by Clare London
Ambush
MILES WINTER stood in front of his broad, mahogany executive desk, half perched on the edge of it, and watched Zeke Roswell spill a box full of items all over the plush carpet of the office. He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. Not right now, he thought.
“I know,” Zeke said, as if Miles really had spoken. He was crouched down on the carpet, not meeting Miles’s eyes, apparently engrossed in the box’s contents. “Look, it’s a problem, right? All this damned mess. I’ll clear it up, and we can talk about this later.”
“No,” Miles said, swiftly. “It’s fine.” And he meant it.
The office was closed for the night, his staff all sent home, but he was still there. That wasn’t unusual, of course, because everyone knew how committed he was to his business. He knew what was said around the water cooler: Miles Winter hadn’t become so successful, so young, without sacrificing what most sane people would call a decently balanced work-to-leisure ratio. At least, that’s what used to be said about him.
Nowadays, things were a little different. The pattern of his life had changed, his interests had changed, and so had his priorities. Or… they'd been changed for him. He gazed at the man kneeling in front of the desk. Zeke muttered something under his breath and pushed his thick hair impatiently off his forehead. It fell straight back down again. Miles watched and wondered, his hand itching to reach down and push the hair back himself—to touch the warm head, to tangle his fingers in the curls and tug, until Zeke’s gaze came up to meet his, until Zeke’s growl warned him he was likely to get more than he’d bargained for.
Yes, knowing Zeke Roswell had definitely changed things for Miles. Tonight, he’d cleared away his work earlier than usual. A couple of files remained on the desk, beside a neat pile of loose documents and his diary, which lay open with the next day’s appointments tagged as a reminder. All the portable devices he owned would be tagged the same but were currently turned off. He still wore his expensive shirt and pants, with his hair well groomed, although he’d slipped off his suit jacket and tie an hour ago.
But he was definitely off duty.
And what’s brought that on? Miles smiled to himself. Or who?
Just before Zeke arrived, Miles had locked his personal safe and closed all communications, preparatory to finishing work for the night. Even then, Zeke had been a half hour later than they’d arranged, bursting through the office door with muttered apologies about the traffic, dressed in skin-tight vest and low-slung jeans—clothing as far removed from office wear as it was possible to get—and clutching his box of tricks. But for Miles, Zeke was a sight for sore eyes.
The darkening evening outside cast a gentle pall over the building. Miles’s office was on a high floor, and soon the only view would be the twinkling lights of offices at night and awakening restaurants and bars. The summer had been a hot one, and the days still retained some heat into the late hours, painting a misty haze over the streets below. But inside, the office was ruthlessly modern, and its ambient temperature very efficiently controlled. The place was also the epitome of discretion. At this time of night, any conversation was muted by the silence elsewhere in the building, and no one could overhear. No security cameras monitored Miles’s private office suite, no security guards made their periodic slow march by. It was just the two of them here, their bodies casting occasional, gray shadows on the wall, their soft voices the only sound.
Zeke had called earlier and asked to come by. After the initial surprise, Miles had of course agreed. It'd been months since Zeke had actually called at the office, let alone at his own request. And he’d implied it was to discuss his latest exhibition. That had made Miles’s heartbeat quicken. Zeke rarely shared his preparations for the art gallery, let alone his creative process, even to Miles. Sometimes, when they all met up socially, Zeke’s friend Carter tried to explain this possessive wariness to Miles, wanting Miles to understand the complex character that was Zeke Roswell.
But Miles would wait for another time to understand. For the moment, he knew instinctively that thrill was better than theory when it came to his relationship with Zeke. He'd just encourage whatever communication he could.
Anything to be closer to his lover.
“So what’s the theme for this season’s show?”
Zeke hesitated, and Miles saw the start of his slow, mischievous smile. “Maybe you won’t approve.”
“Maybe that’s nothing to do with me, remember? The gallery is yours—”
“Not just yet,” Zeke interrupted.
