Romancing the Undercover Millionaire

by Clare London

  “You are fabulous,” Tate breathed. “You’re so pale.”

  “Last year’s tan has worn off, I don’t hold color for very long—”

  “It’s fabulous,” Tate repeated. “Gorgeous. I’m not complaining. Against your dark hair, too.”

  Alex tensed. “You too,” he whispered quickly. “Gorgeous. Can’t chat anymore. Strip. Strip us both.”

  Tate laughed and obeyed happily. Alex lifted his upper body so his shirt could be removed, then raised his hips for Tate to pull off his jeans. Tate took Alex’s underwear with the jeans and might have accidentally-on-purpose run the heels of his hands over Alex’s swollen cock as he did. Alex gave a small, sudden gasp as Tate moved down his body to remove his socks.

  Then Tate slipped off the bed and quickly pulled off his own clothes. It was only as he bent to unlace his shoes that he glanced back up at Alex. A sliver of light through the hotel room curtains caught Alex’s eyes, making them gleam like fireflies in the room. His gaze was concentrated on Tate’s bare back and down to his arse. His mouth was slightly open. Tate grinned to himself. That look was so damned hot.

  He straightened and turned to face the bed again. His vision was getting used to the minimal light by now. His cock was already plumped, and a few slow, teasing strokes brought it back to full hardness. Alex’s gaze followed every single movement. “We can just mess around,” Tate said. “Don’t have to do anything you don’t like.”

  “May I provide a list of those likes?” Alex said, his voice cracked with lust and amusement. “It’ll be a very long one.”

  “I see. Good. Best to know where we are from the start. I have no problems with anything, unless you get really kinky—”

  “Not tonight,” Alex growled, so low and fierce that goose bumps ran down Tate’s spine. “Tonight, I just want you the hell back here, and that gorgeous cock in my mouth.”

  Tate didn’t exactly run to the bed, but he moved damned fast. They lay side by side, naked, exploring each other. Alex’s hands were sure but respectful; Tate had been right to assume he knew how to treat a man in bed. Alex knew when to stroke and when to grip, especially when Tate let him know he liked a firm hand. When Alex folded his fingers around Tate’s cock, Tate groaned. “You said something about your mouth and my dick?”

  Alex grinned, his perfect white teeth bright in the dim light. He kneeled up on the mattress and bent over Tate’s groin. The first touch of his lips on the tip of Tate’s cock had Tate gasping. Slowly, Alex slid down the shaft, his tongue slicking the skin, teasing the vein, his mouth moving down, down, right down to the pubes.

  Tate yelped. “Fuck!” He hadn’t ever been deep-throated; hadn’t been sure he’d even like it. Jesus, but it seemed he did, and how.

  Alex murmured, a chuckle barely possible with his throat occupied on Tate’s dick. Tate thrust gently, carefully, feeling Alex’s lips tighten around him, his throat convulse around the head. He thrust some more, Alex allowing it, encouraging it with rumbles of pleasure from deep inside his chest. Tate had never felt so sensitive, so worshipped, so savored. Alex’s right hand rested on Tate’s hip, keeping both of them anchored. His other hand was in his lap, stroking his own cock.

  “I’m… fuck… soon.” Tate gasped, hoarse with the excitement. His back arched, his fists clenched. God. The image of coming down Alex’s possessive throat was so strong, he had no idea how he’d kept an orgasm at bay this far. To his almost-despair, Alex slowly withdrew and sat back. Tate’s skin felt cold and damp with loss, his breath rasped in the still air, his cock ached with unrelieved need.

  Alex felt around his jaw, as if loosening it up again, his eyes preternaturally bright with passion. “Ride me,” he said, his voice rough.

  Tate’s whole body flushed. “Can I?”

  Alex’s eyes darkened so much, Tate could barely see the whites any longer. “I don’t know. Can you?” he breathed.

  Tate laughed softly. “I mean, may I? You don’t catch me out with your proper English rules, man.”

  Alex laughed too, but his was ragged. He rolled Tate gently aside, then lay back down and brought his legs together, allowing Tate to straddle him. “I want to see you,” Alex said. “I want to see you take all of me.”

