Loverman Page 12

  “You’re quiet,” Kemp said.

  At Charles’ suggestion, the two of them had driven from Viva and Red’s to a beach, parked in the carpark overlooking the bay, and were staring out into the night sea. It was getting late. The cooling air raced, salt and sticky, through the half-open windows and over Charles’ overheated skin. At the driver’s seat, Kemp drummed his fingers on the wheel.

  Charles absorbed that endless nervous energy, leant back in the old-style bucket seat, and turned his iPhone in his hand. “I’m just enjoying the peace,” he said. “It’s been insanity lately.”

  “That much is true.” The drumming ceased. Abruptly, Kemp said, “Chaz, the tour’s coming up, and we need to get right out of each other’s lives, even if it’s temporary. Fake. Maxine’s clearly desperate for money. She figures you and I together means that you’ll feel obliged to fund her. Even if you don’t, she’ll just keep hammering. She’s got her eyes on the prize. I don’t want to be responsible for that bitch cutting into your inheritance. She won’t stop—she never does until she finds something new to fix on. We just need to give her that time.”

  As his words sank into the space between them, Kemp reached for the rank coffee he’d gotten from a drive-through five minutes back. Charles stared at the phone in his hand. Before he could change his mind, he tapped out the message he had been debating back at Viva and Red’s.

  Meet me tomorrow at my lawyer’s offices. Subject as requested. Ten a.m.

  Waiting on the answer, he cut a sideways glance to Kemp. Eyes half-closed, his lover was curled up tensely in the driver’s seat, chin in hand, his attention on the dark, lost horizon under the clouds and moonlight.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Charles allowed. “Or perhaps you’ll feel differently tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month. You’re changeable, Kemp, and as you’ve said before, this is only fucking. Sex. Great sex. And we… understand each other, our histories, our worlds, in a way it’s hard to find with outsiders. Why give that up, even for the sake of my bank balance? That’s none of your concern.”

  Charles got a long cool stare back in answer.

  “It is when it makes me feel like a fucking bargaining chip,” Kemp said. “And if Maxine has her way, I’ll be an expensive one. I am not for sale. And also, Chaz—changeable?” Kemp snorted and drawled, “Fuck you and fuck that condescending attitude.”

  It hadn’t been condescension. It had been panic. Charles felt his phone buzz and cut a look to the screen.

  Lawyer afterward. Discuss terms at yr place first.

  Charles felt himself scowl. Typical, that Maxine would try and take over the process. No, he needed a neutral space. Even if he had to arrange for them to have an office in the place to speak privately first. As he had done once before.

  He reached for Kemp’s coffee and absently drank some of the bitter, over-sugared brew before slotting it back into the newly installed cup holder.

  His thumbs tapped at the screen. Bardwell, Black and Dennison, ten a.m. We’ll talk privately in one of their meeting rooms first.

  A long pause. Kemp drank what was left of the coffee and watched him, Charles’ screen angled for privacy.

  “Interesting conversation?”

  Charles met his gaze steadily. “Not really. Housekeeping, nothing more.”

  “Hmm. For the purposes of Maxine, we’re done. We gotta do it. Start disentangling, publicly anyway, beginning with you moving back into your house. By the tour, it will look official.”

  Charles could not answer. Not when he had his own solution. One Kemp would not like.

  Maxine replied. I’m bringing my lawyer.

  A corner of Charles’ mouth lifted. Of course she was.

  He keyed in, Feel free. See you there.

  Kemp threw his T-shirt to a corner of the bedroom, went to unzip his jeans, and halted. Barefoot, he sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up one of the ragged paperbacks he kept for the nights when insomnia kicked in and he was lacking for company—or lately, Charles—to take the edge off. That bloodless confrontation with Charles had hit him harder than he’d counted on. Maxine was sure as fuck going to gut Charles’ inheritance if she could. Screw that. Millions—or was it billions—of dollars that were Charles’ birthright, such as it was. Charles didn’t seem that interested in the dough now, but in the future, well, money was power, and if he knew one thing, it was that his lover had a very interesting relationship to power, authority, and control.

  Maxine had already received millions in cash, stocks, shares, and real estate. It had been blood money, earned through suffering. Viva’s blood, Viva’s suffering.

