Nikolas clenched his jaw. “Do not even try it, Ben. I am too angry with you to speak—let alone eat.”
Ben slid across his lap, straddling him and produced the pudding from behind his back, a dark chocolate tart. He picked up the fork, broke some tart off then slid it between his own lips. It was like falling into heaven. Very slowly, keeping Nikolas’s furious gaze, he bent forward to kiss him. Nikolas frowned, didn’t seem sure what to do, but received the kiss automatically.
Ben tongued the melting chocolate across into Nikolas’s mouth.
For one awful moment, he thought he’d blown it badly—someone who didn’t want to eat didn’t usually want to eat second-hand from someone else’s mouth. Nikolas seemed frozen in horror, but then he swallowed. His tongue flicked out to lick around Ben’s mouth, and then they were entirely lost once more to their endless passion for each other. Ben laughed into the kisses and fed Nikolas another piece of pie, more conventionally off the fork, but it was eaten as well.
Finally, the food was gone. Nikolas flung his arm over his face and groaned theatrically. “I am going to be sick.”
Ben nodded unsympathetically. “I’d only make you eat it up again, so I advise you to concentrate on keeping it down.”
“I think I might ban you from this room anyway.”
“I’ll go if you want.” A hand shot out and pulled him down to lie on the bed next to him. They lay in companionable silence for a while. “Food is good, Nik. It’s like sex; it’s just pleasure, and there’s no sin in enjoying it.”
“You know nothing, Ben. Food is a weapon to be used by those who have power against those who do not. This has been my—The story throughout history. But I have no desire to explain myself to you tonight. I am…what expression would you use, let me think…ah, yes, I am totally fucked, so please let me lie here in peace.” Ben began to stroke gently over the smooth skin under Nikolas’s T-shirt, rubbing his almost concave belly.
“This going to disturb your peace?”
Nikolas smiled. “No.”
Ben continued to stroke in slow repetitive circles until Nikolas was asleep, then he crawled carefully from the bed, went to the table, and practically ate the plates as well he was so famished. To him, food was fuel. He used it up at a burning rate, his body hard and lean and bursting with life and vitality. He gave a small smile of satisfaction when he thought of the food now fuelling Nikolas’s body—and only a few hours to go until breakfast when it could all begin again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Nikolas appeared to have learnt his lesson the next morning, for when they went down to the dining room for breakfast, he ordered and ate a bowl of fruit. It seemed to be his new policy that if he gave the appearance of eating something, he at least got to eat what he liked and not Ben’s choice of food. But he always enjoyed watching Ben eat for some reason, and sat contentedly reading the paper and drinking coffee as yet another full English bit the dust alongside him.
“So, we got more houses to see today?”
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to speak with your mouth full?”
Ben swallowed. “No, she didn’t have time before my father murdered her.”
Nikolas looked up sharply. “God, I am sorry, Ben. It was an expression. I did not think.”
Ben shrugged. “The truth doesn’t hurt me, Nik. It was the lies that were tearing me apart. I have
you
to thank for the truth, so no apology needed.”
Studying his coffee for a moment, Nikolas sighed. “Yes. We are seeing three. But I am becoming disenchanted with the process.”
“Maybe you should let me choose.”
Nikolas glanced up again. He appeared to be considering this—which had actually just been a joke. He narrowed his eyes, tapping his fingers lightly against his coffee cup. “I am almost tempted to say yes. I will think about it.”
He ordered more coffee. Ben ordered more toast. Finally, Nikolas nodded. “All right. You choose—one of the houses we see today. You decide on one of them, and we will buy it. I will have forgotten how to ride entirely if I do not have my horses soon.”
Ben murmured, “You remembered pretty well last night.”
Nikolas’s colour rose just slightly on his striking face. “So, are we agreed?”
Ben nodded. “Sure. I’ve got great taste. I chose you, after all. Do I need to know how much you can afford? Just in case I pick one that’s too much?”
Nikolas chuckled, clearly pleased with the earlier compliment. “No, you do not need to know. Be uninhibited in your selection.”
Ben actually felt enthused about the whole process. He was up and ready to go. Nikolas wanted more coffee. Ben said he’d go up and pack. He was deep into Nikolas’s bag, rummaging, when Nikolas came back. He smirked as he watched Ben from the doorway. “You won’t find it.”
“Where is it?” Ben held out his hand.
Nikolas shrugged and handed his phone over.
Ben scrolled to images. Empty.
“I am not stupid, Ben. Obviously you would want to find them. I emailed them to myself and deleted them from there.”
Ben almost stomped his foot. “I’ll get Kate to hack your account.”
Nikolas laughed, a genuinely delighted sound. “I seriously advise against that, for your sake. Oh, stop being such a baby. Come here. I will delete them.” He sat on the edge of the bed. Ben warily joined him and handed the phone over. To get less light on the screen, Nikolas lay back and held the phone up over his head as he connected to his account. “There.”
Ben lay back too and together they contemplated the images, which Nikolas had set on a loop. He’d taken far more than Ben realised. They told pretty much the whole story of Ben’s interrogation and capitulation—in high definition and close up. Ben swallowed deeply. “So, maybe don’t delete them?”
Nikolas nodded silently. Ben felt a hand on his stomach, just resting on the crisp dress shirt. He put his hand over it, and Nikolas entwined their fingers. He lifted Nikolas’s hand to his lips and kissed each finger. He loved Nikolas’s hands—the immaculately manicured nails, his long, almost surgeon-delicate fingers. “You should play the piano—fingers like these.”
Nikolas turned his head away and didn’t reply for a minute then said almost too casually, “Actually, I can. I learnt for many years.”
