They only snorted delightedly at their own vanity. Nikolas had bought them both Maserati sunglasses.
Ben glanced over. He saw a new Nikolas. Something he had only too recently denied ever being possible. Perhaps new code had, for once, been assimilated and real change had occurred.
Ben saw a billionaire. He saw a relaxed, wealthy playboy with nothing better to do than buy extravagant toys for his boyfriend.
It was something of a revelation.
It was also revealing that for the first time, Ben was more than happy to be with a billionaire who bought him such presents. There was no guilt, no shadow on his landscape at all. They were wealthy, they were beautiful, and they were together. On the return trip, when they were both bloodied and bruised, Ben recalled that moment of unadulterated happiness in Princetown and wished he’d not been quite so buoyed up on Nikolas’s perfections—wished he’d remembered that the mighty can fall extremely quickly.
But the car wasn’t damaged.
That was all that really counted.
They’d both been…arrogant. Uncharacteristically so. Drunk, possibly, on themselves, on their perfection, on love.
They’d stopped, ostensibly because Nikolas wanted a turn at driving, but as they’d passed a pub only a few miles back, Ben had realised at the same time that he was starving so he had swung around and pulled up with a loud, unintentional skid on the gravel in front.
As they’d gone in through the doorway, they’d both had to duck, which had made them laugh, because when Nikolas had warned Ben, he’d mangled the word, his accent turning duck into something else, an invitation, and Ben had replied by catching him around the neck and knuckle-rubbing his hair then murmuring too loud, “Standing or bent over the bar?”
They’d forgotten.
Isolated in their own little world, intoxicated with love, Ben had genuinely forgotten that men didn’t get to touch one another in public; men didn’t get to announce to the world that they were in love with another man.
Perhaps it was just the designer jeans, their aura of wealth and privilege and, of course, the two hundred thousand pound car sitting outside in the sunshine. Snarling disdain.
Two men rose from a large huddle around a pub table and told them to fuck off—that this wasn’t a pub for fags. Go to Plymouth if they wanted to fucking kiss men. A good number of the group were wearing polo shirts with Ivybridge Rugby Club embroidered on the breast pocket.
Nikolas was frowning at the kissing comment, and Ben knew he was about to ask where in Plymouth, as if it had been a genuine tip that he wanted to explore. Ben also knew that Nikolas didn’t take well to being called a fag. It had happened once before, with disastrous consequences to the men who’d made that foolish mistake. He stepped in front and put his arm across Nikolas’s chest, planning to be conciliatory. Nikolas began taking off his million-dollar watch. That wasn’t a good sign in Ben’s book either. One or two of the others, in what appeared to be an entire Rugby team, were rising to their feet, but they were staring out of the window. One made a comment about the car—it was an incredibly impressed, awed comment, from a true petrol head, but Ben feared it would be followed up by going out to see the car. That was the problem with convertibles. Hard to lock.
No one put a greasy fingerprint on his new present from Nikolas. No one sat on his midnight-blue leather seats either. He took his arm off Nikolas’s chest, wondered if Peyton Garic would find it funny and conceded, “Have in them.”
Nikolas clearly didn’t get the reference to his own mangled English, or the joke, but he got the permission. He seized the one who’d insulted them by the shirtfront and hauled him up close and personal. “What do fags do?”
The man’s eyes were wide with panic. He obviously knew the answer to this bizarre and unexpected question, but he had a dozen friends behind him. They were rugby players. No one took on a man with twelve boozed-up rugby friends backing him up and asked them facetious questions. Nikolas smiled nicely and answered for him, “They fuck up men.”
After that it was a blur of fists meeting bone, broken furniture, shouting, and blood. Ben didn’t want to lose a tooth, and he definitely didn’t want Nikolas killing anyone. Given those codicils, he was fairly unconcerned how things would go.
