The Administration Series (57 page)

"No, I haven't. Why would I be? Would you be delighted to hear from me what a great fuck the latest arrival at work had been? Or, if it comes to that, to hear from a third party that I'd been out bedding anything with a pulse?"

Far from fucking delighted. In fact, if he did hear Warrick had fucked someone else, he'd want to hunt them down and kill them, a realisation which did nothing for Toreth's melting self-esteem.

Warrick watched him for a moment, then, when Toreth said nothing, he continued. "Tell me when I expressed any expectations of, or made any demands for, exclusivity."

"Never," he had to admit. "You didn't."

"Right. So what have I done or said that made you think I had?"

"Nothing." It's nothing to do with what
you
want.

"Well, then I think we have the situation straightened out," Warrick said crisply. "I don't think I own you. I don't want to own you. I just want some of your free time and the occasional use of your body." His voice softened. "And anything beyond that is entirely up to you. No demands or expectations."

Toreth nodded dumbly. Silence seemed by far the safest option.

Warrick looked at his watch. "And now I have to get home. I promised Caprice Teffera I'd speak to her sometime this evening. Have fun."

Toreth watched him leave and then rested his head in his hands. He'd been dead right. He felt like a complete fucking idiot and on top of that he never wanted to see Warrick again, because it would only remind him of how big an idiot he'd been.

He looked round the bar, at the men and women in various stages of inebriation and availability. Have fun. Except, of course, that now that he had permission, he didn't want to. The very idea of Warrick presuming to give him
permission
for anything should have made him furious, but he found he didn't care. And he didn't particularly want to think about what that meant.

It was the first, basic lesson in interrogation training. No prisoner can resist forever. The absolute best they can hope for is to die, and victories don't come much hollower than that. Otherwise, the only possibility is to hold out for another minute, and then another one, until they reach the minute when they can't bear it any more. Everyone gets to that point in the end.

After long and careful consideration he decided: what the fuck. It was easier to break, and he should know.

He sat in the bar for half an hour, to give Warrick time to finish his meeting, or pretend to finish his meeting, whichever was the case. Then he caught a taxi.

Warrick took one look at him, standing on the steps of the building, and shook his head."No."

No
? "Warrick —"

"I meant, not here."

They went to a hotel, not speaking on the way. Despite his frenzied nightlife of the last weeks Toreth felt as if he hadn't touched anyone for months. He watched Warrick sitting quiet and still, looking out of the window of the taxi, and he could've fucked him right there, he wanted him so badly.

"Why wouldn't you let me into the flat?" he asked, thinking about what they could be doing this minute if he had.

"Dilly's staying there. She's very broad-minded, but," Warrick said, his smile reflected in the glass, "I doubt she really wants to overhear in that much detail what her brother does for fun."

For fun. 'Have fun.' Oh, yes.

At the Renaissance Centre — the same hotel where they'd first had dinner and first fucked — there was already a room reserved. 212. He planned this, Toreth thought. He knew that I'd come back to the flat tonight. That ought to have bothered him, but it didn't. Maybe tomorrow, when he could think about something other than how much he wanted the man walking beside him through the endless hotel corridors.

Once the door to the room closed behind them, Warrick turned and looked up at him, his eyes bright with anticipation. "So. What do you want me to do?"

Lots of things. More than Toreth could put into words. Instead he said, "I want to hear you say it." And he did, surprising himself by how much.

Warrick put his hands on Toreth's shoulders, half smiling.

"Want me to say what? That I want you? That I want you to fuck me?" His eyes darkened as he listened to himself, a shiver transmitted through his hands and all the way down Toreth's spine.

Toreth smiled back, pulled him close and kissed him. He tasted even better than he'd remembered. "Yes. All that. Again."

He made Warrick ask to be fucked, and then to beg him for it, over and over again, until it stopped being a game and he was hoarse and panting and they were both almost ready to come just from hearing it.

The clearest image he kept from the night: Warrick pressed against him, beneath him, clinging to him, shuddering with desire, bucking against him with every touch and whisper, stumbling over the words.