Ben turned his head to stare at the tousled, blond hair next to him. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Yes, apparently I cannot buy a house. Come, we must go. Are you packed?”
§§§
They set the satnav for the first house on the day’s list and drove back to the main road. The house was a converted mill on a small tributary of the Exe, and Ben liked it immediately. On three floors, the current owners had done a sympathetic renovation, even leaving original architectural features and the occasional holes in the floors where the mill machinery would have been. The master bedroom was on the top floor and had a balcony. Ben leant on the railing, staring down at the peaceful river below. The sun caught his tousled hair, showing off the highlights he’d developed under a far harsher sun. He sensed Nikolas leaning in the doorway watching him and turned. “What?”
Nikolas shrugged. “I do not give you compliments, as you know, but consider yourself complimented.” Ben smiled and leant back on the railing, casually crossing his ankles, stretching out his fabulous body, which was only enhanced by his tailored suit. They didn’t realise that they lost time just staring at each other until they heard a discreet cough, and the agent said, “The field is across the lane and comes with a new stable. Shall we view that now?” They walked in the sunshine across to the field, and Nikolas cast a cursory glance at it and nodded. They thanked the agent, said they’d be in touch and got back in the car. Ben was reluctant to leave. “This is okay, Nik.”
Nikolas shrugged. “If you like it, buy it.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. We are not committed. If it bores us, we will move again.”
Ben turned to him. “How many houses have you lived in—in your whole life?”
Nikolas pursed his lips. “I have no idea. I have never thought about it.”
“Well?”
“Ben, why—?”
“Please.”
Nikolas sighed then appeared to be counting. “How long does a stay have to be to count?”
“I guess anything that wasn’t a holiday—anything over a month?”
There was a long silence. “Twenty, but some of those I do not remember but was told about or have seen photographs of.”
“Photographs? Of your childhood?” Ben usually found it hard to believe Nikolas had actually been a child, but to discover proof existed of this odd idea fascinated him. “Where are they? Do you have other houses now than the one in London?”
Nikolas nodded. “Of course. Just drive, Ben, please. Take the road to Barton Combe.”
Ben jerked his eyes to Nikolas. “Why?”
Nikolas stared resolutely out of the windscreen then replied grudgingly, “Philipa is in Scotland with the family. I want to take the opportunity to collect some of my belongings.”
Ben kept glancing over, sensing a familiar imploding mood as Nikolas plunged into whatever dark memories and thoughts he was burdened with. Ben tapped him on the thigh. “Can we take the billiard table?”
§§§
Ben hadn’t been to Nikolas’s house since New Year’s Eve, when he had killed men there. The place was much the same, despite the violent death that had visited it. It was quieter without the inevitable pack of dogs—and the terrorists—but much the same. He knew where Nikolas would want to go first and followed him, amused, to the stables. Ben had to work hard then not to be jealous of a horse, as Nik lavished far more endearments and attention on the dumb animal than he ever did on him. He decided to leave him to it and find something to eat. Breakfast seemed a very long time ago. As Philipa was gone for some weeks, most of the staff had been given holidays and only a skeleton crew remained to look after the horses and provide security for the house. Consequently, Ben was left in peace to make a raid on the fridge and larder.
He made a plate of interesting looking things and sat down at the table, thinking how his life had changed since the last time he’d sat there. When he’d eaten his fill, he made a sandwich for Nikolas and took it out to the stables. Nikolas wasn’t there. He wandered back into the house, searching the rooms, and eventually found him up in the bedroom Ben had briefly seen at New Year’s. Then it had been dark, and he’d only been able to glimpse a stark simplicity to the room that had told him it was Nikolas’s. Now the afternoon sun lit the room. Nikolas was leaning in the window, back to the door. Ben wasn’t sure whether to knock. His relationship with Nikolas was still so undefined that when it was taken out of the artificial environment they had created for themselves, it puzzled him what it actually was. Was he Nikolas’s chauffeur with fringe benefits? His employee—with the same benefits? He surely wasn’t his…boyfriend? He snorted faintly at this thought, which took away his dilemma about whether to knock when Nikolas said distinctly, “Give me a minute. I will come down presently.”
Ben heard something in the voice that made him hesitate. Nikolas was still very hard to read, even after all the things they had done together. He debated but then came further into the room, putting the sandwich down on the chest of drawers. He came up behind Nikolas and slid his arms around him, kissing the back of his neck, but Nikolas didn’t turn around. His body was rigid, his arms folded tightly over his chest as if he was barely holding himself together. Ben was afraid of what might happen if the hold slipped. Instead of trying to distract him with sex, which was so very tempting to do, he let him go and began to wander around the room, looking at the pictures he’d only seen faintly in moonlight a few months before. The pictures of a storm-swept beach were still captivating but painfully empty. Ben liked pictures with things in them.
The drawer alongside the bed had been pulled out and rifled through; things lay on the floor, some on the bed, some thrown carelessly into an open bag. Ben sat down, idly rummaging, waiting for Nikolas to want him again, and saw a photograph left behind at the bottom of the drawer. He pulled it out and his eyes went wide. It was a photograph of Nikolas in his teens—unmistakable; he hadn’t actually changed all that much. He had been caught at a table in a window bay, painting. It looked as if the photographer had suddenly called him and he’d turned, face open and innocent, grin as wide as the sun, poised with his right hand about to make a stroke to the painting he was completing, his left holding a shell. The photograph was in black and white and all the more exquisite for that—the kind of photograph that launched careers, made names, became iconic for the model or the photographer, or both. Ben made a small noise in the back of his throat. “This is so beautiful! How old were you?”