Chapter 16
16
QUILLON
A week after his birthday party, York was still thanking me. I didn't want his thanks. I had tried a few times to express that and had been ignored, so I'd given up. Apparently, it was something he wanted or maybe even needed to say. And I understood that. I was only grateful it had been such a resounding success. I'd asked for extra FBI agents for that day, and Coulson had granted my request without a word of protest. During the celebration, they'd kept watch so I could relax, and it had been a superb afternoon.
But how sad was it that this simple birthday party was the best celebration York had ever had? The man had turned forty-three, for fuck's sake. His friends seemed to have understood that as well, even without me having to point it out, and that they'd all shown up with such wonderful, perfect gifts spoke volumes about their characters and friendship. Karma was finally repaying York for years of neglect, and he deserved every bit of attention.
But alas, after the party, normal life had returned and, with it, the constant alertness. "What can you tell me?" I asked Coulson, who checked in every other day. He had provided me with a secure phone for these calls, even though I was confident my phone was hard to crack. I wasn't gonna argue with the government when it came to York's safety.
"It's a Russia-based group," Coulson said, and I sat up straighter. That was the first time he'd given me any details. "They want this chameleon technology for their own country."
"How big is the group?"
"We don't know, but we have identified and confirmed eight members at least. Four of them are in the country. The two men who tried to break into York's apartment, plus two more who arrived in LA yesterday."
"Fuck. And you can't arrest them?"
"We could, but the case would be weak, and they'd most likely walk away."
"This is where York will function as the bait."
"He already has. They haven't been in the US in over a decade. They're here for him, and trust me, we're watching them."
"But not too closely because you don't want them to know you're on to them." I couldn't keep the concern out of my voice.
"The waiting is hard, Quillon, but we have to let it play out for now."
I understood that, but I worried all the same. "Can you send extra agents?"
"Not without drawing attention. We're already pushing it with how long Miller and LaFontaine have been in town. It's taken longer for this group to take the bait than we expected."
I sighed. "Okay. Keep me posted."
How was I supposed to let York out of my sight after hearing this? For all I knew, those men could be literally around the corner. But as much as I wanted to watch York twenty-four-seven, I couldn't. I needed sleep, though not a lot, and I had my personal needs too. Time to work out, for example. York and I had made a deal that while I worked out, he'd stay in his office and not set foot outside that room. He'd sworn to obey me, and by now, I trusted him to take his safety seriously.
Another need I had—an even more personal one—was to jerk off. I had always tried to treat the act as something normal, not anything to be ashamed of, but that didn't mean I wanted to discuss it with others, least of all with York. Since I had zero privacy other than in the shower, I used that time to get clean and take care of business. I was nothing if not efficient.
When I wanted to tell York I was gonna take a shower—Coulson had called at the end of my workout—he was engrossed in his work, and no way was I disturbing him for something so trivial, so I left him to it and went upstairs. I had my own bathroom, connected to the bedroom I was staying in, though I had yet to sleep in the bed and always parked myself in front of York's door. Did he even realize? If so, he had never commented on it.
The thing was that I liked the main bathroom—connected to York's bedroom—a lot more than the guest bathroom. Not only was the shower far more spacious, but it also had a powerful massage showerhead I loved. So, I often used that shower. Also something I wasn't sure York knew. The man seemed to pay little attention to small details. The nitty-gritty of everyday living was far outside his radar.
I walked into his bathroom and turned the shower on. In the time it took for the water to heat up, I undressed and dropped my clothes on the floor so I could grab them easily in case I needed them. For the same reason, I left both the bathroom door and the glass sliding door of the shower stall open. The running water would drown out most noise, but it was better than nothing, even if I only did it to make myself feel better.
When I stepped under the spray, the water was at the perfect temperature: blistering hot. I quickly washed my hair, then efficiently soaped my body. With that done, I squeezed a little conditioner into my hand. As soon as I touched myself and closed my eyes, York's image popped into my brain, as it had done every time I jerked off.
