He's doing it again.
Looking at me from across the pub with half-lidded eyes, a hint of tongue showing between full lips, hips canted to one side in clear invitation. Even surrounded by the CI5 mob and the usual Saturday night punters, he's enough to tempt a saint.
He must have forgotten that I'm no saint.
I finish my discussion of last night's Liverpool match with Murphy--the poor lad's a deluded Arsenal supporter--down the last of my pint and begin to make my way through the crowded pub. I take my time, enjoying how Ray focuses on me, and only me, even as he trades barbs with Anson. I watch as he lifts his glass and swallows the last of his bitter, carefully noting how his Adam's apple bobs, how his chest hair shows above his collar.
His eyes turn briefly to Anson before he once again fixes his gaze on me, a smouldering heat in his eyes that creates an answering heat in my gut, in my groin. I lick my lips, and see him smile, that wicked grin he only gets when his blood is rising high and he's on the hunt for someone to share the fun, share the danger. When he's hunting for me.
And then I'm beside him, close enough to see the glint in his eye, to sense the hunger coiled within him. I move my hand, letting the tips of my fingers trail lightly across his arse before letting my hand rest decently in the small of his back. I feel him lean back, ever so slightly, into my hand.
I smile at Anson, laugh at his joke, the one whose punchline is at Cowley's expense, the one he wouldn't tell within a mile of headquarters and the Cow.
I move my hand and wrap a matey arm around Doyle's shoulders, tell Anson that I've got to take Raymond home. You know how it is; early call out; Cowley's orders. It's all crap, but Anson nods and waves us off, none the wiser. It will all be put down to the eccentricities of the 4.5/3.7 partnership.
Or maybe not.
Maybe Anson knows the score, maybe they all do. Maybe the entire A squad and Cowley know just what goes on between us. Know and don't care, because when it comes right down to it all that matters is that we're still 4.5 and 3.7, and we all watch each other's backs. Save each other's lives.
But now's not the time to speculate on what Anson or Murphy or Cowley know or don't know. Now's the time to heed a different call.
Ray pulls away from me and walks ahead, offering me a full view of his sinuous walk, his jeans-clad arse. I follow my own personal siren out of the warmth and clamour of the pub and into the dark of a cool, spring night. The noise of the pub follows us outside, but otherwise the street is quiet, deserted. A few steps ahead, Ray stops and turns, daring me to pursue my desires.
He's playing with fire.
I usually keep this fire banked, always burning, but under control. But tonight it flares with a wild fury I can't rein in. Without conscious thought I move toward him and grab his arm in a grip that I know will bruise. Tonight I don't care about bruises, and neither does Ray. He grins and licks his lips, chipped tooth catching the glow of the streetlight.
I steer him around the corner, not toward the Capri--home is too far to satisfy what is driving us tonight--but to an alley we both know all too well. An alley that stinks of garbage and piss, but that doesn't matter to either of us as I push him against the wall. I hold him at arm's length, enjoying the feel of his strength straining against my own. The blood pounds in my ears, flows to my cock. We stand poised on the knife's edge, enjoying this last moment before we fall, before our control is cut to ribbons.
And then we really are falling, our mouths coming together violently, teeth clashing, biting. I taste blood and I don't know if it's mine or his, don't care. My hands are frantically pulling up his shirt, seeking under warm cotton for soft skin, for curling chest hair. His belly shudders as I touch a sensitive spot.
His hands have gone around to my back, clutching at the leather of my jacket. Then they descend, ruck up my shirt, dip below the waistband of my trousers. I gasp as his warm hands fondle my arse, as one finger circles the rosebud of flesh and penetrates.
It's not enough.
My hands abandon his chest and work on zippers and buttons until I have us both exposed to the cool night air. I hold both our cocks in one fist, at first taking pleasure only in the contact of velvet flesh on velvet flesh. Then I need more, and move my hand up and down both swollen shafts. My pace is slow at first, then it becomes faster and faster as our need grows greater.
Ray becomes more adventurous, and the finger inside me seeks out and finds the gland within. I arch my neck backwards and clench my teeth against the scream threatening to tear from my throat. Ray grinds against me, his teeth fastening on my neck, ensuring I'll be wearing polonecks for a week.
We're both racing toward the finish line, our breath growing harsher, our movements growing wilder. Then Ray shudders and he's coming, bringing me with him.
We collapse against each other, spent, letting our breathing calm, our hearts slow. We sort ourselves out, zip flies, tuck in shirts. Ray takes my hand and licks off the evidence of our pleasure. I kiss him deeply and drink in the taste of him, of us.
Then we're out of the alley and heading for the Capri and home at last. Our thirst is slaked, but we're both ready for more, ready to take it slower, gentler.
I get behind the wheel of the car as Ray settles in beside me, all long-legged grace and curly-haired beauty, a wicked angel who's claimed my soul. And I can't help think of what Oscar Wilde, that fellow traveller in our vice, said: I can resist anything except temptation.
When temptation comes in the shape of Ray Doyle, who'd want to?
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