London Adventure

August 16, 1998

It always felt a little odd and discordant waking up in my old room at home.

I lay naked beneath a sheet, feeling warm and already a bit moist, staring up at a ceiling that didn't look quite…right…anymore. Just before awakening, I'd flung my arm out over the sheets, evidently looking for something that wasn't there.

Or looking for someone, if I really wanted to be more truthful.

I rolled over and looked out the huge windows; sunlight streamed into my room in wide golden swathes of warmth. The curtains bellied in the breeze, and I caught the scent of green growing things, of the roses of which Mother was so proud.

Roses. Strange, how some things, some scents, held such power over memories. The smell of roses---some like sweet apple blossoms, some of spicy myrrh, others of heavy damask or fresh lemon---and the heavy, earthy scent of rich garden soil always brought to mind the achingly gentle touch of rough, callused hands and the surprising softness of bright auburn curls. If I closed my eyes, I could almost feel the moist brush of breath against my ear as I heard my name whispered in a sweet brogue….

Bloody hell. I opened my eyes. Enough of that; I wasn't one given to maudlin lingering in the memories of events long gone in the past---twenty-three years ago was ancient history. At the time, I'd thought I'd been an adult, certain my fifteen years upon the earth made me mature, but looking back now, I realized I'd been just a…child. A child rushing to grow up into a man.

My mouth crooked in a bittersweet grin. When we were young, we were always in such a hurry to grow up, and when we finally made it, when we were finally adults, we wished again for our youth. It was ironic, really.

I reached beneath the other pillow. It looked odd without the indentation of another head; I'd grown accustomed so quickly to sharing my bed with another. My fingers closed around thick, soft fabric, and with a tug, I pulled a sweatshirt from beneath the pillow.

Rolling to my back, I held it up. Soft grey fabric, the front emblazoned with "MIT", an American university I'd never attended. Not mine, of course, but Randy's. I smiled, and brought it down to my nose and inhaled. It still smelled of him, of his cologne, and more faintly, of his own distinctive musk. I closed my eyes, rubbed it against my face, and the material rasped against my heavy morning beard.

He'd been wearing it, leaning against the closet door facing, arms crossed over his chest, watching me as I'd packed for my journey home. Oh, I knew he'd not been happy, but he'd kept a game face on, kept the conversation easy and amusing, and I respected him for that. As much as I'd wanted to return home, to see my family, a part of me hadn't really wanted to leave him. We hadn't been together as a couple that long, and it seemed a little unfair to hare off to England and leave him for that length of time.

When I had finished packing, and had closed the suitcase, a thought had occurred to me. I'd asked for his sweatshirt, and with a curious look he'd complied, stripping it off and holding it out to me, leaving him dressed only in those stretchy gym shorts I loved so well, the ones which were so thin and skimpy he might as well have been nude. A bit of heat had crept up my throat when I'd asked him to rub it against his body, to imprint it with his scent. His ears had pinkened, but then with a grin, he'd done it, rubbing it slowly over his broad, smooth chest, over the nape of his proud neck, under his arms and over his flat belly. His grin had grown even more wicked as he'd gotten into the whole situation. He'd dropped his shorts to rub the sweatshirt over his groin, between his spread legs, over his very fine arse, all the while undulating like an exotic dancer, his cheeks flushing and eyes flashing, teasing me, daring me.

I'd snatched away the sweatshirt and toppled him to the bed, kicking off the full suitcase, whilst he'd laughed and called me a pervert and a freak and other unsavory things. A little while later, with his knees almost next to his ears, his legs slung over my shoulders, and my cock buried deeply within him, he'd called me far different things.

And the sweatshirt, smelling of him, had gone into my suitcase.

I opened my eyes. The smile curving my mouth was probably incredibly moronic, but I didn't care---who was about to see it? Alone, it didn't matter if the mask I showed to the world slipped a bit. So few actually saw the real me, the one I kept hidden---Danie, Nicole for a while, and now, Randy.

Trailing my fingers down my belly, I reached beneath the sheet for myself. I was hard just thinking of him, smelling his scent, and the fact that I'd tossed off just three hours ago to his voice over the phone didn't matter a bit. My body might be thirty-eight, but it felt eighteen again in regard to Randy. I gave myself a few strokes, the foreskin flowing under my hand, and it felt rather good; not like Randy's firm, knowing grip, but better than nothing.

With a sigh, I shoved the sweatshirt beneath the pillow again, rolled out of bed and stretched hugely. My cock arched out from my belly, demanding and unrepentant. I wrapped myself in a robe, ambled to the bath down the hall, and beneath the pounding of hot water against my neck and shoulders, wrapped my hand about myself and came to images of Randy's mouth on me in any number of showers we'd shared.

It would be a very long week, indeed.

@@@@@

I supposed it was a good thing I'd made a habit of getting dressed with my back to the door, because as I pulled the denims up over my arse, Lizzie breezed through the door to my room without knocking, as usual. Some things never changed, no matter how many years passed. I glanced over my shoulder, a trifle annoyed, but mostly not; I could never stay aggravated at Liz for very long.

"You know, the door was closed for a reason," I said snarkily as I finished tucking in the white shirt and zipping up.

Lizzie made a rude, dismissive sound. It sounded remarkably like the one I had often made as an adolescent. "Don't be so stroppy---I'm a doctor, for God's sakes," she said. "I've seen more people naked than I care to remember."

