Tomas pulled back, muttered, “Fuck,” and then kissed him again.
Adam hadn’t the breath for a single word, but fuck just about covered it.
Their bodies continued to grind together, Adam’s hips matching the rhythm of Tomas’ shunts as they rutted. He nipped Adam’s collarbone and the telltale tremors of orgasm flickered in his head. Oh Christ, I am not going to come in my pants. Not unless Tomas did too.
Then Tomas gave a strangled moan, tensed and lifted his head. What’s wrong? As Adam tried to pull him close again, Tomas shifted so their cocks no longer connected and averted his face. What the hell’s happening? Before the first syllable of a question left Adam’s mouth, as suddenly as Tomas had kissed him the man flung himself off the couch. He stumbled to his feet and lurched across the room to lean against the kitchen counter, his back to Adam, shoulders shaking.
Adam brought his arms down to his sides and sat up. He waited for Tomas to say something, but all he heard was labored breathing. Adam opened his mouth and then closed it again. What was the point in speaking? Whatever was happening here was over. He pushed to his feet and walked out of the apartment.
He might have said nothing but he thought plenty. Working in a business where analysis and calculation of risk were essential to ensure success, he wanted to know what had gone wrong. It had been over a year since he’d been with a guy, so had he made a mistake? Broken some protocol? Not done something he should have? He closed the door of his apartment and rested his back against it. Or should he go with the obvious answer that Tomas had changed his mind and come to his senses before he’d come to his?
Except he wouldn’t have changed his mind. Once he’d made a decision he stuck with it. Mostly. He dampened down his surge of anger. Tomas was entitled to change his mind. Nothing he could do about it. The guy could have said something but maybe he was embarrassed. Shit. Now Adam was going to spend the next three weeks thinking of what might have been.
His cock was still hard as stone and there was a tremor in his body he needed gone. He walked into the bedroom and stripped off for the shower he’d not got around to taking, letting his clothes fall on the floor. Adam stared down at them. Maybe reading the instructions for the washing machine would dampen his ardor. He picked up Ally’s folder.
A couple of minutes later he set it aside.
No. He was still hard.
He put his clothes in the laundry hamper but suspected he’d be buying new gear rather than risk experimenting with the machine in the kitchen. Adam stepped into the shower and let cool water pour over his shoulders. His cock remained rigid. He upped the heat. No point torturing himself. He squirted his favorite shower gel into his palm—had Ally thought of everything?—and wrapped slick fingers around his cock.
At that first touch, he arched back against the wall and exhaled. He drew his fist up from his balls in a long, slow slide, brushed his palm over his tingling crest and then slid his hand back to the root of his cock.
He wished it were Tomas playing with him. He wished the guy were standing here so Adam could do the same to him. He wished—he sighed and began to pump, drawing his foreskin over the sensitive head before dragging his hand down. He stood so the flow of water hit his neck and back, and blinked droplets from his lashes as he stared at his cock, imagining Tomas on his knees in front of him, lips wrapped around the tip before he took him deep into his throat.
The thought heralded a burst of pre-cum. Silky liquid seeped onto his hand to be washed away by trickles of water. He wrapped his fingers around his balls and pulled down to stop himself coming while he twisted and squeezed his shaft with his other hand. As tension invaded every part of his body to wage a war of attrition against his nerves, the water seemed to grow warmer. For the last year, this ride, this solitary race toward orgasm, had been dominated by visions of Ally and Caspar, singly and together—but always with him.
Now he saw Tomas in his mind…his dark eyes…his lips…his tongue.
Memories of the way he felt, tasted and smelled filled Adam’s head. He was torn between going slow or coming fast and hard. He almost smiled at the notion of choice. Pinching tighter around the tip of his cock, he made short, quick jerks so that his palm struck his crest on the downstroke. At the same time, he firmed his grip on his balls. The need to come grew. A biting ache in his head and another in his gut galloped through discomfort toward pleasure and he braced for the connection to flash between them.
