The Administration Series (74 page)

"Daddy doesn't like him."

There was precious little point in denying that. "Mm. How about you?"

Valeria smiled. "I like him. Even if he doesn't know any stories."

"Well . . . that's fine, darling. Sometimes people like each other, and sometimes they don't. But maybe it would be best if you didn't talk to Daddy about him, mm? It might upset Daddy, and that wouldn't be nice. Talk to me about him, if you like."

Valeria nodded. "Okay."

Kate took her hand and they set off back home.

"Why do you like him?" Valeria asked after a while.

The girl did come up with the damndest questions, because it was the one thing Kate hadn't asked herself. The answer came at once, though, unambiguous: because he reminded her of Leo.

"He's handsome," she said, and Valeria giggled.

Warrick had been delayed at work. One damn thing after another, and by the end of it, he was ready to dismember the next person who came up to him with a problem that could easily have waited until Monday.

When he finally escaped his office, the car was late, which meant another five minutes lost standing in the AERC atrium.

If he'd been less annoyed, it might have amused him to once more notice the change in himself. Desperate to get away from SimTech. Asher and Lew had both commented on it in the past: Lew with a certain amount of silent disapproval, Asher with amusement tempered by occasional hints of concern.

Even as he thought it, Warrick saw Lew, emerging from the lift. Fortunately, the car arrived and Warrick hurried out to meet it. He didn't know if Lew wanted him, but he'd rather not take the risk.

Lew stood in something of a glass house when it came to questioning other's tastes in sexual entertainment. Of course, he was probably more upset by the early departures. There was no reason to assume he had any inkling of what was waiting for Warrick. Asher had some idea, and that was the source of her underlying disquiet.

It's safe, he'd assured her, as he'd assured Dillian. Everything I do with him is perfectly safe.

Or rather, acceptably safe, since absolute safety could never be guaranteed. That was the key to safety assessments, as he'd heard several times over the afternoon's meeting with the team from the Consumer Safety Division of the Department of Financial and Corporate Affairs. To be deemed safe, a product only had to be safe enough, and that could be a flexible concept. Getting into a car, even one fitted with the most modern autoguidance, was more dangerous than staying at home. Taking approved recreational pharmaceuticals was more dangerous than abstaining.

Playing the game with Toreth was more dangerous than settling down for the evening with a glass of wine and a good book, but, oh, how very much more satisfying. Fulfilling a deep, primal need as nothing else could.

An acceptable degree of risk.

These days, meetings in hotels were a rarity, so when Toreth had left the message with a time and place, the usual Friday afternoon anticipation had doubled. Something special, something no doubt carefully planned. He loved imagining Toreth working these evenings out, building the scenarios for them both.

By the time he reached the hotel and collected the keycard, the irritation at the delays had melted away into a delicious buzz of anticipation. The journey over had been quicker than he'd expected, so as long as Toreth didn't happen to hit the unusual side of his punctuality curve and arrive early, he'd even have time for a shower.

When he opened the door, though, something caught his eye at once. A box lay in the centre of the bed, with a note scribbled on a piece of card.

'Be ready by ten past. T.'

Toreth was usually late, by a minimum of five minutes. Not today, though. Today he would be on time to the second.

Toreth's minimalist approach to gift-wrapping was in evidence again — the box was plain cardboard. Warrick laid the contents out on the bed: several hollow black metal bars a little thicker than his thumb, four leather cuffs, a belt and various pieces of chain. Plus a small plastic bag containing an assortment of bolts, screws and washers.

The box had already been opened and, naturally, if there had been any instructions in there they were gone now.

If he'd arrived on time the task would have been easy, but Toreth wouldn't care about an excuse like a delay at work.

He checked his watch. The simplest thing to do would be to look up the manufacturer and find instructions from them, although in a way it was cheating. On the other hand, if he didn't do it he might not be ready, and then Toreth wouldn't stay. That was the one real, dreadful punishment for not playing the game up to standard.

