by Tinnean
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. In spite of that, there are a lot of scumbags out on the streets. If anyone tried to hotwire my car to steal it, it would explode. If anyone tried to jimmy the trunk to get at the gifts, in case I was so stupid as to leave gifts in there, it would explode. Either way, the gifts would be destroyed, and I’d be seriously, seriously pissed.”
“And there would be one or two dead perps.”
I gave him a look. “I should care about them?”
“No, of course not. What was I thinking?” He shook his head and studied the unwieldy boxes. “What did you get?”
“Not gonna tell you, Mann. Now let’s get hopping. I’m starved!”
“All right, Mark.” He laughed, locked the door, and set the house alarm. No neighborhood was ever that safe. “Did you get a print for Mother? I know she’s mentioned how much she likes Georgia O’Keeffe’s work.”
“No, it’s just something I had commissioned for her.”
“Oh?” He raised his eyebrow.
“Forget about it. I’m not going to tell you what that is, either.”
“Spoilsport. All right, Mark, I won’t tease you. Let’s put these under the tree, and then we’ll have dinner.”
I was relieved he let it go. I’d never been one for giving gifts to someone I… cared about, and the closer it got to Christmas, the tenser I got about his reaction to what I was giving him. Especially with that big box from Cooper. And his “ladies.”
I sniffed the air. “Something smells good.”
“Boeuf bourguignon. Mother got this recipe when she and I spent a summer in France.”
In 1980, when he should have been in Moscow, riding for the US at the Summer Olympics, only the Games had been boycotted that year, and so he’d been in France instead. I was on the fencing team. We could have met….
If the Games hadn’t been boycotted, we would have met….
Instead he’d met that French boy, who was probably a fat drunk by now.
I shook my head. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. We hadn’t met in 1980. It was as simple as that.
I tuned back in to what Quinn was saying about dinner. “… and the longer it cooks, the richer the flavor. All I had to do was wait for your call before I started the potatoes boiling and sautéed the mushrooms.”
“Quinn, I’m sorry. I wanted us to spend more than a few hours together on Christmas Eve.”
“It’s okay. We have tomorrow. And then we’ll have the rest of the week.” He stepped into my personal space and reached up to thread his fingers through my hair. His lips were still cool from the evening air, and he brushed them lightly over mine. He kneaded my scalp with his fingertips and then tightened them in my hair.
“Quinn.” I chased his name into his mouth.
“Mark.” He drew back, and for a second the happiness in his eyes was replaced by something else. Then, just like that, it was gone. “Go on. Go wash your hands. The table is already set. I’ll put the salad out and pour the wine.”
I caught his wrist. “What’s wrong? And don’t tell me nothing.”
“I was on the phone with my uncles just before you arrived.” He sighed. “Adam ’Nme is dead.”
“I didn’t do it.” I would have, but I’d learned that John Cisco was out there keeping an eye on things. Quinn’s Uncle Bryan, a former spook himself, had brought Cisco in to keep an eye on the woman Anthony Sebring had married and her little daughter. Cisco and I had run into each other once, an interesting experience—not as interesting as when I’d run into a certain spook, but— Anyway, I’d stayed out of it.
“I know that, Mark.”
“So what’s got you worried?”
“Apparently Cara Mia and Uncle Tony have decided to end their marriage.”
“This is the twenty-first century, Quinn. Getting a divorce is no big deal.”
“It is in our family. Bryan was the first. Actually, he’s the only one. Tony and Cara Mia aren’t getting divorced, though. They’re getting an annulment.”
“I still don’t see what the big deal is.” I had to admit I wasn’t surprised. The woman Sebring had married was almost fifty years younger than him.
“An annulment means the marriage was never consummated.”
“Yeah?”
“I’d… in spite of their age difference, I’d hoped my uncle had found a measure of happiness.”
“Not everyone is meant to be married.”
“No, I suppose not. And he’ll have Uncle Bryan to bolster his spirits.”
“There you go. Are they still coming east for New Year’s?”
