The Administration Series (143 page)

He was depleting a seafood platter of its fabulously succulent prawns when he heard a female voice.

"Excuse me?"

He turned, prawn in his hand, and found a woman standing behind him.

She wore plain gold jewellery, an unremarkable black dress, and her blonde hair hung in a simple, short bob. However, if the packaging wasn't especially showy, the body underneath more than made up for it. Athletic, holding herself with easy confidence — this one was most definitely Warrick's type.

She was hesitating, looking him up and down, then her clear skin flushed pink. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were, ah--"

"One of the waiters?" Toreth guessed. The blush was rather fetching, and as he expected, it deepened.

"Security, actually."

On a closer inspection, he spotted darker roots to her blonde hair. Not that it meant dye for certain, because he'd known other blondes with naturally dark roots. Still, there was only one way to tell for sure. Two, counting asking her, but where was the fun in that?

"And why did you feel the need for security?" he asked. "Someone bothering you?"

"What? Oh, no." She laughed lightly. "Nothing like that. I handed my coat over when I arrived, and I need my hand screen — I left it in the pocket by mistake."

"I can have a look for you, if you like." He tried out a smile. "I think I remember which way they took my coat."

It must have been a touch too eager, because she tensed slightly, suddenly defensive. "Don't worry. I can manage, thank you."

"Okay."

He watched her go — the back view was almost better than the front. Pity. Still, there were plenty more fish at the party. But first, he'd finish the fish in here.

In the end the abundance of fresh goodies proved too tempting and he ate too much. At least the good food and another couple of glasses of wine muted the last of the ridiculous worries from earlier.

Still, he couldn't help wondering where Warrick was. He'd half expected — half hoped — that Warrick would have come to find him. Probably too busy drumming up business for SimTech.

When he stepped into the main reception room, the sight stopped him cold. Whoever was following him into the room ran into him, jostling Toreth's arm and slopping champagne out of his glass. Toreth ignored the surprised exclamation from behind him, and the small puddle of champagne fizzing at his feet.

Across the room, directly opposite the door, the woman from SimTech sat in a window seat. She'd changed from her casual corporate clothes into casual evening wear: a floor-length dress in muted pink silks. Not as showy as some of the outfits on display, but respectably expensive.

Beside her sat Warrick. He was listening as closely as he'd listened to Tordoff earlier, but this time he was smiling too. There was no sign of the reserve and slight tension that Toreth often noticed in him at these kinds of events. Not stress, but a firm control and an awareness of everyone and everything around him. Right now, though, he seemed oblivious to the rest of the room.

Just the two of them in the deep-bayed window, looking very fucking cosy. As the surprise started to fade, a prickle of anger replaced it.

Moving across the room to where he could watch with less chance of being seen in return, Toreth joined the periphery of a group talking about the problems of importing restricted equipment from outside the Administration. Luckily, they didn't seem to know who he was; if they had done, Toreth suspected that the conversation would have screeched to an abrupt halt. Angling for a view out of the corner of his eye, he settled in to watch.

Advice for the chronically jealous, Toreth thought sourly: stay away from bisexuals. Having fifty percent of the planet stumble at Warrick's first hurdle would have made Toreth's life a hell of a lot less tense. Wasn't it bad enough that he had to worry about Girardin look-alikes and younger versions of himself?

At least the Indian woman wasn't Warrick's usual type, unlike the woman Toreth had met by the buffet. Warrick's four-year marriage to the well-toned Melissa suggested that blonde, athletically-built women as well as men pushed his buttons. For that reason Cele also worried Toreth slightly, even though she was brunette. She was fit and Warrick had hinted — okay, said openly — that he thought she was attractive.

Despite that, he'd never really considered Warrick's friendship with Cele to be a serious risk. Warrick had known her for years and nothing had ever happened between them. New arrivals were an unknown quantity and so always more of a concern.

