Ash was late.
Well. No. He was about to be late. Would be late, if things continued the way they had been going. He was going to be late, and worse, he was going to be late for Mr. Prince. Ash was not the kind of person that arrived to things after the agreed upon time. Even if he were, Mr. Prince was not someone who would forgive it.
He’d left in plenty of time. He should have been 10 minutes early. Would have been, if things had gone according to plans. Would still have been, if things only went a little bit wrong. And because something always went a little bit wrong, Ash always allowed time for it. The drive across town wasn’t far, and even at this time of day it shouldn’t have taken more than 15 minutes. But then there was an accident on the freeway. And construction on the side street Ash pulled onto, to avoid the bumper-to-bumper gridlock. Then he hit every red light possible. It was as if everything conspired such that he pulled into Mr. Prince’s driveway exactly 5 minutes before he was supposed to be at the door.
Late.
When he finally did put the car into park and climb out–already on edge, rushing, unsure of himself, and trying to smooth the wrinkles out of his grey slacks–there was a strange car parked in Mr. Prince’s driveway. One Ash had never seen before. It certainly didn’t belong to any of the gardening staff. Nor was it any kind of delivery vehicle Ash had ever seen.
It wasn’t a complete beater. Though the hatchback was at least 20 years old, and was painted an off-putting shade of orange, and there was a spider-web crack across the windshield, it looked well-maintained enough. Clean, inside and out. Just old. And, Ash thought, the kind of strange people called “quirky.”
He eyed it distractedly as he locked his own functional, nearly-paid-off Toyota hybrid which he’d parked politely off to the side, out of the way of anyone that might have more important business with Mr. Prince. Whoever owned the orange vehicle had a sense of humor that matched the car. Several stickers had been taped to the inside of the back window, one declaring “my other car is a fairly nice mid-size sedan.” Another exclaimed “are you crazy or your pants too tight!”
Ash grinned, shook his head, nearly forgetting for a second that he was in a hurry. Wished, fleetingly, he’d ever been the kind of person that could plaster stickers like that on something he drove. Wished he’d driven something that would have warranted them. But he now had exactly two minutes, which was absolutely unacceptable, so he quickly dismissed the orange car and rushed up the drive. It was Mr. Prince’s business, and not something Ash needed to worry about, unless he was told it was.
He trotted up the remainder of the way to the house, then stopped, composed himself, caught his breath and straightened his clothes. Rapped lightly at the door with his knuckles.
There were noises from inside the house, footsteps, then the handle turned and the door swung inward.
Ash froze. Blinked.
The person standing on the other side decidedly was not Mr. Prince. He also decidedly was in state of artistic disarray, that had been clearly created by means it took very little imagination for Ash to infer. His white shirt, thin enough to read through, hung half off his shoulders, showing one strap of a purple and black tank top. His jeans—tight didn’t come close to describing the fit—ended by displaying bare feet with purple toenails that glittered distractingly.
Blushing furiously, Ash pried his eyes away from the young man’s body. Stared into the house, for a minute, then realized that was probably equally rude. Shifted his gaze to the stranger’s face, and determinedly left it there.
“You’re not the pizza boy.” His voice was richer than Ash would have expected. Light, but somehow deep, and he held the words in his mouth for a minute before giving them to the world. The sun glinted off the lenses of his glasses, hiding his eyes.
Ash knew he was blushing darker. Dark enough that even the stranger would be able to see it. He had to look away. First into the house, then down, at the boy’s bare feet on the tile of the entryway.
The stranger did see it. Ash knew, because he could hear the laugh, soft as it was. The young man liked the blush. That he’d caused it.
Well. He could like it all he wanted. Ash had an appointment. He took a breath, quietly. Set his shoulders and brought his eyes up. The stranger adjusted his glasses, and the reflection passed, allowing Ash to meet the younger man’s incredibly striking hazel eyes. Meet them, and hold the stare.
It was the stranger’s turn to look away.
Ash smiled.
There was motion further inside the house, a flash of red shirt in the cool gloom of the foyer. Ash’s body pulled itself to attention. Straightened his back, put his heels together. Moved his hands behind him, opening his chest.
The younger man made a sound, and Ash very much wanted to look at him, to see what it meant, but then Mr. Prince was in the doorway as well, and the stranger didn’t matter. Ash didn’t have to check his watch to confirm he was on time, because Prince gave him the slight nod that meant he was pleased. Ash felt his throat tighten. Tried to keep his breathing steady, his posture perfect.
The boy had turned himself toward Prince as well, gracefully and fluidly, like a flower twisting toward the sun. Then, just as gracefully, he glided across the tile, his bare feet soundless, and lay a hand on Prince’s arm, like it belonged there. Inclined his head just a little. Waited, just like Ash, but with an easy sensuousness Ash could never imagine displaying anywhere, much less near his investor.
Mr. Prince allowed the contact for a minute, then moved his arm out from under the hand. Set his own palm on the younger man’s shoulder, just where the curve of his neck began. Ash’s throat constricted further at the beauty of it. At how strong the hand looked, how delicate the body under it.
