If It Fornicates (A Market Garden Tale) (2 page)

But that means you’ll be a fully professional, full-time whore.

Being unashamed of something and being stuck doing it forever were two very different things.

In front of Spencer’s house, Nick paid the cabbie, tipping well as usual, grabbed his bag, and stepped out.

Before Nick had even reached the front door, Spencer opened it, looking gorgeous in jeans and a dark red cashmere sweater, barely protected by an apron. He grinned wide as if Nick were the guy from the National Lottery. “Come on in.”

“Cheers.” Nick slid in and Spencer closed the door behind them.

The house smelled of rosemary and roasting bird. After the dark outside, the warm light squeezed oddly against his heart, and Nick dropped his bag beside the door.

“Glad you could make it.” Spencer’s hand was warm as he slid it beneath Nick’s jacket onto his bare waist.

“Thanks for the invite.” Nick drew Spencer down for a quick kiss that turned into a long one. They wrapped their arms around each other, Spencer’s sweater soft against Nick’s skin wherever the apron didn’t get in the way. Sometimes after he’d been with a client, the last thing Nick wanted was to be touched, but Spencer’s hands and his embrace and his tender kiss were exactly what he needed right then. An entire bottle of wine couldn’t relax Nick the way this did.

They separated, and when Nick swept the tip of his tongue across his lip, Spencer shivered. Then he let Nick go and gestured down the hall. “I should check on the bird. Come on in.”

“After you.”

In the kitchen, Nick leaned against one of the work surfaces.

“Tea?” Spencer asked after he’d checked on the chicken.

“Please.”

This was all so oddly domestic: Spencer pouring tea into a pair of matching mugs, offering cream and sugar, and the two of them quietly sipping it in the fragrant kitchen. If someone had peered in through a window, they might have mistaken the two of them for a respectable couple instead of a corporate lawyer and his prostitute boyfriend. With that gentle kiss still tingling on his lips, Nick might have made that mistake himself, and he didn’t know quite what to make of that.

He put down his mug. “You didn’t roast that bird yourself, did you?”

“I did. Stopped at Smithfield Market, came face-to-face, well, in a manner of speaking, with the biggest chicken I’ve ever seen. The butcher said it’s a capon. A castrated chicken. Told me how to cook it, too, but it took quite a while longer than he indicated.”

“Ahh,” Nick said. “That explains why it’s just about ready at this hour.”

Spencer laughed. “Tell me about it. I didn’t set out to eat at”—he glanced at the microwave clock—“ten thirty at night.” His laugh turned into a gentle smile. “But I’d say it worked out. Meant we could have a proper dinner together.”

“So we can.” Damn, but these fuzzy, romantic feelings were alien to Nick. He cleared his throat. “I, um, didn’t know you cooked. It’s been all restaurant deliveries so far.”

“Shoving some oranges and limes up a dead bird’s bottom and throwing him in an oven isn’t cooking,” Spencer insisted. “I was just . . . in the mood.”

Nick smiled and crossed his arms. “Next thing I know, you’ll bake gingerbread cookies.”

Spencer laughed again. Then he nodded at Nick’s chest, which was bare under his leather jacket. “Want a shirt?”

Hmm. Interesting. An attempt at domesticity. But having dinner half-naked might just be a bit weird.

“I probably should.” Nick uncrossed his arms. “But nothing of yours is going to fit me.”

“Just a sec.” Spencer rushed off, and Nick exhaled. Damn, nothing about this was as awkward or unnatural as he kept convincing himself it should be. He pulled down the zip and slipped out of his jacket, then hung that up in the corridor. The kitchen was plenty warm with the roast going.

“Here.” Spencer came back with a slinky running top in black that wouldn’t hang off him like he was trying on an older brother’s clothes. Nick pulled it on, gratified that Spencer stole a long glance at his chest.

“Thanks,” Nick said, and picked up his tea mug again.

Spencer watched him for a moment. “Long day?”

“Do I look it?”

“A bit.”

Nick clasped his hands and stretched his arms out, trying to release some of the tension in his shoulders. “Why do I feel like I just put in a week at
your
job?”

Spencer laughed. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t even know, really.” Nick rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Just exhausted. And it’s less physical than mental. Which is weird.”

“Huh. That’s kind of—here, turn around.”

Nick eyed him. “What?”

