If It Drives (A Market Garden Tale) Read online

  Apparently oblivious, James absently loosened that rich red tie with his finger. “Do you recall that one rentboy I brought home not long ago?”

  One? Yeah, which one?

  Cal cleared his throat. “I’m not sure.”

  “The blond kid. Nick.”

  Nick. Oh yes. He’d only come home with James once, but Cal remembered him well. He’d had a commanding air about him, like well-earned arrogance, that was hard to forget. Not that he’d interacted with him much, just letting him in and out of the car, and then offering coffee the next morning before driving him back into town as he sometimes did while James slept off the night before. And he remembered feeling the need—which he’d managed to resist—to subtly encourage Nick to get out and stay out.

  Cal coughed again and lifted his glass to his lips. “I think I remember him, yes.”

  James sighed. “I was hoping he’d be there tonight.”

  Something tightened in Cal’s chest, and he gritted his teeth. “Wasn’t he?”

  James shook his head.

  What a shame. “Is that why . . .”

  “I was hoping to hire him tonight.” James smiled, gaze distant, but then he shook himself and lifted his arm off the back of the couch. He reached for the bottle again. “Anyway. He’s not there anymore, apparently. Moved on to bigger and better things, I suppose.”

  “You, um, liked him, then?” Of course he did. Come on, Cal. Don’t be stupid.

  James laughed softly. “You could say that. I’ll have to find someone else who can do the things he did. Was only that one time, but there was just something about him that . . .” He glanced at Cal, and his cheeks darkened a little as if he’d suddenly remembered who he was talking to. “More wine?”

  Give me the whole fucking bottle. “Please.”

  Cal waited for James to stop pouring and resisted the urge to toss the Château Margaux back like vodka or some medicinal tonic that might blur his mind so it would stop taunting him with those images: James’s body, how he looked and moved when he staggered out of the car with one of his rentboys. How he’d refocus, usually just long enough to tell Cal he’d have the rest of the night off. James had no idea how many hours Cal would spend after leaving them, imagining himself in the rentboy’s place. Not that Cal believed he could really do whatever it was those guys did. James had a thing for the cocky, arrogant rentboys, the ones who radiated attitude from their pores. Controlled, sometimes bossy. No, usually bossy. What they did when they were alone, Cal could only imagine—and often did imagine—but he doubted they turned passive or obedient once they were behind closed doors.

  And the next day, James would sleep like the dead and be in a great mood for the next few days. What Cal wouldn’t have given to be the reason for James’s relaxed good spirits.

  He took a mouthful of the wine and swallowed, then glanced at James. What was going on here? Was James trying to get him to relax, perhaps so he could take advantage? Considering the calibre James sought, Cal wasn’t in the same class. He was all right, he figured, but nothing like those leather-clad men from Market Garden. James could do much better and usually did.

  James sat back with his topped-off wineglass, laying his arm across the back of the couch again. “It’s never occurred to me until now, but . . .” He met Cal’s gaze, and paused for a long moment, eyes narrowed just slightly as if he were looking for something in Cal’s expression. “Does it— The night jobs. The trips to Market Garden.” He tilted his head. “Does it bother you that I’m . . .” He paused again, breaking eye contact and absently swirling his wine as if trying to find the right words. “That I’m involving you?”

  “N-no, sir. James.” Cal swallowed most of the contents of his glass in one go. “I’m only here to drive you from place to place. Beyond that isn’t my business.”

  “You would object if I had you drive me somewhere to commit a crime, wouldn’t you?”

  “Well, you do work in the financial sector.” Cal laughed cautiously. “And I still drive you to work, don’t I?”

  His boss stared at him. Cal’s throat tightened. Too far. Shit. Way too—

  James snorted, wagging a finger at him. “Touché, Callum. Touché.”