“Come in, Ash.” Prince said, with a hint of a laugh in his brown leather voice. Then he tightened his fingers slightly, and the boy made a different sound. “You shouldn’t have kept him waiting on the porch. I told you I was expecting someone.”
The boy tossed his hair back, still smiling without a hint of chagrin. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
He didn’t sound particularly sorry. He did have a way with the title though, and Ash felt a new sensation in his throat. He ignored it. Pushed it down, and away, and followed the two of them back into Mr. Prince’s home.
They didn’t go to the study. Ash wasn’t disappointed, of course, because he hadn’t been expecting they would. He’d been asked to come over to discuss the timeline for the re-paving of the shop’s parking lot. Work, before fun, he reminded himself. Which explained the stranger. There was no reason Mr. Prince should be expected to forgo enjoyment, just because he had to work with Ash.
Prince, steering the young man, and leading Ash, went to one of the back rooms. The one with large, french doors that led onto the patio, that Ash thought of as a sunroom. They were closed, now, but the late afternoon light cascaded through and lit the room gold. As he followed them, Ash noticed that the stranger’s hair had been dusted with some kind of fine glitter, that caught and fragmented the light.
The hair really was shocking. Half-shaved, half long, loose curls, dyed a deep pink in the front, flat black in the back. It fell over the collar of the loose white shirt, brushed what appeared to be tattoos on his shoulders and down his back. It was hair practically designed to have hands sunk in it, to be tugged at, to be used to direct his actions.
Ash found himself standing straighter, walking more carefully, holding himself composed and perfect. The car obviously belonged to him, whoever he was. The car, the stickers, matched everything about the person, and combined, they told Ash everything he needed to know.
Except for what Mr. Prince was doing with him. Was doing with him, outside of what he obviously was doing with him.
But none of that was his business.
Mr. Prince directed the younger man to one side, and sat down. Looked up at Ash, wearing that slight, superior smile that made Ash want, at once, to throw himself down to his knees, and to say something sharply sarcastic that would provoke the smile into retaliation. But he sank his teeth into the inside of his lip. Arranged himself properly. Watched Mr. Prince.
Prince nodded. Ash didn’t let his attention waver.
The smile grew. “Ash, this is Sparrow.” Prince indicated the younger man with a slight flick of his fingers. The stranger, Sparrow, had settled himself comfortably on the loveseat, reclining easily against the arm, and folding one leg over the other. Watching them both, Ash realized.
“Sparrow Cattaneo, Ash Marjan.”
Ash made himself turn, smile. Debated offering his hand, and decided instead on a half-nod, a brief moment of eye contact. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cattaneo.”
The glittering eyes widened a little, and the smile brightened, innocently. “Oh, Sparrow, please.”
Ash nodded. Shot a look at Mr. Prince, but his investor offered no indication of which form of address would be correct. Well, if that’s how things were, Ash would follow his instincts.
“Ash owns Midsummer Books,” Prince continued, his gaze drifting between Ash himself and the younger man, now half-laying over the overstuffed arm of the couch. “And I have invested a great deal in him. And his business.”
Mr. Cattaneo raised an eyebrow, and flicked his attention off Prince and to Ash with a little more appreciation. And, Ash thought, a little more interest.
Ash continued to stand, feeling a little stranded, a little on trial, before the two sitting figures. He turned just a little toward the full-length couch, saw Mr. Prince’s index finger lift. Stopped. Squared himself again. Told himself to relax. This young man was clearly just another of Mr. Prince’s admirers, here to occupy the man while they worked. That was fine. It didn’t bother Ash at all.
He arranged himself a little more carefully straight. Mr. Cattaneo seemed to lounge even deeper into the loveseat. Mr. Prince, still looking between the two of them, wore a faint, amused smile.
“You brought the paperwork?” Prince turned all his dizzying attention back to Ash. Who blinked. Swallowed.
“I–” he started, his stomach sinking. He’d been in a hurry. Running late. Forgot completely to pick up the paperwork that was the reason for this meeting, in the first place. Mr. Prince wouldn’t want to hear the reasons he’d made a mistake. What mattered was that he had. Ash clasped his hands more tightly together behind his back. “Yes. I left my folders in the car. I–”
A very soft snort came from the left side of the room. Ash’s hands went cold, and his face felt warm.
Prince raised an eyebrow. “In the car.”
Ducking his head, letting his hair fall over his face, Ash studied the carpet at Mr. Prince’s feet. “I’m sorry. I was running a little late, and I wanted to get here on time, and–” He couldn’t help it. He knew he shouldn’t, but something about Prince’s look, the clear disapproval of it, being so obviously and clearly in the wrong in front of this stranger pulled the excuses out of him.
This time, the sound was a light chuckle. Ash’s embarrassment went from hot to cold. He jerked his head up, and only barely managed to keep from glaring at the body that had made itself so very at home in his investor’s space. Did manage, however. Made his expression more pleasing, and gave it back to Mr. Prince.
But Prince was looking at Mr. Cattaneo. Looking, in a way that made Ash’s breath catch.
