Title: How Long Has This Been Going On

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean

Fandom: JAG

Pairing: Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer

Rating: NC-17

Email address: Tinneantoo@aol.com

Disclaimer: After all this time, you still don't know the drill? Very well, Belisarius Productions claims them.

Status: new/complete

Date: 4/02

Series/Sequel: This is part 10 in the Mind Fuck series, and follows Why Should I Care.

Other Web Site: http://www.angelfire.com/fl5/tinnssinns
http://www.angelfire.com/ny4/tinsel

Archive: OK, I surrender. Yes to all the list archives. (I'm so easy!)

Summary: This is Clay's POV of the night he went to Clark Palmer's apartment with a bottle of champagne.

Warnings: m/m, minor spoiler for Imposter.

Notes: Major thanks to Gail for letting me play in her playground, and for the marvelous, as always, beta.

How Long Has This Been Going On
by Tinnean

"Hold on a second, Clay!"

"D.B. I was just leaving. Security is going to sweep my house again, and I want to be there if they find anything." Twice, now, Clark Palmer had broken into my house, with an ease I would have considered laughable if this wasn't happening to me. I didn't know how I would react if they did turn up something, but I would add it to what Palmer owed me. And his tab was mounting.

My friend fell into step beside me, and we walked out into the weak spring afternoon. "I won't keep you long, then. I just got a new bit of intelligence on Palmer." He laughed at the look on my face. "Come on, Clay. You didn't think Michael Shaw was the only mole I had in the DSD, did you?"

"Obviously not. What is it?"

"Clark Palmer has been taken out of the field!"

My stomach clutched. I drew in a quiet breath and licked my lips. "What do you mean, D.B.?" DSD agents didn't live long. The fact that Clark had reached forty and was still active was an amazing feat in itself. I couldn't believe that rogue agency would cancel the best it had.

"I mean the son of a bitch has been promoted! He's Deputy Director of Interior Affairs."

"Clark....Wh.. Palmer is replacing Sperling?" I actually felt a flash of... No. It certainly wasn't pride, I assured myself. How could I be proud of someone who worked for an agency like the DSD, who cut a favorite pair of my pajamas to rags? In order to get at my body? I had no reason to be proud of him! I shoved that image out of my mind and brought my attention back to what D.B. was saying.

"... Wonders will never cease! I guess the DSD finally got wise to that shit. I wonder how much that will interfere with how business is done. Sperling made it easy to pay the bills."

I knew what my friend meant. The former deputy director was always out on the golf course, supposedly to make connections. They never seemed to materialize at the crucial moment; Sperling was so slapdash and careless that the CIA had no problem running its operations without DSD interference. I was only surprised it had taken the DSD so long to remove him. I said as much to D.B.

"Yeah? I think Palmer was just waiting for Sperling to dig a deep enough hole before he shoved him in. If I remember rightly, a few years back Palmer lost some good men due to Sperling's incompetence."

I wasn't about to venture an opinion on that, although I was inclined to agree that Sperling was removed at this time because it suited Clark Palmer to have him removed at this time.

"Well, I'm outta here, Clay. I've put in a lot of hours, and I'm taking the rest of the afternoon off."

"Got a hot date, D.B.?"

"I should live so long." He had the grace to look abashed. "Yeah, I know," he sighed. "And you were right. I shouldn't have dated a civilian. Never again, I promise!"

"I've got some plans I can't get out of tonight, but if you'd like, we can get together tomorrow for dinner." I had no intention of letting him know that the information about Palmer's promotion had given me a clue as to where I was going to take this game we were playing.

He looked pleased. "That sounds good, Clay. I would like that."

"Are you going to be all right, D.B.?"

"Yeah, I'll survive. She didn't break my heart, just dinged my self-esteem a bit. I'll stop at Chang's and get some subgum pork chow mein to take out, then watch Aliens while I stuff my face." He smiled ruefully, and I felt a spurt of disgust at all the idiotic women who had cut him out of their lives. D.B. Cooper was a good man, and he deserved better than that.

"How many times will this make that you've seen Aliens?"

He frowned in concentration. "Um, two hundred and thirty-seven, no, thirty-eight. What can I tell you? I love that movie!"

I clapped him on the shoulder. "That's obvious. I'll see you tomorrow, D.B. Have a good evening."

"So long, Clay." He strode toward his car, jiggling his keys in his hand.

I hit the remote that unlocked my car door, got in, and searched my pockets for a roll of Lifesavers. Thoughtfully, I slid one onto my tongue and began to suck on it.

It had been some days since Clark Palmer had thrown down the gauntlet with those expensive silk pajamas he'd left in my townhouse, along with a photograph of him spread temptingly on my bed, one hand cuffed to the headboard with the same cuffs he'd used on me, the other covering a rather impressive hard on. It was time to make a move of my own.

You used champagne to celebrate an occasion such as this, didn't you? Slowly, I began to smile.

I inserted the key into the ignition and switched on the engine. This promotion presented me with an ideal opportunity. As I drove home, I began to consider which way Clark Palmer would look best. On his stomach, with his tempting ass waiting to get fucked? On his back, with his legs over my shoulders while I fucked him to hell and back? On his knees with my cock stuffed in that smart mouth of his?

Or perhaps all of them.

****

"It's clean, Webb."

"Thanks, Callahan. I appreciate it."

He chewed on a toothpick. "No problem. Mind telling me why we needed to do this again so soon?"

