Robbie comes with a loud groan and a cheerful expletive. “Ah, that was bloody perfect. Thanks.”
James doesn’t reply immediately. He takes a moment to gently suckle Robbie’s cock, cleaning off the last traces of fluid. It gives him a chance to compose himself before looking up at his lover. “You’re very welcome, Sir.”
Robbie frowns. “Haven’t I told you often enough? No sirring me at home.”
“Sorry. I forgot,” James lies. Damn! He’s got to resist the impulse, or Robbie will start getting annoyed, or even suspicious. And that’s not who we are to each other, he reminds himself. At work, ‘sir’ is routine, expected. After work, it’s a privilege he hasn’t been granted. Probably never will be. They’ve been together for six months, and Robbie hasn’t shown the slightest interest in anything kinky, despite James’s subtle hints.
Robbie tugs at his upper arms. “C’mon. Up with you. That carpet’s none too soft, even if you haven’t got my creaky old knees.” As James stands up, Robbie rolls from his sitting position to the middle of the bed, leaving room for James to lie beside him. “I love having your mouth on me, but I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. There’s all sorts of positions that should work well enough on the bed.”
“They don’t give me the right angle of approach. And most of them strain my neck and back.” That’s true enough, and it saves him from having to explain the greater truth: as much as James enjoys sucking his lover’s cock, the real appeal is that it provides him with an excuse to kneel in front of Robbie Lewis.
Once he’s in bed, Robbie turns to face him. “Time for me to take care of you. Lie back.” His clever fingers reach down, and James’s cock, already heavy with need, comes to full attention. As Robbie’s right hand strokes, squeezes, and caresses, his tongue and the fingers of his left hand flicker across two rapidly stiffening nipples. James closes his eyes and gives himself up to pleasure. His mind wanders. He’s kneeling again, but this time his hands are tied behind his back and his thighs are spread wide, to make it easier for his governor to tease and tantalize him. The image in his mind shifts. He’s in the same position, but now his hands are bound only by his urgent need to obey, to serve, to please…
He’s so caught up in the thoughts of what can never be that his orgasm takes him by surprise. His back arches as the lightning bolt sends jolts of pleasure to every part of his body. “Thank you, Sir,” he murmurs, then freezes. Either he said it too quietly to be heard, or said it only to Robbie-in-his-mind, because no rebuke follows. The guilt hits a moment later. It was one thing to dream about making love to Robbie Lewis when there was no hope that they’d ever be more than friendly colleagues. Now that they’ve become lovers, it seems greedy to hope for more; impudent to imagine Robbie-in-his-mind performing acts that the real man would surely find distasteful. Safe, sane, and consensual are the watchwords for the relationship he desires, but Robbie hasn’t consented to claim James as his; at least, not in that way. And likely never will.
Why can’t you be grateful for what you’ve got? James asks himself for the hundredth time. Robbie loves you, desires you. That should be enough. He rises from the bed. “I’ll fetch us a couple of wet flannels,” he says as casually as he can manage.
“James.” Robbie’s voice halts him as firmly as a hand clamped on his wrist. “What’s wrong? Wasn’t it good? I thought—“
“It was wonderful.” James arches his brows, offers a friendly smirk. “Don’t tell me you’re feeling insecure about your technique?” He gestures at his groin. “Quod erat demonstrandum.”
“James. Come here, please.” Robbie is again sitting on the edge of the bed. James comes to stand before him. “Sit down, soft lad. I’ll get a crick in me neck.”
Even as his sensible self screams No! James drops to his knees. “Robbie, please—I’m fine. You’ve got no reason to worry.”
There’s fondness in Robbie’s clear blue eyes, but also concern. “Something’s not right. What is it? You’d tell me if you didn’t like what I was doing, wouldn’t you?”
“I love everything you do to me,” James says truthfully.
“Then is there something I’m not doing that I should do? Something else you want from me?”
He can’t. He mustn’t. It will ruin everything. Robbie will be appalled and embarrassed, and James will lose him. Lie. Convince him you’re fine. Just tired. Or on edge because of the Hartington trial. Anything. Only it’s not just Robbie his lover gazing at him, it’s also Lewis the detective. Something in James gives way. He’s so very tired of hiding this essential part of him, and doesn’t Robbie Lewis deserve to know the truth? He drops his eyes. He can’t bear to see Robbie’s reaction when he says the words. At his sides, his hands tighten into fists. “I want… to be yours.”
“But you are mine, James,” Robbie says gently. “And I’m yours. Don’t you believe that yet?”
“That’s not what I mean.” James feels his face redden. He can’t. He can’t. Suddenly, the tension drains out of him. He folds himself down, arse on heels, chest pressed against his knees. His bowed head stretches forward, and he touches his lips to the instep of Robbie’s left foot. It’s not a kiss, because he hasn’t the right, hasn’t received permission. Just a touch of closed lips against skin. He’s silent, motionless, a penitent awaiting judgment, hoping for unmerited mercy.
His eyes are shut, but he can hear the creak of the mattress as Robbie leans forward. A hand rests lightly on James’s head in an unexpected benediction, then strokes his hair. He exhales softly, trying to expel tension, hopes, fears, self. Tries to just... be.
Robbie is kind. Has always been kind to James, even when he doesn’t deserve it. Surely now will be no different. If, as seems likely, Robbie is turned off by these desires, by the idea of James submitting to him, he will tell him in a kindly way. James sets fear aside for now. In this blessed moment, however brief it may be, he is finally in the place where he belongs.