Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(53)

“You seem to forget,” Saul said. “She asked my permission. I volunteered.”

“Without knowing what you were volunteering for. That’s hardly a free choice.”

“Free choice? Are you serious? When do you think I last had one of those?”

“You should.”

“Says the man born to be hung off a tree with hooks.”

“A cheap shot,” Randolph said, because it was a very well-directed one. “Nevertheless, you should have had a choice, and you didn’t, and you are now, I fear, stuck.”

“Stuck with you.”

“For work, yes. Like it or not.”

Saul leaned over and put his glass down on the fireplace tiles. “And beyond work? No,” he added, as Randolph opened his mouth. “Do not. I can see the evasive answer coming and I don’t want it. I’ve enough incomprehensible situations on my plate. If you’re no longer interested, or prefer not to mix business with pleasure, say so and have done.”

He spoke with studied calm, as though they were discussing a game of cards, not hot skin and clutching fingers. Randolph knew the armour well: a casual pose and a light voice, making everything sound trivial. It wouldn’t do to show yearning, to reveal weakness, to embarrass anyone.

Randolph knew it because it was his own armour, deflecting all feeling, leaving him protected and alone. He hated seeing it on Saul, who didn’t even do it well.

“I shan’t say I’m not interested. It would be an obvious lie. As for mixing business with pleasure—that, I think, has to be your choice, since you’re the one finding his feet. If it were up to me...” Saul’s eyes were fixed on him, so dark, so painfully vulnerable in a face set tight against self-betrayal, and Randolph gave up. “If it were up to me I should beg to discover—I think you said the crooks of your knees in particular? I’m fascinated by that. I want to see you in the light instead of the dark. I want to know how you look when you come. I imagine you look like an angel in pain, and I want quite desperately to see if I’m right.” That got those dark eyes wide. “I should like to spend a great deal of time pleasing you in every possible way, but I shouldn’t blame you if you’d rather not. In this at least, the choice is entirely yours.”

Saul opened his mouth, appeared to search for words, and finally said, “So is this what you’re like when you’re not evading the question?”

“It’s why I evade questions. Imagine if I told people what I really think.”

“You may tell me whenever you like,” Saul said. “For Christ’s sake, fuck me.”

They both moved at once, pushing themselves off the easy chairs, colliding before they stood and ending up kneeling on the rug, kissing wildly. Saul had his hands in Randolph’s hair; Randolph got his under Saul’s jacket, pushing against his shirt, wanting skin. Saul’s mouth was hot and yearning and open, there for the taking, so Randolph took it, feeling Saul give way till he was on his back with Randolph over him, bodies pressing, tugging at clothes.

“God. Saul.” Randolph bit at his ear and neck. “I want...”

“So do I. Do it.”

“I didn’t say what.”

“I don’t care.”

“Get these off.” Randolph pulled him up enough for Saul to shrug his jacket off. He took the shirt slowly though, unbuttoning with care, pushing the linen away to expose Saul’s chest. Sinewy, lean, with dark hair over the pectorals and a very marked trail from his navel down. Randolph traced the lines of bone and muscle, tangled his fingers in the coarse curls above the waistband. “This looks promising. And—” He stopped.

“What?”

“You appear to be wearing a bullet around your neck.”

“Oh. Yes.” Saul’s fingers came up, an automatic movement, and dropped.

It wasn’t a cartridge, just a plain, shaped piece of lead, hanging on a thin chain. Randolph stared at it. “Why—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Is that the bullet they gave you? It is, isn’t it?”

“Don’t. Not now.”

“Saul. Why?”

Saul exhaled. “When I decided not to use it, I thought I’d take it with me in case I changed my mind. And I couldn’t throw it away.”

“So you decided to wear it? Because otherwise you were in danger of forgetting about the whole business?”

“I’m not reminded more by wearing it. Can we drop the subject please?”

He leaned back on the words, pillowing his head with one arm, and gave a deliberate, lazy stretch. Randolph swallowed what he wanted to say, and let his fingers roam, acquainting himself with the skin he’d felt but not really seen, flicking at one dark nipple with first a fingertip and then his tongue.

Saul shifted under him with a low sound of pleasure, which served as a reminder.

“Shirt,” he said. “Off. I want to find out about this elbow business.”

“Are you always this dictatorial?” Saul sat up to pull off the open shirt, the movement pressing against Randolph as he sat astride him.

“Usually.” Randolph caught Saul’s bare arm before he could recline again so they were face to face, sitting up. Randolph turned the limb, still sun-browned to the upper arm, and leaned forward. He met the crook with his tongue, just tasting, then licked it deliberately, and felt Saul’s body jerk. “Good God. Excuse me.” He licked again, stroking, then digging his tongue into the flesh, kissing his way up and down the arm and returning to the crook until Saul was moaning aloud and his arm was shaking. He looked up, moving his hand to grasp Saul’s elbow, kneading the inside of the joint with his thumb and noting with satisfaction that it worked just as well.