by Julie Bozza
“No promises, but name me some names.”
“Come back to the living room. My people will be dispersing soon - except for Lucy, she’s nominated herself security after last night - but we’ll talk about this in peace. This should be as confidential as possible.”
“All right,” Fletcher said, and followed the man. Was this where it would all get sordid and difficult? He hoped not, because he found himself liking Xavier Lachance, perhaps liking him a lot more than he should.
Almost midnight, and the house was quiet, though it still looked chaotic. Lucy, concerned with Lachance’s security, had retired to a bedroom on the first floor. Names had been given, and Fletcher was relieved: there were well-reasoned arguments for Lachance’s few suspicions, and there appeared to be logic and insight, rather than vindictiveness, in his approach. “These are just ideas of mine,” Xavier said again in conclusion. “I hope nothing comes of it, I hope it was all an accident, but if not …”
“I still won’t make any promises,” Fletcher replied, “but I may be able to look around.”
“That’s fine.” The man smiled, for the first time in an hour or so. “Another coffee?”
They stood silent in the kitchen as the jug heated, Fletch contemplating this man he was with. Francis Xavier Lachance had proved himself intelligent and sharp and a fair judge of character throughout the day, whether he was talking to his people or his potential voters or Fletcher. He was manipulative, yes, and took advantage of opportunity, but so far at least, it seemed all for the sake of a political agenda Fletcher couldn’t help but sympathize with. No doubt Lachance would make a clever and successful and stylish mayor, no doubt he would achieve a great deal in office. Added to which he was, as Caroline had warned, very persuasive. His sincerity and humor, his openness and energy were almost as seductive as his beauty.
Caught staring at the man, as Xavier was recalled from his own contemplations by the jug boiling, Fletcher smiled. “I was thinking your campaign shots should be taken from this angle.”
“I’m supposed to look them directly in the eye, be honest and bold and unafraid. Staring off to the side would appear haughty at best.”
“But you have the most exquisite profile.” He said it matter-of-factly, then continued with more enthusiasm when Lachance merely raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Such a finely shaped skull and that lovely up-turned nose.”
Xavier suddenly turned foreboding. “No one mentions my nose and lives.”
“It’s gorgeous,” Fletch protested, taking the proffered cup of coffee. “Thank you.”
“It doesn’t look gorgeous in the mirror, and certainly not in the photos.”
“All right, maybe it isn’t the greatest from the front, maybe you don’t photograph well, but from this perspective -” He grinned, rather than provide another superlative. “Anyway, it’s part of your racial heritage.”
“I can be proud of my heritage without liking every little detail. How do you feel about the pale skin that’s part of your heritage? What is it - British? Proud, but you just hate looking like a lobster when you catch too much sun.”
“Irish-American, and I take your point, though I won’t change my mind.”
Lachance looked at him, musing. “Are you in the habit of paying compliments to other men on their appearance?”
“Not really.” Only Albert, and he doesn’t care.
“You know I’m gay.”
“Yeah, I know,” Fletcher said softly. “It’s on your file, along with your home address. I know your birthday, and your mother’s maiden name, and where you went last time you were out of the country.”
Lachance grinned. “How fascinating for you.”
“Well, you’ve piqued my curiosity.”
“Oh yes?” The voice that had reached every corner of the mall that afternoon was now quiet, and as rich as brocade, laced with unmistakable sensuality. “How did I do that? Politically?”
“You know FBI agents can’t show an interest in politics,” Fletch murmured.
“Sexually?”
Fletch laughed, surprised at the man’s boldness. Delighted, too, if he were honest. He said, “You know FBI agents are all straight. We’re not even promiscuous.”
“How, then?”
“What was the fire intended to hide, Xavier?”
This time it was Lachance who was taken unawares by Ash’s boldness, though his expression was quickly schooled into mild amusement. “I knew you’d get around to accusing me of setting fire to my own offices. Sure, you have to explore every avenue but you obviously have no idea what trouble it will be to reconstruct those records, replace the furniture, virtually start over with the publicity campaign … You think my records showed something incriminating?”
“I have to consider every possibility.”
Lachance smiled, his mood returning to the playful sensuality already. It seemed that either his conscience was easy or he was a very smooth and skilful actor. “Agent Ash, you know what I think?”
“No, what do you think?” Difficult not to respond warmly to this man who hadn’t taken offence at being accused, whether it was true or not.
“I think the Bureau sent me the right person for the job. We need a suspicious and creative and open mind like yours.”
“I suppose I should feel flattered.”
“Oh yes. But I am definitely in the habit of paying compliments to other men. Especially ones I find attractive.”
For the moment, Fletcher couldn’t think of how to respond. He was too busy becoming conscious of an arousal he’d been ignoring all evening.
“Especially,” Xavier continued, “when I suspect the attraction is mutual.”
Oh yes, Fletch silently cried in triumph. But he said, very formally, “Mr Lachance, perhaps you’ve misread me.”
“I don’t think so.” Manner still easy and unoffended.
“Then perhaps you’d do me the courtesy of taking the hint and pretending you’ve misread me.”
