The Administration Series (178 page)

One hand still cradling Toreth's neck, Warrick slid the other down his spine, pressing them together. With his free hand, Toreth reached back, finding Warrick's hand in the small of his back. He laced their fingers together, imagining the desperate grip on the ladder — holding Warrick, stopping the fall. Warrick broke the kiss briefly, panting, then returned, his mouth aggressive and demanding.

A change in the room made Toreth open his eyes, and he almost spoke. Then he closed his eyes again, deciding it could wait.

Unlike other things. Everything felt sharper and somehow more real than the game in the lift — the hard cock in Toreth's fist, Warrick thrusting back against him, pushing his hip against Toreth's cock. It was too intense to last, for either of them. Warrick moaned into Toreth's mouth, hand tightening on his.

Toreth turned his head away and gasped, "Not yet."

"I can't —"

"Please, not yet." His voice sounded hoarse. "Not yet. Not yet. Not yet. Not — ah, fuck,
Warrick
."

The adrenaline charge from the near disaster heightened the orgasm as it burned through him. Perfect, coming perfectly together, with Warrick quiet for once, almost choking, twisting against Toreth as he pulled him close. Toreth panted for breath as the waves receded, leaving him aware of the stink of smoke in Warrick's hair against his open mouth.

I could've lost him, Toreth thought, the idea shockingly sudden. He could've fallen and fucking died, and then . . . oh, Christ, what the fuck would I have done then?

Unbearable. Toreth leaned his head against the wall and breathed deeply until the idea resumed its proper proportion. Something that hadn't happened, and didn't need to be thought about. Forgotten.

When Toreth opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was one of Warrick's lazier, more satisfied smiles. Enough to drive any lingering unpleasant thoughts away. With his face smudged with smoke, his hair messy and his eyes closed, Warrick looked wonderfully dirty and used. There was a scratch along his cheekbone, a smear of blood drying on his skin.

Without opening his eyes, Warrick said, "What was that about? You're not usually so fussy about timing."

"I can see you," Toreth murmured.

Warrick's smiled widened. "Mm?"

"Because the light's on again."

Warrick's eyes flew open. "Hell!" He looked round the room, then turned away from the camera, buttoning frantically.

"And I thought if you came first you might open your eyes," Toreth continued "And then where would I have been?"

"You
knew
?" Warrick looked up, tucking in his shirt, glaring. Then he laughed, the sound harshened by smoke. "Sometimes I could kill you."

Toreth gave him the finger, only then noticing the state of his sleeve. He picked up a discarded face-mask and wiped his hand and arm. Not one of their tidier fucks. Still, with the mess they were in, Toreth doubted anyone would notice another stain. Smoke blackened his shirt, grease from the lift smeared his sleeves and trousers. Warrick — when restored to semi-respectability — had suffered even more badly, probably during his slide down the ladder. As well as the smoke and grease, and a ragged flap of cloth hanging down on his left thigh, spots of blood had begun to soak through his shirt.

"How's your chest?" Toreth asked.

"Fine. I'll get someone to have a look at it when we get out of here." Warrick straightened his ruined jacket ruefully, then fingered a tear in the front. "I'm in a lot better shape than my suit, anyway. I'll try the door."

Toreth caught his arm. "No. What if there's a fire right outside?"

Warrick stopped dead, his expression halfway between horror and embarrassment. "Top of the list in the fire drill, yes. Never use a door unless you have to. Comm first."

Toreth watched as Warrick opened the emergency panel and activated the comm. "Hello? Yes, this is Doctor Warrick. No, I know I'm not — I'm in fire refuge, ah, one-four-c. Yes, I'm fine; the smoke in the lift was rather thick, that's all. What's happened?"

He listened for a while, nodding. Judging by his expression it was good news.

"Everything's under control," Warrick said when he closed the connection. "Although we caused something of a stir when the comms came back up and we didn't answer from the lift."

"What happened?"

"A small fire, right outside the base of the lift shaft, unfortunately for us. The cause isn't entirely clear, but they suspect that the contractors left something flammable behind. Sheer bad luck that it took out part of the power system, and then, presumably, some of the safety systems. They're sending someone up to manually override the door lock and let us out."

