Cool and Sweet as Homemade Sin
by Tinnean

I stayed at the airport only long enough to make Whithers entering the terminal after Matheson. He was carrying a slim briefcase that would contain all the documents my agent would need. I nodded in grim satisfaction, put the car in gear and drove out of Washington Reagan and to the plain building that housed the Defense Security Division.

Ms. Parker looked up as I walked into the outer office, something very like relief on her face. "Mr. Palmer. Mr. Wallace wants to see you in his office."

What was going on? It took a great deal to shake my unflappable secretary, and right then she was obviously on the tightrope of anxiety. "Did you tell Broom Hilda I was out of the office?" The Boss' secretary had a reputation for witchery unrivaled in the Division. Everyone tread warily around her. She had come to the DSD when it had first been created a number of administrations ago, and rumor had it she would leave here feet first.

"You don't understand, sir. Mr. Wallace has been calling!"

"Himself?"

"Himself."

Fuck! I turned on my heel and left my office, striding through the hall to the stairwell, and then trotting up the stairs to Admin.

Mr. Wallace's secretary eyed me with dour satisfaction. "You're still among the living I see, Mr. Palmer." She nodded toward the inner door. "Go right on in. He's waiting for you." She went back to her keyboard, missing the surprised look I sent her way. The old bat was happy I wasn't dead? Had someone tampered with the cranberry juice she drank religiously? Things were getting very strange.

I closed the door quietly behind me and crossed to stand before Mr. Wallace's desk. He was on the phone and stared up at me. "Sit."

I sat, making sure I appeared at ease.

"Well, I appreciate you bringing this matter to my attention, Senator. I'll have Mr. Palmer look into it personally." His eyebrow rose and he shot a considering glance my way. "Yes, I will. My best to Elaine." He hung up the phone. "Senator Franklin seems to think very highly of you, Mr. Palmer."

My eyebrow rose to match his. "Sir?"

"He sends his best regards."

****

I had known Senator Franklin since he'd been a congressman with a penchant for pretty-faced male hustlers and an undiagnosed heart problem. I'd still been living in the apartment above the stable of rentboys when he'd had a minor heart attack while huffing and puffing and sweating over Pretty Boy's ass. The rentboy had called me in a panic, and I'd managed to deal with the whole situation without tipping off the press, inquisitive bloodsuckers that they were, that something salacious had been behind the Congressman's sudden ailment.

While he was still in Walter Reed he sent a message to me through Pretty Boy, asking me to come see him. I didn't have anything better to do, and I was kind of curious. I walked into his hospital room.

The congressman was surrounded by security, aides and hangers-on, but he waved them out of the room. He was pale-looking, and the lines around his eyes and mouth were deeply scored, remainders of the pain he had been in, as well as emotional distress.

As soon as we were alone, he spoke. "What is it going to cost me, young man?"

"Excuse me?"

"I won't beat around the bush. My constituency is extremely conservative. If it becomes common knowledge back home that I was found in a bed other than my wife’s, my name would be Mudd."

"Don’t you mean in a male hustler's bed, Congressman?" In all likelihood, they wouldn’t care all that much if he was found with another woman, but homophobia was alive and well in the heartland. He was right to worry about that. I sat down on the edge of the bed and examined the tray of food that had been left on one of those adjustable tables. "Are you done with this?" He looked bemused, then gave a curt nod. I picked up a spoon and began eating the vanilla pudding. "You're expecting me to blackmail you?" Did he have me confused with the CIA? "I hate to disappoint you, but I don't work that way, Congressman."

Besides, Pretty Boy was a friend of mine. He had a good many clients not only on the Hill, but in a number of foreign embassies as well. Pretty Boy would lose clients if the big wigs thought there was even the slightest possibility of their dealings with him coming under public scrutiny. He and the other rentboys had worked too hard to build up that clientele. I wasn't about to fuck up his plans.

"You have to want something. Everyone wants something!"

I shrugged and licked the last of the pudding off the spoon. "World peace? A beautiful woman on my arm?" To live long enough to enjoy my 401K? "Sir, what you do in your spare time is not my business." I grinned at him. "You're not my congressman." I got to my feet and offered him my hand. "Don't let this little mishap stop you from seeing Pretty Boy, if you decide you need to get laid. He's the best."

I kept an unobtrusive eye on Congressman Franklin, though. Once he was out of the hospital, he found a way to send a nice gift to the rentboy as a token of apology, a basket containing gourmet foods. There had been tins of pate and caviar, boxes of English wafers, Godiva chocolates. Pretty Boy had let me sample it.

I thought the gift showed a lot of class, which wasn’t something I expected to find in a representative of our governing body, and followed his career with interest. Later that year I read that he would be running for one of his state's seats in the Senate.

The incumbent was proving to be recalcitrant when it came to DSD funding. Feeling it never hurt to have people owing you, even if you never intended to call them on it, I saw to it that a sizable donation found its way into the congressman’s campaign coffers. Once he was elected, he became part of the appropriations committee. He remembered the donation, and made sure the DSD was apportioned a tidy sum of the budget. It wasn't as much as the CIA was getting, but then we didn't have as large a payroll. After all, it took at least ten CIA operatives to do the work of one DSD agent. We did it right the first time.