Surely Warrick's current companion was too dark, too slight, too prettily feminine to be dangerous? Beautiful hair, though, long and threaded through with silk ribbons. Her hair looked even longer because she was so short — shorter than Sara. A bit too short for Toreth's taste, because it hit a point when relative height limited the available positions, unless you wanted to fuck and stare at the pillow at the same time. But he wouldn't throw her out of bed, and she'd be perfect for a woman-on-top fuck, where light and lithe were advantages.

Toreth finished his drink and picked another off a passing tray. All he'd managed, he finally conceded, was to talk himself into acknowledging that she was perfectly fuckable and there was no reason on Earth Warrick would turn her down.

Anyway, her physique wasn't conclusive proof she was safe. Just because she looked like this here didn't mean she'd looked the same in the sim earlier. Had Warrick been showing her the possibilities for playing in (and with) other people's bodies?

Toreth shook his head sharply, trying to dislodge the images. It drew a couple of curious glances from the group next to him; he ignored them.

Warrick
didn't
fuck around, Toreth told himself firmly. (Outside work, an unhelpful inner voice pointed out.) Or rather, Warrick had done it exactly once, and there had been reasons, if not very reasonable ones, for that. Now they'd reached a compromise and everything was back on an even keel and working fine.

Toreth ran through the usual reassurances, as familiar as the fear that triggered them. He knew his intermittent obsession over Warrick's aberration with Girardin was pathetic, but if he let himself dwell on it for too long it left him so angry he could barely breathe.

So
stop
fucking thinking about it.

The resolution lasted about ten seconds, after which he found himself gripping his glass stem hard enough that he made a conscious effort to relax. Otherwise he'd make a spectacle of himself by severing a few tendons and spraying blood all over the parquet floor.

The Indian woman edged a little closer to Warrick, who pointed across the room, approximately towards Toreth. Toreth turned hastily away, wondering if he'd been spotted. However, no summons followed, so he allowed himself to look back.

Fuck it, Warrick and the woman were
still
talking.

If Warrick was planning another revenge fuck, then surely Toreth would've noticed something wrong?

Just like he'd noticed the first one in advance.

But Warrick seemed happy with things recently, didn't he? There'd been a limited number of screaming rows recently. The last big one — the only serious one for months — had been over that bloody cabinet, nothing to do with Toreth straying outside the limits of their IIP. Don't ask, don't tell, and if Warrick had a problem with that he hadn't said anything.

Warrick certainly looked perfectly happy
now
, talking to the scheming bitch. As Toreth watched, the woman leaned closer and whispered something, and Warrick just fucking
glowed
.

What were they saying? What the
fuck
were they talking about?

Should he go across? There was no reason not to, except that he couldn't help wondering how long they were going to keep talking. He wished he knew how long they'd been there already. Groups might be quite stable at these events, but five or ten minutes was a decent length for a one-on-one conversation. Much longer than that meant people making a deal, or business partners, or another kind of partner . . .

Ten minutes had passed before Warrick stood up. The woman stood too, and Warrick bent down and kissed her — cheek only, Toreth thought, although he couldn't be certain from this angle. Even after that there was another minute of conversation before Warrick left her there.

Too long. Far too fucking long. Toreth put his drink down and set a course to intercept Warrick.

"Hello," Toreth said. "Been looking for me?"

Warrick looked round — not a trace of guilt, for all that meant — and smiled. "No. I saw you talking, so I didn't like to interrupt."

"Going to try the buffet? The prawns are great, and I think I left a few."

"Actually, I'm just on my way to the toilet."

"I found that earlier — I'll show you."

"No need. I've visited the house before, a number of times."

Toreth shrugged and fell into step beside him, wondering why the hell Warrick didn't want him along. Assignation with someone else? With the Indian woman?

No, he told himself firmly. There was probably nothing in it, and after his fuckup with the blond guy — Gavin Tordoff, he repeated to himself, making sure he didn't forget the name — the last thing he wanted was Warrick realising he was twitchy over someone else as well.

I'll look pathetic.