Spencer gestured for him to do as he was told. Odd, the sub ordering the Dom, but right about then, Nick didn’t care about playing games. And besides, they weren’t in the bedroom. Equal footing out here in the kitchen between an oven full of roasting bird and a table set for two.

So he turned around.

Spencer’s hands materialized on his shoulders. He pressed his fingers and thumbs in, and Nick closed his eyes as Spencer kneaded the exhausted muscles.

“You okay?” Spencer asked. “You are really, really tense.”

Nick wanted to answer automatically with “I’m fine” or “I’m just tired,” but Spencer’s hands were like tactile truth serum. Gentle but firm pressure that completely destroyed Nick’s resolve—and maybe his ability—to bullshit his way out from under the conversation.

He exhaled, tilting his head forward so Spencer had more access to his neck. “I don’t know what it is. The last couple of weeks or so, I’ve just . . .”
What? Approached everything, especially my job, with all the enthusiasm of a kid opening up a pack of socks and underwear on Christmas?
He sighed and shook his head. “Maybe I just need a holiday.”

“You just took one a few weeks ago.”

Nick stiffened. Right. That “holiday to Spain” he’d supposedly taken. Guilt clawed at him; he still hadn’t been entirely truthful to Spencer about that. He cleared his throat. “I don’t think it was enough. Maybe I, um, need another.”

“Maybe you do.” Spencer’s hands slowly climbed Nick’s neck, sliding under his longish hair in search of the tension Nick obviously couldn’t keep hidden from him. “You’ve got a physically demanding job.”

“I’ve had a physically demanding job for a long . . .
ooh
.” He shivered as Spencer’s thumb pressed into a particularly tense spot.

“That hurt?”

“Yes,” he said through his teeth. “But keep doing it.” Man, he really was tense. He hated the feeling of someone massaging out a particularly knotted muscle, hated that persistent pain as muscle fought fingers before finally giving in and relaxing. Right now, though, that obnoxious sharp pain was the promise of relief, so he pressed back, pushing against Spencer’s fingers even though his eyes watered.

After some work on Spencer’s part and swearing on Nick’s, the muscle gave. The pain faded to a dull ache, and Spencer worked his way back down to Nick’s shoulders.

“Anyway.” Nick released a breath. He carefully tilted his newly relaxed neck to one side, then the other. “It’s not like I’m new to this job. After all this time, you’d think I’d be used to it.”

“Maybe you’re burned out.”

“I don’t know.” Nick had studied burnout in-depth at university, but was that what this was? He sighed. “I don’t know what it is. Like I said, it’s not my body that’s tired.” Nick turned his head as far as he could, just enough to bring Spencer into his peripheral vision. “That’s what I meant when I said it felt like I’d been at your job all day.”

“Brain stuffed with wet wool?”

Nick laughed, facing forward again. “Yeah. Exactly. I mean, maybe it is burnout. I just . . .”
Feel like there’s more to it than that?
Maybe he was overthinking it. Trying to self-diagnose something strange and obscure like every psych student eventually did.

He closed his eyes and enjoyed Spencer’s magic hands as they travelled down his back. Spencer’s thumbs pressed in on either side of his spine, and his fingers kneaded the outer muscles until they relaxed. Nick completely lost track of time, and very nearly forgot where he was until Spencer stopped.

Rolling his relaxed shoulders, Nick turned again. “Fuck, you’re good at that.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank
you
.” Nick realised right then how close they were, but just when Nick thought a kiss was inevitable, Spencer stepped back. He had a good sense of physical space. Nick couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever crowded him. And the man was bigger and taller than he was.

“Well, let’s see what our dinner guest looks like now.” Spencer grabbed two oven mitts again and opened the oven. A waft of oily, citrusy, rosemary-scented heat escaped. He took hold of the roasting pan, lifted it out of the oven, and put it down on two slate plates.

Nick eyed the immense bird. “I think they sold you a goose.”

“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” Spencer stabbed the alleged chicken with a two-pronged fork and moved it onto a carving plate. In short order, he’d cut and carved the monster and put plenty of white meat on two plates with honey-roasted carrots and green salad. “I’ll just get the wine.”

Nick lifted an eyebrow. “You sure about the wine?”

“It’s a good bottle. Gift from a client who’s investing in wines.”

No sex, then? Or at least no games. “I’m not that tired,” Nick defended.

