by Tinnean
XI
IT WAS the beginning of Christmas week.
Quinn had been out of town for a couple of days the week before, and when he came back, he’d called me and we’d met at Raphael’s. From there we’d gone to his town house and spent the weekend in bed.
Now it was time to face the workaday world.
“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.” He was standing in front of the mirror above the double dresser, fussing with his tie. “How do you feel about spending the night here?”
I shrugged into my shoulder holster and limped to stand behind him. I’d been at him all night, and just before dawn, he’d decided it was his turn. He’d been buried so deep in my ass, I knew I’d be feeling him all day. And I was half-hard at the thought.
“Let me do this for you.” I brushed his hands out of the way, pulled his collar down, and ran my lips over the side of his neck.
“Sure.” He leaned back against me, and while I began to work on his tie, he slid his hands behind me and flexed his fingers on my ass. I rocked my hips forward to let him feel my arousal. “Mmm.”
I nipped his ear. “You’re distracting me.”
“Sorry, Mark.” But he continued running his fingers over my ass. “So, what do you say? My place is closer to Arlington. In the early afternoon we can drive to the cemetery.”
I abandoned the tie and slid a hand under his waistband. He was wearing boxers, and I traced the shape of his cock through the material. His cock twitched under my touch. He gave a soft groan, turned his head into my neck, and licked the skin.
“We’ll get hot and sweaty in front of your Christmas tree again?”
HE’D called in the middle of the week. “I’ve got this gorgeous live tree, babe, but I’m going to need your help to put it up and get it decorated.”
Once I got there, I could see why he needed help. The Douglas-fir was about ten feet tall, and we’d had to wrestle it into his music room, which had a vaulted ceiling.
“What’s in the box?” I asked. Tucked in a corner was a huge box.
“I have no idea. It’s a present.”
“Well, it must weigh a ton.”
“It’s not really heavy, just awkward. Fortunately the delivery man was willing to help me bring it in here.”
No doubt for a nice tip. I didn’t say anything, though. This was the season of goodwill toward men.
“Who’s it from?”
“The tag says DB—”
“Huh.” Suck-up.
“—and ladies.”
Okay. But he was still a suck-up.
“Shall we get the tree up?” Quinn was busy looking around the room. “I think, there?”
“Sure thing.” I was glad he hadn’t noticed the sneer I’d sent in the direction of the box. I didn’t want him to think I was petty. I sent a final frown toward that corner of the room, then turned my attention back to Quinn.
“I think we’re going to need a ladder,” he said.
“I think you’re right.”
Another fortunate thing was the six-foot ladder in his garage. I brought it in while he sorted through his decorations and laid out what seemed like miles of lights.
We paused in the middle of decorating to have the pizza I’d stopped for, which had been keeping warm in the oven.
When we went back to the music room, Quinn selected an ornament and reached up to place it on a branch above his head. His sweater rode up, exposing a swath of muscled back.
“Quinn.” We exchanged a look, and then stripped off enough clothes to get at the good parts and sixty-nined each other. It was a good thing he didn’t have a nativity scene. We surely would have shocked the Holy Family.
It was only as we were coming down off our sexual high that I realized the hardwood floor might not have been such a good choice; my hip was sore, and Quinn winced a bit and massaged his own hip, but if I got to have him, a few aches and pains were worth it.
“YES,” he nuzzled the side of my neck now, “we’ll do it Christmas Eve and again Christmas morning, have breakfast, open the gifts we got for each other….”
And that big box that was covered in the most outlandish—No, okay, it was nice paper, and whoever had wrapped it had done a good job. I didn’t shake it. That would be beneath me. But what the fuck was in there?
“I’ll need to stop at my condo first to get everything.” I did some rapid calculations. The dessert I had ordered from Rosie’s Bakery in Cambridge had been delivered with time to spare and was sitting in my fridge. The present I’d commissioned for Portia Mann was wrapped and ready to go, as was the gift I’d picked out for Novotny. I had no doubt Quinn would have warned him he’d be getting something from me, and I just bet it burned his butt he’d have to reciprocate. I also found something for Jefferson Sebring and Ludovic Rivenhall.
I’d mailed packages to his uncles out in Los Angeles, as well as a couple of presents for the older Sebring’s child bride and her little girl.
I refused to consider the possibility I might be trying to buy his uncles’ approval. After all, I didn’t have to do anything as lame as buying someone’s approval.
“I’ll have dinner ready then.”
I gave his cock a final squeeze, then took my hand out of his shorts and went back to fixing his tie.
“Finished.” I stepped back from him, patted his ass, and grinned at his reflection in the mirror. Quinn was looking flushed and heavy-eyed. “Know something, baby? If you didn’t have that drive to Langley, I’d strip off your clothes and have you up against this dresser. I’d only take enough time to lube us both up, and then I’d pound into you.”
“Bareback?” The color in his cheeks became hectic. “No condom, Mark?”
Nothing between us, my cock driving into him, his back passage like heated velvet. I gave a full-body shudder and swallowed.
He turned and pulled me to him. We were both so hard, a couple of thrusts and we’d be coming in our pants like teenagers.
