The Administration Series (65 page)

Submit and be taken.

Falling deeper into the game until it was easy and natural. Even when Toreth's hands tightened in his hair, crushing him close as he came hard and deep into his throat, Warrick didn't choke. He swallowed, remembering not to try to breathe — performing perfectly. It brought a flush of triumph, pleasure at success, which surfaced briefly though the dizzying arousal before sinking away.

When Toreth released him, Warrick leaned against his leg, panting, twisting his wrists to feel the strength of the steel.

Perfect, wonderful, never better, and it had never been this good with Lissa. Unfair but undeniably true. If she'd known — if
he'd
known — what he needed, would she have bought him chains?

"Not bad," Toreth said. His voice was almost level, barely out of breath. "You're learning. Almost good enough to deserve something in return."

"Please." All he could manage.

"Please?" He pulled Warrick to his feet, and pushed him back — two, three steps and he collided with the wall.

Toreth moved in close, resting his cheek against his, the slight roughness a further excitement. Pinning Warrick against the wall with one hand, the other roaming over his body, finally settling against his crotch, rubbing in short, fast movements.

Somehow, Warrick formed the words. "Mmh . . . no." His body, with ideas of its own and hungry for the contact, pushed forwards against Toreth's hand. Yes, yes, yes please. No. He wanted . . . "You promised — the bedroom."

Toreth laughed. "And what the fuck does that matter? You come when I say, where I say."

"No. No, please." Fighting it for real, struggling in the unyielding chains, because he didn't want to come now, didn't want it to finish yet, here in the hall when there was so much . . . but Toreth held him easily, and that alone was almost enough to tip him over the edge, even without the skilful hand stroking him towards orgasm. He was still resisting when the sensation ripped through him, wringing a scream from him that, for once, he heard.

God Almighty. Was he always that loud?

A minute passed, and Warrick found he still couldn't breathe properly, the high not fading. Toreth's hands on him — the words coming back to him from the start of the evening — the manacles around his wrists — the tightness of the collar — the bolts waiting for him in the bedroom. If Toreth should walk away from the game after tonight, walk away from him, the memory of this evening might be enough to last the rest of his life.

He opened his eyes to find that Toreth had stepped back and stood watching him intently, calculatingly. When Warrick could manage the words, he said, "Don't stop. Keep it going."

That brought out a satisfied smile. Toreth caught hold of the collar and tugged him sharply forwards. "What makes you think I'm
ever
going to stop?"

Warrick's voice woke Toreth from the middle of a complicated dream involving chains made of meringue.

"Are you
still
asleep?" A loud closing of the door followed Warrick's question, then a wash of light as the windows cleared.

"Doesn't look like it, does it?"

Toreth considered rolling over and sticking his head under the pillow, but he didn't think it would help. It seemed particularly unfair, since it was his own bed. He heard Warrick cross the room, and then the noise of something being set down on the table by the bed. Surrendering to the inevitable, he opened his eyes.

"What is it?" he asked, blinking at the light.

"Breakfast. Or, possibly more accurately, a very early lunch."

"Lunch? What time is it?"

"Half past eleven."

Toreth closed his eyes again. "That's not fucking lunchtime. Especially not on Sunday. I'm going back to sleep."

"Suit yourself. You might want to have a look at the tray first."

He was about to express his opinions a little more forcefully, when a rather appetising smell drifted across the bed. It smelled like . . .

He sat up and found Warrick waving his hand over the tray, wafting the aroma towards him.

"Steak?" Toreth asked.

"Steak sandwiches, with onions. Fresh juice. Coffee. Pancakes under the cloth."

Propping himself up on the pillows, Toreth took the tray and wondered where the contents had come from. Not from his kitchen, that was for sure. His flat didn't hold anything edible or drinkable that hadn't been thoroughly preprocessed, or fermented and distilled.

Toreth tried a bite of sandwich. "Good," he said, unnecessarily, because it always was.

"Thank you," Warrick replied gravely. He took off his borrowed shirt, looked around for somewhere to put it, and then settled for dropping it where he'd probably found it, on the already crowded floor. Toreth made a mental note that he ought to have some laundry done at some point in the next week.

"Sorry about the mess," he said with his mouth full, as Warrick went to lie across the foot of the bed.

Warrick raised an eyebrow. "No apology required." He surveyed the room, the clutter of dirty clothes on the floor contrasting with the clean ones neatly hung. "I couldn't live like this, but then I don't. And although I do admit to a faint curiosity regarding the colour of your carpet, I think I'd be rather disconcerted to come here one day and actually find out."

Toreth ignored him. "Did you have all this in the car last night?" he enquired, waving his hand over the tray.

"No. I went out and picked it up this morning, along with the griddle to cook it on. You never have anything fit to eat, so I thought it'd be a change. I also thought I might leave the griddle here, if that's all right with you."

"Yeah, fine." Except for a faintly horrifying implication of . . . nothing he wanted to spoil the morning by thinking about. At least it wasn't curtains. "What about yours?" he asked, as a distraction.

"I had
my
breakfast two hours ago. I had some calls to make. By getting up at eight, I finished everything. So now . . . I'm at your disposal."

"
Eight
? After last night?" He picked up a pancake and folded it in half, melted butter dripping onto the tray. "When did we go to sleep?"

"Three, I think. Perhaps half past. However, that still means you've been asleep for almost eight hours, which is plenty."

"Easy for you to say." Toreth licked butter off his fingers, reached behind his shoulder, and tapped the chain hanging from the bolt, making it clink gently. "The trouble with this is that I'm the one who ends up doing all the work."

"Mm." Warrick closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, and then opened them halfway. "True. However, I'm not to blame for your lack of imagination."

