If It Fornicates (A Market Garden Tale)

  Nick eyed the immense bird. “I think they sold you a goose.”

  “Looks like it, doesn’t it?” Spencer stabbed the alleged chicken with a two-pronged fork and moved it onto a carving plate. In short order, he’d cut and carved the monster and put plenty of white meat on two plates with honey-roasted carrots and green salad. “I’ll just get the wine.”

  Nick lifted an eyebrow. “You sure about the wine?”

  “It’s a good bottle. Gift from a client who’s investing in wines.”

  No sex, then? Or at least no games. “I’m not that tired,” Nick defended.

  “What? Oh. Well, we . . . we don’t have to do anything tonight.”

  “If I’ve had more than a little to drink, we can’t. Anything more than a glass.”

  “That’s all right. Tomorrow?” A hint of strain in his voice suggested that he very much hoped it would be tomorrow. But Spencer wasn’t pushing for it. He wasn’t a needy sub manipulating his way to a beating or sex.

  “Okay.” Nick grabbed the plates. “You deal with the wine.”

  With the chicken served and the wine poured, they took their seats at the table. Spencer gestured at the food. “Please, by all means.”

  Nick nodded. “Thanks.”

  The chicken was surprisingly moist and tender. “If I’d known you were this good a cook,” he said, “I’d have suggested this sooner.”

  Spencer smiled over the rim of his wineglass. “We’ll have to do it again, then.”

  How . . . domestic. There was just no other word for it. This wasn’t the first meal they’d shared, but the first that seemed so homey and normal. And for that matter, the first time a meal together hadn’t explicitly served as foreplay of some description. Eating together for the sake of eating together.

  Nevertheless, looking at Spencer meant seeing sex. Meant seeing that unconditional surrender, that sweetness in him that surfaced when he overcame the pain, his brain stewed and softened in nature’s hormone cocktail.

  Nick swallowed a sip of wine. “How was your week?”

  “Finally closed the big deal. Paperwork is all signed and done. I’m taking a little time off. Tomorrow and Monday.” He paused to slice off another bite of chicken. “At least that’s the plan.”

  “Sounds like I’m not the only one who needs a holiday.”

  Spencer looked down at his plate and sighed. “I’m not even sure that’s enough, to be quite honest.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I go on a holiday,” Spencer said dryly, “I still have to go back to the firm when it’s over.”

  “I thought you liked your job.”

  “I thought so too,” Spencer said, almost more to himself than to Nick.

  “So you . . . don’t like being a lawyer?” Nick looked at him over the rim of his wineglass. “Isn’t that what you always wanted to do?”

  “It is. Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be a lawyer.” Spencer picked up his own wineglass, but just cradled it between his fingers. “I liked the idea of being one. But these days”—his gaze slid towards Nick, and his eyes echoed the exhaustion in his voice—“I’m not so sure I’m happy with the reality of it.”

  “What don’t you like about it?”

  “The hours, the stress, the office politics.” Spencer exhaled hard. “I’m still closeted at work because I’m afraid of the consequences if I come out.”

  Nick quirked an eyebrow. “They can’t fire you for that, can they?”

  “Not directly.” Bitterness laced the edge of Spencer’s tone. “But there are ways of persuading undesirable employees to seek employment elsewhere. Or put them on the chop list when there’s another round of downsizing.” He tilted his head to one side, then the other, as if some tension had crept up the back of his neck. “Sometimes I’m tempted to come out and just be done with it. I can’t imagine they can make me any more miserable than I already am.”

  “Wow,” Nick said. “I hadn’t realised you hated it that much.”

  “The actual job itself isn’t so bad. I enjoy what I do. It’s the atmosphere and everything else that comes with it that I hadn’t bargained for, you know? And it’ll be the same at any other firm, so I don’t . . .” He sighed and shook his head. “I really don’t know what to do.” He looked at Nick again, his expression mirroring the fatigue Nick felt. “You know my job is the whole reason I came to you in the first place?”

  “It—” Nick paused, clearing his throat. He was amazed at how casually Spencer could bring Nick’s profession into a conversation, never seeming to bat an eye. “It is?”