"Yes, but most of them you've seen recently are children," I replied, turning back to her and buttoning the cuffs of my sleeves. "I do believe my childhood years are far behind me now."

Liz crunched an apple noisily as she sprawled comfortably onto the windowseat where I'd spent many a rainy afternoon curled up with one book or another, and her sharp grey eyes swept over me, sparkling with mischief. "I suppose that's true," she allowed with a grin. "You are pretty old."

I pushed her long legs out of the way and sat down on the seat to pull on my trainers and tie them neatly. "Positively ancient," I agreed cheerfully.

She laughed, a delighted bubbly sound. "Geriatric. Thirty-eight is *so* old. You've even a fair amount of silver in your hair now."

I ruffled my fingers through my hair and smiled. "Well, yes, the quest for total world domination tends to do that to one."

Liz snickered and gave my thigh a nudge with her bare foot. Dressed in a ratty tee shirt and boxers beneath a robe that had seen better times, and without makeup and her dark hair pulled back into a tail, she looked all of sixteen. Not really pretty, my Liz; she looked far too much like me to ever be considered pretty. Genetics had gifted Sarah with the beauty of the family; she looked a great deal like Mother, though with Father's coloring and the Pierson nose, which she had softened with a little artful plastic surgery. Liz hadn't bothered; like me, she was as she was, strong-featured, without frills and unadorned. What I thought made Liz beautiful was the intelligence and strength of character that shone so brightly in her dark grey eyes.

She arced the apple core past my ear and it landed with a muted thump into the waste bin at the side of my old desk.

"Well, I suppose I'm ready for breakfast," she said. "A veritable feast of cholesterol and calories. I spoke to Mother about it, but she just laughs and does this little thing in my direction." Liz did a fairly good imitation of Mother's casual dismissive wave. "And Nonna says she's lived this long eating what she damn well pleased, so no help from that corner, either."

"'Maledicta le calorie---lo abbastanza vecchie per mangiare che cosa desidero.'"

I'd heard it often enough over the years to get the rhythm and pitch just right, and Liz laughed again. "Exactly. Ah, well, she's probably right, and if you look at her side of the family, they live practically forever." Liz shrugged with one slim shoulder. "I suppose that by now it's a losing battle, and I might as well concede the point."

"Something neither of us do with particular grace," I said, rising from the window seat to straighten the covers on my bed. That was generally Randy's little task since he rose so much later than I did; the thought made a little twinge of homesickness zing through me. I hadn't slept particularly well---the bed had seemed too empty without him.

"Not really," Liz replied. "We're both too much like Nonna." She ambled to the other side of the bed and tugged the coverlet straighter. I remembered how her bedroom had always looked as if it belonged in the pages of a decorating magazine, everything clean and neat and perfectly in place. Mine, however, had been somewhat more...well, haphazard, with books and sporting equipment of all types strewn about in spite of the best efforts of the maid.

"What's this?" Liz held up a bunched up bit of grey material she'd pulled from beneath the pillow, Randy's sweatshirt.

"It's a sweatshirt," I deadpanned.

"Ha ha. Really quite amusing, you are." She held it up, and I made to seize it from her, but she was surprisingly quick and moved out of my range, holding it up to examine. "MIT? I seem to recall you attended university at Oxford." She dangled it just beyond my reach. "Now just who would have attended an American university, eh?" Her tone was sly and teasing. "You're such an old soft-lad. You're really smitten."

I could feel warmth creep up my throat, and knew I blushed, something I did only rarely. Smitten? That seemed such a weak word for the depth of feeling I had for Randy---I'd never before kept a lover's clothing close by just to have something to remind me of them, and it made me feel stupidly sentimental. But then, I'd never had someone who meant as much to me in such a short time as Randy did.

Liz lifted it up to her nose and smelled of it, and her eyes widened a little bit. "Nice cologne," she said with a smile. "He smells good."

I lunged forward and caught the hem of the shirt, and she let it go with a laugh, conceding victory. "Yes, he does," I replied. It was on the tip of my tongue to say she was just lucky in a fit of missing him I'd not wanked off into it this morning, but thought the better of it. She was my sister, after all, and didn't need details, though I'd never kept anything secret from her.

I folded the sweatshirt and tucked it back beneath the pillow. I missed him far more than ever I thought I would. Even though I knew it was impossible, given his absolute and utter terror of flying, I wished he could have come with me---I would have loved to have shown him around, and I knew that he would have enjoyed it very much, history buff that he was.

Pulling myself from such pointless thoughts, I smiled down at Liz, who watched me with far too much perception, grey eyes sharp and knowing. I didn't want to talk about things so close to my heart even with her, and so changed the topic without subtlety. "So what is on the schedule for today? How much of my money shall you be spending in a mad and frivolous manner?"

Liz knew me well enough to go with the change, linked her arm through mine and tugged me toward the door. "Well," she said brightly, "I've a new professional-looking wardrobe to assemble---I can't go into the clinic looking like a ragamuffin student, after all---and a new hairstyle. What else---oh, dinner at an outrageously expensive restaurant, and then possibly wild dancing in some backwater nightclub. Back home at perhaps three or four in the morning."

I laughed at her proposed schedule. "You don't want much, do you?"

"Not really. Though the actual length of the evening depends on just how decrepit you really are. I know you old folks have such early bedtimes."

I gave her narrow bum a swat, and she yelped in protest. "Best not worry about me. I can keep up with you kids."

