Needing (22 page)

Oliver laughed. “Criminals don’t stop on weekends. You usually get called in.”

“Not this time. That’s why I’m late. Finished up my own case, laid the groundwork for a new one that came in when I was meant to be leaving so no bastard will need me for the next two days. Sorry about leaving you in the foyer like that.”

He appeared sheepish, looked guilty.

“Hey, that’s the way of your job. I know that.” Oliver leaned his forehead against Langham’s.

“Yeah, but—”

“Not discussing it. Been through this before.” Oliver smiled, brushed his lips over the detective’s, then stepped back. “Dinner. Back here. Bed.”

“Sounds promising.”

“It could be.”

They left the flat after taking quick showers, the back of the cab they’d hired stinking of fish and chips and the hint of dried piss. Over dinner—some new-fangled pasta dish that tasted of too much cream and not enough garlic—they nattered about their days. Langham relaxed as the evening progressed, his shoulders a little less rigid, his jaw a little less set. Oliver liked to think he alone had done that, but wasn’t vain enough not to realise the wine, the calm atmosphere and not being at work had played a major part.

As they finished up their dessert—oddly for an Italian restaurant, a very British treacle pudding and thick custard—Langham laid his spoon in his empty bowl and stared across the table at Oliver.

“This your place, my place thing,” Langham said.

Oliver tensed, waiting for the words he’d dreaded since their relationship had started. He was at Langham’s too much. Langham needed space. It was going too fast. They weren’t as compatible as Oliver had thought…

“Yes?” he said, annoyed to hell and back that it had come out more of a squeak than a proper word.

“It’s stupid.”

Langham lifted his wine glass, sipped, eyed Oliver over the rim. Condensation dribbled onto his fingers, and Oliver wanted to stand up, lean over the table and lick it off. He couldn’t, though. He wasn’t sure a suddenly hard cock tenting his jeans was something other diners would appreciate.

“Oh right,” Oliver said, fighting with his lust, telling his cock to soften. And ‘
It’s stupid.’ What the fuck does he mean by that?
Insecurity rose up in him, did a grand job of deflating his dick. “So, uh… Yeah, okay, I’ll stay at mine all week. Some weekends. I’ll come over when you ask, not just turn up. Sorry about that. Took it for granted you wanted me over all the time. Thought—”

“I do.”

“Do what?”

“Want you over all the time.”

“What?”

“You gone deaf?”

“No, but—”

“So what d’you think?”

“Of…?” Oliver didn’t dare believe Langham was offering for him to move in. Shit like this didn’t happen to him, did it? He’d expected their relationship to last a while then fizzle out, despite Langham saying otherwise, because shit, who wanted a freak like him around forever?

“Oliver… Come on, man. You’re not stupid. Do I have to spell it out?”

Langham grinned, took another sip of wine, then placed the glass on the table. He waited for Oliver to respond, but Oliver couldn’t. Hope was a dangerous thing. It made him think his dreams were within reach then snatched them back, breaking his heart. A few pulse beats thudded away the time, time that seemed suspended, everything around Oliver fading so only him, Langham and the table existed.

“So I
do
need to spell it out.” Langham’s foot met Oliver’s under the table. “I want you at mine all the time. Unless you want to keep your flat going. Might not want what I want.” He paused, gave Oliver a questioning stare. “Might not want to live with me without the safety net of your place behind you. I understand that. I get it. Really.”

Oliver couldn’t form the words to respond.

Langham’s face clouded. He’d got the wrong end of the stick with Oliver’s silence. Shit. Oliver opened his mouth to say the words building up in his throat, but the bastards wouldn’t come out. He floundered, trying to show Langham with his eyes that yes, fucking
yes
he wanted the same as him.