His gasps grew louder and louder as his heart pounded hard against his ribs.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Cum boiled in his balls and the moment he released his grip, orgasm took control of his body. He erupted in long, creamy jets onto the tiles. White lights flashed behind his eyes and Adam leaned to rest his forehead against his arm as he shuddered.
Three weeks were going to seem like three months.
Tomas heard Adam’s shower start up on the other side of his wall and failed to swallow the lump in his throat. He could have had Adam in here with him but he’d done the right thing and pushed him away. It was the sensible thing to do. The safe thing to do. A really difficult thing to do.
Hell knew what the guy thought of him. Tomas had been so close to following and finishing what they’d started. Now he suspected Adam was managing that on his own. He stripped, tossed his clothes aside and stepped into the shower stall. Before his conscience stopped him, he put his ear to the wall and listened. Faint grunts sounded above the noise of the water, there was a muttered expletive and he twisted the dial to stop himself listening to more.
It made no difference to the way he felt. His cock was hard enough to hurt, his balls primed for detonation.
Ah damn. When had Tomas ever done the decent thing? It wasn’t because of his job he’d pushed Adam away. He wanted him and he’d chickened out. He couldn’t change the way he was but it was about time he stopped messing around and decided for good which way he swung, what he preferred, dick or pussy.
No one he knew was aware he had any interest in men, which was the way Tomas liked it. Except he didn’t like it anymore, this vacillation between sexes. It made sense to go for the easy life and find women to fuck and he needed to stick to that. Maybe he’d forget Adam had made him harder than he’d ever remembered.
Tomas soaped up his hands, wrapped one around his cock and slid the other down the crease of his butt. He leaned his forehead against the wall and imagined Adam’s head inches away from his. Oh shit. He fought to replace that image with a woman, any woman, but it was Adam’s features that kept re-forming. Tomas wanted to come too much to persist in trying to blank his mind. He pressed a fingertip against his anus, circling and massaging the tight pucker until the ring of muscle began to relax. His finger slipped just inside, and a moment later he groaned as it glided up to the webbing.
How would Adam’s cock have felt, filling him, fucking him? Unusually for Tomas, he’d considered being fucked and maybe that was the honest reason he’d backed off. He’d only ever let a guy fuck him in the ass once, a long while ago, and swore he’d never let it happen again.
Let. Yeah, a real interesting word. I’m a fucking idiot.
Tomas chomped his lip, slid in another digit and sucked in a breath.
He stood trembling under the water, one hand wrapped around his cock, two fingers of his other hand shoved up his ass, with the words I’m an idiot echoing in his head. He could have had Adam in here with him, Adam on his knees sucking him off, Adam against the wall while he tucked up behind and fucked him. Then they could have swapped. Maybe. The image of the two of them joined flooded Tomas’ brain and he worked himself harder and faster, grunting with pleasure, twisting his fingers in his ass.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groaned.
His hands worked in unison, shoving, tightening, pumping. His breath quickened, his heart pounded and orgasm roared down his spine in a lightning burst of electricity to trigger the tightening in his balls. Tomas’ cries echoed in the bathroom as he jetted th
ick ropes of cum onto the tiles. As the last spasm died away, he leaned his head against the tiles.
This was going to be a long and frustrating few weeks.
Chapter Four
Wren groaned as the bus lurched to a halt yet again. She stared at her watch, willing the hands to go backward, but this morning, stopping time wasn’t one of her superpowers. Since being late for a staff meeting at Ezispeke could result in decapitation, she jumped off and ran.
Well, not quite decapitation, but getting on the wrong side of Olive Speke—who always lectured her as if she were a small child—made Wren want to tear off a head. Hers or Olive’s. She ran faster. She was already on Olive’s naughty list and couldn’t afford to lose this job. Much as she hated the idea, she needed to ask for more hours to boost her pay packet.
Brought to a halt by a busy road, she twitched with impatience, waiting for the lights to change, and her bus rolled past. Damn. Sometimes she felt the world was out to get her, particularly traffic and men, though it was her own fault she’d rebounded from bastard Leo to thieving Brendan, who’d appeared in her life at the right time for him and the wrong time for her.