  Enough. No way was he helping that bitch get one more cent.

  But if he was being honest about it, Kemp didn’t want Charles out of his life in any way whatsoever—temporarily, for show, or otherwise. Even weeks ago, he’d believed differently. Told himself it was just sex, a compulsion, some instinctive connection that he couldn’t rid himself of because it dated so far back into his DNA. Into Charles’ DNA. Shared history clawed in under his skin and all that shit.

  Charles disappearing off to Eden had shown him different.

  He was too wired to coolly plan. What next? His phone was lit up with notifications from his bandmates. They were soaring.

  This time should have been all about enjoying that high. Their management was fine-tuning the next tour. The dates had been long set. Months of grind and living out of hotels.

  It was starting to become a reality, not a series of marks on his calendar.

  Once, it would have been a rush. But now… He headed out of the room.

  The enigmatic fucker was in the kitchen, a bottle and glass on the counter beside him.

  “Started already, Charles?”

  He looked up as Kemp came down the stairs. Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day” fed through the sound system—his buttoned-up, dirty, and perverse genius photographer’s choice. Kemp could only applaud.

  “You want a glass?” Charles lifted the bottle.

  Kemp shook his head. “I’ll grab a beer.” At the fridge he glanced around. Charles had thrown back half a glass of that no doubt very fine red in the time it had taken him to cross the room. Jesus. “Just taking the edge off?”

  “Something like that.”

  Even as he straightened up, bottle in hand, Charles emptied the glass and poured another. Kemp popped the cap on the beer. A hip leant against the cool metal of the countertop, he sank some.

  “This isn’t like you, Chaz.”

  Charles said nothing, took the wine, and walked over to that beautiful mid-century Danish dining table. The one he’d bought Kemp, dumping the one Kemp already owned without his permission. Christ, he’d been pissed off. And Charles called him arrogant. Even as Kemp watched, he poured more red into the glass and took a healthy swig of it.

  Even doing that, getting what looked like deliberately drunk, the man had an edge of precision. Kemp went to him and leant over, ran a palm over Charles’ jaw. Stubble roughened the smooth golden skin. It felt good.

  Charles caught at his nape, dragged him closer. “Do you want to know a secret?” he murmured against Kemp’s mouth.

  “Always, Chaz.”

  That beautiful mouth curled against the corner of his. “Upstairs, then. On the bed, like civilised human beings for once.” His whisper was warm against Kemp’s ear. “And then I’ll tell you that secret.”

  Kemp chuckled. The guy was even more blasted than he’d guessed, which was fine. He hadn’t even gotten a buzz from his beer. A pity—he bloody needed it.

  Upstairs, Kemp kicked off his jeans and naked, unbuttoned Charles’ white shirt, even as Charles took another mouthful of wine before he put the half-empty glass down on the amp case. A long, soft moan tore out of him as Kemp brushed an open-mouthed kiss against his throat. The sound brought the blood pumping hard to Kemp’s cock, and his body tightened, his teeth grazing a particular spot where Charles’ neck met his shoulders. Charles shuddered and pulled off
the rest of his clothing, sinking to the edge of the bed as he wrapped a hand around the base of Kemp’s cock and ran his tongue up his length before dipping his tongue into the slit.

  Kemp closed his eyes and gave in to sensation, the heat of Charles’ mouth as he slowly took him in, the wet velvet of his tongue and the suction that was its own form of perfect torture. Fuck, Charles had grown to know too well exactly what he liked.

  Charles’ mouth was full of Kemp’s rigid cock, lips sealed tight about him, a hand pumping his slick length. Kemp’s hands reached out compulsively, fingers driving into the thick blond mass of Charles’ hair, fingertips tight against his skull.

  “Harder,” he gritted.

  The suction became even more intense. A sound tore out of Kemp’s throat, and he wrenched Charles back by the hair.

  “Christ.” The heavy eyes blazed up into his as Charles’ lips left his cock with a soft pop. Kemp drew in a ragged breath. His lungs were so fucking tight he could scarcely breathe. “We gotta talk. Tomorrow. About… everything.” He paused, running a thumb over that perfectly cut, tempting lower lip. Charles nipped at it. “But right now, what do you want, Charles? Tell me. Give me the words.”