  “Lube?” Tate could barely cough out the word. He reached between his legs, under his tightening balls. The skin was hot and smooth as he slid his finger back, reaching for his hole. He knew Alex couldn’t see that far back, but he’d know what Tate was doing.

  “Bedside drawer,” Alex said. “Unless it’s on the bloody floor by now.”

  Tate leaned sideways, acting all casual and easy, his obliques stretching, his skin tightening—Alex’s eyes widened and his breath shortened at the sight—and fumbled in the drawer. He impatiently pushed aside a watch, plastic card, a pad and pen, something like the usual hotel bible, until he found a couple of condom packets and a small bottle of lube. He popped open the top and poured some on his fingers.

  “We should share that,” Alex said, slyly, and held his hand out for a squirt.

  Tate gently eased fingers into himself, watching as Alex slid on the condom and slicked up his cock. Tate was finding it hard to breathe, and his heartbeat felt so close to the surface of his chest it may as well have been on the outside. He shifted a little nearer Alex’s waist, getting the best angle, letting his bum settle into the dip of Alex’s lap. He caught Alex’s heated gaze.

  “Yes please,” Alex said with a strained but greedy smile. His hands tightened on Tate’s hips.

  Carefully, Tate pulled himself up, took his weight on his knees, and guided Alex’s cock to his arse. One initial press against the pucker, then he was in. Tate sighed happily, full and tight and deliciously conscious of every nerve in his body flashing alive.

  “Oh,” Alex whispered. “Oh, yes.”

  They moved together, slowly at first, just rocking, getting used to each other’s body. No words, just sighs and smiles. Tate felt his impending orgasm bite again, more insistent now for its completion. His body shuddered and he folded a hand around his cock, began stroking. Alex moved his grip to Tate’s arms, helping to support him. Their movements became fiercer, harder, both of them grunting with effort. Tate’s thigh muscles worked hard, holding him as he rose and fell, feeling Alex slide slowly out, then thrust back in. Alex’s head pressed hard into the pillow and his eyes half closed. His mouth opened wide, any words articulated only as moans.

  Tate gazed at him, stupidly happy, affectionate, thrilled… then Alex’s eyes opened very wide and his whole body tensed as he came. His hips thumped up against Tate, forcing his cock deeper, tighter. His grip loosened on Tate as he started to keen. Tate held as still as he could, loving the ecstasy on Alex’s face, the pleasure of bringing him pleasure. Then his own climax crawled its demanding fingers from his groin all the way to the back of his neck and down again, making his skin tingle and his blood race. He came with a cry, spilling onto his hand and Alex’s belly, writhing on Alex’s lap. He had just enough time to slam his sticky hand back on Alex’s chest to keep himself upright, to stop his shuddering body from tumbling off balance. The ecstasy ran through him, shivering, crawling, bringing a few tears to his eyes as he began to calm again.

  The room was quiet apart from their heavy breathing. Panting, Tate stared down at Alex. “Bloody hell,” he said, realizing immediately what a very inadequate description that was. His hand slipped an inch on the sweat all over Alex’s chest.

  “Yes,” Alex replied, still breathless. “But bloody good, right?”

  And they both laughed until Tate lost his grip completely and collapsed down beside Alex, their limbs tangling and their bodies already starting to cool.

  IN the middle of the night, Tate stumbled to the bathroom in the dark, his legs still seeking the return of their strength. His hands were shaky as he reached for the taps, and he knocked over a tube of toothpaste and a capped bottle of some kind of cologne. Behind that was a packet of something that looked surprisingly like hair dy
e. He only knew the brand because Mum had once touched up her roots in defiance of her first few gray hairs. Odd thing to find in Alex’s bathroom, but men were just as entitled to a refresher on their highlights. He’d always admired Alex’s hair. Now his fingers itched to touch it, to run through it, to tug it back hard to bare Alex’s throat to him—

  His cock jerked on his thigh. Ever hopeful! Tate turned sleepily and reached for the bathroom doorway to guide himself back to bed.

  “Tate? Are you okay?”

  Alex sat up in bed, eyes heavily lidded, his body half-shadowed by the crumpled sheets. He yawned, swiftly lifting a hand to cover his mouth.

