Men of London 04 - Feat of Clay (12 page)

“Tate?” he murmured quietly. Tate looked up,
eyes widening, and then stood up, only to launch himself into
Clay’s open arms. Clay pulled him close, feeling Tate’s body
shivering as he wrapped his warm arms around him with the fierce
determination never to let him go again.

“Christ, it’s good to see you.” Tate’s
muffled words against his sweatshirt had Clay swallowing down his
emotions.

“I’ll leave you two alone then,” said the
duty officer, who turned and left the waiting room.

Clay held Tate to him, feeling his heartbeat
through the fabric of his clothing.

“Not sure I like your fashion choice,” he
murmured, breathing in Tate’s smell. “You look like the remnant of
someone out of a drug dive search.”

Tate’s hands tightened on Clay’s hips. “I had
to give them my other clothes. They were covered in blood.”

Clay shuddered. “God, love, what the hell
happened?”

Tate told him. Everything.

Five minutes later, his heart cracking open
with pain and empathy, Clay sat as he watched his lover fall apart.
All he could do was stand there and hug the man crying silently
against his chest in his arms and promise him things would be
okay.

****

Three days after the incident, Clay sat and
watched Tate sitting on the couch, freshly showered, in his own
comfortable clothes and staring unseeingly at the television.
Lately he’d eaten listlessly, but tonight Clay had managed to get
some pasta down him. Tate had a glass of neat whisky next to him,
which had been hardly touched.

The inroads they’d made on Tate’s nightmares
had been dented by this latest tragedy but Tate was still coping
better than Clay though he would. His lover did sometimes wake up
with a start with all the monsters in his head and all Clay could
do was hold him or sometimes make love to him, until Tate settled
back into an uneasy and restless sleep.

The one thing he wasn’t prepared to let Tate
do was feel guilty for the situation he’d been forced into once
again. Guilt was something Tate had in abundance in his over-packed
suitcase of emotions, along with self-recrimination and shame. Any
more shoved in there and the suitcase would burst open, showering
them all with the acrid aftermath of the explosion.

Clay sat down beside Tate and pulled him
against Clay’s side. With a soft sigh, his boyfriend leaned against
him, and his hand ran across Clay’s stomach, seeking the warmth and
solace of his skin under the open shirt he wore. Clay’s hand moved
up to gently stroke the bristles of Tate’s hair, bristles that were
longer than normal and which Clay thought suited him.

“I’m going to say something to you and I
don’t want you to go off pop,” he murmured against Tate’s hair.

Tate huffed. “
That’s
a helluva positive conversation starter,” he muttered and closed
his eyes as Clay massaged his scalp with strong fingers. A faint,
pleased growl of satisfaction from Tate made Clay smile. The big,
bad, tough undercover cop had a secret weakness when it came to
this particular action. He turned into a great big puppy.

Clay tried to find the right words. “It’s
been a few days now so I think I can say them. Whatever you’d have
done differently the other night—don’t let it take you over. Don’t
second guess yourself and think
if only
.
That’s not going to help anyone. This whole thing wasn’t your
fault. I know you will, but I don’t want it to consume you. You’ve
suffered enough, love. You still suffer.”

He kept massaging Tate’s scalp as he waited
for the reply. Finally it came. It was a soft murmur of assent that
made Clay’s heart beat faster.

“I know, and you’re right. I did some
thinking of my own.” He gave a strained chuckle. “And at the
station the other day Clem laid into me too about how narcissistic
I was being if I thought I could cure the world’s ills or stop
people killing themselves.” He sighed. “I guess the old adage about
‘there’s always someone out there worse off than you’ is true after
all.”

Tate valued his ex-partner and Clay was glad
the man had spoken to him. Tate’s sister, Lucy, who was now aware
of their relationship and happy about it, had also come by to talk
sense into her brother.

“I’m glad you listened to him and Lucy.” Clay
pressed a soft kiss to Tate’s head.

Tate sighed. “Yet you tell me the same thing
and to quote your words, ‘I go off pop.’ Why does it always make
more sense when you hear stuff from other people?”

Clay snorted. “It’s like kids. You tell your
child to get off the furniture and they don’t listen. But let
someone else tells them and the chances are that they’ll
listen.”

