Chapter 2

"I cannot go to this event." Simon swung an arm dramatically, colliding hard with a stack of books on the table. And flopped over on the sofa, while Ben steadied the books in question. "I absolutely can't. Colby Kent hates me."

As a good husband, Ben should probably say something like don't be silly, of course he doesn't. As a very good, if mostly retired, spy, and one who knew that his husband had scandalized a lot of people but also carried around a fair amount of old self-loathing, he said, "Why do you think so?"

"Honestly? It'd be easier to summarize why not."

Ben considered options. He had their reply card in one hand; he'd been expecting to say yes.

The Foundation invitation was an honor, requesting Simon's presence as a bestselling author, as someone who'd bring others in, achievements recognized. This particular youth literary and literacy initiative did good work and championed inclusion and diversity; Ben had looked them up when the invitation had first arrived. Solid, reliable, a good cause. With, significantly, Hollywood A-list shining-star actor and screenwriter Colby Kent as supporter and sometimes spokesperson.

He looked at the card again. He'd been planning to go for a run, and to drop their reply in the mail on the way. Simon Ashley, relatively famous bestselling author, plus husband, one Benjamin Smith, decidedly not famous. Fitting together just right somehow.

The weather was nice today, an early Virginia morning made of sun and sky and their quiet neighborhood, picture-perfect, friendly and unassuming. Simon had been planning to get some writing done, after consuming a significant amount of tea; Ben had decided that he himself could work on staying in shape, because he wasn't as young as he used to be, and then he could come home to his beautiful artistic half-pint-sized husband and pounce on Simon, assuming he wasn't interrupting acts of literary genius.

He'd kind of wanted to meet Colby. That appeared to be in question, given his husband's reluctance.

Ben Smith, former field agent and present-day instructor of new and eager Agency recruits, would not ever have had occasion to personally get to know silver-screen icon Colby Kent. Different lives, different worlds. But as an unabashed romance lover Ben had cheered and cried and had emotions through all those fluffy romantic comedy films, and he'd seen a few of Colby's interviews and press tour moments. Colby was adorable and wide-eyed and endlessly sweet, and unlikely, as far as Ben could tell from the public persona, to hate anything or anyone.

He sat back down on the sliver of sofa near Simon's hip. He put the reply card down on Simon's imperiled book-tower. He also, after a moment's consideration, moved his husband's teacup out of any flailing arm's reach.

Given his profession, he'd of course known who Colby was decades ago, for certain reasons. The only child of the American ambassador Howard Kent and the renowned upper-class literary-elite English poet Lydia Sable, parents now divorced, on frosty terms. Not the most interesting of persons of interest, but around at the fringes of diplomatic and high-society circles, and therefore a low-priority but potential target for causing stress between nations. A boy who—like Simon—had grown up amid the glittering heights of upper-crust society, with connections.

He guessed Colby and Simon likely had met, at a party or reception or some official function. They'd have been around the same age, when Colby's family had been in London.

He asked, as tactfully as he could, "You didn't, um, spend an evening with him, did you?"

Simon made a despairing sort of noise, and threw an arm over his face. "God, no. Not that I might not have, just for fun, to shake him up a bit. Not my type, not these days, but back then I didn't have a type, anything and everything, and he was always just drop-dead gorgeous. Those eyes, those legs, obviously brilliant, wanting to please people. Would've been a delight, if he'd ever have gone for it."

"But you didn't."

"He hated me then and he'll hate me now."

"Want to explain?"

Simon grumbled wordlessly, not moving the arm. "No. Fine. All right, yes, you know me and…you know the sorts of things I used to get up to. If I couldn't be the good son, I'd be the exact opposite, and all that."

"Yes…?"

