Chapter Text
There is a tall, well-dressed man standing in his kitchen.
For a moment Richard panics, thinking perhaps he’s missed a phone call from one of his secretaries informing him of a last-minute meeting and his heart nearly stops as he remembers his mussed hair, the tie loose around his shoulders, his unbuttoned collar.
Then the man turns and reveals himself to be no one Richard knows, nor anyone he ought to know.
Which means that there is a tall, well-dressed stranger standing in his kitchen.
Richard clears his throat, composing himself as much as he can with his heart still hammering.
“Excuse me?” He tries to imbue the inquiry with every ounce of disdainful force that he can. Somehow he can’t bring himself to say what he actually means: who are you and what are you doing in my flat?
The man appears unaffected by the poison in Richard’s tone. He cradles a full wine glass in one hand, long fingers curled over the bowl as delicately as if it were a baby bird. “Hello.”
The cavalier attitude sends myriad hideous possibilities (most of them straight out of action-thriller or mob films) flitting through Richard’s mind; he instinctively steps away when the man sways away from where he’s leaning on the counter and eats up the space between them with long strides.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” It’s meant as a warning, but the man only chuckles and holds out his hand.
“You’re right, we haven’t. I’m Lee, and I’m very pleased to meet you, Richard.” The words roll free of his mouth as if he’s earned the right to use that given name.
Then he slides his hand free of Richard’s grip, pulling Richard’s fingers open and wrapping them around the glass. His nervousness is exposed by the way the wine ripples in response to his trembling. “I—” he begins, distracted by the scent of the wine as the stranger—as Lee—guides him into his own living room as if he’s the guest.
“Let’s have a drink, shall we?” Lee asks, pressing him into a seat. He smiles and winks; somehow it doesn’t seem cheeky.
When the man meanders into the kitchen to pour himself a glass, Richard’s eyes trace the crisp line of his clothes. He’s trying to identify who he might be or where he’s come from. All he can focus on is the hint of lean muscle beneath the tailored clothes, but everything about the man tells Richard he’s not any sort of hired muscle. Tentatively, he packs his concerns involving murder or kidnap away.
Lee returns to the dimly-lit living room with his own drink: it’s Richard’s glass, but after taking a tentative sip he discovers it’s not one of his wines.
Befuddled, Richard swills the wine and makes a soft pleased noise; he realizes Lee’s heard him when a soft laugh brings him back to reality. He can’t help his blush. “I—” he tries for an explanation, but his thoughts flicker through his mind as quickly as shadows cast by a guttering candle.
Lee settles gracefully next to him and crosses his legs at the knee. He’s too close for propriety; Richard bristles a bit and tries to decide whether it would be rude to move away. He’s distracted by the bob of his visitor’s throat as he sips and by the echo of his own vocal approval of the vintage. “A 2003 pinot noir. Pallister Estates. But you’ve probably figured that out already.”
The smile Lee directs at Richard is just as overly-familiar as the use of his name, as the companionable lack of space between them. It’s as if they’re not strangers at all, and Richard has no idea what to make of it. Whoever this man is, he isn’t playing by any rules Richard knows and it’s making him deeply uncomfortable.
Not as uncomfortable as Lee’s apparently versed knowledge of his preferences in wine.
“How did you—?”
“I’ve been given some valuable advice from a Mr. McTavish, who did ask me not to use his name in your presence.” Lee winked and took another small sip.
“Graham told you…?”
“I believe that’s the one. Some kindly friends you have, Richard. He cares for you.”
Richard clears his throat, shakes his head as though he can rattle his thoughts into some semblance of order. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what’s going on here. Who are you? And, begging your pardon, what are you doing in my house?”
“Mr. McTavish also advised me that you’re charmingly naïve about certain things.”
A coy little smile perks the corner of the man’s mouth. His eyes glisten with secrets—or promises. He rests one hand against Richard’s thigh, each finger curling with purpose, and then the heavy weight slides slowly to the strained tender inside Richard’s thigh.
Things are spelled out much more clearly than they ever could’ve been in words.
Horror races through him and Richard jerks away. “You’re a prostitute ?”
Graham. Graham . Damn him! Richard’s going to kill him.
He nearly spills wine over his fine carpet trying to get away from that touch.
Lee is laughing at him—laughing! It doesn’t seem like the kind of prank Graham might pull, which leaves only the horrible probability that it isn’t a prank at all and that the elegant man settled next to him is indeed a prostitute. His ordered world turns on its axis, sending what little composure he’s manage to regain out the window.
“I don’t know what you’ve been told, sir, but I’m not in the habit of engaging…whatever you’ve been told—well, I’m glad you find this entire situation amusing!”
