Author/pseudonym: Tinnean
Fandom: JAG
Pairing: Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: They still belong to Belisarius
Productions. And like Forrest Gump, that’s all I have to say about that.
Status: new/complete
Date: 3/02
Series/Sequel: This is part six in the Mind Fuck
series, and follows Gee Baby, Ain’t I Good to You.
Summary: Palmer’s POV of what happened the night
Webb came home from Paris.
Warnings: m/m
Notes: Minor spoilers for Webb of Lies and Imposter.
Thanks to Gail for the encouragement and the speedy beta. Thanks also to Silk,
Page and Scarlet, for wanting more of these guys.
Don’t Blame Me
Part 1/1
Traffic on the Beltway as I drove back to the building that
housed the DSD was surprisingly light. It was a good thing, because I was so
distracted by my confrontation with Clayton Webb that I wasn’t paying as much
attention to road conditions as I should have been.
How the fuck had Webb figured it was I who
interviewed his mother under the guise of being an old school friend of his?
****
I knew they would do a search. Webb wouldn’t let anyone
get near his mother without one. He was a spook clear through, son of Neville
Webb, whom even the DSD held in some regard. I also knew I’d have no problems
coming up clean. I even had a back up plan if Old lady Webb picked up on the
fact that I was five inches taller than Matthew Robinson. I’d just tell her
I’d had a sudden growth spurt that summer after graduating from Exeter.
Only, who’d have thought Porter Webb would be as
intelligent and charming as she was? She was blonde, and a woman, but that was
where her resemblance to my own old lady vanished. Afterwards, when I pulled up
some records on her that had been relegated to microfiche, I learned she had
cracked Russian ciphers during Project Venona. I was impressed, in spite of
myself.
We sat in a room that took advantage of the thin winter
sunlight, looking through photo albums. She told me of Humpty Dumpty, her
son’s first pony, and Jack Be Nimble, the horse he would have ridden in the
1980 Olympics, if the United States hadn’t pulled out.
“He must have been very disappointed,” I murmured. I
know I had been. No one had been more surprised than I was when my commanding
officer told me I had made the fencing team that would represent my country. I
was even more disappointed now, knowing I had missed meeting Clayton Webb before
all the intelligence bullshit got between us.
“Yes, he was, rather. Of course he was able to
participate in the ‘88 Olympics, but the Hungarians were just better than us
and took the gold.”
“And I’ll bet that really burned his butt!” She
looked away, biting her lips, and I felt heat climb my cheeks. Graduates of prep
schools did not use such expressions in the presence of their friend’s mother.
“Sh… I beg your pardon Mrs. Webb. That was…”
“That was his precise reaction, Matthew. Clayton does not
like to lose.” Her eyes were warm with amusement. “I’m glad he had you for
a friend! You know him so very well.”
“Er, yes, ma’am,” I mumbled. How could I have gotten
so relaxed with her that I’d drop my guard?
“Markov.”
“Mrs. Webb?”
“We’ll have tea in here, if you don’t mind.” He
nodded and left the room. “You will take tea with me, won’t you, Matthew?”
I couldn’t believe it! She was offering me fucking tea!
Probably that damned Earl Grey that smelled like flowers, for god’s sake, and
those ridiculous cucumber sandwiches. I hated tea! I looked into her hazel eyes,
and saw her son reflected back at me. I swallowed and said, “Yes, ma’am.
Thank you.”
Before too long, her …butler was wheeling in one of those
trays with these tiny little cups on them. They were so delicate-looking I was
almost afraid to pick one up.
Markov. I watched him from the corner of my eye. I felt a
grudging respect for the man. When I’d asked for permission to photograph some
of the photos of Webb as a teenager, his expression had become intent. He’d
all but dismantled my camera before nodding to Mrs. Webb that it was nothing
more than an ordinary digital.
I had wondered what Markov would do if he removed the
‘smart card’ and tried to access the information that it held. An action
like that would have resulted in the computer’s circuits being melted down,
but I was sure he was unaware of that. The card and camera were just a
prototype, something the DSD had come up with only recently, and it hadn’t
become general knowledge in the intelligence community.
This camera was something Mission: Impossible would have
creamed its pants for. If I’d wanted to incapacitate everyone in Mrs. Webb’s
beautiful Tudor home, all I’d need to do was alter the setting slightly and
squeeze the corners in a certain pattern. Another setting, and they all would
have been dead.