****

Mr. Wallace was regarding me steadily, but I sat in silence, and waited. "He sends his best regards." I still said nothing. The Senator would not have called just to have The Boss pass on good wishes. Mr. Wallace beat out an irritated tattoo on his desk. "It seems the problem in Boston is more insidious than we were led to believe. There is someone here in DC who is behind the whole thing."

I felt a sinking sensation in my gut although I made sure to keep my expression merely alert. "CIA, sir?"

He shook his head. "No, this one is a free lance." I let out a silent breath. "I have an agent looking into it. Howard."

I knew the man. He was promising. Not as good as Matheson would be by the time I got done with him, but a competent agent.

The Boss' lips folded into a thin line. "You are permitted to speak, you know."

I cleared my throat. "Sorry, sir. I wasn't aware you were done briefing me."

He grinned, but it was a grim expression. "No, I wasn't. Someone on Senator Franklin's staff noticed our requests for funding were increasing, while our efficiency rating was in a sharp decline."

That startled me. "I beg your pardon, sir, but according to figures I've seen, the DSD has exceeded all previous expectations."

Mr. Wallace patted his pockets as if he was searching for something. I knew that at one time he used to smoke, but no one had seen him with a cigarette in his mouth since he had been promoted to head of the DSD. Apparently this situation was so serious he was worried about it. "We have," he affirmed, "but not according to the information that's being generated by a computer we've traced to a certain building downtown." I had never seen him so quietly furious.

"Too bad I'm no longer in the field," I murmured, and he glared at me.

"Normally, I would have you deal with this. However, as you say, you are no longer in the field. This does fall under your jurisdiction."

I smiled at him. "I'll delegate, shall I, sir?"

"Whatever you do, Mr. Palmer, that's what I want in the paper work that comes across my desk, that someone, anyone, in your department handled it. I've had all the pertinent data forwarded to your computer."

"Of course, sir. Was there anything else?"

"I have word that he'll be at the reception before the ball State is sponsoring tonight." Fuck. I'd been hoping The Boss had forgotten about that. "You'll need your tux."

"Yes, sir. If there's any smoke damage to my Fumagalli, I'll rent one for the evening."

"That's right; your apartment is still a bit of a mess, isn't it? Do you have someplace to stay?"

I met his gaze blandly. "Yes, sir."

"At what hotel will you be staying, Mr. Palmer?"

"Actually, I’ll be staying with a friend, sir."

He said nothing, his eyes boring into mine. It would be worth my life to lie to The Boss, and if he asked me who the friend was, I’d have no choice but to tell him, but otherwise I had no intention of mentioning Clayton Webb. Then he nodded, as if satisfied with whatever conclusion he had come to. He indicated the meeting was concluded, and I rose to my feet, but before I could take more than a couple of steps his voice halted me. "I'd suggest an Oscar de la Renta, Mr. Palmer."

"Yes, sir. One of his more conservative models?" I hated wearing those monkey suits. The collar always cut into my neck, and the points hit my chin.

His chuckle followed me out of the office.

####

Mother had called me a couple of weeks earlier. "If you're in town, Clayton, I would appreciate it if you would accompany me to the reception that will precede the embassy ball."

"Of course, Mother," I had assured her, and now I was standing at the open bar, waiting for the bartender to finish fixing a Manhattan for her when I spotted Clark Palmer at the entrance to the buffet area. What was he doing at an embassy ball? I hoped he wasn’t on the hunt. While I was here purely as a favor to Mother, I’d have to stop him if it appeared he intended to take someone out.

He was dressed in a tuxedo that had a satin stripe running up the leg. Instead of a cummerbund, he wore a conservative black vest with satin piping along the edging, which framed his plain white shirtfront. His tie was knotted in a simple Windsor knot. I found my mouth going dry. He looked so good I wanted to take him to bed and spend a week grazing over his body.

How had this happened? How had I let Clark Palmer get to me, fuck me? Usually I preferred topping my partners. It was all extremely gentlemanly and reserved. Well, as gentlemanly and reserved as having sex with another man could be. But with Palmer it was hot and sweaty and urgent. I couldn't remember ever being so out of control. And then for me to show up in my kitchen in those pajamas he'd bought for me, that he'd asked me not to wear until he could take them off me. Had I actually wanted to see how he would react to such a blatant flinging down of the gauntlet?

He was studying the room casually, his gaze sweeping over the women in their gaily-colored gowns and the men in austere black, against which they stood out so vibrantly. He was so relaxed that I had hopes it wouldn’t be necessary to alert security that a wolf was among the sheep.

I knew the instant he became aware of my presence in the room. His hazel eyes had passed over me, and then his head whipped back in surprise. I elevated an eyebrow and raised my scotch to him, hoping it would at least appear to be a mocking toast.

He strolled across to join me at the bar. "Palmer," I said coolly, relieved that my trousers wouldn’t reveal the hardness of my cock. "Interesting to see you here tonight."