It’s difficult to be put off kilter in one’s own house, and worse to be derided for his justified confusion. He finds himself standing helplessly furious at the man currently beaming at him. It occurs to him that his fists are clenched at his sides like a petulant child’s, the stress in his shoulders sparking pain down every vertebra of his stiff back.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d leave,” he says finally. It doesn’t come out as a command, but rather a request that Lee blithely ignores. He sweeps to his feet, an advance Richard flees from with one panicked step backward. He finds himself blushing, his fury and confusion choking him. He shouldn’t be fleeing in his own home, but this man has thrown a wrench in everything he expects from his life. “Please.”
“Richard, I’m not here to ruin your evening,” Lee soothes. He bends and picks up the half-empty wine glass from its precarious perch on the edge of the coffee table. He holds it out, balancing the stem delicately between two fingers, his body turned half away. “Take it.”
Richard does as he’s told without thinking, then turns furiously away and storms into the kitchen just to escape. He gulps the rest of the wine and refills his glass with the intention of swallowing it in one go, but a hand covers his and Lee has trapped him against the counter.
“Slowly,” he chides, fingers trailing up Richard’s arm.
The touch is electric; Richard’s entire body goes tense as those fingers trail higher and higher, sliding across his chest to deftly undo yet another button at Richard’s throat.
“Excuse you.”
A breathy laugh curls against his throat, but that’s the only place Lee is touching him. Heat fills up the space between their bodies; Richard’s entire body breaks out in pins and needles.
Lee smells fantastic: like sunshine and fresh grass and some dusky, subtle cologne. The heat and feel of him reminds Richard just how long it’s been since he’s had another
“I believe I asked you to leave. I don’t know what sum you were promised, but I assure you I can match it."
“Richard. I offer many, many services, but ‘leaving’ isn’t on the list.”
Lee slips his tie from around his shoulders. The whisper of silk against pressed linen is familiar and suddenly much more audible than Richard has ever imagined it might be. Lee touches his neck briefly.
“What are you afraid of?”
Richard glares a bit at his clasped hands on the counter, hating his own weakness. “I’m not afraid. I’m simply not interested in sampling your…wares.”
“You haven’t even seen the menu yet.”
Richard aches, tense and confused by his involuntary reaction to this man. “I haven’t seen the price list either.”
“Consider this prix-fixe,” Lee murmurs into his ear, fingertips moving delicately against the pulse thundering in Richard’s wrist. Slowly he slides their fingers together. “And the bill’s been taken care of.”
Richard feels himself pulled inexorably back toward the couch, guided into a seat. His face is flushed, his body moreso, and he hopes it’s only the wine. Whatever it is Lee does, he does it well, because he feels himself trembling a bit and alight with curiosity and a passion he hasn’t felt in years. He’s done without more often than not, but there’s some secret in Lee’s eyes that he wants to discover.
“So sit back,” Lee urges, “and enjoy the meal.”
Instead of coming closer, Lee leans back and beams down at him before sliding around behind the couch. His fingers trail through Richard’s hair, nails scraping his scalp and bringing up goosebumps. Then he began a slow, tentative massage. It isn’t the first time someone’s rubbed his neck, but it is the first time Richard’s felt a little shock run through him every time those fingers dipped beneath his loosened collar.
His mind was still reeling. His body reacted to every minute circle Lee made. Relaxation mingled with curiosity and a vague arousal as Lee moved down the sides of his throat, moved from rubbing the knots from his shoulders around to tracing his collar bones. He doesn’t realize until Lee leans over his shoulder and breathes against his throat that his shirt is half-opened and one broad palm is sliding slowly down the center of his chest.
He opens his eyes, lost, when the touch disappears.
Lee slides over the back of the couch and down between his legs. He kneels carefully, hands resting on Richard’s knees. “Okay?” he murmurs. His voice is lower, huskier than Richard would have expected. Whatever illusion he’s building, Richard thinks blearily, he’s doing it very well. His eyes are steady on Richard’s face as he begins his massage again, running his hands up Richard’s thighs.
Richard can feel his breath picking up. His blood is pounding in his ears. He can’t look away.
Slowly, Lee slides up the helplessly sprawled length of Richard’s body, mouth and hands only increments from skin and Richard’s heaving chest. They aren’t touching; the minute space between them filled with torturous heat as Lee leans in. Richard can feel the movement of lips near his ear—how can he feel so much when Lee isn’t even touching him? He aches everywhere, and lets out an embarrassingly loud, involuntary groan when Lee smiles a little and whispers: “Put your hands on me, Richard.”
Richard has to drop his head back and gasp for breath, fingers still clenched against the cushions of the sofa in some futile defense against whatever assault this man is leveling against his common sense. Lee hasn’t moved any closer and it’s a struggle not to reach out and pull him down. “I know you want to.”
“I—”
“Richard.” Lee’s strokes down his arm, wrapping fingers around his wrist. Then the other. It nearly burns!
“I shouldn’t,” Richard gasps. He wants to more than anything, but his mind won’t follow his orders, racing through all the reasons this is a bad idea, how he doesn’t know Lee, how he feels about all this.
His hands are lifted, placed on slim hips. Lee presses his hands down over the arch of bone.