Her laughter washed over me, filled with wicked glee, and I couldn't help but wonder if I had, as Randy often said, "bitten off more than I could chew".

@@@@@

It had been years since I'd been out on a shopping expedition with a woman, and I realized it had been purposeful memory loss. Trauma-related amnesia. I was certain of it.

Nicole had perfected what she called "power shopping", but Liz came damn close. I swore she visited every single shop in London at least once, and some twice. By the time Evan, her fiancé, had begged for a rest and for food, she'd cheerfully spent several thousand pounds of my money. Pride alone kept me from begging for a stop before he did---I'd die before conceding defeat to my little sister, who still looked fresh and lovely and unwilted in spite of the summer heat, in the way only English girls managed.

But oh, how glad I was I'd worn trainers and denims for this trip into mercantile hell, and glad I was still in good physical shape.

A late lunch, and we were off again, though the boot of the car had become quite full. She was on the hunt for a white blouse. I mentioned twice---wholly without rancor, I might add, though it had cost me dearly---that she'd seen at least a thousand of them, and why in god's name could she not have found *one* in that thousand, which earned me a glare as good as any in my collection. Evan cheered me on silently, part of the brotherhood of the Men Suffering Through Shopping League, but he wasn't quite as brave to voice his opinion. I'd had a lifetime of contending with Liz's evil looks though, and it bounced off me without appreciable harm.

By the time we'd had dinner, Evan was willing to concede defeat. I, however, was made of much sterner stuff, and besides, as much as I'd been amused by her geriatric comment, I *was* thirty-eight. And though my age didn't generally bother me, for some reason her words had pricked something. Male pride? Stupidity? I had nothing to prove to anyone, but still, it rankled, if only in the smallest, darkest corner of my mind, that part utterly impervious to logical thought.

When Evan dragged Liz off to a bookstore for some shopping of his own, I took the opportunity to steal away for a visit Solomon and Sons, a tailor I'd frequented for years. I didn't need another suit...god knew, I had enough to last a lifetime of meetings...but rather, I wanted to take a look at something they didn't have on their racks for public viewing. Something a bit more personal, more private. Something made of leather.

The bell tinkled above my head when I entered the shop. Little had changed since my last visit, two years ago, for a handful of their beautiful silk ties. S and S, as we'd always called it, was a traditional shop in an ancient, stately brick building, and smelled of wool, linen, cotton, and oddly of vanilla, a familiar, comforting scent. Old money, my brother Jamie had pronounced on a trip there with me for a lovely but seldom-worn suit, and I couldn't contradict him. It smelled prosperous, in some way I couldn't quite define. A scent of home, of childhood, as Solomon and Sons had always made our school uniforms.

The man at the counter looked up from some bookwork, and I could see him looking first at the cut of my shirt, calculating just how much I might be willing to spend, and then he smiled as he recognized it as one of his own tailored creations.

"Mr. Pierson," he said smoothly as he linked my face to his memory. "It has been a very long time since I've seen you. Welcome back." His voice was educated and urbane, his tones utterly perfect, his accent crisp and clean. He sounded better educated than myself.

"Benjamin. It's lovely to see you also. Were you preparing to close up shop?"

"Certainly not now," he replied, and emerged from behind his counter, sleek and perfectly dressed as always, every blond hair in place. I'd always thought he looked far better groomed than any of his clientele, and that thought amused me.

"I appreciate your kindness," I said.

He inclined his head. "It isn't a problem, Mr. Pierson. How may I help you? We've some beautiful fabrics just in from Italy, if you are interested?"

I smiled. "I don't think I'm shopping for fabrics tonight. I'm thinking more along the line of something in leather, I think."

His cool blue eyes didn't change expression; they seldom did that I'd ever noticed. "I see," he replied without inflection. "I would be most pleased to accommodate your wishes. Please do follow me, sir."

And so I did, down a back hallway into the depths of the store, to an unmarked door he opened with a key. He opened the door, stepped in, and turned on the light. I followed, and the rich scent of leather surrounded me, washed over me. My cock twitched beneath my denims in an almost Pavlovian response.

"I'll leave you now. When you are finished, please press the button on the counter, and I shall return to take your order." He might have been speaking about something as ordinary as a fine linen shirt; his voice was carefully smooth and devoid of any emotion.

I nodded. "Thank you, Benjamin, I shall."

I waited until he closed the door behind him before looking about. I took a deep breath, and hummed happily. Randy would have an orgasm on the spot, I thought, and the corner of my mouth crooked upward in a smile. He absolutely loved leather, and this would have been heaven for him.

The sheer variety of objects and articles was almost overwhelming, and I wandered amongst the racks and shelves, bemused, touching this or that as I considered. A rack of black leather chaps caught my eye; he'd mentioned those on more than one occasion, and I plucked a pair from their hangar and held them up. Wouldn't those be just lovely against his paler skin, open in front and back, framing that perfect, muscular arse behind, and his smoothly shaved belly and groin in the front? I could easily picture them on him, long muscular legs encased in gleaming, close-fitting, buttery soft leather, the rest of him bare, and the visual was enough to bring me instantly up and hard.

I definitely needed to call him tonight. I needed to hear his voice, needed to have him touch himself, needed to know that I could make him come just by my words. The thought that I could was heady and powerful, and made me deeply happy. That he could make me come with equal ease was simply a bonus.

