Time Out - Clare London.pdf - Clare London - SilverWitch

Time Out by Clare London

O LIVER C ARRINGTON yawned and stretched sleepily. The morning

sun glinted under the blinds on to his face, but his eyes remained shut.

They felt heavy-lidded with slumber. There was a deep lassitude in his

limbs, too, though they were as supple as they should be for a fit young

man of his age. It was as if he’d exercised just that little too fiercely the

day before, and exhausted himself – as if he’d drunk too much of the

heavy red wine that he loved too much, or if he’d been through an

extraordinarily stressful business negotiation, and maybe lost in the last,

crucial minutes. But he couldn’t remember any of those things actually

happening.

He stretched a foot carefully, but his legs felt over-warm and heavy.

He knew he was still in bed – he recognized subconsciously the smell of

fresh, clean linen and the residual aroma of expensive cologne. There was

a more delicate fragrance, too, like a new shampoo or body oil, resting on

his pillows. The bed sheet brushed softly against his skin like a caress; the

creases molded like silk around his calves. His body sank into the deep,

soft mattress in a willing surrender.

Oliver couldn’t say that this languid feeling was unpleasant; he

actually felt very relaxed. A state that was rare, for him! His days at work

were long and arduous – his private time erratic and often interrupted.

One of the city’s brightest and most charismatic executives, the youngest

son of a family famous for both its successes and its scandals, he’d lived

most of his life in the media spotlight. He was a photographer’s wet

dream – movie-star handsome, with blond hair curling on his shoulders,

piercing blue eyes and a teasing smile. He’d graced many a magazine

cover, from the financial press to teenagers’ comics. His attitude was just

fine for the reporters, too – he always seemed to find time for interviews.

Although if any of them had actually taken a little more time to read back

their notes, they’d have seen that he sidestepped a lot of the more

searching questions about his private life. All they usually came away

Time Out by Clare London

with was a memory of his charming smile, marketing news of his latest

business ventures, and the easily-quoted sound bite that Oliver Carrington

considered life too short to waste on leisure.

It was a philosophy that his lover, Marc, often tried to challenge.

Marc… Oliver thought, in his half dream. A twist of fond emotion

nagged at him through the misty sluggishness. Instinctively, his tongue

licked out at his plumped lips, chasing the memory of a sweet taste. A

trail of goose bumps ran along his outer arm, flung out on top of the

covers.

Wake up , came the soft murmur in his head. His internal clock

was usually so reliable – so effective. Wake up, and don’t be such a lazy

sonofabitch. It’s a year today, remember?

Of course, of course! I didn’t forget…. He heard his mind’s

murmur of protest. It’s a precious day to me, too. It’s just so good here, I

don’t want to wake up….

There was a soft laugh from the bed beside him, as if someone read

his thoughts. Perhaps some words had slipped out, like slow trickling

honey from his pursed mouth. He peeled open a reluctant eye, and saw

another man there.

Marc .

Marc D’Angelo, lying beside him on the bed they shared far too

rarely. He lay on his side with his head propped up on a firm hand; he was

watching Oliver awaken. He wore nothing but a loose pair of boxers, and

there was a soft, smoothed-out flush to his dark skin that showed he’d not

been long awake himself. Oliver could feel the warmth of Marc’s body on

the sheet underneath them both; the smell of his dark, tousled hair on the

pillow beside him. He couldn’t think of anything that had ever felt so

good – and he wondered how he’d ever gotten so sentimental. If the

Board of Directors of the Carrington Corporation ever saw into his private

thoughts, they’d think him a lovesick fool. No problem , he thought with

an internal smile; even if they dared to think it, they wouldn’t have the

balls to say so.

But it was true.

Time Out by Clare London

“Happy Anniversary,” Marc said with a smile. A smile of warm,

lascivious welcome – a smile that matched the pleasure in his eyes. It

wasn’t often that the two men slept and woke at the same time – both of

them had too many other commitments. Many nights they never saw each

other at all. Oliver knew the solitude of waking up in a bed that was cold

and unoccupied beside him, and all too frequently. But when they did

wake up together, he thought, it was worth every minute apart to see that

smile.