The picture that grabbed me the most was one of a series of
Clay on a long-legged roan, taking a water jump. The gelding looked as if he was
flying on invisible wings, his mane and tail a rippling banner. Not much more
than sixteen, Clay was crouched low over the animal’s neck, his ass well off
the saddle. I turned the photo over and read the inscription. “Clayton atop
Jack Be Nimble, South Hampton trials, June, 1981.” I memorized that.
“A perfect ride,” his mother said with a proud smile.
If I’d been waiting in the stable when he returned from
accepting the blue ribbon for that ride, I’d have tumbled him into the nearest
empty stall, stripped off his jodhpurs, and fucked him senseless. I shifted as
discreetly as I could.
It was a good thing Porter Webb was not looking at my eyes
when I asked her if I could take a picture of that photograph. If she knew how
much I lusted after her son, I think she would have taken that dainty little
knife that was beside the tea she had offered me, and cut out my heart.
The worthy mother of a worthy son.
****
A few days after the funeral, and I was still trying to
puzzle out how Webb could have come to the conclusion that I was the one in his
mother’s house.
I was in my office, completing a report that tied in with
the sad demise of Michael Shaw. Some rather startling intelligence had come to
light the day after his death, and it had been decided to bury the facts about
the case, which was why the DSD was going along with the family’s request to
leave the cause of death officially as suicide. Seemed the little cocksucker
really was sucking someone’s cock. Mr. Wallace had been displeased to learn
one of his senior department heads had promised the young agent a promotion in
return for sexual favors.
Of course, I was as shocked as everyone else when I learned
that Sperling, head of my own department, was the senior involved.
I sent the report to the printer and began to tie up some
loose ends on another assignment.
The instant messenger service of my Internet provider
sounded, those two bass cello notes that signaled the appearance of Bruce, the
great white shark in Jaws. I toggled into that screen and saw that I was being
invited to view a webcam. I made sure the door to my office was locked, then
returned to my desk and clicked on acceptance. While I waited for the small box
to appear, I activated my own webcam and slipped on a set of earphones.
“Bonjour, Scaramouche,” I heard in my ear.
“What’s up, Spy Boy? We got problems?”
The grainy image on my friend from Section One filled the
viewer. He was smiling, but almost in stop motion his smile faded and a frown
appeared.
“It would seem so, cher homme. A very interesting
gentleman paid us a visit.”
I had a sinking feeling in my gut. “Oh?” I asked
cautiously.
“A deputy director of the CIA, no less.”
“Fuck.”
“Oui, that is the word I would be inclined to use. He
knows you were here in Paris, and that you met with me.”
“How the fuck did he find out about that?”
Again as if in slow motion, he shrugged. “Has the leak in
your company been plugged?” Then he laughed softly. It was impossible to tell
how well the camera caught my look of disgust, but Michael Samuelle knew me well
enough to realize his question was foolish. Of course the leak had been plugged.
“Et bien, mon ami. I must tell you, this Clayton Webb of yours is most
attractive. I would have considered taking him to my bed!”
“But you didn’t.” It was a statement.
“No, cher homme. Believe me, I was tempted. And to judge
by the state of his cock, your Clayton Webb was tempted also.”
I almost choked. “But you did nothing.”
“Did I not just say that, mon ami? You know I do not
poach.”
A thought came to me. “Unless Operations orders you
to.”
“C’est vrai. This is true, but right now, Operations is
so infatuated with young Hillinger, I do not think it even crossed his mind to
keep his eye on the main chance.”
“See that the situation remains the same. I’d hate to
have to show up in Section some day and hurt him, Michael.” I worried my lip.
“So. What did Webb want?”
“The usual, my friend. He wanted to know what business
the DSD had with Section.” I didn’t need to ask if Michael had given the CIA
agent any information. Section’s operatives were almost as close-mouthed as
the DSD. Michael’s look became pensive. “He kisses very well, mon ami, and
he has a sweet mouth. It would have been very enjoyable, fucking him. Quel
dommage, what a shame, that I prefer to bottom, eh, cher homme?”
“You kissed him?” Fuck. I hadn’t even kissed
him. Yet.
Someone spoke to the cold operative from out of eye range.
“Un moment, Walter. Mon ami, one final thing. Be careful what you are about.
This Clayton Webb has warned me off you.”
“What?”
“Oui. I believe his words were along the lines of, ‘You
don’t come, Samuelle. Not with me. Not with Palmer!’ Interessant,
n’est-ce pas?”
“Thanks for the intel, Michael.” I licked my lips and
shifted in my seat. I was harder than I’d ever been while I was at the office.