Smiling, I replaced the chaps and returned to perusing the merchandise. S and S had anything one might desire, from the simple things for vanilla beginners wanting just a bit of spice for their relationship, to those who took their play quite seriously, and I looked over everything, evaluating it for Randy and I. We needed all the basic things, as well as a few advanced toys or implements. Of course, I wanted wrist and ankle cuffs; Benjamin's stock was all beautifully crafted, plain black leather with silvery hardware, lined with the finest sheepskin to protect tender skin. Simple and aesthetically pleasing---I didn't like things all tarted up with flash, as I sometimes saw in scenes at some of the private parties I'd attended. Three or four leather snap on cockrings; I didn't trust the solid ones of silver or clear Pyrex glass---I preferred the safety of quick-release snaps.

A few toys went onto the list---oddly shaped ones of that same heavy, cool, smooth Pyrex, to reach up within his body and stroke his sweet spot; more conventional dildoes and plugs of life-like silicone; bead strings of differing sizes; clamps of varying severity.

And floggers.

My fingers stroked reverently over the finely-crafted floggers, some with a thick handful of ever so soft suede tails, some more severe, of firmer leather, some with sharply stinging thin rubber tails, some with thick, decadent silk tails to caress the skin. I picked up one of the latter, a scarlet-tailed silk, and let it trail over my forearm. So soft, like a cloud, but I could make it sting with surprising sharpness if I so chose. I could imagine trailing it over his broad strong back, teasing over his lovely arse, tickling between his legs. Warmth rushed through me, and it went onto the "definitely purchase" list.

The silk flogger was joined in a few moments by a large elkskin mop flogger in a lovely rich golden color, the tails thick and full and soft; the sensation would be thuddy rather than stinging, very sensual, a good beginning flogger for Randy. I'd used them before and had them used upon me, and knew he would like it very much.

I looked at the seven-and-nine-tailed cats, with both round and flat tails, but it was more for a general interest; most of them were too severe for a beginner. Perhaps later. A horsehair whisk caught my attention for a moment; it could feel either thuddy or cut like razor blades, depending on the user's skill and intent.

Julian, my old master, had been quite fond of the Scottish tawse, a long, thick, split leather strap on a wooden handle, and on the other end of the spectrum, he had loved birching, which had involved a handful of thin, whippy canes that delivered a hellacious sting. Neither of those seemed appropriate, though I did decide upon a slapper, which was comprised of two thick straps of leather attached to a wooden handle. The noise it made from the two pieces of leather whacking together was more intimidating than the actual sensation, though if he liked it, I could easily put more strength into it and make it more intense.

Randy was so open, so eager to experience more, and it was a pleasure to explore new sensations with him. He wanted to rush into it, to *feel* *right* *now*, but I was determined to hold him back a bit, to let him fully experience one sensation before tearing off to the next. Such things deserved to be savored.

I wasn't certain what Bran, his ex-lover, had taught him, but I knew that most of it would need to be unlearned. What they'd had together had been a mockery, a pale shadow of the richness that we could share together. It was like spice; a little could make a relationship sing, whilst too much, or the wrong kind, could sour it.

"Well, well, hullo, my lovely," I said softly, as my eye fell upon a display of crops of varying types. I picked one up, and whisked it through the air, experimentally. It had perfect balance, just the right amount of heft, and whistled slightly as it cut through the air. I laid it hard against my denim-clad thigh, and it left a bright, sharp *burn* that made me bite my lip from the pleasure-pain of the sensation. Perfect. I brought it up and tapped it gently against my throat, and the smooth leather slid cool over my skin. A smile curved my mouth. Randy wasn't ready for such things now, but perhaps he would be later.

Armed with my numerous choices, I pressed the button that would call Benjamin back. He returned, tallied up my purchases, and promised they would be delivered promptly and discreetly to the family home. No one would think anything amiss about a couple of plain packages with Solomon and Sons, a well-known clothier, and I'd take it home with me on the jet.

Discretion, and quality, had turned what had started out as a hidden side business into a very lucrative one; I knew that Julian often recommended Benjamin to his students and clientele. The elder Solomon, whom had fitted me for suits as a young boy, was most likely spinning in his grave at what his son was now doing; I remembered him as a rather grim and puritanical sort of fellow. I left, my credit card almost melted from the amount put onto it, but happily contemplating just how pleased Randy would be when we opened the packages together.

As I stepped out onto the street, I surreptitiously rubbed my thigh, reawakening the echoes of that sharp quick pain, and smiled.

@@@@@

I met Liz and Evan in the coffeeshop section of the bookstore, and Evan looked as if he'd caught his second wind. Liz looked as energized as always, and me, well, I felt warm and alive, my blood singing in my veins, more than half-aroused just thinking of Randy and the gifts I had for him. I truly had been looking forward to spending time with Liz, but I'd also known I wanted to visit S and S, and it had been worth the torture of Liz dragging me all about London.

"Well, what shall we do now?" I asked, glancing at my watch. "The bookstore will be closing in just a bit, I think."

Evan finished off his cappuchino, and his brown eyes twinkled. "Liz wants to go dancing."

I rubbed the back of my neck, rolled my shoulders, and tried not to sound dismayed. "Dancing?"

Liz laughed, as bright and cheerful as Christmas bells. "You do all the stuffy corporate dancing. Traditional ballroom twirling and whirling, waltzes and fox-trots and such, all so very proper, with the wives of fellow executives. Damn boring, if you ask me. I'm talking about dancing to please yourself."