I didn't want to tell him, but the Chief of Internal Security had fitted my request in without blinking an eye, and his second assistant deserved some explanation. "I have reason to believe that someone from the DSD broke into my house."

As I'd hoped, mention of the DSD was all it took. "Those goddamned wet boys. Think they'd go play in someone else's fucking backyard! Any idea who it was?"

I shrugged, and he took that as a sign of my ignorance, and not reluctance to name the senior agent who had disabled my security system, cuffed me to my own bed and sucked me to a mind-blowing orgasm.

God, Clark Palmer had a talented mouth! I felt myself stirring at the memory and flushed. Fortunately, none of the security team noticed.

I watched as Callahan and his crew left, then closed the door and reset the alarm. It was time to choose a wine for the DSD's new Deputy Director of Interior Affairs.

There was no basement in my townhouse, so when I had purchased it, I'd had a pantry off the kitchen remodeled into a wine cellar. It had its own set of temperature controls apart from those of the rest of the house.

I switched on the light, glancing quickly over the shelves that lined the three walls. One wall held only champagne, including a number of bottles of Louis Roederer 'Cristal' 1979, which Mother had given me as a housewarming gift after I'd completed the purchase of my townhouse.

In 1980 I had accompanied her on the trip to France when she had ordered them. That was the year the United States had boycotted the summer Olympics, and my dreams of taking home a gold in the equestrian three-day event came crashing down. It had seemed like the end of the world to me. Mother had been sympathetic but firm: I could get over my disappointment or not, that was my choice, but I was going with her on this wine buying trip.

I'd gone, positive that I wouldn't have nearly as good a time as in Moscow, but then I'd met an intriguing young man at the first vineyard we'd visited, and while Mother tasted the wines, I tasted my first cock.

All in all, it had turned out to be a marvelous trip. And of course, I'd gotten to compete in the '88 pentathlon in Seoul.

There were some bottles of Moet and Chandon Dom Perignon, which I had picked up myself on another trip to France, and I found my hand hovering over one of them.

Abruptly I snatched my hand back. //What the fuck do you think you're doing?// I asked myself in disbelief. //That's a two hundred dollar bottle of champagne!// A couple of shelves below the pricey wine were some more reasonably priced vintages. I took the bottle of Pol Roger 1990. It was a decent wine, and if Palmer chose to knock it back rather than savor it, well, it was better than presenting him with a more expensive champagne.

The selection made, I put the bottle in the refrigerator to chill and decided I'd have dinner before I left to torment Clark Palmer just a bit. I scrubbed an Idaho potato and put it in the oven, then went up to my bedroom. Since this was just a casual visit, I would wear casual clothes, and I selected a cream-colored, cable stitch fisherman knit sweater that had a rolled neck. It had been hand-knitted for me by an ancient woman who lived on the island of Innisfree, and with whom I had struck up an acquaintance when I'd been in Ireland on... business. I paired it with charcoal-grey slacks. Undershorts, tee shirt and argyle socks were laid out as well, and then I went to take a shower.

The water was warm and sensuous against my skin. I lathered up a loofa and stroked it over my arms and chest. My cock became harder as I turned and let the spray beat down on it. I pictured myself on my bed once again, cuffed and helpless, while Clark Palmer went down on me, and I began to stroke myself with my soapy palm.

I liked the feel of that. I liked the feel of the finger I slipped into my ass as well, and as I beat off, I pumped it into me repeatedly. At that angle, I couldn't quite manipulate my prostate, but there were enough nerve endings involved to bring me pleasure. The water flowed over me as I came with a quiet groan. It wasn't the best orgasm I'd ever had, but it was enough to take the edge off my desire, and that was all I was concerned about at that point. I would not confront my opponent with anything less than perfect control. I leaned my head against a tiled wall, and caught my breath.

The water was cooling by the time I stepped out of the shower. After I dried the moisture from my hair and body, I wondered if I should shave. I ran a hand over my cheek and decided I would.

It wasn't until I was smoothing on the aftershave that I realized I was treating this as if I were getting ready for a date. I washed off the cologne and strode into the bedroom.

By the time I had finished dressing I was famished. I went downstairs to the kitchen to complete dinner preparations. I put a porterhouse steak in the broiler and made a salad. While I waited for the steak to be done, I took the paper that contained Palmer's address from my wallet. I'd write a note, just in case he was out when I turned up. Something along the line of, "Sorry I missed you. Call me, and we'll split a bottle of champagne to celebrate your promotion. 'Clay.'"

He lived in Forest Heights, right across the river from Alexandria. It wasn't a long drive, but I'd take a cab. No sense in taking the car out again.

****

I fingered the slip of paper with Palmer's address, then placed it in my coat pocket and pushed the button for the elevator. After a minute or so there was a soft chime that signaled its arrival, and the doors slid open.

Two woman in their twenties stepped out. "He actually said hello to me when I ran into him this afternoon!"

The taller one murmured, "He's just so amazingly gorgeous!"

Her companion seemed to agree, although she did have a caveat. "If he'd only do something about his ears."

They nodded absently to me and continued past. The front door of the building cut off the rest of their conversation.

I wondered if Palmer knew he had a fan club.

I entered the elevator and pressed five. The car rose smoothly, nothing less than what one would expect in such a well-kept building. There were rumors that it might be going condo.