His shy smile. The deep frown on his forehead when he was working. The way he looked at me without actually seeing me, his brain obviously miles away. But when he did focus… Oh, sweet baby Jesus, those gorgeous brown puppy eyes, all trained on me… My belly fluttered every single time.
He was so effortlessly sexy. Not in a traditional way. Over the years, I'd met a lot of hot guys and hooked up with plenty of them, but most of them had known they were attractive. York didn't. Every day, he wore the same style of old-fashioned suspenders with a white button-down shirt and black slacks. Even his socks were the same every day. He was so wonderfully predictive, yet his brain was so unique and fascinating. I could never predict what would come out of the man's mouth.
His mouth… That sweet, sweet mouth I had kissed way too long ago for far too short. If only he knew how badly I wanted to kiss him again. How much I longed to hold him, to touch him, to show him all the things I felt for him.
How would he be as a lover? Would he be as intense as he did everything else? He'd do research for his first time with a guy, and then he'd nail it—pun intended. The man never failed at anything he set his mind to. He would probably let me control the pace, and what a picture that thought conjured: his body under mine, my mouth devouring his, our tongues tangling.
He had patience, so he wouldn't rush things in bed either. We could kiss for hours, drive each other crazy. I'd explore every inch of his body, map all his angles and valleys, discover where he was sensitive, what turned him on. I'd show him how good a blowjob could be. Fuck, I'd show him heaven and then do it all over again.
Although I was vers, I preferred to top, but with York, I could see that change. He'd be determined to make it good for me. He'd take his time to prep me. What would his cock look like? I didn't care much about length, but I loved girth. That extra sting was so worth it. And if I was lucky, he'd have a bit of a curve, so he'd hit my pleasure spot full-on when he fucked me.
As I pictured all this, my brain imagining all kinds of scenarios, I wrapped my hand firmly around my dick and pumped fast and furious. I loved taking my time, but I didn't have that luxury now. Quick was the keyword, so I squeezed hard and corkscrewed at the top, going faster and faster.
My climax was approaching, and my body tensed in anticipation. I opened my eyes. Had I heard or felt something? Maybe the slight disturbance of the air had reached me, but when I looked up, York stood there frozen to the spot, watching me, his mouth open as wide as his eyes.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
And, of course, my cock, my treacherous cock, decided that an audience was what it needed to fly over the edge. The sight of York's eyes glued to my dick did it for me, and I came with a muffled grunt, spraying over my hand. I was powerless to stop it, riding out my orgasm almost against my will. When it was done, I stood panting, my hand still wrapped around my cock.
And York stood there, still watching. My cock didn't flag a little bit. Of course it didn't. Nope, it fucking liked York's attention and returned to full mast, eager for round two—preferably with York in a more active role.
I clenched my teeth as I fought to let go of myself, rinse off my hand, and shut the water off. "Can I help you?" I asked, proud of how normal my voice had sounded.
York licked his lips—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, was he trying to drive me crazy?—then he raised his eyes and met mine. His cheeks grew a fiery red, something I hadn't seen happen before. "Sorry, I was…"
"…enjoying the show?"
"…wondering where you were."
"The sound of the shower didn't give you an idea?"
"It should have," he said sheepishly. "But I wanted to tell you something, and it didn't occur to me that the water running meant you were…"
"Naked? Yeah, that's usually the case. Though me jerking off was an unexpected bonus, I bet."
"Yeah." He swallowed. "Sorry?"
"I hate to point out the obvious, but you're still standing there."
And so was my cock, unrelentingly hard, but I wasn't gonna draw attention to that.
"I thought you were done?"
A chuckle escaped. "I was, yes, in more ways than one. So you're planning on watching me towel off and get dressed?"
"N-no?"
I'd never seen York this flustered. What the hell was going on? "In that case, now would be a good time to leave."
He swallowed again as his eyes roamed south. "You're still hard."
So he had noticed. "Yeah."
