For Ness. Happy Birthday!
Love and thanks to JiM, AuKestrel, Kit Mason, and the Bad Angel Mandalee for encouragement, handholding, and doing battle with the evil sentence fragments.
Fraser sat at his desk in his office in the Canadian Consulate. His office doubled as storage, both for cardboard boxes of indeterminate content and for one homeless man. Right now, he felt as if he'd be more wanted as a felon than he currently was as a human being.
He'd been living in this space for two weeks on the goodwill of his superior officer, whose patience was surely wearing thin. Inspector Thatcher wasn't overburdened with patience at the best of times, and housing her subordinate at the workplace did not improve her demeanor.
It chafed at him to have nowhere else to go, but, on the other hand, that seemed to symbolize his entire Chicago experience.
He'd only just begun to open himself once more to the land of the living when his whole world came crashing down. Ray, his Ray, was gone; his only friend had left him. Ray Vecchio, the man who'd taken him in, accepted his foibles, supported him under the direst of circumstances--Ray had left him without a word. Yes, it was for duty's sake. Fraser could applaud that even as his heart withered with anger and twisted with shame over that very anger. A small voice nagged him, suggesting that if he'd been a better friend himself, perhaps Ray's leave-taking would have at least been different.
Either way, he was alone and bereft in a place of noise and filth, marooned so far from his native land that he had no idea how he could ever get back. Two weeks in the north had only served to remind him just how much he missed it. And he'd come back to this. To have known close friendship and to have that stripped away, and in such a place--he'd never been in a situation so bleak. Even in the frigid waters of Prince Rupert Sound, he had faced nothing worse than a clean and painless death. In the city, he spent his days with the worn-out life he'd made for himself.
Thank God for Diefenbaker, then and now his only real friend, who tempered the affliction of waking to every Chicago morning.
It was an hour after closing time on Friday evening, and only the tiny lamp behind his desk complemented the last of the sunshine. He stared down at the paraphernalia he held. The handcuffs were his own, RCMP issue. He didn't carry them, not having jurisdiction as an officer of the law anywhere outside this building, so they'd remained in his desk drawer with their set of keys until now.
Now, when he was all alone, he looked at them in the spot of sunlight from the west window and thought about his new partner. His partner, a man with whom he was one half of a duet. It was a relationship he hadn't started and could not stop, not if he wanted Ray Vecchio to survive. Handcuffs seemed fitting, but that wasn't why he was sitting at his desk watching the late afternoon light splinter away from their stainless steel surface.
Ray Kowalski was why. Ray Kowalski, fine police officer and better undercover operative. Ray Kowalski, at whom he'd taken one look and lost his heart--and very probably also his mind. "Do you think I'm attractive?" Yes. Oh, yes, indeed. This replacement Ray, this magnetic man who exuded life force, was a beacon in the dreary Chicago haze. The fire in him burned away the sickness in Fraser's soul.
He rarely indulged in such flights of fancy as sexual daydreams. Sexual impulses were most unwelcome after . . . he still had a hard time thinking of her by name. Since Tuesday, however, he'd had all he could do to prevent his libido from undermining all rational thought. Every single time his discipline slipped, his head was filled with the image of Ray. Ray, leaning over the cuffed man up against the car. Ray, stopping the man's angry struggles with the weight of his body. Ray, his groin pressed hard against the man's buttocks.
Perhaps, Fraser thought, it wouldn't be so firmly etched into his memory if the man up against the car hadn't looked, from Fraser's vantage point behind them both, so much like . . . himself. He closed his eyes, the better to see it all clearly. As tall as Ray, a heavier build, thick dark hair, wearing a brown leather jacket and tight faded jeans. It took far too little effort to imagine the weight of Ray's body against his back, the press of Ray's groin against his buttocks. He would gladly struggle just for the thrill of forcing Ray to subdue him.
The fantasy was exciting in inverse proportion to the likelihood of such a thing ever happening.
What would it have been like to be the man underneath Ray?
He ran his thumb along the curve of the cuffs. The reflected light seemed to wink at him.