Palmer's apartment was at the far end of the corridor. I rang the bell and waited for him to open the door. I heard the soft murmur of voices from the TV. Clark Palmer, watching the idiot box? The age of miracles had not passed!

After a few seconds, I put my finger back on the bell and left it there.

"C'mon, Palmer, don't keep me waiting out in the hall!" I muttered as I realized I was being observed. The distorted eye watched me through the peephole, and I raised my hands to show that all I carried was the bottle of Pol Roger. "I'm sure you can see I'm unarmed!"

"To what do I owe the honor, Webb?" he snarled through the door. I could hear him turning the deadbolts to unlock it. That rather surprised me, that someone of Clark Palmer's caliber would have a security system so antiquated, and so easy to over-ride.

It occurred to me that if he could override a system installed by the CIA, *the* most sophisticated agency in the United States, he wouldn't rely on anything less than the most state-of-the-art security devices. And perhaps it might not be difficult to get into his apartment, but it would without a doubt be deadly. Palmer was a senior special agent in an agency that honed paranoia to a fine art, and I was certain he would have his door booby-trapped in some manner.

The door swung open, and I walked past Palmer, handing him the champagne and ignoring the Glock he was trying to conceal from me. While he shut the door and relocked it, I spared a glance at his living room, but my eyes were drawn to the fact that Clark Palmer was wearing a plain white tee shirt and a pair of cotton boxers, and white crew socks.

Somehow, I was able to whistle. "Nice legs, Palmer."

He stared down at his legs in dismay, as if he had forgotten he was only in his underwear. "Fuck." He thrust the bottle back at me. "I'm getting dressed and then you're telling me what you're doing here."

"You're dressed enough for me, Clark." I found it hard to force my gaze from his crotch. If I watched long enough, would he get hard? Slowly I raised my eyes, visually caressing each inch of his torso. "I mean, after all, the last time we were together you sliced up a pair of my favorite pajamas. By the way, thanks for the new ones. They're very... comfortable."

He scowled, and I could tell that he thought I'd already worn them. He turned on his heel and walked stiff-leggedly down the hall to where his bedroom must have been, and I went into his kitchen to put the champagne in the refrigerator. I gazed across at his living area, then walked around the island to study it more closely.

It was larger than I expected, but sparsely furnished. A coffee table with an open bottle of beer sitting on it was in front of the couch, which faced a large screen TV. A three-shelf bookcase, and a small multimedia stand that contained hand-labeled VHS tapes that he must have recorded himself bracketed a door that led into another room. A guest room, perhaps? I'd tease Clark into giving me a tour of his place another time.

On the television, I recognized Tyrone Power, dressed as a Spanish grandee. He hurled his sword to the ceiling of the room he was in, and it buried itself in the wooden beams, quivering from the force of his action.

Above the TV was a case that contained a rather old, battered sword. I stepped closer to read the small plaque that was screwed into the bottom of it, and was startled by the inscription. "Owned by Basil Rathbone, and used by him in Captain Blood, The Adventures of Robin Hood, and The Mark of Zorro."

Clark was interested enough to buy a sword with such a provenance? Now that was an intriguing bit of information.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a dog standing in the corner, and I whirled to face the extremely life-like statue. The rottweiler stood at attention, its ears cocked alertly, its docked tail erect, and from its mouth dangled a ragged square of denim. It was an excellent rendition, and I squatted down beside it to examine it thoroughly.

Clark strolled back in, dressed in grey sweatpants. He hadn't bothered to put something on over his tee shirt, and I noticed the slight bulge under the sleeve, but elected to ignore it for the time being.

"I put the champagne in your refrigerator," I told him, admiring the view. "Nice pet, Clark."

"When I'm on assignment, I never know when I'll be back. Wouldn't be fair to a live dog. That's Sam."

"Sam?" I smiled. "Named for Sam Spade?" I liked the idea of him enjoying The Maltese Falcon enough to name the statue after the San Francisco gumshoe. He smiled, but didn't respond to that, and I wondered if I had that wrong. But I couldn't think of another Sam.

"Let's make this brief, shall we? I want you out of my apartment."

I laughed softly as I got back to my feet and began to unbutton my overcoat. "Ah, but we don't always get what we want, do we, Clark?" It was time the DSD agent learned what happened when you tangled with the CIA. I had no intention of leaving his apartment, not until I got what *I* wanted, and playing with his mind was only the half of it.

"What do *you* want, Webb?"

Him, in bed. But I'd let him find that out for himself, later.

"Clay, Clark, or Clayton, if you prefer. Didn't we already hash this out? A couple of glasses, if that wouldn't be too much trouble? I thought we could have the champagne." I handed him my coat, and he fumbled for the closet door, watching me as if he expected me to do something unpredictably dangerous. He hung up my coat, his eyes riveted to my chest, and suddenly my nipples were pebble hard and aching to be touched. I couldn't help but remember the way he had toyed with them, driving me almost to the point of orgasm with his licks and nibbles. Clark's tongue swept out to lick his lips, and I wanted his mouth on my body. I felt heat mount my cheeks and reminded myself of the reason I was there: to unbalance him, just a bit, maybe more than just a bit. "I understand congratulations are in order: you've received a promotion."

His mouth tightened, and then he deliberately smoothed all expression from his face. He wasn't going to ask how I knew of his promotion; I wasn't going to tell him.

