Not My Spook!

by Tinnean

  “Yes, I do know, Mark.” I was startled by the wistful look in his eyes.

  And then it was gone. “Listen, I’m calling it a night.”

  I nodded. “Did you bring your car? Do you want to follow me, or shall I follow you?”

  His expression was indecipherable. “There must be plenty of women here who are dying for a chance to dance with you. You don’t have to leave on my account. It’s not like I need a trail of breadcrumbs. I can find my way back to your place.”

  “I’m all too aware of that, Mark. However, I neglected to give you a spare key, and I’m really getting tired of you breaking into my house. Let’s go.”

  He didn’t argue, which left me somewhat surprised.

  We retrieved our overcoats and went out into the chill night air. My car was brought around, and I waited for Mark to make a smart remark about it, commenting on its expensive price tag, but while the corner of his mouth quirked in a grin, he said nothing, simply turning to the head parking attendant, carrying on a low-voiced conversation.

  “No one went near it, sir. I had Joey camped out by it all this while.”

  “Good man. I’ll send him back to you.” Money changed hands, and I raised an eyebrow, but he pretended not to see. “The extra one is for you.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  “Mark?”

  “Give me a minute. I’ll get my car.” He was going to walk to wherever it was, which was ridiculous. I’d seen him shiver, in spite of his overcoat.

  “Get in. I’ll drive you to it.”

  He went still. “There’s no need.”

  “Get in, Mark,” I repeated.

  He opened the passenger door and climbed in.

  XVI

  WELL, this has certainly been a night, I considered as I removed my tuxedo and hung it up. The manager of Mark’s apartment complex had left him a message notifying him he had thirty days to vacate the premises.

  Considering the condition of his apartment, I couldn’t blame the man, but I’d been startled by Mark’s display of temper, and although he’d immediately had it under control, I’d made him promise not to hurt the manager.

  He’d declined my offer of beer, accepting a bottle of Perrier instead, and we’d sat down to a late-night snack of General Tso’s chicken.

  We’d chatted about inconsequential things and had made a date to view an exhibit at the National Gallery of Art on Sunday afternoon after my ride with Mother.

  Every once in a while I’d catch Mark’s eyes on me, eyes of lust, eyes of lechery, eyes of devouring passion, and I would shiver and find myself unable to look away.

  But he’d left me outside my bedroom with nothing more than a grin and a, “’Night, Quinn.”

  Now, once again, I was wearing the pajamas he had bought for me.

  And once again he was in the bedroom down the hall.

  I crossed to the picture of my father that was on my dresser. He was leaning on a paddock fence at Grandfather’s farm, gazing off into space pensively. It was shortly after Bobby Kennedy’s assassination, and Mother had told me that for once he’d been unaware of her presence nearby. She’d snapped the photo, and while it had originally been in color, she’d had it reprinted in black and white and given it to me on the anniversary of his death.

  I picked it up and looked into eyes I knew were as hazel as my own. “I’m sorry, Father. I remember what you told me, but I want him. I want him more than—” Father continued to gaze off into space, no helpful suggestions forthcoming. “Unless the end of the world is upon us, I’m going to walk down the hall and have him!”

  I set the photo back down on my dresser, left my bedroom, and went to Mark’s, giving the door a short, sharp rap.

  Earlier, I’d made sure there were supplies in the nightstand beside his bed.

  I intended to use them tonight.

  The sight of Mark in nothing but white silk boxers had the blood rushing from my brain to my cock, and the next thing I knew, I was lying on top of him, my hands fisted in his hair, about to take that mouth of his in a kiss I promised myself he’d never forget.

  Did I really tell him I wanted him, that it was personal?

  Did he really tell me it had always been personal?

  He tore open my pajama top, and I shivered from the desperation in that move, but felt I should offer some protest.

  “Mark! I liked these—”

  “I’ll buy you another fucking pair!” His voice was hoarse and guttural. “I’ll buy you the whole fucking store!”

  Suddenly I found myself on my back, our naked cocks thrusting strongly against each other.

  “I have to fuck you, Mark! I have to be inside you!”

  “Oh, fuck!” He must have liked that idea, because he began to come, and I followed right behind. His breath was warm on the sweat-dampened skin of my neck and shoulder.

  “Dammit, Mark,” I said. “You made me come too fast.”

  “Next time, I’m fucking you long and slow and easy, and I’m gonna make you beg.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. Manns do not beg. And next time it will be my turn, Mark. Your ass will be mine! Now, would you mind getting off me? I’d like to get a washcloth and clean us up.”

  He rolled over, his long body sprawled out, and I was surprised at how reluctant I was to leave him. I wanted to draw patterns in the semen we’d splattered onto my chest and which had transferred to his when he’d collapsed onto me. I wanted to pillow my head on his shoulder, although not the one that had been injured.

  I pressed a kiss just above the bandage. “Someday you’ll have to tell me about this.”

  “Nothing to tell,” he mumbled. He’d be asleep soon. “Stupid accident.”

  “Mark Vincent had a stupid accident? Now I definitely want to hear about it.”

  “Mmm.”