Tate sat up and stared at him with narrowed
eyes. “You’re calling me a child?” He reached over and palmed
Clay’s groin suggestively. “Would a child do that to you?”

Clay grinned, pleased to see his old Tate
coming back. “I’d fucking hope not. That would be wrong. But a sexy
man with eyes like yours and a mouth that looks like it needs
shutting up with mine—that I wouldn’t mind.”

He was growing harder at Tate’s slow brushes
against his cock, and from the look in his eyes that was exactly
what his lover wanted. In his head Clay chuckled.

Tate using sex as comfort.
I’ll never complain about that. As long as it makes him forget
things for a while.

He grinned as his pants were unzipped and
Tate’s tongue came out to wet his very kissable lips. At that
sight, Clay’s cock instantly plumped up. The sly caress of Tate’s
thumb across the head of his dick made it even perkier. Clay
settled comfortably back against the couch, stretching his arms
across the back, hitching a breath as Tate’s mouth swallowed him
down. The image of Tate’s mouth on him, dark head bobbing up and
down with his little moans of pleasure teasing his cock, never
failed to arouse Clay. Tate was exceptionally good at sucking cock
and enjoyed it immensely. His hot, wet tongue flicking against
Clay’s tip, those long, steady licks against his shaft as Tate
glanced up at Clay, holding him mesmerised. The fact this was
his
Tate was a turn-on itself.

“Your mouth is too good at this,” Clay
hissed, eyes closing in bliss as Tate took him deep, throat
massaging his sensitive dick. “I know I say that every time.” His
voice caught as Tate’s tongue did something to him that sent all
the nerve endings in his body aflame. “Christ that felt good. Do it
again.”

Tate’s gave a wicked chuckle as his dirty
mouth drove Clay crazy. When he pulled off, Clay moaned
pitifully.

“Don’t bloody stop,” he groaned huskily.
“Finish me off, please, in your mouth.”

Tate shook his head. “No. You need to get
those jeans off,” he growled. “I’m going to fuck you this time.
Make you come when I’m inside you.”

Clay needed no prompting. He shifted his
hips, lifted his arse and had his jeans and briefs off in record
time. He left his shirt on. Tate liked it when he was half dressed.
His lover wasted no time unbuttoning his own jeans, and as he
pushed his black briefs down, his cock sprung out. Clay’s backside
throbbed in anticipation of having it inside him.

“You want to move this to the bedroom?” he
murmured as he watched Tate run a hand up and down his erection,
eyes dark and needy.

“Nope. Going to do it right here, on the
couch. Get on your knees and hold on. I’m coming in for
landing.”

Clay laughed softly as he switched around to
kneel on the couch, arse stuck out in the air, hands gripping the
arm. “Don’t forget the oil, Maverick,” he breathed as Tate’s
fingers slid over the curve of his backside. “It’s been a little
while.”

Tate sniggered as he reached under one of the
throw cushions and found the lube. There was always a tube handy in
the Mortimer household. Clay thought he might have been a Boy Scout
in a previous life.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re all oiled
up before I fly you.”

Clay gave a snort of laughter. “Where the
hell are all these aviation references coming from anyway? Have you
been reading those bloody Dale Brown books again…? Oh hell, Tate.
Yes…”

Tate had crawled on the couch behind him and
the cold slickness of lube with its minty fragrance being rubbed
against his hole made Clay lose his train of thought. His cheeks
were spread open, and insistent fingers circled his opening and
then slipped inside, opening him up. Talented fingers pushed their
way in to stroke Clay’s prostate and the zings of pleasure made his
skin prickle and his arse clench tightly around Tate’s welcome
intrusion.

Soft kisses peppered his back, as Tate leaned
over him and trailed his tongue down the skin that was already
goose bumped with needy sensations. His lover’s warm skin pressed
against Clay’s own heated flesh and a quick bite to his shoulder
made Clay’s cock jerk. He moaned softly and heard Tate’s quiet
laugh.

“You taste so damn good. Ready for take-off,
Captain?” His cock nudged Clay’s hole and Clay nodded, as he took a
deep breath.

“God, yes, I need you inside me, to feel you.
Stop the damned flight deck talk and just fuck me, please.”

