Full o'Festive Spirits Page 6

  “Was there anywhere in particular you hoped they might take me…?” So-soft words; a whisper on the wind.

  “At the time? To the shop.” Dylan huffed a soft snort, steeped in self-mockery, yet intended as a resigned sigh.

  “I don’t know how I lasted three days,” Gabriel admitted. “But I couldn’t come back until I’d proved that I could. As if I somehow had to…earn it.”

  Earn it? Earn what? If that had been his own thought, then Dylan would have felt he had to ‘earn’ the right to return. A hurdle he must clear, to afford himself a window of opportunity; a brief glimpse of possibility before the portcullis slammed down.

  Earn. The last word he wanted Gabriel to think in the same sentence as ‘Dylan’. Did Gabriel see him as just another punter? Albeit one he seemed to enjoy talking to. As horrendous as being perceived thus was, Dylan knew damn well that it was own fucking fault. Far more unbearable, was the certainty that he’d scuppered his chances of ever being more than that, to Gabriel. Just another bastard in pursuit of a pound of flesh.

  “Gabriel.” Dylan forced his name past protesting lips and a tongue tethered far too tight, as he grasped a skinny wrist. Gripped with such urgency it made the carrier crash against his thigh; its impact eclipsed by the sizzle of static that shot up his arm.

  “Dylan?” Gabriel’s brow crumpled with concern—confusion writ almost as large as those eyes—upon being yanked to an abrupt halt.

  “D’you…do you think of me that way?” Dylan managed to grind out. Despite, or perhaps to, spite himself.

  “What way?” His furrowed forehead had given way to a madman on the loose smile of indulgence.

  “As…as a punter.” Dylan practically spat the last word in a spray of spittle.

  “A punter?”

  “Just a…trick?”

  “You’re a tricksy devil,” Gabriel shrugged. “But I’m not trying to trick you. Into anything. I told you, it’s up to you. You don’t have to go through with whatever you thought you wanted.” His frown returned while scouring Dylan’s eyes with an intensity of focus that might just flay flesh from bone. This sharpened—a improbable feat—to twin glints of jet, when some inner realization dawned.

  Guilt clutched Dylan’s guts as a hot flare of shame flooded his face, but instead of the fury he’d feared? That midnight gaze merely glittered, twinkling with mischief.

  “Punter? Dylaaan?” Gabriel paused, lips pursed in an incorrigible pout…as he waited, for Dylan to step into the noose of his own making.

  Chapter Nine

  Gabriel

  “Gabriel.” ’Twas with a sudden urgency that Dylan grasped his wrist and tugged Gabriel up short. The abrupt halt to proceedings was nary a smidge as startling as the staggering bolt of bliiimey that shot straight to Gabe’s cock. The expression on Dylan’s face was as fierce as his gravel ‘n’ glue voice, further fuelling the festivities afoot.

  “Dylan?”

  “D’you…do you think of me that way?” Words so husky, they sounded as if his throat had been sanded dry.

  “What way?” Gabriel wondered, spooling through his last utterance in his head:

  I don’t know how I lasted three days. But I couldn’t come back until I’d proved that I could. As if I somehow had to…earn it. Nope. Dylan’s question made no sense whatsoever. ‘Do you think of me in what way?’

  Gabriel had thought of him in plenty o’ways: lips crushed to his own, breath as hot, heavy, as the hard body grinding him against a wall. Honeyed skin caressed by candlelight…glistening with water droplets. Lapping them off. Blue ablaze with dark fire. From behind. Legs wrapped around his waist. Neck. Dylan…on all fours; when Gabe had been feeling particularly foolhardy.

  “As…as a Punter.” Punter was spat at him like a pip, with such gusto it should’ve taken Gabriel’s eye out.

  “A punter?” he repeated, mind whirring as he tried to cram those words into the context of their conversation. Gabriel hadn’t so much as strummed a tune, let alone serenaded Dylan…and how the hell did that fit with snaffling chocs from his snowman’s flaps?

  “Just a…trick?” Dylan clarified. Not at all.

  Trick? He seemed to have taken leave of his marbles. Gabriel had been uncharacteristically upfront, in an effort to draw Dylan out. Of himself, first and foremost—figuring that might be the best way to find out what the bejeezus he wanted—before making damn sure he got it.