Without conscious volition, he snapped one cuff around each wrist. There was something oddly appealing in the look of them, solid and reassuring. He jerked at the restraints, satisfied with their unyielding. The last time he'd escaped from wrist shackles, he'd been in a mental hospital. They'd locked him up without a second thought just for being who he was. Well, he apparently hadn't gotten any saner since.
He stood, balancing on one bare foot to step through the circle of his cuffed arms, fascinated by the feel of his hands secured behind his back. It was an interesting accompaniment to the weight of the erection threatening to split the teeth of his zipper. The now much-too-tight jeans were like a firm hand against his genitals.
Fraser cast an appraising look at the desk in front of him. It was just about exactly the height of the hood of Ray's navy department-issue Crown Victoria. With a deep breath, he leaned over it, resting his heated face on the cool, varnished surface. Unfamiliar muscles protested in his back and arms. He couldn't stop--didn't want to stop--his hips from moving against the desktop.
The friction was maddening. His t-shirt, snug from too many washings, rode up, baring his belly to the stick and slip of the desk. Oh, yes, this was so very good. All that was missing was Ray, and Fraser's imagination conveniently supplied him--Ray, eyes glowing, breathing harsh, whipcord body triumphant over him, thrusting his lean hips into Fraser's.
His eyes closed, letting his head fill with Ray and the heft of Ray's body against his own. His breathing stuttered, and his hips ground against the desk. Warmth spread through him, erasing everything else. His caught breath escaped on a quiet moan.
Unoiled hinges gave a faint squeak as the door to his office opened.
Fraser snapped upright so abruptly that his head spun. He stared, shocked, as Ray moved into the doorway. The man might as well have been magically summoned. He looked completely absorbed in whatever it was he was thinking about; he stood in the doorway at least five seconds just looking at the floor. His abstraction made him appear distant, colder.
The emanation of invisible, yet almost tangible, swirling energy that usually surrounded him was subdued. Perhaps he was tired, or perhaps it was allowed to fade when Ray was alone. Even his hair lay neatly on his forehead, as if just combed. Then he turned his head, a smile softening his features when he realized Fraser was standing just metres away. "Hey, partner! Can I come in? Well, I guess I'm already in."
"Fraser?" Ray paused expectantly, then looked puzzled, searching for a response as Fraser remained mute. "Fraser, what are you doing here? I thought you were goin' out."
Yes. Out of his mind. "I might ask you the same thing, Ray," he choked, having recovered his voice sufficiently to get that many words out. "How did you get in?"
"With Old Faithful." Ray brandished a credit card. "Same as before. You really oughta get a decent lock on the front door. Oh, why am I here? I can't find my house keys, and this is the only place I figure they can be. I looked everyplace else already."
"Couldn't it have waited until morning?" Fraser asked repressively. Not that he wished to make Ray feel unwanted, but this was one situation where his partner was definitely de trop.
"Not if I wanted to get in through the door. I used the glove-box set yesterday. Forgot 'em on the counter. I gotta find one ring big enough for all my keys. Hey, you wanna go get something to eat? I can look around later."
"Not now, Ray." Ray looked him over carefully, apparently surprised at his bluntness. Fraser was superbly grateful for the indirect light, which he hoped was hiding his burning face.
Ray's hopeful expression vanished, leaving an almost sullen look in its place. "All right, I get it. Mr. Polite goes back to Canada at quitting time. Hey, uh, you don't have to stand there with your hands behind your back. You could help me look. The faster I find my keys, the faster I'll be outta your hair."
"I'm afraid I can't lend you a hand right now."
"What?" His surprise might have been comical under other circumstances. "You help everybody, whether they want it or not. You think I should bust a window to get into my apartment? Then you'll have to arrest me, but after that you'll have to bail me out, so there."
"As you well know, I have no jurisdiction in your neighborhood."