They’d rarely fought back-to-back like this together. Nikolas was hardly into public brawling. He would one day be the Queen of England’s ex-husband. He had been a Russian general—still was, as generals don’t retire. Except that he was dead, of course. He’d pointed this out to Ben one day, grumbling about not receiving his pension.
Ben kept a wary eye on his blond general.
Nikolas could get a little carried away when life turned physical.
Most of the men were no competition at all. Playing rugby didn’t, despite its reputation in popular fiction, turn you into a skilled fighter—brawler, braggart, and down-in-the-scrum wrestler, possibly. Boozer, definitely.
Half of their opponents ran for the door when the punching began, much to the dismay of the one who’d issued the challenge in the first place.
Six men remaining. To be fair to these six, they appeared to be trying to make up for the desertion of their mates. But they didn’t know how to fight men with genuine killing skill.
Ben’s only problem was trying not to hurt them too much. After all, they’d not really done anything other than call them fags, which they were. Speaking for himself, watching Nikolas, he was very glad he was—a fag—and when they got home he intended to spend some very agreeable time in the shower with Nikolas proving this. What was in a name? Didn’t bother him.
Nikolas, he could see, wasn’t taking the insult with such equanimity. Ben could also see he was enjoying himself immensely. He was toying with his three, taunting them to come at him and then dodging away like a dancer, as if he was leery of tackling them and being hurt. It only egged them on, made them stupid and careless, and so they came at him all together, which was fatal—not literally, but certainly for any hopes they had of actually doing some damage. Nikolas swung down low and tripped them, and they went down together in a tumble of flabby beer guts and rugby muscle, at which point Nikolas picked them up individually by collars and belts and threw them out of the door. He’d done that once before as well, but then through a window. He’d mellowed with age. Ben could tell.
Nikolas followed his victims out, and Ben shouted warningly, “Mind my new car!”
He heard Nikolas grunt a reply, and being distracted, thinking about the perfection of matte-black paintwork, Ben caught a knuckle to the mouth, and his lip split. That finished it for him. Sore lips meant less kissing, and kissing Nikolas was almost his favourite hobby. Besides, he was still hungry, and he could see plates of uneaten food at the deserted table. He wasn’t too proud to hoover leftovers.
Nikolas came back in, inspecting his finger and trying to show it to Ben. Consequently, he grabbed the man in the process of swinging a chair at Ben’s head and held him in an arm lock. “Does this look broken to you?”
Ben peered at the tiny red swelling, holding another assailant at arm’s length. The third, he noticed with a private smirk, backed off toward the toilets and locked himself in.
Suddenly there was a moment of peace in the pub when the two men restrained fell quiet. They were possibly realising that from twelve they were now just two, and that somehow the fags they’d assumed would be gay—which in their parlance meant lame—weren’t. Lame or gay. Although when Ben took Nikolas’s finger in his mouth and sucked it for a moment they may have had to revise the latter of those two reassessments. Definitely had to when Nikolas groaned and pulled Ben in for a kiss. The man squashed between them seemed entirely confused by the mixed messages. It was only his squawking that made them break apart and enabled their last two victims to run.
§ § §
Nikolas watched as Ben foraged amongst what was worth scavenging from the abandoned table. “We should go. One of them may have called the police. You know I do not interact wel
l with law enforcement.”
Ben swallowed. “Sure you don’t need the hospital…?”
Nikolas ignored the blatant sarcasm, studying his finger, which was slightly swollen.
Ben ruffled his hair. “I wonder where the barman is. We should pay for the damages.”
“I think he’s the one in the toilet.”
§ § §
Nikolas’s injury was trivial enough for him to drive, apparently, so they set off again. Now, Ben got to study Nikolas, which was almost as much fun as being the driver. Nikolas wasn’t a speed freak like Ben was—he would never ride on Ben’s Ducati with him and rarely went over a hundred on the motorway, much to Ben’s disgust. He did like traction though, possibly from years of driving around in armoured vehicles, and took the bends so fast it was like being on a fairground ride. Ben regarded the blond hair lifting in the wind, the highlights catching the sun, the strong forearm moving from wheel to gear stick and then the hand, palm rubbing around the knob…and he put his hand on Nikolas’s lap…
Nikolas shot a quick glance over.
