Randall's Romance (Behind Closed Doors)

by Lee Brazil

  "Why? Have I misjudged you? Usually I can tell pretty easily when I've come across a man of similar tastes to my own. I apologize if I offended you." The ease faded from his demeanor, his body tensed and tightened. He seemed suddenly alert, and faintly dangerous in a way that Jason approved of.

  "Not me. I could care less where any man chooses to dip his wick. But the walls here no doubt have ears, and what you speak of…I don't know about America, but here it's a horrendous crime."

  "Ah. I see. It's fairly well frowned upon in the States as well, but I must admit that it's the sort of crime that having enough cash can usually forgive." They fell into contemplative silence, each man mulling on the nature of a world and society where morality could be so firm, and yet forgiveness purchased.

  "Do you have somebody?" Jason heard himself ask stupidly. "Someone who cares about the taste of cheroots, that is?" And why did he bring it up except that he wanted to talk about Randall, and betrayal, and the niggling dissatisfaction with himself that had started to shred his insides worse than any blade ever had.

  "No. Had a lover who complained, but then that one complained about damn near everything anyway. In the end pretty wasn't enough to make up for bitter, so we parted ways. You?" The American puffed away on his cheroot, idly staring at the dingy ceiling.

  Jason noticed that his warning had been heeded though. The man had dropped every pronoun from his conversation, could have been speaking of any light skirt. "I thought maybe I'd found someone. But turns out, no."

  He heard the man shift in the darkness, and though he didn't remove his gaze form the stars, he felt the man's gaze upon him in the cell. "What happened?"

  "Trust."

  "Ah. Betrayed by love."

  Love? Was that what this thing between him and Randall was? "I don't love. Neither do I trust, and it was a damn good thing, because turns out, the person I would have put my trust in just had me arrested and thrown into prison."

  "That's tough. So he would be the selfish bastard?"

  "No. I'm the selfish bastard."

  "Well, now you've got me confused."

  "You think you're confused? I told him outright that I had to do it, before I even knew who he was, I told him what I had to do. He knew." And yet he'd left anyway.

  "He knew you were going to kill that fellow?" The tip of the cheroot glowed red in the darkness, casting a faint glow on the man's face as he brought it to his lips.

  "He knew."

  "And…"

  "And he left me in bed to go off and arrest the man, to bring him to trial." That, he thought was the center of his current pain. Inexplicably, he'd taken that promise to heart, interpreted it, clung to it, built it into something chivalrous and white knight-ish in his head.

  "But you got to him first, and he's dead."

  "Yes." Lead coated his voice with a thick veneer, making it difficult to push the heavy agreement out past the tightness of his throat.

  "Then you're angry at him for arresting you?"

  "It's a minor inconvenience. I'll be out as soon as my superior in the Home Office arranges it." Peregrine would get him out, clean up the mess, see him free. Oh, he might not approve of his actions, but he'd cover it up and urge Jason back into the field.

  "Why exactly are you upset here?" Martin sounded genuinely perplexed, and Jason couldn't blame him. He scarcely understood it himself.

  Jason gave the source of his upset careful consideration. "I told him what I had to do. And he let me do it. He left me there, while he attended to his duty, knowing I would kill that man."

  "You wanted him to stop you?"

  "I think I did." He whispered the last words into the darkness as a tear blurred the pinpricks of starlight in the handkerchief of darkness. "He said I could trust him…"

  Chapter Fifteen

  He spent hours walking the trails and traipsing over the fields, and one day he found it. There in a small clearing, a ramshackle two-room cottage that was more of a shack. As soon as he set eyes on the dwelling he knew it was the place the highwayman had brought him that night on the moor.

  His heart beat loudly in his ears as he stared at the place. It had a deserted air, no smoke rose from the chimney, and it seemed to be all shut up tight. His feet picked a path over the overgrown lawn, and his mind scattered in a hundred directions. Even though he knew that Jason Dancourt wasn't there, knew it for a fact because Perry had told him the man had been sent back to France after he'd been freed.