“He missed his flight, you know,” Michael said
musingly. “Operations had Davenport drive him all over Paris to confuse him.
You M. Webb was not pleased. Bon chance, Clark. It will be very
interesting, I think, to see which of you will win this game you are playing.
‘voir, cher homme.”
“Au ‘voir, mon ami.” The screen faded to black, but I
really wasn’t paying attention. So. Cl… Webb had gone to Paris. I didn’t
flatter myself to think it was because of me. No doubt he had business in
Europe, agents he needed to contact. The fact that I had been in the city of
lights was just a coincidence.
But… was it possible Clay was jealous? Somehow he had
discovered I’d seen the operative from Section One, and from what Michael had
observed, Webb didn’t seem too happy about it. I ran a hard hand over the
front of my trousers.
I wasn’t concerned about anyone learning of the little
job I had completed for Paul Wolfe. The Boss and Operations were the only other
people to know what my task had been, and unless Wolfe let something slip during
pillow talk, I didn’t imagine word of what I had done would become general
knowledge in the intelligence community. Mr. Wallace would never reveal
anything.
Now, what was the next available jet out from Charles De
Gaulle airport? And would Clayton Webb be on it? I cracked my knuckles and
attacked the keyboard. It didn’t
take me long to find out.
I leaned back in my chair, folded my hands behind my head
and contemplated the ceiling. This might be a good time to pay Clayton Webb’s
townhouse a visit. I’d always wondered what those expensive homes in
Alexandria looked like from the inside.
****
“Is this what the CIA considers security?” I muttered
to myself as I disabled the alarm system. It might have stopped your
run-of-the-mill crook, or maybe someone from the CIA, but as far as I was
concerned, it was child’s play. I let myself in and caught my breath.
Why was I so surprised at the subdued elegance of Webb’s
home? Of course he’d know what looked good in a room. His mother’s house was
beautiful, and he’d grown up with that.
I dropped the small dufflebag that held my equipment near the door to a large, airy room. Grand salon, great room, I didn’t know what the fuck it was called. Before I had escaped to boarding school, I’d lived with my old lady, and the series of men I’d called ‘uncle’ in an apartment that would have fit in a corner of this room. We didn’t even have a living room. I pushed uncomfortable thoughts out of my mind and set out to see how a spook lived.
I trailed my fingers over the silky black finish of the
grand piano, and wondered if Clay preferred classical music, or if, maybe like
me, he leaned toward the blues. I’d toyed with playing a jazz sax for a while
when I was younger, but just hadn’t had the time to give it the concentration
it deserved.
On an occasional table was a framed headshot, obviously
done by a professional, of a blonde in a gown that elegantly showed off her
shoulders and bosom. I grinned into the vapid expression in her green eyes. The
photo had to be a plant. Webb would never date such a blatantly dumb woman.
I frowned, considering the kind of women he would date. It
hadn’t taken me long to discover Clayton Webb was bisexual, I mean even before
he sucked me off in the men’s room of Raphael’s. He dated clever, brilliant,
gorgeous women, and he fucked men.
I turned the photo face down, and wandered through to
Clay’s living room. An in-home theater system took up an entire wall. In the
center was a large screen TV. What looked to be ornamental woodcarvings on each
side of the television turned out to be drawers that slid out, containing
shelves for videotapes in both VHS and DVD formats.
Damn. He had a DVD player? I still hadn’t found the time
to research the best model.
The titles were interesting, and they were all prerecorded.
The Desperate Hours, High Sierra, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Why buy
them, when you could tape them off premium cable stations? He seemed to favor
post war Japanese directors and…hold on! I am Curious, Yellow?
Why, Clayton Webb, you naughty boy! Chuckling softly, I squatted to
examine the lowest shelf, which held series that had been shown on Masterpiece
Theatre. I, Claudius, Brother Cadfael, and All Creatures Great and Small.
I left his video collection and strolled over to the
bookshelves that had been built into one wall. They were all hard cover, mostly
legal thrillers, but there was everything written by Stephen King and the entire
set of James Bond. I selected one at random and turned to the flyleaf. Thanks
for everything, Neville. Your ideas got me this book deal! All my best—Ian.
Neville Webb had known Ian Fleming? Well, fuck me!
I thought of the three-shelf bookcase in my own apartment,
and the books that were in there that I rarely had time to read, and I turned
away.
A glance at my watch told me Webb would have landed at
Dulles. At this time of night it wouldn’t take him long to get to Alexandria,
but I was pretty sure he’d stop at Langley first. I went upstairs to see what
his bedroom looked like. Maybe I’d even play Goldilocks.
