Velvet and Silk

by P. R. Zed


When he rang the bell of Doyle's flat, Bodie'd been anticipating only a night on the town with a good mate. Two days of tedium interspersed with moments of sheer terror had left them both raw and ready for action of a more entertaining sort than Cowley had provided for them. Bodie reckoned they'd pull a couple of willing birds, dance too much, drink too much, and see what developed.

Doyle had buzzed him into the building and left the door of his flat open. Bodie'd poured himself a shot of Doyle's good scotch and plonked himself down in his favourite armchair in the lounge,

"I'm nearly ready," Doyle called from the bedroom.

"Take your time. I'm just putting a dent in your liquor supply."

"Oi, you keep your mitts off the good stuff. I lay that in special for Uncle George."

"Too late," Bodie said, grinning and taking another satisfying swallow.

"Then next time we meet at your place, and I can drink your booze."

"You know your problem, mate. You're too mean. Been taking lessons from our Scottish fuehrer?"

"You don't want to let Cowley hear you calling him that."

"Who's going to tell him?"

A disgusted noise was Doyle's only response to that.

Bodie amused himself for the next two minutes with making a list of the pubs and clubs that were likely to have the best talent, planning a route through the West End and points north. He'd just reached Camden on his mental tour of debauchery when the door to Doyle's bedroom opened and his partner emerged into the lounge. And in that moment, all Bodie's preconceived notions of his partner and himself and what they had planned for the evening disappeared like so much mist in a morning breeze.

Doyle was a vision in velvet and silk. Skin-tight, velvet trousers of a deep burgundy hue had replaced his usual tatty jeans. A black silk shirt clung to his torso in ways that should have been declared obscene. The buttons were undone more than was, strictly speaking, decent, exposing Doyle's gold chain and chest to all and sundry.

Such blatant display of his partner's sensuality sent Bodie's thoughts scattering in all directions. A heat bloomed in his gut, resurrecting thoughts he'd long since thought banished. Standing, he crossed his arms and gave Doyle a full once over.

"What shop window did you just crawl out of?"

"My best party togs, aren't they," Doyle said, planting a hand on one hip.

"They're certainly something." Bodie moved in closer. He knew he was playing with a fire that would burn him down to bone and ash, but he was unable to resist the heat of the flames. The fire stirred within him, forming arousal, but also anger: anger that he could still feel this way, after denying himself so long; anger that Doyle of all people, his partner, could stir these submerged feelings.

The anger took charge as he reached out for Doyle's collar and spoke words that were directed at Doyle but aimed at himself. "How can you dress like that and not feel queer?"

"What?" He could see Doyle immediately stiffen, his playful mood swiftly gone. He gifted his partner with the kind of look he usually bestowed only on the worst sort of villain. Bodie knew he should have been frightened of that look, but caution had apparently abandoned him. He leaned closer to Doyle, rubbing the silk collar between thumb and forefinger, breathing in the spicy scent of Doyle's cologne.

"This lot," he said. "This clobber." Stuck by a burst of insane bravery Bodie leaned even closer to Doyle and whispered in his ear. "Doesn't it make you feel like a ponce?"

"Gerrof, you bastard," Doyle said with none of the usual humour that usually passed between them. Doyle pushed him roughly away. "What the hell's gotten into you, Bodie?"

"Take it easy, mate," Bodie said, rubbing his chest where Doyle's hand had pushed him away, pushed him hard enough to bruise, hard enough that the phantom sensation of Doyle's hands on him remained. "Was just a joke." Even as the words left his mouth, Bodie knew them for the lie they were. Whatever this was, it wasn't a joke. It came from a much darker place than even his usual black humour, a place he'd hidden and buried and left to fester for far too long until it had turned into this coil of anger and lust that curled around his heart.

And Doyle must have known, must have sensed some of the darkness that swirled within Bodie, because he looked at him with narrowed eyes, judging the man before him and finding him wanting.

"You're playing a dangerous game, mate." Doyle's finger stabbed him in the chest on the last word. "You want to watch yourself."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bodie said, taking refuge in more lies and his poshest voice.

