The Administration Series (98 page)

Of course I fucking
realise
. Toreth shrugged. "Have I?"

"Yes. I'd be grateful if you could stop it."

Toreth stared at him. Some fucking cheek after he was the one who'd . . . well, the one who'd done it this time. Make too much of it and he'd end up looking like an idiot.

"Look," he said, striving to sound reasonable. "Tell me who he is and then there won't be a problem." Or it'd be a different kind of problem, anyway, when they stretchered the bastard out of there.

"No." The same idea looked to have occurred to Warrick.

Toreth shrugged again.

After a moment, Warrick said, "I'd like to ask you to promise me something."

He tried to remember if Warrick had ever said that before, and drew a blank. "What?"

"That if I tell you who he is, you won't do anything."

It wasn't necessary to say what Warrick didn't want him to do.

"All right. I promise." As if Warrick's preferences made any difference. He wouldn't do anything because it would be pathetic — immature and stupid. He told himself to keep thinking about that.

After a long pause, Warrick said, "The man at the right-hand end of the bar. Sitting on the bar stool, talking to the woman in blue and green."

Toreth looked for a long time, assessing him carefully. Warrick's height, or a little taller. He'd been right that the man would be older, his dark hair greying at the temples. Not a bad figure, although suits could hide a lot. Toreth couldn't see his face clearly from here, only a suggestion of a reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Not competition, though, he told himself. Not really. Hell, Warrick had told him that.

He'd also said he wanted to fuck the man again.

Was he good? Toreth wanted to ask. No, he knew the answer to that. How good? was what he wanted to know. Or, ultimately, was he better than me?

Then the man stood up and said something to his companion, who laughed and touched his arm in farewell. Turning, he looked straight across the room and saw them. The briefest pause, then he lifted his hand to Warrick, and began to make his way across the room. Fucking hell. Glancing round, he saw that Warrick had gone slightly pale. Yes, that was right — Warrick was the one who had things to worry about here.

Toreth smiled. "Relax. I promised, remember?"

Before Warrick could reply, the man reached them. Quite good-looking, Toreth had to admit. He had a short, neatly trimmed beard, peppered with silver, which suited him. Well-defined bones, looking to Toreth like an open invitation for a well-placed punch.

He smiled warmly at Warrick, and Toreth's fist clenched before he could stop it, the cuts protesting painfully.

"Doctor Warrick. Nice to see you again. I noticed your name in the programme, so I knew you were here." He looked enquiringly at Toreth. "But I don't think we've met . . . ?"

Warrick collected himself with a visible effort. "Val Toreth. Toreth, this is Doctor Frederick Girardin."

Middle name Felix — his name had been on the list, back in the office at I&I. Toreth even remembered the corporation he'd worked for: L-Sander Technologies. Now he knew. He nodded, and murmured something he hoped sounded friendly.

"Do you work at SimTech?" Girardin enquired.

"No. I'm a para-investigator." No reaction to that, which was unusual. "I'm here for the skiing. Enjoying the corporate expenses."

Then, trying to ignore the bruising to his self-esteem, he placed his hand in the small of Warrick's back. A brief contact with a clear message. Mine.

He had no idea how Warrick reacted, because he was watching Girardin. The man looked between them, and a flicker of understanding — and maybe disappointment — crossed his face.

Then Girardin smiled again. "I don't ski myself. But one of my party has missed a few sessions and I understand from her that the snow is very good."

That was it. There were a few comments about the programme so far and which events the next day looked most interesting. A promise by Girardin that he would certainly attend Warrick's seminar and an invitation to both of them to join him for lunch, although he seemed to expect Warrick's polite refusal. Just a slight tension lingered in the air, probably unnoticeable to someone who wasn't looking for it.

"What did you tell him about me?" Toreth asked, when Girardin had excused himself.

Warrick looked bemused. "Nothing."

"You must have said something. Or he'd have been surprised to see me."

"Very well. I mentioned your existence. Not your name, or anything about you. Generalities."

"What generalities?"

"I told him I had a non-exclusive relationship." Warrick looked at him steadily. "And unless you have some news for me, that is precisely what I do have."

