“Good.”
“I do wash though.”
“That’s a relief.”
“You have perfect hands.” Shit. Did I say that? Say something else. “Five fingers are so useful. Well, ten, counting thumbs. Shit. My brain’s oxygen deprived.”
He groaned when Archer found a painful knot above his left shoulder blade.
“If I do something that hurts or that you don’t like, tell me,” Archer said.
Don’t try to fuck me and I won’t need to say anything. But Conrad wasn’t sure his cock would let him protest whatever Archer did. It was hard as iron.
Which was great.
Which was a huge fucking problem. Maybe not huge, though he was a good size. He didn’t think…stop thinking.
When Archer put his palms on his butt and squeezed through his shorts, Conrad’s hips rocked into the bed and back up into Archer’s hands. Oh God, don’t do that. He wasn’t sure who he was talking to. Archer or his hips, which were definitely under the control of his cock.
“You feel okay now?” Archer’s hands remained spread on Conrad’s butt.
“Define okay.”
“Landing on your arse in the kitchen faded to a distant memory?”
His hands. My butt. Fuck.
Archer ran his fingernail under the waistband of Conrad’s shorts and lust disabled his mind yet again. Were those his balls vibrating? Butt. Hands. Massage. Fuck.
“If you turn over, I’ll do the front.”
Hell no. You want to be poked in the eye? “No need. I’m fine,” Conrad said.
Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck.
Archer stopped touching him.
Put your hands back on my butt. Pity that didn’t come out of his mouth.
“I need to sleep,” Conrad muttered into the pillow.
He felt the mattress tilt as Archer got off the bed, but heard him chuckle. He fucking knows the state I’m in. Conrad kept his eyes closed but was aware the guy had leaned in close because he could feel his breath hitting his cheek.
“I am going to fuck you,” Archer whispered.
Conrad didn’t move a muscle. The one pounding in his chest didn’t count but imaginary iced water trickled down his spine.
“You know you want me to. All you have to do is ask.”
Since Conrad was having difficulty admitting that to himself, he sure as hell wasn’t going to say it to Archer.
“When you’ve got your head around it, come upstairs.”
He couldn’t get upstairs. He’d already told the bastard that. He didn’t want to go upstairs, didn’t want to be fucked.
Conrad waited until Archer was at the door before he spoke. “Fuck you.” That was mature.
Archer laughed. “Maybe, but not until I’ve fucked you.”
Conrad turned his face into the pillow but he smiled. The moment he heard Archer close the door, he pushed his hands inside his pants. Ten seconds later, he’d come. Damn.
Archer’s cock was like iron. He’d never touched anyone like that before. When he fucked someone, he didn’t need to do more than hold on to a neck or waist or hands and shove his cock into an arse. He’d just done to Conrad what he thought would feel good. He’d come close to yanking down those black shorts and stuffing his dick between the tight cheeks of that tempting butt.
He knew why Conrad wouldn’t turn over. But if he had, he’d have seen the matching state of Archer’s cock. Even so, this guy wouldn’t be an easy lay. Archer had never forced anyone in his life and he really knew better than to even think of messing with a fucking lawyer. But maybe he could have fun trying to persuade him to submit.
He went to get his bag from the car and carried it upstairs. The lounge was impressive. One wall had floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors that opened onto a bleached deck overlooking dunes, beach and the sea he’d almost drowned in. Soft leather light brown couches sat either side of a glass-topped coffee table made of sea-smoothed driftwood. There were shelves of paperbacks—thrillers, classics, romances, along with stacks of board games and jigsaws, a row of DVDs and a huge wall-mounted TV.
The bedroom was bigger than the one Conrad was using. Original artwork on the walls, another TV, a king-sized bed. He dropped his bag on a chair, kicked off his shoes and stripped. His gun was safe in his bag while Conrad was confined downstairs. Not that he’d be unpacking. He liked to keep all his gear together in case he had to move fast. He was confident no one knew his location but the niggle remained because Phoenix had managed to uncover his email address. Bastard.
