City Mouse Page 2

  “Malcolm, coming for a pint with Sales?”

  Malcolm stood, rolled his neck and stretched his legs out. He should. Sales would likely have dragged people out who would be good to meet, and he was still high strung after the great day. On the other hand . . .

  “Can’t do today. I have a session with my PT.” Josh, pain in the arse that he was, was a perfect alibi. He couldn’t go for the tired “girlfriend” excuse—besides, nobody on the team considered a girlfriend a serious impediment. Penney, the head of the trading desk, wasn’t the type to understand anything about new relationships—wow, relationship, it was really real—and he’d definitely not understand that anybody could go home to a boyfriend.

  “Tomorrow, then,” Penney said, and Malcolm smiled like that was going to happen. He didn’t want to go out for a drink. Not today, not tomorrow, not—

  Owen. Yes. That really was the silver lining, wasn’t it? Malcolm put in his earpiece as he exited the building, squinting into the last red light reflecting off the windows of the building opposite, and hit Owen’s number.

  “Y’ello,” Owen answered, sounded casually distracted. “You done already?”

  “Yeah—thought some dinner might be in order.”

  “Dinner would be awesome. I’ve got some news! Do you want me to cook?”

  Malcolm found he was scowling. “You’re not the help,” he said tetchily. “No. I’ll bring something from the supermarket.”

  “Fine, fine, don’t get your boxers in a bunch. Do you want to hear my news?”

  “I’ll be there in twenty—wait until then?” God. Please, Malcolm would rather he have no job at all than a job at some little place that paid pennies on the hour.

  “Yeah, big guy, see ya in twenty.”

  “Big guy” was one of those things that made him think of sex. Not helpful. Or at least not here where thinking about sex could get him run over by a record-seeking bus driver or a hell-bent cyclist.

  He crossed the street and nearly jogged to the nearest Tesco’s for chicken breasts and vegetables. He caught a cab after and gave his address, mentally praying that Owen hadn’t signed anything with some struggling third-tier company yet and could be talked out of it. There had to be a nice boutique broker-dealer or prop house that allowed casual clothes and still paid decent money. Just how could he get Owen to understand that underselling himself at this stage in his career would damage him for the whole rest of it?

  But all those thoughts gargled away like he had a big fucking drain in his head when Owen opened the door. It was so nice to have somebody waiting for him when he came home.

  He had to be grinning like an idiot because Owen damn near laughed at him.

  “Welcome home.” He reached for Malcolm’s shoulder and almost pulled him inside.

  Malcolm grabbed him and kissed him, so hurried he didn’t even drop the shopping. The bag dangled against Owen’s chest, which was fucking ridiculous and helped him break the kiss before they ended up in the bedroom. “I brought chicken,” he managed to get out.

  “Damn, there’s nothing sexier than a guy who brings me chicken,” Owen smirked, and Malcolm looked away, feeling foolish—but also turned on. “Go hang up your coat, and I’ll do something interesting with this. And then can I tell you my news?”

  “I never said you couldn’t,” he protested, but he was following orders too. Owen took out the ingredients for dinner and set them up on the counter, looking pained. Malcolm could practically read his mind.

  Chicken and vegetables. Again.

  “I’m sorry . . .” He grimaced, and Owen looked up from under the stove where he was pulling out the wok.

  “No, no—now that I know what your staples are, I can make it a point to work with that.”

  “You have something against take-out?” Malcolm wanted to know. “I mean, there’s restaurants all over the city—”

  “That cost an arm and a leg. You don’t need that much money if you know what to cook.” Owen took a deep breath and shook his head. “Okay, it’s like the cooking. We officially know our staples, don’t we?”

  Malcolm blinked. “Like food?”

  “No. Like arguments. It’s taken us a day and we have our staple sore points.”

  “Food . . .” Malcolm led with, and Owen nodded.

  “And money—or status,” he amended. “Right there. Okay. We can deal with that. Food and money—tricky issues. Awesome. I got a job, and I can cook. This can still work.”

  At least Owen wasn’t picking up on the whole “happiness” bullshit again. Those two things were harmless. And could be dealt with on his current paycheck. He backtracked. “You got a job? Signed and all?”