"Webb." His mouth thinned when he saw the bartender place Mother’s drink next to me. Did he think I was here with a date? "I might say the same. Club soda with a twist of lime," he told the man, who went to the other end of the bar to open a new bottle. For the moment we were alone.

"Nice looking tux, Clark."

"You think?" He was surprised? Some men wore their clothes, and some were worn by them. It was easy to see into which category Clark Palmer fell. His long body carried off the simple elegance of his tuxedo. I licked my lips, wondering how he would respond if I suggested we check the cloakroom for bugs, and then was shocked at myself for the idea.

Fortunately, Mother chose that moment to approach us. Clark saw my gaze fix beyond his shoulder. He turned to pin whoever had the temerity to join us with a frown of displeasure.

The expression froze on Clark's face as Mother raised an eyebrow. A tide of color crept up his cheeks, and I couldn't help feeling a sense of smug satisfaction at his reaction to my mother's appearance. "Mother, this is Clark Palmer."

He swallowed and ran his tongue over his lips. "Mrs. Webb. I’m honored to finally meet you."

"How kind of you to say so, Mr. Palmer, but we have met before I believe."

"Are you sure you don’t have me confused with someone else, ma’am?"

I was grinning like the Cheshire Cat, and he scowled at me.

"Mr. Palmer, I am not senile yet."

"No, ma’am." He was actually backing down from her? Her head didn’t come up much past his chin, and her eyes were level with his nipple line… I cursed myself for being distracted by thoughts of the lightly furred chest that a couple of nights before had been close enough for me to bite. "I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were," he was saying. "It’s just that in the normal course of events, I would not come into contact with a lady such as yourself. And I would certainly have remembered you."

"Give it up, Clark," I murmured, oddly reluctant to see him so discomfited. "Mother knows you ‘interviewed’ her as Matthew Robinson." Once I had figured it out, I had told her. She needed to be aware.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about, Webb." Indubitably that was DSD policy: when questioned, deny, deny, deny. "Mrs. Webb, it was nice meeting you. For the first time," he emphasized. "If you’ll excuse me, I see someone I need to speak with." I couldn't help laughing softly. Clark took his drink from the bartender and stalked away.

I was willing to bet he was assuring himself that he wasn't running away, that he was merely making a strategic retreat. "Clayton."

"Yes, Mother?" Before I could turn back to her I saw Clark actually meet a distinguished- looking gentleman, who I recognized as one of the senators who sat on the appropriations committee. I had thought he was just using that as an excuse. Was he seeing the older man? 'Seeing' as in… seeing? Good god! Where was my mind going?

"Clayton."

"I'm sorry, Mother. You were saying?"

"I wasn't saying anything, but I am about to. Are you involved with Clark Palmer?"

"He's DSD, Mother. I'm CIA. Of course I'm not involved with him," I lied barefaced. I attempted a diversion. "Do you know who that man he's speaking with is?"

She raised her eyebrow again, but turned to observe the two men. "Hmm. I believe that's Senator Franklin. Interesting that he would know Clark Palmer."

Interesting indeed.

####

I couldn’t believe I had told Clayton Webb there was someone here I actually knew. Maybe he’d brush it off, let it slide? Yeah, and maybe the CIA would finally admit that anything they did, we could do better. In other words, in my dreams.

As I crossed the floor to greet Senator Franklin, I spotted the DSD agent Mr. Wallace had told me would be tracking ‘the guy’, Daren Curtin. Howard was dressed as a waiter, and he was making his way through the crowd, retrieving used glasses, picking up empty plates, loading his tray. I caught his eye. His gaze slid off mine, and he continued his round of the room before heading to the pantry with his tray.

I knew he'd find an excuse to take a break in the enclosed area behind the embassy kitchen.

****

"Mr. Palmer, how nice to see you here."

I smiled and extended my hand. "Senator, it’s good to see you again, sir." I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling eyes boring into me. I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. Clay was watching me intently. His mother glanced from me to her son, and her expression became thoughtful. I shifted uneasily.

"If I might have a word with you?" Senator Franklin touched my arm, reclaiming my attention.

"Of course, sir."

"Let’s step outside, if you don’t mind?" The senator led the way to a side door that opened onto a terraced balcony. Right then it was empty, but I knew others who were slaves to their addiction would eventually find their way out there. We’d have to make this brief. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. "This is so politically incorrect," he sighed as he offered me one.

"No, thank you sir. I don’t indulge." I watched as he lit the cigarette and drew in a lungful of smoke. "What did you want to see me about?" Howard would wait as long as he had to, but there was no sense in blowing his cover.

"After I spoke with Trevor Wallace earlier, I discovered that someone on my staff is involved in the matter we were discussing. Diane was the one who brought me the so-called facts in the first place. She's dating this man, this Daren Curtin, and I imagine he's planting the information where she can access it." For the first time since I had met him, Senator Franklin looked his age. "She's very young; this is her first position since graduating college. Her father is a friend of mine."

Fuck. That meant she couldn't disappear.

"I'd consider firing her…" He shook his head, sighed, and looked up at the stars that were peeking through moderate cloud cover.