Heartsick women were easy pickings for cunning scum like Brendan McCoy. It irked Wren that having been so careful to stay out of debt, she’d be years paying off what he’d stolen. Working more hours at Ezispeke wouldn’t make a substantial difference. She needed to look for an evening job. Better still, a different day job that paid well and had prospects, because while Olive was in charge, Wren was going nowhere. In truth, she was going backward.
Once Wren crossed the road, she began to run again, weaving her way through hoards of commuters. She glanced at her watch and winced. Olive didn’t accept any excuse, particularly not from her. She’d been given the worst timetable and the worst students, the ones who only attended Ezispeke because someone had twisted their arms. Hard. That her rotten bastard colleague Leo always seemed to have perfect students and an easy timetable just made matters worse. Wren had hoped for a couple of weeks’ peace while he and Belinda went on honeymoon but in the worst case of sucking up ever, they’d delayed their vacation until next summer to please Olive.
A sharp stitch in Wren’s side forced her to slow and she groaned.
Though the school catered largely to foreign students aged sixteen and upward, she rarely seemed to be given the opportunity to teach adults. She usually ended up with hormonal Spanish or Italian teenage boys desperate to practice their seduction techniques nowhere near their parents. But after this morning’s staff meeting, she had a class of adults for the first time in over a year. This term, she’d been given three adult courses to run. Either Olive had made a mistake or was finally warming to her. If the latter, then it was particularly important not to let her cool down by being late.
Wren charged forward again, dodging a homicidal cyclist who not only ignored a red light but had the nerve to release a string of expletives as she ran on. She took a shortcut through an alley at the back of Leeds City Museum, keeping an eye out for reversing vehicles, but when her breathing became labored, she had to slow once more.
The motion-sensitive doors of Ezispeke finally came into view, sliding open to allow in a tall, dark-haired guy in a black leather jacket. She put on an extra burst of speed only to trip and smack into the closing glass. Bouncing off with a yelp, Wren caught a glimpse of a shocked, handsome face staring at her through the now opening doors as she staggered backward. Somehow she managed to trip over her feet and her dangling bag and frantically waved her arms trying to get her balance, only to end up sprawled on the concrete. Wren closed her eyes and groaned. Ouch—my butt, my head, my elbows, my dignity. I should be noted the idiot most likely to run into a glass door. Please don’t let anyone come to see if I’m—
“You okay, little bird?”
The voice was deep, the accent foreign. Wren opened her eyes to see the man wearing the leather jacket. She took in the untidy black hair, dark eyes, long dark lashes and a face so mind-blowingly exquisite she wanted to lie there and stare at him forever.
Unless she was dead and he was the devil.
Maybe even then.
“Broke wing?” he asked.
Her butt possibly, but best not to share that. He might offer to kiss it better and she might say yes and offer to kiss his. Her cheeks flamed. An attempt to scramble to her feet left her on her back, flapping like a stranded turtle. That was okay. She was fine lying there, gazing up into her nighttime fantasies for weeks to come. Maybe months. Please let him be a new teacher and not a student. Students were off-limits. Decapitation plus disembowelment for that infringement.
His brow wrinkled. “Hit your head? Call ambulance? Talk.”
She’d forgotten how to speak. Or could it be he took her breath away? She’d never misuse that cliché again. Air flooded her lungs as she gasped.
He crouched at her side and the citrus tang of his soap or aftershave, or some yummy male scent, dragged a whimper from her.
“Where hurts?” he asked.
Ooh, his eyelashes are longer and thicker than mine.
“What your name, little bird?”
Oh God, how corny is this going to sound? “Wren.”
His sultry lips quirked in a smile and her heart zinged. “Good name. You fly into glass like bird. Feathers broke?”
She couldn’t place his accent.
“You have parts need rubbing better?”
Bloody hell. Wren envisaged his hands on her butt and bit back the moan surging up her throat.
As he stared down at her and she continued to gaze up at him, she remembered why she was lying there. The staff meeting. Shit. She rolled to her feet and plastered a half-smile on her face.