“I don’t think you really want either of us to pretend.”
“This relationship must remain strictly business.”
“But it hasn’t been strictly business, has it? From the first, you liked me, you liked what I was saying in the mall, you’re curious about me, and I like you, too.”
“I should leave now. I’ll meet with you tomorrow. Lucy gave me your schedule.”
“I’m only interested in seducing your body, Agent Ash, not your objectivity. I’m perfectly happy for you to remain as suspicious of me as you feel necessary. This is sex, or I hope it will be, and the fire is business and never the twain shall meet.”
Fletcher grinned weakly. “I thought I was naïve …”
“Do you always run away when another man propositions you?”
“That’s an impossible question for me to answer under the circumstances.”
“We both have an interest in keeping this secret. You can afford to be honest with me.”
“You’re openly gay,” Fletch protested. “You have nothing to hide.”
“But it’s still not politically expedient for me to have an active sex life. And definitely not a casual one, especially with a fine upstanding FBI agent. The scandal would hurt both of us. This is just between you and me, I promise.”
“And you don’t break your promises.” Fletch sighed. “All right. I admit I’m attracted to you. But it would be the most impossible relationship. There are so many reasons not to do it.”
“But let’s do it anyway. Stay the night here, and then we’ll see what happens next.”
Impossible. The Bureau’s Thou Shalt Nots; Albert’s love and trust; this case in which Lachance was suspected of at least a hidden agenda; Fletcher’s serial killer case that deserved all his spare attention. But Fletcher began laughing helplessly. “I make it a rule to only get involved with the most impossible people. And you are that.”
“I am that,” Lachance murmured. He walked over to stand in front of Fletcher, placed a hand on the ki
tchen bench either side of Fletcher’s hips so that he was trapped, kissed Fletch before he could draw breath to protest. The kiss was passionate, full of promise. And when Lachance raised his head, he laughed happily. “This is going to be so good,” he said.
Albert never laughed, let alone joyously like that. Fletcher’s heart soared, leaving the doubt behind. Yes, this was going to be damned good.
Getting to the bedroom was a haphazard dance, a maddened kiss interrupted for nothing but the necessities of shedding their own and each other’s clothes. Fletcher’s only moments of sense were while safely disposing of his holster and gun, wallet and credentials within sight by the bed, rather than letting Xavier dump them in the hallway. This was glorious. Being undressed by Albert was more like having a personal valet.
Xavier hauled Fletch into a close embrace, tumbled them onto the bed. Perhaps Fletch would have preferred to pause for a moment or two, drink in the sight of this new lover now that he was naked; but they were moving, Xavier over him, encouraging him to match and better Xavier’s thrusts. Fletch had done this with Albert so many times: frottage, fire generating fire, skin against silken skin, so direct and simple. Yet Albert choreographed it beautifully, with endless subtle and mysterious variations on a lovely theme. Xavier was careless and joyful energy, often imperfect, but wonderful nevertheless.
Reaching their mutual goal required effort. There was none of Albert’s expertise which would inspire Fletcher’s nerve endings to delirium with or without Fletch’s own input. From the first, Albert had seemed to know by instinct exactly how to make Fletcher feel better than he’d ever thought possible. A combination of exact biological knowledge and Albert’s brand of driven perfection, and maybe some small proof that they had something unique between them …
This orgasm, while incited by beauty and boundless enthusiasm, needed effort and cooperation - but it was an orgasm, after all, as nice as orgasms always were. Nothing to be ungrateful for. And, judging by Xavier’s cries, he seemed to enjoy his just as much.
As they calmed, Fletch lay still in the heavy embrace, mouth on the verge of smiling, uncomfortable in the simple physical ways that Albert ensured he was never subjected to.
Once he had his breath back, Xavier leaned up on an elbow. “First times are never really spectacular, are they, lover man?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Fletch demurred.
“So let’s work on it, shall we?”
Fletcher smiled fully now. “Yes, let’s work on it.” And soon he put away thoughts of Albert and comparisons, favorable and not. Xavier deserved - and demanded - Fletcher’s full participation.
The cool gray light of dawn. Fletcher woke abruptly from an uneasy sleep, troubled dreams scattering away from him even as he chased those last images. Then he shook his head, and opened his eyes wide to let the morning in, realizing he probably wouldn’t want to confront the nightmares even if he could remember.
Xavier lay close behind him, providing welcome warmth and a generous embrace. The man provoked even while asleep: Xavier’s early morning erection was digging into Fletcher’s buttocks.
There had been a few precious times when Fletcher had woken before Albert, found himself being held as intimately as this, Albert’s mouth pressed to the nape of Fletcher’s neck, Albert’s penis as hungry as Xavier’s was. But upon waking, Albert had never done the obvious thing from that position, though he must surely have known all along that Fletcher would have welcomed it.