"If I might offer a suggestion, sir? Send her home instead."

The senator inhaled deeply on his cigarette, considering what I had said. "Tell her I need her assistance with the re-election campaign there?" I shrugged. Whatever reasoning he decided upon, as long as he got her out of town without suspecting anything was untoward. Long distance relationships were notorious for not lasting. By the time she learned Curtin was dead, there would be no reason for her to connect it with what was going on; he’d just be someone else who had an accident, or was mugged, or… something. I’d have to learn what Howard had uncovered about him. "I'll need a few days to set this in progress, but I think that will work. Excellent. Thank you, Mr. Palmer."

"Thank you, sir." I was already developing a plan of action. I’d leave a message for Matheson to contact me. He could keep an eye on the girl until she left town. "I'm glad you came to us with this information, rather than just writing us off."

"I’ve always found your Division most competent." Senator Franklin smiled tightly and crushed his cigarette underfoot. "How is Pretty Boy?" he asked. "I understand he had an accident?"

"You might say that, sir. He's in the hospital right now, but he's doing fairly well. I do believe he'll be leaving the business, however."

"This was certainly a wake-up call for him," the older man sighed. "I am glad he won't be doing that any more. It just isn't healthy. For any of us. Would you let him know that if there's anything I can do for him, I'll be more than happy? He'd need to get in touch with me through you, of course…"

"Of course, Senator. I'll pass on that message. And sir? If you ever have need for my services, please feel free to get in touch with me. You've always treated Pretty Boy decently, and as his friend, I appreciate that." We shook hands a final time and I left him on the terrace, reaching thoughtfully for another cigarette.

****

I found Howard around the back, also smoking. He saw me regarding his cigarette and grimaced. "I never smoked before I joined the DSD, sir. But you have to have an excuse to hang around an alley on a cold spring evening."

He'd have to learn never to offer excuses when one hadn't been asked for. But he wasn't my material, so that wasn't my problem. "Have you seen him yet?"

"Curtin? Yes, sir. He came in with Senator Wexler and seems to be staying close to him."

Ah. The good Senator who thought he could sit on DSD funding and not have us object. I’d spoken to him about that on my birthday. What an exceptionally memorable birthday that had been. After that very satisfactory meeting with the Senator, where I’d intimidated him to the point he had almost pissed his pants, I’d had dinner with a deputy director of the CIA, and then been sucked off by him in the men’s room. My tuxedo trousers were suddenly too tight.

I forced my mind back to the present. If Curtin was hanging with Senator Wexler, I shouldn’t have any trouble spotting him, then. "What else have you got for me?"

"Nothing, sir. Aside from what he's doing to the DSD, this guy could be Snow White. I don't even think he's screwing around on that little intern he's seeing in Senator Franklin’s office."

I gritted my teeth in frustration. "There has to be something."

Howard shook his head, dropped the butt of his smoke to the ground and crushed it under the toe of his shoe. "No, sir. Nothing. He doesn't smoke, doesn't drink, doesn't dance the hoochey-koo." He realized to whom he was speaking and hastened to apologize. "Sorry, Mr. Palmer."

"If you tell me it's because his mama don't dance and his daddy don't rock and roll, I will have to hurt you, Howard," I said sourly, and he gave a startled burst of laughter.

"Sorry, sir," he apologized again. "Like I said, Curtin's fairly clean."

"There has to be something!" I repeated impatiently. What I didn’t add was, ‘Don’t make me have to go find it!’

"Mr. Palmer, the son of a bitch has asthma, and he takes his condition seriously." I began to smile. "What is it?"

"Howard, tell me he uses an inhaler, and I'll see you get a bonus."

"Well, yes, he does…" His eyes widened. "The inhaler!"

"Find out what pharmacy he uses and when his prescription will need to be refilled." My smile grew. "Notify R&D that I want a little present whipped up for our friend. Continue keeping him under surveillance. Matheson will watch the girl. Once she’s out of the picture, we should be green across the board." This delegating thing was pretty easy once you got the hang of it. Now I'd go back inside and see if I could find Webb. And if Porter Webb was around… Well, I'd worry about that if and when it came up.

####

I caught Mother's glance and went to join her and her companion. She was a lady, and would never cause a scene, but the man hovering over her was known to be obtuse in the extreme. On top of that, his wife belonged to a number of Mother's charities.

"Senator Wexler, you know my son, Clayton, I believe? He's assistant to the undersecretary at State."

"How do you do, Senator?"

"Son. I was just telling Porter here that she doesn't look old enough to have a son working for the government."

Mother gave me a discreet sign. "She has kept herself well, hasn't she? Of course we need to make sure she doesn't overdo. She really isn't getting any younger." I gave him a saccharin smile. "Mother, are you ready to leave? I'm afraid I need to make an early night of it."

"Certainly, dear. You aren’t getting any younger, either. Just let me visit the powder room."

"Oh, surely…" The senator started to protest, but Mother was already walking gracefully across the room.

Another man joined us. "Your drink, Senator."

The senator ignored him and turned to me, disgruntled. "I'd be more than happy to see her home, young man."