  “I’m not trying to trick you. Into anything,” Gabriel tried to reassure him, but whatever had got Dylan’s boxers in a bunch seemed to have skewed his sense of logic, alongside his sensibilities. “’Tis up to you. You don’t have to go through with whatever it is you thought you wanted,” he added, when Dylan’s discomfort showed no sign of abating. What’s gnawing at his nuts? Even the semi-darkness didn’t shroud the fact his face flushed a shade too virulent for a bit of bashfulness. Better yet, he also looked more than a mite sheepish. Why? Oh, hang on… ‘Another punter?’ ‘Just a trick?’

  How the halleloo had Gabriel missed that? Easy-peasy, being far too bedazzled by the raw sensuality seeping from every pore of his ‘punter’ to see what was now ablaze in guilt stricken blue. “Dylaaan?”

  “I—” He dipped his head and his hair fell forwards, stealing his face away. A cruelty too harsh to endure. Gabriel had reached out before he quite got around to considering whether ’twas circumspect to clasp Dylan’s chin and tilt it up a tad. That was a bit of a fib, but he did it anyway. Dylan could only snap his fingers off, in one way or another, but the pay-off would be well worth the risk.

  “Believe whatever you wish…” Gabriel shrugged. “I do.” His words were met by a flintiness so fierce ’twas incendiary. Figuring that he might just burst into flames if he didn’t ‘meet fire’ in the customary fashion, Gabe lowered his head. Slowly…enough for Dylan to flinch from him, if he wished. He did not, nor even blink; he was so still, he didn’t even seem to be breathing. Until a sharp gasp shattered the silence, when Gabriel hovered as close as he dared to lips so perfectly carved, he could scarce believe he might be allowed to sully them.

  “Not just another punter though…never that.” Murmured a whisper away from Dylan’s mouth, because it had to be his decision. It would mean more. A certainty proved with aplomb by the palm that was clamped to the back of Gabriel’s neck to tug him into a kiss so crushing, its impact damn near took his knees out. It sure as strewth snatched Gabe’s breath away. ’Twas an ambush of lips and tangle of tongues that thrilled through his veins in a froth of hot want. So fierce, so frantic, its effects should have sounded like firecracker snaps.

  The tree fell to the floor just before his hat—or the other way around—Gabriel knew not and cared less. Nothing mattered ’cept the siege being staged on his mouth. In the street. Before Dylan was full of festive spirits. It was an onslaught of husky scent and sultry heat…and one hundred percent proof Dylan. When Gabriel finally threaded his fingers into silken hair, its slither was almost as heady as the taste of Dylan’s kisses.

  “Gabriel—” He rasped, abruptly yanking his head back. “I-I’m sorry, I—” He broke off, a riot ablaze in the blue he searched Gabriel’s face for fucknows what. Sorry for the kiss…or for thinking I'm a rent boy? The first was too mind-bogglingly barmy to believe, even for Gabe. The second?

  He should prob’ly be miffed that Dylan supposed he sold himself to all and sundry…but Gabriel may well have done worse, for free. ’Twould be a tad hypocritical to throw a strop, when Dylan merely imagined that Gabe charged, for what he’d be oh, so glad to give, gratis.

  Truth be told ‘n’ all that…sallying forth for a spot of roleplay up rent boy lane rather tickled Gabriel’s fancy, so why cause Dylan further embarrassment by flagging up that fallacy? Or fantasy? It mattered not. If it ain’t broke. Dylan still wants me.

  Sooo…did he want Gabriel despite believing him to be a rent boy…or because he believed that? The latter might be the best-case scenario as far as Dylan was concerned. It would certainly s
alve his conscience on the wham, bam, thank you man, front. It might even be the only reason he’d allowed himself to consider what he certainly seemed intent on doing. Gabriel sure as Christmas come early wasn’t about to look a gift from the gods in the mouth. Especially not one as heavenly ‘n’ hungry as the one that had just laid waste to his very own lips.

  “No ‘sorry’s necessary…” Gabriel’s smile was perfectly in keeping with his new profession. Pertinent indeed. Crikey, he could scarce wait to start work. In fact, he was salivating to get on with the job. Asap.

