Men of London 04 - Feat of Clay (2 page)

That thought made him scowl. He’d been trying
to convince Clay he could go back to field work as one of his
investigators, but Clay was adamant; Tate wasn’t ready for that
yet. Clay had a rod of steel when it came to his business, putting
personal feelings aside, doing what was best for his company and
his other operatives. He felt Tate would compromise the others’
safety. No amount of cajoling or seduction techniques would work.
Tate had tried them all.

He yawned and stood up to stretch his legs.
His side ached where the second bullet had cut through like butter,
the right arse cheek with its sensitive scar always appreciating an
opportunity not to be sat on. Tate caught sight of his reflection
in the mirrored glass of the sliding door leading out to the
garden. He assessed himself critically.

He saw a clean shaven, well-built man of
thirty-three, his body toned and muscled, with buzz-cut hair and
hazel eyes. There were dark bags under his eyes and he reached up
and touched them with a frown. His old but comfortable tee shirt
rode up as he lifted his arms to stretch, and he got a sense of
satisfaction as seeing his stomach was still tight, thanks to the
regime of crunches and sit-ups he did every day in his well-kitted
out home gym in the spare room. A dark treasure trail led down to
his groin, to the waistband of his joggers, which sat low on his
hips.

Tate grinned as he remembered this
morning—Clay tracing that trail with his mouth, those warm,
tantalising lips teasing and sucking until reaching Tate’s needy
dick. He loved Clay’s mouth, the one that could look so stern and
forbidding sometimes then melted into an expression of love and
desire at seeing Tate. He also loved the fact that Clay could suck
cock with those lips like no one else could.

He took a deep breath as the pleasurable
memory gave way to one not so pleasant. Yet another nightmare last
night had taken a lot out of him. They
had
been getting better though, going from virtually every night to two
or three times a week. They left him debilitated and on edge. Since
the shooting it had been rough for them both, no matter how much
work-designated therapy Tate attended.

He scowled at his reflection. “Still no
matter how much ‘meditation’ I do before bed, I’m still a fucking
wimp, waking up and having to have my man wiping my damn face like
I’m a kid. I was an undercover drug cop, for Christ’s sake. I
should have more discipline and self-control.” He knew, deep down,
the feelings of guilt, shame and self-recrimination lurking deep in
his soul had as much to do with the nightmares as what had been
done to him.

He kicked out moodily at a wastepaper basket
sitting innocently at the side of his desk. It fell, rolled over
and dispersed copious amounts of wadded-up paper onto the carpet.
Tate’s temper flared, something that happened all too often, and
his foot lunged out, scattering the paper to the four corners of
the room.

“Fuck you,” he growled as he stomped and beat
one unfortunate ball of paper into a flattened mess. “Damn you all
to fucking hell.” He didn’t really know who he was swearing at, but
the violent action felt good. When he finally stopped, his
breathing faster and a slight ringing in his ears from the pressure
in his head, there was a loud clapping noise from the door.

Adrenaline rushing through his veins, he
swung around to see the tall, wide shouldered figure of his lover
behind him.

“Tate Williams: one, Paper Ball: nil.” Clay
stepped into the room. “Do you feel better now? If you needed to
release any energy, we could always have sparred for a while in the
gym.” He flashed a quick smile. “Or we could have done something
else just as energetic and far more…pleasurable.”

Tate waved a hand at him, fear rising in his
throat. “It just shows you how bloody useless I am. I didn’t even
hear you come in. What if you had been someone else?”

Clay’s eyes darkened. “I have keys, remember?
For all three locks on the front door. No one’s getting into Fort
Tate, love.”

It was their joke. After he’d been tortured
by a maniac, Tate had equipped his flat in Kentish Town with
alarms, sensors, extra steel locks and other paraphernalia to make
sure that in Fort Tate, as Clay had coined it, Tate felt safe. It
was probably not needed—after all, the man who’d hurt him was
dead—but his paranoia ran deep. There had been a time when he’d
left his doors open and hadn’t had panic buttons on the wall. To be
fair, a lot of the protective measures had been Clay’s urging. The
man had been a wreck after seeing Tate in the hospital, and Tate’s
safety and protection had become Clay’s number-one priority.
Sometimes it felt like a warm blanket; other times it felt like
suffocating smog. As no one knew the extent of their relationship
as lovers, the two men still kept separate homes. Clay had a huge
Victorian house in Twickenham, which Tate loved unreservedly, while
Tate had his ground-floor flat. It was an ongoing thorn in Tate’s
side, keeping their secret.