The man was like a steamroller. "That's very kind of you, Senator, but I'm sure Mother wouldn't want you to go to all that trouble for her."

Abruptly, the younger man’s eyes widened. He shoved the glass into the senator’s hand and walked away, striving to appear casual. The senator didn’t even notice. I wondered about it, though, but shelved it for consideration at a later time.

"Nonsense," he insisted. "It would be my pleasure. I'll just send round for my car."

Before I could respond to that, someone came up behind me. "Senator Wexler. I wasn't expecting to see you here tonight, sir. I trust Mrs. Wexler is well?"

"She's fine," the senator responded shortly.

"I don't see her here tonight, Senator," Clark Palmer murmured, making a production of scanning the crowd that was about to enter the ballroom.

The older man actually looked ill. "She wasn't able to make an appearance tonight. She suffers from chronic migraines."

"But you just said she was fine. Tell me, Senator, have you stopped beating your wife?"

"No! I mean… Yes! That is to say…"

"Ah. I see."

The Senator’s gaze became desperate, and he searched the room frantically, spotting the man who had brought him his drink. "Oh, there's … I wanted to have a word with him … My apologies to your mother, please, Webb. Palmer." He hurried off.

Clark watched with interest as he joined the younger man. "I can't say much about the company you're keeping, Clay. He's scum if ever there was one."

"I must agree with you, Mr. Palmer." Clark actually jumped, and I had to cough hastily to conceal a laugh. Mother had rejoined us a few seconds before and had signaled me not to reveal her presence.

"You might have let me know she was there, Webb," he growled at me, aggrieved.

"Why?" Mother asked. "We were both enjoying the way you handled him. He's quite an obnoxious little man."

"You're right, Mrs. Webb. And it isn't a question of stature. I have to wonder about his constituents, who reelect him time after time."

"Clark, that isn't your problem!" The considering look he was giving Senator Wexler made me wonder if Clark Palmer had a 'little list', and if the Senator's name was on it. His expression was bland when he turned back to me, and I frowned at him. As if he'd ever obey me. "Mother, are you ready to leave?"

Disappointment flashed across Clark's face, to vanish immediately, replaced by polite inquiry. "Leaving already, Webb?"

Mother had seen it as well. "Why don't you and Mr. Palmer stay and enjoy the ball, Clayton? I called Markov from the ladies' lounge, and he should be arriving to pick me up shortly. Walk me to the cloak room, dear." She gave Clark a regal smile and looped her arm through mine.

"What are you up to, Mother?" I demanded softly as we crossed the foyer. I handed the coat check to the attendant and waited while she went to find Mother's lynx. The tawny spotted fur had been one of the first gifts my father had given her after they were married. She refused to part with it, and no one from PETA dared challenge her. The sole time someone had approached her with a paint gun, she had stared them down and walked on, unscathed.

I tipped the attendant and took the soft fur, holding it while Mother slipped her arms into the shawl-style sleeves. "Mr. Palmer is not the only one who knows how to research a subject. I had Markov look into his background, and I was intrigued by what little he was able to discover."

"Mother, Clark Palmer is DSD to the core. You know the reputation their agents have."

"I don't think he would endanger you, Clayton." She settled the coat on her shoulders with a brisk movement, then turned to face me. "I think he might even be good for you. It's been quite some time since I've seen you this caught up in anything except your work."

Markov entered the foyer. "Mrs. Webb?"

The smile she gave me was the one she'd put me to bed with when I was a child, warm, loving, accepting. She pulled my face down and kissed my cheek, whispered, "Don't take life so seriously all the time, Clayton. None of us will be getting out of this alive."

Mother walked out, with Markov at her elbow.

"She's really special; do you know that, Clay?" Palmer had come up while I stood there staring after them. "Listen, I'm calling it a night."

I nodded. "Did you bring your car? Do you want to follow me, or shall I follow you?"

His expression was inscrutable. "There must be plenty of women here who are dying for a dance with you. You don't have to leave on my account. I took a cab; I'll catch another one back to your place."

I sighed. "Clark, I neglected to give you a spare key, and I'm really getting tired of you breaking into my house. Let's go."

We retrieved our overcoats and went out into the unseasonably cold night air. I handed the chit to the parking attendant, and waited for him to bring the pale gold Lexus around. Instead of the smart remark I was anticipating from the DSD agent when he saw my car, he simply opened the passenger door, climbed in, and buckled up.

####

Clay hung up his overcoat in a closet by his front door, then extended his hand for mine. I stared at him for a minute, then handed it to him and turned quickly away so I wouldn’t reveal how that simple action had gotten to me. Had he felt the same way when I’d held his coat for him to put on the other night? The night he’d brought me champagne to celebrate my promotion, and we had wound up ma… fucking on my bed?

"I… er… I think I'll make an early night of it, Clay."

"Tomorrow is Saturday, Clark. I assume even DSD agents get the weekend off on occasion." I gave him a look. Maybe that’s how they did it in the CIA, but we were always on call. He sighed. "Have you had dinner?"