“Sparrow.” It wasn’t threatening. Quite. But it was a warning that there might be a threat. The boy obviously heard it as well, because he became even more boneless, his fingers languidly caressing the tufting of the armrest. “Ash is my guest.”
“Of course, Sir.” The words trailed like flower petals in water, sweet, and lovely, and not entirely respectful. “I’m sorry.”
He did not, Ash thought, sound sorry.
“Your apology should be directed to him.” Mr. Prince spoke now in his velvet-over-steel tones.
A shiver ran along Ash’s spine. Ran along Mr. Cattaneo’s too, it appeared, because he sat up a little. Didn’t quite straighten himself, but turned the position into a request for attention, rather than a demand.
And then the young man was looking at Ash. His hair had fallen into his face, and his striking eyes peered through it like a curtain. He’d caught his lip between his teeth. “I’m very sorry, Ash, for being impolite. I’d be pleased to make it up to you, if you want.”
Something tightened around Ash’s windpipe, and he choked. Tried to take a breath and swallow at the same time, and did both badly. Lost himself in the fit of coughing. Bent double with it, trying desperately to manage, to force his body to obey him and stop making him look even worse than he already had.
It took far too long. When he managed to get his breath back, get himself under control, he straightened up and put his eyes on Prince. Counted his breaths carefully, hoping his face wasn’t too red, that his eyes hadn’t watered too badly. Decided this Sparrow Cattaneo, regardless of what he was to his investor, was not someone Ash cared to spend a great deal of time around. But today, it couldn’t be helped.
“The paperwork?” Mr. Prince’s voice had moved much more into steel than velvet, and Ash winced. Jerked himself even straighter.
“Yes. Sir.” He dropped his shoulders. Let the tension flow down his arms, through his wrists, to his hands, and away. Pointed himself directly at Prince, not quite shutting Cattaneo out, but certainly not including him. Angled his body in a half bow, head down, eyes up. Held it. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Prince flicked his fingers upward. Made a sound of assent.
Ash dropped his eyes, deepened the bow. Held it as well, for just a moment. Then straightened, turned briskly, and walked quickly out of the room.
He was nearly through the door when he heard Mr. Prince speak, his words low, warm, and not for Ash’s ears.
“You might do better learning from him than flirting with him, boy.”
His cheeks hot, Ash rushed out of the house, then fled to his car.
The folders were on the front seat where he left them, but Ash spent a few minutes at the car anyway. He wasn’t at all upset that Mr. Prince had company. Not even the kind of company that Mr. Cattaneo provided. Because it was obvious what kind it was. Regardless, that wasn’t a problem at all. Mr. Prince could, and should, indulge himself with whomever he wanted.
The problem was that Cattaneo was. Well. Ash grit his teeth against the thought. Mr. Cattaneo was sloppy. From his posture, to the way he reacted to Mr. Prince, he thought he could get by on his looks, and whatever other skills he brought to the table. And while Ash was sure those skills were equally as impressive as the looks, it bothered him, to see Mr. Prince’s needs attended to by someone so unpolished.
But. It wasn’t Ash’s business. It didn’t concern him in any way. He was here to discuss the shop this time. Other times, he was here for Mr. Prince’s other desires. None of that had anything to do with the young man currently reclining on Prince’s couch. Currently stretching his body in languid patterns, and biting his lips distractingly.
That, also, was not Ash’s business.
He gathered the folders together, tucked them under his arm, and returned to the house.
The permission to enter on his return had been clear, so Ash let himself in, and walked quietly to the room he’d run from. He could hear sounds of movement, inside. Muffled conversation. Laughter. They were enjoying themselves. He rounded the corner slowly.
Prince was still seated in the chair near the window. The late afternoon light washed over him, making his dark skin glow. He looked like he was lit from within. Like a fire, banked. The potential to be dangerous, but now simply comfortable. And Mr. Cattaneo was in his lap.
He didn’t look languid and relaxed, now. Ash could only see the side of his face, given the way he was arranged, but his cheeks were flushed, his mouth a little open. The collared shirt had fallen off his shoulders, down his back. Pooled around his wrists, tangled them together where his arms hung at his sides, just slightly behind him. The tight tank top underneath it clung to his body. Showed how slim he was. Highlighted the muscles of his upper arms. His back was straight, his head tipped back, chin up. Ash watched his throat work. Prince’s dark eyes, hooded and deep, rested on the younger man’s face. Studied him, with that wonderful, terrifying intensity that Ash knew so very intimately.
As Ash stood there, unable to move forward, equally unable to step away, the boy’s back arched, and he made a small, desperate sound. Ash’s blood pounded in his ears. He should go–this wasn’t–it didn’t have anything to do with–he shouldn’t just stand here–
One of Mr. Prince’s hands was on Cattaneo’s shoulder, holding him in place. Holding him upright, Ash realized, as the slighter man swayed against it. The other hand was–
Ash bit into his lip hard enough to make his eyes water.
Cattaneo moaned, and his back arched farther.
The constriction in Ash’s throat was back. Was tighter. He could feel his entire body strung tight, his nerves singing.