  Adorable. Alex’s quaint manners were becoming endearing. When Alex patted the mattress beside him, Tate slid back into bed. “I’m fine.” He smiled at Alex, though the room was dark and maybe Alex didn’t see it. “I just… something made me think of Mum.”

  There was a small silence. Alex slid an arm around Tate’s shoulders and guided him back onto the pillows. They smelled of Alex’s skin.

  “Tell me?”

  It wasn’t a demand. Alex’s voice was like the gentlest caress and Tate discovered that at last he wanted to talk about his parents. “Both Mum and Dad died in a train crash four years ago. Gran had moved in with us, I’d just been promoted at work, and so they took the opportunity to have a weekend away for their anniversary. They’d been married twenty-six years.”

  “Oh, Tate….”

  “Gran’s arthritis wasn’t as bad then, plus Louise was—is—always on hand to help out. We wanted Mum and Dad to enjoy their time out. So as things were running smoothly at home, we didn’t call them over the weekend.” His throat tightened, but that was compensated by the gentle wash of relief, in getting things off his chest to another listener. “The crash was on the news that night, but only Gran knew the details of where they were staying. It was an Intercity route between Wales and London. On their way home. The points on the track failed and the train derailed. Over seventy people were injured, and six… died.”

  Alex hugged him closer. His breath was shallow, and his cheek felt damp against Tate’s. Why on earth would Alex cry at Tate’s story? “Don’t say any more.”

  “No,” Tate said. “This feels right. The police and social services came to the house on the Sunday night. That was the first we knew. I took over the family duties from then on.”

  And then he cried, too. Just quietly, and lightly, but he shut his eyes and let the tears come, trickling onto Alex’s shoulder. He didn’t feel as humiliated as he’d imagined. There was something about Alex that reassured him, that made him trust the man to be compassionate. To respect Tate despite his weakness.

  “I miss them,” Tate whispered.

  “I know how that is,” Alex replied, His voice sounded odd. “I miss Mama every day.”

  “Your mother?” Tate opened his eyes and caught Alex’s gaze. His eyes were glistening in the dark.

  “She died of cancer when I was thirteen. My brother was sixteen. Papa was devastated.”

  “You too.” Tate was startled by the seriousness of Alex’s expression. “I’m sorry, Alex, I… didn’t know anything about your family.”

  “Don’t apologize. I knew nothing of yours.”

  “A fine pair we are.” Tate rubbed a hand over his face, until Alex caught him by the wrist.

  “And don’t deny it, either,” Alex said. “Your grief and your love are genuine and true.”

  “Doesn’t help with the grind of daily life.”

  “Hush.” Alex’s breath was hot against Tate’s neck. “It’s all right. Let me.”

  “Let you… what?”

  “Show you what a pair we can really be.” Alex’s voice softened to a whisper and then he slid under the covers, his fingers trailing down Tate’s chest. Tate’s nipples hardened, fast, with an ache that reached deep into his gut. Alex’s tongue lapped at his navel, and the muscles of his belly tightened as Alex nipped at the flesh there. He rutted against Alex’s body, seeking friction. His cock bobbed and nudged Alex on the nose. They both chuckled.

  “Come back up here,” Tate murmured. He tugged Alex back up the bed so they were chest to chest. Then he slid a hand behind Alex’s arse, his fingers reaching between the cheeks. Alex arched against him, gasping. “Hold on,” Tate whispered.

  Alex’s slipped his hand down between them and he fisted around both cocks. Tate groaned, and wriggled his middle finger into Alex. Their sweat gave them lubrication, but even so, they had no desire to go further. They rocked tightly against each other, Alex rubbing them gently but firmly toward climax, Tate fingering him boldly, their mouths mashing onto each other whenever they didn’t need to draw in more breath.

  Tate’s head swam when he came, his throat tight and his heart hammering. So good!

  They made a damned good pair, indeed.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE next morning in the warehouse found Tate in a rather delicate condition. He’d probably drunk too much wine, plus the full, unusually late evening meal hadn’t settled well in his stomach. And every time he swung himself off the forklift seat too quickly, his arse stung.

  That made him smile, though.

  He was on his way to the office when Percy intercepted him.

  “Tate, boy?” Percy’s expression was unusually difficult to decipher. “Somethin’ y’ need to look at.”

  “A problem?”