  “Percy convinced me I should give it a go.” Spencer sipped his wine, then put the glass down. “Said I was on a fast track to an ulcer and a heart attack, and I needed to blow off some steam. And what you did, it was . . . it was what I needed.” He smiled, and Nick returned it. The smile faded a little, and he added, “I feel better, and I’m happy with you, but the fact is I’m still on that fast track.”

  Nick swallowed. “Have you thought about changing careers?”

  “Seems like a waste of all the time and energy I spent getting this far.”

  “Seems like an even bigger waste to me to spend your life doing something that makes you miserable.”

  “Fair point.” Spencer cut off another piece of chicken.

  Nick watched him for a moment. “Negotiating all that job stress and . . . me can’t have been easy. When we were still trying to figure things out, I mean.” And have we figured all those things out? “Sorry for adding to your pile.”

  “No.” Spencer put down his fork and knife. “You’ve kept me sane, Nick. I was on the verge of burnout when we met. I still am, but you . . . gave me an outlet I didn’t even know existed. You helped recharge me.” He smiled. “Who knew pain was such a stress-buster?”

  “It gives your body something to worry about besides the fight-or-flight adrenaline response.”

  “Or office-related bollocks.”

  Nick laughed. “That too.”

  Spencer’s eyes lost focus. He slowly swirled his wineglass, but didn’t look at anything in particular, Nick included.

  “Something wrong?” Nick asked.

  The lack of focus remained for a moment, but then Spencer lifted his gaze and met Nick’s eyes. “Does this, what we’re doing, have anything to do with how you’re feeling?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re stressed and tired too. I mean, you’re a sex worker. And now we’re in a . . . I mean, we’re . . .”

  “In a relationship.” Still felt so strange to say those words.

  “Right.” Spencer stopped swirling the glass, but held onto it, like he needed some sort of concrete handle on the universe. “Does it bother you? What we’re doing along with your job?”

  Nick’s normal knee-jerk response would have been to insist that their relationship had nothing to do with anything, but the words caught in his throat. Was it an issue? He’d been so relieved just to break the tension and be back in Spencer’s world after that long, silent gap that he hadn’t considered how all of this might affect him. Affect either of them, for that matter.

  “If it’s an issue,” Spencer said quietly, “we don’t have to.”

  Nick sipped from his glass and looked down at his plate as he rolled the dry wine around on his tongue. He swallowed it, wondering when his throat had gotten so tight. “Maybe it’s just an adjustment period.”

  Spencer’s chair creaked, so Nick chanced a look. He’d leaned forward, resting his elbows beside his plate and loosely clasping his fingers together. “I don’t want to be a source of stress for you, though. You’ve done so much to reduce my stress, and I . . .” He shook his head. “I’m not doing that to you.”

  Nick moistened his lips. “You’re not. But I’ve . . . Look, you and I are crossing some lines I’ve learned to be cautious about crossing. I haven’t had a boyfriend in ages, and getting involved with someone who started out as a client is particularly unnerving. It??
?s . . . it’s something I need to adapt to. Slowly. Figure out where the new lines are.” He paused. “Figure out where exactly this differs from all the other men who still pay me.”

  He watched Spencer, waiting for the flinch, some indication that Spencer really didn’t like the idea of Nick having sex with other men, never mind for pay. But the flinch didn’t come. He just kept looking at Nick, calmly and quietly waiting for him to continue.

  Nick took a breath. “I think we just—I just—need time to settle into this. That’s all.”

  Spencer nodded. “I think we both do. I’m new at this too. I mean, I told you about my ex—the one who went to New York City and then claimed the time difference made everything impossible.”

  “Mr Fall-Asleep-On-Papers-In-Bed.”

  “Him.” Spencer smiled, but he didn’t seem wistful. He was over the guy, though maybe not over having been treated like that and having made such a dog’s dinner out of something that must have started out good and right and hopeful once upon a time. Always interesting how that first blush of love could turn to shit if you weren’t careful. “I’m thinking, as long as we talk about things, we’ll be fine.”

  The offer was clearly on the table: Let’s talk.