The muscles in Mr. Prince’s arm shifted. Ash could see the shadow of their shape, through the red fabric of the shirt. The sounds the boy made slid higher.
A sound came out of Ash, as well.
Prince’s head came up. He looked directly into Ash’s eyes, and smiled. His teeth were sharp, and the smile was sharper. Ash flinched. Ducked his head.
“Come here.” Just steel, no velvet.
Ash’s body knew what to do. It brought him toward the seated figures. The man, his attention ice cold and sharp. The boy, so lost in his own pleasure he didn’t seem aware that Ash had joined them. He did notice when Mr. Prince took his hand away from– When he motioned toward Ash with his index finger. Indicated where he wanted Ash to be.
Ash took himself to his knees beside the chair. Kept his head up, eyes wide, unable to imagine looking anywhere else. Mr. Cattaneo’s glasses had slid down his nose. He’d made an undignified sound when Prince stopped– When Prince turned his attention to Ash, and now he looked down over the tops of the oval frames with a smile. Didn’t arranged his shirt, nor make to pull himself back together. Did push his glasses back into place, and give Ash a wicked grin, then lean in, and kiss Mr. Prince full on the mouth.
Ash gasped, aloud. First at the shock of the familiarity, then at the overwhelming beauty of it. The gasp turned into an entirely different sound as Prince let the kiss continue. And continue. Continued to change into something deeper, and more raw as Prince moved his hand from the boy’s shoulder to his hair, tugging his head back with it, to hold Sparrow’s mouth to his, in just the way he wanted.
Ash breathed in. Held it. Breathed out. Breathed in. Held it. Straightened his back. Arranged his arms and shoulders. His hips. He was not as beautiful as the man in Prince’s lap, but that didn’t mean he shouldn’t do the best with what he had. It was only polite, to show himself at his best. He was glad. For Mr. Prince’s pleasure, and that he was being allowed to be present for it.
The kiss did end, eventually, and Mr. Prince leaned back, reclining comfortably. Mr. Cattaneo arranged himself comfortably as well, his body curled around Prince’s, his head on his chest. It was so lovely that for a moment Ash couldn’t breathe.
And then, like the flip of a switch, Mr. Prince was all business. “You have the quotes from the paving companies?” he asked, as though a beautiful young man weren’t running his fingers gently over the row of buttons down the front of his shirt. “I had hoped to find a more competitive offer than the first you showed me.”
Ash blinked. Started. Swallowed hard. “Oh. Yes. I.” Stopped. Inhaled, and collected himself. Picked up the folders from where they’d fallen to the floor. “Yes. I reached out to three other companies. Their prices were much better, as you’ll see.” He fished a page out, started to hold it out. Wasn’t sure where to put it, around Cattaneo’s body.
The young man was wearing some kind of cologne. Rich smelling. Deep. Spice. Something at the very edge of too sweet. It blended well with the scent of Mr. Prince, and of his home.
Ash blinked. Held the page up, within Prince’s line of sight. Out of the way of–
Mr. Prince leaned forward, frowning just a little as he focused. “Yes, that looks a great deal more reasonable. I trust you to select the best, of them. Now, the dates you had chosen are–”
In his lap, the boy shifted, and Mr. Prince gave him a sharp look. But his words for Ash stayed light. “The dates look like they should work well enough. The other shops will have to be informed.”
Mr. Cattaneo’s fingers had found their way back to the buttons of Mr. Prince’s shirt. Ash’s attention pulled between the paper in his hand, and what those fingers were doing. Steadied himself where he knelt, and tried to put his mind back on track. “Yes, Sir. I’ve already reached out to most of them, and planned to follow up on Monday.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Cattaneo’s smile turn a little mocking. Ash flushed, despite himself. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Done everything right, in point of fact. He was being respectful, professional, and–
Mr. Cattaneo had begun to undo the buttons on Prince’s shirt.
The paper Ash held had begun to shiver, as the same motion moved through Ash’s body. Prince looked him over, raised an eyebrow. Mr. Cattaneo moved on to the next button. His mouth quirking into a half-smile, Prince put his hand back between Mr. Cattaneo’s legs. Ash’s face felt even hotter. He didn’t let his eyes drift from his investor’s face. Even though the white of Mr. Prince’s undershirt was now visible, as his deep red shirt parted when his chest expanded as he breathed. It was none of Ash’s business. So he didn’t pay attention to it.
Another button slipped free. Mr. Cattaneo’s face went focused, then soft. He let his breath out slowly, between his teeth. Prince’s arm twitched. The boy in his lap jerked, yelped, his soft expression turning to hurt, then betrayal. Something flooded into Ash’s mouth that tasted a great deal like pleasure. He straightened his back, and stiffened the arm holding the document up for his investor’s perusal.
Prince’s hand left Mr. Cattaneo’s body. The boy made another sound, and again, Ash tasted desire. Couldn’t help it, looked away from Mr. Prince. Looked up at the form that was no longer nearly as languid.