“Richard,” he murmurs, cupping Richard’s jaw and tipping his head back. “Touch me.”
It’s a command, but Richard still whines and asks: “Can I?”
Lee huffs and bends closer. Their noses brush. “Of course.” His breath ghosts over Richard’s mouth, redolent of honey and wine. A delirious thought inhabits Richard: where is there a vintage that tastes of Lee’s mouth?
Trembling, Richard untucks the crisp linen shirt and slides his hand over his sides. That long, tall body is tight with muscle. His fingertips glide around to find the base of his spine, savoring the heat of smooth skin. “You’re lovely,” he murmurs dizzily. “Can I—”
His own desperation makes it difficult to recognize himself. Whatever Lee’s doing to him, it’s drowning his natural reticence. His embarrassment over his current predicament is secondary to the weight of another body atop his.
“Anything,” Lee murmurs. He bends and kisses, slow and sensual, tongue flicking Richard’s lower lip and then slipping into his mouth, to coax Richard’s hands into moving faster. His own are busy undoing the remaining button on Richard’s shirt with deliberate slowness. He pushes the cloth aside, moving his kisses to Richard’s jaw and his fingers to span the heaving ribcage.
Despite Richard’s protest, Lee slipped of his lap, letting Richard’s groping fingers push his shirt off strong shoulders. His mouth travels, hot and eager, down Richard’s belly, tongue flicking into his navel, and then he presses his mouth against the bulge in his trousers.
“Shit!”
Lee chuckles and sits back, running one hand slowly down the tented fabric. His long fingers slowly, slowly unbuckle Richard’s belt, the clink loud in the large room, then unbuttons his trousers and eases them open to expose his pants.
Richard can’t look away from him, his kiss-swollen mouth, his veiled, warm eyes. Lee doesn’t look away either, working his clothes open without removing his gaze. That bowed mouth tips up in a small half-smile that’s anything but arrogant, anything but mocking. His gentleness is written all over his face.
“All right?” he murmurs again as he slides Richard’s pants down just far enough to expose his cock.
Before Richard can process the sight Lee is taking him into his mouth. He groans and grips at the back of the couch, head falling back so he can desperately gasp for air.
A warm hand holds his length steady as wet warmth encompasses him and a clever tongue slips beneath the foreskin to toy with the slit. “Jesus,” Richard gasps.
It’s been far, far too long and that mouth is far too pleasant sinking down on him. Richard can barely lift his head, barely keep his breath; Lee hums softly and sinks down so far his nose brushes against Richard’s belly.
His fingers loosen their grip on the couch and he buries them in Lee’s hair before abruptly thinking he ought to have asked first; some men didn’t like being guided and Richard really should have asked—
The impulse makes Richard jolt and suddenly all his fears return as he remembers the man kneeling between his legs is a stranger. He doesn’t know his last name, he doesn’t know where he comes from, he doesn’t know anything but that the stranger is touching him in intimate ways he hasn’t experienced in years. “No,” he gasps, pressing himself back into the couch and fumbling with his clothes; his knuckles rap Lee’s hard enough to make him hiss as he tries to get that talented hand off his prick, cover himself, escape.
Surprise is writ large over Lee’s face, and he cocks his head. “Okay,” he murmurs, licking at his lips. He turns away delicately while Richard rights his clothes and crosses his arms over his chest to keep his shirt closed.
“Sorry,” he mumbles to his knees, “I’m sorry, I just…can’t. Do this. I mean.”
“It’s perfectly all right.” Lee has righted his own clothes without Richard even noticing. He looks just as well-groomed as when Richard first saw him, even his hair combed through. The only indication of what they’d been up to was the pink in his cheeks, the swollen lips. It’s baffling, because Richard can feel himself blushing painfully. “Richard.” He puts one hand on Richard’s shoulder, but removes it immediately when Richard flinches deeper into the sofa. “Don’t be sorry.”
“You’re wasting your time,” Richard mumbles. He’s afraid to look back at Lee because he feels like he’s been mesmerized, because he’s afraid of getting lost in the openness of those eyes again. Helplessly, he adds: “I’m really am sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Lee says, easing onto the couch beside him. “I told you we didn’t have to do anything you don’t want, and that’s still true. There are plenty of people of people who want more from me than a quick blow-job or a fuck.”
The crudeness of the comment stands at odds to Lee’s benevolent gentleness and startles Richard.
“Would you really like me to go?” The question is soft, genuine.
“I—yes. Please. Before I do something stupid.”
Lee is perfectly silent as he gathers his things and adjusts his clothes once more. With his eyes closed, Richard can only sense him shuffling about the flat.
His only indication that Lee is still in the apartment is a murmured farewell.
“If you need anything, Richard, you can always call.”
When Richard manages to collect the scattered pieces of himself and open his eyes, he finds that it’s dark in the flat.
There is a white business card on the table, adorned by only a name and mobile number.