  “You’ve never had a relationship with a Dom, Spencer. Of course you’re out at sea. But this can be whatever we make it. I’ll make sure your needs are met, and you’ll meet mine.”

  Spencer shivered—just a hint, and Nick wouldn’t even have noticed if he didn’t know that man so well. Something in Spencer’s expression changed, and the submissive crept in. The man who looked up to his Dom and needed him to be in control. They were far from Spencer’s bedroom, surrounded by everything domestic and eerily normal—by society’s standards, not Nick’s—and still, in the space of a comment and its subsequent, unspoken response, the power balance was shifting.

  “I still have to make a living.” Nick put it out there mostly to gauge Spencer’s reaction.

  Spencer nodded.

  Really? Was Spencer really accepting it? And why? Obedience? Respect for lines Nick had drawn pretty much from day one? Tolerance? Resignation? He’d have to get underneath that and peel the façade away. It was the most likely weak point, the most natural breaking point.

  “Are you really okay with what I do, Spencer?”

  Spencer’s eyes lost focus for a moment, but then he nodded. “Yes. I am. What about you?”

  Nick blinked. “What about me?”

  “Are you okay with what you do?” Spencer cradled his wineglass between his fingers, and looked straight at Nick. “I mean, are you okay with your job alongside our relationship?”

  “Of course I am,” Nick said quickly. “I’m maybe a bit burned out, but . . .”

  Again, Spencer was quiet for a moment. “I think we need to acknowledge the fact that it’s unhealthy, the amount of stress on both of us right now, whether it’s because either of us needs to make a change in our professional lives or not.” Definitely the lawyer talking here, and he unflinchingly held Nick’s gaze. “I don’t want this”—he gestured at himself and then Nick—“to be the reason for that.”

  Nick’s heart jumped. “Meaning?”

  Spencer didn’t answer immediately. He took a deep breath, released it slowly, and only then did he say, “It means we need to take care of ourselves. And each other. And if it comes down to it, make some difficult decisions.”

  The flutter of panic in Nick’s chest unsettled him; he didn’t like that feeling. That sense that he was rapidly losing control of a situation, which made him want to not just regain control, but grab it in a chokehold. He swallowed. “It’s way too early to be choosing between this and our jobs.”

  Spencer nodded. “But sooner or later, something’s going to have to give, and I just think we ought to be aware of that.”

  “Right,” Nick said with a nod. “As it stands right now, I don’t want to change a thing.” Especially this. Please, not this.

  “Neither do I.” Spencer paused, still cradling his wineglass, and smiled a little. “I want to get rid of the stress, not the stress relief.” He winked, and laughed softly, which settled some of that fluttery feeling in Nick’s chest.

  Nick managed a soft laugh himself. “I don’t want to change this either. We’ll . . . we’ll figure everything out.”

  “I know. I just want to make sure it’s all out on the table. So we can figure it out together.”

  “Agreed,” Nick said quietly. “And while we’re putting everything out on the table, I should mention that at times, I’ll have a bad day. Normally, I don’t really mingle right after a night like that. I need space when things go wrong. To regroup. It’s not to get away from you, though.”

  Spencer nodded again. “Understood. That can happen in my job, too. And it doesn’t help that when things get intense in the office, I might not even come home. Hell, I have slept in my office some weekends.”

  “I’ve heard stories like that. That’s fine. We both have demanding jobs.” Spencer traced the foot of his wineglass with a fingernail. “There’s no reason why this shouldn’t work, though. We manage . . . sexually.”

  Not just manage. Sexually, they were hand in glove, Spencer so natural as his sub that Nick’s pulse sped up just thinking about that. Normal life, though? That was something entirely different.

  “Well.” Nick drained his wineglass—there wasn’t much left by this point—and set it back on the table. “All we can do is take it one day at a time.”

  A grin played at Spencer’s lips. “And the nights?”

  Nick returned the grin. “If they ain’t broke . . .”