"Every single thing I did shocked him. It was like being watched by the teenage ghost of a Puritan minister. If the Puritan minister in question was the prettiest person you'd ever met, very very gay but totally a virgin, and horrified by even the concept of misbehaving. Like he never knew how to be less than sweet and shy and polite and perfect and…" Simon waved his hand, put the arm back in its place. Like Colby Kent, he had blue eyes; but Colby's were darker, midnight flowers under long-lashed frames, versus Simon's summer-sky sunshine and gold. Ben had always loved that about his husband: brightness, radiance, nothing bashful or hidden away. Purely vividly himself, drawing every gaze like a magnet.

Ben, out of everyone in the world, had been lucky enough to be drawn all the way in. To be here with Simon now, and forever. Since the night they'd met, a reconnaissance mission—no action, nothing direct—and a coincidentally timed book signing, crackling electricity and a hotel room, a hidden just-in-case gun and Simon's ability to trip and knock over a bag in dramatic fashion. The way that Simon had never been afraid of him, demanding an answer but not backing down. Ben's matching other half from the start of it all.

Simon finished, about Colby Kent, "…and fucking flawless. It was awful. I knew he was judging me, so I made a point of inviting him to clubs, parties, underground raves, kinky sex shows—or into threesomes in a coatroom—just to see him panic and drop whatever book he was reading and run away. And then I'd make a joke about it. To other people. Which he knew."

Ben said, still very very tactful about it, "Oh."

"I'm terrible. I know. But it was like looking in a mirror, except the mirror was a better human being and despised me."

"He's probably different now. You're different now."

"I told him he was the most boring person I'd ever met and an absolute waste of perfect lips, as I recall."

"Okay, so…probably not great, no. But that was, what, twenty years ago?"

"Closer to fifteen," Simon muttered. "I'm younger than you. So's he. He'll remember."

"Do you want to not go to this gala? I'm fine with not going." He eyed the invitation again. "We can just send them some money."

"No, because it helps—and yes, I'm being cynical about it—if I show up in person. Celebrity. Visibility. And I'm not scared of Colby Kent."

"You did just say you literally couldn't go."

"I just…" Simon moved the arm, and managed to smack it into couch-cushions, and then his own stomach. Ben reached down, found his wrist, put his own hand around petite flyaway bones. A restraint, an anchor, an echo of cuffs and ties. Soothing, steadying. Simon exhaled. "I should apologize to him."

"If you think you need to."

"I'm trying to be a better person." Simon looked at his wrist, Ben's hand. "I want to be a better person. I like the person I am, now. I'm so much happier. I truly am."

"He seems pretty nice," Ben said. "In interviews, doing press. He's married—you know that, it was a whole big love story." It had been. Falling in love on a film set, working on that gorgeous period drama Steadfast. Colby's bubbly sweetness and action star Jason Mirelli's muscles and their obvious sizzling chemistry. Colby's injuries on set, and Jason's devotion to staying at his side. The way they'd gazed at each other, touched each other, smiled like sunrises, at their movie premiere.

The shameless romantic in him had followed every drop of news, and had quietly cheered Colby and Jason on. "So he's happy now, too. In love and being loved and all. He'll probably listen, if you apologize and mean it."

"He'll hate me, and he'll want revenge, and he'll throw a plate of tiny fancy cheese at me, and I'll deserve it, and the evening'll be a disaster, and it'll be my fault."

"I really don't think," Ben said, "that Colby Kent is going to throw tiny cheese at anyone."

"Well, I don't want him to. Actually maybe I do. Maybe I'd feel better."

"Would you like me to throw cheese at you? I think we've got cheddar."

"Can you kill someone with a block of cheddar? You can, can't you?"

"I've never personally tried." He considered this, suggested, "There was a mission in Rome that ended in a shoot-out in a kitchen, and one of my team lost her weapon and then hit an enemy operative with an entire wheel of Parmesan cheese. And I never told you that."

"Oh my God," Simon said, staring at him. "I want that in a book. Some sort of contemporary action romance. The Spy who Came in from the Cold Kitchen. The Spy who Loved Parmesan. The Big Cheese. Please. Can I have that story?"

"No, because only four people know it. Ask me again in eight years. It might be declassified by then."

