Excitement vortexed downward between Sasha's hips.He hadn'tmeant to involve himself at all—could give a daytime blow jobwithout the least need for a return.But that was a reflex from abad old time, and Laurie knew all about it.Laurie, still gasping,grabbed him by the armpits and raised him up.Planted him againstthe wall and, before Sasha could draw breath to stop him, knelt inhis turn.
Sashahung on for barely a minute.He pushed one hand into Laurie's hairand scraped the other palm against the breezeblocks, seekingcontrol in the pain.He had no other grip.Laurie knew his bodytoo, its trigger points and sweet spots.And even when he hadn't—onthat very first night in the attic bedroom—the sight of that darkhead bowing over him, that sculptured mouth with all its restlessbrilliance silenced, opening up to take him in...No, Sasha hadnever learned self-restraint when his lover did this to him, and hewent over silently, arching his spine in an anguish of surrender.He'd flare in tiger colours if his pleasure could be seen.Theconcrete box would glow, break down and melt into theearth...
Hisknees gave.Laurie caught him neatly.Actor and dreamer, he wasstill practical enough to know what a come stain would do toSasha's business suit, his plans for the afternoon, and he proppedhim, laughing.“Hang on.Got a handkerchief somewhere.Let me mopyou up.”
“You're a gentleman.You?”
“Don't worry about me.A mark or two will just enhance myreputation.I'm not called Romeo for nothing.”
They clung together, breathing hard.When the dim-lit room hadstopped spinning around him, Sasha looked up, placing a hand onLaurie's cheek.“Idoworry, though.Will you be okay now?”
“Never better.Oh, Sash, it was good of you to...”
“Drop everything and come, so to speak?”
“Mm.”Laurie chuckled.He rubbed his brow against Sasha's.“Andto deal with that little twerp Bill.”
“Neil,” Sasha reminded him.“You wantto watch out for that one.He'll be checking up on thatworking-time regulation right now.And don't tell Arnie I managedyou, for God's sake—he'll have me murdered in my bed.”
Laurieflinched.“I might have let Arnie go.”
“What?When?”
“Just this morning.He was here when I turned up, trying tobully Sir Ralf into giving me my own trailer and blue-eyed whitetigers to stroke between takes.”
“Wow.Okay.Look, you need to get going, and we'll talk moretonight, but...this wasn't anything to do with me, wasit?”
“No.No, not at all.”Laurie smoothed his own hair, thenreached to brush invisible disorder from Sasha's short, velvetycrop.“But if you think about it—whyshouldI employ somebody who has aproblem with us?With you?”
“No reason.But I've dealt with bigger things than ArnieHamlin, you know.I can handle him, if you want to change yourmind.”
“No.Why would I?”
“His politics don't bear examination.But he was looking outfor your interests, and I like that in a man.”
“He looked out for them because they matched hisown.”
“Some cynical people would say...”
“That's the essence of management.Okay, okay.But it's donenow.”
“All right.”Sasha looked into his face.His pupils weredilated, more Romeo than Laurie here with him now in the littleroom, but his energies were running smoothly again.Sasha was gladof it.Not since Sir William had beaten him half to death and he'dcrawled for refuge into Mama Luna's encampment had Sasha seen himso lost.“Go on, then.Go lure your little bird off herbalcony.”
“I think I fancy Mercutio more.”
“You can make that clear in your theatrical subtext.I'll belate home tonight, so get yourself some supper, and...call me ifyou need me, all right?Any time.”
“You mean that, don't you?”
“Of course.”
“God.I love you.”
Chapter Seven
Lauriedecided to walk part of the way home.The London skies had clearedwhile he'd been off creating Sir Ralf's Renaissance Italy, and abeautiful evening was unfolding over Kew and the distant westernreaches of the Thames.The streets around the Barbican were lesslovely—unbridled modern development filling the gaps left by WorldWar II bomb damage—but the rose-bronze light touched old façadesand new with equal tenderness.Laurie wondered if his visions ofStefan, of Little Grey Stalking Hood, had simply been ghosts of therain.No-one was following him tonight.
He madehis way down Beech Street to Charterhouse, unhurriedly threadingthe crowd.He turned back his shirt sleeves and slung his jacketover his shoulder.Part of him yearned to run and jump, expend thebottled-up rush inside him, but he and Sasha would find a way ofdoing that later.He wanted to be ordinary, just one of the crowd,and behaving like an escaped lunatic wouldn't help him much withthat.