She did a sinuous shimmy in her chair. Whilst I'd been at S and S, she'd changed into a funky little red dress with a low neckline and a high hem, and killer heels that made her as tall as Evan, almost as tall as myself, and had applied more makeup, with bright red lipstick. She certainly looked ready for the part, like an exotic bird with bright plumage. I'd not seen her in anything but denims or sweatclothing in so long, that I'd forgotten how striking she could be when she made the effort. And she'd very definitely made an effort. Evan and I looked rather drab in comparison.

As she'd gone to such lengths and because I could never deny Liz anything, an hour later---after getting lost more than once because she wanted to visit this one specific club one of her school mates had recommended---we pulled into a parking space in a decidedly less than reputable area of town. Evan looked a bit uneasy at leaving his car, a lovely little blue sporty number, but shrugged off his worries because Liz looked radiant and happy.

Liz threaded one arm through Evan's, and the other through mine as we approached the club. The doors were open, and very loud music pounded through them, the bass loud enough I could feel it through the pavement. People tumbled out, laughing, staggering, either drunk or high; the scent of alcohol and smoke and pot clung to everyone, almost overwhelming. I hadn't been to a club of this sort for god...years, and wondered if the volume then had been as high as it was now. Probably, though it had bothered me considerably less, then.

I stepped aside as a young man brushed up against me. He smiled up at me, showing a mouthful of braces; the thought of having anything to do with such wiring was intimidating, indeed. It was a good thing I wasn't cruising for him. I was doubly glad when I heard him retching into the gutter.

Within, it was dark, and I blinked to accustom myself to the dimness. The air was thick, and the noise, of music and voices, was like a hot blanket. I paid the boy at the door, who looked rather like he belonged in some band or another, with amazingly spiked hair which looked rather greenish in what light there was, and then Liz pulled me into the room.

Close to the entrance was a maze of little tables, some occupied, some not, most littered with bottles of beer or plastic glasses of some sort of mixed drinks. We threaded through them, and came to a slightly raised dance floor, over which spun, of all things, a mirrored ball, reflecting the shine of lights in little bright spots over the writhing mass of dancers. It was vaguely reminiscent of my disco days, and I cringed at the memory of tight trousers, hot, slick rayon shirts, and suit coats with lapels wide enough to land a plane upon. God have mercy. I stopped for a moment and watched the dancers, moving either alone, or in various permutations; the sex of one's partner didn't seem to be overly important.

Evan stepped up and yelled in my ear that he was taking Liz off to the bar, and I nodded, not bothering to answer; I doubted that he would have heard me, anyway. They disappeared into the crowd, which surged to close around them whisking them away from my sight. I watched the dancing a bit longer, and then dove into the mass of people to have a look about.

The club seemed to be an old, converted warehouse, made up of several huge interconnecting rooms, each with a bar; the largest room had two bars, one at each end wall. Neon snaked across the upper walls in bright, colorful arabesques. Industrial sized ceiling fans spun lazily, but did little to disperse the smoke, the scent of colognes and perfumes, and the sweat of too many people in too small an area. I rolled up my sleeves; in just a few moments, sweat had sheened my forehead, my upper lip, the small of my back.

I stopped to buy a beer, and had half of it down before I went into the next room, which opened out onto a terrace of sorts. A breeze snaked in over the broad shoulders of several fit, half-naked young men, cool fingers riffling through my hair, lifting my shirt at the collar. Very nice. I finished my beer, felt better, and tossed the empty bottle into a huge plastic wastebin at the side of the door.

Back into the laughing, swaying mass. I bought another beer, determined to make it last, as I didn't drink much, and had no desire to be dragged out semi-conscious by Liz and Evan. I took up a post at one of the entrances separating the second room from the first, a place I could be mostly out of the way, and yet have a good view of the dance floor and the people all about me. I liked watching people; it was seldom a boring occupation.

Most were in their twenties, fewer younger, fewer even than that older. A vast spectrum of people; het couples, gay couples of both genders, singles clearly on the prowl, looking for their next conquest, the confident, the curious, the shy. Some were here to be seen and admired; I watched as a man in drag, incredibly beautiful, and almost seven feet tall in heels and high-piled hair swept by, his/her entourage trailing worshipfully behind. As he/she turned a glance in my direction, I raised my beer slightly in a salute, and received a frosty dismissal in turn. The corner of my mouth crooked upward.

"Enjoy it whilst you can, my lovely, gravity gets all of us eventually," I murmured, admiring his/her very fine arse clad in a minuscule black leather skirt.

Next to me, on the other side of the doorway, a young man who looked scarcely seventeen, lithe and slim and blond, clad only in faded jeans, posed rather conspicuously; he was a nice bit of spare, though far too young for my tastes. I timed him; it took ten minutes to attract an erstwhile lover, and they disappeared into the general direction of the men's lavatory. I could well remember my own late teens and very early twenties; a whirl of sex and more sex, sleeping with anyone and everyone, taking and being taken as the notion and opportunity presented. Idly, I wondered if any of my old spots were still about. I thought for a moment of Colin, and smiled again to myself, a bittersweet wash of warmth curling through me.

The bass already thumped me in the chest, vibrating in my bones, and when the DJ turned it up even higher, the crowd yelled its approval and then went wild, moving and gyrating in orgiastic abandon. I caught a glimpse of Liz and Evan on the far edge of the crowd, arms raised, flushed, swaying and rubbing against one another in gleeful abandon.

