The Administration Series (135 page)

Then the bed shifted and dipped, and Warrick wondered what was happening until he realised he'd closed his eyes again. Let them stay like that, he decided.

This time, the hand that took his chin wasn't gentle and when he tried to shake it off, it closed round his throat instead, finger and thumb curling up over his jaw. Before Warrick could protest, Marc's mouth sealed over his, forcing a kiss on him. Marc bore down, covering him with solid heat, pressing him into the bed with frightening strength, and God, he was naked and hard. They were both hard.

And Warrick couldn't fight. Couldn't fight because his body wouldn't listen, wouldn't move. It could only feel.

Helpless. Oh, God, so helpless, chained without chains, and hyperaware of every touch. Marc's free hand left trails of fire on his skin, the touch burning long after his fingers had left. He felt every point of contact, every flex and press of the body grinding inexorably against him. Hot skin touched him everywhere, overwhelming his spinning senses. So good — wonderful — dangerous and terrifying — and he revelled in it and tried to fight because he couldn't remember who it was or where they were or whether this was wrong.

The kiss ended, and when Marc's mouth returned, it brushed over his cheek, round to his ear. Soft, teasing mouth, but the grip on Warrick's throat didn't relent.

"Keep still," Marc whispered, "and quiet, and just maybe I'll let you live."

That was it — that was enough. Warrick bucked up, gasping, choking back the cry as he came.

Keep still. Keep quiet. Quiet he could manage — still was hopeless, no chance of that as he shivered and panted, clinging to the muscled back until his hands were suddenly empty. When had Marc moved?

When he forced his eyes open, he found Marc kneeling over him.

"I know you can hear me." Marc's eyes narrowed and he moved to lay his fingers over Warrick's right nipple. Not quite a pinch. "Can't you?"

When Warrick said nothing, Marc tightened his fingers. "Can't you, Keir?"

He pinched again, harder, until Warrick managed to croak, "Yes."

"Good. Because I want you to know that we're not finished yet."

Marc rolled him over, arranging him on the bed, spreading his legs. Opening him. Half his mind screamed stop, half begged for Marc to touch him, and neither impulse mattered because Warrick could do nothing but be done to. Do nothing but be taken. Do nothing but accept the cock pressing into him, the slow, deep strokes — the hand pulling his head round — the mouth taking whatever Marc wanted.

He lost track of time, forgot that he supposed to fight. It felt too good and whoever the hell it was — Toreth, Marc — all he wanted was to stay here forever and be theirs. The slow pace tortured him. He was hard again, aching, tensing his muscles against the weird paralysis which magnified the tiny movements he managed. Nerves fired back pleasure with every minute rub of skin, every touch of the sheets.

He squirmed on the bed — all the movement he could make but more than he expected — and Marc gasped and stilled. Warrick moved again, lifting his hips, flexing around the cock pinning him to the bed, and this time Marc groaned.

"Jesus
Christ
, Warrick." For a moment it was Toreth above him, then his voice changed. "I warned you to do what you're told, Keir. Keep still."

The rough voice brought back the memory of the game they'd played to get here. Warrick managed to marshal his lips and tongue to produce an approximation of "Shan't, you bastard." Then he set about resisting in earnest.

Toreth's arms shook with the strain of not surrendering to the urge to thrust. He bit his lip and thought about yearly budget appraisals with Tillotson until the arousal dampened down.

The drug had begun to wear off, and Warrick's struggles had become stronger and seriously exciting. Warrick still, helpless and utterly in his power had been arousing enough. Warrick swearing and fighting him and failing was, was —

Toreth slowed again, the fuck reaching the point where if he slowed much more they'd simply be lying on the bed. It would be easier to keep control if Warrick would stop moving, but he hadn't and Toreth couldn't manage another coherent threat.

Warrick twisted under him, and over his own harsh breathing Toreth heard him whispering, "No. Marc, please, no."

Shit. This was impossible. Toreth looked away from Warrick, from the sweat curling the hair at the nape of his neck, from the tendons tightening as he turned his head . . .

He slid into Warrick, pressing as close as he could, then began to rock firmly against him, pressing — hopefully — Warrick's cock down into the soft bedcover.