Fraser could feel the skin of his chest on fire now, too. It was possible that if this horrific experience lasted any longer, he would spontaneously combust from sheer humiliation. Despite the entrance of the object of his fantasy, or perhaps because of it, his aching erection refused to subside. Even the bite of the unpleasantly sharp edge of the desk did nothing to alleviate his hardness. He'd been so close to orgasm, for the first time in so long . . . He clamped his teeth down on the inside of his cheek in hopes that the sting would clear his mind.
Distressed by Ray's glare, he scrambled for an even remotely believable excuse as to why he was standing in his office with his hands behind his back. "I've been . . . ah . . . testing my handcuffs. They've been unused for so long that I wanted to make sure they were in good order."
Ray snorted with laughter, his sullenness gone as abruptly as it had appeared. It seemed to Fraser that Ray's grin could make up for any shortage of incandescent light. It was almost worth the embarrassment merely to make him laugh. Of course, Ray would never know the full extent of his chagrin. "You got your own hands cuffed behind you? How the hell did you do that? Never mind, don't answer that." He shook his head. "Where's the key? C'mon, I'll do it.”
That tiny clink that had gone almost unnoticed in his distraction had been the key hitting the tiles. Its mate was still in the drawer. "I'm afraid it's fallen on the floor. I'll look for it." Perhaps he could regain his equilibrium while hidden behind the desk for a moment or two.
"I'll get it." Ray headed for the desk with, Fraser could see, every intention of walking behind it.
"No! No, I'll--"
But it was too late. Ray had pulled a small flashlight from his jacket pocket and was scanning the floor beneath the desk. Squatting down, he snatched the prize between slender, supple fingers and looked up. He was now eye level with Fraser's unmistakable bulge and the spreading circle of dampness at its apex.
Ray raised wide eyes upward to Fraser's, eyebrows halfway to his hairline, obviously aware now that he'd interrupted a private moment.
Fraser was mortified beyond imagining. He'd never believed in the fires of hell, but if only he could sink down through the floor right now, enveloped by flames, he'd be more than pleased. When Ray continued to stare up at him without saying a word, he took an unsteady step back. He had no idea what Ray was thinking. He knew he had to say something, anything, but the vision of his partner at his feet brought forth such a rush of unfettered longing that he only managed a strangled noise. His whole body was galvanized to run, but there was no point. He could run, but he couldn't hide; there was no escaping what Ray had already seen.
To his amazement, a slow smile crept along Ray's lips. "So, you like the cuffs."
The smile took on that charmingly wicked cast that Fraser had already admired from a greater distance. "In which case, I bet you could use a hand with that. Not having, um, one of your own." He tilted his head, eyes gleaming.
"Ray!" Even to his own ears, the name came out more like a wail of desperation than anything he might have intended.
"Easy, Fraser. What are partners for?" A long-fingered hand slid up Fraser's thigh, seeming to ignite a trail of sparks along his skin. He gasped when Ray's hand reached its destination, and couldn't stop a whimper when Ray began to knead him through the denim. Weak-kneed, he groped for the edge of the desk with his bound hands, leaning against it in an attempt to stay upright.
Ray stood, using his grip on Fraser's erection for balance. He winked broadly at Fraser, still grinning, and then his face hardened, lips a straight line. The change was so unexpected that Fraser just stared dumbly when Ray barked, "Face down on the desk!"
Ray grabbed his shoulders and turned him around, holding him steady when he stumbled. "You heard me! Down, now, and spread 'em!"
Stunned, he complied, with Ray's hands pushing flat against his shoulderblades. He was sure that those spread fingers would leave scorch marks.
"Oh, yeah, that's good," said Ray, with a hard edge that made Fraser shudder. "Cooperate and I'll go easy on you. You don't, and I'll make it real hard."
Those words sounded sincerely threatening, but they were the same words he'd heard over and over in his mind since Tuesday.
He flung himself up against Ray, trying to throw him off, and discovered how difficult it was. His triceps throbbed with effort in their odd position. Ray was welded to him from calves to shoulders, though the handcuffs must be digging into his solar plexus. Even fully clothed, being so close to Ray felt like being too close to the sun.