  “It’s Prince Harry.”

  Tate’s gut tightened, and not from indigestion. “Has he done something wrong?”

  “Nope. Not exactly.” One of Percy’s bizarre skills was saying no while radiating yes with every muscle and fiber of his being. “You seen his handwritin’?”

  “His…? Alex’s, you mean? Well, yeah. He printed up some notices for me yesterday.” Alex had used a lovely italic script, like something out of an illustrated bible. Tate had admired it, but then had to ask him to rework it in sensible block capitals because biblical script was never going to be suitable for NO ENTRY TO THIS STORAGE AREA WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION.

  Percy grunted. He carefully placed a sheet of paper in Tate’s hand, then turned and walked back across the warehouse.

  Tate glanced down. It was a reference for Alex Goodson, something the company always requested. Alex had provided several character references, but only one from previous employment. It had been emailed from Ibiza, of all places, on a hotel’s headed paper, and announced that Alex had been “a model of diligence and attention to detail.” The stilted language might have caught Tate’s eye as incongruous, but now he also noted the lovely italic script for the signature and printed name at the close of the letter. The suspiciously familiar script.

  Bloody hell. Had Alex forged his reference?

  Tate wasn’t a fool: he knew it happened. He and Percy had coped with it a few times to their knowledge. Whatever the reason, any evidence like this led to the employee’s dismissal, and immediate removal from the premises.

  And what exactly was he going to do about it?

  OVER at bay six, Alex was daydreaming about Tate while he labeled shelves.

  Tate had left the hotel bed in the small hours after dawn, explaining in a sleepy whisper that he had to get the kids ready for school, Gran couldn’t cope with it all. Alex had insisted he’d pay for a taxi. He’d watched, only half-awake himself, as Tate scrabbled for his clothes and went to wash up quickly in the bathroom. The fan started up again: a car’s headlights outside the hotel arced across the curtains. Somewhere along the corridor, someone else was leaving early. Alex could hear the trundle of a small suitcase as it passed the door.

  Suddenly, fiercely, he’d known he didn’t want Tate to leave. He wanted more. He wanted the whole package: to go to sleep with Tate, wake with him, have gasping morning sex, eat breakfast, maybe travel into work together. And not just for this one day.

  Dear God. What was happening to him?

  Tate had poked his head out of the bathroom. His hair was spiked up on one side, fla
t on the other. Catching Alex’s raised eyebrows, he tried to balance it out with his fingertips through the tangles, but finally gave up. “I’ll sort myself out at home. No one expects me to look perfect first thing in the morning, anyway. And I’m not due on shift until noon, so I’ll have time to iron a shirt and stuff.” He was gabbling, Alex knew. He was nervous, maybe unsure about what they’d done, now facing the ominous morning after—

  Then Tate had smiled, and Alex knew everything was all right. Tate wasn’t the kind of guy who regretted things—he took his time deciding to do them in the first place, so he was sure of himself. It was so unlike Alex’s usual mad dash to experience anything and everything while the slightest passing opportunity was there, then face any regrets after the event. No, Tate wasn’t like Alex at all. He knew and trusted himself.

  What was that like, on a daily basis? Alex had wondered, with more than a touch of jealousy.

  “Goodson? Hey!”

  Alex snapped back to real life in the warehouse. Percy was calling.

  “No daydreamin’, boy! Give us a hand here.”

  He was trying to move one of the crates off a low pallet. Tate’s conversation last night sprang back into Alex’s mind. Had there been more disruption in the storage? “Where’s it got to go?” he asked, jogging over to help.

  “It’s the good stuff.” Percy huffed as he set the crate down on the floor. “Shouldn’t be put here at all. It belongs in bay four. Don’t know what the hell’s goin’ on with the storage this week. Stuart? Bring that forklift over.”

  Alex took hold of one side of the crate and between him, Percy, and Stuart, they shifted it onto the bed of the forklift.

  “Why is this in the wrong place? What do you think happened?” Alex said, trying for a casual tone.

  “No idea. And be careful with this lot.” Percy scowled at Alex. “Worth about eighty quid a bottle.”

  “Wow,” Alex said, as he assumed he was meant to. The last bottle he’d opened at his London apartment had retailed at two hundred and fifty.