He went into the kitchen, and I trailed along behind him, making myself comfortable against the island counter while he rummaged through one of the upper cabinets to find the correct glasses for champagne. They appeared to have a thin coating of dust, and I had to laugh when he blew into them to remove the dust. Obviously he didn't have much use for champagne flutes. That effort didn't work, and he looked uncomfortable.

"Sorry," Clark muttered. He pushed aside the dishes that were stacked in the sink and rinsed the glasses, then dried them with a paper towel.

Hmmm. He'd already eaten. Well, I'd just have to see how much champagne I could get him to drink. I went to the refrigerator and took out the bottle of sparkling wine. I'd already noticed that he didn't have much in there beyond some take-out cartons from a local Italian restaurant, which I also patronized on occasion, and a container of half and half.

I undid the hood that confined the cork and worked it free with a subdued pop. The gases rose, tickling my nose. He held the glasses out, and I began to fill them with the Pol Roger, not letting him take his away until it was filled almost to the brim. "*When*, goddammit, Clay, *when*!"

"This is too good a vintage to let go to waste, Clark. We're going to finish this tonight!" We were going to do more than finish a bottle of champagne. I intended to get him out of my system once and for all. I set the bottle back on the counter and touched my glass to his. "All the best in your new office, Deputy Director of Interior Affairs Palmer."

If he was uncomfortable about the extent of my knowledge, he concealed it well. "I'm not telling you anything about it, Webb, so don't think getting me drunk will work." Interesting, that he would assume I would try to get him drunk. Probably because it was something *he* would do. "Too much champagne doesn't make me talkative." He grinned. I had known how deadly Clark Palmer could be, but when he grinned like that it was easy to see how even someone like Harmon Rabb, Jr. would be aware of the danger that followed the DSD agent like a tame puppy. Then his face was concealed as he took another sip.

"Whatever you say, Clark," I said, making my voice indulgent and caressing. I was rather looking forward to seeing how he did react to 'too much' champagne. "Are we going to stand in your kitchen until we finish this bottle?"

"You can join me on the couch," he conceded grudgingly, "And watch some of the swashbuckler marathon with me. But when the champagne is finished, you have to go."

"Certainly. I wouldn't want to wear out my welcome." I made no effort to swallow my laughter. We'd finish the champagne, only I'd see to it that a good deal more of the sparkling wine found its way into his glass than into mine. How much would it take to get him drunk, I wondered?

"You're so full of it, Webb! Come on." He left the champagne of the counter and crossed to the couch, but I picked up the bottle and followed him, placing it on the coffee table.

There were a number of oversized coffee table books scattered over the top, and I picked up the one that contained photographs of the art in the Louvre. "Interesting." I leafed through the book. "You never struck me as having an inclination toward the old masters."

He shrugged, but his eyes glittered. "Impressed?"

I wasn't merely impressed, I was *impressed*! "As a matter of fact, I am."

"Then it served its purpose." Again he looked as if he knew something, and he wasn't about to share.

Clark dropped down onto the couch and swung his feet up on the coffee table, drawing my attention to his feet. I breathed deeply, getting a lungful of pure Clark Palmer, then took my shoes off and relaxed next to him.

He picked up the remote, but before he could turn up the sound, I said, "Clark."

"Hmm?"

"Why does Sam have a rag in his mouth?"

Clark gazed at the statue, and I'd have sworn he loved that bronze beast. "That's not a rag. That's a trophy of battle."

"A trophy? You want to explain that?"

Clark took another sip of champagne, and I reached for the bottle and filled his glass. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, giving me the opportunity to study him unobserved, and he began to speak.

"My uncle Steve used to tell me this story." I was rather surprised that he would reveal something of his past to me. The file that D.B. had started on him contained minimal information about his family, just touching on the fact that Steven Palmer was his father's younger brother. Clark had a small smile on his face, of which I was sure he was unaware, and I couldn't take my eyes off him. He seemed younger, almost carefree, not a man who routinely caused havoc and mayhem. "There was a man who decided that living in the city was too dangerous..."

The expression on his face was fond and contented. I'd have to remember to put this in the file that *I* was keeping on him. This was definitely not the Clark Palmer with whom the intelligence community was familiar.

He described the man's little girl, and the scruffy dog that wandered into her life one day. He also told of how the mother had become almost hysterical at the sight of the dog playing with her golden-haired cherub.

I was startled by the disdain in his voice. It was on record that Palmer had any number of affairs, if that was what one might call the one night stands in which he indulged. Apparently he didn't have a very high regard for the fairer sex outside of the bedroom.

He spoke about the child's unbridled curiosity, which landed her in the dangerous currents of the Hudson River in New York. The corner of his mouth crooked. "The mother stood there, screaming and wringing her hands."

"You don't have much use for women, do you, Clark?"

"Sure I do." He glared at me, and again his contempt for women was obvious. "I fuck 'em, don't I? Hey, my glass is almost empty. Pour me some more, will you?" I didn't let him see my eyes; they would have revealed how very nicely my plan to get him drunk, and relaxed, and in my bed was coming along. Well, in *any* bed that was handy. After I topped off his glass and put the bottle back on the coffee table, he continued. "Anyway, there was the mom, crying and being generally useless. And that big old dog, that she wanted to get rid of, came tearing across the back lawn and *flung* himself into the river. He swam out, got a grip on the little girl's blouse collar and dragged her to the shore."

Clark went into detail about the dog being presented an award for his act of bravery by the town's mayor, who just happened to be running for another term.