Warrick made a startled noise, muffled by the pillow, and Toreth tilted his head back and smiled. He concentrated on his breathing, keeping it deep but steady. Better. Like this, he had a chance of keeping control for a while longer.

Or at least he would if Warrick would shut the fuck up. His helpless, pleading whimpers and moans sparked electricity down Toreth's spine. No longer struggling, Warrick moved with him, hands clenching desperately in the pillow, thrusting up against him and down into the bed, too good to bear.

'Toreth, I don't doubt the accuracy of your assessments, but there is a cross-departmental limit of three percent for team raises, which — '

Fuck, it wasn't working.

"Stop," Toreth panted. One at a time, he grabbed Warrick's wrists and dug his fingers into the tendons, forcing Warrick to let go of the pillow, and Warrick moaned. Toreth pulled Warrick's hands to the side and pinned them. "Stop it, keep still, keep — "

Warrick's head came up, his back arching, and he came. If he screamed, Toreth didn't hear him because every last scrap of self-control was blown away by Warrick's body tightening round him.

As long as you can stand it — harder, faster, this was — as long as you can stand it — perfect, yes, so good, ah, God — as long as you can — ah, God, Warrick — as long as — so close, soon, soon —

Toreth bit the nape of Warrick's neck, because it was the only way he could keep quiet, stop himself from telling Warrick how good it was, how much he'd wanted it — and then he was coming so hard that his eyes teared.

When Warrick woke, the clock by the bed said ten to ten, which didn't seem late enough.

He rolled over, vaguely surprised when his body obeyed him. Toreth had gone. The sheets were a mess. He felt sick and light-headed, which had to be the aftermath of whatever drug Toreth had slipped him. His wrists ached and he also felt to have a prize collection of bruises and bites on his neck and shoulders.

He felt wonderful.

Warrick smiled and settled back into the pillow to relive the choice moments of the evening, imprinting them in his memory while they were fresh.

A few minutes later, Warrick noticed that his face ached too. He was still smiling. He pressed his lips together, wiping the expression away, then rubbed his cheeks and sat up. The room swam briefly, then settled down. When he stood up, keeping a cautious hand on the bed head, his balance had returned.

His clothes lay in a pile on the floor, and it took him a moment to find his hand screen. Warrick called the security system at his flat, which told him Toreth hadn't gone there. Then, feeling only slightly guilty, he did the same to the system at Toreth's flat. Toreth had freely given him access to the system, and he knew Warrick well enough to guess what he could do with it.

Toreth was there, which brought the smile back again. Only twenty minutes there by taxi, and he could pick up something for them to eat on the way over.

Downstairs at reception, he discovered that Toreth had left him to pay the bill. Of course.

Warrick closed the flat door and went straight through to the living room.

Toreth was lounging on the sofa, screen on but muted. He watched Warrick set the box on the coffee table, then raised his eyebrows as Warrick came round the table.

"Didn't Sara tell you I was busy tonight? I thought — "

Warrick placed his hand firmly in the centre of Toreth's chest and pushed him back against the sofa. Then he kissed him until he felt he'd conveyed sufficient appreciation of the evening's entertainment, and until Toreth's heartbeat had picked up speed under his palm.

He broke the kiss and stood up. Toreth wiped his mouth, and smirked.

"You brought pizza?" he asked. "Great, because I have beer."

Toreth reached up, grabbed Warrick's belt, and pulled him down to sit on the sofa. Then he leaned down over the side of the sofa, produced two cold beer bottles, already opened, and set them on the table.

"I thought you'd be round when you woke up, and the flush-out time on that stuff is pretty tightly defined. How do you feel?"

"I was a little dizzy when I woke up, and queasy, but it went away by the time I left the hotel."

"Good. Some people get a bitch of a headache from it." Toreth opened the pizza box and helped himself to a slice. He bit off the point of the triangle, then gasped, sucking air in through pursed lips. "Hot.
Fucking
hot." He grabbed a beer. "Pepperoni and garlic," he said when he'd dealt with the mouthful. "Just what I wanted. How did you guess?"