I ran a hand through my hair. "Yeah, I grabbed a bite…" Shit. When had I eaten last? "I intended to eat at the reception, but..."

"I always make sure I eat before I go to one of those things. Mother taught me that. Come on. I’ve got something in the fridge I can nuke for you."

I trailed after him into the kitchen and watched with interest while he selected a couple of Styrofoam containers from the refrigerator. Clay took a plate from a cabinet, removed the lids of the containers, and put white rice onto the plate. Then he forked a portion of the deep-fried chicken with its brown sauce, broccoli and little hot peppers over the rice. He opened the microwave and suddenly laughed, reaching into it and withdrawing a coffee mug.

Ah, fuck. That was the cup I had put in there when I'd gotten the phone call from Sweetcheeks a hundred years ago, telling me that Pretty Boy was in the hospital. To buy myself some time I pulled out one drawer after the other, apparently searching for a fork.

He keyed in the time for the General Tso’s chicken and pressed start. The machine lit up and began to hum. "Clark, I don't heat my coffee in the microwave."

I paused with my hand on the last drawer. "So you're saying someone broke into your house to nuke a cup of coffee?"

He just smiled at me. "Next time put the cup in the dishwasher, would you please?"

"Sure, Clay. I've never used your microwave…" Well, technically, I hadn’t. I’d only had time to put the coffee in there, and then I’d been out the door. "But if I ever do, I'll make sure I don't leave it there."

"I'm going to check my messages." He left the room shaking his head, but he was still smiling. "Don't eavesdrop, Clark," he called over his shoulder.

As if. The timer on the microwave dinged, and I took the plate out. The spicy chicken was not my absolute, all-time favorite Chinese dish, but it was close enough. It hadn’t been in the refrigerator that morning. Had he gotten it especially for me? I tried to stifle the pleased sensation that notion gave me.

I raised the plate to my face, inhaling the marvelous odor, then put it down. While I waited for it to cool I’d check my own messages. I pulled out my cell phone and hit the code to retrieve them.

The first message was work-related, and could be dealt with on Monday. The second was from Matheson, couched in code, letting me know his mission had been accomplished, he was back in DC, and I could reach him on his cell if I needed. Clay was still busy in the other room. I punched in Matheson’s number, and he picked up on the third ring, sounding a little breathless. "Matheson."

"Palmer. My office, tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow is Saturday, sir."

"Yeah. What’s your point?"

"No point, sir. Eight o’clock?" I heard someone protesting in the background. "Ah, Wills, no! I was gonna make you breakfast…" "I’m sorry, Theo." A hand muffled the rest of the conversation. Ah. He was with the rentboy. Interesting.

"Matheson. Make it ten." I disconnected the call. After all, I wasn’t totally heartless.

There was one message left, and I listened in growing stupefaction. "Mr. Palmer, this is Fred Herricks, manager of the apartment complex. Considering the damage done to your apartment, and the emotional upset to your neighbors, I’m afraid I’m going to have to invoke Article 26.75 subsection B in your rental agreement, regarding explosions. You’ll need to find another place of residence within thirty days. Have a nice day."

Clay walked back into the kitchen.

"He's throwing me out? He's fucking throwing me out?" I wanted to pick up the plate and heave it across the room. It would have made a satisfying splatter on the pale cabinets, but this wasn't my house. The nails of my free hand bit into my palm. If Sperling wasn’t already dead, I would fucking kill the son of a bitch!

"Clark…"

"Listen to this bullshit!" I held out the phone so Clay could hear and replayed the message.

"Actually, he’s giving you thirty days to find another apartment. Clark, you're not going to hurt him."

"I’m not?" I snarled. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to find that place?" Almost frothing at the mouth, I turned and went directly to the silverware drawer to take out a fork.

"Clark…?"

"What?" I shouted, and slammed the drawer shut with excessive force. I felt myself turn pale as pain flashed through me. I’d just caught the tip of my finger in the drawer. It began to throb with each beat of my heart. "Fuck!" I whispered. "Oh, fuck!" I stared at my index finger, knowing another quarter of an inch and the bone would have been broken. I turned the water on and stuck my hand under the faucet.

Clay was beside me, and he reached for my hand. "Let me see."

I breathed through the pain. "No, it’s okay." I couldn’t believe my stupidity, losing control like that in front of a CIA spook. All I wanted to do was turn the air blue with choice words and phrases, wanted to smash something. I was Clark Palmer, though. I never let them see me sweat. I wouldn’t let him see me sweat.

To my utter shock, Clay raised my hand to his lips. His eyes never leaving mine, he gently ran his tongue along the side of my finger, curling it over the tip and drawing it into the warm depths of his mouth. He carefully sucked the moisture from it, then placed it under the faucet again. The water had grown really cold, and I flinched as it hit my finger.

This time, he removed the drops with tiny, sipping kisses, and I could barely stifle a moan. He released me, his eyes glittering. "You ought to eat, Clark. Can you use your hand? Want me to feed you?"

Yes! I licked my lips. "No, my hand is fine." Sublimating pain was no big deal. I picked up the plate and fork, went to the breakfast nook, and began eating the spicy chicken, using my left hand.