“What’s up, sexy?” Marc’s eyes looked innocent, though his

mouth quirked at one side. Oliver couldn’t think of any reason for it,

though suspicion tugged at the corners of his mind. “Did you forget what

day it is?” Oliver let his sleepy eyes range over his lover – dark where he

was blond; duskier skin and eyes, and tight muscles across his torso where

Oliver still had smooth, pale flesh. An underlying strength that Marc

never boasted about unless it was called upon, but was evident in every

confident, athletic movement of his body.

Marc smiled at him, as if he knew he was being scrutinized. The

fingers of his free hand trailed aimlessly at Oliver’s hip, the touch almost

mischievous. Oliver felt a shiver of reaction, delicious and lusty, his limbs

still tangled up in the cool fabric of the sheets. This sleepiness had its own

deep, cloying sensuality.

He yawned widely, and smiled back. “Of course I didn’t forget.

I’m fine. I’m just so – drowsy , Marc….”

“I know,” Marc murmured. He leaned forward, and swiped his

tongue softly along the line of Oliver’s jaw. “But that’s how it should be,

on the start of a special day. It’s good for you to relax.”

His mouth full of the taste of morning hunger, Oliver felt the

quickening of desire in his veins. He guessed he should be awake for that ,

right? Marc’s fingers were even more insistent now, his hand crawling

under the sheet, and sliding down between Oliver’s thighs. Something

bounced enthusiastically on Oliver’s belly – something not quite as sleepy

as the rest of his body. “Cute, Marc,” he smiled, his words still a little

slurred. “So make me relax – fuck me, why don’t you? Hard. Now !”

Time Out by Clare London

He wanted to laugh at the expression of shock he saw flicker

across Marc’s face, even though his lover tried swiftly to hide it. Even

now, after all this time, Marc found it fascinating – and sometimes

disconcerting – to hear dirty talk from him. This morning, his cheeks

flushed a little, and his tongue licked at his lips. “Always so poetic,

Oliver!” he laughed, softly. “And after all that expensive education; all

that public speaking.”

Oliver watched him carefully with a half-hooded gaze, his heart

beat speeding up because he knew he’d provoked him. He could feel

Marc’s swollen shaft, hot against his thigh through the thin fabric of his

boxers and the sheet over Oliver’s thighs. Sometimes, that was even more

exciting than nakedness.

“Ask, and you’ll receive,” he wheedled. “And I want my turn on

the bottom. It’s my turn to ask for anything, right?” He reached out his

fingers to trace at Marc’s lips. They were cooler than his own, lush with

the moisture from his tongue. “Did you forget that? ”

“No, I remember that better than you’d imagine,” Marc laughed. It

was a game they played, taking it in turns to offer whatever the other one

requested. No questions; no inhibitions; but always consensual. “You’re

a greedy lover, Oliver Carrington. You’d not forget your turn, I know.”

It never ceased to amaze him, the way Oliver behaved in bed.

Marc took as much guilty pleasure as the next man in reading the

newspaper stories about his lover – even though so few people knew how

close the two men were. The reports praised Oliver Carrington’s business

acumen, and the fashion press adored his stylists. But the gossip press

pouted for lack of salacious information, and accused him of being cool

and aloof.

Marc knew so much better. Marc knew how quickly the designer

clothes were shed at night; knew how filthy the gorgeous mouth could be

in the pursuit of lovemaking; knew the wanton way the gorgeous man

writhed under Marc’s hands in bed. But he also knew the pressures that

Oliver Carrington was under – from his work, from his staff, from his

overbearing family. Marc had seen the tears of exhaustion in Oliver’s

eyes and the dark bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. He’d held him

Time Out - Clare London.pdf

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