Clay wasn’t convinced it was the right thing
to be open about them yet. “Tate, the job I do involves making
enemies,” he’d said quietly one night after a bout of passion. “If
they know we’re together in this way, it gives them an edge. They
can use you to get to me, hurt you again. And I will never let that
happen. You need more time to get over what happened to you. Let’s
wait a bit longer.”

Tate didn’t really appreciate being treated
as if he were made of glass. In any case, he thought anyone
watching them would probably make an assumption anyway about their
relationship, but he hadn’t been able to budge Clay on his
decision. The man was as stubborn as hell.

Tate snorted as he moved over to kiss his
partner. “Yeah, well, still.”

He reached up to frame Clay’s stubbled cheeks
with his hands as his lover brought his face down to kiss him.
Large hands came out and spanned Tate’s waist, drawing him closer.
Clay smelt of Fahrenheit, and shampoo and man. He was strong,
muscled and wiry, and taller than Tate at six foot four.

Tate liked slotting into Clay’s arm like a
piece of a well-fitting jigsaw. One lock of jet-black hair swept
over Clay’s forehead and he raised a hand to absently brush it
away. Long, dark eyelashes—like a giraffe’s, Tate always
thought—framed piercing green eyes that currently gazed at him with
affection. Tate’s man was indeed damned handsome and Tate never
tired of looking at him.

Tate nudged Clay’s hip. “What are you doing
here anyway? I thought you had some fancy schmancy meeting with
Draven?”

Clay shrugged. “I did. We got through the
briefing quicker than I’d expected. He’s on his way to Spain
tomorrow night for a couple of days on the Medina Pharmaceutical
case you did the research for. He’ll get that sorted in no time, no
doubt. So I thought I’d surprise you.” He grinned. “I didn’t think
I’d find you kickboxing with a piece of paper when I got here.”

Tate nodded. “He’s going to track down Rupert
Medina then?” He might not be in the field but Clay was always
willing to talk about his cases with Tate and kept him in the
loop.

Medina was the owner of a profitable and
well-known pharmaceutical company that’d been selling illegal and
ineffective versions of drugs for various life-threatening
illnesses. From his involvement in the case, Tate knew at least ten
patients had died using the company’s ineffective and low-quality
products. It had become a nationwide hunt to bring the man to
justice and Clay had happened to find him first. Things had gotten
nasty; one law enforcement officer had already died in trying to
bring Medina to justice and Tate hoped both Clay and Draven would
be careful.

Clay’s face darkened, his face grim. “Medina
looks as if he’s fled to Spain, hence Draven going over there to
find him and bring him back. That murderer is fucking lucky it’s
not me. I’d have no hesitation shooting the bastard and leaving him
in the bay for the fishes to feed on.”

Tate had no doubt of that. One of the things
that turned him on about Clay was his tough, no-holds-barred
attitude in his work. Seeing Clay in full macho and interrogator
mode got Tate harder than he’d ever thought possible.

“And the toxic waste case?” Tate enquired.
“What’s the latest on that one?”

Clay’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared.
“We think we’ve found a connection to someone who might know what’s
going on. We’re trying to find him so I can ask him some
questions.” He smiled wolfishly. “The man won’t know what’s fucking
hit him when I finally get hold of him.” His emerald eyes glinted
in devilish anticipation. It was damned sexy and Tate had no doubt
the unfortunate individual would experience the indomitable force
of Clay. It was as sexy as hell.

“How are Draven and Taylor’s wedding plans
coming along?” Tate asked as he traced the five o’clock shadow on
Clay’s face, charcoal black laced with silver, like his thick head
of hair. Clay had only just turned thirty-six but Tate was forever
teasing him about those errant silver strands.