“We’re still feeling one another out,” Langham said, shifting nervously in his seat and taking hold of the wine glass stem, turning the glass around and around, the contents slopping about. He studied the glass, colour rising in his cheeks, far from the in-control man he usually was. “Just that, I thought we
had
this thing, know what I mean? I feel it, really fucking feel it, but I understand, really do. I’ll leave it. We’ll leave it. You just tell me when, or if, you want to move in, yeah? I mean—”

“Shut the fuck up.” All right, it wasn’t what Oliver had intended to say, but the words had the effect he’d been after. To make Langham stop talking. To make it so he wasn’t baring his soul in front of other people. To make that grief-stricken look on his face go away. “I want it. Fuck, I want it. I was just… I didn’t think you did, didn’t think I’d be so lucky, that we’d even get this far, and you said what you said just then, and I shit myself, yeah? Fucking shit myself. Thought you were going to say…” Tears burned the backs of his eyes, and he ground his teeth together. If anyone else saw the tears fall, anyone but Langham, it would taint this moment.

Don’t cry. Just don’t bloody cry, you wanker.

Langham looked up. “Shit, you’re struggling not to cr
—
” He moved to get up, concern written all over him.

Oliver raised a hand, palm facing Langham. “Don’t. It’ll make me…fuck, it’ll set me off. I can’t…don’t want to cry. Promised myself I wouldn’t once I left home. Can’t…”

Langham stood. “Get up. We’re leaving.”

Oliver rose, glancing about, disoriented as the rest of the room came into focus, bleeding around him like a lacerated wound, alien in the circumstances. They shouldn’t be here like this. They should have talked about it in private, where Oliver could grip Langham by his upper arms and shove him onto the bed, demand that he fill his arse and ride him hard. He’d grown more confident in the bedroom over time, but tonight, with Langham asking him to move in… Damn, every bit of shyness he’d still harboured over the months vanished, replaced by an all-consuming need that drove him to whip out his wallet, throw cash down on the table and lead the way outside.

The cab ride home was fraught with sexual tension, neither one of them touching or looking at the other. The journey took too long, Oliver burning with an incessant urge to reach out and pull Langham’s cock free of his jeans, suck him until he came down his throat. But he couldn’t, didn’t, and instead let the thought spread from his head and into his body that, well, what did you know, sometimes praying
did
work.

Chapter Eighteen

They clattered into Langham’s, trying to fit through the doorway at the same time, Langham shutting the door behind them with his foot. The bedroom seemed too far away for Oliver, so he threaded his arms around Langham’s waist and drew him close. Their mouths clashed, resulting in a kiss that tasted faintly of their meal but heavily of Langham’s unique flavour. Oliver’s cock strained, pushing so hard against his jeans he thought it might burst with his want to have it freed. Touched. Sucked.

It was as though Oliver couldn’t kiss him hard or fast enough to convey what he felt inside, a body-filling euphoria that shit, he would be calling this place home, that he had arrived where he’d longed to be, in a more permanent relationship with a man he’d only dreamt of having in his life like this. He let his hands do what they would, let himself stop over-thinking what he should do next and just went with what felt right. He wanted to show more dominance, to have a more equal balance between them, to give Langham a break from always being the one to initiate or bring about what happened when they fucked.

He smoothed his hands back around to Langham’s front, pushing them up to investigate the shape of hard chest and rigid nipples that stood to high little points beneath the shirt he wanted to rip off. Fingertips reaching the top button, Oliver kissed on and undid them one by one, skin brushing Langham’s every so often, a burn of sexual electricity bolting through him every time. He drew the shirt off, letting it fall where it had a mind, and ran his hands over the exposed, heat-riddled skin of belly, chest then shoulders. Langham groaned, moving his hands with urgency to Oliver’s zipper, fumbling with fingers that were usually so adept.

Had he taken Langham off guard with his orchestrating? Sent him a little off-kilter that Oliver appeared to be calling the shots? He wondered whether Langham would fight to get control back or if he’d allow him to continue. Oliver had to admit the thrill running through him at the thought of a battle was a welcome and damn pleasing sensation. He’d gained a sense of security with Langham offering to share his home, had felt the uncertainty melt away on the journey back here. He’d never thought they’d reach this point—had hoped for it more times than he could count—but no, he’d never thought they’d actually be here, now, like this.