Sparrow’s mouth was open, slightly. The flush had faded, leaving just the tan of his skin. He’d shaken his hair back, out of his face, and opened his eyes wide. He looked at Mr. Prince with– Ash swallowed, hard. The desire, the need in the young man’s face was so much. So powerful. He let it show, that he put it all on the surface, with no masks. He gave Prince everything.
Ash could see, now. What Mr. Prince found in someone so rough. Why Mr. Cattaneo was in his lap, and Ash was on the floor.
He must have shown it on his own face. What he’d realized. Understood. Mr. Prince chuckled, the brown leather sound curling around Ash. Warming him, and making his heartbeat grow louder in his ears. He looked back up at Prince, at the white triangle of undershirt, bordered by red. Then the rest of the way, to the deep brown eyes. And it was his turn to show Prince everything. To put it all in his eyes, and on his lips, and give it to the older man like a gift.
Prince’s hand left Mr. Cattaneo again. Tugged the paper Ash still held out of his hands. Set it on the side table with precise movements. Then flicked a finger upward. Dragged Ash to his feet along with it.
He’d nearly forgotten Cattaneo, in being present. In giving himself, his desire, to Prince. But when he’d stood up, the man in the chair shifted. Took the boy by his waist, and lifted him bodily off his lap. Stood him on his feet, then shoved him gently, propelling him toward Ash. It must have caught Mr. Cattaneo off guard, because he lost his balance, and fell. Ash reached out reflexively, caught the slighter man, wrapping his arms around his torso. To steady him.
Sparrow’s body was light. Angular. He had points much like Cat did, but Sparrow moved like dancing. Turned his edges into curves in the way he held himself. In the way he was, currently, letting Ash hold him.
“Occupy him,” Mr. Prince said, the laugh still in his voice. He reached down and picked up the stack of files, topped them with the loose paper he’d set aside. Gave the whole thing his complete attention.
How am I supposed to do that? Ash thought, helplessly. But Sparrow had wriggled around against Ash’s chest, and was smiling up into his face.
“Yes, Sir,” Sparrow answered, saving Ash from finding words. He was laughing too, his mouth turned up at the corners in a smile that wasn’t entirely pleasant.
Ash found he didn’t entirely remember how to breathe.
“So.” The body in Ash’s arms moved again, and he looked down. Found Mr. Cattaneo’s large, bright eyes. His glasses had slipped again, and over the top of them those eyes were innocently wide. Unbelievably innocent, in fact. “Do you believe in love at first sight? Or does he have to throw me at you again?”
Ash couldn’t help it. The terrible line, combined with the butter-wouldn’t-melt expression was too much. He broke down. Laughed. Laughed, and tightened his arms around the slim body, pulling it against his chest.
Then realized what he’d done, and froze.
Mr. Cattaneo didn’t. He wriggled again, settling himself more comfortably in Ash’s embrace. Put his hands on Ash’s hips, and grinned, his eyes still absolutely guileless. “I guess that’s a yes.”
“You just want him to throw you around again.” Ash couldn’t believe he’d said it aloud. Winced.
But the young man just laughed. “Obviously.”
He had kept himself firmly against Ash, their bodies pressed together from hip to knee. Which was. Becoming a problem. Ash started to shift, to put a little distance between them, and Mr. Cattaneo’s eyes flashed concern. Darted downward, toward the place the two of them touched. Ash stopped. Flattering as it was, he wasn’t being held this tightly because the young man wanted his contact. Something was–
Ah. His belt was unbuckled, and his fly half-unzipped, leaving his pants loose and slipping off his hips.
Oh.
Ash blushed. Again.
This time, Sparrow didn’t laugh.
Ash wrapped an arm around the boy’s waist, and held him in place. Looked up, carefully, to see what Mr. Prince thought about all this. Thankfully, his attention was on the papers, and while he looked at them over the top of the page when they fell silent, he simply quirked a half smile, and returned his attention to the document.
Ash caught Sparrow’s eye. Held it. Shot a look downward again, hoping to telegraph his message. As he did, Sparrow twisted a little, and his tank top rode up, exposing a rather wide swatch of bare skin. Bare skin that continued below the waistband of his jeans. Bare skin that was the same warm, lightly tanned color as his face, and hands. Bare skin that extended down, and–
Ash sank his teeth into his lip. Hard. Brought his eyes back up to Mr. Cattaneo’s face. Where they should have been.
But the message had been sent. Under cover of an increasingly personal embrace, the younger man adjusted himself. Made sure he would not be suddenly, accidentally, half-naked. When his belt was refastened, his shirt straightened, he looked back into Ash’s eyes and smiled. This time, it wasn’t mocking at all. It might have even been a little grateful. Ash returned it, then ducked his head, and stepped away, letting the young man stand under his own power.
He didn’t go far. Just a step or two. Enough to let him shrug his shirt back onto his shoulders, hiding the watercolor tattoos that covered them and disappeared under the tank top. To bring his hands up and push his glasses back up his nose, run his fingers through his hair. Far enough that Ash could no longer feel the heat of his body. Which was a good thing, of course. Which meant that they could both get back to paying attention to what was important, here. Mr. Prince had told them to do something, hadn’t he?