“What? Oh. Well, we . . . we don’t have to do anything tonight.”

“If I’ve had more than a little to drink, we can’t. Anything more than a glass.”

“That’s all right. Tomorrow?” A hint of strain in his voice suggested that he very much hoped it would be tomorrow. But Spencer wasn’t pushing for it. He wasn’t a needy sub manipulating his way to a beating or sex.

“Okay.” Nick grabbed the plates. “You deal with the wine.”

With the chicken served and the wine poured, they took their seats at the table. Spencer gestured at the food. “Please, by all means.”

Nick nodded. “Thanks.”

The chicken was surprisingly moist and tender. “If I’d known you were this good a cook,” he said, “I’d have suggested this sooner.”

Spencer smiled over the rim of his wineglass. “We’ll have to do it again, then.”

How . . . domestic. There was just no other word for it. This wasn’t the first meal they’d shared, but the first that seemed so homey and normal. And for that matter, the first time a meal together hadn’t explicitly served as foreplay of some description. Eating together for the sake of eating together.

Nevertheless, looking at Spencer meant seeing sex. Meant seeing that unconditional surrender, that sweetness in him that surfaced when he overcame the pain, his brain stewed and softened in nature’s hormone cocktail.

Nick swallowed a sip of wine. “How was your week?”

“Finally closed the big deal. Paperwork is all signed and done. I’m taking a little time off. Tomorrow and Monday.” He paused to slice off another bite of chicken. “At least that’s the plan.”

“Sounds like I’m not the only one who needs a holiday.”

Spencer looked down at his plate and sighed. “I’m not even sure that’s enough, to be quite honest.”

“What do you mean?”

“If I go on a holiday,” Spencer said dryly, “I still have to go back to the firm when it’s over.”

“I thought you liked your job.”

“I thought so too,” Spencer said, almost more to himself than to Nick.

“So you . . . don’t like being a lawyer?” Nick looked at him over the rim of his wineglass. “Isn’t that what you always wanted to do?”

“It is. Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be a lawyer.” Spencer picked up his own wineglass, but just cradled it between his fingers. “I liked the idea of being one. But these days”—his gaze slid towards Nick, and his eyes echoed the exhaustion in his voice—“I’m not so sure I’m happy with the reality of it.”

“What don’t you like about it?”

“The hours, the stress, the office politics.” Spencer exhaled hard. “I’m still closeted at work because I’m afraid of the consequences if I come out.”

Nick quirked an eyebrow. “They can’t fire you for that, can they?”

“Not directly.” Bitterness laced the edge of Spencer’s tone. “But there are ways of persuading undesirable employees to seek employment elsewhere. Or put them on the chop list when there’s another round of downsizing.” He tilted his head to one side, then the other, as if some tension had crept up the back of his neck. “Sometimes I’m tempted to come out and just be done with it. I can’t imagine they can make me any more miserable than I already am.”

“Wow,” Nick said. “I hadn’t realised you hated it that much.”

“The actual job itself isn’t so bad. I enjoy what I do. It’s the atmosphere and everything else that comes with it that I hadn’t bargained for, you know? And it’ll be the same at any other firm, so I don’t . . .” He sighed and shook his head. “I really don’t know what to do.” He looked at Nick again, his expression mirroring the fatigue Nick felt. “You know my job is the whole reason I came to you in the first place?”

“It—” Nick paused, clearing his throat. He was amazed at how casually Spencer could bring Nick’s profession into a conversation, never seeming to bat an eye. “It is?”

“Percy convinced me I should give it a go.” Spencer sipped his wine, then put the glass down. “Said I was on a fast track to an ulcer and a heart attack, and I needed to blow off some steam. And what you did, it was . . . it was what I needed.” He smiled, and Nick returned it. The smile faded a little, and he added, “I feel better, and I’m happy with you, but the fact is I’m still on that fast track.”

Nick swallowed. “Have you thought about changing careers?”

“Seems like a waste of all the time and energy I spent getting this far.”

“Seems like an even bigger waste to me to spend your life doing something that makes you miserable.”

“Fair point.” Spencer cut off another piece of chicken.

Nick watched him for a moment. “Negotiating all that job stress and . . . me can’t have been easy. When we were still trying to figure things out, I mean.”
And
have
we figured all those things out?
“Sorry for adding to your pile.”