With his gluteal muscles clenched against Ray's groin, and his erection crushed against the desk, the only response that came to his witless mind was Tuesday's: "Screw you, you bastard." He closed his eyes at the vulgarity.
"Oh, that does it." Ray's dangerous whisper caused waves of need to crash through his veins. Hot breath along his neck made tiny hairs stand on end. "I'll make you sorry you said that."
Abruptly, the weight and heat of him was gone, and determined hands pulled Fraser's hips away from the desk. "Head down, I said!" Fraser did as ordered, perspiration from his temple smearing the wood's finish. A moment passed, punctuated by the sound of a zipper coming down. Strong fingers returned to work at his own fly, shoving the jeans and boxers down over his buttocks and freeing his engorged penis. His vulnerability was both thrilling and disturbing.
The scent of Ray's arousal teased him all the more because he couldn't see what he so badly wanted to. He was left to imagine what Ray looked like, eyelids heavy with lust, penis stiff and jutting away from his lean, muscular torso. He groaned and thrust into the fist that closed around him, sorely disappointed when that hand just as suddenly disappeared.
"Lube." It was a demand, not a request.
"Drawer. Hand cream," he responded weakly, then froze. Surely Ray didn't intend--not that he could easily prevent it under the circumstances--
The reality of what he was doing struck him bluntly. He was not only having sex with a stranger, but with a stranger who was also his partner. It was not intimacy, not just carnal knowledge, but outright deviance. He was prone atop his own desk, buttocks bare, hands manacled behind him at his own whim. The man with whom he must share working hours for an unknown amount of days, months, years was about to take him anally.
Fear was not unknown to him. Of course, he felt fear. Anyone who took the physical risks he did in his work would have to be deluded, perhaps insane, not to feel fear.
But not like this.
He'd been shot, stabbed, injured in a multitude of ways. That was his job. Broken bones and the silver lines of scars were an occupational hazard. Still, he had never been entered with his own permission. No one had ever broached the sanctity of his skin except in violence. The very notion sobered him. And yet, here he was, exposed completely before a man he barely knew, very near to begging for release.
What if he refused? Would his nominal partner even accept his refusal? Surely it could be argued that he had already acquiesced to anything that happened in this office. And if he refused, if necessary using physical force to back up his determination, what would become of the partnership that kept Ray Vecchio alive?
For the first time he could remember, he was cornered. He could submit to whatever his new partner wanted, or he could destroy his best friend. Every muscle in his body was as hard-drawn as the shaft of his penis. He could hear Ray fumbling in the drawer for the tube of hand lotion that Fraser knew was there. If he couldn't keep his breathing under control, it was quite likely that he'd be hyperventilating within minutes. His pulse skyrocketed when he heard Ray's exultant exclamation.
An impatient finger tapped smartly against the inside of his wrist, below the ring of the cuffs. With some difficulty, he uncurled cramped fingers from his palm, noting as he did that he ought to cut his nails more frequently. Ray’s hand closed around his own.
“Leave you by yourself for one second, and you flip out.” The words held a certain--affection? “This ain’t real, Fraser, it’s just pretend.”
For a brief moment he thought Ray was telling him the entire experience was a product of his overstimulated endocrine system. Yes, that was it. Soon he'd wake--slumped forward in his chair, head aching from his oak pillow, his partner shaking him to consciousness.
Ray's other hand was on his shoulder, massaging gently. "You still want to play?"
A huff of air came from lungs he hadn't known were paralyzed. Unquestionably, then, he was still here, in this world where the object of his most disgraceful fantasies would walk into his office and offer to make them real. This world was full of wonders. What, at this point, did he have to lose?
"Still my rules, then. 'Cause you're the guy in the cuffs."
But the tenor of the game had changed. Ray's touch became less demanding, more coaxing. Compulsion became seduction, and Fraser learned just how susceptible he was to it. Somehow, Ray was settling tiny kisses along the nape of his neck, then nipping lightly along the length of his spine through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, toward his crossed wrists. Fraser pushed back for more contact, but met only air. He tried to reach up for Ray, but his position made that a worthless effort.