A quick examination of the box found only blank spaces where the labels had been carefully removed. No marks on the bars. The cuffs were equally uninformative, but the belt revealed the name on a tiny stamp on the leather, hidden inside. It took a couple of minutes to find the instructions before he expanded his hand screen, laid it on the bed, and started work.

Of course, Toreth hadn't left a screwdriver, but Warrick had an exotic penknife with a ridiculous number of gadgets — an old present from Dilly. Usually it did nothing except wear holes in his pockets, but when it did come in handy . . . he laughed out loud, imagining telling her about this latest instance. Probably better not to. He dismissed the image and concentrated.

What didn't help was that, perforce, he had to imagine the finished item as he picked up the pieces, trying to see how they fit together. It did nothing at all for his concentration.

Cuffs on wrists and ankles. Wrists locked to the belt . . . behind him? Yes, that looked right. His legs held apart by the rigid bar. Immobilized for whatever Toreth wanted to — he dropped a bolt, and spent a panicky thirty seconds hunting for it.

I'm an engineer, he told himself. I build things in my head. I can do this.

He laid his watch on the bed so that he could keep an eye on it while he worked. Two bars went together in the wrong order and he had to waste more time backtracking, swearing softly. Frustrated and, he admitted to himself with a wry smile, loving it.

If this had been the sim, he could have conjured the frame up (once initially created) and locked himself into it with a few thoughts, which was precisely the reason why the game didn't work in the sim. Even if he didn't use the sim tricks, the possibility would always be there. Here, the limitations and problems were unavoidably and excitingly real.

Finally the thing was ready. When completed, the frame proved to be collapsible, the bars sliding together to make a neat package perfect for discreetly taking to hotels. He couldn't help stopping to admire it, even though he couldn't afford the time. Toreth could be surprisingly good at selecting presents, although they were hardly unselfish.

Now . . . how to get it on. He considered the possibilities while he undressed, then started with the simple things. Ankles were easy, and the belt, but the wrist cuffs posed a serious problem, because they were permanently attached to the belt. In addition, the fastenings were inconveniently and unnecessarily complicated, featuring three narrow buckles on each one. Chosen deliberately, no doubt, for that exact reason.

In the end he loosened the belt, twisted round to strap his right wrist into the cuff and then refastened the belt. That left him only one cuff, which surely couldn't be too tricky, since he was using his right hand.

One cuff, and no damn time.

His gaze fixed to the watch on the bed, he struggled with the buckles. It looked as if Toreth was late after all, which was fortunate because the straps
would
not
fasten. If Toreth came in now, when he was so close — the buckle slipped from his fingers and he swore again — so close to being ready, it would be unbearable.

One buckle fastened, and he paused, trying to flex his wrists and stretch his cramping fingers. Not a good idea, because the sensation of restraint sent a shiver through him, then another. He forced himself to stillness and carried on.

One more minute and another buckle — three minutes over, and so nearly there. Were those footsteps outside?

With a frantic effort, he managed the last buckle, hissing at the unexpected pain as a sharp edge dug into his fingertip beneath the nail. When he rubbed his finger and thumb together, he felt the stickiness of blood. Nothing serious, though.

Besides, what mattered was that he was ready and when —

"Not bad," Toreth said.

Warrick managed to stop the turn before he lost his balance completely. Carefully he looked to his left, to where Toreth stood in the bathroom doorway, hands in his pockets, utterly composed.

"How long have you been there?" Warrick asked.

"All the time. I was watching in the mirror." Toreth strolled across and lowered the lights, casting the room into shadow. The light from the open bathroom door spilled across the floor, lighting the space where Warrick stood and making the room around him seem darker, something more than a mere hotel room.

Toreth walked round him, slowly, inspecting. "Not bad at all. Very nice, in fact. And just in time, too."

"Yes." Warrick kept his eyes away from the treacherous watch on the bed, which showed fifteen minutes past, its face barely visible in the low light. Perhaps Toreth wouldn't see it now.

Toreth stopped behind him and checked the wrist cuffs, tightening the straps. Warrick shivered again, lips parting as his breathing accelerated.