He nodded and went to the refrigerator. "Beer or water? Or… something else?"

Something else like champagne? And take the chance of a repetition of the other night, when it had made me so horny all I’d wanted to do was fuck Clayton Webb through my mattress? "Water will be fine, thanks."

It had been a bitch of a day. The autopsy, being called into Mr. Wallace’s office. Renting this tux. Spending some time up at the hospital. The meetings with Senator Franklin and Howard. That asshole, Wexler. Finding out that Porter Webb knew I was the one who’d interviewed her to get information about her son. Jesus, I was exhausted. I wasn’t taking a chance on anything alcoholic.

He handed me a Perrier, which I sneered at behind his back, and joined me in the nook with a bottle of Spring Bock, from a Virginia brewery, by the label. Trust Clay to prefer a seasonal beer. Occasionally he’d filch a chunk of chicken or a piece of broccoli, laughing when I scowled at him. He began to talk about an ongoing exhibit, Small French Paintings, at the National Gallery of Art. "I’d enjoy going to see that again, Clark." I’d seen it twice myself, already, but I was intrigued by the idea of seeing the paintings with Clay. "If you have some free time on Sunday afternoon, perhaps?"

"I think I can arrange that." And I took a sip of the designer water.

****

It was past midnight by the time the kitchen was tidied up and the coffee maker programmed for the following morning. We went up to bed. He paused at his door and I crowded him past it and backed him onto the bed, tearing at his elegant tuxedo…

Like hell I did. That fucking monkey suit had me acting like a gentleman. As if they had a mind of their own, my fingers reached up to touch his hair, and I gave him a lopsided grin. "’Night, Clay." I walked down the hall to my own bedroom, cursing myself every step of the way.

I hung up the rented tux and went into the bathroom to shower. Once I had dried off and brushed my teeth, I went to bed and began enumerating all the things I’d have to do tomorrow, starting with briefing Matheson about his new assignment. Somewhere I’d have to find time to return home and pack up my belongings.

There was a tap on my bedroom door. "It’s open." Clay walked in, dressed in those silk pajamas.

"I saw the light under your door. Can't you sleep, Clark?"

I shrugged and sat up, propping the pillows behind my back. I folded my hands carefully behind my head, and the sheets pooled at my waist. Clay's eyes grew hot as they caressed my naked torso.

"Well, since you are my guest, and I am your host, what can I do to insure you get a good night's sleep?"

"Oh, I don't know." I swallowed my smile and gazed innocently at the ceiling. "Bring me some hot milk? Play chess? Screw?"

I expected him to leave the room in a huff. Instead he approached the bed and murmured, "The milk is downstairs, Clark. So is my chess set."

"Okay, I guess that just leaves us one option," I said a little hoarsely.

"I guess it does." Clay pulled the pillows away, and I landed flat on the mattress. Then he tossed aside the covers and sucked in his breath when he saw I was sleeping raw. In one smooth movement he was on top of me, nudging my legs apart with his knees and settling himself between them.

The silk of his pajamas was cool, but it quickly warmed to the heat of our bodies. Clay's mouth was avid on mine, and his palms stroked up the skin of my inner arms, finding and trapping my hands. My dick was hard, and he rocked against it, letting the sensuous material caress it.

"I want you, Clark." His lips were a hairsbreadth away. "Fuck the CIA. Fuck the DSD. This is personal!"

I stared into his hazel eyes. "It's always been personal, Clay." Shock rippled through me at that unanticipated confession, but before I could refute it, his mouth slammed onto mine, crushing my lips against my teeth, his tongue filling my mouth as it explored the ridged texture of the roof of my mouth, the smooth lining of my cheek.

I tightened my grip on his fingers and with an abrupt shift of weight reversed our positions. Now, although Clay was beneath me, my legs were still spread wide, straddling his hips. His cock, encased in the silk pajamas, rubbed against the sensitive skin behind my balls.

Clay swallowed my moan. His hands were tangled in my hair, and he turned my head first one way and then another as he kissed me, angling my mouth for maximum penetration.

I balanced my weight on my forearms, fisted my fingers in the placket of his pajama top and pulled, tearing the buttons free and parting the material.

"Hey!"

"I'll buy you another fucking pair!" I growled. "I’ll buy you the whole fucking store!"

He gasped as I took a nipple between my lips and began sucking strongly. His fingers pressed my head closer to his chest, the tips kneading my scalp. I'd never thought of my head as being a particularly erogenous zone, but I was falling apart under his ministrations, and those needy sounds he was making as I suckled him drove me insane.

Frantically I tore at his pajama bottoms, ripping them, desperate to get them out of the way, and I lined up our cocks.

The relief as slick, hot flesh slid together was only momentary. I needed more. I wanted to give Clay more. Before I could do anything though, Clay had both hands wrapped around our cocks, imprisoning them. I thrust strongly into his snug grip, oozing pre come.

I wedged my hand between us and pressed the pad of my thumb onto the tip of his dick. His hips jerked.

"I have to fuck you, Clark!" he groaned. "I have to be inside you !"