Fraser raised up slowly, pulled by that throaty voice.
He'd had no idea Ray could sound so dissolute.
Wet hands slithered under his t-shirt and shoved it up to his armpits. He drew a quick breath at the familiar smell of mint extract and eucalyptus and the unfamiliar touch of his partner's hard hands. Ray had found the small bottle of mildly mentholated oil that had lain, forgotten, in the desk drawer for months. The effect was . . . amazing. Tingling heat swarmed up his chest, followed by draughts of delightful chill. He leaned back against Ray, shoulders to Ray's chest, head on his shoulder, and let the pleasure roll on his skin.
Even Ray's urgent whisper couldn't distract him. "What is this crap?"
"Liniment." His voice seemed to drift away as he spoke. "Feels . . . it feels . . ."
He could feel Ray's smile against his cheek. "Okay, then." Everywhere those sure hands went, searching and soothing, the hot and cold swept along in their wake. Fraser could hear the rush and drum of blood in the carotid artery near his ear. Small breathless noises were tickling his throat from the inside. Ray's personal scent, mixed with the sweetness of mint and tang of eucalyptus, was making him tipsy, and he slid into the sensation. He was safe. Ray was at his back.
"Wakey-wakey, Fraser," Ray crooned. "Can you stand up by yourself?"
"Yes." Such a simple task was more difficult than he'd have thought, without the security of Ray behind him. Automatically, he stood at parade rest. It was nearly profane to stand so, with his shirt rucked up under his arms and his private parts bared for all to see, but there was little else he could do. He needed his feet spread for balance--he had precious little at this point--and his hands were already behind him. He'd never been examined by a lover in the way that Ray was doing it now, like he was a slave on the block, all possible charms displayed within reach. His flesh prickled as if it could feel the caress of Ray's eyes.
If he could ever have imagined such a thing, it would not have been like this. His disordered state seemed more shameful than if he were naked. How far from his modesty was he, that he would stand half-dressed, erection prodding the air, and square his shoulders for Ray? That devouring stare was flint to his steel, starting a burning low in his belly.
"Holy fucking-- Jesus, look at you."
Shy pride warmed him at the wonder in Ray's voice.
His partner prowled around him as if stalking prey, his gaze never wavering. "And I can have whatever I want," Ray said, the tip of his index finger trailing along Fraser's collarbone and down, down toward the burning. Fraser shivered, watching the progress of that fingertip. Something inside him was breaking apart, about to dissolve, and he did not know what that was or what would happen when it did.
That didn't stop him from answering Ray's kiss with a passion he'd thought was dead. If starvation couldn't kill it, perhaps feeding would satisfy it. His hands were fettered, not his will. Their mouths clashed and struggled together, not the luxurious kisses that he expected from a lover, but something wilder, more imprudent.
Wild. That was Ray's essence. It called to Fraser in the same way as the keening of a hawk, sweet and piercingly. He hungered to be in that wildness, to have it--to claim it with his mouth, his hands, his body; but that was not to be.
The hand that twisted in his hair, the furnace of Ray's mouth, the soft scrape of denim against the sensitive skin of his penis--these things leached away his ability to think, his ability to stand. Only the arm around his back kept him steady. He hadn't known what it would be like, hadn't known how badly he still wanted just that: to give up thought, to give up control, to give in. The need that drove him a year ago still lived, and he could only hope that this time it wouldn't rip his life apart.
Fraser held together until Ray's lips followed the path of his finger, down his chest, down his belly, down to the thatch of dark hair. Oh, he hadn't allowed himself to even think of this. The first touch of Ray's tongue shook him to the core, and he moaned like an animal. His partner knelt between his feet, tasting him, tonguing the seminal fluid from the head of his penis, pausing to smile brazenly up at Fraser and lick his lips. The sight transfixed him.
"Please," he whispered, caught by the promise on that upturned face.