Miles shook his head impatiently. “It will be. The papers are being prepared at the lawyer’s this week. I know it’s taken too many months, the legal delays have frustrated me as much as they have you. But in my mind, and in my intentions, it’s already yours. You can do what you wish with it, show what you like.”
Zeke settled back on his heels and looked up at Miles. His smile widened.
A small knot of nerves formed in the depths of Miles’s throat. “Zeke….”
“You know how good you look, right there?”
Miles felt himself flush, sending prickles of heat along his spine. His hands tightened on the edge of the desk. “Don’t change the subject.”
Zeke’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his gaze running down the length of Miles’s body. “So fucking sophisticated, especially here, the corporate lion in his den.”
Miles rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who said you needed to talk to me immediately. You didn’t even want to wait until we got home tonight. So it was easier to stay on at the office, and you come around from the gallery to meet me.”
Zeke nodded, but he didn’t seem to be listening properly to Miles’s perfectly sensible logic. “I remember when I saw you for the very first time in that other office, with the lawyers.”
The day Miles had purchased Zeke’s gallery from him, all that time ago. Despite himself—and despite memories of the confused angst of that time—Miles started to smile in return. “I remember it too.”
“Yeah?”
Miles frowned. “Of course I do. It was when I first met the provocative Zeke Roswell. The eccentric, erratic, exotic artist they all told me you were. Warned me you were.”
“And you agreed with that?” There was the slightest flicker of discomfort in Zeke’s expressive eyes. “You thought I was an aggressive brat, just like they said?”
Miles raised an eyebrow. Did Zeke want to play that game? “Maybe I did, on that day at least.” He settled farther back on the desk, folding his arms in their shirtsleeves across his chest. “Disgraceful, really, that I let you affect me in that very… disturbing way.”
“Disturbing?”
Miles laughed aloud. “I wanted to hit you! I wanted to wipe that arrogant scowl off your face. To haul you out of that cripplingly uncomfortable chair, shake some sense into you, demand you pay attention to the sale of what seemed to be your whole life.”
“You thought I was a fucking idiot.”
Miles breathed slowly. His heart ached. “Yes.”
“Shit.”
Miles softened his voice. “I didn’t know you.”
Zeke nodded again. He ran a hand aimlessly through the box’s spilled contents, shifting them about. In the dim light, some of the smaller items were difficult to identify. “You were perfectly dressed, of course, just like now. Infuriatingly calm, and sharp as a fucking nail. I knew I’d be meeting an establishment animal like you, the kind I despised.”
“Zeke….”
Zeke shook his head fiercely. He kept his head down, his eyes not meeting Miles’s. His smile had faded. “I was angry with most of the fucking world and ready for a fight. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“I don’t think I understood it. But I felt it.” He watched Zeke’s body, not only b
ecause it fascinated him, the lean, lithe strength of it, the expansive gestures with his hands as he spoke. Miles also watched for signs of distress or tension, trying to pitch—as always—his responses to Zeke’s more volatile moods.
It was never easy, being with Zeke.
“Miles?” Zeke was gazing back up at him. His eyes had darkened. “Man, you look disturbed right now.”
Miles laughed. “Not in the same way.” He let his answering gaze run quickly over Zeke’s body. “Not in the same way at all.”
Zeke’s smile returned. It was deeper, more tender, and there was a flush of arousal on his face. “I dreaded that day, you know?”
Why did Zeke torture himself? Miles wanted to stride forward, grab him around the waist, and press a hand to his mouth. To stop the babble, the torment, the self-flagellation.
“Hey, don’t sweat it. I’m not wallowing in it, right?”
“Right.”
“And that’s not how the day went, anyway, did it?” Zeke’s expression became sly. “Instead, I was blown away. Stricken by a guy who fascinated me from the moment I saw him. Someone so damned different from me. Who had a whole new set of standards, who cared about a whole new bunch of stuff. And none of it, or so it seemed, connected with me.”
