© Clare London
“Which exhibit do you like, Miles? Which one appeals to you? Tell me.” Zeke waved a hand at the stuff on the floor. “I want to know which one cries promise.”
Miles cleared his throat. “Later.” Hadn’t he said that already? He seemed to be having some trouble speaking. Under his white silk shirt, his chest was heaving.
Zeke just stood there. He held his hands behind his back, as if nervous of his approach, but his eyes sparkled with amusement and hunger. “So. You want to deal with my inappropriateness?”
“You don’t?” Zeke swayed slightly on the balls of his feet. His vest was just a little too short and a little too tight, clinging to his abs and riding up over his waistband at one side. As always.
“I mean….” Miles wondered what the hell he did mean, but instinct took over. “Yes, I want to deal with you. Just somewhere more private. More comfortable.”
“I think.” He reached out for Zeke’s arm and pulled him closer. Zeke’s eyes widened, as if Miles had used more force than strictly necessary. Miles could smell Zeke’s skin, sweet and sweaty from rushing through town to the office. He could feel Zeke’s pulse and see the challenge in his eyes. He could feel his own heartbeat thudding, speeding the blood through his veins, throbbing at his throat and making him slightly dizzy. This happened too often for him to control: too rarely for him ever to tire of it. “Kiss me.”
Zeke stepped the final half step closer, his hip bumping Miles’s thigh, his gaze lingering on Miles’s mouth. “This place is just too damned big,” he growled. “Too much floor space between us. A guy could get lost in here, you know? Could park your limo in here, play football, stage a Greek orgy, for fuck’s sake.”
“So let’s make that a smaller event, just for us. Come here.” Miles slid his arm around Zeke’s waist and pulled him in tightly against his chest. Miles’s senses wallowed happily in the kiss. Taste of heaven. His tongue darted into Zeke’s mouth, their panting breath mingling, his fingers tightening on Zeke’s hip. He was still propped against his desk, but now the edge of it was cutting into the back of his thighs. The clinch with Zeke had pushed him to its corner, with a tall wooden filing cabinet at his right side and only the spectacular picture window beyond that. An occasional arc of light from a large vehicle glittered against the glass of the window; the blare of a horn echoed in the distance, muffled by the heavy glazing.
Zeke’s boot knocked against the cabinet as his knee nudged in between Miles’s legs, spreading them apart. The desk shook, and the papers on the pile behind him rustled.
“We should get back home,” he gasped.
Zeke’s tongue slipped out of Miles’s mouth, and he started licking at Miles’s neck instead. “Yeah.” Zeke’s murmur didn’t sound much like he was paying proper attention. “Soon.”
Miles slid his hands down Zeke’s arms, feeling the muscles, relishing the strength. He reached behind Zeke’s back to grasp the other man’s hands and clasp them in his, but at the last moment, Zeke twisted his arm and pulled his left hand free. Without warning, he curled his fingers around Miles’s wrist and gripped it tight.
“We’ll get home,” Zeke whispered against Miles’s neck. “But after.”