Placing the cups on a tray, Toby carried it out of the small kitchen off the main office and walked around to each desk, depositing cups as he went. No one thanked him. Most never acknowledged he was even there, and not for the first time he considered either pouring the hot liquid over everyone's heads or walking out.
Neither was an option.
Back in the kitchen, he filled the kettle again to make his own drink. He did this from experience. If he made his at the same time as everyone else's, by the time he got back to his it was going cold. Besides, he preferred hot chocolate, and no one liked a skin forming on the top. No one he knew anyway.
His mind wandered again. Back then, he hadn't told Russell everything right away. After they'd climbed out of that grave, Russell had taken him to a little shed thing on site and given him tea. Toby had offered the barest of details, omitting the fact those men had taken him to that big house. That came out later when they'd been interviewed by the police. And poor Sasha. Wrong place at the wrong time. Those bastards had come back after dumping him in that grave and killed her. What the fuck for he had no idea. Maybe to make it look like he'd killed her then legged it?
Except it hadn't quite worked out, if that had been their plan. Toby remained alive and well, albeit with serious mental scars and nightmares filled with being inside a grave full of mud, unable to get out.
There was an upside to this whole sorry mess, though. Russell.
Toby hadn't really been in a serious relationship—not one like his with Russell anyway. This past year or so proved a test for both of them, living together and sharing their new space when Russell was used to being alone and Toby had shacked up with a female flatmate. And they were still feeling their way, getting to know one another a little more every day. Toby was surprised they'd lasted this long, actually. Most people, even those in previously solid relationships, would have crumbled under the pressure of having dodgy blokes looking for them day in, day out. Toby was under no illusions about that, either. They were being hunted all right. No way blokes who were into torture would sit back and let two men go—men who had blabbed to the coppers, their faces splashed all over the sodding newspapers.
Mind you, if a year had passed, it could be said they'd been forgotten about. They might be safe now.
My skinny arse.
Toby sipped his hot chocolate and leaned against the countertop edge. He'd spend his tea break in here, away from those arseholes, who treated him like a skivvy. They'd guessed he was gay, too, right from the start, and he didn't care what they said to the contrary, it did bother them.
“Well, fuck them,” he muttered. “It's not like I've gone round copping a feel of their arses and cornering them for a kiss, is it?”
You'd think he had, judging by the looks the men gave him. And the women weren't much better. Russell had no idea Toby put up with this every day. Toby almost envied Russell his creepy career choice. He got to work alone with only the dead for company. And that Reginald—what a complete wanker. Toby met him once when he had a day off and had dropped Russell at the graveyard gates to save him going by bike. They only had the one car between them, and Jacob & Sons was further away from home than Wraxford Cemetery. Reginald had eyed Toby up and down like he was shit on his shoe. Toby thought at the time that if he had shit on his shoe right then, he'd have gladly wiped it on Reginald's pristine black trousers. Trousers, when you worked in a graveyard?
The bloke walked off after opening the gates, looking as though he had a broom handle stuck up his arse, and Toby had questioned Russell as to why the guy wore trousers instead of jeans.
“'Cos he don't do any work where he gets dirty, that's why.”
Toby grimaced now, blowing his hot chocolate and taking a creamy sip. He wished the past would just fuck off and leave him alone.
“Toby!” Martha shouted from the office. “Boss wants you to post some letters.”
I wish he'd fuck off and leave me alone and all.
“Be with him in a minute. Just finishing my drink,” he called.
“Uh, now, Toby. Five minutes ago, like.”
He had nothing against the Newcastle accent, but the tone of Martha's voice got right on his nerves. Pouring the remainder of his drink down the plughole then swilling out the cup, Toby left the kitchen and walked toward the boss’ office.
“Uh, Toby. Boss left the letters at reception.”
Reception? Unusual.
