Page 71 of By Any Means

Did he mean it? Probably not. But—touch like… what? Like a man was being touched right there, in the hot room, just through the glass?

He managed “Yes, fine,” though his fluster and surprise made it sound frowning and put-upon. Laurie looked increasingly doubtful. Chary cleared his throat and told Laurie what he’d told himself. “I came into this expecting—or not expecting—but the general expectation of a bathhouse is to come into contact with others… It’s fine,” he said firmly. “More of the same undercover work for you. Er—touch how?” he asked, a little higher.

Laurie laughed. “‘Touch how’ indeed,” he said, under his breath. “I’m sorry, Chary. I won’t use you so badly. Nothing too skin-on-skin. I don’t want—not in front of all these people.” He came closer. “We should look desperate, ’s’all. Desperate enough to go the wrong way fast through a bathhouse.”

Just for show. Again. That made sense. But they didn’t have to prove anything there—did they? Should they, anyway?

Chary swallowed. “Do whatever you think is n-needful.”

“That’s a lot of permission,” he murmured. Laurie looked him up and down, quite the same as he had before—in the rooming house, in the breakfast room, the picnic on the barrens. As before, it was much too sincere-seeming for comfort, heavy-lidded and contemplative and drugging. Why was he so competent?

Chary’s brains felt egg-beaten; he was trembling; surely, Laurie had what he wanted already. Look desperate. Desperate and queer. How ironic. It was often the other way around.

Laurie hooked him around the neck with one hand, a light touch that probably looked firmer than it felt. His other hand came around Chary’s biceps, holding himself away. But then he brought himself close—or Chary brought himself down—and Chary thought then that he would be kissed.

But Laurie whispered into his ear. “What’s needful, Cherry? If I could—if you’d let me—I’d want to take you into the dark in that dressing room and get on my knees.”

Chary sucked in a breath. It was entirely for show—those words would make anyone hard, make anyone shake—obviously, Laurie had just had some potent inspiration—it was working.

“You’d keep on those shorts. Just leave them on. I’d make them see-through.”

Lord. They nearly were already. Chary couldn’t help it; he clutched a sturdy shoulder. “How?”

Laurie was not trembling. He was very still. Intent and totally in control. “Well,” he chuckled, “to start, maybe a bit like this.”

He breathed over Chary’s neck purposefully, hotly, like a dragon, steaming Chary’s cool skin from his collarbone to his jaw, lips grazing. And Chary felt as though Laurie’s open mouth were against his prick, swore he felt the held-back warmth sieve through the shorts and onto his skin. He groaned.

Desperate—yes. Laurie could have laid him out on the mosaic tile and had him then and there. Whatever he wanted, for reason whatsoever.

“What then?” Chary whispered. He knew, but he wanted to know. It sounded like a thing he might like quite a lot—if it were sincere.

He mustn’t forget that he was the easiest mark of them all, and Laurie would withdraw all of it in a moment, like he had before.

Laurie’s lips hovered near the hinge of his jaw, his perfect nose nudging as he breathed hard. His whole person was stiff but swaying, as though he were on an edge, clinging tight to solid land, tempted nonetheless.

But he said nothing. He was interrogating Chary again, drawing him out from the silence.

It made Chary angry.

“What then?” he demanded. “Tell me. I want to know.” Blindly, he found his feet and pulled them away from the brightly lit pool to where it seemed dimmer—a warm hallway—the shampooing alcoves. If anyone tried to stop them, he didn’t notice—he was desperate.

He didn’t have to pull them very far to find something unoccupied. This alcove had a bench; he knew because it hit the back of his knees, and a curtain, and that was plenty.

Laurie laughed in his ear. “Good job. I barely kept up—that’ll do fine.” He brushed off his towel like a suit, like his prick wasn’t plainly distorting it.

Chary wanted to scream it out at Laurie. Shake the man so he would admit it. Make him see it.

It wasn’t a performance. Chary had never, not once, believed the words I want from anyone’s mouth. Not about him. But he believed it from Laurie and from the look in his eyes and his touch and his careful consideration. That kiss on the barrens, pulling him in. And now that erection.

And the man wouldn’t admit to it?

“No,” Chary said.

Laurie drew back. “Hmm?”

“Do it,” Chary said, more firmly. “Earnestly.”

Laurie gave him a look. Incredulity, sharp contemplation—intrigue.