  Randall had Perry's letter on his desk at home, where he could look at its stern admonishment not to put Dancourt at risk by inquiring after him, because it perversely gave him a sense of hope at the same time it filled his soul with dread.

  Jason was back in the midst of the enemy, back in danger, and Randall couldn't help him. All he could do was pray, and think, and wish that he'd done things differently. A dozen different plans for getting Jason out of that building without being arrested had come to him in the passing weeks. A dozen ways that they could have overcome the issues between them, ways he could have proven how much he meant the promises he'd made.

  Instead, he had hot dreams and tormented memories. And worry as a constant companion. He'd begged Perry by return post to tell him when Jason returned, but Perry had sent back a short reply to the effect that Jason would find him if he wanted to see him. With that, he had to be content.

  Or rather, he told himself to be content as he scoured the countryside storing away every tiny bit of memory, treasuring bits of their meager history, seeking this place, the cave on the beach where he'd been beaten, the spot in the road where Jason had held him up.

  He'd haunted those to places, and now, he supposed he'd add this spot to his daily treks. Striding up to the door, he rapped sharply.

  Not unsurprisingly, no one answered.

  Randal tested the door, pushing at it. It opened easily, and he stepped inside, gazing curiously about the outer room. He hadn't seen this part of the house. He'd been blindfolded in Jason's mask when Jason escorted him off the premises, and now he searched it eagerly for some information about Jason, some clues to the man he loved.

  It was a bit disconcerting to realize that there wasn't anything personal at all in the room. A few pieces of rustic wood furniture, just as might be found in any peasant's cottage, a few ancient looking cooking utensils. A battered sea trunk rested against one wall, well away from the fireplace, but it was padlocked. The room was dull and lifeless and gave no hint of the man who'd last occupied it.

  Chastising himself for the unwarranted disappointment he felt, Randall crossed to the bedchamber. It was nearly as bare as the front room. His gaze went immediately to the bed. The bed covers were still in disarray, as though Jason had never remade the bed after their last bout of lovemaking. Perhaps he'd never even returned to the cottage after taking Randal to the trail….

  His feet carried him to the bed and he stretched out upon it, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply, hoping some faint hint of sandalwood still clung to the linens even though so much time had passed. With his eyes closed it was easy enough to imagine Jason's deep voice, his rough touch and overpowering masculine presence.

  Stretching his hands over his head, he clutched the headboard in his grip remembering the ache of his muscles when he'd been tied to it. His hips twisted, he felt himself thicken. Slow arousal drenched his muscles until his heart beat in the back of his throat and his blood pulsed hotly. Impulsively, he leapt off the bed and stripped away his clothes with efficient ease. He folded them and lay them across the foot of the bed then climbed back on the faintly musty linens. It was yet another stupid thing to do, but he had no interest in denying himself what comfort he could take.

  Lying back down on the bed he let his mind return to the time he spent here with Jason, Danny as he'd called him then. Jason had been rough, but not uncaring, and Randall lost himself in recreating the sensations of his touch as best he could. His hands followed his thoughts, raking through the hair on his chest, pin
ching at his nipples until they tightened and nearly throbbed. He tugged one nipple, arching his back as sensation zinged through his body, pooling in his groin and spine. His cock hardened, his balls tightened. Tension grew slowly as he crafted his arousal from a fine mesh of memory and his own touch. He rubbed his palm over himself, pressing his cock flat to his belly, rolling it beneath his touch, leaving a slick trail of glistening clear drops on his abdomen. He grit his teeth and pushed up, grinding himself against his palm.

  His cock thickened further, responding to his play until it lay full length against his belly. Bringing his hand to his mouth, he licked his thumb, dampening it. Using the wet thumb he rubbed over his other nipple briskly, simulating the stroke of a damp tongue. Heat coiled in his gut, his mind conjured Jason's mouth, his tongue. Embarrassing noises of need escaped, but he made no effort to stifle them. Who was around to hear if he screamed, or cried?

  Randall sucked his thumb into his mouth and swirled his tongue around it.