Another beer, and I found myself loosening up, moving a little to the beat, though not quite ready to move out into the mass of twirling, swirling bodies. It had been *years* since I'd thrown myself willingly and enthusiastically into something like that, and I found that I didn't think I could anymore. I wasn't the same person I once was, and though Randy might tease me about my lack of spontaneity, it wasn't that far from the truth. I wasn't certain if I should be distressed by that little self-revelation, or not. I was an ordered person, who enjoyed having my life and environment calm and peaceful, and there was a difference between an ordered person and a rigid one, yes?

God, I hoped so. I had a sudden, horrifying vision of turning into my own father, a man who made steel and concrete seem as soft as butter, and it was *not* a comforting thought. Bloody hell. My only consolation was that I doubted Randy would allow me to become so rigid and single-minded. In spite of his own disciplined existence, Randy was a free spirit, and something I'd needed in my life for a very long time. When I'd met him, I'd felt years of fossilization peel away; he'd made me feel young and alive again, more willing to step out of my self-imposed rut.

A hand slid over my waist and squeezed gently, startling me; it was so noisy I hadn't heard anyone approach. I jumped slightly and turned, and was nose to nose with a man my own height. Dark hair, bright blue eyes, a wide, wicked smile. Broad shoulders and strong arms revealed to perfection by a black tank. Strong thighs and a most splendid arse enhanced by tight, faded denims. He wasn't the most handsome man in the room by far, but oh, he was very easy on the eyes.

"If you want to dance, you should, instead of hanging about here," he said. His voice was a pleasant tenor, his accent broadly Liverpudlian. He had to lean in close to shout into my ear, and his chest, warm and firm, brushed against my arm. His scent rose to me, musk and sweat and man. A drop of sweat snaked down his neck, and I had a sudden urge to lick it away.

The desire surprised me, and I blinked at him. "I'm a bit out of practice," I said.

"Bollocks," he replied with a grin. "What's to it?"

Before I could reply, he stepped before me, almost close enough for his chest to brush mine, and his hands, big and warm, fell to my hips and urged me into movement. His audacity surprised me, but surprise slipped into amusement, and then into pleasure. I fell into rhythm with him. I relaxed, and everything immediately became easier, less stilted, more fluid. I moved to the hard, heavy bass beat that pounded up through the soles of my feet and flowed around the breadth of his shoulders to rattle my very bones.

I didn't need to think, just give myself over into the mindless pleasure in movement. I had always liked feeling my body in motion, feeling muscles stretch and flex, knowing it responded so well to both will and instinct. The activity---whether running or riding or dancing or fucking---had never really been consequential; what mattered was the joy in simply moving.

His grin grew broader, friendly. A bit smug that he'd been right. "See? It's just dancing---you can't balls it up."

Dancing was scarcely what I'd call it---we just swayed to the beat with the occasional shimmy---but still, it was rather nice. The next song that came up sounded vaguely familiar, and evidently, very popular, from the collective cheer that went up. I recognized it as a song from my own adolescence---"Lady Marmalade". I suspected that the majority of the people around us had not even been born, or had been merely toddlers when it was popular, and the thought made me smile wryly.

My partner evidently took my smile as invitation. His grip tightened on me, thumbs rubbing against the hollows of my hips, fingers spreading over as much of my arse as he could, and he pressed himself closer, his groin brushing against my own. He was hard, and my own body responded automatically, willingly. He rubbed his cheek against mine; he had shaved recently, and I had not, and my late night beard rasped against his cheek.

When I didn't immediately pull back, he leaned in and pressed his mouth against the side of my neck. I felt the warm moistness of his breath, the softness of his lips, and then the scrape of his teeth against tender skin. A whole-body shudder of pleasure went through me at the sweet-sharp sensation.

I couldn't help but wonder what he tasted like, what his full mouth would feel like upon my chest, how his broad hands would touch me. How the tender skin in the curve of his spine would feel against my tongue, how his cock would rest just so in my palm, hot and slick with his juices. How he would smell in the heated fold of groin. The shudder turned into a throb deep within my belly, a feeling I knew all too well.

I desired him.

I felt his laughter more than I could hear it amidst all the noise; he could feel my cock pressing against him. His lips brushed against my ear. "You like, eh?" His hand moved from my hip for a moment, and then he pressed something into my hand. A square of crinkling plastic. From the familiar shape beneath my fingers, it was a condom. "Wanna? We can go in the back...."

His hips pushed more aggressively against mine, and it felt damn bloody wonderful. His scent was strong in my nose; I could practically taste him on the back of my tongue. I swore I could feel my body shift into high gear, feel the blood coursing hotly within my veins, and my heart pounded hard against my breastbone. My body said, oh yes, I *like* this, I remember this, I *want* this, but I took a deep breath and stepped away from him.

"No. I have someone," I said.

He blinked at me. "Is he here?"

"He's in the States," I replied.

"So? What's the problem? That's half a fucking world away. Who's to know, eh?"

I let my eyes track up his body; I looked at his strong thighs, the thick bulge beneath the denim, his broad shoulders, his full, soft mouth, and his unruly dark hair. All of a sudden, it made sense. Little wonder I'd been tempted; he looked enough like Randy that it made me ache. But no matter how much he looked like Randy, he could never be him, and Randy was the one I wanted, not some anonymous stranger. I'd waited my entire life for Randy, and I wouldn't fuck it up for momentary pleasure.