  Dylan—standing behind a counter, shrink-wrapped in leather—had been a walking wet dream. Now? He was lethal. In fact, he should ne’er be allowed out of bed. For his own safety, and that of the delicate flowers strewn across the streets of London. Nope…he was a mishap waiting to happen. Dylan should spend his entire life spread across crisp white sheets, sable tendrils fanned in glorious disarray. Delectable. Rent himself? Gabriel would sell his soul to the devil for a dilly-dally with his punter, par excellence.

  "C’mon, let’s go…” he grinned up at Dylan while bending to scoop the tree off the floor.

  ’Twas an itty bit battered and tattered, here ‘n’ there, but no matter. It would look all the more splendid for telling its tale so true…

  Chapter Ten

  Dylan

  “Believe whatever you wish…” Gabriel shrugged. “I do.”

  What the fuck was that supposed to mean? From anyone one else’s lips, it would have sounded a hell of a lot like prevarication, or downright deflection, confirming Dylan’s suspicions by default. But from Gabriel’s? It rang more akin to: ‘I can hope very hard. Hard enough to believe at least six impossible things before breakfast…’

  Were those two statements much of a muchness, or was Dylan supposed to take believe whatever you wish at face value? In the literal sense? If so, that suggested…believe whatever you can live with.

  None of which left Dylan any the wiser. Nowhere nearer the truth. Gabriel had not denied it. Dylan would have considered it a grievous insult—hence his guilt—and thus been fucking furious. He’d issued a swift right hook for far less. Worse still, Gabriel must assume that Dylan wanted him because he was a rent boy. Rather than despite that fact.

  Worst of all? It might even be true. Dylan had no idea; he clearly hadn’t thought it through. He’d done his utmost not to think, and for once in his goddamn life, just do. Be. Rather than chew over every option until he’d gnawed it down to bone—in hopes of justifying what he wanted—proving it a worthy endeavour beyond any shadow of doubt. Unless, he was too pissed to give a shit. At least, until he woke up, hungover and sick with self-disgust, but that was just grist to the mill. It merely oiled the wheels of self-loathing in what had become an endless cycle of depression. All of which, no doubt summed up why Dylan had, apparently, resorted to rent boys, rather than inflict himself on someone who’d have to tolerate his crap…until they could no longer stand it.

  If he’d been feeling less…deranged, Dylan could not have ignored the small flaw in said logic; that securing himself the services of a call-girl might just have made a damn sight more sense. Rather than a rent boy—but that ship had sailed three days ago—clearly.

  This toxic train of thought was derailed by what else…those lips. If still in possession of a fully-functioning brain-cell, Dylan may well have wondered if he’d survive them sane—a moot point—no matter how Gabriel might employ them. Every word they uttered dragged Dylan deeper into a grave he’d dug with his very own hands. It didn’t help that he couldn’t seem to desist digging. Ever deeper. Lured on by that smile.

  If Dylan had believed for a second that those lips couldn’t unleash anything more lethal than that, he would have been wrong—but he hadn’t—of course he hadn’t. Dylan was all too aware he’d barely scratched the surface of the carnage they could wreak…which was no doubt why he couldn’t stop clawing away. Even had he tried.

  “Not just another punter though…never that.” Whisper-soft words that skimmed Dylan’s mouth in a brush of breath, snatching his own away. If it was, indeed, possible to snatch something freely given. Finally, after been offered endless opportunity not to.

  Even with all the will in the world, Dylan doubted he could have denied himself this. Will was dependent upon want, surely? Or need. The sort of now-or-never need Dylan had always craved but feared he might never know; furious enough to force him throw himself into its flames. Without care for consequence, or whatever tomorrow might bring. Or might not.

  Dylan heard the carrier bags fall to the floor—the rum was zipped inside his leather—but didn’t recall relaxing his fingers. He knew damn well what he then did with them; exactly what he’d longed to do from the start. Clasp the nape of Gabriel’s neck and crush his mouth down onto his own. Christ. The bolt of lust that blazed through Dylan’s body was staggering. Worse, better, than he’d dreaded, hoped, dreamed. So plush, pliant, so obscenely sensual it could scarce be called a kiss. It was headfuck of far, far too much to comprehend. While standing in the street. Fully dressed. An incongruent fact, in itself. He’d never felt more naked. Stripped of every artifice. Pared back to bone. Fuck…it was too much. Here. He could barely think, breathe. Suffocating in his clothes, his back slick with sweat, skin screaming for Gabriel’s touch, body aching for his nearness; as naked as the need.