"What was the dog's name, Clark?" I found myself extremely curious. He told this story with such fondness, except, of course, for the mention of the mother. Was this the reason why he'd named the bronze dog Sam?

"Hmm? Oh, she called him..." He seemed to catch himself. "Well, never mind, it isn't germane to the story. So the mutt got this medal hung around his neck. Time passed. The dog died, of old age," he told me in a rush, as if he worried that I'd be upset by the dog's fate, "and they buried him in the backyard, with this iron statue over his grave, and something like 'Faithful and Beloved', or some sentimental shit like that engraved on the base."

"Clark...." He cared about this story, and he cared about this dog. Why was he trying to pretend he didn't?

"Not finished, Clay," he said a bit acerbically. "You want to hear the end of this? If you're bored, the champagne's done, and you can always leave."

It was almost as if he were daring me to leave. I frowned at him and displayed my glass, which was still about half full. "It sounded like it was finished. The freaking dog is dead, for fuck's sake!"

His lips curved in a grin. "Is he?"

"Excuse me?" Although I had only had a couple of glasses, about half of what Clark had consumed, the champagne was starting to get to me.

He leaned back, his eyes fastened on the ceiling, apparently awash in the memories. "Well, the little girl grew up and moved back to the city, where she met and married an asshole. The creep beat her, I imagine, although Uncle Steve was never clear about that point. So she left him, and returned to the house on the river. Did I mention her parents had died and left it to her?"

I wasn't about to let him spend the rest of the night telling me fairy tales. Sooner or later I was going to fuck him. "No," I murmured, and grinned at him.

"Sorry. They did. So there she was, in this big, rambling house, all by herself. She wasn't afraid to be alone in it, because it was her childhood home, and aside from almost drowning in the Hudson, nothing bad had ever happened to her there. That's a really stupid attitude to take, isn't it, Clay?"

He finished the last of the champagne, and I took his empty glass and put it on the coffee table. "Yes, Clark, but it's just a story, and if the heroine didn't do anything stupid, the story wouldn't progress, would it?"

"Think you're so smart, doncha?" Suddenly he was cuddled up against me, his head on my shoulder. "You smell good, too." I sucked in a breath as he nuzzled the spot just above my collar. Then he licked me, and I jumped. His fingers walked up and down my thigh, and it was almost as if I could feel each individual fingerprint through my trousers. I spread my legs, wanting the heat of his hand on my cock as he palmed it roughly through my fly. He watched me through his lashes, and his eyes were a raptor's eyes. "Sooo, the woman was all alone in this house, and a bad storm blew in. Just before the power went off..."

"Oh, the power went off?" My voice came out hoarser than I had anticipated. His dick was hard beneath my fingers, just as mine was beneath his, and I toyed with him, rolling his balls and rubbing my thumb over the tip of his cock through his sweatpants.

"Don't tell me you doubted that! And stop interrupting me!" His hand was over mine as I played with him, and he pushed up into the caress. "Anyway, just before the power went off, there was an announcement on the TV. A vicious criminal had escaped from a local prison. Did I mention there was a prison for the criminally insane nearby?"

I chuckled. "No, you didn't, Clark." I tilted my head, liking the feel of his lips wandering over my throat and wanting more of it. "Mmm. You seem to have left out a few things."

"'S your fault, pouring all that champagne into me. Where was I?"

"It was a dark and stormy night, Clark." Was he distracted because of me or the champagne? And at this point, how much did I care? All I wanted was him as hot as he was making... as I was becoming.

"Yeah. Well, there was the woman in this big, dark house, and somewhere outside its walls was the boogeyman..." His voice actually grew menacing as he told of how she retrieved her father's gun and of all the alarums and excursions that went bump in the night. "...she was afraid to fall back to sleep, so she sat up the rest of the night. She had the gun resting on her knees, and she kept it pointed at her bedroom door."

"Just in case?" While I massaged his dick, he nipped the skin over my adam's apple and licked a path to the hinge of my jaw. My eyes drifted shut, and my breath came in hitches and gasps as I felt my cock harden even more.

"Just in case," he concurred.

I stopped myself from arching up into his touch. "Are you sure all this has something to do with Sam having a rag in his mouth?" I intended to show him I was still in control, no matter what he was doing to my body, and no matter how much champagne we had both imbibed. Of course, I had seen to it that Clark had consumed more than I.

"Y...know what?" There was a touch of disgruntlement in his voice. "I'm not gonna tell you the end now. Just finish your champagne and go home!" He started to stand up, but my grip on his wrist was too tight. I pulled him down, and his ass was back on the couch beside me.

"Tease. You're not going anywhere." His hair was like a soft drift of silk as I ran my fingers through it, then reached around to cup the back of his skull and draw him closer. "Tell me the rest of the story, Clark."

"All right, baby." It was as if my touch was all that kept him grounded, as if obeying me was his only aim in life. I liked that thought. "The next morning the sheriff came knocking on her door. Seems they'd tracked the escaped prisoner to her backyard and found him lying in the ruins of the French doors that led into her living room. Several fucking *big* shards of glass had cut into him, but that wasn't why he was dead. The sheriff apologized, said they'd need to impound her dog, because what killed the criminal was a severed jugular and a crushed windpipe, the results of savage animal bites.

"˜I don't have a dog, Sheriff," she told him.

