Conscious Decisions of the Heart (27 page)

Nikolas found him at the top of the stairs. Ben had managed to get about fifteen feet away. Nikolas took him down to the carpet, spreadeagled him with a knee and rammed home, making Ben cry out in pain. There was one moment when it could have gone either way. Nikolas’s heart told him one thing, but his cock another, and it was the cock that won out, his cock made the right decision.

They were totally in synch once more. Nikolas was in control, taking what he wanted, and Ben controlled in every way what that want was and how it was expressed. Nikolas took his time. Hard and violent didn’t necessarily mean quick. For once, he took the time to experiment with some of the gentleness he’d been using with Ben recently. He mixed it up, keeping Ben wary and on edge whether he was going to kiss into his hair or bite his neck, whether he eased in and out teasingly or whether he forced in and thumped hard, taking away his breath and crushing Ben to the floor. He stroked and petted, murmuring meaningless endearments, then spanked hard and remorseless; Ben’s flesh glowed pink. Finally, when he knew he could hold out no longer, he dragged Ben over onto his back and finished them both face-to-face. With one hand on Ben’s cock, twisting and working it in pace with his thrusting, he felt his body go, give in to release and relief and extreme pleasure, and in his hand, soaking his strong fist, he could feel Ben responding just as urgently.

§ § §

They’d both ignored the fact Nikolas was still recovering from serious injuries. It was only when he lowered himself down onto Ben, trembling, that Ben realised he’d probably picked a bad night to force this pleasure from Nikolas. They’d had a rough winter ferry crossing and a difficult Friday-night-traffic drive up from the coast. But he also knew Nikolas wouldn’t want any of this pointed out. However, they couldn’t stay on the floor of the landing all night. Even his much younger body might complain at that treatment in the morning. Very cautiously, therefore, he began to extricate himself from their joined tangle of limbs. Nikolas rolled off, immediately winced and put a hand to his head. “Take that ridiculous animal outside before you come to bed.” Ben grinned at the way Nikolas refused to admit he wanted time and space to limp back to bed unobserved. He rose and was about to return to the office to find his clothes when a hand snaked out and caught his ankle. “Don’t take him too far in the dark. He wouldn’t like it.” It was amazing, Ben reflected, how Nikolas’s tacit concerns for
his
safety always seemed to coincide with what was best for Radulf.

It was good advice, nevertheless. Radulf didn’t like the wet pavement or the rain and made these an excuse to return early to the warmth of the house. Ben knew it was really the dark he didn’t like, and the light he was returning to, but he didn’t call him on it. Radulf was a war hero, and you didn’t call war heroes on anything in Ben’s book. That he owed Nikolas’s life directly to this large scrap of unwanted fur they’d taken from a shelter one night never left Ben’s mind. Ben no longer worried he was dreaming Nikolas’s return; he knew he was back. He knew he was alive and safe. He didn’t worry, but he didn’t take it for granted, either. In quiet moments, he played a scenario through his mind where Radulf didn’t find Nikolas, a scenario where Gabby finished the very confused job she was doing on him—he pictured a tyre iron connecting with Nikolas’s head. Then he allowed himself the very great pleasure of knowing that hadn’t happened. This large, shaggy creature had shown his true colours that day. And his colours didn’t run. Ben grinned and eyed the dog now holding his blanket in one corner of his mouth as he nested into his basket once more. He clicked his fingers and allowed Radulf to accompany him up the stairs. He reckoned they were done for the night, and Radulf had earned the occasional opportunity to play on his new status and join the other damaged veterans in their bed.