He stripped, his cock still hard. A single thought about going back downstairs and persuading Conrad he needed to be fucked made pre-come gather at his slit. He walked into the bathroom rubbing the silky fluid over his cockhead. He noted the shelf of toiletries as he stepped into the shower. His hand wrapped tight around his cock before the water had warmed.
Archer sighed as he began to jerk off. Generally, he only spoke when he needed to, when there was something important to say, but Conrad had made him want to talk. He’d enjoyed their banter. If they were going to share this house for a few days, he was aware he needed to be more sociable if he intended to persuade his way into Conrad’s arse. Conrad was nothing like any guy he’d had before.
The comforting sensation of impending orgasm warmed his gut and made his heart beat faster. He imagined himself back downstairs, on Conrad’s bed, on Conrad, lying on him, pressing his dick against the entrance to his body, pushing against that puckered hole until the muscles gave way. He wanted Conrad to fight him off, wanted him to resist, and then wanted him to accept. There was a thin line between a fight for dominance and actually taking him by force.
Conrad wasn’t a bottom, but he knew the guy was tempted and that really hit every one of Archer’s buttons. Weak men were not his type. Strong guys who’d struggle but could be persuaded were. He’d had very few of those, but with a couple of them, he remembered coming so hard he’d seen stars. There would only be one winner in a battle for dominance between him and Conrad. But it was how Conrad lost that would make the difference. The idea of subduing another alpha tantalized, yet the idea of submitting to Conrad had a certain appeal, one that both scared and intrigued him. Archer hadn’t been topped since he was a boy but maybe Conrad would be the one to change that.
He leaned back against the wall of the shower, wincing as his head collided with the tile, a reminder of the stitched wound on his scalp. He moved his hand faster, sliding it up to run his palm over the crest, then dragging down again until he reached his balls. He tightened his grip, sped up the action of his fist and felt a prickle strike the base of his skull.
Not hard to imagine Conrad on his knees, mouth open, taking all of his cock, every fucking inch, deep throating him. Even if he wouldn’t let Archer fuck him, maybe he’d do that. He’d look up with those bright blue eyes, defiant, pissed off but hungry, and with that image Archer came, a shower of sparks exploding in his head, his come spurting onto the wall and floor of the shower and not into the mouth he hoped for.
Conrad jerked awake and opened his eyes. Shit. I fell asleep. And judging by the level of light in the room, it looked like he’d slept until late afternoon. He was under the duvet so presumed Archer must have pulled it over him. Fuck, my shorts. He shot his hands down and felt his shorts in place, damp and sticky. For a brief period of time nothing hurt, then it did. But maybe not as much as usual. He didn’t bother with his exercises, just hauled himself upright, rolled off the bed and gave a quiet sigh when pain didn’t bite quite so hard. Shit, I need to wash the sheets.
He made his way to the shower and stood under the hot water hoping to wash away the memory of his behavior. This was going to end badly. Two dominant personalities. Neither of them willing to give way to the other. It would come down to how much they wanted it. He’d heard what Archer had said. “Maybe, but not until I’ve fucked you.”
It pissed Conrad off and excited him at the same time. He had the disadvantage of not being a match physically. He wasn’t sure he’d have been a match even if he hadn’t been hit by the car. But mentally, Conrad could fight just as hard as Archer. Maybe harder. He’d had plenty of practice in court.
When he walked into the kitchen with the sheets from the bed, Archer had set the table and opened wine. Conrad stifled his chuckle at the domesticity of the scene. Archer wasn’t a guy to be laughed at. But then Archer looked at the sheets and smirked, which aggravated Conrad. Don’t say anything.
“I was just thinking about waking you.” Archer looked at him through the reflection in the kitchen window. “You looked as though you’d been poured onto the bed. How do you feel?”
“Pretty good. That massage helped.”
“You only have to ask if you want more.”