"I'm naturally lucky." After three years, it was hardly a staggering feat of deduction. Warrick picked up the remaining beer, set the bottle to his lips, then lowered it. He lifted it and raised his eyebrows.

Toreth laughed. "Nothing but beer, promise. Want to swap?"

Warrick shook his head and risked a swallow. He might as well take Toreth's word for it. For one thing, all the offer really meant was that if Toreth had dosed the beer, then he'd also taken an antidote to it himself.

Setting the bottle on the table, Warrick took a slice from the heated box and, out of habit, wrapped it neatly in a napkin. At least this was Toreth's flat, where crumbs on the floor were merely part of the ecology.

"Who was the man in the bar?" Warrick asked after they'd eaten in silence for a while.

"Christofi. Political Crimes senior. Believe it or not, we were talking about work. He wanted to talk somewhere outside I&I and I thought he'd add a bit of colour."

"He certainly did that — I nearly walked out."

"Really?" Toreth looked delighted. "Then you'd never have known what you'd missed."

"And that would have been a great pity," Warrick said fervently.

"Enjoy it?" Toreth asked.

"It was perfect."

"Not quite. It was supposed to happen this weekend, on Sunday."

"So why did you do it tonight?"

"Guess."

Warrick considered. The line was obvious, but Toreth would prefer him not to get it. "Because it's game night?"

Toreth shook his head, helping himself to more pizza. "Try again."

"Because it's the day Cele finished the picture?"

Another shake.

"Because bars are too quiet on Sundays?"

"Good point, but no." Toreth paused, the second slice of pizza sagging dangerously, the topping threatening to slide onto his lap. He looked at Warrick sidelong, then grinned again. "Because this was as long as I could stand it."

The cool metal of the collar fastened around Warrick's throat, and he felt the tremor of excitement, uncontrollable, run through him as he waited for the click of the lock. Instead, the collar lifted away and Toreth said, "I'm bored."

Toreth had a wide variety of boredoms. Many of them translated into something along the lines of 'I don't want to do that' or 'This is too intimate' or 'I need attention'. This sounded, for once, like genuine boredom, which meant Warrick had a small chance to talk him out of it.

"What about me?" Warrick asked.

"What about you?" The bed shifted as Toreth moved away. "I'll fuck you later, how about that?"

"I would like to be fucked now."

"Jesus, you're insatiable, you know that? How old are you?"

"What?"

"How
old
are you?" He sounded to be over by the window now. "It's simple enough — take this year, subtract the year you were born in, adjust for the month. You're supposed to be good at that kind of thing."

"I'm thirty-six. Although I fail to see what that has to do with anything."

"Because at thirty-six you should be able to wait for a few hours for a fucking."

"The only reason I can't wait is because you make me want it so much."

There was a brief silence, then Toreth laughed. "Oh, no. You're not getting me like that."

"I thought it was worth a try. Very well. You can untie me."

Footsteps, and then the blindfold came off, leaving him blinking at the light. Toreth released him, lingering over the straps as if he hadn't entirely convinced himself it was a good idea.

Warrick sat up, rubbed his wrists where the leather had chafed, and looked down at himself. "I can't help but feel it's a pity to waste all that hard work."

"Okay, fine." Toreth slammed him backwards onto the bed, pinned him down, and sucked him off with a ruthless efficiency that wasn't as good as a morning of carefully orchestrated bondage, but still left him gasping for breath.

By the time he sat up for the second time, Toreth was already dressed.

"Right, that was my good deed for the day," he said. "Come on."

Warrick got off the bed and started trying to track down his own clothes among the detritus on Toreth's bedroom floor. "Where are we going?"

"No idea. Where would you like to go?"

He refrained, with some effort, from pointing out that he'd been perfectly happy where he was. "Well, if I'm passing a Sunday on my own, my usual choices, outside the sim, are galleries — "

"Went to one once."

"Museums —"

"No."

"Concerts, if there are any on."

"Definitely not."

Warrick finished buttoning his shirt. "You're doing this to annoy me, aren't you?"

"No, I'm doing it because I'm bored." He grinned. "Anything else is a bonus."

"You have the shortest attention span of any man I've ever met. Or woman, come to that. How do you manage at work?"