Toreth managed to keep that thought in mind as they walked down the corridors — was Warrick looking nervous? preoccupied? — and while they waited outside the toilet for the previous occupant to finish.

Then Warrick went in, and Toreth was on his own. Not for long, but long enough to remember every detail of the conversation he'd witnessed. And to move from there on to entirely imaginary pictures of what Warrick might have done in the sim earlier.

'He was putting the sim through its paces for me, showing me some new applications.'

It's his job. It's just his job. Even if he spent all afternoon in there fucking her senseless it didn't mean anything because it was his
job
.

Fair enough — SimTech was Warrick's job. Not this other thing tonight. Not a cosy little tete-a-tete in a window seat.

Adrenaline was already speeding Toreth's heart when the lock clicked, surprising him out of the reverie. When Warrick opened the door, Toreth pushed him back inside, followed him in and locked the door again.

Even the toilets in this place were huge. There was plenty of space for Warrick to step away and put his back to the pale green wall.

"Toreth?" Warrick sounded wary, but more amused than angry. "I thought I said no — "

"What were you talking about?"

Warrick looked at him blankly. "When?"

"You were talking to that woman just now. The woman from SimTech."

His expression cleared. "Tavi? She mentioned she'd seen you earlier in the office. We were talking business, primarily."

Right. Which is why you looked like she had her hand down your fucking trousers. "What kind of business?"

"Well, I don't really recall, offhand. Corporate liaison with P-Leisure, product development ideas." He shrugged. "Nothing that would interest you, I'm sure."

The casual dismissal wound the spring another turn tighter. "Why wouldn't it?"

Now Warrick was looking at him as if he'd sprouted an extra head. "Because you've rarely shown any interest in the commercial side of the sim in the past?"

You were fucking her in the sim. I know you were, so don't try to deny it.

He couldn't bring himself to say it, because Warrick would probably raise his eyebrow and say, 'Well, yes, I was,' in that infuriatingly patient voice he used when he thought Toreth was being unreasonable. And then . . . then didn't bear thinking about.

He wanted to hit something — the wall, the fashionably asymmetric mirror. Warrick. "You know, sometimes I feel like some piece of rough trade you drag along to these fucking places to freak people out."

Warrick laughed. The bastard actually fucking
laughed
.

"You're hardly that. I&I might not be universally loved but it's perfectly respectable. I very much doubt my social standing would be improved if I were here instead with that young programmer you were admiring earlier. Or even with Tavi."

And he seemed to find
that
idea even funnier.

Was Warrick winding him up deliberately, or was he just too fucking absorbed in his corporate evening to notice anything was wrong? Toreth suddenly found he couldn't tell and didn't care anyway.

"It wasn't just work, was it? What the
fuck
were you talking about?" The pent-up anger exploded and he made a grab for Warrick, getting a firm grip on his dinner jacket, barely hearing Warrick's exclamation of surprise.

A thin thread of sanity and self-control held him back from punching Warrick in the face and instead he forced him down into a crouch, trapped between the wall and Toreth's legs. Warrick tried to rise but Toreth slammed him back, pinning him there with his knee. The tiled floor was smooth, but it gave him enough purchase to hold Warrick.

If he couldn't find the words then he would damn well
show
him. He fumbled with his zip, cutting off Warrick's protest by twisting his other hand on Warrick's collar.

"Open your mouth," he snarled, fighting to keep his voice low. "Open your fucking
mouth
."

"Toreth — " Warrick choked out.

Toreth shook him by the collar, relishing the controlled violence. "Do it. Or I'll — "

Fortunately, he didn't need to decide what he'd do, because Warrick obeyed. Toreth struggled one-handed to free his cock, tangled in inconvenient underwear he wished now that he hadn't bothered wearing. God, he was hard, anger and arousal swirling together and feeding off each other.

He gripped Warrick's chin, tipping his head back a little as he drove in, not giving him a chance to get used to the brutal invasion.

You're mine. I can take you when I want, where I want, because you're fucking
mine
. You're here on your knees because you need it from
me
.