****
It was well past midnight when I heard the cab pull into
his drive. I fitted the mask over my face and set off the first of the gas
canisters. An invisible mist was saturating the entire first floor by the time
his key was in the lock. Good thing I’d re-armed his security system. He
automatically punched in the code that reset it once the door had been closed
again.
Even though it was less than thirty-six hours since I’d
last seen him, the difference was unbelievable. His face was almost grey with
fatigue. His eyes were heavy, and I wondered if he had the same problem as I did
about sleeping on transatlantic flights.
He smothered a yawn and hung up his overcoat in the closet.
I triggered the last canister. Clay was heading for the
kitchen, but he stopped abruptly, gave his head a shake, then staggered,
catching himself at the last minute. He turned and made his way to the stairs
that led to the upper level.
I waited until I heard the shower running before I followed
him up the stairs. In his physical state the amount of gas he’d inhaled would
have him incapacitated within fifteen minutes. I didn’t want him drowning in
the shower.
Clay’s eyes were heavy-lidded when he left the bathroom,
drying himself off lackadaisically, and he never saw me in the shadows. He
dropped the towel, and I almost came right then, seeing him naked for the first
time.
Jesus, he was beautiful! His back was smooth, the line of
his legs was long and clean, and his ass… He bent to get something from under
his pillow. I shuddered and closed my eyes. All I wanted was to tackle him to
the bed and bury myself between those firm, tempting cheeks.
By the time I opened my eyes again, he was buttoning the
top of a pair of Jacobean patterned pajamas, swirls of red and green on a black
background. Trust Clayton Webb to be one of the handful of American males who
sleep in pajamas. Why couldn’t he have slept in his shorts, or better still
out of them? And that goddamned hank of hair falling across his forehead and
into his eyes.
He got into bed and was out before I could count to ten.
I licked my lips and tried to get my breathing under
control.
The gas had done its job nicely, and he slipped into REM
state, sprawled out like the Naked Maja, that painting of the Duchess of Alba by
Goya. A vision to behold.
I checked my watch and saw it was safe to remove my mask.
There had been more than enough time for the gas to dissipate.
I placed the syringe with the antidote on the nightstand,
then turned on the bedside lamp and climbed onto the bed with him, so hard I
ached. If I didn’t want it to be touch and go as to who came first, I’d need
to do something about that. I reached into my jeans and gave myself a hard
squeeze.
When I was sure I wouldn’t do anything juvenile, I pulled
out my knife and pressed the release. The blade flashed in the lamplight, sharp
and deadly. I ran it up through the waistband of his pajama bottoms, and it cut
through the soft material as if it was butter. His cock sprang free, fully
erect. Drops of pre come beaded at the tip.
//Who’s in your head, Clay? Who’s giving you a hard
on?//
I wanted to taste him, but there were other things that
needed to be done first. I straddled his hips, and with an easy motion of my
wrist, I sliced off each button of his pajama top.
He moaned and reached over his head to grasp the spindle
headboard, his chest arching into the caress of my knife. He clutched the
spindles tighter, shivering and whimpering as I stroked the blade across his
nipples. Something else I wanted my mouth on. But I could wait. I was very good
at waiting.
I got rid of the knife, fished the handcuffs out of my back
pocket and snapped one around his left wrist. It only took a second to thread it
through the headboard and manacle Clay’s other wrist.
Now he was mine!
I brushed my lips over first one nipple, and then the
other. They seemed to be extremely sensitive. Clay moaned steadily, rocking his
hips against me, his cock rubbing along my inseam.
It wasn’t easy to ignore the needy sounds Clay was
making. I wanted to swallow them, but I had no intention of kissing him when he
was lost in a dream. When I kissed Clayton Webb, he would damn well know who was
ravaging his mouth. I dragged my tongue over a nipple, then closed my lips
around it, pressed it up to the roof of my mouth, and suckled it.
“Clark! Baby, no! I’m
going to come!”
Me? He was thinking of me? I laughed, feeling like that kid
in the movie about the boat that sank. “Not yet, baby.” I reached through my
legs and squeezed the base of his cock, forestalling his need to come. But he
was still more asleep than awake, and when I had him, I wanted him knowing whose
mouth he came in. I groped for the syringe and pressed it against his neck.
I knew the exact moment he came out of the dream and
realized that it was for real. His eyes snapped open, and he stiffened beneath
me.