  “Well, I’m going in tomorrow for a second interview, does that count?”

  Malcolm closed his eyes and tried not to think about how bad it could be. “So, uhm, where is this wonder?”

  Five minutes later, Malcolm was still not sure he’d heard right. It was like . . . like all of his worst imaginings had taken a dump, and that’s where Owen was going to work.

  “A . . . co-op building?”

  Owen nodded. “Yes, exactly. It’s an office building—sort of a dicey neighborhood, I know, but there’s a women’s health organization, an adoption agency, a fortune-telling/crystal healing sort of place—the kind that smells like incense and has a really good acupuncturist and massage therapist, right? And what else . . .” He thought for a moment, and then brightened. “There’s a gym in the basement. One of those he-man, steel-only kinds of places with a boxing ring. They told me I could use the equipment for free, which is nice. If I walk there and back and spend my lunch hour working out, I won’t be done too much later than you are.”

  “Later?” Malcolm squawked, startled, and Owen looked up from his spice rack, where he was apparently trying to find some sort of miracle that would make chicken and vegetables not taste like chicken and vegetables, and smiled wryly.

  “I think you forget, Malcolm, that most of the city does not work your hours. Any job I get is going to start and end a little later.”

  “It’s the client meetings and drinks appointments that are the problem,” he said, although that was an oversimplification. “The deskwork itself is done when the market closes. Well, my part of it. But I thought everybody does their 24/7 IT support from some chicken coop in Bangalore!” he groused.

  “They do if they belong to a larger company. This group of businesses is relying on a network so fucking old, it’s like my mother’s garage threw up and outfitted a business co-op. And I forgot about meetings and boozing and schmoozing. See? I won’t get home that late after all.”

  Malcolm scowled and refrained from saying that anytime later than he arrived home was too late. Childish in the extreme, but . . . dammit . . . he’d liked opening the door and having Owen there.

  “Okay. Well. It’s a recession, it is a job, I suppose.” Maybe Owen would flunk the second interview. Big fucking chance—everybody loved Owen. He should really get paid better for those “soft skills.” Hmmm. “Soft skills” were maybe not the right word. Nothing soft about certain parts of him.

  Owen rolled his eyes and added something to the chicken and vegetables simmering on the stove that actually didn’t smell bad. “Your approval is priceless to me, Malcolm, and so freely given too.”

  Malcolm jerked his thoughts—and his eyes—from the vicinity of Owen’s crotch, and heard enough of what Owen said to feel embarrassment seeping under his collar. “Your sarcasm is just as greatly appreciated. Can I show you to the loo and give you instructions for where to put it?”

  Owen snickered. Yes, it was good to remember that his Yank had the heart and soul of a twelve-year-old, sometimes. Right down to his altruism and sunny belief that working for good people was apparently worth its weight in gold.

  Owen kept talking about the job through dinner, and every word seemed to be a nail in the coffin of atrocious career choices that he’d been building since his first sentence. When he gave the add
ress for the place, Malcolm blanched.

  “Really? Brixton? Where nobody speaks fucking English?” Okay, that wasn’t quite fair, and supposedly Brixton was getting “gentrified.” “Remember Guns of Brixton, the Clash?”

  “I’m a big boy, Malcolm. You didn’t exactly pick me up in a Chuck E. Cheese, remember?”

  “Who in the fuck is Chuck E. Cheese?”

  Owen laughed and dished up some chicken and vegetable stir-fry that didn’t look like Malcolm’s usual chicken and vegetable stir-fry, then carried both plates to the table. “A six-foot rat who’s not afraid of a fucking carb, that’s who.”

  “One day, I’ll take you to meet Josh, put you in a small room together and see who walks out with the other’s entrails wrapped around his neck. I’d possibly put my money on Josh, though.”

  “Yes, but Josh isn’t fucking you silly, so I’m thinking maybe you’d want to protect me if we ever have that showdown. Besides,” Owen turned around and pulled out a chair and gestured for Malcolm to sit, “the only two people who seem to give a shit about the size of your ass are you and Josh.”

  Malcolm made a face, but he sat. “Are you telling me you would have given me a second glance if I’d been some paunchy, bull-necked, lard-arsed heifer?”