Fletch barely knew himself why being fucked so appealed to him. That first time with Albert, the only time the older man had ever given himself over to all the passion he felt, the act had been strange and painful. But it had also been necessary and compelling, and Fletcher had desperately wanted to get used to it, to learn to appreciate the pleasure to be gained from it. Why did Albert refuse them both something that must surely be even more pleasurable for Albert than for Fletcher? Was he too fastidious, perhaps? Did he find the idea of it distasteful or crude?
Albert must have known Fletch wanted it. He could always read Fletcher when it came to sex, read him better than Fletch knew himself and too many of Fletcher’s groans were of frustration. It got to the point where Albert’s hands on his buttocks mere inches away from where Fletch wanted them, while Albert sucked him, were enough to send Fletcher over the edge and beyond. Sometimes Fletcher lay back as Albert’s tongue invaded his mouth, dazed with all the imagined effects of surrendering to complete passion.
Perhaps Fletcher had moaned then, at the memory of being devastated by his other lover, at the thought of what Fletcher needed. Xavier stirred beside him, stretching and incoherently mumbling and, as he moved, rubbing his penis against Fletcher as if by sleepy instinct. Fletcher answered the pressure with his own, reaching an arm back to prevent the man from drawing away.
“Sweet man,” Xavier murmured, already finding a rhythm of thrusts, no matter that he hadn’t yet fully woken.
Fletcher chuckled breathlessly, delightedly. How absurdly invigorating to have a lover this eager. A hand, spread-eagled against his skin, explored the back of his thigh, then encouraged it higher and forward. Fletcher moaned again, wishing with all his might, turning to lie facedown, his arm keeping Xavier with him. The hand moved from his thigh up to his buttocks, then swept along the cleft between them to cup Fletcher’s balls. Fletch couldn’t stifle a pleading cry. Discarding his careful lack of reaction with Albert, his policy of polite but disappointed silence, Fletcher begged, “Fuck me, Xavier. Fuck me.”
The man’s answer was a needy groan, a surge of warm strength against his back. “Done this before?” Xavier asked, even as his fingers ran back along the ridge behind Fletch’s genitals to caress the pucker of flesh.
“Yes.” Fletcher cried out the word as a finger pressed inside him.
“Not often,” was the verdict. “So tight, lover man.”
They were both panting after air, needing this urgent ultimate act. Xavier moved away, kneeling above him, despite Fletch’s bereaved protest. Surely Xavier wouldn’t abandon him, too? “Just once,” Fletcher admitted. “A dildo once. And a finger, sometimes, when I masturbate.” Telling all these secrets with his face in the pillow. “I want it, Xavier, so damned bad. Don’t care if it hurts.”
“Patience,” was the reply, exhibiting more control than only moments before. “Need some stuff.”
Then the miracle of those fingers returning, soothing cool lube into him. A strip of condoms dropped onto the sheet beside him. It was going to happen. Fletcher almost whimpered with relief and crazy need.
“First I’m going to ease you up a little,” Xavier said in that rich brocade voice of his. “Make you come, let you relax. Then I’ll fuck you all you like, lover man. It’ll be so damned good.”
Xavier never breaks a promise. Stripped of wry humor, it was the only coherent thought later, amidst the feverish hot and cold of being possessed. “So damned good,” Fletcher repeated again and again, even when the pain fought for supremacy.
“Sweet man,” Xavier murmured in reply, “my sweet lover man.”
“Are you all right, Fletcher?”
He didn’t bother opening his eyes. “Overwhelmed,” Fletch said, before thinking about it. “No, thoroughly annihilated.”
“That doesn’t sound so great.”
“It’s damned wonderful, actually.” The feel of this warm strength lying against him, after all they’d just done, was devastation in itself.
“Lover man …” The voice hesitant, the body shifting uncomfortably. “I’m on a schedule, you understand.”
“Ah, yes.” Fletcher looked up at Lachance, moving now to kneel above him, and couldn’t help but smile at what he saw: Xavier was so damned beautiful. “I excuse you from further duties,” Fletch intoned. Then, at the other man’s fleeting exasperation, “Sorry, you’ve got me feeling all whimsical. Whoever created the phrase fucked silly must have known me in a previous incarnation. I’ll start making sense again soon.”
“
Good. You take first shower, if you’re up to it, and I’ll make the coffee, all right?”
“That would be fine,” Fletch said lightly, and then frowned at himself. Why did that sound wrong?
“What is it, Fletcher? I know I was pushy last night. And then this morning.” Xavier groaned in what sounded like confusion and disbelief. “One hell of a first date, but I have to take the opportunity when it comes these days.”
That would be fine. It sounded wrong because it was one of Albert’s phrases. Fletch sighed, and looked up to where Xavier hovered over him, concerned but running late. “I’m all right, really, you haven’t hurt me. There might be a million reasons we shouldn’t have, but don’t ask me to regret it, okay? I would have done the same even if I did have time to think. And I expect you not to regret it, either. There’s a difference between force and passion, isn’t there? And I like your passion, very much.” Having settled that to his satisfaction, and received a nod of assent from Xavier, Fletcher began the arduous task of sitting up. “You go have first shower, I’ll make the coffee,” he suggested. “I’ll only hold you up otherwise.”