Tate sputtered with laughter as he pushed
inside Clay. “I like talking dirty flight talk. Oh God, yes…” He
gave a hiss of satisfaction as he slid deep inside, filling Clay
with his heat and hardness. Clay pushed back against Tate’s
groin.

“You can do better than that,” he gasped as
he closed his eyes and concentrated on the heady feeling of Tate
inside him. “Come on, where’s my big, bad hard arse of a cop? I
want him. I need him to show me just what a bastard he can be.”

Tate gave a low, dangerous snarl and began
pounding Clay in earnest, the denim of his half-mast jeans rubbing
against Clay’s skin. When Tate had been in the force, one of the
things they’d done had been role play. In the early days, fucking
each other while Tate had his old police uniform on had been
something they’d both enjoyed. The handcuffs still came into play
and were enjoyable, but Tate in his uniform, shirt unbuttoned,
pants open and that cock of his rising from the depth of the formal
trousers had been a sight for sore eyes.

Clay closed his eyes and surrendered to the
power and passion of the man behind him, the grunts and heavy
breaths and occasional expletives music to his ears. He revelled in
Tate’s scent, his presence and his sweating skin and heated flesh.
Clay’s own rising emotions and awareness of just how much he loved
the man inside him filled his heart, just as Tate filled him.

He grunted when Tate’s hand came around and
fastened around his cock, jerking him off in rhythm with his
thrusts, inflaming Clay’s senses and bringing him to the brink.

“Just like that,” he panted, “Don’t stop.
Make me come.”

Tate’s nip of Clay’s ear nearly drove him
over the edge. “Oh I intend to,” Tate hissed. “I love to feel you
come around my cock. Love it when you tighten on me, pulse like a
fucking strobe light. I can lose myself when you come like that,
Clay.”

His thrusts grew deeper, fiercer and his
teeth closed on the tender flesh on the side of Clay’s
shoulder.

This fucking hurts but I
love it…

With a strained cry, Clay felt his balls
contract, felt his groin tighten and the familiar wash of sexual
gratification as it soaked his body and ushered in his climax. Arcs
of his release jetted across the couch, flooding Tate’s hand and
Clay’s belly with sticky fluid. His body tensed and then slackened,
and his arms threatened to give way on the arms of the couch with
the intensity of his orgasm. It was made worse as Tate rammed
harder into Clay, causing him to almost fall over the chair arm.
With a soft snort, Clay braced himself for his lover’s last final
pushes into his now tender hole.

When Tate topped, Clay always knew when he
came. He made a hoarse, throaty grunt and gripped Clay tightly,
fingers digging into his flesh and leaving marks. He was a biter
too, as evidenced by the teeth marks on Clay’s body and the nips to
his ears. Tate’s groin was all but melded to Clay’s backside, as if
he was trying to fuse with him, as his cock throbbed while he shot
copious amounts of come inside Clay. Clay loved the feel of it
inside him, marking him.

Tate lay across Clay’s back, breath warm in
his ear. “That was fucking awesome,” he panted. “It’s been some
time since I had you like that.”

Clay made a face. His arms were tired from
supporting himself and his partner’s weight. Thank God he worked
out. “Yeah, except you nearly made me fall arse over face on the
bloody floor,” he laughed softly. “I thought you were trying to
launch a rocket up there. Lose yourself in me.”

Tate moved out of him and off him, leaving
Clay to push himself up and try not to get the come from his arse
all over the couch as well as everything else.

“I always lose myself when I’m with you,”
Tate murmured, his lips curving in a warm smile. “It’s where I
belong.” He hitched his jeans and stained underwear up. “I’m going
to shower. You can join me if you like, and I’ll wash you
down.”

Clay stood up and bent down to pick up his
trousers off the floor. “I’ll be there in a minute. Get it hot for
me.” He snorted at Tate’s cheeky grin. “Not that, you fool,
although if you think you can get it up again…” He shrugged as Tate
cackled.

“I’m the younger one in this relationship,”
Tate teased. “I should be saying that to you.” He evaded Clay’s
fist aimed at his arm and escaped into the hallway.

Clay shook his head as he used his underwear
to clean up the mess they’d left on his expensive fabric couch.
Thank God for Scotchgard, he thought with a wry grin. It was
probably time to get the cleaners in again though and have another
dose of it applied. Couch- fucking looked as if it could become a
regular occurrence.