“It’s too bad I’m not working at State today,” he whispered against my lips. “It’s only a little more than a quarter hour drive, and if we were fast, I wouldn’t be too late.”
“But you’re working at Langley. And the only time I’ll take you fast is if we have time to go slow afterward.” I stroked the hair back off his forehead and kissed him. “I’ve got to go.”
“Drive carefully. I’ll see you tomorrow around six.”
XII
NOW it was “tomorrow,” and it was almost six.
Some idiot in Public Relations had fucked up, I’d had to clean up his mess, and shit, I was running late. And I still had to put in an appearance at the Christmas party.
I was alone in my office. Ms. Parker had logged off her computer and gone down to the cafeteria, where the party was being held.
I dialed Quinn’s number.
“Yes?”
“I’m going to be late. I’ll let you know when I get home.”
“Thanks for calling.”
“Will dinner be ruined? Do you want me to pick something up?”
“No and no. I’ve got it covered. Don’t have an accident rushing to get here.”
“Right. I’ll see you later.”
I trotted down to the cafeteria. I didn’t see Matheson there, but then I’d given him an operation of his own to run, and I hadn’t seen much of him for the past week or so.
Mr. Wallace was about to make his annual holiday speech, the usual stuff about how we’d all contributed to the smooth running of the WBIS, how well the agency had done, how sure he was we’d all meet expectations for the new year.
It was basically the same speech every year, and he wisely kept it short. His concluding remarks were greeted by applause. He nodded and shook hands, quickly surrounded by senior directors, the suck-ups.
On one of the tables was a punch bowl filled with red liquid, fruit and ice cubes bobbing in it. I picked up the ladle, filled two cups, and took a quick sip. It was nonalcoholic, although I was certain it wouldn’t stay th
at way long.
“Joyeux Noël, Vince.”
I flinched. That was the worst accent I’d ever heard.
“Merry Christmas, Smitty. I almost didn’t recognize you.” Usually he was in scrubs or a lab coat. “You’re looking good too, Max. Does this mean what I think it does?”
The little Frenchman smiled his sweet smile and leaned against the pathologist. “He’s my present this year.”
“Good for you both.”
Over in a corner, Browne was chatting with Ms. DiNois, but he stole glances in this direction.
Well, you snooze, you lose.
Smitty grinned at me, giddy, although I didn’t smell alcohol on his breath. “Stand there, okay?”
He took a flask from his inner pocket and emptied it into the punch bowl.
“What’s that?”
“Vodka.”
Oh, shit. And on top of that, someone was setting up a karaoke machine. “I’ve got to go. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry merry, Vince!”
“Joyeux Noël, M’sieur Vincent.” Yeah, that was how it should be said.
The Boss seemed relieved when he spotted me approaching him with the punch. “Cup of cheer, Mr. Wallace?”
“Thank you, Mr. Vincent.”
The people who had been around him left hastily.
We tapped glasses. “Happy holidays.”
“Happy holidays, sir.”
He grimaced at the taste. Smitty’s vodka would have made it more palatable. “I want to thank you again for your gift.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Although how you learned I have a weakness for that particular story….”
“Lucky guess.”
“I imagine. Still…. You’ve given me a part of my youth back again.”
“It was a fun series, sir.”
“It was.” He looked around at the support staff and junior agents who were sending nervous glances our way, although Granger, dressed in a suit for a change, seemed too involved with my secretary to notice anything, and Howard seemed set on cornering the assistant from Public Relations. The Boss set his cup down. “I believe I’ll leave. As long as I’m here, this party won’t get under way.”
The same could be said for me. “I think I’ll leave also.” I’d only taken a couple of sips of the punch—it was so sweet it made my teeth ache—and I put my cup down as well.
“You do tend to make people nervous, Mark.”
“Then I’ve done my job.”
That made him laugh. I opened the door for him and followed him into the corridor. His driver was waiting, holding his overcoat.
“I understand you’re taking a few days off,” Mr. Wallace said.
“Yes.” I wasn’t going to tell him it was so I could spend the time with someone who worked for the CIA. “Human Resources suggested I use up some of the time I’ve accumulated.”
“Good idea. You didn’t have much opportunity to use it while you were out in the field.”
Between vacation time, personal and sick time, and holidays, I had almost a whole year banked, even excluding the two weeks I’d spent in Paris after that shit Sperling screwed with an operation I’d been running and good men had died.
Mr. Wallace extended his hand, and I shook it. “Merry Christmas, Mark.”
“Merry Christmas, sir.”
His driver held the elevator open for him, and he entered it, raising his hand for a final farewell as the doors slid shut.
I looked at my watch. Shit. I’d have to hustle if I didn’t want to be even later than I was.
The stairwell door opened just as I approached it, and Matheson stepped into the corridor. Whatever—whoever—he was thinking of was making him very happy.
“Cute card you sent, Matheson.”
“Sir?” He stopped in midstride, and his expression became wary.
“Santa’s sled dangling off an outhouse roof, the reindeer all tangled in their harnesses—”
“Excuse me?”