"Please. Toreth, don't. I can't . . . not any more . . . I need . . . now. Please. Now."

Begging for him. Wanting it almost as much as he did. Wanting him.

Wanting
him
.

After that everything was too fast, and the overwhelming need made him clumsy. He thrust in too quickly and too hard and heard Warrick gasp with pain and didn't care because it felt so good. Another deep thrust brought another protesting sound, and Warrick's shoulders knotted as his fists clenched in the pillow.

Toreth slipped his arms round Warrick's chest, buried his face in his sweet-smelling hair and managed to stop moving, because it was going to be over too quickly. He held still for just a few seconds and then he couldn't, couldn't stop himself.

Mine, he thought, and maybe even said out loud. Mine. Oh, yes, Warrick. Mine. He'd never wanted to possess anyone like this before, to make them completely his. He wanted it to last forever, not just the few more short, hard strokes until he came; it felt better than the sim, better than the SMS, more intense than ever before in his life.

He was eventually roused back to awareness by Warrick, still pinned beneath him and wheezing quietly and unobtrusively. After a couple of attempts he managed to roll off him. Warrick filled his lungs and let the air out on a long breath.

Then he rolled over onto his back, sucked his breath in sharply through his teeth, and moved onto his side. Toreth thought back, decided he ought to ask. "Did I hurt you?"

"Yes. Not much."

"Sorry."

Warrick shook his head. "Heat of the moment. I understand. Still, I'd rather you didn't do it again. It takes the edge off, somewhat."

Toreth looked down and realised Warrick was still half-erect and nowhere near sticky enough to have come. He didn't want to move, but pride forced him to. Without saying anything he wriggled down the bed, steadied Warrick's hip with his hand, and took him in his mouth. Warrick gasped sharply, and his fingers tangled in Toreth's hair before sliding down to his shoulder. It was something he'd never done to Warrick outside the sim, Toreth reflected, and wondered why. Warrick tasted different from the sim, which was strange at first. But, of course, this was really him, not a statistical average or an old memory electronically stirred into life. Real and better.

He pushed the thought aside and concentrated. He kept it light and shallow until Warrick was hard again, and breathing hard, and then he finally moved to take him more deeply into his mouth.

Warrick moaned and his hips pushed forwards. "Ah. God, yes."

Toreth found that, although this was something that usually bored him a little, he was enjoying himself. It was incredibly satisfying to do this and listen to Warrick's reaction, to his rich, low voice, still a little hoarse from earlier and getting ragged again now. The realisation nearly made him laugh, which might have had unfortunate consequences. He pulled away, relishing Warrick's protest and the hand tightening reflexively on his shoulder, pushing him down. Obeying the direction, Toreth closed his eyes, listening, trying to drive the dark voice past words.

Warrick's fingers dug sharply into Toreth's shoulder, his other hand clawing handfuls of the sheets behind him.

"Yes. That's good. That's
good
. That's . . . mmh. Don't stop. Don't . . ."

And he didn't.

Toreth woke up (or almost woke up), turned over, and groped out with one arm. The bed beside him proved to be empty, which pushed him close enough to real wakefulness that he registered the shower starting to run. He moved over further, onto the other side of the bed — still warm — and wished he'd woken up a few minutes earlier.

For a moment, he felt a flutter of something like panic starting. Fuck off, he told it firmly. I was only stretching. And it's just a coincidence that I've got my face in his pillow. Happy now?

Happy or not, the feeling went away. He lay for a while, wondering whether it would be a good idea to follow Warrick into the bathroom. From what he remembered, it had a fairly spacious shower. After last night, though, he didn't think he'd be able to put any of his pleasantly hazy plans into action. By the time Warrick came back into the room Toreth was nearly asleep again.

All except his stomach, which growled loudly enough to make Warrick look over. "Was that you?"

With an effort, Toreth propped himself up on his elbows. "Mm-hm. I'm starving. What time is it?" He couldn't be bothered to move any further and look for himself.