He jerked uncontrollably as Ray's mouth slid over him, cheeks hollowed, sucking away the very last vestige of Fraser's self-control. No one had ever done this for him. Ray's willingness to give pleasure this way was staggering. So hot, so vital, so greedy that it truly was like being eaten alive--that mouth demanded everything he had. The light scrape of teeth made a scream lodge in his chest. Much too soon, he surrendered. Only strong hands at his hips kept him from shoving himself down Ray's throat; only those same hands kept him upright when his knees gave as he came, his howl resounding from the four walls.
"You taste great." Whatever he might have replied was swallowed by a warm, langorous kiss. The meeting of their mouths was gentler now. Ray's body was hard and angular against him, and he sucked the raw taste of himself from Ray's tongue. He let himself be led back to the desk, and sat down on it. His jeans hung around his knees, but he didn't care. The polished oak surface was cool against his buttocks.
Light-headed, he watched Ray lean over, rummaging again in the desk drawer. The zipper of his faded jeans was open halfway, and Fraser smiled to see that they hadn't fallen off those narrow hips. It must be self-generated static electricity that held them up. When those jeans slid down a little, revealing the small of Ray's back, it occurred to him that there was much more he wanted to see.
"Ray." It was so weak and scratchy he had to try again. "Ray, wouldn't you like to make yourself more comfortable?"
"Is that Canadian for 'get naked'?"
"I have no choice."
"Oh, yeah." The smile beamed from Ray's face. "Hey, I think I found the right stuff this time." He flipped the small tube of aloe vera onto the desk, where it lay between them like a challenge. Casually, he stripped out of his t-shirt and toed off his shoes, shucking jeans and briefs as one.
Ray's golden skin almost glowed in the last light. His penis rose from its protection of light brown curls, hard and proud. Clean-limbed and lightly muscular, he looked perfectly at home in his body. He wore himself with the same dancer's grace in the nude as he did clothed.
Moving a step closer, he purred, "I just upped the ante."
Fraser swallowed hard. He was uncomfortably aware that he was about to wager something he could ill afford to lose.
No. He wasn't going to lose this time. He was sure of it. Sure enough to stand, turn his back to Ray, and lean clumsily down onto the desk.
The dull whistle of air between Ray's teeth rent the silence. "Fraser."
He didn't answer, just waited.
Working partnership be damned. He would do whatever gave him the right to Ray's pleasure. When he felt Ray's fingers, coated with aloe, smoothing over his anus, he knew it would be his pleasure, too. This was another thing he hadn't known before, this touch against his most private place, and how good it felt. He wriggled back against the fingers, and they entered him, stroking into him, making him gasp and sigh. Then, unexpectedly, they touched something so . . . almost shocking, it was so good, and he pulled away convulsively.
"God, yes, Ray, again!"
And he did it again, pushing those fingers against that spot that made Fraser tremble. "Oh! Oh, Ray, oh, yes," and he knew he was babbling, but he couldn't stop. The electricity that surged in his veins went straight to his mouth. It was all over him, all over his skin, all through him. He couldn't stop shivering, pushing back, moaning. "Oh, please, just . . . more, I need . . . "
"Take it easy, Fraser. Relax." The catch in his words suggested that Ray wasn't completely relaxed right now himself.
He tried to relax, to let go of his tension, but it was impossible. Those long, strong fingers were pushing him to the limit, but his body refused to relent. It was as if some visceral survival instinct barred him from surrender.
He could do this, he would do this. He needed this. He needed something, anything, to make him feel alive. Ray would make him feel alive. Ray would give him the wildness he craved. "Do it!" he gasped.
"Just do it!" His voice was edged with the panic that was already reaching sly tendrils into his belly.
Wiry arms circled his midsection, holding on tight. Ray's body weighed him down. A lightly stubbled cheek rubbed against his arm.
" 's not about how tough you are. It's just you and me. We can play nice."
The panic became a spreading hollowness, a bitter, empty disappointment. "Nice isn't enough," he whispered. "Not any more."
The answer was definite. "I'm your partner now. I am not going to hurt you. I don't do that shit."
His mind heard a refusal.
Something else inside him, however misguided, heard a promise.