Mind you, Mr Jacob was getting old, and quirks due to his age had begun to show. Once, he'd sworn blind he'd asked Toby to get a file out when he hadn't. No amount of telling Mr. Jacob that he hadn't had worked. To appease the old bastard, Toby had admitted he'd forgotten and got on with the task.
Toby walked out of an office abuzz with keyboards tapping and phones ringing, via the double glass doors. The reception area, all cream carpet and walls adorned with modern art that looked like a kid had painted them, held a massive semi-circular desk. Miss Prissy Pants Extraordinaire sat behind it. She acted like her shit didn't stink and was a rung above Martha on the ladder of people Toby wished he didn't have to work with.
Sighing, he took the pile of letters off the desk and headed for the elevator. He jabbed the DOWN button and watched the number arrows light red as the lift ascended.
“What have you got there?” Prissy asked.
Toby turned to face her. “Letters Mr. Jacob wanted posting.”
“Oh, right. I wondered who'd put them there. He must have come in while I was in the ladies’ room.”
The elevator dinged. Toby smiled tightly and stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor. As he descended, he nosed through the mail, wondering what was so important that it couldn't wait until later when the postman collected the letters just after four o'clock. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary—each letter addressed with the usual sticky white label—Toby shrugged and waited for the lift to stop.
The doors slid open, and he stepped out into the building's main foyer. Black leather sofas and chairs were dotted about. Newspapers and magazines stood in rigid piles on low, glass-topped coffee tables. And Selena, the nicest person in the whole damn building, smiled at him from behind her vast marble-effect desk.
“Off on an errand again, Toby?” she asked with a smile.
“As ever,” he said and pushed open one of the steel-edged glass front doors.
There was quite a nip in the air, and judging by the wet ground, it'd been raining hard. The clouds looked like they held shitloads more. Fucking great. Not only was he going to get cold, it appeared he'd probably get soaked, seeing as the post box stood two streets away. He'd never make it there and back in time, judging by the fast-darkening sky.
Taking a deep breath so he didn't shout copious swear words and get odd looks from passersby, he exhaled through tight lips and walked. He shouldn't keep complaining really. His life wasn't a bad one, even though they were hiding out from southern nutters. If he was honest, it was just his job getting him down, and he could always start looking for a new one. After thinking about that for a while, he nodded absently, telling himself he'd browse online later and see if anything local was on offer.
The only time he was happy was when he was at home with Russell. Everything bad seemed to melt away then, and all that existed was them and what they were doing. He'd struck lucky finding him, Toby knew that, and if he thought about being without him, he choked up.
He turned into Fountain Street and spied the red post box, sitting on the corner where this road formed a T-junction with the one at the top. No one else occupied the street, unless you counted the people living in the houses on either side. Cars parked in a haphazard line right down the road, and he wondered for a brief moment whether anyone around here had actually passed their driving test. He stared at a black van parked behind the post box, on the curb of the road that formed the top of the T. If that driver wasn't careful, some joyriding little twat would shunt him up the rear end and do a right bit of damage.
Od
dly, there wasn't much traffic going to and fro up there. Surprising, because there usually was. Toby shrugged and drew closer to the post box. He glanced at the sky. The first splats of new rainfall came down, large droplets few and far between. He recognised them as the prelude to one motherfucking downpour and upped his pace.
At the post box, he lifted his hand and dropped the letters through the slot, turning away to lift the collar of his jacket up around his ears. He didn't fancy a wet neck as well as everything else. Facing back the way he'd just come, he contemplated jogging back to work. The raindrops came down faster, and when he braced himself to run, someone grabbed the back of his jacket.
Toby turned, fist raised, ready to give the bastard what for.
Until he saw who it was.
The man grinned, teeth flashing through his black beard. “Hello, mate. Fancy seeing you here.”
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Chapter Three
Harris “Frost” Kingsley had time to kill before he...killed.
I hope the little bastards are suffering. Worrying. Wondering what will happen next.