  Owen sputtered and clapped a hand over his mouth. When he recovered himself, he managed a scowl that had Malcolm squirming in his seat.

  “My first girlfriend, back in high school, was a big girl. Not ‘buxom,’ not ‘busty’—big. But you know what? She made me laugh my ass off, and she learned to give a champion blowjob. I could hang out with her and talk and just fucking be myself. Sort of like the last few days with you. Your tight ass is pretty sweet, but if it was the only thing about you, I’d be in Paris right now.”

  That stung. “Big” could mean pretty much anything—hell, as far as Malcolm was aware, most Americans were a size or five taller and wider, just like a different species, like red foxes were larger than fennecs, but Owen actually meant “fat.” The kind when muffin top turned into all-round muffin. He shuddered. “Okay. Okay. So it’s inner beauty. Still. I’m . . . I have pretty awful genes on that count, okay? I just don’t want . . .” Anyfuckingthing to do with my family up north.

  “I don’t mind you being healthy,” Owen said. “And I’m not suggesting we both start living on potatoes and cheese. I’m just saying that as attractive as all of this exercise has made you on the outside, obsessing about it is not one of your more attractive qualities. I’ll work on cooking healthy and I’ll be happy to run with you in the mornings, but you need to work on letting things go.” Owen took a bite of chicken, and swallowed appreciatively. “Oh—and you need to work on making my opinion more important than Josh’s, too. I know it’s a stretch—he’s your most intimate relationship to date, but when you’re balls deep in my ass, I’d prefer you not be wondering if it counts as a workout.”

  Malcolm coughed laughter, pretty much despite himself. “Don’t be jealous of my personal trainer. He’s a right cunt—absolutely merciless. I wouldn’t date him anyway; too much trouble finding a good personal trainer in this city who has slots free on the weekend.”

  Owen nodded thoughtfully. “I guess, if the connection was there in the first place, it would be something you’d get over, you’d think, right?”

  Malcolm gave a non-committal grunt. “That tastes bloody good.”

  Owen nodded like he didn’t buy the compliment, which was too bad, because dinner really was good. That red spice—chili powder?—did wonders to plain chicken, that was the truth.

  “Malcolm, is Josh your friend?”

  Malcolm shrugged and looked at his food. “Well, yeah, when I don’t want to bloody murder the fucker.”

  “Has he shown any interest in you?”

  Malcolm tried hard to stomp on a good bit of humiliation on this one. “He thinks I’m too damned fat. He’s said so himself.”

  Owen snorted. “Eat your chicken. Next time I’ll try to remember the irony sauce, so you can taste it for yourself.”

  Malcolm squinted at him, not quite able to fathom what he meant by that, but Owen was apparently done talking. Malcolm gave up and tucked into the meal. It really was good. “Well, I suppose we could go running and I could tell Josh to stuff it. I don’t have to look like a GQ cover model—not that I ever did.”

  Owen swallowed his last bite. “Yeah, Malcolm. That’s what this is about. Cooking.” He shook his head, and then looked up, eyes twinkling. “So, I cooked, you’re on for dishes. What do you want to do after dinner?”

  Malcolm grinned, suddenly reminded that patience had its rewards.

  * * * * *

  Owen had never been that into toys. He’d always been enchanted with the idea of bare skin on bare skin, and that was certainly the case with Malcolm. Malcolm had such incredibly pale skin, under his dark, glossy hair, and it was an amazing thing to watch his body blotch, grow ruddy with sex when he was aroused.

  He loved watching Malcolm grow frantic and lose that stiff British complacency (not that he’d seen it in anyone else besides Malcolm) just from a flat palm rubbed up from his calf to his inner thigh, or across the hardened plane of his stomach.

  All that being said, as lovely as the bare skin was, and as much as Owen thought he could do that forever, that didn’t mean that the delicious cold of the ice dildo currently easing up his asshole wasn’t excruciatingly lovely all on its own.

  He wasn’t sure how he’d been talked into such a thing. Perhaps it had started when he’d been struggling out of his damned button-up shirt, and he’d become tangled, wrestling with it as he’d stood. He and Malcolm had been kissing one moment, and undressing the next, and then he’d had to lean on the couch to try to untangle himself.