  Relieved, Cal laughed softly. “To answer your question, though, it doesn’t bother me. It’s your business. Not mine.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t. But should it ever become an issue, you can speak up.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Cal drained his glass. He was tempted to refill it, but resisted. Two glasses that fast and his head was definitely getting light; any more than that and he was liable to put his foot in his mouth. Again. The finance joke had been uncharacteristically risky for him. Thank God James had seen the humour and not taken offence, but Cal silently chastised himself for it. He’d definitely had enough alcohol, so he left the wine well enough alone.

  He sat back. A split second too late, he remembered James’s arm behind him. His shoulder blade bumped James’s hand, and Cal sat up sharply as James jerked it back.

  “Sorry,” they both muttered.

  This was definitely a bad idea. Social hour with the boss was fine and dandy when it didn’t reduce them both to inarticulate schoolboys. Though they had recovered from more awkward moments. Like the time when a very, very drunk James had slid a hand over the front of Cal’s trousers while Cal had been helping him into bed. Over a year later, Cal still heard that hiss of breath and the groaned “oh my God, Callum” in his dreams, and he still felt that clumsy but very deliberate squeeze. That had only made things awkward for a day or so. Mostly because Cal wasn’t entirely certain how much James remembered.

  Cal chanced a look at James. His usually confident boss met his eyes.

  “Sorry,” James muttered again.

  “Don’t worry about it. My fault.”

  More silence. More eye contact. There was no hope of pretending one or both of them wouldn’t remember this tomorrow. They were both relatively sober tonight.

  Cal’s eyes flicked towards the open wine bottle and the empty glasses. They were both relatively sober tonight so far.

  “Callum.”

  He faced James again. That uncertainty was still there, but strangely mixed with renewed confidence. Determination, maybe. A decision made, but not quite enough bravado to go through with it.

  Cal cleared his throat.

  James put his glass on the table. Then he casually rested his arm on the back of the couch again, relaxing a little as he returned to the position he’d been in when they’d made that unexpected contact a moment ago. He held Cal’s gaze, and the decisiveness still lingered in his expression.

  “Do you remember, oh, a couple of months ago? When I hired that pair from Market Garden?”

  Cal shifted, trying to get comfortable without leaning back against his boss’s arm. How the hell could he forget those two? That cocky kid and his slightly shier—but strangely cocky in his own way—partner. Maybe it had been part of their gimmick, but Cal thought they might’ve been a couple. “I remember them, yes.”

  A knowing smile pulled at James’s lips. “You weren’t fond of them, were you?”

  “What?” Cal sat up a little straighter. “What do you mean?”

  James lifted one shoulder in a barely noticeable shrug. “Am I wrong?”

  Cal gulped. “I barely saw them. Just on the way in and out of the car.” And he’d heard devilish laughter through the privacy screen. Caught the scent of sweat and leather when they got out of the car. He hadn’t missed the way James’s cheeks had been flushed and the slightly quieter rentboy had wiped at his lips just before stepping out of the car. Cal had ground his teeth until long after the three of them had gone into the house, and had fantasised about letting them find their own bloody ride back into—

  James chuckled quietly. “That’s what I thought.”

  Cal’s face burned. “What exactly are you getting at?”

  “You tell me.”

  Fuck. James wasn’t as out of so
rts as he’d been earlier, that much was for sure. Two glasses of wine? Really? That was all it took?

  “I’m just curious.” James’s hand rustled softly on the couch behind Cal. “Was there something about them that you didn’t like?”

  Besides the fact that I knew they were teasing, tormenting, pleasing, fucking you all bloody night? And I wanted to—

  He cleared his throat. “They just gave me an odd vibe, I guess.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  Cal’s mouth went dry. His boss’s scrutiny unsettled him, but he couldn’t make himself look anywhere but right at James. “I. Um.”

  “Relax, Cal.”

  Cal? Not Callum? That was a switch.

  “I’m . . .” Cal took a breath. “Why exactly are we having this conversation?”