As if he’d remembered that as well, Mr. Cattaneo looked back over his shoulder at Prince. The man didn’t look up again, however, simply turned to the next page of Ash’s documentation, leaving them to their own devices.
Flipping his hair, Mr. Cattaneo turned back to Ash. His smile stretched slowly, twisted wickedly, and his eyes glittered. He reached out a hand slowly, and deliberately. Dragged the pad of his finger down Ash’s tie. His voice became a purr. “He seems busy. Maybe you can throw me around instead.”
Ash’s hand shot out. Closed around Sparrow’s upper arm. Pulled him forward, rocking him onto his toes, and nearly putting their bodies back together. Asked, low. “Why would I want to do that?”
Sparrow’s smile melted into something else. He gasped, his eyes suddenly wider, the innocent surprise now seeming genuine. He turned the forward momentum into a step, and then he really was touching Ash again. “Did you,” he said, looking up through his hair, his eyes luminous. “Have something else in mind, Mr. Marjan.”
Ash let go like he’d been burned. He hadn’t meant to do that. Shouldn’t have done it. He just–Mr. Cattaneo’s eyes–the way he’d moved–the pressure of his fingers, and the way it had pulled Ash’s tie around his throat. He put his hands behind his back. Looked away. Looked at anything but the person standing so very close in front of him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
The boy took another step forward. Put himself not so much in Ash’s space, as directly on top of him. His hand was still against Ash’s chest, still touching his tie. He took it between his fingers, and tugged at it, very gently. “Why are you, then?”
Ash took hold of him again. His wrist. Saw his fingers close around the boy’s arm like they didn’t belong to him. Sparrow’s forearm was as slim as the rest of him, and Ash’s grip circled it entirely. He couldn’t help it. The boy was asking him to. Explicitly. It really would have been rude, not to give him exactly what he asked for.
He looked into Sparrow’s eyes, and could see it. What he looked like, when Mr. Prince put him to his actual use. How he shivered, and twitched. How his face flushed, and his mouth worked, trying to form words that he would never be able to say. How he would put himself on his knees, and look like he belonged there. Look like he was made for nothing other than exactly what you were doing to him, at that moment. How he would whimper, and beg, and come back for more.
Ash flushed, and started to let go, to drop his hands to his sides, to look away. But Mr. Cattaneo’s other hand came up and held it in place. Held Ash’s gaze, as well. “You were doing so well, Mr. Marjan.”
“He was.”
Ash made an undignified sound, and jerked himself away from Mr. Cattano. He’d forgotten Mr. Prince, in the heat of the other man’s skin. In the terrible images his eyes conjured up in Ash’s mind. He’d lost track of what was important.
He pulled himself to attention so sharply it made his back ache. Folded his arms behind him, pulled as high as he was able. But strangely he couldn’t help but keep his chin up. Felt pride in his neck and spine that shouldn’t be there. That he should have been able to shed under Prince’s attention. But, for once, Ash didn’t want to do what he should. Because Mr. Cattaneo had felt so warm, in his hand. His eyes had issued such a very clear challenge.
Ash found he wasn’t interested in being the one to give way. “Thank you, Sir.” He said, his voice low, but sharp-edged. Mr. Prince once again consumed his field of view, and occupied the primary place in his focus, but Mr. Cattaneo pulled at him as well, like a nagging flash in the corner of his vision. “I hope he didn’t distract you.”
Prince chuckled, a sound that started dangerously deep in his chest. Ash’s stomach clenched, but it wasn’t around fear. He’d done nothing wrong. He had, in fact, done something pleasing. Mr. Prince had come forward in his chair, feet planted firmly in front of his body, elbows on knees. His hands were folded under his chin, and Ash could see just how tightly his fingers clasped each other. The papers had been discarded on the side table, and all of Prince’s terrible and wonderful attention had been focused on Ash, and the boy. On what they had been doing.
Mr. Prince smiled, and it slid up Ash’s spine. Came to rest like fingers on his neck. “No. He did not.”
Ash stood a little straighter. “Thank you, Sir.”
Prince’s smile widened, and Ash could see the points of his teeth, white against the dark skin of his face. “He’s been very agreeable, in fact.” He turned the sharp smile on Mr. Cattaneo.
The younger man hadn’t gone back to the couch. He had moved, changed his position and posture. The way he held himself seemed different to Ash. He’d straightened, arranged his body so that he faced Mr. Prince and Ash both. His hands were at his sides, just a little behind his back. He seemed more present than he had before, with much less of the languid, bonelessness he’d shown. Really, Ash thought, he looked far more presentable. Respectable, even.
“But.” Prince’s body had tensed, and he’d come a little further forward in his chair. Still poised and utterly, perfectly controlled, but under it, Ash could feel the man’s own desire. Wanted, terribly, to be allowed to sate it. Knew that, of course, that was Mr. Cattaneo’s job. Stood himself a little straighter.
“But,” the older man repeated, and motioned very slightly toward the man with the black and pink hair. Ash turned, gave Mr. Cattaneo his attention, as Prince requested. “But I do think there is the matter of a proper apology.” Ash fought not to bite his lip. “The one he gave was far from adequate. Don’t you agree?”