"Oh, I don't know." Doyle directed his gaze downwards to where Bodie could feel his cock straining against his trousers, anger and arousal feeding each other. "I think something knows exactly what I'm talking about."

"You want to take your own advice about playing dangerous games, Doyle."

Doyle smiled, the smile of a predator looking not for prey, but for a playmate. He moved forward, forcing Bodie to back up until he could feel the wall against his spine. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm a dangerous man." Doyle put his palms flat on the wall, one on either side of Bodie's face, and leaned forward.

The first touch of Doyle's lips burned Bodie, made him draw in a breath that caught in his throat. Doyle's tongue pushed past his parted lips and explored his mouth with a hesitancy that might almost have been gentleness. But Bodie didn't want gentleness, not now, not when Doyle had put a match to the fire within him. He moved one hand around Doyle's back, bringing them both together with a force that caused their teeth to meet. His other hand drifted lower, coming to rest on Doyle's arse.

He pulled their bodies together, hard enough that he could feel the pounding of Doyle's heart against his own chest, hard enough that he could feel Doyle's cock swell against his own.

But it wasn't enough. He wanted more. He wanted the feel of silk and velvet on skin.

With one more punishing kiss, he pushed Doyle away, then quickly shucked off his jacket and his shirt. Doyle watched with him with an appreciative grin, before moving to take off his own shirt. Bodie stopped him with a firm grip.

"Don't. Not yet. Want to feel that silk against me, don't I?"

"Mad bastard," Doyle said, but he didn't argue.

They came together again, and the feeling of silk against his chest drove Bodie almost mad with lust. Doyle licked a trail down his throat before biting down hard on his shoulder. Bodie arched his neck as this simple pain provoked his pleasure even further.

Then Doyle's hands were on the button of his trousers, undoing his flies. He managed to kick off both shoes and trousers without stumbling, then Doyle pushed him back against the wall. The feel of the velvet against his legs, against his cock, was even better than the silk. The nap of the fabric ignited all the nerves in his body, making them explode like Bonfire Night fireworks.

Leaning in to kiss him once again, Doyle took his cock in one hand, kneading his arse with the other. Bodie knew in that moment that he was totally undone. His balls tightened and his cock throbbed and come pulsed all over his own belly, all over Doyle's silk and velvet.

He stood there, supported by Doyle's arms, his chest heaving as if he'd just run one of Macklin's bloody obstacle courses. Doyle pulled back from him, his own breath coming in gasps, his trousers tight from his still unsatisfied cock. He looked at Bodie warily, as if he wasn't sure how he was going to react.

And now that the first fires of his lust had peaked, he wasn't entirely sure what to do himself. He only knew that this felt right, that it made sense, that sharing this with Doyle had made him feel whole for the first time since he'd run away from home, searching for something he couldn't define. Searching for this.

Then the way opened up before him and he knew. He knew what to do, knew what to say, knew how he wanted things to be between them.

He put one hand gently on Doyle's chest, enjoying the feel of the silk covering ribs and taut belly.

"I don't know how those clothes make you feel, mate, but they certainly make me feel queer," Bodie said, and gave his most brilliant smile.

There was a moment's silence, seconds during which Doyle said nothing, showed no reaction, and Bodie wondered if he'd miscalculated, if he'd said the wrong thing yet again. But then the moment broke and Doyle gave one of his dirtiest laughs and hit him lightly on the arm.

"Cretin," Doyle said.

Yeah, but I'm your cretin, aren't I?"

"S'pose I'm stuck with you now, aren't I?"

"Like glue, Ray." Bodie hugged Doyle to him "Now, how about we go to the bedroom and get you out of these clothes and into nothing at all."

"Thought you'd never ask."

"You can ask me, Ray," Bodie said, putting a hand on Doyle's shoulder. "Ask me for anything, any time at all." He hoped that Doyle knew exactly what he meant, exactly what was on offer.

"I know, Bodie." Doyle's voice was soft, his eyes were bright with too many emotions to name, but Bodie thought he recognized one that might have been love. "That goes double for me."

"That's all right, then."

And it was.

Fin



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