Conrad chose to ignore the comment. He dragged the clothes and shoes out of the washer, stuck them in the tumble dryer, and loaded the washer with the sheets. “What are we eating?”
“Chili.”
Deefor came up to Conrad and rubbed against his legs. He gingerly reached to pet him. When there wasn’t a lightning strike of agony down his spine or flare of pain in his hips, he found himself grinning at the little mutt.
“I wish I could have a dog,” Conrad said.
“What’s stopping you?”
“Like you, I travel a lot. Did travel a lot. Barristers go where cases take them. I might have to stay away all week and only return to London at the weekend.”
“No one at home to look after a pet?”
“You mean my wife and kids?” Conrad asked.
Archer turned and looked at him, then laughed.
“No, no one.” Not now. For fuck’s sake don’t think of Malachi. Conrad swallowed hard but the lump in his throat had been there for so long he wasn’t sure how he could get rid of it. It was getting smaller but still…
“Sit down and pour yourself some wine,” Archer said.
Conrad bristled at the order but eased into a seat. Archer must have bought this bottle. Conrad didn’t recognize it as one of his. It was expensive.
“Where was your last job?” Conrad asked.
“Paris.”
“You don’t just work in the UK, then?”
“You’re quick.”
Conrad felt fairly sure he was blushing. Archer put the food on the table and sat down.
“What problem did the business have?”
“The usual one. Wrong guy in charge. Remove him and the problem was solved.”
“How did he feel about that?”
“He accepted it. He had no choice. Order from higher up. There’s always someone higher. What about you? What were you working on when the car hit you? Any connection?”
“It was a fraud trial. I was prosecuting.”
“So could whoever you were prosecuting be behind your accident?”
“Someone else took on the case. The guy went to prison for five years. The other barrister’s not been attacked. I checked. I don’t see any connection. Plus I lay for long enough in the hospital for someone to finish the job and they never did. I’m puzzled by the whole thing.”
“Presumably you went through all your recent cases.”
Conrad nodded.
“Could it have been something to do with your personal life?”
“No.” He knew he’d snapped that more sharply than he’d intended.
“Right. Want some more?”
Conrad looked down and saw to his surprise he’d cleared his plate. “Is there any?”
“I wasn’t offering to cook from scratch again.” Archer pushed to his feet.
After he’d refilled Conrad’s plate with rice and chili, he took a can of dog food from the cupboard, pulled the ring top and forked it into Deefor’s bowl. The dog spun in circles across the kitchen floor.
“Calm down,” Archer said. “He leaps at it before I’ve even put it on the floor.”
Conrad smothered his smile as Deefor proved Archer right.
Archer huffed. “You’d think I starved him.”
“Maybe his former owner did. Could be that if he didn’t wolf it down the moment he saw it, some vindictive bastard whipped it away again.”
“He’s just greedy.”
Conrad’s phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket. “The police,” he said.
It could have been his imagination, but had that been a fleeting look of alarm crossing Archer’s face? Yet most likely he’d have reacted the same way if Archer had answered a call and said that to him.
“Hello,” Conrad said.
“Conrad Black?”
“Yes.”
“It’s D.I. Spencer here from the Metropolitan Police. I wanted to let you know that an eyewitness has come forward who claims he saw the car hit you and that the driver appeared to do it deliberately.”
“Right.” Conrad was torn between pleasure and concern, and resisted the impulse to say I told you so.
“Obviously we’ll investigate further. I’ll keep in touch but, er…stay alert. Okay?”
“Right. Thanks.”
Conrad put down his phone. “Apparently the police have a witness who saw the car aim for me.” He frowned. “Why would they come forward now after all this time? That makes no sense.”
“It’s good and bad, I guess, that someone is backing up your story.”