"˜Hmmm," said the sheriff. The county coroner's men loaded the body in the meat wagon, noticing that there were defensive wounds on the nut-job's hands, and that his prison uniform was ripped up pretty good. In fact, a large square had been torn off and was missing. The sheriff sent his men to get some sheets of plywood to board up the broken doors. They had to pass the grave of the dog."

"And...?

"Wait for it!"

"Clark!" I didn't want to hear anymore. All I wanted was him. //How much champagne did you drink?// I demanded of myself.

"Okay, okay." His lips quirked, and he began to speak as if the fate of the free world depended upon the words he uttered. "˜There, clutched in the jaws of the iron dog was..."

"A rag!" I maintained. What had he taken it from, a ratty old pair of jeans?

He burst into laughter. "All right, baby, if you insist: a rag. God, I loved that story!"

That was very obvious. "How old were you when you first heard it?"

"Jesus, it was before my old man split, so I must have been..." Abruptly, he stopped laughing and pulled his hand off me. I blinked at him, wondering what was going on behind those hazel eyes of his. He stood up, glaring at me. "I want you to leave now, Webb."

I was on my feet, so close to him I could smell the wine on his breath. "You may want a lot of things, Palmer, but me leaving isn't one of them!" I ran my fingers over his ears, tracing the contours, while my eyes memorized each feature.

"No, it isn't" He was angry, but he was also turned on. I could feel his cock digging into my hip. His hands were in my hair, and I loved the feel of them flexing on my scalp. He kept me from moving, which at that point was the furthest thing on my mind. I couldn't suppress a moan as he rubbed his mouth over mine. I slid my tongue between his lips. I'd been thinking of kissing him ever since he put the thought in my mind by telling me I needed to be kissed long and often and by someone who knew how.

Clark broke off the kiss, but before I could bring his mouth back where it belonged, he licked his lips, then did a slow, easy dance with that mouth that ended with my lips under his. He closed his teeth gently over my lower lip, and I shivered under the onslaught and opened my mouth to invite him in.

He ignored my offer. "I'm going to fuck you, Clay," he whispered. His lips wandered across my cheek to my jaw, then traveled to my ear, where his warm breath caused me to actually tremble. My god, what the fuck was happening?

And then he bit down on my earlobe. His hands were all over me, and my control was out the window.

"Like that, baby?" he growled.

I moaned and panted and gasped, and didn't care a fuck what my reactions were revealing to the man who was the best the CIA's rival agency had to offer. I needed the physical contact with his skin.

Skillful hands rubbed the nap of my sweater over my chest, stimulating my already sensitized nipples, and my hips rocked against his groin, seeking some kind of relief. I would have cursed him if I could have caught my breath. But I couldn't catch my breath. The blood to my brain had all gone south, and with it any higher brain functions. All my dick knew was that it was rock hard, and it wanted to come.

Somehow he got us into his bedroom, and suddenly I was falling, taking Clark with me. I landed heavily under him on the bed. There wasn't time to undress. Slacks and sweatpants were frantically shoved out of the way, and I struggled to get his tee shirt off with no success. But his arms tangled with mine, and I was willing to settle for whatever flesh was available.

He rolled us over to grab supplies out of the nightstand beside his bed. If he hadn't seemed as desperate as I, perhaps I might have been able to change the course of our lovemaking, but as it was, the hot words he uttered in a dark, husky whisper only dragged me further into a maelstrom of lust.

Clark parted my ass cheeks, and his slicked fingers teased their way past my anus. Pre come oozed from the tip of my cock. I pulled my knees back, easily accepting the fingers he shoved even deeper into me. But although they were driving me wild, they weren't what I wanted fucking me; I needed his dick in my ass. "Jesus... Please... There... Oh, fuck..."

Shudders rippled through his body, and then his condom-covered dick was sliding into me. His eyes darkened. He stared into mine and drove himself all the way into me, hitting my prostate. The feel of his hair-roughened balls slapping against my ass cheeks dragged a groan from me, which was swallowed by that mouth of his, the mouth that he'd promised would kiss mine long and often.

I wanted... I needed more. "Clark, please!" His weight prevented me from getting my sweater off, but with Clark's help, I managed to maneuver it enough to bare the flesh of my torso. He dragged his tongue torturously over a nipple, raising his mouth to murmur hungry, incoherent words before he latched onto it and suckled. The suction was so strong I nearly levitated off the bed. His fingers entwined with mine, his hips pistoned faster and faster, and we climbed the mountain together.

I yanked my hands free and buried them in his hair, flexing them before I dragged his mouth off my chest and onto my mouth. I wanted to devour him alive.

His fingers were back on my nipples, squeezing and pulling at them. Tiny whimpers escaped unbidden, and I rocked up against him, gripping his waist with my knees as if I rode Jack Be Nimble; I wanted him deeper, harder, *harder*, and then I began to come, covering both our abdomens with my semen.

I could feel Clark pulsing deep inside me as he erupted into his own orgasm.

My lungs were working like a bellows. I'd never been fucked like that! I concentrated on reclaiming all the oxygen that hadn't seemed important while he was fucking me into the mattress. I felt his lips nuzzling my throat, and tilted my head back to give him better access. I knew he'd leave a mark, but I didn't care; in fact, at that point, I wanted that mark.

"Jesus God, you're... one 'hot' fuck, Palmer!" He slid out of me, and I felt...bereft? Oh, hell, this was not good!