“Sorry about that.” She bent to gather her purse and bag and winced before bolting through the now fully open doors to the stairs.
No limbs appeared to be broken though her knees shook, but Wren felt so embarrassed she was pretty sure a broken leg wouldn’t have stopped her making a run for it. She pulled her ID from her purse and looped it over her head as she reached the door of the conference room. She hoped to sidle in unnoticed but the door gave a loud, prolonged screech when she pushed it. Olive stopped speaking and everyone turned Wren’s way.
“Sorry,” Wren said.
In her hurry to find a seat, she tipped over a chair and her cheeks heated as she righted it.
“Sorry,” she repeated to a stony Olive, only to let out a muffled yelp as her backside hit the cushion.
“Have you quite finished?” Olive pinned her with a fierce glare. “Any more noises to distract us? Going to do farmyard impressions?”
She cringed. Her friend Sylvie quietly mooed in her ear and Wren had to bite her lip so she didn’t laugh.
While Olive blathered on, Wren surreptitiously checked for damage. No rips in her pants. Nothing appeared to be bleeding. She ached, so she was probably bruised but—
“Don’t you think so, Wren?” Olive snapped.
She opted for a nod and a swift smile, hoping she wasn’t committing herself to more hours of extracurricular unpaid slavery. Olive’s gaze shifted from her to Mike, who had his hand up, and Wren sighed with relief. Once she’d tuned back in, she realized Olive was talking about taking students on extended field trips. Olive made it sound as if it were her initiative but it was Wren who’d given her the idea.
Wren glowered. She’d pushed and pushed a couple of months ago until Olive had said yes to her escorting a group to the museum. Wren hadn’t told Olive everything they’d done there. Who’d have guessed there were that many penises on statues and in paintings? But it had kept all the French girls riveted, awarding points for size and attractiveness as Wren led them round. Not something that appeared on her lesson plan. Never let it be said she didn’t know the way to keep teenagers interested. It was just guys her age she had a problem with.
“I want a proposal from every member of staff,” Olive said. “Leo’s already given me a wonderful one.” She
beamed at treacherous swine bastard Leo. “Include health and safety issues and detailed costs. Think big. Think appealing. Think expensive.”
A few groans followed. A large proportion of those who taught here wanted to coast, and keeping foreign teenagers under control was fraught with difficulty. Bad enough inside the classroom let alone outside. The moment these youngsters reached the UK, they were determined to do as much as they could get away with outside the classroom and as little work as they could inside.
“Hot-house tomato,” Sylvie said in Wren’s ear.
Wren swallowed her snigger. She and Sylvie took turns coming up with ways to describe Olive in terms of fruit and vegetables. It somehow made Wren less nervous of her. It wasn’t that Olive was an imposing figure. She was five feet tall and round as a ball. Nor was it her clothes. Today she wore a revolting red muumuu and a green turban.
“Heirloom tomato topped by brussels sprout,” Wren whispered.
Sylvie snorted.
Olive had the kind of features that would have appeared natural on a heavyweight wrestler; a large flat nose, deep-set eyes and a killer glare. Plus she had a temper like an electric storm.
“And someone still hasn’t signed off their registers for last term.” Olive looked straight at Wren, who immediately found the floor fascinating.
She made a mental note to call by the office. Since a term only lasted three or four weeks, not signing off the registers didn’t seem a big deal, but Olive liked to run “a tight ship” as she insisted on calling it.
After a round of applause and congratulations for the newly married couple—and Wren clapped much too loudly and smiled too broadly—Olive and the admin staff left to do an introductory talk to the new students, and Martin Grieves, the senior lecturer, started his spiel. If there had been an Olympic medal for being a boring fart, Moaning Martin would win gold. He was really tall, really thin and really hairy. Wisps of ginger curls sprung from the collars and cuffs of his shirts and when Martin talked to her, Wren’s gaze was always drawn to them, imagining under his clothes he must be like an orangutan.
Girl Most Likely To Page 4