Ash’s breath caught, and he nearly started to cough again. He slowed his breathing. Got control back. “Yes, Sir,” he said, and felt his own sharp smile turn the corners of his mouth. Under Mr. Prince’s attention, the young man had bloomed. When Ash added his own, a shiver ran down his back, and his hair fell into his face. “I don’t think it was a good apology at all.”
Mr. Cattaneo didn’t quite moan. But he made a small sound that stabbed into Ash. Made him desperately curious about the other sounds Mr. Prince might have caused him to make. As Ash watched, his hands went fully behind him, and he straightened a little further. The change in posture made it clear his body was so much more beautiful than it had looked reclining. His grace was more apparent, when he held himself with restraint.
“Well, then, Ash.” Mr. Prince continued, “If you believe you deserve Sparrow to be properly sorry for his disrespect, I’m sure you know what to do.”
This time, Ash joined the young man in wordlessly articulating his desire.
Prince chuckled again. “Unless, of course, you approve of how he’s behaved.”
Ash recoiled slightly. Jerked his head in negation. “No, Sir. I do not approve of his conduct.” He could hear how stiff it sounded. How unnatural, against the gorgeous, easy shame Mr. Cattaneo wore.
“Ash.” Prince’s voice was a lash. “His bad behavior isn’t an excuse for your own.”
“No, Sir.” And then it became easy, because this was what he was supposed to do. How it was meant to be. He turned to Mr. Cattaneo. Smiled. Made his voice smooth, and liquid, and controlled. “I would like,” he said, and watched the boy’s shoulder jerk upward, the shame become more delightfully sharp. “You to apologize to me properly, Mr. Cattaneo. Now, please.”
And it wasn’t difficult at all, to wait, chin high, for Sparrow to come to his knees.
He did it beautifully. His relaxed grace and controlled composure came together perfectly into a motion that was both precise and balletic. He knelt like he moved, and he moved like he was dancing. Ash wanted to sigh, to sink back into just observing it. Letting himself be entertained. But. That wasn’t what he was for. This was, above all, for Mr. Prince.
Sparrow tried to compose himself properly, to kneel in the proper penitent posture– back straight, hand at his sides. He did his best, and even Ash could admit it looked quite pretty. Pretty, but incorrect.
He crossed his arms over his chest, shook his head, just once. Sparrow’s expression flashed into confusion. Ash drummed his fingers on his arm, let his eyes rest on the errors–the angle of his neck, the position of his arms–then looked back into the boy’s wide eyes. The confusion turned briefly into embarrassment, and then into something Ash had no name for.
Sparrow became, once again, beautiful. He adjusted. Went from nearly passable, to almost perfect. Ash rewarded him with a nod, and the joy that lit the boy’s face burned perfectly in Ash’s chest.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Marjan.” he said, and the warmth in Ash nearly caught fire with the way Sparrow managed to make those words into something real. With the way they were at once playful–so very sorry– and actually repentant. Sparrow’s eyes glittered, even as he looked up through his dark eyelashes.
Ash inclined his head. “Thank you.” Again, the flash of joy. And Ash couldn’t help it. He wondered what it would look like, if it were thrown back at him. “But please, I would very much appreciate if you could tell me what you’re apologizing for.”
Sparrow’s face crumbled delightfully, his body swaying away from perfection. But he caught himself. Came back tall and straight. He wasn’t quite smiling, but the corner of his mouth had turned up. His chin came up a little as well, and again he shook his hair back, leaving the shining eyes no longer shielded. Looking, instead, directly into Ash’s. The veiled mischief had bloomed.
When he spoke, his voice was perfectly sweet. As innocent as his eyes were not. “I’m sorry for failing to treat you with the respect you deserve, as Edwin’s guest.”
Ash stopped breathing entirely, and his body sat down on the couch without his volition, not able to stay upright in the face of…that.
Mr. Cattaneo flashed him a smile that wasn’t wicked so much as purely evil.
Mr. Prince’s face, on the other hand, was entirely unreadable. The silence in the room stretched long, and brittle. Ash felt it crawl across his scalp, into his ears as he watched Prince, the way his body had stayed at that edge of excitement, the way he clearly wanted to do something, to one of them. The way he held himself back. The heat of that restrained desire filled the room, filled Ash, even as his discomfort increased. In the corner of his eye, Mr. Cattaneo stayed on the ground, but slid backward into relaxation, toyed with his hair with one hand.
Shame on his behalf twisted in Ash’s stomach. He couldn’t help but look between the other two, the boy on the ground his body so aggressively relaxed it couldn’t really be relaxed at all, and Prince, holding himself as composed as a cat about to spring. Sparrow’s hadn’t righted himself, but he had wrapped a magenta lock around his fingers so tightly they had blanched to white.
It became too much. It was wrong. For the older man to have nowhere to vent that want. Ash bit hard into his lip. He wanted the heat. Wanted it all for himself, directed at him. Wanted the shame that was not his own, to burn away in the fire of it. He could feel his skin blister with it. And still, Sparrow hadn’t moved.
