If It Flies (Market Garden, #3)(20)

“Hmm, you did miss me.” Nick grinned. “That much, huh?”

And then some. Spencer just moaned an affirmative around Nick’s fingers. Nick’s other hand was on his hair again, stroking, petting. Calming and exciting at the same time. He squirmed, shifting his weight from one knee to the other. Somewhere in his mind, or in some parallel universe, he was already prostrate in front of Nick, taking him hard and fast until Nick pushed him to the very edges of bearable and climaxed himself, and in the present, in this dimension, that mental image made his head spin and his heart pound.

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“All night,” Nick whispered, still stroking Spencer’s hair.

“I can have so much fun with you now, can’t I?”

The whimper escaped before Spencer could try to stop it.

Once it was out, he didn’t care.

Nick grinned, and then tugged the fingers Spencer had been sucking on. Spencer instinctively parted his lips to let Nick’s fingers slide out. As Nick withdrew his hand, he said, “Get my bag.”

And here we go.

Spencer leaned towards the bag, which was just close enough for him to grab without moving from this comfortable spot at Nick’s feet. He brought the bag back and set it beside him, looked up at Nick.

“Open it.”

He unzipped the bag. Holy hell. What was half this stuff?

It looked like a mix of sporting equipment, office supplies, kitchen appliances, and torture devices. The nipple clamps, he recognised. Porn was educational once in a while, after al .

The long leather-wrapped handle with the thin, knotted tails was pretty self-explanatory, as were the handcuffs. The ball gag was—wait, was that a horse bit?

Nick squatted in front of Spencer, leather trousers creaking and his knee brushing Spencer’s bare leg. He reached into the bag and riffled through it, pushing aside all manner of things that must have come from the junk door in de Sade’s kitchen.

Spencer held his breath. The horse bit was a little much. The cat o’ nine tails, maybe. Fuck those spurs or whatever the hell they were.

“Ah. Here we are.” Nick pulled something free, and stood.

Spencer looked up. In one hand, Nick had a black satin blindfold. Okay, fair enough. Not that he wanted to be blind in the same room as that goddamned bag, but okay. In the 66

other hand, a skinny, foot-long stick, like an extra-long swizzle stick. Or an unlit sparkler. Except with a grip.

His arse clenched. No way.

He swallowed. “What . . . what exactly is that for?”

Every one of Nick’s teeth showed. His Cheshire Cat look was even more unsettling than those little barely-there grins.

Especially when he had . . . whatever the f*ck that thing was in his hand. “This?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Quite simple, really.” Nick slid the blindfold over his own wrist so he wouldn’t drop it. Then he leaned down. He held the stick by the handle and pressed the last two or three inches of the opposite end against Spencer’s stomach. Fairly straightforward. At least it didn’t go anywhere near his arse.

Nick lifted that free end with his index finger and pulled it back so the stick bowed with tension.

Oh. Crap.

He let it go.

Snap.

“Fuck!” Spencer grimaced and bit back a shitload more profanity. The intense sting, concentrated into a single tiny spot, took his breath away. “Is that even legal in this country?”

“Don’t know.” Nick looked at him, all innocence and angel wings with those lifted eyebrows. “I may have neglected to declare them at customs. Got them at a specialist event.”

Specialist event? Did toppy rentboys with a pile of interrogator tools have their own trade fairs?

“Not sure what I’d tell customs, anyway.” He looked thoughtfully at the stick in his hand. “Declaring myself in possession of ‘evil sticks’ seems like it would just raise eyebrows and”—he waved his other hand—“I can’t be bothered.”

Can’t be bothered. Right. “Evil sticks? Seems . . . apropos.”

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Nick shrugged. “That’s what the vendor called them.”

“Mm-hmm. Those can’t be covered by the Geneva Conventions.”

“Sure hope not.” Nick grinned. He cupped Spencer’s face in one hand, the firm but gentle touch sending a shiver through him. “You’re cute when you’re freaked out. We better get to business.”

Business. Which involved getting him aroused as all hell and then crashing him down to earth, though he hadn’t felt the impact last time. Only when Nick closed the front door behind himself, that part was bad. Still had several more hours before that was an issue, though.

“Here.” Nick dangled the blindfold from his outstretched fingers.

Spencer took it and put it on. Nick vanished from view, but the smell of leather was still there. So was Nick’s hand.

Spencer relaxed and was tempted to rub his face against Nick’s thigh. Didn’t, though.

Nick took his shoulder and pulled, indicating he should get to his feet. When Nick pushed him towards the bed, Spencer stretched out a foot to make sure he wasn’t stepping on anything.

“Just trust me.”

Just. Right.

“Here.” He took Spencer’s hands and placed them on the footboard of the bed. “Hold onto that. ‘Bonaparte’ or the double-tap stops everything.”