  James opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, but hesitated.

  Movement drew Cal’s attention to the back of the couch, and he shifted his gaze just in time to see James lift his arm. He held his breath, watching James’s hand hover in his peripheral vision for a couple of seconds.

  And then his hand was on Cal’s shoulder. Warm. Heavy. Undeniably there.

  He looked James in the eyes, and that confidence in James’s expression faltered.

  Should I be doing this? Should we be doing this? What the fuck are we doing?

  Cal’s heart pounded. James swallowed hard. His hand lightened slightly on Cal’s shoulder.

  To hell with it. They’d already crossed the line, hadn’t they?

  James took a breath. “Cal, I—”

  Cal grabbed the loosened red tie, dragged James across the cushion between them, and kissed him. He did have the wine as an excuse. James had telegraphed what he wanted, and the fact that James didn’t jerk away, didn’t push him off or so much as protest, gave him confidence.

  Instead, James opened up to him almost immediately, tasting of wine and need, and all Cal’s restraint just went out of the window. He grabbed James by the shoulder, pulled him closer, sensing all the coiled strength in that body, as if he were ready to fight, because that was what those damned alpha males did all day, anyway, right? But James didn’t fight him. Didn’t seem intent on fighting him at all.

  The kiss made Cal’s head spin. He pushed James down across the cushions with his own body weight, worried that James would tell him to stop, or to loosen his grip, but James let himself be pressed against the cushions. Cal let go of his shoulder and ran his fingers down the man’s chest, brushing a hard nipple almost by accident on his way down, then reconsidered and twisted it. James gave a muffled sound into the kiss, and Cal twisted it harder, then rubbed it. God, this was hot, but he wanted skin.

  Except that meant getting undressed, which meant letting go.

  Maybe skin was overrated.

  He moved further down, felt James breathe hard, felt the muscles under his touch with nothing but a fine white tailored shirt between skin and skin. The heat bled through, and the rest was visual memory, of his chest and abs, that body from running and weightlifting. He wrecked himself every morning in his own damned gym—Cal had seen him through the window a few times, and what had really turned him on was the sweat, the exertion, and those grunts that came through the open window when James battled on despite the pain.

  Cal ran his hand up the front of James’s shirt, feeling those toned abs quivering under his touch. Though he’d been a little alarmed when James had thrown himself extra hard into his gym routine right after the divorce, the man hadn’t injured himself, and the results—fuck, the results. He curled his fingers and ran them downwards, nails trailing across James’s shirt with a soft hiss.

  James broke the kiss, arching his spine and tilting his head back. “Cal . . .”

  Cal dived for James’s neck. He kissed the exposed flesh from the stubbly jaw all the way down to the collar of his shirt, and damn it, now he needed that skin to skin contact, even if it meant letting go.

  He pushed himself up, and as he hooked his finger in the knot of James’s tie, their eyes met. James’s gleamed with the same hunger Cal felt. No, not quite the same. He was somehow more subdued than earlier. Heavy-lidded eyes, blissed-out smile; he was calmer, whereas Cal was getting more and more wound up by the second.

  As Cal pulled the tie loose and the knot disintegrated into a slightly wrinkled ribbon of silk, James started unbuttoning his own shirt, his hand brushing Cal’s. He struggled with the buttons, but managed to get two, three, four undone.

  “You should . . .” He licked his lips. “Yours . . .”

  Cal glanced down, suddenly aware that he was still dressed. He pushed himself up, and with equally unsteady hands, started stripping off his own shirt. He tried not to think about the fact that he was now straddling James, who was lying across the couch, because then he couldn’t concentrate on buttons and getting his arms out of sleeves and complicated things like that.