Toreth stared at him, speechless.

"I told you I'm sorry, and I am. I told you I won't do it again, and I won't. I said neither of those things for form's sake, nor to make you feel better. I meant them." Warrick's voice was low but emphatic. "However, I will not apologise for the rest of my life for doing
once
something that you do with monotonous regularity."

The shock made him spill out the question. "Was he good?"

After a moment, Warrick said, "I have no intention of discussing this."

With the first words out, he had to go on. "Was he better than me?"

"And I am certainly not doing so here, surrounded by people whose professional opinions I value." Overarticulating, cold and angry, and Toreth didn't care.

"You said you wanted him again. Was he a better fuck than me?"

"Is there any point in my saying no?"

Probably not. Girardin had touched Warrick. He'd fucked Warrick.

'Someone else coming inside me.'

"Did he kiss you?"

"Toreth, I will not — "

"Did he fucking kiss you? Tell me."

Warrick looked away for a moment, then back. "Yes, he did."

White-hot, blinding anger burned through him. When it cleared, he found, almost to his surprise, that he had taken a step away from Warrick. He wanted to shout. He wanted to go after Girardin and — "Come on," he said, keeping his voice under tight control.

"Where?"

Anywhere that wasn't here. Taking hold of Warrick's elbow, he dug his fingers in. "Come on."

Slightly to his surprise, Warrick nodded. Probably glad to get away from his precious fucking peers before Toreth made a scene. The knowledge that that was exactly what he was doing — making a scene, like some pathetic fucking jealous
boyfriend
— only made Toreth more furious. Opening the first door they reached, he found a small room, half-filled with stacked dining chairs.

"This'll do," Toreth said.

Once through the door, Toreth closed it behind them, not letting go of Warrick.

"What else did you do with him?" Images flicked through his mind, so clear. Warrick on his hands and knees in front of the fire, flushed and panting, with Girardin behind him, fucking him hard. Or his hands in Warrick's hair as . . .

'Letting them fuck my mouth. Kneeling in front of them.'

Toreth focused on Warrick's lips, seeing them moulded round someone else's cock. No, not 'someone'. Girardin. Name and face. Easy to imagine the smooth voice, urging Warrick to take him deeper.

"Did he come in your mouth? Tell me what you did."

"I will tell you nothing of the kind. Toreth, you cannot — "

Toreth pulled Warrick forwards and kissed his unresponsive lips, bearing down hard until Warrick jerked his head away and stepped back.

Hatred surged again, the same rage he'd felt in front of the fire — the impulse to lash out, to hurt. To punish Warrick for cheating, for betraying him, for everything he could make Toreth feel. This time, with Warrick there, he couldn't contain it. He tightened his grip on Warrick's arm, his other hand lifting, curling into a fist again without conscious direction, before he saw the flash of real fear in Warrick's eyes, quickly overtaken by anger.

He released Warrick immediately, letting his hand drop. All the times he'd hit Warrick, relishing the anticipation on his face before the blow landed, not once had Warrick been afraid of him, because it was always and only in the game. One thing Warrick wouldn't tolerate; one thing that would make him walk. Gone for good.

The shock of a line so nearly crossed felt like hitting a snowbank, winding him and smothering the anger.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," Toreth said automatically, and for a moment he tasted blood.

"Are you really." The expressionless voice matched Warrick's face.

"Yes. I — " I didn't mean to hurt you. He kept the lie back by sheer force of will. "Are you okay?" He knew the answer, his hand remembering exactly how much pressure it had applied, but he also knew it was the necessary thing to ask.

Warrick rubbed his arm, then flexed it. "I think so. No harm done." His voice was still unyielding. "Do I have to spell out the consequences if you ever do that again?"

So fucking close to disaster. "No. And I won't. Warrick, please — I'm sorry."

Pause, then Warrick inclined his head, once. "Apology accepted."

Relief dizzied him briefly, and he found his hand on Warrick's shoulder, very nearly for support. Warrick tensed, then moved a step closer. This time, when Toreth repeated the kiss, it was something shared, not something imposed. Warrick responded, lips parting, hands drawing him closer.