Toreth glanced up at the camera. "They didn't know we were in here?"

Warrick smiled. "No. The cameras are still out — luckily for you."

Much later, Toreth sat in the reception area, drinking a large and welcome glass of brandy and waiting for Warrick. Toreth had had enough of corporate entertaining for the evening; when they had finally made it downstairs, he'd slipped away and left Warrick to face the fuss of security guards, senior SimTech staff and anxious well-wishers. Warrick had promised to follow as soon as he could; like most corporate event promises, Toreth hadn't set much store by it.

When someone opened the door, he thought for a moment it was Warrick. In fact it was Dillian.

"Hello," he said. "Having a good party?"

To his surprise, she sat beside him. "How are you?"

"Wheezy and slightly battered." He held out his grazed hand. "Kiss it better?"

Surprise became astonishment as she took his hand and complied, a gentle touch of lips on each knuckle in turn.

"Er, thanks," he said when she lifted her head.

She smiled — Warrick's familiar smile on her lips. "No, thank you."

Then he realised what was going on. "No problem. Any time." Nice to be a hero, especially Dillian's.

"He told us after the medic checked him over. Me and Asher, and a few of the others."

I could've lost him. He could've fucking fallen and — "Reflexes, that's all. Lucky grab."

Dillian shook her head. "We all had to evacuate outside. I was sick with worry when they said he was still in there and they'd lost the comms. And the strangest thing was that I was actually relieved that you were in there with him. Not that he isn't perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but it was nice to know he wasn't alone. And a good thing, as it turned out."

Talk about a backhanded compliment. Toreth grinned. "See? I can make myself useful out of bed too."

Before she could reply, Toreth heard a hoarse cough from across the reception area. Dillian looked down and released Toreth's hand abruptly, as though she'd forgotten she was holding it.

"There you both are," Warrick said as he walked over. "Asher and Lew said they'll finish up here, so I've been excused for the rest of the evening. Toreth — "

As her brother stopped beside them, Dillian jumped up and embraced him tightly, with the unselfconscious ease that always left Toreth inexplicably uncomfortable.

"Hey!" Warrick stroked her hair. "Careful — you'll make a mess of your dress."

"You idiot." Her voice sounded almost as smoke-damaged as Warrick's. "You frightened me to death."

"I'm sorry." He held her for a moment, then eased away. "And there's something I forgot to tell you earlier — I lost the penknife you gave me. Or rather, I know exactly where it is. It's at the bottom of the lift shaft, but I expect it's broken."

She sniffed, then laughed, and Toreth wished he could see her face. "I'll buy you another one," she said. "If you promise to take better care of it."

"Of course. Now . . . " Warrick disentangled himself and took her hands. "Can I give you a lift back to the city?"

Toreth was willing her to say no when Dillian glanced sideways at him. He obviously didn't hide his expression quickly enough, because she smiled slyly. "No, I don't think so. I'll keep Asher and Greg company and go back with them. I'll come round and see you tomorrow, though. You aren't going in to work are you?"

Warrick hesitated, then shrugged. "I doubt it."

"Good. I'll — well, I'll see you then, then."

However, she stayed where she was, hovering. Tempting to stretch it out, but for once Toreth couldn't be bothered to do it simply to irritate Dillian. He stood up. "I'll ask reception to fetch the car, shall I?"

As he waited by the desk, he watched the pair of them talking. About him? Probably, or something else Dillian didn't trust him enough to talk about in front of him. He could ask Warrick, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing he cared what she said, even if she wouldn't know he'd asked.

He was still trying to find the logic in that when he realised Dillian had gone. Warrick stood alone, staring back into the building after her.

Toreth went over to him. "Ready to go?"

"What?" Warrick looked round. "Oh, yes."

Curiosity overcame reluctance. "What did she want?"

"To tell me she's going to Mars." Warrick shook his head, looking perplexed. "She mentioned before that she'd been offered the contract, but I thought she'd decided to turn it down; I had wondered about it, because she loves off-world work. But apparently she's changed her mind and she's going."