"Not... too... shabby... yourself, Webb. I can... get you.. top dollar, if you ever decide you.. want to... rent your ass."

He probably meant it as an insult, but I found the idea of being his rentboy incredibly arousing. I gave a sputter of laughter. "No need to, Clark, I'm independently wealthy, didn't you know that?"

I closed my eyes and categorized the various and sundry aches in my body. My nipples tingled, my ass throbbed, and the bruise on my throat stung. It had been a very long time since I had been fucked, but I wanted to do this again. Only the next time *I* was going to be on top.

Palmer obviously had other ideas. He removed the spent condom and disposed of it without even looking to see if it landed in the wastebasket beside the bed. I could almost feel him trying to physically distance himself from me. "Why don't you grab a shower, and I'll call a cab for you. You weren't stupid enough to drive here, were you?"

"No, but I was hoping you might want me to spend the night." Oh, fuck, that was not one of my more brilliant ideas. I was putting myself in a position that would leave me at Clark Palmer's mercy. Was I out of my fucking mind?

In a word, yes. Especially when I saw his eyes glow with anticipation. He closed off his expression immediately, but I knew what I saw. He *did* want me again.

"I don't do sleep-overs, Webb," he drawled in an obnoxious tone. Ah, this was the Palmer with whom everyone was familiar, the Clark Palmer of that dinner at Raphael's.

I laughed and rolled off the bed, then pulled off my sweater and undershirt, deliberately exposing myself to him. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed the hot gaze that swept up and down my spine, settling on my ass. When I turned however, his eyes were closed, and my smile broadened. "Another time, Clark?" I rested a knee on the bed beside his hip and leaned over him, our lips separated by a hairsbreadth. When he opened his eyes again, there was a desperate look in them.

Interesting. His hands were clenching the bedspread, as if he was struggling not to reach out for me. Or was I reading more into this than there really was?

"There are clean towels in the linen closet in the bathroom," he managed to say in a tight voice.

I walked through the door he had indicated, and found a bathroom that didn't seem commensurate with his personality. The vanity was topped by a marble counter large enough to hold his shaving gear, a tumbler and a toothbrush holder that contained a solitary toothbrush.

In a corner next to the john was an artificial plant, a splash of green against the otherwise plainly tiled walls. The ivy leaves cascaded over an inverted triangle of latticed wood.

On the other side was a small stand that held a number of magazines, Time, Newsweek, The Economist. That surprised me, and then I was annoyed that I was surprised. Why wouldn't a man of Clark Palmer's abilities be au courant with business and finance? He'd probably consider it nothing more than good sense on his part.

As I was leafing through the magazine, a bulletin slid out onto the floor, and I stooped to pick it up. It turned out to be something called Spy and Spook, the DSD's in-house newsletter, which kept its employees informed of the latest promotions and commendations, and what ratings were available and needed to be filled. There were also jokes at the expense of the CIA, some of them quite funny. I was astonished to find one that had been highlighted. "How many CIA spooks does it take to change a light bulb? A hundred: one to do the actual work, and the rest to run around wringing their hands and looking stupid." Penciled next to it was, "Yeah, and it would be Webb doing the work!"

Carefully, I put it back in The Economist and replaced them on the stand.

Opposite the sink was the linen closet. One shelf held large bath sheets in solid blue or green. Matching washcloths and hand towels were on a second shelf, and on the last were stacked a couple of sets of sheets and pillowcases, also blue. Clark didn't have much of an eye for variety. I'd have to see about getting him something with a little flair.

I got a towel and turned on the water, adjusting the showerhead so it wouldn't wet my hair. The hot water felt good on my body, and as I lathered up with the bar of Irish Spring I considered using it all up. That would have been too juvenile, though, and I dismissed it as beneath me.

He seemed serious about not seeing me again. Of course I had no intention of letting that happen. I'd have to find a way to get under his guard. I turned off the water and toweled myself dry. I could hear Clark murmuring in the other room as he called for a cab to take me home.

I frowned, then used his toothbrush to brush my teeth. It would be damp when he went to use it after I'd left. I wished I could stay around to see his reaction to that.

Clark had smoothed the wrinkles out of the bed and had his sweatpants on again, and I realized that he had now seen me naked, but I still hadn't seen him. Well, that would have to wait for another time also.

He didn't hear me come back into the bedroom, and he seemed to be muttering to himself.

"You say something, Clark?"

"Uh, no." He was scowling. "Listen, Webb, were you serious about doing this again?"

I had just pulled up my slacks and was zipping the fly. "This?"

"Forget about it, I was thinking of something else."

I actually felt disappointed. I couldn't let him know that, so I gave him a smile that was the one I used when I wanted foreign dignitaries to think they had put one over on me. But I wasn't about to let him think this was the end. "I never kid about something like 'this', Clark. Next time I'd like to do it when we haven't polished off a bottle of champagne. Where are my shoes?"

"Your shoes?" The sudden change of subject off-balanced him. "Oh, you took them off in the living room."

"That's right, and then you told me why you have a bronze dog standing in the corner."

That disturbed him a little. I could see him trying to figure out when he had said anything of the kind. Of course he wouldn't realize the way he had spoken of it had revealed his fondness for his father's brother, and how he had chosen the statue to remember the man. I was CIA, after all; it was my job to pick up on details like that. And the champagne had helped distract him, too.

