Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(57)
“Mmm?”
Saul took his face in both hands, one still a touch slippery with grease, and kissed him. It wasn’t the hungry need of before, but a careful, serious kiss, deep and open, and Randolph leaned into it, taking what he was given with a deep, nameless relief.
Saul sat back at last, looking into his eyes, a little frown between his own. Randolph met the gaze, held it. He wasn’t sure he knew what Saul was looking for; he didn’t think he had the courage to ask, in case he found out.
Finally Saul released him, with a twitch of a smile. “You’re an odd duck.”
“Am I? Well, of course I am.”
“The hanging off trees and making ivy grow out of monsters is the most comprehensible part. Quite seriously, have you ever had a lover, in a regular sort of way? I don’t mean a convenient body. I mean someone for whom you care.”
Randolph winced. “Is it so obvious?”
“I don’t know if it’s obvious. You seem so solitary, that’s all. Well, to be honest, if you were the sort of chap who had lovers, you’d already have one, wouldn’t you? You’re not short of looks, or confidence, or a few bob if it comes to that.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. What I’m getting at is, I’d far rather you were clear on what you want, out of bed as well as in, and I don’t want you to spare my feelings, not that you’ve shown any inclination to do so. If all you want is to fuck, please say so now. I shan’t be offended, and I would much rather know where I stand. I like you a great deal, but—well, I’m not the type to roll over, wipe off, and get straight back to work, that’s all.”
Randolph felt himself flush. “No. I beg your pardon.”
“Not at all,” Saul said, equally politely. “But if that’s what we have—”
“Could we have more?” Randolph asked on a breath.
Saul’s eyes were steady on him. “Such as?”
“I don’t know. You are quite right; I’ve never had anyone I’d call a lover. I was meant to marry Theresa till Ypres, of course. And since then I’ve been too damned busy, and I’ve too much to hide, and I dislike most people intensely anyway. Sam Caldwell tells me I have no idea how to conduct normal human relations.”
“Oh. Are you and he—”
“Good Lord, no, Sam’s not that way. Or at least I assume not; I’ve never asked. One may infer that even if he were, I’m not his type.”
“Well, I agree with his observation, but you’re very much my type,” Saul said. “If supercilious, cryptic, and devastatingly attractive is a type.”
“I hope it is.” Randolph had no idea what he wanted to ask for, or grope towards. Something, that was all. “Please stay for dinner. We do have to talk about the many and various problems, but that isn’t why I ask. For God’s sake give me a hand here; I’m damned if I know what I ought to say.”
“You’re doing awfully well, old chap,” Saul assured him.
“Oh, sod you. Devastatingly attractive, was that?”
“Utterly.”
“Well, that makes two of us.” He took Saul’s hand and raised it to his lips, brushing a kiss over the fingertips. “In addition to which you are courageous, intriguing, and quite remarkably tolerable.”
“I think you mean tolerant.”
“I mean both, and that doesn’t make two of us. This business with the Moat will have me crawling all over your life, you know. That’s unavoidable, and if you decide you need to make things purely professional now or later, I want your word you will say so with no more regard for my feelings than I have for yours.” He waited for Saul’s nod. “But if you are prepared to...let us say, to risk matters becoming complicated, I wish you would.”
“I should love to complicate matters with you and see how we go,” Saul said. “And dinner would be delightful. How about that wash?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RANDOLPH’S BATHROOM WAS ABSURD. SAUL wasn’t surprised by that—he’d read about the luxuries of these new serviced flats, and it was obvious that the man was rich—but he stood in the expanse of marble fittings and gleaming glass and said, “For heaven’s sake.”
“What?”
Saul gestured at both of them in the huge gold-framed mirror. “I feel as though we’ll get your bathroom dirty rather than it getting us clean.”
It was a fair observation. They were both naked, tousle-haired, flushed from kissing, skin marked all over by fingers, lips, and teeth, and Saul’s chest and stomach hair was matted dark and glistening with drying spunk. He looked a disgrace, and Randolph looked a thorough bandit.
Saul grinned at him in the mirror. “Being less groomed suits you.”
“I beg to differ. Do you want a shower bath?”
“You don’t have— You do.” Saul had never known a private home to have such a thing. “Good heavens.”
“All modern conveniences.” Randolph showed him the operation of the device, and left him to it, for which Saul was grateful. He had a lot to wash off.
The shower bath sprayed water down with some heat and force, a gloriously efficient luxury, sluicing him clean. Saul had no idea if the water would last—probably it would, he didn’t imagine Randolph tolerated cold showers—but he moved quickly anyway, more quickly than he’d have liked.