"Probably too late for breakfast, although we might manage it if you can be a little late in."

"No. I have to be there before Sara."

Warrick finished dressing. "Well, if you need to get going you should probably get up before I leave. You'll be asleep again in a minute. Everything's paid for, by the way," he added.

He came over to the bed and looked down at Toreth whilst putting on his watch. "You really aren't a morning person, are you?"

"I'm barely a fucking afternoon person."

Toreth finally managed to drag himself upright and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to summon the energy to have a shower. He could happily have stayed in bed all day, and that thought made him remember that the next day was Saturday. Fuck his case, he deserved a day off.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

Warrick grimaced slightly. "Nothing too strenuous. Why?"

Just say the words, don't think about them too much. "I thought I might invite myself round for pancakes."

Warrick smiled. "Why not?"

When Warrick let himself into his flat he could smell something burning, so he knew Dilly must still be there. He found her in the kitchen, using a boning knife to scrape the carbonised remains of something from the bottom of a pan.

She looked round as he came in and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry!"

He removed the abused utensils from her hands without comment. With more optimism than expectation, he ran them under the tap and inspected the damage more closely. The knife had suffered nothing that a good sharpening wouldn't cure, but the pan looked to be a fatality. Whatever she'd been cooking was both unidentifiable and welded to the surface.

"What were you trying to make?" he enquired.

"Scrambled eggs."

"Scrambled . . . I'd ask how this was possible, but as I know from experience that you can burn water, I won't." He took out another pan. "Why don't you make some coffee and I'll do breakfast? Assuming you can do that without immolating anything else."

"I'll do my best."

They worked in silence for a while, then he said, "I thought you had a meeting."

"The office left a message to say they'd rescheduled. Just by a couple of hours, in fact, but long enough for me to wreck your kitchen."

"Apparently. Right, done."

He set the plates on the table, then, forgetting, sat down altogether too hard and winced. Dillian unsuccessfully attempted to change a laugh into a cough.

"It's not funny," he snapped, bothered as much by the speed of her deduction as anything else.

"No," she said with an almost straight face. "Of course not."

He kept the glare up for a moment, then started to laugh. She sat down opposite him, also laughing, and poured the coffee.

"No need to ask if last night went well, then," she said.

Fortunately, he'd only picked the cup up, not taken a sip. "Dilly!"

"Oh, honestly, Keir. How old do you think I am? I mean — taking him to a
hotel
, for goodness sake! I should hope you had fun after going to all that trouble." She poked the scrambled eggs with her fork. "They're sloppy."

"They're supposed to be. We go through this every time. Just eat them and stop . . ."

She paused, fork raised. "Stop embarrassing you?"

"Yes."

She tried a mouthful of egg, and nodded. "Mmm. Good."

"Of course they are. Finish them before they get cold."

"You never blush, you know," she said thoughtfully, buttering toast. "Mother either. Aunt Jen does, and I do. Do you suppose it's genetic?"

"No. Actually, I'm sure I used to. It must've worn out over the years, thanks to you." Warrick counted nine seconds until she looked up again. He sighed. "If I have to. Yes, everything went very well. Yes, we sorted everything out. Yes, we —"

"Fucked like rabbits," Dillian supplied, in her most refined voice.

The embarrassment, which had been fading, returned in full force. "Where do you get that language?"

"It's a hazard of the profession, I'm afraid. Talking to construction workers." Her expression became more serious. "Are you sure about this, Keir?"

"What?" he said, hedging and hoping she'd take the hint.

"Him." Her mouth twisted slightly. "Toreth."

"What's to be sure about? It's not that serious. We just . . . " He looked at her patient, concerned face. Damn her. "Yes, I am sure. Don't you approve?"

"Honestly? No, I don't." She shrugged. "But you knew that, and it's not my place to approve or disapprove of who you choose to sleep with. If you're happy, I'm happy for you. You know that, too."

He nodded, because he did.

"So the real question is,
are
you happy?"

"Yes." The speed and confidence of the answer surprised him a little.