Miles felt a shiver run all the way down his back. “And now?”
“You’re still damned different.”
“Well, that’s true—”
“And plenty of other things are still the same.”
Miles felt suddenly, shockingly nauseated, as if the floor had abruptly tilted beneath his feet. No one but Zeke could do that to him, nowadays. “You mean, I care about different things? I don’t connect with you?”
Zeke put a finger to his lips and shook his head. Something on the floor rolled over, glinting, and the spark of light reflected in his pupils. “Don’t be an idiot. I mean that I’m still blown away. Daily. By you, Miles Winter.”
Relief, embarrassment, and pure pleasure flooded through Miles’s body like a warm shower. “For a minute there….”
“I know.” Zeke grinned. “I’m sorry. But you’re so good to tease, man.”
Miles scowled, but both of them knew it was an empty gesture. “The show,” he said, trying to regain control of the conversation. “Tell me about it now.”
“You use that tone with your business associates? I know the sound of that. It’s the tone you use on me, in the early hours of the morning, in your bedroom—in your bed—going deep and dirty under the covers….”
“Zeke.” Miles's heart beat faster.
“Guess not.” Zeke grinned even wider. “Else you’d be even richer than you already are.”
“For God’s sake!”
“Okay, okay.” Zeke’s gaze flickered back down to the colorful mess on the carpet. “The theme will be Bondage. Of all kinds. In physical terms, mentally, emotionally, in life’s choices. Just something I’d like to explore a little further.”
There was a brief silence. Miles bit his lip. He couldn’t help the sudden leap of shock in his chest, even while his business head examined the potential impact on the art world. “It’s a provocative theme, as I’m sure you know.”
“Uh-huh.” Zeke’s eyes sparkled as they always did when he spoke about his work. “But that’s what they all expect from me, right? It’ll include all formats, reach across all mediums. Pictures, video, sculpture. Exhibits and entertainment. Whatever I like, whatever I want.” He frowned up at Miles, his expression both nervous and confrontational. “You want to censor me now?”
“Never,” Miles said, wholly sincerely.
Zeke flushed even more deeply. “You are—” He laughed shakily, clearing his throat. “All those times I tell you you’re sex on legs, you’re a hell of a lot more, you know?”
Miles smiled ruefully. His clothes suddenly felt too tight, particularly his tailored pants. Goosebumps ran across his skin, cold and hot, all at the same time. Bizarre. “Thanks for the reference, though I’m not sure I’ll be sharing it with the Board.” He decided to pay more attention to Zeke’s treasure trove, and not only because Zeke’s gaze was making him feel an uncomfortable mix of desire and embarrassment.
He could see a pile of snapshots and a few art catalogs, including a couple of programs from exhibitions and video showings he knew Zeke had attended recently. There were posters and flyers demanding freedom of speech, and equality of rights, and an end to oppression of many kinds. But there were also other—both more and less obvious—tokens of physical bondage. He saw feathers and fur, leather and lace. They were mixed in with chains and buckles, and both rigid and hinged sticks. There was a long length of corded rope and some pale-colored silk. A couple of other restrictive devices Miles didn’t think he’d seen outside of medieval paintings. And illustrations? There were a large number of them, some of them darkly colored, some of them apparently copied from textbooks, and others that looked like casual jottings. His eye was drawn to a set of sketches showing a key balanced on an open palm, up to four views at a time on the page, in different styles and in different shades of black and gray. Zeke often sketched hands nowadays.
“Are those your drawings?”
“Yeah.”
Miles drew in a breath. “Of my hands?”
Zeke just smiled.
The warmth Miles felt was far deeper than just a blush.
He looked more closely. There were actual keys, in all different shapes and sizes, some attached to chains or locks, some free. Other things were unidentifiable, except that they were visually attractive, made from a wide variety of materials—metal and plastic, and some fabrics far more sensuous and tactile. He recognized adult-rated goods from catalogs he’d seen online for sex toys and accessories. But in a couple of cases, he had no idea of the item’s purpose at all.