"Eight whole years. When The Cheese Is Not Enough is right there as a sexy spy-and-chef adventure romance title."

"At least eight years. We'll see. Are we going to the gala, then?"

"Maybe," Simon said, looking up at him with those fierce bright sapphire eyes, smile at the edge of his lips, wrist shifting a fraction in Ben's grip. "Tell me it'll be all right."

"It will be."

"Tell me it'll be a good evening."

"It will." He'd make sure of that. "You'll have fun. It's a good cause. It's nice that they asked you personally. And you like dressing up and being the center of attention."

Simon grinned at him more for that. "I do. Could you, though…right now…"

"Put you over my lap, right here, and spank you until you're sobbing my name?" He squeezed Simon's wrist. Hard. "Because you know you need it, you want to feel it, and you also just like it, don't you?"

"Yes," Simon whispered. "Please."

"I'll punish you if you want—not really, I mean, I know who you are, who you've been, and I know you're a good person—" He tugged at the wrist until Simon sat up, and made sure their eyes met, for this. "It's not about you having to take it, like penance, to feel better."

"No," Simon said. "I know. But I want that, right now—like equilibrium. Relief."

"Got it. And, hey—you know I always like spanking you." That made Simon laugh, though the sound came tinged with rue. Ben wanted to banish that part of it. He said, "Then I'm going to make you feel it. Go pick out a collar. And bring back that blue rope."

Simon's eyes got bigger. "Oh, we're being formal…"

"You asked for it."

"So I did." Simon hopped up, bounced into the coffee table and then the arm of the couch, waved off Ben's attentive hand. "I'm fine, I'm fine…you know they say the most intelligent people aren't always aware of mundane things like sofas, kitchen counters, bookshelves in their way…"

"I've seen you walk into a wall."

"And I'm a genius and you adore me." Simon blew him a kiss and darted off to the bedroom and the fun wardrobe, an excited tiny submissive in fuzzy pink pajama pants and one of Ben's old plain grey shirts. He only managed to trip over his own feet once on the way.

When he came back, he was shirtless but still wearing the pants, and twirling a coil of sapphire-blue silk rope in one hand, thoughtfully. "You didn't ask for more leather. Those cuffs."

"I like this color on you. And I feel like practicing knots. Collar?"

Simon handed it over: not the oldest and most comforting, but not the most rigid stiff version, either. Black and wide, but simple. And then he got down on both knees, for once entirely graceful, between Ben's spread legs.

Morning light like new veils, bridal and pale, shimmered through the windows. An enchantment of a day, bright and breezy. Full of temptation, like the blue of Simon's eyes. Gold as a promise, like their wedding rings.

The moment extended. The ritual, hushed, filled up the world. Simon on both knees, Ben leaning forward. Leather wrapped around Simon's slender throat, and anchored them both in place, in familiar roles.

Ben put a hand over it, at the side of his husband's throat. "You left the fuzzy pants on."

Simon shrugged a shoulder, smiling slightly.

"You want me to just pull down your pants and spank you like that, right?"

"What can I say," Simon said, "I like a tiny bit of humiliation."

Ben let out a breath, entertained. "And you like being a brat sometimes." Not every time, he did not say. They both knew. "And that was getting pretty close to you making the decisions, here."

In a different mood, Simon might've kept the teasing going; this time he opted not to fire back. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." His eyes were happy, though, so that just meant he very much wanted to be chastised.

"All right," Ben said, sitting back. The window-shutters were only partly open, and they were at the back of the house, with no neighbors; no one could see anything, and he liked the softness of the morning, and did not want to interrupt. "Come here. Over my lap. Hands behind your back."

Simon figured this out with minimal flailing, and ended up lying like a beam of sunshine over Ben's thighs. The running pants were just going to get a different kind of workout; neither they nor Ben minded. He ran a hand along the plane of his husband's back: English-pale, aristocratic, smooth. Simon had not ever done sports—imagine me on any sort of field, he'd said once, self-aware and self-deprecating—but liked long walks and acting out bits of his own stories, enthusiastically. Not to mention the sex. Very athletic, the sex.