"No, maybe not."

Balancing the tray with one hand, Toreth pulled the sheet aside. He ran the ball of his foot over Warrick's shoulder, then pressed it between his shoulder blades until he went down flat on the bed, his breathing already quickening.

Toreth smiled, working a thread of danger into his voice. "After all, I can do anything I want . . . and you'll do whatever you're told. Won't you?"

"Yes." He felt Warrick shiver.

"Well . . . I'll have to think about it."

Toreth considered putting the tray down, but he hadn't finished yet and he didn't fancy ending up fucking in a bed full of crumbs. So he settled for moving the juice and coffee to safety on the bedside table, and then shifted his foot higher while he started another sandwich.

There were faint red marks on the back of Warrick's neck, reminders of the collar last night, which would, in Toreth's judgement, fade by Monday. He pressed his foot down, a little too hard to qualify as a massage, but not hard enough to hurt. Not yet. Warrick had turned his head away, but his breathing was a perfect telltale. After a minute, he saw Warrick's hips start to grind down into the bed.

"Keep still," Toreth ordered.

He kept playing as he continued his breakfast, circling more firmly into the nape of Warrick's neck, down and up his spine, watching as his hands began to tighten on the edge of the mattress with the effort not to move.

Lazy Sunday morning fun, which still had an enjoyable novelty for Toreth. He wondered if Warrick had done it before with anyone. Relaxed weekends spent fucking with Melissa, maybe. Or on reflection, maybe not. On the brief meeting last night, she'd struck Toreth as a withholder, doling out sex as a bribe or a reward for good behaviour.

One kind of domination, he supposed. This was more fun.

By the time Toreth finished eating, Warrick's breath was catching on a whimper every half dozen breaths. Toreth's own breathing had become none too steady. Still, he realised, once more he was putting all the effort into the proceedings, even if it wasn't very much effort in an absolute sense. And even if he was reaping a rather gratifying return on his investment.

Besides, something Warrick had said earlier finally sparked a question in his mind.

Without taking his foot away from Warrick's neck, he lowered the tray onto the floor.

"Turn over."

"I can't. Your —"

"Not interested." Toreth didn't release the pressure. "Turn over."

Despite the difficulties involved, Warrick obeyed, ending up with Toreth's foot against his throat. With experimental care, Toreth pressed down until he saw Warrick's eyes go wider and his lips open to stop it. Then he lifted his foot away and sat up.

"At my disposal?" he asked, dropping the edge from his voice.

Warrick shook himself, shedding the role if not the arousal, and then rolled onto his side and looked up at him. He rubbed his throat, and coughed carefully. "That's what I said. Anything you like."

Adding that to the breakfast, Toreth came up with another question. "Okay. What do you want?"

Warrick smiled sheepishly. "That obvious, is it? Well . . . to ask you a favour."

Toreth laughed; he'd only been half sure of his guess. "Fuck. Really? What?"

"Sorry. I should just have asked. But I didn't think it would hurt to get you in a good mood first."

"Feed me, fuck me and then ask me when I'm half asleep?"

"Something like that. Would you prefer me to ask while you're awake?"

"Ah . . . yes. Ask first, fuck afterwards. Or during, if it's going to be a long question." He slid down the pillows and closed his eyes. "I'm listening."

"All right." Warrick moved round to lie next to him and placed his hand flat on Toreth's stomach. Toreth tensed the muscles as Warrick dug his fingers in.

"Mm. Very nice," Warrick murmured.

"Favour?"

"Yes, of course. There's another SimTech event coming up in a few weeks' time." The fingers wandered off, gentle and only mildly distracting. "It's only a small thing. A social dinner for the directors and a few sponsors and partners."

"And?"

"And I'd like you to come to it."

"That's a favour?" For a moment, Toreth was nonplussed. By the time he'd made the connection to 'and partners', Warrick was speaking again.

"I'd like you to come to it, with me. Just you. As my . . . as in — arrive with me, leave with me. Be with me."

It was odd how he was growing used to this. He waited out the irrational rush of fear — expected and therefore not so disconcerting — then said, "As your what?"

"I, ah, didn't think of anything. Did you?"

"Um . . . no." He tried again, but everything serious seemed terribly wrong. "How about 'regular fuck'?"

"Regular f —" Warrick spluttered, then started again. "I can't introduce you to people — sponsors — as my regular fuck!"

Toreth smiled, his eyes still closed. "That's your problem. Works for me."

Warrick sighed and then said, "I can't promise it'll be very exciting, and there'll definitely be no sex in the food this time. But will you come?"

"Sure. Doesn't sound too taxing."

"Oh . . . well, good."

He put his hands behind his head, deliberately relaxing, and opened his eyes to find Warrick watching him with a mix of surprise and wariness.

"What?" he asked.

Warrick shook his head. "Nothing."

Oh no, not nothing. You were expecting me to panic because you mentioned something that had a hint of . . . and you were right. Before he could finish the thought, the adrenaline kick washed back through him. Fight or flight, he thought. Or . . .

"So is that it, then? I said yes, so I don't get the fuck?"

Warrick grinned. "No, you get the fuck. Anything you like, as I said."

"Mmm." Toreth stretched out, anticipation chasing away the lingering unease. "Surprise me."

Dear Val,

Thank you for your presence at George's funeral yesterday. I&I was always the biggest part of his life, and I know he would have been touched that so many from I&I and especially the General Criminal section chose to attend.

I'd like to thank you especially for your kindness in the days after George's death. I won't say thank you for last night. That was something that I don't have the words for. To have someone spend that difficult night with me, to wake up and have someone beside me to comfort me and take the pain away, if only for a while, meant more than I can say.