  A soft laugh on the warm, lamplit air. Kemp took in that long, muscular body sleek in its golden skin and impulsively kissed him, hard and hungrily, tasting himself, tasting the spice of that red wine. Somehow, they wound up in a sweaty tangle on the bed.

  Charles fell back against the white sheets and stared up at him. “You want words?” he said hoarsely. “Do you, Kemp?”

  Kemp licked a circle around one of Charles’ tight nipples, hand wrapped around his cock as he slowly pumped him. Delicious, the grunt that Charles gave, thrusting up into his commanding fist. “Yeah, Chaz. Words. Give me every filthy thing you want in that classy goddamn voice of yours. Turns me the fuck on, hard, knowing what a perverse little fucker you really are.”

  Breath hissed out from between Charles’ perfect white teeth. “Oh, I’ll give you words, Kemp. And not words like disentangling. Not words like bargaining chip. But first, I’ll let you guess what I want.”

  Provocative, jibing, fighting words. Before Kemp could react, Charles moved. It was a different kind of provocation.

  His arms lifted, rested above his head, deliberately crossed at the wrist. Kemp’s mind blanked. Charles’ legs parted more fully, all the better for Kemp to fit between them. For a moment Kemp slowed. He nuzzled the darker golden hair at Charles’ armpit. Breathed in the scent of fresh sweat, muttering, “Christ, you smell so good,” before he ran his lips and tongue up over Charles’ chest, sucked at the heavy pulse in his throat. “And fuck you taste good. Like salt and sweat and… you.”

  A sound tore at Charles’ throat, vibrated against Kemp’s lips. A foot ran over Kemp’s calf.

  It was torture to leave the bed just long enough to grab a condom and lube from the box on the floor. He tossed them to the mattress and took a moment to rake his short, clipped nails up over Charles’ side, over his ribs before grazing first one nipple and then the other with his thumbnail.

  “Thought you were going to get these pierced.”

  Charles took in a deep, rough breath, nipples tight, ribcage heaving under Kemp’s eyes. “I never said I would.”

  “Mmm.” Kemp pressed a kiss against Charles’ hip. “But you’d look so fucking good.”

  Charles’ lids lifted, and blazing blue slits fixed on him. “You’d look even better.”

  Kemp looked up over the golden terrain of Charles’ body and raised an eyebrow. He had to be drunk on that lone beer because suddenly having his own nipples pierced sounded like a damned fine idea. Nope. No way. Piercings were Charles’ thing, not his. Not that it hadn’t come as a happy surprise that first time, finding those guiche piercings. Fucking hot. Kemp had damn near come just at the sight.

  But right now, he poured lube onto his fingers and slowly opened Charles up, one finger, then two, an unyielding hand wrapped around Charles’ throat as he worked him with his fingers. Judging by the way Charles pushed up against that hold, breath rough, he liked it—both the finger fucking and the commanding grip.

  Finally, he couldn’t draw it out any longer. Hand at Charles’ wrists, pinning him, he drove into Charles’ tight, hungry body and began to fuck him hard. Watching Charles give in to this, lose himself in it, wasn’t quite enough. Quite intense enough.

  He drew out, flipped Charles over, drove back into his body, and dragged him upright and back against him with an arm like an iron bar across his chest. Teeth sinking into his shoulder, he fucked up into him with hard, hungry thrusts, hand wrapped around his cock.

  “Fuck, yes—” Charles gasped. The force of Kemp’s body had him slamming a hand to the wall in front of them, steadying them both. Kemp didn’t stop. “Yes, like that—” Kemp changed the angle, hitting his prostate almost continuously now, and Charles jerked into his slippery fist and came over the pillows.

  Kemp pushed him down to the mattress, grabbed his hips, and slammed into him hard and fast. He’d barely begun before his own orgasm ripped down his spine and shut down his mind. For a moment he hung there, connected, craving that connection in a way that just— Panting, he drew out of Charles’ body and slumped down beside him, swore, flipped one of the pillows over, and fell back over it again.