I panted and bit down on his nipple, then dragged my tongue over the small hurt, and he groaned helplessly. I could feel a trickle of sweat beading down over my cheekbone. The movement of our hips became jerky and uncoordinated. "Oh, fuck!" I began to come, and the heat of my semen spilling over his hand seemed to trigger Clay's climax. He moaned, and his semen joined mine on his belly.

Our dicks were trapped between our bodies. Clay freed a sticky hand and began petting the curve of my ass. "We're going to wind up stuck together if we don't get cleaned up soon," he murmured.

"You have somewhere else you need to be?"

He pinched my hip, and I laughed.

"Dammit, Clark. You made me come too fast."

"Yeah," I couldn't help grinning cockily, although I was sure he couldn’t see it. I'd also made him come hard. "Next time, I'm fucking you long and slow and easy, and I'm gonna make you beg."

"No."

I couldn’t breathe. "No?" Was he saying this was it? Had he gotten me out of his system?

"Next time it’s my turn, Palmer. Your ass is mine! Now get off me. I want to take a shower."

Next time. We were going to have a next time. "Okay, I'll get up." Mentally I counted to three, and then rolled off him to sprawl on my back.

"Clark."

"Mmm?" I yawned, and my eyes drifted shut. I heard a soft laugh, and could have sworn I felt lips on my shoulder, just above the small bandage that was still there.

"Someday you’ll have to tell me about this." The bed shifted as he got up, and then I heard water running in the bathroom. Moments later something warm and damp cleaned off the mess on the front of my body.

"Thanks, baby." I turned onto my belly, and I was out cold.

****

I didn’t do relationships.

I’d always treated sex as an itch that needed to be scratched. It was easier, neater, safer to keep things on a strictly physical level. I got horny, I got laid, end of the story.

I’d had male sex partners before, and I was the one who topped. I didn’t like giving up control, and had no intention of ever doing that; there wasn’t anyone I trusted enough to take into my body.

I’d thought that getting the CIA spook, having my dick in that fine ass of his, would get him out of my system once and for all.

I was seriously screwed.

I’d been dreaming of fucking Clayton Webb for the last couple of months, ever since he’d sucked me off in the men’s room of the fancy Italian restaurant where he’d bought me dinner for my birthday. But fucking Clayton Webb hadn’t stopped me from dreaming about fucking him. In those dreams I’d have him on his back, on his belly, over my desk at the DSD, over his desk at Langley, and I’d come, moaning his name.

Now there was a new twist, and I was beyond seriously screwed. Now I was dreaming that he was fucking me.

It started with a warm tongue licking a path along the sensitive skin behind my balls, and then flicking against my hole. I moaned and moved back against him restlessly, and his tongue pressed in, relaxing me.

The tongue vanished, and I whimpered a protest, but then a slick finger replaced it, circling my hole, dipping in just a bit, teasing me. I realized I was making the same kind of hungry sounds he had been earlier. This was no dream. I was going to be fucked by Clayton Webb.

The slight pressure became a steady push, and his finger was all the way in. He pumped it gently, getting a second and third finger into me before I realized it, curling them to stroke across my prostate. My cock was hard and aching, and I reached for it.

"No," came a quiet whisper. "Not yet." He took my hands and placed them over my head.

"Baby!" I breathed, my hands clenching impotently as I tried to back onto those tormenting fingers.

"Not yet." He removed his fingers, then positioned me onto my right side and slid my left leg forward and out of the way. His cock rubbed tantalizingly along my crack, moving down to nudge my balls out of the way and then tease my own dick.

"Baby!" I was growing out of control with the need to have him inside me.

"No." The blunt head of his cock continued its easy, stroking movement. Orgasm shimmered just out of reach, like a chimera, and I was ready to beg, anything as long as I could finally feel him in my body.

"Please! Clay!"

"Now!" His cock pushed into me with a steady, relentless motion, stretching me, filling me, and I moaned from the pleasure/pain. He began rocking, angling his thrusts so his cock hit my prostate every time. But I was too far-gone to last long. I came, crying his name.

Clay pushed me onto my front and continued pounding into me, and I lay beneath him, panting. He stiffened, and through the condom I could feel the heat of his climax, feel his cock pulsing with each spurt of semen.

I felt sated, and more alive than I ever had before. He slid out of me and removed the condom, then got up to dispose of it in the bathroom. When he returned he had a washcloth, and he wiped me off again. "This is getting to be a habit," I muttered, getting comfortable on my stomach.

Clay tossed aside the washcloth and climbed back onto the bed. He laid his head against my back, lazily nipped my shoulder, and whispered, "Guess we just can’t do long, and slow, and easy."

"What you mean, ‘we’, CIA man? I can do long, and slow, and easy. Wasn’t my fault you’d never had a DSD agent before. Tell me the truth, Clay. I’ve spoiled you now, haven’t I?"

"Are you always this full of yourself, Clark?" His nails scraped lightly over my nipples, which tightened, and I shivered.

"Actually, I thought I’d been full of you. Do you always talk this much after sex, Clay?"

I felt his smile against my back. "Clark, go to sleep."

~End~