“Yes. They wouldn’t dare miss it. Mother would fly out to L.A. and drag them back!”
I couldn’t help laughing. From what I’d learned of them, they’d always treated their sister as if she were made of spun glass.
“There’s plenty of time to worry about it. Let’s have dinner. My stomach’s thinking my throat was cut!”
XIV
DINNER was excellent. The young red wine Quinn had selected complemented the beef stew to perfection, and the atmosphere….
The lights were dimmed. Candles’ reflection flickered on the table, and the scent of bayberry filled his formal dining room. The cherry wood surface of the table gleamed. There was a centerpiece of balsam fir and white pine, pinecones and reindeer moss, holly, and something with white, waxy berries.
Quinn plucked out one sprig, held it over my head, and stole a kiss.
“Mistletoe, Mark.”
I took it from him, held it over his head, and claimed a kiss of my own.
And after dinner, after the table had been cleared, the dishwasher loaded, and the candles snuffed, we went into the music room.
In front of the Christmas tree was a bearskin rug. It hadn’t been there the morning before. I’d noticed it when we’d brought the gifts into the room, and I hadn’t been able to resist running my hand over it. It was lush and thick, and I wanted to feel it against my naked back. Or my naked front, or side. I wasn’t choosy.
“Nice rug.” I grinned at Quinn. Knowing him, it had to be faux. He was so ecologically correct.
Quinn just smiled. “Plug in the tree lights, if you don’t mind, Mark?”
The sweet surge of desire flooded my groin, but there was plenty of time. I plugged in the lights that we’d woven through the branches of the tree, and they began blinking—red, green, yellow, blue, white. Quinn turned out the overhead lights. He set his coffee cup down on a coaster on the baby grand, took a seat, and began to play holiday music: “The Christmas Song,” “Sleigh Ride,” “Angels We Have Heard on High,” “Ave Maria.”
I sat and sipped my coffee, and listened and watched him as his fingers stroked the keyboard, thinking of what they felt like on my skin. I put my cup down and went to him.
“Move forward a bit, okay?”
Quinn looked over his shoulder at me, puzzled, but he did as I asked. I got on the bench behind him and put my arms around him. I tugged the rolled collar of his sweater aside with my teeth and nuzzled the side of his neck.
He rested his fingers on the keys.
“Keep playing,” I said softly. I blew into his ear and began whispering, telling him what I wanted to do to him, what I wanted him to do to me. Beneath my palm, I could feel his heart beating in a slow, heavy thud.
The final chords of the song hung in the air, and we sat like that for a minute. Then I swung off the bench and stood between my lover and the piano.
“Quinn.” I ran my fingers from his cheekbone to his chin and raised it. His pupils were dilated with passion, and he was breathing rapidly. “The rug.”
“Yes.” He surged to his feet, and the piano bench tipped over. His arms wrapped around me, holding me as if he’d never let go. He sought my mouth with his, and we moved in a slow dance of passion away from the piano.
The kiss was greedy, devouring, and he made those low, desperate sounds that drove the fire in me higher. I buried my hands in his hair, moving his head first one way, then the
other, needing to make the kiss deeper. His hands were all over me, stroking, petting, arousing me to the point where if I didn’t have him naked under me now, I’d spontaneously combust.
Quinn was feeling the same way; we’d been lovers long enough for me to tell. His cheeks were flushed, his lips were parted, and he was panting, short puffs that warmed my skin where they caressed it.
“Now, Mark.” His voice was hoarse. “I want you now.”
“Yeah.” I stepped back and stripped off my clothes in record time, and Quinn was right there with me, his clothes scattered on the floor. I took a moment to study the contours of his chest, his flat abdomen, his cock, which was hard and flushed with arousal.
“So this is why you got the rug?”
“After the other night? Face it, Mark. If we’re going to get hot and sweaty on the floor, we might as well be comfortable, don’t you think?” He knelt on the rug, and I gave a wolf whistle as I admired the curve of his ass. He winked at me, reached for a small felt stocking that dangled from a lower branch of the Christmas tree, and withdrew a tube of lubricant and a condom.