  “Jesus,” he said eventually. “You and I—”

  Kemp let the words trail away. He couldn’t find a way to end them, not without saying too much and flaying his stupid emotions wide open, and fuck, they didn’t do emotions.

  “Yes.”

  Already Charles sounded distant. Contained. Considering how crazy they’d just been, it was oddly chilling. Kemp drew away, dealt with the condom, and went into the bathroom. When he returned, he handed Charles a damp washcloth. He lay back against the pillows, forearm flung over his eyes as Charles took care of himself. Funny that. He’d once, in a moment of automatic manners, gone to do it for Charles, and the guy had reacted as if stung.

  Bloody hell, he was a weird mixture. One minute he liked it anywhere on the spectrum from a little rough to please please yes leave bruises fuck yes as public as we can yes tighter harder your hand on my throat over my nose my mouth, lungs so starving, that edge, and the next… the next something like Kemp going to clean him up with a washcloth was just too damned intimate. Too intimate? Kemp wanted to laugh. Instead, some part of him hurt, deep inside.

  Charles dropped the washcloth carefully to the floor by the bed, out of sight. He lay curled up, his back to Kemp.

  Eventually, he said, “You still want to hear those secrets, Kemp?”

  Absently Kemp rubbed at his ribcage. Why did his chest feel tight suddenly? Why did he suddenly feel that they were both standing on the edge of a cliff?

  “Sure.”

  Charles began.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Normal human beings did not get to call their lawyer’s private number at seven in the morning and tell them they required an appointment at ten. Normal human beings did not book private meeting rooms at said lawyer’s offices with no notice. Nor did they have those requests met with an automatic yes.

  Charles rang his lawyer’s private number at seven the next morning because the usual rules of normal life had never, ever applied.

  The Durant fortune separated him from the rest of the world. Made people treat him differently. Not to mention, when it was convenient, he could demand preferential treatment to an outrageous level. He had those suspicions confirmed on mornings like this. Mornings when he walked into the offices of Bardwell, Black and Dennison, laptop case in hand, and was shown to the meeting room he’d requested, and the Bardwell component of the partners’ triumvirate stood in the doorway. A hint of expensive cigars laced the air. Charles guessed the scent was clinging to Bardwell’s dark, immaculate suit.

  They’d already shaken hands. Exchanged the usual pleasantries. The man he’d known since he was barely ten repeated Charles’ own instructions. “O
ur receptionist will bring you coffee. When you’ve completed your meeting with Mrs. Durant I’ll see you, and then we’ll bring Mrs. Durant and her representative into the discussion.”

  Charles set the laptop case on the thick glass tabletop. One glance had given him the room: wood panelled, room bare but for the large table. It was certainly secure. He didn’t trouble to glance over. “Yes, exactly. Thank you. And when Mrs. Durant arrives, only she can come in here. Anyone accompanying her waits at reception.”

  Bardwell nodded. “Of course.”

  As the door shut, leaving him alone, Charles wished with every fibre of his body he was a normal human being. If he was, then he wouldn’t have to face Maxine and do this. But he would, and it would make the way clear. It might not make things right, but it would make them better. There would be no need for Kemp and him to end their association—it felt like pure arrogance to describe it, under current circumstances, as a relationship.

  The hard fucking Kemp had given him last night echoed through his flesh, and he shifted in his chair. It felt like the echo of a kiss. It felt like Kemp was here in this room with him. That he was not alone, not with the erotic ache of Kemp’s hard cock tattooed into his nerve endings. He pushed aside memories of the confidences he’d given Kemp the night before. The ancient family history he’d given away. What did it matter? The secret on the USB was a greater one, and he would guard it far more fiercely.

  Alone, the laptop set up, he set the case on a chair beside him and sat down, waiting.

  Maxine arrived on time, as he’d expected, and was shown into the room. Dressed for war, she wore a fitted black suit, Fracas perfume, and heels that brought her to his height.

  “Take a seat,” he invited.

  “I want my lawyer in here.”

  “No, you don’t, Maxine.” There was something in Charles’ smile that made her falter. “Now please, take a seat. I have something to show you.”

  Chin lifting, she said nothing. Instead, she took the chair he held out, directly in front of the incongruous, old Mac laptop. Then she went very, very quiet.