They’d done this once before. But not in a convertible and not in daylight.
Ben didn’t care. He was beyond intoxicated now. The car, Nikolas, the fight, Nikolas…
Ben unzipped the faded jeans.
Nikolas’s cock came out into the daylight, hard and begging.
Nikolas cornered, throwing them both across the midnight-blue leather. One bright crystal drop of pre-cum trickled out.
Ben swore loudly, entirely lost to the meltdown of every sense, and decided it was time to say a proper thank you for this magnificent gift. He put his head down to Nikolas’s lap and licked the drop of anticipation away. Nikolas reared back in his seat, the speed dropping off a little. A hand came to Ben’s head, stroking into his hair, combing it. Ben nuzzled into the base of the hard cock and was rewarded with another glistening drop, which he worked with the tip of his tongue, pushing down into the soft pink slit, urging more to come.
He felt the car judder to a stop.
Nikolas opened the driver’s door and stumbled out.
Ben climbed out over his door and tumbled to the soft moorland grass with him. They were in a parking space high on the moors. There was no one else in sight, but it was a public place with cars driving by occasionally. Only shielded by the Maserati, Ben went down on Nikolas again as he lay supine on the grass, pulling little stalks out as his fingers scrabbled for purchase, reacting to the intensity of Ben working him below.
Ben knew when Nikolas was about to come. He eased the pressure and took each shot deep in his throat until it was over, and then fell back in the sunshine, his heart racing, dizzy and disoriented with happiness.
Nikolas pulled his shirttails lower for modesty and commented dryly, “So, good present then.”
Ben snorted.
It only occurred to Ben to wonder, as they were driving home at a more leisurely pace, whether Nikolas had timed this offering deliberately—given he could have kept it for his birthday, which was only a month away.
But no, he’d been given a black, alpha-male sports convertible (with a V8 engine) just when he was struggling with coming to terms with being a father, having a baby…when he should perhaps be buying a Volvo Estate or, God forbid, a people carrier…
It contrasted painfully with Nikolas’s request about the ring.
Ben needed a penis-extension car to feel like a man again; Nikolas was willing to wear a ring.
Ben scrunched his face, clenching and unclenching his jaw as they descended the hill to the front of the house. It wasn’t often that Nikolas stole the moral high ground from him.
He parked his new car out front where he could admire it from the kitchen and followed Nikolas into the house. His euphoria was wearing off a little. Was he really this shallow?
He was boiling the kettle when he felt arms wrap around him, and Nikolas kissed into his neck. “I ordered it last year before you went to New Zealand. It took this long to be available. It isn’t because of Molly.”
Ben narrowed his eyes and twisted in the embrace. “Are you reading my mind?”
Nikolas continued to work his way around Ben’s neck slowly. “Since when have I not?”
“Read this then.”
Nikolas raised his eyes, clearly expecting to see the inevitable invitation to bed, but he hesitated, considered, then huffed. “I cannot.”
“I want you to buy Steven something, too. That’s what I’m thinking. I don’t need presents. I have you. He’s missed out on you his whole life.” Moral high ground nicely regained, he added quickly, “But not a Maserati, maybe.”
Nikolas began to laugh. Ben tried to ignore him and returned his attention to the kettle. “What should it be, then, my generous little boyfriend?”
“Not so much with the little.”
Nikolas slid his hands around, checking the obvious. “No. Not so little. Shall I buy him…a tie? Some socks?”
“Fuck off, Nikolas. Buy him a sports car then; see if I care.”
“I bought your daughter one…”
Ben glanced over at the little red convertible and remembered Molly’s face when Nikolas had put her in it for the first time. He flipped around suddenly and seized Nikolas, kissing him back. “My daughter and I both thank you and love you.”