"Women, huh?" Toreth put his hand in the small of Warrick's back — just a gentle guide towards the door — and started walking. "Thanks for the invitation, by the way."

Warrick looked at him sharply, and Toreth smiled.

"No, really. I've had a great time. Like I said in the lift — it's been an evening to remember."

"Ah, fuck," Toreth breathed into his ear. "
Fuck
."

He'd been repeating the phrase about every thirty seconds for the last ten minutes. Warrick wasn't sure if it was an observation (in which case it was undoubtably true), information (in which case it was entirely redundant, because Warrick had noticed) or a request, in which case Toreth would have to do more than ask. Right now, Warrick had no intention of doing or saying anything which might cause Toreth to stop.

He lay still beneath Toreth, paralyzed with exquisite, lazy pleasure as Toreth rocked slowly into him again and again. heaven was very probably something like this. He'd changed the sheets earlier, when Toreth had gone to make coffee, and the crisp, clean, cool cotton beneath him was an added delight. From time to time Warrick lifted his head, rubbing his cheek back against Toreth's, and Toreth would moan and sigh, and probably say it again.

"Fuck. Ah,
fuck
."

Only a dozen centimetres from Warrick's nose, a crumb spoiled the the pristine expanse of sheet. He blew at it for a few seconds before he had to admit defeat and drag his hand over to flick the crumb away. Maybe it would be more sensible to wait to change the sheets until after they'd finished eating in bed, but that wasn't possible. Not on Sunday.

Sunday breakfast was one of the highlights of his week, and not because of the chance of a leisurely, well-rested hour or two in bed with Toreth afterwards. It was because the start of this particular game required breakfast in bed, so they could only play at the weekend.

The rules of the breakfast game were complicated, and Warrick didn't know them all. That was a part of the game.

It had started some indefinite time ago, when he'd brought Toreth breakfast in bed and, while he was eating, Toreth had picked up a strap that had been left in the bed from the night before. He'd trapped one end under his foot and started running the other through his hand as he ate. Not really paying attention, simply playing with the leather. It had been unexpectedly and deeply arousing.

Warrick was never sure it that had been the start of it then, an accidental discovery, or if even that had been planned in advance. Toreth must spend a lot of time planning things for them, but he was also quick to exploit an opportunity, so either was possible.

At first the rule had been single and simple — Warrick could sit and watch and talk, but he couldn't touch (Toreth or himself) and he couldn't ask to be touched. Then, week by week, more rules had been added to the game.

Warrick had to sit on the left-hand side of the bed.

Then, a week later, it could be no closer than a metre from the end of the bed.

Then he couldn't use Toreth's name.

Then his own.

Then he had to kneel by the bed.

With his hands behind him.

The rules became more complicated, and changed without notice. Warrick found out they'd changed when a word or a movement or something else that had been acceptable the week before was greeted with a calm "You can't do that." Or sometimes he forgot a prohibition, only to discover that it has become permitted again.

Sometimes it was near impossible to work out what action or omission had triggered the admonishment. And then he'd make the same mistake over and over again, until he finally found the connection and fitted the new rule into the pattern in his head.

He'd never written the rules down, although he had no idea why. Toreth certainly hadn't told him not to. In fact, he refused to even admit the existence of the game. Questions about the rules, or anything else to do with it, were deflected with blank incomprehension. He did wonder whether Toreth had everything written down somewhere, whether he sat and revised and rewrote them, or whether he too kept it all in his head.

In the end, if he performed satisfactorily, to whatever standards Toreth had set that day, Toreth would eventually set his tray on the floor and sit for a while, watching him. Then he would stand up and tell him where to go, what to do. "Lie down," or "Kneel there," or "Against the wall," signalling that the game was over. Warrick had won, and they would move on to a new game.

The number of mistakes he was allowed to make changed from week to week as well, without any logic he'd ever been able to determine, beyond Toreth's whims. Sometimes, after more than a dozen mistakes or as few as one, Toreth would drop whatever he was playing with onto the floor and shake his head.

"Christ, you're pathetic. How simple do I have to make things for you?"