  Ignoring James’s hard-on wasn’t easy, though, not when it was so close to Cal’s that the slightest movement made their cocks brush through their trousers. He’d think about that in a moment. He’d focus completely on that and get lost in that and get all these fucking clothes out of the way—are we really doing this?—but not until he’d figured out how to get these damned buttons to—

  James tugged at Cal’s shirt, pulling it free from his waistband. His hands slid under the shirt, and Cal forgot what he was doing. His fingers were still on a button that was halfway through the buttonhole, but all he could think about was those warm hands sliding up his abs. He closed his eyes and pushed out a long breath, which only made things worse—better?—because his muscles moved under James’s gentle, exploring touch.

  “Before we get too carried away,” James whispered, out of breath already, “maybe we should move this into the bedroom.”

  Cal opened his eyes and looked down at him. “The bedroom?”

  James nodded slowly.

  Cal pushed the button through its buttonhole. As far as he knew, James never took any of his “companions” into his own bedroom. The morning after, they always emerged from one of the guest rooms.

  The bedroom?

  Something told Cal they were too carried away already.

  Cal forced himself to break the contact and get up, still worried that James would tell him this was a terrible idea. He offered James a hand, and James took it, and the worry just evaporated because James kissed him again—first time he did it, too.

  Bad idea or not, they were already in over their heads, so why the hell not? Cal nudged James back a step. “Upstairs.”

  James didn’t let go of his hand as they headed upstairs, still touching, the current still going strong. One floor up, and the other one, too, to the bedroom that took over half the loft, exposed beams almost rustic up here. It was a bit more bare than the rest of the house—just a bureau, a bedside table, and a big old wooden bed.

  James let his hand go as he moved backwards to the bed. “Should I get naked?”

  Don’t mind if you do.

  “Uh, sure.” Cal swallowed when James kicked his shoes off and pulled his trousers down, showing off the erection tenting his boxers. What Cal would give to mouth it through the fabric, tease him and make him come undone.

  Better get undressed, too. While James got rid of his boxers and socks, and pulled back the duvet, Cal shed his own clothes, dropping them where he stood, too eager to feel and fuck and kiss than to worry about things such as clothes and graceful exits.

  James waved him forwards to the bed, and Cal got on it, on top of James who’d lain down in the center. He straddled James again, but this time, there was nothing between their cocks but friction and heat.

  He lowered himself to kiss James again. James opened his legs, lifted them, but pushed up against him, rubbing and teasing. James’s hips seemed to be encouraging Cal’s to move, as if he wanted him to take over and thrust.

  He wants me to fuck him.

  Cal broke the kiss. “You—”

 
“Fuck me.” James looked up at him, half-grinning, and it felt very much like an order. “As hard as you can. Fuck me all night.”

  Cal narrowed his eyes. He pressed his cock against James’s hard enough to make him close his eyes and groan, and as James shuddered, Cal leaned down and whispered, “I’m not sure I like your tone.”

  James’s eyes flew open. Disbelief. Confusion. “I . . .”

  “Maybe I want you to do something for me first.”

  A soft whimper slipped past James’s lips. “Anything.”

  Cal grinned. Now this he liked. He lifted himself off James and moved onto his side. “I’m going to fuck you. No doubt about that.” He moved his hand slowly, and James watched it, focusing intently, not even breathing. His lips parted when Cal closed his fingers around his own cock and stroked slowly, watching James’s eyes trace the movements.

  “Before I fuck you,” Cal said, his voice seeming to startle James out of a near trance, “I want you to suck my—”

  James moved before Cal could even finish the sentence, and suddenly Cal was on his back with James’s lips around his dick. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to get his head around the amazing sensation, the hot, eager mouth working at his cock with more enthusiasm than anyone had ever had while sucking him.

  He pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked down. James’s eyes flicked up, eyebrows raised as if to ask, Is this what you wanted?

  Cal couldn’t even articulate that yes, yes, this was definitely what he wanted. He stroked James’s hair, hoping to convey his approval, and though Cal hadn’t thought it was possible, James gave him even more, groaning softly and taking Cal’s dick deeper into his throat.