“Well, then, my son thanks you for your kind suggestion. As it happens, I have already bought him something.”
“Oh.” Typical. “What?”
“And one for you as well.”
Excellent. “What?”
“And one for me, actually.”
“Nik!”
“Tickets. To Aeroe. You were right. It is time Stefan saw his heritage. I thought we could all go there together—stay in the villa. The renovations are complete, and I would like to see them.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Aeroe was different in the summer, Ben reflected. He had very mixed feelings about being back, given all that had happened to him and Nikolas here.
He had made a radical decision whilst they’d been travelling. It had partly been prompted by the seating arrangements—him and Nikolas in the front of their big off-road Merc, Steven in the backseat. Awkward. He’d decided that when they got to Aeroe, he would stay with Ingrid, his old friend on the island, and leave Nikolas free to get to know his son in the Mikkelsen villa on his own. He hadn’t told Nikolas of his plan yet. There never seemed to be a right time. It had struck Ben as well that this only seemed to be repeating history, tempting fate somehow, which is something he tried never to do. Still, the thought of separating, being on his own in the white room by the beach at Ingrid’s, worried him more than it ought. They were grown men. They would be half an hour apart by car. What could possibly go wrong?
Nevertheless, Ben left it almost too late to tell Nikolas, and then it was even more painful not telling him and just feeling like a third wheel between these blond Mikkelsens. Even though Steven still thought of Nikolas as his uncle, Ben knew the truth. Perhaps it was his newfound sense of identity, being a father himself, but he respected Nikolas and Steven’s bond on their behalf and wanted them to explore it without the difficulties his presence would naturally cause. After all, how many fathers masquerading as uncles took their long-lost sons on holiday with their boyfriends?
He told Nikolas he was leaving as they were walking through the villa with Hans, listening to the caretaker explaining proudly what had been done. His recital was hardly necessary. Ben could see Nikolas’s influence in all the changes. The villa was now mainly glass fronted, and the dazzling views of the sea almost blinded him from every room. The 1970s neglected holiday home was gone, replaced by steel, marble, slate, and glass.
Ben took his opportunity when Nikolas was engrossed with the old family retainer to point out the boathouse to Steven and suggest he explore it. As soon as the other man was out of sight, he took Nikolas to one side. “I’m going to stay with Ingrid. I’ve arranged it with her. I’m sorry, but—”
Still chewing over whether to be pleased or dismayed at Nikolas’s grateful reception of his news, Ben frowned. “Hear who? You mean your mother?”
Nikolas nodded. “I can hear her playing.”
Ben swallowed. “Why don’t you stay at the cabin? Squeezy said we could.”
“That, too, has unfortunate associations.”
“You don’t remember Gabby attacking you there.”
Nikolas took Ben’s wrist and rubbed his thumb gently on the scar. “I meant you.” He tapped the wrist then released it. “No, this is a good plan. You’ll have a chance to see your friends. You’ll enjoy it.”
“And you’ll have a chance to get to know your son.”
Nikolas gave Ben a sly smile. “I wonder if he can fly.”
§ § §
They hadn’t decided how long to make the visit, Nikolas unsure how well he would tolerate Steven’s presence. Ben thought it more likely Nikolas was finding the strain of the continual pretence of the less critical relationship more than he had anticipated. Ben didn’t want to be away too long now, either, feeling he was missing things at home. He was unwilling to specify, even to himself, what these things were.
They’d handed Molly Rose back to her grandparents in St Albans without mentioning any of her adventures from her weekend visit—the fall, the possible kidnap, or the near drowning. Radulf remained in Devon with Babushka. Neither Ben nor Nikolas had forgotten their night time intruder, and travelled easier knowing he was there with her. Being back on Aeroe had reminded them both forcibly of just what a good guard dog he could be.
Emilia would also be home at the end of the month for half term. Ben wasn’t sure which one he’d put his money on seeing off any potential threats to Babushka—their wolfhound or their warrior princess.
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