“I fucking want you so bad,” Oliver said as he broke his mouth away, coasting his lips to an earlobe, sucking it into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it.

Langham groaned again, all throaty and coated with lust, the reverberation of sound humming through that lobe and onto Oliver’s tongue.

“You’ve got me,” Langham said, “for as long as you want me.”

Hands—it seemed they both owned more than a pair each as they stood there touching, breaths uneven. Oliver’s cock strained again as Langham streaked his tongue tip up and down Oliver’s neck. That was unfair. That action always undid him, bringing on shivers that spread out everywhere he could feel. Always made him want to give in and let Langham do whatever the fuck he liked for however long.

Oliver stepped back, breaking body contact completely, and stared at Langham. He stared back, a blush on his cheeks, his lips plump from kissing. He looked as though he was working out whether to make the next move or not. Whether it was Oliver’s turn to take the lead. Whether finding out where Oliver would take them would be as exciting as him being dominant.

“Bedroom,” Oliver said, the word full of breath and not much bluster, even though he’d tried to inject a commanding edge.
Do it. Just tell it like it is, how it’s going to be tonight.
“Get in there and get undressed. Wait on the bed.”

Langham raised both eyebrows, his mouth hinting at a smile, lips then parting to release words Oliver assumed were bursting to come out. But he didn’t say a word, just eyed Oliver for enough seconds to make him wonder if he’d be able to carry this through.

“Go on!” Oliver said, chest heaving as adrenaline began a speeding search-and-find through his body, seeking every part of him with intent to either make him wither under that stare or grow bolder.

Langham walked away, out of Oliver’s peripheral vision. He didn’t dare look to see if the man had gone in the direction of the bedroom, whether his command had actually been obeyed. He just hoped it had, because if it hadn’t, he’d feel and look all kinds of fool. Waiting a few beats, Oliver undressed, leaving his clothes where they landed. He took a deep breath to combat the surging excitement, nerve endings pinging and sparking. Without a doubt, this was the boldest thing he had ever done with a man, taking control like this. It wasn’t as alien as he’d feared when imagining it, kind of fitted like it was a piece of him that had always been there but he’d been unable to find.

After another huge breath, he walked to the bedroom doorway, keeping his gaze steady, right in front of him and not on the floor. The bed stood opposite, and Langham had propped himself up on it, pillows behind his back and head. Relief poured into Oliver, jiving with the frazzled nerves and adrenaline, and he swayed a little, reaching out to steady himself with one hand on the doorframe.

“You look good standing there like that,” Langham said, studying Oliver’s mid-section with greedy eyes. “I could just get up and lick you all over. Every damn inch.”

Oliver held back a gasp. Langham wasn’t playing fair, but that was to be expected. He was testing him, gently pushing to see if Oliver could handle what he’d started. It was a good thing, that. Oliver gathered his mettle, absolutely determined not to allow Langham the upper hand, the ability to have him caving under pressure, Langham retaking the dominant role. Oh, Oliver loved the way Langham knew what was what, all right, knew exactly how to get him off, but over the months he’d wondered just how it felt to give in to what his heart and body directed instead of being subservient and going with the flow.

Langham’s cock, hard and ready, twitched, and Oliver had to stop himself hurtling onto the bed and sucking that dick right to the back of his throat. He huffed out a chuckle at having denied himself what he wanted. Hadn’t he just wondered what it would be like to act on his thoughts as they came instead of giving them time to become comfortable in his mind?

He pushed off the doorframe, strode the short distance to the foot of the bed, then climbed on, all the while maintaining eye contact. Straddling Langham’s legs and lowering his arse to settle on Langham’s knees, Oliver slid one hand up the mattress to where their lube waited. Another thrill went through him that Langham had placed it there, appeared more than ready for his reins to be used by Oliver. Taking the lube in hand, Oliver sat upright again, still staring into Langham’s eyes, and slowly unscrewed the lid. He cursed at his shaking hands, at his heart rate soaring as his mind raced with the knowledge that he’d better have the courage to see this through right until the end or he’d end up with egg on his heat-soaked face.