“Just one?”
“To start.” He patted the rug, and I knelt down beside him. He ran his palms over my chest, teasing the hair that covered it and pinching my nipples. “Lie down on your back.”
“So I’m the one who’s gonna be taken? Works for me, baby.” It wouldn’t have, once, but with Quinn…. The fur was cool under my shoulders, spine, and ass, but it quickly warmed.
“Not this time.” He gave the tip of my cock a lick, smoothed the condom on over it and coated it with lube, then straddled my hips.
“No, wait a minute! You’re not ready!”
“It’s all right. I took care of it when you called from your condo. Now hold yourself steady.”
Quinn eased down onto me, his expression intent, until the head of my cock popped through the ring of muscle that guarded his hole. He closed his eyes and sighed, and then slid lower, and it was all I could do to keep from grabbing his hips and thrusting up into him.
“Ride me, baby.” I ran my nails over his nipples, and he groaned.
“Yes.” He reached for my hands, twined our fingers together, then pressed my hands down to the floor at the level of my shoulders. He leaned forward until his mouth barely rested on mine. “Mark.”
And I groaned.
His hips rose until he was almost free of me, and then lowered until his balls were nestled against the hair that covered my groin. Internal muscles clenched around me as I nudged his prostate. Sweat broke out at my temples and along my spine where it arched off the rug, and I thought of what it would feel like without the condom separating us.
“Quinn!” I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs, and I opened my mouth, taking deep, gulping breaths.
“Yes.” Quinn licked my lips, rubbed his tongue against the edges of my teeth, went deeper into my mouth to test the ridges of my palate. And all the while, his hips were moving at a steady pace that was too fast and not fast enough.
He withdrew his tongue with teasing licks that drove me wild. Never. I’d never had a lover who made me feel what Quinn made me feel.
I tore my hands free, wrapped my arms around him, and surged up so he was sitting on me. I slammed my mouth into his, penetrated it with my tongue, curled my tongue around his.
Quinn stilled. “Mark.” His palm was warm on my cheek, and I opened my eyes to find him staring at me. He leaned back, bracing his hands on my thighs, offering himself to me, and I shivered. A small, needy sound passed his lips as the altered angle had my cock directly targeting his prostate.
He began to move again, his gaze on mine. I propped myself on an elbow and used my free hand to trace the hot, silken length of his cock. He was oozing precome. I gathered some on my thumb, brought it to Quinn’s mouth, and rubbed my thumb over his lips. His tongue swept out, and he tasted himself on them. I slipped my thumb into his mouth. He bit down gently, then sucked on it, and we both groaned.
I pulled my thumb from his mouth, pressed it to the tip of his cock and caught more precome on it, and this time brought it to my mouth. Quinn’s eyes darkened and his breath hitched.
“Come on, baby. Come for me.” I worked his cock, the precome making him slick. He rode me faster, driving me closer to the edge, but I was determined not to go flying into space without him.
“Mark!” His movements became erratic, his eyes unfocused, and then he was filling my hand with hot, thick ropes of semen that spilled onto my belly and torso.
“Yes!” I flipped him onto his back without breaking our connection and began pounding into him. I manacled his wrists and took his lips in a bruising kiss, swallowing his moans. I knew it wouldn’t be much longer—my balls were already tightening and drawing up. Two thrusts, three, four, and Quinn held me as I filled the condom, petting the long muscles of my back, whispering words I couldn’t distinguish from the blood thundering in my ears.
Finally, I caught my breath enough to ease out of him. I stripped off the condom. “Did you think to pack some tissues in that stocking, baby?” I kissed the side of his neck.
“Of course. Like the Boy Scouts, CIA officers are always prepared.”
That was bullshit, but I wasn’t going to burst his bubble on Christmas Eve… I saw the clock. It was 12:15 a.m.
“Quinn.”
“Yes, Mark?” He paused. He’d been wiping his come off my chest, using his tongue instead of the tissues.
I tipped up his chin and kissed him, tasting him. “Merry Christmas, baby.”