I wanted to think that I was older and wiser, now.

"I would know," I said firmly, and gave him back the condom.

He looked at me a moment, as if he simply couldn't believe I'd turned him down---clearly, few men ever had. Then he grinned crookedly at me, and disappeared into the crowd, prowling for a new partner. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, resisting the temptation to give myself a quick rub. I had seldom bothered to defer pleasure, but I knew it would go down eventually.

Turning, I almost ran into Liz, who studied me with a most peculiar intensity. Still on edge, with shadows of guilt nipping at my ankles, I felt rather churlish and not at all inclined toward the niceties of civilized conversation. "What?"

Her eyes flicked over the crowd in the direction my dance partner had disappeared, and I knew in that moment she'd observed everything, and had been waiting for my reaction. To see whether I would go off with him, or not. Be faithful, or not. My chin lifted and my eyes narrowed, and I silently dared her to say anything.

"I think I've had enough," was all she said, which surprised the hell out of me. "I'm ready to call it a night. What about you?"

"I've had more than enough," I agreed, though I was still leery of her reticence; Liz was brutally honest and frank, her tongue as sharp as any scalpel. I wondered when the other shoe would drop. "Where's Evan?"

"Probably pulling up to the curb, by now," she said. Then her dark head tilted to the side, her grey eyes far too sharp regardless of her slight alcohol-induced sway as she stood there. "Are you all right?"

I linked my arm through hers, and smiled at her, some of the tension leaching from me. "I am now."

@@@@@

Instead of driving all the way home, we decided to stay at the suite always on reserve for the family at the Ritz, a posh set of rooms I'd not visited for ages. I rather suspected that Simon saw them more frequently, bringing his various mistresses in for a bit of fun on the side. I despised him for many things, but that was one of the items close to the top of my list; Anne was a lovely woman, and didn't deserve to have him out chasing every bit of skirt he could find.

The moment the door closed behind us, Liz dropped her shopping bag holding a single change of clothing for tomorrow and kicked off her shoes. "Thank god," she breathed fervently, hopping on one foot to rub at the other. "What a pain in the arse those shoes are."

Evan flopped onto one of the sofas in an ungainly sprawl, all long arms and legs, and his red head tipped back into the cushions. He closed his eyes and sighed dramatically. "I'm knackered," he announced to no one in particular. "My head hurts."

I toed out of my shoes, suddenly very tired myself. "So take something. The business has probably made enough aspirins to reach from here to the moon several times."

"Certainly, in a moment," he replied. He rubbed his head and his short hair stood awry, much like a ginger cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way. "Can I mix that with beer?"

"Don't ask me---I'm not the doctor in the room." I walked past Liz and gave her tumbling-down hair a tug, and then danced out of the way of the kick of her retaliating foot.

"Ooh. Can we play doctor and patient again?" I didn't turn around again as I heard Evan's "oof" as Liz pounced upon him, accompanied by a spate of very unladylike giggling. I retreated to the smaller of the two suites and closed the door firmly behind me. As open as I was with Liz about my own life, I most certainly didn't want to know particulars of her sex life; she was, after all, my baby sister, no matter her age or how many letters she now had after her name.

I desperately wanted a shower, and stripped as I made my way to the bath, leaving a trail of clothing along the carpets. My nose wrinkled; I reeked of sweat, smoke, pot, and beer, my ears still rang slightly from the volume, and I felt vaguely achy.

And surly. And guilty. And randy.

I missed Randy.

The shower was decadently appointed, and I hummed happily as I adjusted the controls. Stepping beneath the almost-scalding spray, I sighed in relief as it began to soothe away the day and evening. The soap was a fine French product that smelled vaguely of lavender with silky, luxuriant suds. I'd become accustomed to someone washing my back, but I managed. The shampoo had the same scent, and I could remember years upon years ago, driving through hot, sun-baked fields of lavender during a family holiday in France. It had been long before Liz had been born; I thought I had been perhaps eight or nine. That was the holiday Simon had broken his arm in a fall from a horse, and had blamed me for it, the insufferable little prat.

After long moments, I dragged myself from beneath the spray. Rubbing myself dry, I wrapped myself in a thick terrycloth robe and brushed the taste of beer out of my mouth. I felt much better, though my reflection looked a bit tired. I ruffled my hand through my wet hair, and silver glinted in the light. I was thirty-eight, soon to be thirty-nine.

Too damn old to be out in clubs. I wasn't twenty-one anymore, hopping from club to bar, fucking about like a tomcat with an almost frantic intensity, seizing as much sensation, as much experience, as I could.

Thank god.

My reflection smiled at me. Thank god I was over that. Thank god I had what I'd been looking for most of my life. I would always look at others; that was simply part and parcel of being a man; it was our nature to look. I might think of how nice someone might be in my bed, might entertain the odd thought of seduction, but I didn't think it would go any further than that. Desire was one thing; to act upon it something entirely different.

I might miss the chase, miss the variety, but honestly, I'd had enough of that for any four men. I'd been there, done that, worn out the tee shirt. I was settled now, and strangely enough, happier than I'd ever been. If that was what thirty-eight meant, I was very glad to be there. I wouldn't trade it for the vapid emptiness of twenty-one; there was no comparison.