Ray was still holding on, pressed against him everywhere possible. Gently they rocked forward and back, Ray's penis sliding in the cleft of his buttocks. He was caught by the soothing motion. Slowly, the bitterness receded. Choking sorrows and regrets loosened their grip, just a little, letting him breathe freely for the first time in months. Living warmth seeped into the empty spaces. He let himself feel it. Muscle fibers twisted taut for longer than he could remember began to ease. He exhaled grief and the pain of loss, fogging the glossy surface of the desk, letting his lungs fill with the scent of Ray.
"Yeah, that's it. Just go with it."
He'd climbed to this place carrying a load of bricks, it seemed, and all he wanted was to set them aside, just for once, just for this moment. It was foreign to his nature. But then, was he not a stranger in a strange land?
The rhythmic slide of Ray's penis against the sensitive area around his anus was delicious, delightful. He could feel the ridge beneath the head as it rubbed against him, and pushed back for more as best he could. Ray wrapped warm, rough fingers around his now-hard penis, and he groaned helplessly, torn between moving his hips back against the sweet friction and pushing forward into that welcoming hand.
"Don't hold back, Fraser." Ray's voice was insistent, compelling.
No . . . he couldn't, he wouldn't, didn't even want to. Somewhere between forward and backward, he knew he was where he'd always wanted to be.
This was what he'd been yearning for, for so very long. He gave in fully to temptation, to sensation, to Ray. The wildness surged through him. His skin felt alive as never before, and he responded without reserve to Ray's every touch. It awakened parts of him that had been stifled by duty, by Chicago, by the life he now lived. It had been forever--and oh, God, he was free, finally free! Something deep within him howled out its liberation. His ears rang with his own shouts.
As if spurred by Fraser's loss of control, Ray began to move with more force and less rhythm. His harsh panting became jumbled moans and half-words. Driving urgency spent itself in hoarse cries as a slick of warm semen pooled on Fraser's lower back. The reflexive tighten-and-twist of Ray's grip on his penis pulled his orgasm from him like a cork from a bottle. He pushed hard into that hand, once, twice, and again, closing his eyes as his semen pulsed into the air. Behind his eyelids, sun sparkled on new snow.
Utterly spent, he lay unmoving on the desk while Ray fumbled a bit with the key, releasing the cuffs and chafing wrists that hadn't felt sore until this moment. The massage continued up arms and across shoulders that also began to chime in with complaints of abuse. The gentle pressure was exquisite.
"Hey." Ray spoke softly into his ear. "If I can't find those keys, I'll be looking for a place to stay tonight."Fraser sighed with pleasure as Ray gave his shoulder a final squeeze, then used the discarded t-shirt to mop the wetness from his back. "I'll be right back. Don't go away," he said, with a pat on Fraser's behind for emphasis. "One warm and wet, coming up. "Unselfconsciously naked, he walked off to the bathroom.
Propping himself up on his elbows was the closest Fraser could come to standing up right now. It felt almost awkward to have the use of his hands. The bright fluorescent light Ray'd flicked on in the hall shone through the open doorway, illuminating areas of the room that the tiny desk lamp didn't reach. Near a stack of boxes, half in shadow, something glittered on the floor. Lethargy forgotten, he wiped himself carelessly with Ray's shirt and pulled up his jeans, intent as any crow on the shiny object. It was two brass-colored door keys on a tiny ring. He stared thoughtfully at them as he weighed them in the palm of his hand.
Keys, indeed. He ought to be concentrating on the key elements in this situation, he thought wryly. Himself, Ray, their partnership. But he had no possible way to integrate what they'd just done into any of his notions of working together. There seemed to be many aspects to partnership he'd been unaware of. Perhaps Ray was right. Perhaps he needed to broaden his horizons--just go with it.
Fraser could hear the soft pad of Ray's bare feet coming toward his office, and the jaunty tune his partner was humming echoed vaguely in the hallway. He closed the keys in his fist, feeling the tiny jagged protrusions nip his palm. Then, the decision made, he uncurled his fingers and let the keys fall. Silently, the desk drawer slid closed on the night's new tenants.
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