XV
WE FINALLY got up to Quinn’s bedroom, but we didn’t get much sleep. Every time we finished making love, we’d reset the alarm for a later time, until finally Quinn peered at the clock and groaned.
“Damn, we have to get up or we’ll be late getting to Arlington.”
“Do we have time for brunch?” What I really wanted to know was if we’d have time to open the presents. I was even tenser about the gift I’d gotten him. When I’d first seen it, I’d been pretty sure he’d like it, but if he didn’t, if he was disappointed with it, I wanted him to be disappointed in private.
“It’s all right. I’ll call Mother and tell her we may be a little late. Go take a shower—”
“Without you?”
“Mark, if we shower together now, we’ll never get to Arlington! I promise you, when we get back from Mother’s, I’ll spend the night in the shower with you.”
“Sweet. I’ll use the shower in the guest bathroom and meet you downstairs.” Quinn had a spare bedroom with an attached bath that was supposed to be mine. I kept some clothes there, but I always wound up sleeping in his bed.
I FINISHED showering and shaving, but Quinn was still in his bedroom, so I went on downstairs. A glance out the window showed me it was raining. Wasn’t there supposed to be some kind of law that precipitation on Christmas had to be snow?
Hopefully, by the time we left for Arlington, the weather would have cleared.
I had the coffee brewing and the waffle iron heating by the time Quinn came into the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway.
“If I’d known we were going to be this casual, I’d have worn pajamas.” Quinn was dressed in the clothes he would be wearing for the day, minus the suit jacket.
I was wearing socks, boxers, and an undershirt. “You can go back and put them on; I don’t mind.”
“Bastard. Never mind. How do you want to do this? Eat first, then open the gifts, or the other way around?”
“Well, the waffles won’t take too long. Why don’t we bring the presents in here, and we can open them while we wait.”
Quinn nodded. “Yes. That’s a good idea. We’ll… I’ll do that. Yes.” He hurried out of the kitchen.
What the fuck? What did Quinn have to be tense about? He had to be used to giving gifts. I followed him into the music room.
“Merry Christmas, Mark.” He handed me a rectangular box. I tucked it under my arm and picked up the long box tha
t held my gift to him.
“Merry Christmas, Quinn.”
We were both quiet when we walked back into the kitchen.
“Um… you open it first, okay?” I suggested. “I need to pour the batter into the waffle iron.”
“I can do that.”
“No, it’s my job.”
He frowned at me, but I could out-stubborn a mule when the situation warranted.
“We appear to be at an impasse.”
“And we’re wasting time.”
“All right, suppose you take care of the waffle, and then we’ll open them at the same time?”
“That’ll work.” The batter hissed as it hit the hot surface. I lowered the lid and turned to face Quinn. “Let’s do it.”
He was meticulous removing the ribbon, sliding a nail to loosen the paper.
“Jesus, Mann, just tear it open, would you?”
“You don’t seem to be in any rush.”
“Fine. You want me to rush, I’ll rush.” I ripped the paper to shreds, revealing a white cardboard box, and I snagged a thumbnail trying to open it. “Fuck.” I stuck my thumb in my mouth and sucked at the scratch. “And I don’t have my pocketknife on me.”
“Well, you don’t have a pocket. Here, use mine.” He handed me the really elegant pocketknife that I’d first seen in that warehouse in Paris. The handle looked like it might be ivory, and the filigree work on it could be gold. Well, it was a yellow metal, and I didn’t see it as being something as cheap as gold plate.
I finally got the box opened to find a case made of teak. I took it out and ran my fingers over the smooth wood. A latch held it closed. I flipped it up and raised the lid.
“Fuck me!” Inside was a Llama Mini-max .45 subcompact. Quinn had a clutch piece like this one; I’d seen it when I’d rescued him in Paris. Each clip held ten rounds, and it carried one up the pipe. I stroked the barrel. “Quinn….”
“There are four clips in the case and a custom-made ankle holster as well.”
I didn’t know what to say. “This is…. Thank you!”