“You’re blushing.” Zeke grinned at him. “Makes me want to run through some of the inventory with you right here….”
Miles swallowed carefully, recognizing also the gleam in Zeke’s eye. The room felt considerably warmer than usual, despite the allegedly well-balanced air-conditioning system. “That’s hardly appropriate.”
“…and right now,” continued Zeke, ignoring him. Miles often wondered if Zeke had some kind of filter in his hearing that bypassed “appropriate.”
“I think later is better. Safer….”
“Doesn’t this excite you, Miles? It’s past normal office hours, the staff have gone home. We could fuck each other, here, in the office. For as long and as fiercely as we like. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of it before.”
Miles tried to keep his expression steady but failed.
Zeke laughed. “Yeah. See? I knew it.” He shifted onto his knees and then stood up, all strong limbs and masculine grace. A couple of the metal goods chinked against each other, and a handful of white feathers danced in the draft he created. “Which one?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Which exhibit do you like, Miles? Which one appeals to you? Tell me.” He waved a hand at the stuff on the floor. “I want to know which one cries promise.”
Miles cleared his throat. “Later.” Hadn’t he said that already? He seemed to be having some trouble speaking. Under his white silk shirt, his chest was heaving.
Zeke just stood there. He held his hands behind his back, as if nervous of his approach, but his eyes sparkled with amusement and hunger. “So. You want to deal with my inappropriateness?”
“I don’t….”
“You don’t?” Zeke swayed slightly on the balls of his feet. His vest was just a little too short and a little too tight, clinging to his abs and riding up over his waistband at one side. As always.
“I mean….” Miles wondered what the hell he did mean, but instinct took over. “Yes, I want to deal with you. Just somewhere more private. More comfortable.”
“You think?”
“I think.” He reached out for Zeke’s arm and pulled him closer. Zeke’s eyes widened, as if Miles had used more force than
strictly necessary. Miles could smell Zeke’s skin, sweet and sweaty from rushing through town to the office. He could feel Zeke’s pulse and see the challenge in his eyes. He could feel his own heartbeat thudding, speeding the blood through his veins, throbbing at his throat and making him slightly dizzy. This happened too often for him to control: too rarely for him ever to tire of it. “Kiss me.”
Zeke stepped the final half step closer, his hip bumping Miles’s thigh, his gaze lingering on Miles’s mouth. “This place is just too damned big,” he growled. “Too much floor space between us. A guy could get lost in here, you know? Could park your limo in here, play football, stage a Greek orgy, for fuck’s sake.”
“So let’s make that a smaller event, just for us. Come here.” Miles slid his arm around Zeke’s waist and pulled him in tightly against his chest. Miles’s senses wallowed happily in the kiss. Taste of heaven. His tongue darted into Zeke’s mouth, their panting breath mingling, his fingers tightening on Zeke’s hip. He was still propped against his desk, but now the edge of it was cutting into the back of his thighs. The clinch with Zeke had pushed him to its corner, with a tall wooden filing cabinet at his right side and only the spectacular picture window beyond that. An occasional arc of light from a large vehicle glittered against the glass of the window; the blare of a horn echoed in the distance, muffled by the heavy glazing.
Zeke’s boot knocked against the cabinet as his knee nudged in between Miles’s legs, spreading them apart. The desk shook, and the papers on the pile behind Miles rustled.
“We should get back home,” he gasped.
Zeke’s tongue slipped out of Miles’s mouth, and he started licking at Miles’s neck instead. “Yeah.” Zeke’s murmur didn’t sound much like he was paying proper attention. “Soon.”
Miles slid his hands down Zeke’s arms, feeling the muscles, relishing the strength. He reached behind Zeke’s back to grasp the other man’s hands and clasp them in his, but at the last moment, Zeke twisted his arm and pulled his left hand free. Without warning, he curled his fingers around Miles’s wrist and gripped it tight.