  “Gabriel—” he gasped, dragging himself free, before he could not. “I-I’m sorry, I—”

  “No ‘sorry’s necessary…” Gabriel cut off his faltering apology with words, but it was the insouciant purse of those incorrigible lips that spoke volumes. Camp as bloody Christmas. Purposely so, appearing to confirm Dylan’s suspicions. Did it even matter? Did anything in the wake of that kiss? Except snatching up its promise and flinging himself into the—flames? It was a fucking inferno.

  “C’mon, let’s go…” Gabriel added, with another blinding beam, as he bent to retrieve the much-maligned tree, then snag his hat and plonk it back on his tufty hair.

  “’Kay…” Dylan muttered, grasping the handles of the carrier bag, to follow him…Christ knows where. It didn’t matter. There was nothing else left to do.

  Gabriel was as beguiling as the clumsy grace with which he loped along; head skittering from side-to-side, focus flashing this way and that. Dylan was so engrossed in watching him weave his way down the street that he ploughed into Gabriel when he pulled to a sudden stop.

  “This way…” A hand had no sooner clamped to Dylan’s forearm than yanked him to the left. Into shadows as thick as molasses.

  “Wha—”

  “Wouldn’t do to deny you the full deal…” His words sounded like a secret smile. The tree thunked to the floor. Again.

  “I—”

  A part of Dylan’s brain believed it knew precisely what Gabriel meant. The rest repudiated it outright. This couldn’t be happening. There wasn’t a reality on earth where Dylan could be found in a back alley with a rent boy about to…oh hell. He couldn’t see a thing; his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the sudden plunge into inky darkness. A slam of hard heat crashed against his chest and Dylan’s back hit the wall. Literally. Metaphorically. Rough brick at his back, the long, lean length of Gabriel, fused to his front…as plump lips melded to his own. Satin soft, yet insistent; as demanding as the tongue that darted between Dylan’s teeth. A sensual assault of hot breath and hungry kisses, drowning deep…and hips that couldn’t cleave close enough.

  “Fuck!” Dylan’s gasp made his head snatch back, but his spine snapped forwards—entirely of its own volition—he’d decided fuck all since his back hit the wall. The throaty groan that greeted this was almost as erotic as the mouth that fastened at Dylan’s neck and the hot drag that tugged far lower down. “Gnnbriel…”

  “Hmm…?” The sucking ceased, and his earlobe was caught between teasing teeth. “Say yesss…” Gabriel pleaded, flexing his hips, as if to…remind Dylan what he was well aware of. Does Gabriel know?

  Of course, he does, dic
khead. His nights must be riddled with first tim—No. Don't pretend that matters, when you wouldn't have a hope in hell, otherwise.

  “I-yess…” Dylan groaned, then gasped, when a palm was clamped to the crippled contents of his too-tight jeans. “Ggnrr…” Rigid, aching, for…him. His touch, the heady oblivion of his kisses…his strong, wiry body. Dylan wanted all of it.

  “I want you…inside me.” Gabriel murmured at Dylan’s lips before claiming them, which was exactly how it felt. Now!? His button gave, about a rush of relief before the slooow rasp of a zip shredded Dylan’s last sliver of sanity.

  “Yess…” Fuck. He said that aloud. It was a bit too late to worry about that now. Or anything else.

  The decision had been made three days ago. Dylan had done his damnedest to deny that fact and failed miserably. It had been as inevitable as his next lungful of air; gulped when Gabriel trailed lingering fingers along the length of Dylan’s cock, still straining against his pants. A tenderness more mind-boggling than pretty much anything Gabriel might’ve done, instead. The small mewl Dylan swallowed was the single most intoxicating sound he’d ever heard, despite not having done a thing to merit it.

  “Please…” He heard himself groan. From a galaxy, far, far, away… Dylan was waving farewell to his last marble when Gabriel dropped to his haunches without a word and tugged Dylan’s jeans beneath his arse with one sharp twitch of wrists. When a cool fingertip was slipped into the waistband of Dylan’s boxers he gasped, even before chill air bathed feverish flesh when it was hooked over the head of his cock. The sigh that followed was the sound of someone sinking into a deluxe bubble bath. In a back alley. Clearly.