  Pulling the moist thumb from his mouth again, he dragged it down his body, dipped it into the hollow of his naval and then brushed it over the moisture gathering at his cock head. His hips jerked, his thighs trembled.

  Sweat beaded on his brow and tickled its way down his hairline to the pillow beneath his head. Grunting with effort, he curled his body so he could reach beneath himself and rubbed the damp thumb over his opening. It clenched against his touch and he groaned. He rubbed at the ring of muscle, felt it cling to his thumb as he pushed in. His body ached to be filled, a void seemed to exist inside him that no one but Jason could fill. He'd given some thought in the last few weeks to finding someone to fuck Jason from his heart and mind, but found himself repelled by the idea. Instead he'd made use of his collection of bawdy artifacts. Here, in Jason's cottage though…

  In a locked box in his room at home he had objects from the orient, intricate phalluses carved of jade and ivory, beautiful things he used to pleasure himself when no amenable company was at hand. He'd made liberal use of them over the years. Now, being here brought memories of Jason so close to the surface he was desperate to be filled. Straightening, his gaze flew frantically around the room, and lit upon a candlestick in a sconce on the wall. It appeared to be fresh and unused, of pure white wax. It would do. He retrieved it swiftly.

  His bare feet pattered on the floor as he returned to the bed. His skin prickled with awareness, his body clenched with lust and need. Randall mounted the bed and stretched himself upon it in a wanton sprawl. His lips twisted in a smile as he imagined what Jason would say if he were to see him like this, naked and needing.

  Parting his lips, he brought the candle to his mouth and sucked it in. It wasn't very thick, or even very long, and wouldn't fuel his fantasies of Jason's big prick splitting him open in urgent need, but it would assuage his current situation

  Withdrawing the object form his mouth, he licked the candle, making sure it was well lubricated with spit. Gasping with want, he lifted his knees, spread them wide and fingered his hole. It fluttered eagerly and he transferred the candle to his right hand, gripping his cock in his left.

  He brought the candlestick to bear against his hole, forcing himself to relax as the pressure built. A shudder of pleasure ripped through him as the tender muscle slowly gave, stretching to allow the slick wax to penetrate. His cock hardened further, the skin stretched so tight he thought it would split.

  The candle moved easily. His arm trembled as he pushed it deep. His chest heaved as he fought for breath. His abdomen tightened, thighs quivering with tension.

  Randall closed his eyes and stroked his cock, gathering the silky drops from his tip he smoothed them along his length, soothing the fierce ache that threatened to overwhelm him. He tightened his grip and bore down onto the candle, grunting again with effort. Tugging it out a bit, he managed to establish a rhythm that nudged his inner gland.

  His hips bucked off the bed as he rubbed his cock, twisting his palm over the head, dragging back down to roll his balls and squeeze them. "Jason," he murmured between pants. His muscles rippled, clutching at the alien object buried inside his arse. His breath caught in his chest and his body froze. His eyes squeezed tight shut as he strained for release.

  He fancied the smell of sandalwood had become more intense, that he could hear another heart beating, another man's harsh breath. "Oh, fuck, Jason." He growled.

  His cock swelled impossibly in his hand, and he stroked it rapidly as the first spurt of seed splattered on his stomach. His ass clenched tight around the wax, and his hand fell away, retreating to pinch his nipple. At the second burst of seed he threw back his head and shouted.

  The third fell on his quivering belly as he prised his lids open. A fourth tribute landed as his gaze locked with humid blue eyes. Jason stood in the doorway of the room, trousers about his thighs, cock in hand.

  Chapter Sixteen

  He'd arrived in the dark of night, miles up the coast because he didn't want to wait another day for the boat that would deliver him directly to Chaldon. That extra day had appeared in his mind as a stumbling block on his return to Devon and Randall, and so he'd taken the first transport that offered itself, even though he'd then had a ride down the coast to get here. He'd had cause many times during the crossing to regret that choice as the boat appeared to be leaky, the crew unsavory, and an unexpected storm tossed them about. He'd spent the trip alternating between vomiting over the side and attempting to make himself believe his fantasies were reality.