Ben said, "I'm going to tie you up, so you can't move, and I'm going to spank you—hard—and if you're good I'll let you come like that. All over my lap. Sound good?"

Simon, face pressed into sofa-cushions, managed to look up at him. Pale gold tumbles obscured the one visible eye. "Yes, sir. I need that, sir."

"Why?"

"Because…I need a reminder. Balance, I think. What I need, and where I should be."

"What you need," Ben said, "is to be good for me. And where you should be is where I put you. Understand?"

"Yes, sir." Two words; but the joy, the relief, echoed. Simon knew that Ben heard, and understood, and would give him this.

"Good," Ben told him, "now don't move," and got to work playing with rope.

He didn't make the bonds too complex—not the point, not right now, this morning—but he did want it to be tangible, a real restraint. Serious knots. Lines of sapphire crossing and linking Simon's arms, wrists to elbows. His own skill, and Simon's willing compliance. Artwork, made together.

Simon's breathing changed as Ben worked: softer, slower, falling into that gilded pink-streaked submissive headspace. He was hard—Ben could feel it, matching his own—but did not move or stir, simply peaceful.

Ben touched his cheek, after. "Still good?"

Simon nodded, blissful.

"Okay. Twenty, but you don't have to count. I will. You'll feel it, though."

Simon nodded again.

"Such a good boy," Ben said, and tugged his pajama pants lower: exposing Simon's pert ass, round and inviting. "But you're not always, are you? Or you wouldn't need me to scold you. To spank you until you're all red and hot and begging…until you need to come, and you need it so bad you'll come in your pretty pink pajama pants, won't you? Making a mess of yourself. But you'll do it because I want you to."

"Yes—" Simon moved as if the response was inadvertent, innate, arms testing the ties. He didn't want to be let go; he wanted to feel it. "Please. Sir. All of that."

"Yes," Ben agreed, "all of that," and lifted his hand.

The first impact sounded harder than it was; he hadn't wanted to start rough. The reverberations sang through them all regardless. His hand, tingling with meaning. Pink on Simon's fair skin. Blooming heat like a vow, uniting them.

Simon sighed softly, yielding to pain and pleasure, giving himself to the feeling. His body was easy, relaxed, as he melted into that high and rainbowed space.

So Ben did it again. And again. More.

A rhythm, even. A metronome, perfect timing. Each side, the curves of Simon's ass growing more pink, color deepening. The sound, the pattern. Ben fell into it too: the abstract radiant beauty, blue rope and rose-petal hues, the beat of his hand, the sensation of Simon's heat and weight across his thighs. He was rock-hard, himself; but that was less important, just now.

He kept count, and increased the force at six, and at ten; at that point Simon started making small sounds, little gasps and sobs against the sofa. Ben paused, brushed hair out of his face; Simon murmured hazily, "More, please, sir…feels so good…so nice…"

"Not too hard?" Simon could always stop him; they had words, hand signals, ways to express that even if those dreamy eyes ended up nonverbal.

"No…it's right…it's what I need, feeling it…I'm yours and you'll take care of me…"

"Whatever you need," Ben promised, "always," and got back to it. Simon began crying more at fifteen, but the good kind of crying, simply overwhelmed by emotion. Ben said quietly, "You're right where you should be, you're mine, it's a reminder, if you need a spanking I'll give it to you, and if I say you're being good, taking it so well, I mean that. And you'll listen to me, because that's an order, and because you want to listen to me. My good boy."

Harder, again; Simon's dick, caught between them, was leaking wetness, making a mess of both their pants. But that, like the soft sobbing, was good: so much sensation that he couldn't hold back, feeling this good.

Eighteen. He pressed Simon's legs further apart; they fell open readily, leaving him exposed: his hole, the entrance to his body. Ben made this one harder, centered right there. Simon screamed, and actually moved, this time: writhing against him.

