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There was now no mistaking what Ben Rider was thinking at all.
With a tiny flicker of understanding, come and gone before he could examine it more, but searing in its intensity and import, Aleksey understood that Ben had always been playing a role with him, too.
They were now both peeling off outer layers, emerging.
Perhaps Ben, too, was melting from the inside out.
Aleksey huffed inwardly—he’d have to come up with a better nickname for him in that case.
He eased closer.
The whole afternoon stretched ahead of them.
Ben closed his eyes, his long, jet-black eyelashes splayed seductively across his cheekbones.
Ben looked like a man who anticipated being kissed again.
Aleksey stood close enough for Ben to feel his warm breath then murmured against the waiting lips, “What do you know about badgers, Benjamin?”
Ack, it would be a sad day when he couldn’t confound and annoy Benjamin Rider.
His entirely uncharacteristic amusement at Ben’s reaction to this complete non sequitur only seemed to confuse Ben more.
Ever helpful, Aleksey explained, “They are small and black and—“
“I fucking know what they are. I mean… Sir. Sorry, but I…”
Aleksey pondered this reply for a moment, about to make his habitualNikolascheck to Ben’s swearing, but instead asked hesitantly, “Why do you always call me sir?”
Call me by my name.
Call meAleksey.
He longed to hear Ben say it. Maybe he would then share with Ben his favourite story of how their father had named his twin sons afterAleksey Nikolayevich Tolstoy, because as a child Sergei had read a book about Mars he had liked. And how their mother had then told them it was possibly theonlybook their father had ever read.
But before the words were out, before he could offer this tiny glimpse into his life, he remembered.He was not Aleksey. Not to Ben, anyway. He wasNikolas.
And then the rest of the hideous situation he’d created became all too clear to him.
Ben had not kissed him; he’d kissed Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen.
Ben did not have sex with him; he fucked Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen.
Whatever it was that Ben got from their bizarre relationship, the reason he was perched on this table with his erection visible through his jeans, was because he wanted Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen, not a total stranger called Aleksey.
It was something of a showstopper.
But he swerved, and he survived. After all, isn’t that what he always did?
So although some part of him was whisperingkiss him anyway, just fucking kiss him, he ignored it. It could not be his heart trying to guide him, for that organ was a mealy, stunted thing, which he allowed no voice.
And what was a kiss, after all?
He answered his own earlier question—it was nothing. He fucked Ben roughly, bent over the table, and he gave him no quarter.
Alekseygave no quarter.
In this, he was entirely himself, and names, like love, didn’t matter.