He could feel me above him, from groin to chest, moving to
get into the best position. My knees were between his thighs, and I spread them,
forcing his legs apart. That made a nice space between them for me, and I thrust
gently, nudging my jeans-covered dick against his.
I saw the drop of blood on his lip. “Cut your lip,
baby?” With a flick of my tongue, I licked it off. “Let me kiss and make it
better.”
“Goddammit, Palmer, are you out of your fucking mind?”
Clay turned his head to get away from my mouth, and I let him have his little
victory. He tugged experimentally on the cuffs, and wisely chose not to
struggle. They were snug enough to rub his wrists raw if he tried anything
strenuous.
“It’s my turn now, baby.” I leaned closer and nuzzled
the spot on his neck where the syringe had left a tiny bruise.
“What did you do to me?”
“A little antidote to the gas canister I set off just
after you locked your front door. You never listened to Rabb when he told you
how bad I was. Poor Clay.” I explored the shell of his ear with the tip of my
tongue and ran my mouth over his cheek. Stubble scraped my lips. I bit down
gently on his chin and shook it. “Oh,
you should have shaved, baby. Want me to set your alarm a little early? You’ll
definitely have to shave come morning!”
“Don’t do this, Palmer!” he begged, and I could tell
he hated the pleading sound in his voice. I, on the other hand, loved it.
“Clay, I’m the best! You can’t tell me you don’t
like what I’m doing to you! Oh, maybe intellectually you can convince yourself
you don’t want it, but your body is begging for it!” I rolled onto my hip
and got my fingers around his cock.
He was breathing so heavily he couldn’t put that mouth of
his to use and make a smart retort. Tremors coursed through his body, and
abruptly, all I wanted was my lips around his cock.
I started to move down his body, making sure he felt me. I
couldn’t resist tormenting those nipples of his; they just seemed to beg for
it. “Want me to fuck you, baby?” My voice was dark, promising delights that
would leave him melted in a puddle of want and need. Clay’s body jerked and
shivered, and he yanked frantically on the cuffs. He cried out when they bit
into his wrists. //Shit.// I wanted him hot, not scared, and I got worried.
“Stop that, Clay. You’re just going to hurt yourself.” I trapped his
wrists in one hand to keep him from damaging the skin and grabbed his chin with
my other, and forced him to meet my eyes. “Listen to me! I won’t fuck you. I
promise.” I lightly slapped his face to make sure I had his attention “I promise!”
“What are your promises worth, Palmer?” he spat at me.
His eyes were thoughtful for a flash, but I might have imagined it, because
almost immediately they were bitter. “They’re not worth any more than your
friend, Michael’s!”
“What are
you talking about, Webb?”
“Samuelle told me he promised you he wouldn’t fuck
me.”
“Are you saying he lied?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying, so if you plan on
fucking me, you’d better use plenty of lube, because he left me really
sore!” He was absolutely still under me. Still, and… still hard. He wasn’t
frightened. He was trying to up the ante in our mind games.
“Michael fucked you? He really fucked you?” That was
Clayton Webb I told myself: if he went down, he went down swinging, aiming for
my most vulnerable spot. And he thought betrayal by a friend was that spot.
He was right. I didn’t have that many friends. If Michael ever broke
his promise to me, it would have … bothered me. But I had never exacted such a
promise from the Section operative, and if he had gone to bed with Clay, Clay
would have been the one to do the fucking. I started to laugh. It began as a
soft sound that built to a roar. “Clay, I…I like you!”
I could read the confusion in his eyes before he quickly
masked it, along with a touch of disgruntlement. “Then you won’t fuck me?”
His tongue swept out to moisten his lips.
I was still chuckling. “I had no intention of fucking you
tonight, Clay.”
Oh, the look on his face! It was priceless! He actually
looked disappointed, before he wiped his expression clear. I was tempted to
start laughing again.
I wriggled down his body, scraping his nipples with my
fingernails, and he trembled. The sensations pulled urgent, gasping sounds from
his throat. Did he think this was it, that I would climb off him, slink away
into the night and leave him to jerk off in his lonely bed? I didn’t think so.
He had a nice cock, decent girth, good length, nothing that
would get him hired for a porn flick, but then, who would want something ten
inches long rammed down their throat or up their ass? My thumb gathered the
moisture that was oozing from the slit at the tip of his dick, and rubbed it in
lazy circles. I blew on it.
“Jesus Christ, Clark! What the fuck are you doing?”