I wasn't even embarrassed anymore. Somehow, my jerk-off session had evolved into something else, though what, I wasn't sure. Any straight man would've walked out, but York hadn't. He was fascinated. Was that the right word? Mesmerized? Captivated? He certainly seemed focused on my cock. Was that normal, or did it mean something else? I was flying blind here.
"Are you gonna…?" He made a suggestive gesture with his right hand.
I quirked an eyebrow. "Why? You wanna watch?"
"N-no?"
I crossed my arms, not caring that I stood exposed. This exchange was by far the most surreal experience of my life. "So you're not gonna wait for me to get dressed, but if I go for round two, you're also not gonna watch that? Then what do you want, York?"
He lifted his eyes. "I don't know."
"You don't know."
"No. I'm…shocked? My brain isn't functioning properly for some reason. You're too…" Another gesture. "Distracting."
"You know the remedy, right?"
He shook his head.
"Walk out. That's it. That's all you have to do to stop me from distracting you."
"Or you could walk out."
I snorted. "You do realize I'm standing here dripping wet, right?"
"Right. I'd forgotten… You're right." He turned, stopped, and looked over his shoulder. "Do you want me to go?"
He. Was. Killing. Me.
What was going on with him? Whatever it was, we seemed to be at an impasse. I stepped out of the stall and grabbed a towel. "I'm gonna dry off. You can do whatever you want."
I turned my back toward him, fighting to focus on what I was doing rather than checking in on York. After what felt like minutes, a faint sigh reached me, followed by soft footsteps. I dried myself off and only then turned around again. He was gone. I released a deep breath.
What the hell had that been about? Why had he stayed? It made no sense at all. Had he been curious, watching another man pleasure himself? But that didn't account for him staying that long, for him not realizing he'd far exceeded the boundaries of what was normal and appropriate. York could be oblivious, but even he would've known he was crossing a line there. So why hadn't he left?
As I put on my clothes, I kept pondering it, but by the time I walked down the stairs, I wasn't any closer to a satisfactory answer. One more aspect of the mystery that was York Coombe.
In the kitchen, York put a plate into the microwave. "Hold on." I grabbed his arm. "What are you doing?"
"Making dinner."
"Since when do you make your own dinner?"
He didn't meet my eyes. "I figured you'd be…busy."
"York…" When he didn't respond, I gently put my finger under his chin and lifted it so he would have to look at me. "The truth, please. We've always been honest with each other. Let's not ruin that now."
Oh, he was…scared. Not angry, not embarrassed, but afraid. But of what? "What's going on? I know we had a situation just now, but…"
I wasn't sure what to tell him because I had no idea what was going through his mind.
"You're not angry?" he finally asked, and it dawned on me.
This wonderful, sweet man feared I was angry with him. He was scared he'd fucked up, that he'd done something that would make me reject him. Underneath all that nerdy brilliance beat the heart of a little boy desperate to be accepted…and loved. "No, nerdy, I'm not angry."
"Nerdy?"
"I've decided I'm gonna call you that. It's gonna be my pet name for you as your pretend boyfriend."
He stood a little straighter. "Don't I get a say?"
"Nope. This is my call. Executive decision."
"Does that mean I get to come up with a pet name for you as well?"
"Sure, as long as it's something sweet. ‘Overbearing asshole' doesn't have quite the same ring as nerdy."
The smile that spread on his face was a reward in itself. "I'll give it some thought."
"You do that and let me know when you've come up with something." I gently took the plate from his hands. "And leave the cooking to me, okay?"
"I can heat up a plate of food."
"I know, but let me take care of you. Please?"
He slowly nodded. "Sorry."
I didn't ask what he was apologizing for. "It's all good, nerdy. Give me a few minutes, and I'll have dinner for you, okay?"
"Okay."
He looked so forlorn that I couldn't resist and pulled him in for a hug. The way he clung to me a little longer than appropriate told me he'd needed that. "I've got you, nerdy."
"Thank you."
"It was my pleasure." And I had a feeling it always would be. Somehow, this man had crawled his way into my heart. What the fuck did I do now?
Stuff it down. Deep, deep down.
He. Was. A. Client.