The thought of those two shitting themselves while they waited for the second phase on the last day of their lives almost had him laughing.
“Stop holding your legs,” he said, gazing at his lover, whose eyes flickered with different hues of amber.
Defiant little prick. Beautifully defiant.
Stephen hunched up by the headboard, arms about his knees, which he hugged close to his chest. Frost knew he frightened the young man, but really... What was it with the men of today? What did it take to get a lover who did as he was damn well told without question?
“You must relax.” Frost, naked, arse on his heels, studied Stephen from the bottom of the bed. “You know how much I dislike a hole that doesn't...give without a fight.”
I lie well. Telling him that only serves to make him tenser.
Stephen took in a deep breath and let go of his knees, stretching his legs out, feet either side of Frost's thighs. His pretty face showed signs of crying throughout the night. Ah, he had been homeless, standing on the street corner, with no one to notice him being gone. At least that's what Frost told himself. Stephen had protested when Frost's men grabbed him, bundling the skinny wretch into the back of Frost's car. Said he'd only popped out to get some milk for his mother.
They all said that.
Stephen had stared at Frost beside him in the back seat, the car speeding away to Frost's home.
“What do you want?” Stephen had asked.
“You'll see.” Frost smiled. “How old are you.”
“Eighteen.”
“Perfect.”
Now, Frost shunted forward between Stephen's legs, his cock pointed at his lover's chest. Frost took himself in hand and began that slow movement up and down that had almost sent him insane last night. And it was sending him insane now. Stephen's fear fuelled his desire.
Frost's fingers itched to reach out and touch Stephen, but he held back, enjoying himself just fine on his own. To be with someone so uneasy was thrilling. Frost could sit there all night and study him. Stroke his own cock, utter words to the young man that further changed his expression from fearful to terrified. That would make him come, just like it had last time. Frost's cock strained, and a drop of pre-cum drizzled down the head.
“I smell your fear, Stephen. My cock is weeping because of it. See what you do to me? See what your fear does? Take off those trousers. I want to see you naked.”
Stephen eyed Frost's legs, gaze sweeping up and down them like a kid anticipating the belt from an angry father. Good.
Oh, so fucking good.
Stephen looked as though he would refuse, then must have recalled what happened before when he did that. An angry red stripe across his back bore testament to it. He scrabbled onto his knees, dragged his trousers off, and tossed them to the floor.
“And the top. Take that off too.” Frost's hand glided on. Up and down, up and down.
Stephen lifted his black T-shirt over his head, body puny compared to Frost's sexy-as-fuck frame—and he knew it was sexy as fuck. Frost's cock throbbed erratically, needing to be touched by the young man. Stephen flung the T-shirt aside and rested his hands on the mattress, obviously unsure what to do.
Best to wait for my instructions. If you don't...you'll have welts across your pretty little arse that won't heal for a week.
Frost lifted his wide thighs and straddled Stephen, pushing the other's legs together. “Take me in your mouth. I want to feel your lips around me. And if you bite...I'll kill you.”
Stephen cleared his throat and sighed, pushed himself up into a more rigid sitting position. Lifting his hands, he tentatively lowered them toward Frost's thighs, the warmth from them meeting Frost's skin before Stephen even made contact. A shiver slid through Frost, from his head to his goddamn toes.
Stephen pressed his hands to Frost's prominent muscles. God, but his touch felt good, all soft skin and fear-heat. The hairs on Frost's legs rasped against Stephen's hands as he smoothed them up and down, the young man's gaze on Frost's hand stroking his cock. The sight of that and the feel of him got Frost's cock to throbbing harder, an almost painful ache that spread to his balls. He wanted him more than he'd wanted anyone. Longed for the feel of Stephen inside his arse.
Longed to fuck the little bastard in his arse.
Stephen lifted his head to look at Frost's face and caught Frost studying him with a smile.
“You are beautiful, Stephen Brookes. I am so glad we found you. Your hands upon me...ah, they feel...mmmm. Taste me. Suck my cock.”