Then Toreth paused and Warrick tensed, waiting for . . . something. He didn't know what was coming and the newness and uncertainly fluttered inside him.

"You've hurt yourself," Toreth said. Cool, dispassionate observation, not concern.

Warrick nodded. A feather-light touch stroked down over his back as Toreth knelt behind him. Kisses on his arm, down over his enclosed wrist, across his hand, and then Toreth took the bleeding finger into his mouth. He sucked gently, tongue licking firmly over and round, halfway between soothing and hurting, and Warrick closed his eyes.

At the same time, Toreth's hands roamed over him, feeling to be in far more places at once than could be physically possible: ribs, stomach, legs. Up between his spread thighs, making him exquisitely aware of the vulnerability of the position the bars locked him into. His cock ached already, but Toreth's hands stayed clear of it, although they brushed close enough to make him moan with frustration.

Toreth released his finger and stood up.

"Better?" Toreth asked.

Indescribably, wonderfully perfect. He nodded again, words lost somewhere back in the wash of sensation.

Then Warrick heard a zip unfasten, and Toreth pressed up close behind him, bare skin and hair touching Warrick's fingers.

"Don't just fucking stand there. You've got hands — use them."

Not easy, but he obeyed, twisting his hands round to enclose Toreth's cock. Smooth, hard flesh filled his hands and Warrick moaned again, empathy and need. It took him a minute to find a rhythm, conscious of the cuffs with every movement. He focused inwards, losing awareness of the room around him, the hotel beyond the door.

Toreth took a firm hold of his upper arms, pulling his shoulders back and down. Warrick arched his spine as Toreth bit down hard in the angle of his neck and shoulder, the pain making him whimper. As Warrick worked, Toreth's grip tightened, his breathing gradually quickening.

"Keep going." Toreth's voice in his ear, harsh and passionate. "Keep it going or I'll break your fucking arms."

His hands grew numb from pressure on the nerves, making every constricted flexing of his wrists more difficult. Fortunately, Toreth was thrusting into his hands now, his breathing ragged.

"Ah, fuck —
Warrick
."

Pain flared down his arms as Toreth's fingers dug in, and Warrick bit his lip to stop himself from crying out. High now, dizzied by Toreth's voice and the flooding endorphins and the feeling of Toreth coming in his bound, helpless hands.

Finally Toreth's hands loosened their grip, the release from the pressure and the sting of blood flowing back into his arms making Warrick groan. Distinct, discrete dabs of pain lingered, telling him that there would be finger marks still visible tomorrow — bruises, beautiful reminders of how absolutely Toreth owned him at this moment.

He waited, shivering, listening to Toreth's breathing slowing.

Then Toreth moved back a little, only a few inches, and still close enough that his low voice curled up and down Warrick's spine. "So . . . what shall I do next?"

Warrick gathered enough breath to speak. "Whatever you want."

"We've got all evening. Plenty of time." Toreth's hands stroked over him again, over his shoulders and down his chest. "Plenty of time and such a lot of things we could try. But — " He pinched Warrick's nipple, hard, making him gasp. "Did you really think I didn't see that watch?"

Dismay robbed him of any reply.

Toreth moved round in front of him, his sharp predator's face shadowed in the side lighting. "You were four minutes over the time I gave you to get ready. You know what that means."

"Don't go." The words escaped before he could stop them.

Toreth laughed. "No? Why not? I've had
my
fun."

"Please."

The instinct to kneel, to beg, was thwarted by the rigid strength of the bars, and his cock twitched.

Toreth smiled. "Again."

"Please. Please stay. I — I need it."

Silence, stretching out, as Toreth pretended to think about it; Warrick knew that he must have decided already what would happen. Everything perfectly planned.

"Okay. I'm going for a wash. I won't be long. If, by the time I'm done, you're on your knees and ready to say sorry properly, I'll think about staying."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and headed for the bathroom. As the door closed behind him, Warrick was already struggling frantically with the tightened buckles, his fingers slippery with come. This time he didn't even notice the stab of metal in his fingertips.