So Ash took on the responsibility. The privilege. Didn’t stand, couldn’t stand, not with his head swimming in desire, and fear, and disdain. In need. He could taste it in his mouth, and wanted more. Took himself off the couch to his knees. Crossed from couch to chair, the penitent himself now. It didn’t matter if Mr. Cattaneo was in the room because he’d showed very clearly what he wanted, where he fit in all this. Showed it to be something Ash wasn’t, entertaining as it seemed, in small doses.
Entertaining, but nothing like Ash himself. Nothing like anything Ash could ever be.
Came to his investor’s feet, and put himself there. Where he wanted to belong. It sang through him, that he had the right, that Prince wanted him there, brought every nerve to life. His body tingled, and he could taste it even more sharply. So he didn’t pull himself to stiff perfection, didn’t force himself to wear the mask he hid his fear behind. Instead he gave his desire to the other man in every line of his body. Showed him what he wanted to be allowed. Looked up, and found Mr. Prince’s eyes, dark and so very deep, then let his gaze slide downward, from lips to throat, white shirt still visible, then to hands, and finally to the toes of his polished shoes. Felt his hair fall forward, baring the back of his neck, and the sudden, fearful, wonderful stab of his own vulnerability.
There were no words he had, to explain what he was doing. Why he was doing it. Hoped, distantly, that Mr. Prince would understand.
Mr. Prince, somewhere very far above him, made the lovely, terrible sound that meant he approved. That meant Ash’s offer had been considered, weighed, and accepted. His hand brushed Ash’s hair, rested on his neck. The quick impression of nails. Again, the taste of desire, the perfect thrill of surrender. A downward pressure that told Ash he should stay exactly where he was.
The polished shoes moved, and Mr. Prince stood. Ash didn’t need to look up. He knew what to do.
“Sparrow.” Prince’s voice was sharp in the way his touch hadn’t been. Even pointed at someone else, it made Ash flinch. He could hear Prince move, hear the yelp that came from the boy. Heard other sounds, but they didn’t concern him. Focused, instead, on the grain of the carpet at his feet. The thickness of it. How soft it felt. The peach color, and how each strand twisted around itself.
More sounds, footsteps, and then Ash was alone in the room. He breathed out long and quiet. Breathed in. Held it. Breathed out. In. Hold. Out.
He couldn’t help but feel sorry for Mr. Cattaneo. For his misstep. For taking that misstep too far, and crossing the line from mischief into disobedience. In another time, when he was another person, that might have been a mistake Ash would have made. It might have been a way he would have read things wrong.
But he wasn’t that person, now.
So he stayed where he’d been put, counted his breaths, and waited. It was easy, now, to be calm. The tension was there, of course, in the tightness of his throat, and the tingling in his hands, but it was a tension he knew. One that would have its release soon enough, one way or another.
The click of heels on tile, then muffled on carpet, warned him of Prince’s return a split second before his head was wrenched up by his hair. He whined, in his throat, as he was pulled backward over Mr. Prince’s knee, his back and neck stretched far past where it was meant to go. His mouth came open just a little, around the pain. Almost formed itself into words.
Yes. Please. More.
The desire in Prince’s face burned high and hot, and his smile was no longer distantly amused. It had become hard. Predatory. He looked down at Ash, and twisted his hand, pulling the hair fisted in it brutally.
“You know what I want, now, don’t you, boy,” he said, in a question that wasn’t a question. Ash couldn’t nod. Couldn’t speak. Showed Prince, instead.
Yes, I know.
“You knew when you offered it to me. What use I was likely to find for you. What the boy left unfinished.”
Again, assent, with every line in his body.
“But you stayed here. Waiting for me, anyway.”
He did find words now, working their way through the tight line of his throat. “Yes, Sir.”
The anger broke into a laugh. Amused, and no less dangerous. “You are often too well-behaved for your own good.” And Prince shoved him away, hard enough to send Ash sprawling. “But in this case, you deserve a reward.” Ash righted himself, his hands a little sore from scraping across the carpet. Looked up at Prince. He was still smiling, but his eyes had become calculating. “And I know exactly what it will be.”
Ash breathed out hard, made his voice obey. “Thank you, Sir.”
Again the laugh. Humor and malice together. “I wonder how you’ll feel, after the fact.”
He didn’t know how to respond to that, so Ash stayed silent. Felt the delight, and fear, and pride with his entire body.
Yes. Please.
“But that is something to look forward to. Later.” He reached down, and jerked Ash to his feet by the collar of his shirt. Twisted it tightly around Ash’s throat, and shoved him forward out of the sun room. “For now.” He pulled backward hard, nearly taking Ash off his feet, and closing his throat entirely. “I don’t need to explain what’s waiting for you.”
Unable to think, unable to do anything except move with the hand that controlled his breathing, and pulled whimpers of desire out of him like an instrument, Ash moaned, fought to keep his eyes open, and let himself continue to be shoved down the hall toward the study where he did, indeed, know what was going to happen.
And couldn’t wait.