Stephen shuddered—ah, bliss!—and pushed his hands up to Frost's waist. Frost released his cock and thrust his pelvis forward, the tip of him inches from the other's face. Keeping one hand at his waist, Stephen drew the other across to grip Frost's cock. Fuck, the warmth from him seared, and an image of him fucking Frost from behind filled his mind and made his balls ache even more. Frost groaned, eager for Stephen to settle those lips around his pulsing tip, the skin there so smooth it shone. Easing forward a little more, Stephen leaned in and, holding Frost at his base, used the flat of his tongue to lick his shaft from root to tip.
The young man heaved.
Frost moaned, the sound ending on a low, rumbling growl, and sunk his hands into Stephen's hair. He caressed the scalp, his fingertips soft and sensual, and again his lover licked from root to tip, following up with his hand tight around him.
“That's it. Taste. Suck. Lick.”
Stephen continued licking, and each time he reached the top he covered Frost with his lips before dragging his tongue back down. This act was such a turn-on, more so than it had been with anyone else, and Frost thought he could come just by doing this.
“This feels so good, Stephen. Your tongue is so hot and wet. Take me deeper.” He clutched Stephen's hair tight for a beat then continued with his head massage.
Stephen drew up, plunging Frost deep into his mouth, the silky softness of his tip brushing the roof. Frost groaned, and Stephen sucked upward, creating suction, his hand once again following his lips. Frost's cock seemed to widen, fill his lover's mouth further, and pre-cum dripped onto that talented tongue.
Frost stopped massaging and pushed Stephen's head, guiding it up and down at a rapid pace. His cock strained. Stephen sucked on, closing his eyes.
“You will never be lonely again, Stephen. I will always be with you.”
Stephen shuddered again, and Frost bit back a burst of laughter. The young man clearly didn't want to be here. Didn't want to be Frost's permanent lover.
Tough shit.
Stephen sucked harder, faster.
He wants it over. Hates it.
“Ah, you have a talented mouth. Exquisite.” Frost released a long rumble of sound that reverberated throughout his body. “Enough. You are too talented.”
Stephen lifted his head, Frost's cock coming free of his mouth with a soft plop, and
waited for his next command. It didn't come from Frost's lips. Instead, he flipped Stephen over before the man had a chance to realize what was happening and settled him on his belly. Hands about Stephen's waist, Frost eased him up and back so he rested on all fours. Frost growled once more, roving his hands up and down Stephen's back, thumbs brushing the tip of his arse cleft, teasing, making the young man squirm and hate him.
Frost needed the hate to get off.
Heat radiated from his hands, and Frost concentrated on his strokes, sweeping up that knobby-spined back, curving over those bony shoulders, then back down the spine. Stephen's skin broke out in goose bumps, and his body shook.
Not from pleasure. No. Not from that.
“Ah, you want me to play down...there,” Frost stated with a smirk, thumbs skating to the valley between Stephen's arse cheeks and lingering at his pucker.
“No. No, I don't want you there. Please. No.” Stephen sounded like a begging fool.
Frost's cock grew harder.
Tingles from his thumbs zipped through him, compact and dense, infusing him with such goose-bumpy tension he had to hold back a cry. If he felt like this now, what the damn would he feel like when he actually—
I know what it will feel like. Perfect.
He circled Stephen's pucker with his thumb and slipped it inside.
Oh God...
He imagined the burn of his intrusion searing Stephen's channel, an awesome heat that tightened Frost's balls and had his cock vein throbbing violently. He pushed further inside then stroked the nub, just once, and swore he was going to come. He grabbed the end of his cock and squeezed to hold off his orgasm.
“You like this, don't you?” Frost brushed the nub again, once, twice, three times.
“No! I hate it. Please, stop. I hate it.” Stephen lowered his head and looked between his legs. A pained whimper left him.
Scared Page 3