“Can’t you tell, Clay? I must not be doing it right,
then.” I took the head of his cock between my lips and swiped my tongue over
the tip, finally tasting him, and his hips surged up, driving his shaft deeper
into my throat. I laughed, and the vibration had him whimpering and trying to
fuck my mouth.
My hands had a hard grip on his hips, and I wondered if
there would be bruises in the morning, but I was only going to let him move so
much. I was the one controlling this episode.
I sucked cock well. Hey, I had told the CIA spook who was
moaning and writhing under me that I was the best, and he was going to learn
that first hand. I shifted, and while the weight of my shoulders kept him in
place, one hand plucked and squeezed his nipples. The fingers of my other hand
were parting his ass cheeks and stroking across his hole, teasing it.
“Please! Please!”
I let him slip from my mouth. He was almost sobbing in
desperation, and his hips jerked involuntarily, needing the hot suction on his
dick.
“Say my name.”
“Wha…what?”
“You want to come. Say my name, baby, and I’ll give you
an orgasm you’ll never forget!”
I wasn’t sure if he would do it. Clayton Webb was a man
in control of himself at all times. I pressed a little more firmly against his
opening. I sucked the head of his cock a little harder.
“Clark!” He surrendered.
I slammed my mouth down onto his dick, letting him feel the
edges of my teeth, and he erupted with a cry, pouring himself down my throat.
Spasms rippled through his muscles as he rode down from his climax.
He lay under me, sounding as if he’d never be able to
catch his breath. I swallowed the last spurt of his come and propped myself up
on my elbows. “You taste good, Clay.” He was watching from under his lashes,
and I licked my lips. “I knew you
would.” It was time to leave. I levered myself off him and reached for the
syringe. I didn’t want him getting nervous; he was CIA, I was DSD, and we were
both in an occupation where needles could easily spell death. “I’m going to
uncuff you, baby, but since I don’t think I’m your most favorite person
right now, I’ll have to send you beddy-bye, first. This will wear off in about
half an hour, and you’ll fall into a natural sleep. Why don’t you sleep in
tomorrow? I’ll even call in for you, if you’d like.”
I liked the idea of leaving a message with the Company,
letting those assholes know their deputy director of counter intelligence
wouldn’t be in until later, if at all that day. I was willing to bet I could
alter my voice enough to pass for him when he was suffering from jet lag. Hell,
I’d fooled Chegwidden once, convinced him I was that shit, Rabb.
“Bastard. You know I’m going to kill you, don’t
you?” There was no heat in Clay’s words. He might be a little annoyed with
me right now, but I could tell from the boneless sprawl of his body that he was
also extremely sexually satisfied.
I gave a huff of laughter. “You can try, Clay.” I
smoothed back the lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes and leaned close to
his mouth. “Know what you need, Webb?”
He peeled open an eye. “I feel sure you’re going to
tell me, Palmer.” His tone was bored.
I pressed the syringe against his neck. That spot was sure
to be sore in the morning. Oh well. “You need to be kissed. Long, and often,
and by someone who knows how.”
His lips parted, and I waited for him to tell me to take a
flying fuck, that he didn’t want to hear any fucking opinions of mine. I
almost fell off the bed when he asked, “You have someone in mind, Clark?”
“Me?” I was laughing as the solution in the syringe did
its job.
I unfastened the cuffs, and I should have left right then,
but I was still hard. Damn. And I wanted to come in Clayton Webb’s bedroom. I
unbuttoned my jeans and pulled my cock out. There was no time for finesse. With
my eyes on Clay’s face, I jerked off fast and hard. It was only a matter of
minutes before I came. I cleaned my hand off with a handkerchief, then tucked my
dick away and got myself in order.
****
It was getting late. Or getting early, depending on how you
looked at it. In a couple of hours dawn would start to lighten the sky behind
the curtains that draped over the bedroom windows. I gathered all the canisters
and put them into my duffle, then went back upstairs to make sure Clay was all
right.
His pulse was steady, his breathing was normal, and he
looked like goddamned Sleeping Beauty, lying there. I was no Prince Charming,
but I kissed him anyway, just a brush of my lips over his, and I fucking got
hard again.
I growled and turned away. If I did this again, I’d need
to make sure I was outfitted with a cockring.
On the desk by a window was a note that read, ‘Thanks for
a wonderful night. C.’ Next to it was the neatly folded, slightly damp
handkerchief, as well as the handcuffs. The key, though, was in my pocket.
I paused at the door for one last look, then ran lightly
down the stairs, reset his house alarm, and let myself out.
~End~