Tightening the belt to my robe, I wandered back into the bedroom, picking up my clothes as I went. I had nothing to wear tomorrow, and they stank; I couldn't bear the thought of wearing them again in their present condition. Back out into the main area, I saw that Liz and Evan had retired already. I rang up the main desk and ordered four bottles of mineral water and a request for someone to pick up clothes for cleaning.

I knocked lightly on Liz' door. "Evan. Do you want your clothing pressed?"

I heard muffled sounds, decided they were too occupied to answer, and turned away. Let him wear his smelly things, then, I decided. The door opened a bit, and various articles of clothing pelted me on the back before the door slammed again. With a chuckle, I picked them up and added them to my own.

When room service arrived, I gave them the clothing, and received a promise they'd be ready by ten, which was fine by me; I felt as if I would sleep in with no difficulty. I took the tray of mineral waters, tipped the young man an outrageous amount, and put the ice bucket filled with bottles on the table before the sofa. I had one bottle down and half of another one when Liz' door opened, and she stepped out, wrapped toga-like in a sheet, her dark hair down and mussed.

I saluted her with my bottle. "You look like a debauched Vestal Virgin," I said.

She frowned at me, slung a corner of the sheet over her shoulder and shuffled over. I opened another bottle of water and handed it to her. "You couldn't say I looked like Venus, could you?"

"Where would be the entertainment value in that?"

She rubbed her eye, and smeared mascara. I thought about telling her, but decided not to do so. I found the half-raccoon look rather amusing.

"I'm going to feel terrible in the morning," she said, and took a long drink of water.

"It's already morning," I pointed out. "Besides, you're not that drunk."

"Well, no, but I'm not accustomed to any alcohol, and then all that dancing...." She paused, and regarded me sharply. "I'm glad to see you're not unremittingly stupid."

Ah. There it was, the sound of the other shoe dropping. I'd been waiting, wondering when it would. "Not all the time, no," I replied with some asperity.

"For a moment, I thought you were going to fuck it up," she said candidly. "I like Randy. He's been good for you. He strikes me as a nice, decent fellow. He deserves someone who will treat him properly. Someone who will be faithful, and Pierson men have a dismaying tendency to stray---I've seen far too much of it."

I frowned down at her; truth or not, that stung. "I have always been faithful in a committed relationship. I never cheated on Nicole. Not ever."

She was unfazed by my expression. "I never said you did. You never told Mother the real reason you divorced Nicole---some shit about 'irreconcilable differences'---but I know it was because she had an affair and you couldn't forgive her. It's an ironic turn of the tables, really."

I let that go; it was old news. "I wasn't unfaithful to Randy. I merely danced with the man."

Liz ran a hand through her hair. "I know. I saw. But you wanted more, didn't you?"

"I'm not dead," I said scornfully. "I'll always look, frequently want, but I won't take. I know I've not the best track record, but give me a little credit for not wanting to bugger up the best thing I've ever had."

Surprisingly, Liz laughed. "I guess that perhaps you've finally grown up."

The corner of my mouth quirked upward. "Perhaps I have."

She raised her bottle of water in a toast. "Here's to Mikey finally becoming an adult."

"Cheers," I said, clinking my bottle to hers, then dumping the remainder of the icy water over her head.

Her shrieks were shrill, but most gratifying.

@@@@@

"R and D. Taylor."

The voice on the other end of the telephone was deep, crisp, professional, vaguely distant, as if the owner's mind was on a hundred different things; it most likely was. It wasn't the voice I knew so well, the one that made desire tighten in my groin, the slow-as-molasses one I so loved, the one I now needed to hear.

"Well, hullo, Dr. Taylor," I said with a smile.

There was a pause, and I could almost feel him changing mental gears. "Hey. Hey, darlin'."

Ah. *That* voice I knew and loved. I could hear the smile in his voice. "Still busy at work, I see."

He laughed, and I closed my eyes and let it wash warmly over me. "Still, yeah. Hang on a sec, wouldja?"

I heard the phone clank against something hard, probably his desk, then in a few seconds, I heard a door close firmly in the background. His footsteps echoed weirdly over the phone line, and then a little creak as he settled into his chair, and he picked up the phone. "'M back."

"So I hear," I replied. "What are you still doing at work?"

Randy gave an aggrieved sigh, and I could picture him running a hand through his short dark hair, and over the nape of his neck; I'd seen him do it countless times when frustrated. "Anderson, shitfuck that he is, instead of *asking* for help, like any *normal* person who didn't know the system well, managed to lose a *significant* amount of data. The asshole. So we're trying to recover it. Mostly got it back now."

I took a sip of water, and wondered idly if I really wanted a fruit plate brought up, or if I was just tired, and not as hungry as I thought. "I was under the impression that the system was fairly idiot-proof. Paul assured me that it was as he updated it."

"Well, yeah, mostly. You gotta be a real genius to mess it up, and Anderson qualifies. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was an industrial spy." I could hear the tightly-reined frustration, but then he drew a deep breath and let it out.

I settled the pillows into a more comfortable position behind my head. "Do you think he might be?" Industrial espionage was a very real threat in the cut-throat world of business; I'd dealt with several instances over the course of my career, and it had never ended well for any party concerned.

"Nah. It was just stupidity. I've known Anderson for awhile now. No one would be that desperate they'd need to hire him." Randy chuckled, and I felt the beginning tension in my shoulders ease a bit. Randy knew his department well, and I trusted his judgment regarding the people he worked with on a daily basis.