Despite, or maybe because of, the fear of what had almost happened, Toreth felt the usual aftermath of an argument start to heat him, and he saw an answering lick of fire in Warrick's eyes.

"Shall we go?" Warrick asked.

He thought about it. Going back to the bedroom where Warrick had told him about . . . and the cuts in his hand twinged. Not there — not yet.

"Against the wall," Toreth told him.

The fire flared brighter. "We have a
room
, which — "

"Against the wall," he repeated and, unfair advantage, he took hold of Warrick and turned him, feeling his automatic, helpless response to the restraint. A game this time, their game, but with a more dangerous edge.

He pressed Warrick against the wall, using his whole body, whispering threats and promises. He caught Warrick's wrist, twisting his arm up behind his back — remembering in time to check it wasn't the arm he'd hurt.

Warrick struggled, helpless in the professional grip. "Don't. Not here."

"You want to."

"No. Toreth, that hurts. Please."

"Tell me what you want." Tell me you want me, not him.

"I — I want to go back to the room before — ah,
Christ
."

"You're a liar. Tell me you want it." He raised his voice, wondering how soundproof the door was, and whether anyone was standing close enough to hear. "
Tell
me."

Tell me you're mine.

"No. I don't — "

"Fucking liar." He reached round, rubbing his palm against Warrick's erection. "God, look at you. Look how hard you are, and I've barely fucking touched you yet. Now tell me what you want. Say it."

A few more seconds of struggling, then Warrick went still, breathing heavily. "Yes," he whispered.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes. Here."

"Tell me what."

"I want you to fuck me."

"Again."

"I want . . . I want you to fuck me. Please."

Please, again. Begging for it — wanting
him
. "Yes."

Yes
.

He brought his hand up to Warrick's mouth, brushing the lips he must have bruised. "Lick them. Do it."

Warrick whimpered, breathless, and obeyed.

Yes
. His, and no one fucking else's.

Unfastening Warrick's trousers, he slipped his hand down, squeezing his buttocks, reaching further. Fingering him, opening him, then more spit for himself before he replaced his hand with his cock. Warrick cried out as Toreth thrust into him and Toreth put his hand over his mouth, pressing him against the wall.

He waited for a few seconds, dreading footsteps outside and a knock on the door. Wondering if Girardin had seen them go in here, and almost wishing he had — wishing the bastard could see this.

A muffled protest.

Automatically, he looked for Warrick's free hand, finding it clenched against the wall, thumb extended — carry on.

"Keep still and shut the fuck up."

He twisted Warrick's wrist, hearing him moan at the pain. A flash of his dream returned, of Warrick in front of him against the rough wall. This felt so much better than even the best dream. For once, he stopped thinking about the game, and what ought to happen next, and concentrated purely on himself, doing what he wanted — long, fast thrusts, Warrick deliciously tight around him.

Not that Warrick seemed to feel neglected. Over his own breathing, Toreth heard him, moaning in his throat. He had his arm braced against the wall above his head, pushing back onto Toreth, his body asking for more, harder, deeper — wanting it.

Wanting him. Toreth closed his eyes, the pleasure spiking and then building, building, until he came, choking back a cry.

He clung to Warrick, breathing deeply, face buried in his jacket. A shame he couldn't stay here forever, and he almost wished they had gone back to the room because he felt like collapsing onto a bed and passing out for a while.

It wasn't finished yet, though. Keeping his hand over Warrick's mouth, he released his wrist and turned him, pressing him back against the wall.

"Open your eyes."

Warrick's breath felt hot on his hand as he shook his head.

"Open your fucking eyes.
Look
at me."

Another shake of his head — asking for it, and Toreth hesitated only a second. Taking his hand away from Warrick's mouth, he hit him across the face. Just hard enough to be what he wanted, not hard enough to mark.

He saw Warrick's hands clench, saw the eager response in his body and cock. Another blow across the other cheek and, finally, Warrick's eyes opened.

And that was all right. He'd done it, and it was all right. Nothing had changed.