What do you get the man that has everything? Marc D’Angelo knows exactly what his rich and famous lover needs: a chance to get away from it all, a chance to be a normal couple and enjoy being in love. All that remains is to see how Oliver Carrington reacts to his anniversary gift.
Clare London - Fiction
Short story, e-format
This title contains adult scenes of m/m romance and erotica.
Oliver stretched out a little on the bed, sated and smug, and still struggling fitfully against his unusual sluggishness. Marc nuzzled against his belly, teasing his navel with his tongue, still keen to torment. Oliver sighed.
“That good, eh?” Marc’s smile pressed against his skin.
Oliver smiled back. His lover read his expressions too well. “Yes, it was, you arrogant man. What time is it?” His query was idle, but something about the angle of the light through the bedroom curtains alerted him. He twisted his head to the bedside table. “Hey! Where’s the clock?” There was no answer from Marc, except a murmur of his lips against Oliver’s groin.
Oliver wriggled his hips, to distract him from his caresses – to get his attention. There was this new puzzle to discuss.
“Marc, someone’s taken the clock!”
“Damned fuss,” Marc murmured. “I took it. Hush now. You don’t need to know the time…not today…”
Oliver winced as Marc nipped playfully at the soft skin of his thigh. It sent a twinge of fresh desire all the way through his groin, and Marc knew it did. He was very inventive – he had a talent for the word ‘greed’ himself. Of course Oliver would like to spend more time this morning with him, but…
He sighed, reluctantly. “Don’t be a fool. This is great, of course it is, but – there’s that conference call I have to take at eight thirty. I can do it all from the home office, here, the guys are coming in with some papers for me, but I can’t miss it. Just that call, Marc… then I’m all yours, okay?”
Marc ignored him. He shifted, running his mouth back up to Oliver’s belly, his teeth scraping teasingly against the soft skin and making Oliver groan with pleasure. He wasn’t giving up, any time soon. He wriggled out of his boxers, the mattress dipping underneath them as he moved.
Oliver’s heart started to speed up again. He lifted a lethargic arm, grasping at anything within reach, in some ridiculous attempt at anchorage. His fingers raked through his hair, and he was mildly surprised to find it damp. He didn’t remember getting up earlier to wash it. Or did he? His mind was – obviously, deliciously – preoccupied at the moment. Marc nibbled at the junction of skin between his armpit and his torso, and Oliver sighed with pure, languorous pleasure. Now who was impatient?
Oliver arched his body up under the suckling motions; Ahhh, he thought, let’s both surrender, okay? He wanted Marc to hurry up because the ache was beginning again, deep between his legs…
Oliver twisted his head to the side, peering at his outstretched arm, looking for his watch – and that had gone, too! He opened his mouth to protest again – then he caught sight of the ends of hair tangled around his clenched fingers.
He felt a cold wash of shock; things started to unravel. His hair, his hair…it should have been a handful of blond; a few unruly curls. Instead, it was damp on his shoulders, soft with the smell of his shampoo – and the familiarity was gone.
It was brown!