes darkened with passion. He made
another fierce twist inside Tate’s arse. “You wait for me to be
inside you before you do that.”

Tate hitched a deep breath. “God, you
bastard, then I suggest you fuck me sooner rather than later.
Because I am going to come so damn hard in a minute.”

Clay’s face flushed and his teeth bit down
none too gently on Tate’s jaw, causing him to yip in pain. “Then do
it. Now.”

Tate needed no further urging. He lifted
himself up, trying to ignore the pain in his battered body, and
stared down at the man who half sat, half lay beneath him. Clay’s
face was twisted in lust and want, and his cock jutted proudly from
the thatch of dark curls at his groin. Tate bit his lip and then
lowered himself down onto the hot, slick and eager dick waiting for
him. Clay’s deep gasp of satisfaction made his hole throb, as did
the burn of Clay in his arse. Tate spread his legs to take Clay
deeper then began to slowly move above him, his hips undulating and
his inner muscles tightening around Clay’s cock.

The feeling of power he got from watching his
lover slowly lose it was like nothing else. That Tate could take
such control of this man he loved, that he could watch his
self-control unravel like a skein of wool—that was something for a
man to be proud of.

As Tate rose and fell, his hands resting
behind him on Clay’s strong thighs, Clay’s cock sliding in and out
of him, he revelled in the primal urge to be impaled and fucked to
destruction. He was flying so high, the bruised ribs and
plastered-up shoulder were of no consequence.

Huh. Sexual endorphins
make for great painkillers.

Tate’s inflamed cock had no chance when
Clay’s hand wrapped around it. It took barely three pulls before he
was crying out, shooting ribbons of come over Clay’s belly and
chest, his muscles tensing around Clay’s cock as he climaxed. The
feeling of Clay’s own orgasm, the hot, sudden heat filling Tate’s
tender passage and Clay’s hoarse grunts as his hips thrust
upward—it appeared nirvana was here and now.

Tate had found his paradise in the scent of
sweat and semen, and the soft exhalations of his lover as he spent
himself inside him. He leaned down, still feeling Clay inside him.
Tate pressed fevered, dry lips to Clay’s, wanting to breathe him
in, taste him—own him.

Fuck, I want to consume
him.

For a while, the only sound in the room was
the soft fleshy smack of lips, mewls of pleasure as both men strove
to absorb the other. Finally, needing to breathe himself, Tate
released Clay’s mouth and smiled as he stared down at the
thoroughly debauched sight before him.

“You look like you’ve been well and truly
fucked,” he muttered softly. Clay’s lips were red and bitten and
there was a small smear of come on his jaw. Tate leaned down and
licked it off. “I’m sure I look the same. My arse is damn
sore.”

He knelt up and uncoupled himself from Clay’s
sticky groin. Between his cheeks and down his legs, Tate felt and
smelt Clay’s come and he smiled to himself. He reached down and
wiped a bit of Clay’s spunk off his thighs then slowly, teasingly,
he painted Clay’s lips with it. Clay’s eyes grew blacker and he
made a noise that sounded like a snarl. Tate was ready for a second
round there and then with that sexy noise.

“Love it when you claim me like that,” he
whispered as Clay’s hand reached out and he pulled Tate’s fingers
into his mouth, sucking them, his eyes never leaving Tate’s.

“You are mine, Tate. Never forget that.” Clay
flipped Tate onto his back and held Tate’s hands above his head
with one hand as the other found its way down to Tate’s arsehole.
Tate lost his breath at the expression of possession in Clay’s
eyes. His prick ached as he grew hard again.

Clay’s fingers pushed gently into Tate’s
sensitive hole and he held his breath as Clay scooped up his own
come from Tate’s arse. He opened his mouth instinctively then
Clay’s fingers pushed into his mouth, smelling of musk and his own
sex. Tate swallowed down what he was being given, the taste and
scent of Clay arousing his senses and his cock again.

“This is my spunk inside you, and in your
mouth,” Clay whispered, “
proving
you’re
mine.” Clay bit down on Tate’s ear as he watched Tate sucking his
fingers. His hardness pressed against Tate’s stomach again. “We
took long enough to get here, to this point, you here with me. I
don’t ever intend losing you. I could have lost you today and that
scares the shit out of me. I don’t ever want a life where you
aren’t in it.”

“I know,” Tate whispered as he licked the
final bit of Clay off the fingers in his mouth. He pulled his hands
free from Clay’s grip, desperate to touch the man in his arms. “I
feel the same way. I need you. You’re mine as much as I’m yours.
Remember that too.”

Clay nodded, green eyes staring at Tate with
tenderness. “I’ll never forget that. Count on it.”

Tate felt those eyes on him as he padded
naked to the bathroom to get a bunch of industrial-strength wet
wipes. When he got back to the bed, he handed some to Clay and they
cleaned themselves up. Tate took the used ones and wadded them into
the rubbish bin. Then he got back into bed and snuggled himself
into Clay’s arms, head on his lover’s shoulder.

“How are your ribs?” Clay stroked a hand over
his hair, fingers caressing his forehead.

Tate waggled a languid hand. “Sore. I’ll
live.” He chuckled softly. “How’s the headache, dear? Do you need
an aspirin?”

Clay snorted tiredly. “Shut up. Like you,
I’ll live. Sleep will do me the world of good.” His voice already
sounded sleepy. He yawned widely.

Tate couldn’t help but yawn too. He closed
his eyes and trailed his fingers gently over Clay’s lavender
wipe-fragranced stomach. “I’m glad we got out of that mess okay
today. It could have been nasty.”

Clay nodded drowsily. “You were awesome with
that gun though. So damn badass. It fucking turned me on, danger or
not.”