Archer was right because if someone wanted him dead and he wasn’t, what was to stop them trying again? Maybe it had been too difficult to get into the hospital. Too many cameras. What if Archer had set up everything, even the near-drowning? Or if not that, he might have been watching the house and what had happened in the sea had been an accident. He could have pretended to collapse on the doorstep just to gain entrance, get sympathy. Stay alert. Yeah, he should.
“I would have already killed you,” Archer said, reading his mind.
Conrad gaped at him. “Right. Moving on then.”
“Do you play chess?”
I’m fucking brilliant at it. “A bit. Is there a set somewhere?”
“Upstairs. You’d like it up there. Lots of things to do. Comfortable couches. Great view. Kickass TV. Games. DVDs. Torture equipment. Huge bed.”
Conrad’s heart did a painful bounce on his stomach.
Archer stared at him. “I could carry you up if you want.”
“No.”
Archer pushed to his feet. “Well, I’m going to climb those stairs and watch TV. You can clear up.”
Conrad watched him go then turned to the countertop. It looked like Archer had used every last item of kitchen equipment. He pushed to his feet and set about putting things back to rights. Unfortunately, that didn’t work on himself. He was as confused as he’d ever been.
Chapter Seven
When Archer let himself out of the back door the following morning to go for a run, Deefor followed him. He’d looked in on Conrad on his way past and found him still sleeping, sprawled under the duvet, only his head exposed. One look at his long dark lashes and part-open mouth, and flickers of heat flared in Archer’s gut. This was a new experience for him, having to wait to fuck a guy, wanting to wait. He hoped running would work the frustration out of his system.
He jogged down the path to the beach, Deefor on his heels, and then out over the soft sand to the hard-packed surface beyond. Most of his running as a boy had come through fear; now he enjoyed it more than many other activities, though not all. He thought of Conrad’s arse and smiled. A couple of words of encouragement from him and the run could have waited.
There were few things in Archer’s life that gave him pure pleasure apart from the hot rush of sex. Even as a kid, everything was tinged with the need to stay alert for danger. He’d rarely been able to allow himself to relax long enough to
enjoy the feel of the sun on his face, the sight of sunrise or sunset. Learning how to relax was difficult. Even when he’d been out on the water, it crossed his mind that he was an easy target if anyone had been watching. As it happened, he had been an easy target—for the sea.
He might be out of the business, but he had to behave as though he was still in it. Lingering in any place too long was a mistake. Independence and self-sufficiency had to take priority. Trusting anyone was a mistake. Being distracted by anyone or anything was a mistake. He didn’t need anyone and that should include Conrad. So he couldn’t quite understand why he was still hanging around because he couldn’t afford to stop running no matter how much he might want to. It was like constantly treading water. If he stopped, he’d go under.
Phoenix might have said he had nothing to do with the attempt on his life but Archer didn’t believe him and had racked his brain trying to fathom things out without having to resort to wrenching the lid off the whole can of worms. The name William Connor meant nothing. Asking questions about William Connor could bring Archer all sorts of unwanted attention. Maybe Phoenix had even supplied the name to trap him.
Who wanted him dead? Broker or client? Neither? A relative of someone he’d killed, except how would they know it was him unless a broker told them and theoretically none of his brokers knew what he looked like. He thought of the photo in his bag. Someone did. He was glad he’d not told Phoenix about that photo. Archer currently didn’t trust any contact enough to ask them to check the shooter’s DNA. Chances were it wouldn’t even be in the databank.
His brokers were middlemen between him and the clients who’d never know his identity. All correspondence between Archer and his brokers took place over the Internet, apart from a small amount of telephone contact with Phoenix. They supplied dossiers, provided weapons and arranged payment. Archer worked with two other brokers, Devros and Sayeed. But he’d been on a job for Phoenix when the attempt had been made on his life. It was a job for Phoenix he’d been on in Moscow. It was Phoenix who’d gone to the effort of finding his new email address, and Phoenix who still wanted him in contact and working. Though that wasn’t proof of anything. It could be proof of innocence.
Breaking: Fall or Break, Book 2 Page 8