Clay chuckled. “Still on the go. Both of them
are in no hurry; they’re fine with a long engagement, and it’s only
been six months. Neither of them wants a big wedding. Knowing them
both, we’ll probably just get an invite one day to something
low-key but intimate.” He snorted with laughter. “Probably up in
the wilds of Scotland or something. Taylor apparently has this
thing for the Highlands. I think it’s more he enjoys the men in
kilts myself.” Tate nodded. “Wow, that’s...cool.” He flicked a
guilty glance at his partner as he moved away from Clay’s
embrace.

Clay’s face was noncommittal but no doubt he
was remembering, as was Tate, the night nearly eight months ago
when he had asked Tate whether marriage, even kids, might be on the
cards for them at a future date. Tate had been surprised, given
Clay’s stance on not making their relationship public. Clay had
said quietly that he liked to think there would be a time when they
could shout it from the rooftops.

Tate had said no to marriage and kids. He’d
been rather more aggressive than he’d meant to be in his refusal.
He’d still been so fucked up at the time, and hadn’t felt he could
make that kind of decision then. He’d gotten over it, as had
Clay—the man had a knack for putting things behind him and moving
on—but Tate knew he’d hurt his lover. And he hated himself for
it.

“Don’t worry,” Clay said softly. “I’m not
going to mention it again.” He smiled but Tate saw the wariness
behind it.

His stomach lurched and his heart ached at
the look in Clay’s expressive jade-green eyes. “I didn’t think
that. Stop putting words in my mouth. And we both know I wasn’t
ready for that conversation yet.”

Clay regarded him evenly. “I get it; don’t
worry. Like I said, I won’t bring it up again.”

Tate swallowed. He’d known Clay since he was
six years old, and Clay had been nine. They’d grown up together in
Guildford in Surrey, gone to the same schools, albeit Clay ahead of
him. They’d discovered they liked guys together and bonded as
unlikely best friends.

Tate decided to let it go. “Lucy called. She
said Rick got that promotion he wanted. I’m pretty proud of him.”
Lucy was Tate’s older sister. Rick was his nephew and following in
his uncle’s footsteps in the police force. He was the only other
person who knew the true nature of Clay and Tate’s relationship.
There’d been an unfortunate incident at Tate’s home once when Rick
had popped around and found them in flagrante delicto. It had been
a few months after the shooting and they’d both been careless. Rick
had muttered darkly that he needed to bleach his eyes now he’d seen
Clay buried balls deep in his uncle.

Clay smiled warmly. He had a soft spot for
Rick. “He did? That’s great news. He’s a great policeman; he
deserves it.”

Tate nodded. “Lucy’s lucky to have such a
level-headed kid. He’ll go far.”

The note of longing he heard in his voice for
his old job didn’t appear to escape Clay, as his lover’s face
darkened. The man knew him too well, knew that Rick had something
Tate could no longer have. His career as an undercover cop was
over, as his cover had been blown, and no amount of persuasion
could make the powers that be reinstate him. When Clay had offered
him the research position, Tate had decided it would fill in until
he could get back into the saddle one hundred percent.

Tate found himself pulled into a fierce kiss,
one that made him forget for a while, as Clay’s mouth bruised his
in an act of possession. Clay’s mouth tasted of sweet sauce and
burger, mixed with the sweet taint of Coke. When they finally drew
apart, Tate still breathless, he wiped a finger across Clay’s
shining lips.

“You’ve been eating those damn Big Mac things
again. How the hell do you not put on a stone and look like a
house? Do you know what that garbage is doing to your cholesterol
levels?” Tate tended to eat a lot healthier than his lover. He was
quite a fan of salads, lean meats and low-fat foods.

Clay chuckled. “Like I tell Draven, tequila,
hot sex and the gym keeps that weight away.” He patted his toned
stomach. “The hot sex part being my favourite bit of that.”

Tate’s dick plumped up in his jeans, happy
with that scenario too. He pulled Clay’s mouth down for another
heated kiss. Maybe he could persuade Clay to get his clothes off
and fuck him.

Judging from Clay’s groan of satisfaction and
the hardness pressed against Tate’s stomach as Tate explored his
mouth with his tongue, Clay would need little persuasion.

They were interrupted when Clay’s mobile
rang.

He unglued his lips from Tate’s and scowled
fiercely as he reached into his trouser pocket to answer it. “This
had better be an emergency or someone’s arse is getting kicked. I
said no fucking calls.” His eyes smouldered. “I had plans for you
this afternoon.”