  The bruising ride up the coast on horseback had done little to settle his gut, and had been challenging enough to take his mind off his fantasies. Reaching Chaldon, he'd had an argument with himself standing on the doorstep of Randall Gretton's house. The side of him that was impatient to see Randall overrode the protests of his cautious half that wanted only to remind him of all the things that could have changed, only to have a hostile Lady Cecily inform him haughtily that Randall wasn't at home. She'd stared down his request to wait with a lifted brow until he became uncomfortably aware of his sweat and sea spray soaked garments. He must be a disgraceful sight. Determined to clean himself up and return to await Randall's presence, he'd bowed his way out with all the dignity he could muster and continued his journey to this cottage on the moor.

  He'd fought back the doubt, the cowardly little man inside who said that Randall wouldn't want him anymore anyway, not after what he'd done and tended his horse. He'd locked the evil voice away in the back of his mind that said that after all the dishonorable things he'd done in his career he didn't deserve someone like Randall. He stamped out the ache in his heart and the pain in his gut and the uncertainty that wanted to wear away his resistance.

  He ignored everything that would keep him from attending Randall and throwing himself at his feet and begging for another chance to get things right.

  Seeing the wanton sprawl of Randall Gretton, in the throes of lust on his bed, it was worth the ride, the dangerous crossing, even the weeks of tedious work coaching his replacement in Paris. Every bit of his being that was opposed to seeing Randall for whatever reason, logic, altruism, fear, was silenced by the tide of lust and love that washed over him when he heard the man call out his name. Because now he was free.

  Completely free.

  Peregrine had assured him that vengeance for the murder of his team would be enacted, even offered to send for him at the final moment. Jason had nodded dumbly. He should have expected the loyalty, the devotion Peregrine Gretton had for his men. He'd been blinded by the man's aura of respectability. That aura had been stripped away by the life-threatening hug the man had wrapped him in, and the speed with which he'd been dragged from prison and back into the fold of the home office.

  He couldn't doubt that Gretton was glad he lived. He was amazed when the murder of Gravesend had been brushed under the rug as though it had never happened. He was even more amazed when Peregrine told him that his brother had written asking about his whereabouts and begging for leniency on his b
ehalf.

  He'd rushed through all that his superiors had asked of him, and this was his reward. To return home to find the man he'd come to realize he loved, calling out his name in lusty abandon.

  Holding Randall's shocked gaze, Jason stumbled to the bed, and crawled up it until he knelt between the wide spread thighs. The flush of passion on Randall's cheeks darkened and he jerked his knees together as though to cover himself.

  "No, don't." Jason was shocked by the huskiness of his own voice. "I…"

  "How long?" Randal whispered, his embarrassment clear.

  "Long enough. Damnation, Randy. That was the sexiest thing I've ever…" He swallowed hard. "May I?"

  Randall nodded, still seemingly dazed by his orgasm. Jason smiled wickedly. He'd had a lot of lonely nights to think about what he'd do, what he'd say when he found himself face to face with Randall again. This wasn't how he'd pictured things, but that was the nature of his former profession, the ability to think swiftly and adapt accordingly.

  Randall covered his face with a blunt fingered hand and gave a ragged sigh. "Anything."

  Smiling, Jason leaned over and licked one reddened nipple. Randall shivered under the caress. "You missed me," he said smugly. His heart soared. A heaviness that he'd carried about with him seemed lifted. Inside, there'd been a part of him that thought Randall would have moved on, found another lover that wasn't so…wicked, or tormented, or cold of heart. Someone he could trust, and who could be trusted.

  "Bastard." There was no heat behind the curse. Randal embraced him, draping one arm around his waist, and threading the other through his over long hair as Jason continued licking and kissing his nipples and the well-muscled chest.

  "I was afraid you'd have forgotten about me." The confession was easier to make than he'd thought it would be.

  "Never."

  Jason reached a hand down between their bodies to where Randall's cock made a valiant attempt to rise to the occasion again. He stroked the manly flesh for a second or two then squirmed his fingers on down to burrow under the man's balls. Randall drew in a sharp breath and gave a nervous laugh. "What?"