Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(59)
“You have the right shoes, and you’re as close to my size as makes no odds. I have plenty of evening clothes. Borrow something.” Saul raised a brow. Randolph gave a superbly casual shrug. “If we went out, we wouldn’t talk any more about work.”
“Don’t we have to talk about work?”
“Of course. You’ve been given a duty. You’ve also been given a rotten time of it and I am absolutely sure that, were Theresa here, she would instruct me to take you out for dinner as a first step. Dancing, even, if you like that.”
“Dancing?”
“There are places, dear boy. Not places I generally frequent, admittedly, but they exist. The point is, we need you in good shape because you’ll have a lot on your plate. You deserve time to recuperate, and we deserve an evening to ourselves. Or, at least, I should like an evening in which I have you to myself, so we’re going to take one. Tomorrow, you and I will see if Major Peabody’s back, and discover whence came the book that set him on his trail and tackle Camlet Moat and all the rest. But let’s have tonight first.”
Saul felt he should say What about the Shadow Ministry? and Ought not we—? He didn’t. He wanted more time with Randolph, to forget about threats to the world, the country, the city, and himself. Tomorrow he’d probably be jobless; he’d still have a headful of someone else’s memories and the smell of ivy in his nose; he’d have to find out what duty he’d blundered into and how on earth he was meant to perform it. Tonight, he wanted to go to dinner in a decent set of clothes with the man who’d just fucked him into incoherence and talk about something else.
“Evening clothes, you say.”
“Come through.”
Randolph’s bedroom was as large as might be expected—this flat had about half the floor space of the entirety of Saul’s lodging house—with two brightly coloured canvases of extremely peculiar type on the walls. Saul blinked. “Those are very...avant garde.”
“Severini, of the Italian Futurist school. Do you like them?”
Saul contemplated the garish colours and broken or flattened shapes. “No. Not at all. They’re ghastly.”
“Thank God for that. I can’t stand them either.”
“So why—?”
“Theresa gave them to me, and by that I mean nailed in the hooks herself while I was out. Birthday present. She said I needed to buck up my ideas.”
“She took a lot on herself, I gather.”
“You’ve no idea. I keep them as a reminder that I ought not to let my thoughts ossify. And because I’m used to them, I suppose, although that rather defeats the purpose now I think of it. Here.” He handed Saul a hanger with a black coat and trousers. “Let’s see how you look.”
How he looked was...rather good, in the end. Saul hadn’t worn evening dress in years, not since Oxford. He’d forgotten how flattering a well-cut dinner jacket could be, and this one was, even if it had been well cut for someone else. The fact wasn’t obvious as he contemplated himself in the full-length mirror, Randolph beside him.
“That,” Randolph said, “will do nicely. I thought the Cafe Royal.”
“Wherever you choose. I should probably point out I don’t have a penny in my pocket.”
“I invited you, dear chap, my shout. I am aware of your circumstances, but can we add that to the list of things to discuss tomorrow? I find money desperately dull as a topic, and I’m well aware that’s a privilege afforded only to the rich, but since I am rich, let’s avail ourselves of all the benefits thereto.”
“Good Lord, how is it you’re not a lawyer?”
“There’s no need to be rude.” Randolph stepped closer to tweak Saul’s lapel, like the world’s most gentlemanly gentleman’s gentleman, studying the set of the coat with a little frown that melted away as he looked up to meet Saul’s eyes, and Saul was lost. He leaned to meet Randolph’s lips, tasting toothpowder, felt Randolph’s hand curl down around his hip and arse as though it belonged there. Randolph’s mouth was open to his, in long, blissful kisses that said all the things two lonely, hoping men were afraid to put in words.
Saul curled a leg around Randolph’s, pushing hips together. He very much doubted he was up to another round quite yet, but he could feel the solid bulge of Randolph’s arousal. He rubbed up against him deliberately, heard the intake of breath, and slid to his knees.
“What are you doing?” Randolph enquired.
Saul reached for his waistband. “Not to state the obvious, I thought I might suck you off. Call it an aperitif.”
Randolph choked, but didn’t protest. They were still in front of the mirror. Saul concentrated on unfastening buttons, drawing out his prick with a thrill of power, and only then glanced up to the glass to see Randolph watching him, eyes intent.
“God, you look good on your knees,” he said softly. “Go on.”
Saul ran his tongue over and round Randolph’s prick, tasting its faint savour of soap, taking time to get acquainted. It was straight and slender, like the man himself; long enough to make taking the whole thing a challenge, but then Saul liked a challenge. He leaned forward, sliding his lips down the length, and felt as well as heard Randolph’s deep groan.
“Beautiful. You should always wear evening dress to suck me off. I may have to fuck you in that. Take you to one of those clubs I mentioned, bend you over a table and make you whimper for it. Or just have you on your knees like this. Sweet Jesus.”