“—telling off the fucking animals, ‘I said the Schmidt house, Goddamnit!’”
“Oh, shit.” He turned white.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Next time you send me a holiday card, Matheson—”
“Yes, sir. I’m very sorry sir, you can be sure it won’t happen again, sir—”
“Who really picked out that card?” I had no doubt that Theo had chosen it. That type of card was right up his alley. He’d sent me one a few years before with a dark-skinned Santa Claus, and when I’d asked why an African-American Santa, he’d had the audacity to give me that wide-eyed look of his and swore Santa had spent the off-season, when he didn’t have to make toys, in Florida, and he just had a tan.
I was curious to see if Matheson would roll over on his lover, blame him for sending that card.
Matheson’s expression smoothed and became blank. “I did, sir. It was my choice, a very poor choice. I promise you it won’t—”
“Do me a favor.” I was pleased with my agent, although naturally I wasn’t going to let him know that, and decided to let him off the hook. “Tell Theo if he sends me a card like that again, I’m going to show him what Santa really should have done to those incompetent reindeer.” I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t start laughing. It really was a clever card, but it wouldn’t do if word got out that I had a sense of humor. “If you’re going to the party, you’d better hurry. It’s already underway.”
“Yes, sir. Um… Merry Christmas, Mr. Vincent.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I went into the stairwell and took the stairs two and three at a time. I had better things to do than hang around the WBIS—I paused and then grinned and continued up to seven. Yeah, I really did.
XIII
SINCE I was running late, an extra half hour wouldn’t make much difference. I called Quinn to let him know I was home, then showered and shaved and changed into jeans and a long-sleeved polo shirt. The clothes I’d wear tomorrow were already at Quinn’s, so all I had to do now was run a comb through my damp hair and put on my overcoat. DC was having an unseasonably cold winter.
It took a few trips to bring the packages down to my car. Except for Novotny’s, they were all bulky and awkward, and I didn’t want to drop them.
And while I jogged up and down the stairs, I found myself whistling “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town.”
When I was a few blocks away from his house, I speed-dialed Quinn’s phone. “I’m almost there.”
He was waiting for me as I turned into his driveway. I caught him in my headlights and saw he was wearing a cream-colored fisherman-knit sweater and dark trousers. There was a light breeze blowing, and it mussed his hair.
I doused the headlights, switched off the ignition, and got out of the car. Quinn didn’t kiss me—we could be seen by inquisitive neighbors, especially the couple who lived across the street and who had suddenly started paying attention to what was going on in their neighborhood—but I could tell by his body language that he wanted to.
Instead, we shook hands. He tickled my palm with his middle finger, and I growled at him. His grip tightened, and then he let go.
“I love this time of year.” He tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and drew in a deep breath. “Especially when I can be at home.”
The air was cold and crisp. I copied his actions, but kept my eyes open. The sky was like black velvet. Clouds drifted across it, and stars winked out and then reappeared.
“It smells like Christmas.” He looked away. “That’s a fanciful thing for me to say.” It was too dark to tell if he was blushing.
“You, the man, or you, the CIA officer?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“Why?”
“Well, I am an adult, Mark.”
“What does that have to do with anything? You’ve got good memories of Christmas, and that’s what means the most.”
“What about you?”
I exhaled, a long white plume in the night air, the
n shrugged and unlocked the trunk with the remote.
Quinn rested his hand on my shoulder before squeezing it. “I’ll just have to make sure you have some happy memories this Christmas.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I didn’t, which was okay, because he didn’t seem to expect me to say anything.
He gazed up and down the street. “This is a safe neighborhood, Mark.” Every single house on the block was lit up. Strings of lights framed windows and verandas, draped shrubberies, and spilled from eaves, and their color was reflected on the frost that covered the grass. He smiled as he looked into the trunk. “Do you really feel it’s necessary to bring the gifts into the house?”
“Quinn, I don’t care how safe this neighborhood is; I have no intention of leaving these presents in the trunk of my car.” I handed him the long, flat package that was his mother’s. “Take this into the house, okay?”
“Are you planning on standing guard?”
“Ha ha. No.” I took his gift and shut the trunk. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Quinn’s home was filled with the scent of evergreens. In a matter of minutes, we’d returned for the rest of the presents.
“I’ll take your uncle’s gift. Put Novotny’s on top of it, and the box from Rosie’s Bakery, okay? I’ll put that right in the fridge; it’s a Chocolate Orgasm.” I paused. “Ever have one?”
“Not a chocolate one, although I must say it sounds interesting.”
“Yeah.” I thought about Quinn covered in chocolate sauce, orgasming under my hands, and my mouth went dry.
His smile told me he was reading my thoughts. He stacked the boxes in my arms, and then took Rivenhall’s gift, which was the last one. “I still think you’re overreacting.” He shut the trunk and started for the house.
I followed him in. “Quinn,” I said as I nudged the door shut behind me, “in spite of this being the season of peace on earth, good will toward men—”
“That’s ‘toward men of good will.’”
“Huh?”
“‘Peace on earth toward men of good will.’” He was laughing at me.