Radulf settled himself by their feet in his favourite position, legs akimbo and offering himself shamelessly, should they be inclined. Ben eased into the space left. He was sore; it was undeniable. But, oh, it was so good to feel it at last, that throb, that ache. He lay pressed into Nikolas’s back, wondering whether he should be worried or ashamed at finding pleasure in this. But where was this different from all the other conscious decisions of his life that had resulted in pain? The army was a belief system based on pain, through pain you excelled. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d returned from punishing runs, every muscle in his body screaming, unable to move the next day, only to do it again and again until the pain turned into a confidence in his own physical ability that nothing and no one could shake. This was the same. They pushed and pushed at their limits until they were both sure of themselves and of each other. Nikolas had given the gift of confidence back to him that night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Nikolas woke to the smell of frying bacon and to the muted sound of Ben talking to someone on the phone in the kitchen. He rolled onto his back, winced, and returned to lying on his belly. He could sprawl out now. For some reason, he’d been cramped all night. Ben came in carrying a tray with a phone jammed under one ear. He muttered, “Gotta go. I’ll let you know,” and let the phone drop onto the bed. He climbed in and sat cross-legged with the tray on his lap.

“Who was that?”

“Squeezy. We’ve been invited to a New Year’s Eve party.”

Nikolas closed his eyes, thinking deeply. Ben grinned, waiting.

“Is it not January already? Have I—?”

“Don’t worry. He said they’d done that one, but no one can remember what happened, so they’re doing it again…and we’re invited.”

“You mean you’ve been invited.”

Ben leant over and placed Nikolas’s tea on the nightstand, staring at his bruised back as he did. He placed his hand on the bandage. “Are you ever going to tell me the things she did to you?”

“No. But I suspect if I have to return for an inquest you’ll find out anyway.”

“Do you think you will?”

“LaCour’s handling things very well, so far. We’ll see. Are you going to the party?”

“Only if you come, too.”

“We’re not joined at the hip, Ben.”

“What would you do here on your own?”

“I’d probably go out.”

“Without me?”

“Well, you went to a party without me, so I had little choice.” He laughed as Ben punched his arm. “Why does the house smell of bacon?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I cooked some.”

“And…?”

“Well, there was only really enough for one. So I ate it.”

Nikolas turned slowly onto his back, easing into the pain. “You really are better. Even this,” he stretched up and rubbed Ben’s head, “is looking less fearful. No scabs.”

Ben snorted. “Yours isn’t. It’s not growing over the scar.”

“I’d noticed. In the gulag we shaved stripes into our hair to indicate how many men we’d—So, what do you want to do today?” Ben looked stonily at him. “Why not test your new bike on a ride to the delectable Professor Watson and show off your Danish?” That suggestion got a much better reception. Nikolas hid his smile at the sudden animation in Ben’s features.

If Ben knew the sacrifice Nikolas made allowing him to ride a motorbike in the rain in January (or visit Tim, come to that), he’d have realised just how much Nikolas was trying to make life normal for him again. He rummaged for his bike gear and dragged on leather pants and a tight, base layer top.

Nikolas watched him as he drank his tea. He’d loved Ben’s long hair and had he been asked, he would’ve forbidden him to cut it off. He had to admit, though, Ben suited the shorn look even more. Some men grew their hair long because they had to, it gave them the extra edge they needed to get noticed. Ben didn’t need any edge at all. Without the distraction of the hair, he was displayed in all his raw beauty, like the template of the first perfect man from which all men were copied. He looked particularly good in leather, too. “You don’t have to go just yet, of course…”

Ben glanced up from pulling on his boots. He grinned and crawled up the bed to straddle Nikolas, the leather tight across his groin, hiding nothing, the material of his top stretched over his superb tanned biceps and showcasing his impressive pecs. He leant down and kissed him. “Gotta go, or I’ll either have to stay the night or ride back in the dark.”

Nikolas winced. Obviously, he didn’t want either of these options. He nodded reluctantly. They kissed once more, and then Ben left. Nikolas stared at nothing for a while; there was nothing better to stare at. He’d recreated a monster of leather and strut. He stretched out in the bed and contemplated things for a while, then realised two things. Firstly, he had a whole day stretching ahead of him without Ben; secondly, he had a whole day stretching ahead of him…without Ben. He rummaged in the very back of his nightstand and found his cigarettes, lighting the first one of the day with an almost orgasmic delight that would be entirely lost on anyone dumb enough to not smoke. As he smoked, he pulled on some ratty jeans and a sweater, and went into the office to fire up his computer.