"One more." Ben stroked his hip, his thigh. "Just like that one. You can take it, you're so good, you're almost done."

Simon moaned, and more wetness pulsed between them, eager.

Ben smiled to himself, and brought his hand down.

Simon couldn't seem to be still, after: shaking, squirming, whimpering, lost in stinging heat and billowing sweetness. He shuddered against Ben's legs, hips rocking mindlessly, chasing more sensations. Ben put one hand on the back of his neck, over the collar; put the other hand on his ass, and held him down, hard. "So good. Taking everything, everything I decide you deserve…and now I think you've earned a reward. I think you should come just like this. With your bare ass all hot and red, my hands on you, my collar around your neck. Making a mess of your pretty pink pants. But it's good, you're good, because I'm telling you to make a mess of yourself, let it go, let it happen, just come for me, go on."

Simon sobbed, anguished and enraptured, and shuddered all over, and his release rushed out fluid and sticky and warm, where his cock was trapped between his body and Ben's thigh.

He came and came, an extended relentless peak. Ben held him securely through it, and felt his own body gather and tighten: almost at the edge himself, just from the feel, the sight.

He held Simon in place across his thighs. He fumbled with his own pants, got his cock in hand—nearly swore aloud, because yes, yes—and pumped himself frantically: above his husband's spent and quivering body, those roses-in-summer hues, blue silk ropes and red handprints and smooth skin—

He came in long hard spurts all across Simon's freshly spanked ass, adding white creamy streaks to the color. He groaned Simon's name.

He dragged fingers through the mess, after: pressing down, knowing Simon would feel it, provoking the little shriek and sob and rocking of hips.

He whispered, knowing Simon was listening, if maybe not too coherent, "I love you so much."

After a minute, once the sheer wild aftermath had faded, he tugged Simon's ridiculous fuzzy pants all the way off and used them for clean-up, and undid knots and bindings, with care. He left the collar on, and tugged Simon over to sprawl atop him, on the sofa. He was dressed, and it'd be sticky; he didn't have even a single fraction of a care.

The sofa and the curl of rope and the heap of pink fuzz, and Ben's own heart, all purred, contented.

He cuddled Simon and talked to Simon and petted Simon—anchors, for resurfacing, and for after, as emotions and endorphins wobbled—while his husband murmured indistinct not-words and nuzzled him and nestled close against him, and once lifted a hand to touch the collar, uncoordinated and drowsy.

Sooner than Ben might've guessed, Simon said, "Well, that was exactly what I needed, sir. Thank you."

"Any time. Literally. Whenever you want. Just let me know."

"And if you're mid-seminar and discussing the political landscape of spycraft in the nineteen-eighties—? Oh, well, you'd probably take me to your office and tell me to be good and wait, and then bend me over your desk, wouldn't you?"

"Yep. I like this too, y'know."

"My delightfully kinky secret agent."

"Your husband," Ben said, and tucked his face into Simon's hair, feeling golden strands against his cheek, his mouth, his closed eyes.

"Yes, very much that. I think…" Simon lifted his head, which meant Ben had to move; their eyes found each other, though. "I do feel better. It's a relief, if that makes sense—I told you about something I did wrong, you spanked me, you told me you knew I could be good…it's a sort of…cleansing."

"At your service. Speaking of, shower?"

"Yes. Momentarily." Simon stretched up to drop a kiss on Ben's chin. "You like Colby Kent."

"Um," Ben said, given everything he and Simon had just been doing. "You can't think I was thinking about—"

"No, no, sorry! I just was thinking…you're a fan. You and romance."

"Well, yeah, but if you don't want to face him, we won't."

"I think you and I both should. Speaking of cleansing. And forgiveness. And you memorizing half the dialogue from Steadfast."

"It's a modern classic!"

"Not arguing. I liked it as well. You'll need a new suit," Simon added, and kissed him again, weightless and overjoyed, "for a party in a library museum, in London, meeting Colby."