  It looked as if I had no choice but to get up, however. Semen cooling and drying became itchy and uncomfortable, and I could live without that.

  I went into the small bathroom and started the water running. When it was warm enough, I cleaned myself off, then soaked the washcloth again, wrung it out, and went back to the bedroom to take care of Mark.

  “Thanks, baby.”

  “Quinn!” I didn’t like it when he called me “baby.”

  “Sure.”

  I brought the washcloth back to the bathroom before I could say something childish, like Do you promise?

  By the time I returned from the bathroom once more, he was curled on his side, sound asleep.

  It wasn’t cold in my town house, but I was naked, and I shivered. Mark was very warm. I climbed into bed behind him and pulled the bedclothes up over us.

  It had been a very long time since I’d spent the night in anyone’s bed. I’d never brought Susan here since she preferred us going to her condo. Afterward, she’d use the excuse of her next day’s busy schedule to hurry me out of there, and I was too much of a gentleman to insist she let me stay.

  Would Mark react the same way?

  XVII

  I’D BEEN dozing lightly, but I knew immediately when he woke up. He started to move away from me, and I felt my heart sink.

  However, I was a gentleman, and if he didn’t want to spend the night with me….

  In spite of my best intentions, my arms tightened around him. “Don’t go.”

  He didn’t say anything, but I refused to let myself panic. It occurred to me that he might be as unused to waking up to someone in his bed as I was to going to sleep that way. And I found I was willing to beg.

  “Mark? Please stay.”

  He stopped trying to move away from me and relaxed. “Okay.”

  “Glad. Thought you were thinking too much.”

  “Quinn?”

  I didn’t say anything, and as I’d hoped, he fell back to sleep.

  XVIII

  THE first time I woke, it was to Mark going down on me, and after I’d caught my breath, I returned the favor, inordinately pleased at
how incoherent he became.

  The second time I woke, he was jerking me off.

  The third time, I was alone in the bed, and the second floor was so silent I knew I was alone there as well.

  The clock read 6:59, and I groaned, crawled out of bed, and stumbled down the hall to my own room. A quick visit to the bathroom, and then I took my bathrobe from where it was hanging in my closet, shrugged it on, and went down to the kitchen.

  As I’d hoped, Mark was still there, sipping a cup of coffee and reading the Post.

  “Morning, Mark.”

  “Shit, Quinn, what are you doing up so early?” He ran his eyes from the robe I wore to my bare feet, and I had to make an effort to keep from wriggling my toes.

  “I could ask the same of you. It is Saturday, you know.”

  “Yeah, well….”

  “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you had this.” I handed him the spare key.

  His expression became closed off. “I’m not gonna be here long—”

  “As to that, why not stay until you find someplace suitable? It’s going to be a while before you can go back to your apartment, and then you’ll only have to move out again.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why—are you shitting me, Mann?”

  I sighed. We were back to surnames again.

  “Look, it’s not a big deal. I’m just tired of you continually breaking into my house.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” And to my surprise, he gave in. I decided to push a little more. “I thought I’d make breakfast.” He didn’t raise any objections, and so I did, Belgian waffles, which he seemed to enjoy. “Do you have any plans for this evening?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I thought we could eat in.”

  “Sounds good.” He took his coffee cup to the sink.

  “Leave it. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you later.” He paused by the front door. “I’ll pick up something for dessert, okay?”

  “Okay, Mark.”

  “And Quinn? Thanks for putting me up.” He kissed me, briefly, and then he was out the door.

  Smiling, I locked the door and reset the alarm, then went back to the kitchen. There was no point in trying to get back to sleep, and it was too early to call Mother about Senator Franklin and his wife.

  I took down a recipe book.

  I’d make penne alla vodka, I decided. There was a small Italian specialty shop in downtown Alexandria where the pasta was made fresh daily; the crushed tomatoes I would use for the sauce would also be fresh. They didn’t open until ten on Saturdays, so I had time. I’d clean up the breakfast dishes, change into a pair of old khakis, and do a little work in my backyard.

  The daffodils were pushing their yellow heads through the pine mulch I’d put down the previous autumn to keep the bulbs from freezing. I’d rake up the mulch and see if the other bulbs needed thinning out.

  XIX

  I WAS simmering the tomato, onion, and butter mixture, and I glanced at the clock on the wall above the arch that led into the formal dining room. We were both used to working long hours, but this was a Saturday; he had left before eight this morning, and it was almost nine now.

  I thought about my conversation with Mother earlier:

  “The Franklins married about twenty years ago,” she told me. “She was thirty-three, and he was forty-five. While it was his first marriage, she’d been married before and had a little boy.”

  I didn’t ask what her point was. I knew she’d tell me.

  “By the time most men reach that age, they’ve been married at least once, and if not, they’ve been in a relationship.”

  “Is this an oblique way of asking when I’ll marry—”

  “Hardly, Quinton. If or when you marry is entirely up to you. Unless, of course, you decide to go into public office and your constituents start to question why you’re a bachelor.”

  “Hmm. And you’re saying this is why Senator Franklin and his wife married?”

  “Yes. Elise dotes on her son.”