While this was booting up, he jogged down to the kitchen, stepped around the bags and the pile of laundry, frowning slightly at Ben’s laziness, dug some vodka out of the freezer, clicked to Radulf to invite him to the party, and went back upstairs to continue the online poker game he’d been winning until he’d been Ben Rider’d the night before. By mid-morning he’d switched from casinos to porn, which he had to admit had somewhat lost its allure since he’d met Ben. But he left on an interesting movie, lit his second cigarette of the day and topped up his glass. He swung his bare feet up onto the desk and leant back in his chair. The vodka wasn’t yet doing his almost constant headache any good, but give it time. No pain, no gain.

At lunchtime, he and Radulf skirted the laundry and the bags once more and headed out for something to eat. He’d eyed the food in the refrigerator, but it all needed doing something to before he could eat it. They went to the canal, which was the closest dog-suitable place he could think of and from there to a pub.

They returned a couple of hours and many pints later, and he eyed the house warily to see if they were both still in the clear before letting himself in. The post had arrived. He kicked it out of the way for Ben to open later. One small packet caught his eye, though. He bent and picked it up. He had to steady himself on a wall when he rose as the pain in his head stabbed him right behind his injured eye. The package was addressed to Christian Beck, no return address and delivered by hand. He held it for a long time, debating, turning things over in his mind.

Eventually, he stepped over the bags once more and went into the kitchen. He sat at the counter and ripped the top of the envelope open, peering cautiously inside. It was full of photographs. This never boded well, in his experience—and it didn’t now. He eased a picture out and flinched, the pain now thumping, thumping, right in the tender part of his temple. A man slumped, bloodied and broken. He recognised him. He’d once been the imam of a mosque in Azerbaijan, until he’d encountered Aleksey Primakov. He pulled out another, a woman holding out her hands, begging for mercy. He’d not given it—he remembered her very well. He dropped the envelope of his victims back onto the counter and backed away. He tripped and fell over one of the bags. Radulf was immediately standing over him, his head to one side, listening for a danger he couldn’t perceive. It calmed Nikolas, and he put his hand out to pat him, climbing stiffly to his feet. He swallowed a few times, trying to put off the inevitable, but he knew he was going to be sick. He made it to the bathroom in time. Retching almost killed him. He felt like his entire blood supply was in his head—behind his temple. He crawled slowly to the bed and onto the rumpled sheets then collapsed.

§ § §

Ben liked arriving at Tim’s unannounced, and it had become something of a joke with them. This time when he arrived, however, he regretted his decision not to call first. Tim was moving out. John, apparently, had finally made his views on Tim’s open relationship arrangements very clear by starting a new relationship with a student—one that didn’t include Tim. That there was almost forty years age difference between John and his new protégé hadn’t, apparently, been a deterrent to either. As the cottage belonged to John, Tim was effectively evicted. He was moving back in with his parents until he found himself somewhere else.

All this had been evident to Ben in the first few minutes, but he heard more of the story as they sat drinking tea, staring at Tim’s boxes and books. John, and the delightfully named Sebastian, had gone out for the day to give Tim some space and, presumably, so they didn’t have to help him with the boxes. It’d been something of a shocking reunion for both of them, Tim taken aback by Ben’s appearance—the hair and the unmentionable but telling scar on his wrist—and Ben shaken by the idea of John just casting off twelve years of relationship for a younger version of Tim. This didn’t sit too well with Ben, also a younger partner, or with Tim. He was very bitter, and Ben could sense he’d not given up without a battle—which he’d obviously lost. Tim glanced at his watch. “They’ll be back in a couple of hours. I don’t want to see them.”