"You want a glass of water before you go? Might help with your hangover tomorrow morning, Clay." Clark took my overcoat from the closet while I was tying the laces on my shoes. Instead of handing it to me so I could put it on myself, he waited until I had straightened, and then held it so he could help me on with it. I felt as if I had received an unanticipated blow to my chest. I slid my arms into the sleeves, then shrugged to settle the fit over my shoulders.

The sound of the buzzer signaling the arrival of my cab interrupted the mood. I pressed the button and spoke into the grill. "I'll be right down." I cupped Clark's jaw and rubbed my thumb over his cheekbone, feeling the stubble. Funny, I hadn't noticed that before. "I never have a champagne hangover, Clark. Isn't that in your file about me?" I brought his mouth down to mine and gave him a soft, fleeting kiss, then walked out the door and shut it quietly behind me.

I stood at the elevator, waiting for the doors to open, half hoping that Palmer would storm out of his apartment, grab me and kiss me stupid, and tell me that like hell would I be going home tonight.

The doors slid open, dispelling that farfetched fantasy, and I stepped into the car. On the lobby floor, two men were chatting as I exited from the elevator. The taller man was smiling patiently. "His ears are very attractive," he insisted.

"Oh, what," the shorter one demanded with an inelegant snort, "big ears have the same significance as large feet?"

I choked back a startled laugh. It seemed the DSD agent had fans in both sexes! I could have told them both that Clark was very nicely equipped, indeed, but from now on that was no one's business but mine. They nodded to me and entered the elevator, and the doors slid shut on the rest of their quiet conversation.

The taxi was waiting just outside the entrance of the apartment complex. I eased onto the back seat and gave him the directions to my neighborhood in Alexandria. "Gotcha, Mac." He engaged the meter, put the cab in gear and began the drive home.

Now that all the excitement was subsiding, the ache in my ass became much more noticeable. Jesus Christ, I had actually let Clark Palmer fuck me! I couldn't believe it. I had gone to his apartment intending to get him drunk, maybe even to fuck him myself. How had the tables been turned on me?

I didn't notice the cab had stopped until the driver leaned over the back seat to shake me. "We're here, Mac. You wanna pay me?"

"Sorry." I glanced at the meter and reached for my wallet, then paid off the driver and got out.

I disarmed my security system and let myself in, then reset it.

All right. So I had been so overcome with... with *champagne* I had let the DSD agent get the upper hand. That wouldn't happen again. The next time, it would be my turn.

The light on my answering machine was blinking. There were three new messages, and I pressed the button to hear them.

"Clay!" It was D.B. "You there, buddy? Buddy? Oh, man, I have had the most unbelievable evening! I guess you're not in. I'll tell you tomorrow. Oh, no, I think I'll take a P-day tomorrow. I am so wiped, man!" In the background I could hear the sound of husky laughter. A woman's husky laugh.

It was about time my friend got lucky. I smiled and waited as the tinny voice finished announcing the time of D.B.'s call, and then went on to the next message.

"Clayton, dear." Mother. "Out on a work night? Might it be too much to hope that it's strictly social? I'm just calling to confirm our ride on Sunday. Please let me know if you'll be out of the country, all right? I hope you had a good time. Good night, sweetheart"

I rested my hand on the phone. "Good night, Mother." She wouldn't question me about my whereabouts this evening, she was too much a product of the intelligence community for that, but she would be curious. Perhaps the next time I saw her I would simply mention that I was seeing someone. She'd be rather pleased, thinking I gave far too much of my life to the Company.

The last call began. "Webb, it's Rabb! Where the fuck are you? Why aren't you there? I need a favor, goddammit! Ah, *hell*, I can never depend on you!" The phone slammed down, and I grinned wryly. Even if I had been home and had been able to do whatever favor he wanted, it wouldn't have been enough. Silently I blessed the fact that he was not my type. If I had ever found myself attracted to someone like the Naval commander, I would have had no recourse but to cut my throat.

Erasing all the messages except Mother's, I hung up my overcoat and went into the kitchen. What I had told Clark was true, I never got a hangover from champagne, but I was thirsty and felt the need for a glass of water. The phone rang as I was filling a glass with crushed ice from the icemaker on the refrigerator door, and I let the machine pick it up. If it was work, I'd answer, but otherwise I'd deal with it in the morning.

"Webb. You home yet?" *Palmer*? "I....uh... I didn't thank you for the champagne. I appreciate the thought. And... uh... Jesus, I can't believe...Listen, forget I ever called, okay?" I could hear him breathing over the open line. "Fuck!" The receiver dropped quietly into the cradle, and the answering machine cut off the ensuing hum.

I stared down at my cock in amazement. It was tenting my slacks. I'd gotten hard just from the sound of his voice.

My responses to Clark Palmer were completely out of character for me. I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. This was something I would have to brood over. Later, in the morning, or after work, or... whenever. I was too tired to think about it now.

I shed my clothes, putting my underwear in the hamper and setting the slacks and sweater aside to be dry cleaned.

I went into the bathroom and washed my hands and face. As I dried them, I tipped my head back to catch the stray drops that had run down my jaw and onto my throat. Just to the side of my adam's apple was a livid purple bruise. And it was in the same goddammed spot that he'd marked the last time.

Fucking bastard!

//Okay, Palmer, next time it's my turn. I'm going to have your ass, I'm going to mark your throat, and I'm definitely going to fuck your mind.//


~End~