  And that was when Malcolm had pulled his pants down around his ankles and hauled him around the waist to make him stick out his ass.

  “Malcolm!” he protested, and then Malcolm’s voice, right next to his ear, had given him the shivers.

  “Stay right there, mate. You’ve been giving me fits all day, it’s about time you let me have my way.”

  Owen wasn’t completely convinced, but Malcolm seemed more on edge than usual (he’d managed to get that out of him over the weekend, but all it took was one Monday and one Tuesday, and he was back to how he’d been on Friday). So Owen figured that that was only fair, and if sex made Malcolm relax and get back into his more human self, all the better. Besides, he did like that British-accented growl. “Just remember, hamburger.”

  “What?” Malcolm muttered, half-absentminded, too focused on rubbing Owen’s ass. “We’ve just had food.”

  “The safeword. It’s ‘hamburger,’ remember.”

  Malcolm paused, and he made a sound that Owen couldn’t determine. “You trust me, right?”

  Oh hells. Like being fucked by a minefield. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. Malcolm put his hands on Owen’s hips and then knelt behind his bare ass. There was no finesse in this moment, no delicate dance. They had each other, they wanted more.

  Malcolm parted Owen’s ass cheeks and dove in with the flat of his tongue. “I . . . trust you . . .” Owen finished, burying his face against his biceps blindly and letting the couch take more of his weight. Oh . . . oh hells. Malcolm was a master with that tongue, licking flat and then probing, teasing Owen’s taint, then down to underneath his balls. “Ahhh . . .” Oh damn. He was using his finger now, pushing gently on Owen’s rim, making it softer, and Owen was aware of his neglected cock, lying engorged and heavy against his thigh. He grunted and bucked his hips, wanting some stimulation.

  “I know what you want,” Malcolm muttered, placing a ripe, precise bite on Owen’s left cheek. “And you’re going to have to wait a bit. Stay right here.”

  He was gone then, and Owen heard the distinctive sound of the freezer being opened. His cock began to drool, a drop spattering on his lower thigh, near his knee. Only sexy, scary things came out of the freezer when he was naked.

  “Keep y
our eyes closed,” Malcolm said softly, and Owen wondered if Malcolm was playing up his accent deliberately for his sake or whether he just heard it more when he was so focused.

  “I’ll just get rid of the shirt,” Owen said.

  “I do like you restrained,” Malcolm said, now from very close. “Might use silk rope though. Tangled T-shirt is less sexy.”

  He owned a whole pile of soft ropes, from almost-thread to thick rope that could have lifted an anchor. Owen had found them by accident in one of the fitted wardrobes.

  “No ties,” Owen muttered. “I trust you, you trust me not to . . . oh God.”

  Malcolm had parted his cheeks again and traced, very delicately, the cold ice rod from the top of his crease to the bottom of his balls, and lower, down the shivering, pulsing length of his cock.

  He felt a puff of breath against his ass-cheek, which was his only warning before Malcolm’s warm tongue followed the path of the ice, stopping when it would have been too awkward to follow the trail of water down Owen’s cock. And then, just when he was relaxed again, there it was, the thrill of cold, tracing down, gently, gently, probing, retreating . . . Owen gasped into his biceps again, and Malcolm pushed a little harder.

  “Don’t bite back on it,” Malcolm purred, and Owen would have place money on Malcolm’s cock being hard and his little pink nipples being at diamond peaks through the trimmed fur on his chest. He sounded like sex, and like Owen’s aroused groans would get him off all by itself.

  Malcolm’s tongue was there again, warming, and Owen gasped with need.

  “Malcolm?”

  “Hmm . . .” Oh, he thrust it inside a little, and Owen shuddered.

  “You, uhm, wouldn’t want to touch my cock a little, would you?”

  “No,” Malcolm said, his voice muffled by Owen’s flesh.

  “Why no-ot?” Owen’s voice pitched up and cracked.

  “Because then you’d . . .” A huff against his wet hole and a little shove of the ice thing that made Owen’s legs all shaky and weak. “Get more,” another little thrust, “than I’m getting.”