  For a second I thought of my Uncle Bryan and his ex-wife, a widow who’d brought children to their marriage. She’d doted on them, to the point where the marriage collapsed. It hadn’t been a happy time for him.

  “As an outsider, I have to say they seem happy when they’re out together in public.”

  “So did Bryan and Johanna, for the longest time.”

  It never failed to amaze me how in sync our thoughts could be at times.

  “What does this have to do with last night?”

  “Whatever goes on in their private lives, they care for each other. Senator Franklin would never introduce Mark Vincent to Elise if he thought there was the possibility of it endangering her.”

  She’d said something similar to me about Mark last night. “Mother—”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart; I have to run. Jack Abberley will be coming by. He’s taking me out to dinner.”

  Jack Abberley, hmm? Mother’d known him for forever—he was her godmother’s son—and he always made a point of seeing her whenever he was in this country.

  “Well, have a good time, and tell him hello from me.”

  “I will, sweetheart.”

  We said good-bye and hung up.

  And then I realized how successfully she’d distracted me.

  Just then I heard the key in the door, and after a minute or so, after he’d reset the alarm, Mark appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  In his right hand was a white cardboard box from the Olde Towne Pastry Shoppe and in his left was a shopping bag. I thought I recognized the logo on its side, but before I could give it more than cursory attention, I was distracted by the duffel that was slung over his right shoulder. Poking out from it was the hilt of a sword. It had to be the sword that had been in the case above his large-screen TV.

  The case had been badly shattered; I had seen that for myself when I’d paid that clandestine visit to Mark’s apartment to assess the damage for myself the day before. I found it rather telling that of everything he could retrieve, he’d brought that with him.

  He saw me watching him, smiled faintly, and handed me the white box. “Here. Chocolate Truffle. I’m just going to bring this up to my room, and then I’ll be right down. What’s for dinner? It smells really good.”

  “Penne alla vodka. There’s no rush, I’ll need to add the vodka and simmer this another twenty minutes. Why don’t you have a shower in the meantime?”

  “Good idea.”

  “Mark.”

  “Hmm?” He paused at the bottom of the stairs and turned toward me. He looked tired. “Yeah, Quinn?”

  I couldn’t tell him he worked too hard. I wasn’t his mother, after all. I gestured to the sword. “Have you ever used that thing?”

  “Not this one, no. But I have fenced.” He raised his right hand, carefully touching the spot just below his left shoulder.

  “Would you care for a match sometime?”

  “Fine by me.” He shrugged. “I’ll spot you half the bouts.”

  “You’re that sure of yourself, Mark?”

  “I’m that good, Quinn!”

  “What would we wager?”

  “You want to bet? Oh, not a smart idea, baby.”

  “Name the time and the place, and I’ll be there.” I couldn’t help grinning smugly at him. In all his research of me, apparently he hadn’t discovered how good I was, and I wasn’t about to tip my hand and reveal it. “Now, don’t dawdle, Mark.” I had no intention of letting him have the last word again, either. “You’ll get what the littlest pig got.”

  He gave me a look over his shoulder and went on up the stairs, but the sound of soft laughter drifted down behind him.

  XX

  DINNER was finished, the dishes rinsed and stacked in the dishwasher; the house was buttoned up tight. Mark followed me up the stairs, and I could feel his eyes on my ass.

  All right
, I wondered. Did I invite the WBIS agent to spend the night in my bed? Did I drag him into my room after me?

  The question became moot when I opened the door and saw what was laid out on my bed. Another pair of silk pajamas, to replace the pair he had ripped from me. “Mark….”

  He was right behind me. “I told you I’d buy you another pair.”

  “That wasn’t necessary.”

  “Dammit, Quinn—”

  I slid my hand around his neck and pulled him close to me. With our lips just a breath apart, I looked into his eyes, the color almost swamped now by the pupils, which had expanded to the point where there was only a slim ring of hazel. There was heat there, fire and passion and—

  He groaned and kissed me, and I was unable to keep my eyes open any longer. His lips grazed over my cheek to my ear, and then down the line of my throat to where my neck and shoulder joined.

  “You promised me long and slow and easy,” I whispered, shivering as my cock swelled. I could feel his cock nudging my groin.

  “I did, didn’t I?” Mark licked my lips, then stepped back just enough to get his arms between us, gripping the hem of the sweater he wore and pulling it up and off. “Guess I’ll have to keep my promise.”

  I was the Ice Man. I worked for State; I was a deputy director of Operational Targeting for the CIA. How did he get me naked and flat on my back on my bed without me being aware of it? The covers had been flung back, and with them went the new pajamas. While one hand toyed with my nipples, leaving me shivering and gasping, Mark’s other hand stroked my cock, gently scraping the length with his nails. His teeth worried a patch of skin under my jaw. I was incoherent.

  “Tell me what you want, baby. Tell me how you want it.”

  What I wanted? Him, inside me. Forever. I didn’t even give a thought to how dangerous that could be for me.

  “Fuck me,” I begged. “Now! Supplies….” I moaned, unable to think where they were.

  “Right here, baby.” The next thing I knew, fingers slicked with lube were stroking across my hole, pressing in deeper and deeper with each pass.