  They finished eating, and Spencer cleaned up the dishes and the kitchen, insisting that Nick not lift a finger. He seemed amused when Nick hoisted himself onto the counter, perching there while Spencer did the scrubbing and drying, and three times, Nick caught him stealing a glance at the front of his trousers. All the more reason to sit up there, Nick decided.

  But stealing glances and exchanging comments over domestic chores didn’t exactly segue into the way Nick and Spencer had spent most of their time together since the first night Spencer had hired him. Before long, they were hovering in the kitchen. Nick was still sitting on the counter, boots crossed at the ankles and hands resting on the edge, and Spencer was drumming his fingers beside the sink. They were one “So . . . now what?” away from shit getting awkward.

  “So . . .” Nick tapped his fingertips on the counter’s edge. “You’re off for a few days. Maybe I’ll take Monday off too.”

  Spencer’s eyebrows jumped. “Really?”

  “We could, um, spend the day together.” Nick thought he was going to choke on the words, and he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like he’d suggested they move in together in the morning and fill out civil partnership paperwork over lunch. He cleared his throat. “You know, have a day without our jobs killing us.”

  Spencer smiled. “I like that idea.”

  Nick nodded, but said nothing. He’d run it by Market Garden’s owner tomorrow night, and that thought was like a ball of lead in his gut. Not because he thought he’d be turned down—Frank was usually telling him he needed to take time off—but because of the reminder of where he’d be tomorrow night versus where he was now. Of his job. Fuck.

  He cleared his throat again. “So what about tonight?”

  Spencer swallowed. “Yes, tonight.” He locked eyes with Nick, and there it was again: that submissive look and its unspoken question.

  Nick’s heart beat a little faster. Exhausted as he was, that look in Spencer’s eyes couldn’t not affect him. It woke up the lethargic Dom in him, brought his need for Spencer and Spencer’s submission to the surface.

  He lifted himself off the counter and landed on his feet. One step towards Spencer, and the beautiful submissiveness was suddenly there in spades. In Spencer’s eyes, in the way his posture relaxed and his shoulders lowered slightly. He was taller and broader than Nick, but when the power shift kicked i
n, the physical difference in size seemed to lessen. Ceased to matter.

  Nick put his hand on Spencer’s face, resisting the shiver when Spencer pressed against his palm. “When you invited me over tonight,” he said, deliberately whispering so Spencer had to strain to hear, “was it just for dinner? Or did you want . . . something more?”

  “I want everything you give me, Nick. Anything at all.”

  Oh God, talk about sparks flying. Almost four months in, it still felt like they’d barely scratched the surface. There was so much that Nick wanted to give him, show him, make him do. Ever since he’d become aware just how perfect Spencer was, he’d felt oddly possessive of him. He’d been only too aware that he didn’t want Spencer ruined by anybody else—wanted to keep his training between just the two of them, to make sure it was done right.

  “What about moving this to the bedroom?” Nick asked.

  “The wine?”

  Nick waved it off. “Neither of us had more than a glass. Nothing to preclude us from a little light playing. Just something to focus you.” And me. Hell, maybe I need it more than you do right now. But he didn’t have to tell Spencer that. Needy Dom, now there was a weird concept.

  Spencer nodded. “Stay . . . stay with me over the weekend? I’d really like to spend more time with you. See . . . find out how it all works.”

  A whole weekend. And Monday. Together like a normal couple. Intimidating. And thrilling. “All right. We’ll do that.”

  Spencer’s posture relaxed. With that out of the way, he let Nick take the lead. As natural as exhaling.

  “To the bedroom.” Nick gave a sharp nod in its direction. “Get ready. Kneel at the bed.”

  Spencer smiled and left, while Nick remained standing in the kitchen just a little longer, examining whether he was ready to do this. But he was. Spencer wasn’t work, and that glass of wine hadn’t impaired his judgment or precision.

  With Spencer, he didn’t feel pressure to perform. Had never felt it—he could trust his instincts and know he wouldn’t go wrong. They were natural together. He walked into the bedroom, smiled at a couple of large candles flickering in glasses, the only sources of light in the room. They were fake—just little LEDs buried deep in real wax—but the glow looked genuine, and it cast a cosy, romantic light over Spencer’s bedroom.