Title: Don't Blame Me

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean

Fandom: JAG

Pairing: Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer

Rating: NC-17

Email address: Tinneantoo@aol.com

Disclaimer: They still belong to Belisarius Productions. And like Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that.

Status: new/complete

Date: 3/02

Series/Sequel: This is part six in the Mind Fuck series, and follows Gee Baby, Ain't I Good to You.

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: Palmer's POV of what happened the night Webb came home from Paris.

Warnings: m/m

Notes: Minor spoilers for Webb of Lies and Imposter. Thanks to Gail for the encouragement and the speedy beta. Thanks also to Silk, Page and Scarlet, for wanting more of these guys.

Don't Blame Me
by Tinnean

Traffic on the Beltway as I drove back to the building that housed the DSD was surprisingly light. It was a good thing, because I was so distracted by my confrontation with Clayton Webb that I wasn't paying as much attention to road conditions as I should have been.

How the *fuck* had Webb figured it was I who interviewed his mother under the guise of being an old school friend of his?

****

I knew they would do a search. Webb wouldn't let anyone get near his mother without one. He was a spook clear through, son of Neville Webb, whom even the DSD held in some regard. I also knew I'd have no problems coming up clean. I even had a back up plan if Old lady Webb picked up on the fact that I was five inches taller than Matthew Robinson. I'd just tell her I'd had a sudden growth spurt that summer after graduating from Exeter.

Only, who'd have thought Porter Webb would be as intelligent and charming as she was? She was blonde, and a woman, but that was where her resemblance to my own old lady vanished. Afterwards, when I pulled up some records on her that had been relegated to microfiche, I learned she had cracked Russian ciphers during Project Venona. I was impressed, in spite of myself.

We sat in a room that took advantage of the thin winter sunlight, looking through photo albums. She told me of Humpty Dumpty, her son's first pony, and Jack Be Nimble, the horse he would have ridden in the 1980 Olympics, if the United States hadn't pulled out.

"He must have been very disappointed," I murmured. I know I had been. No one had been more surprised than I was when my commanding officer told me I had made the fencing team that would represent my country. I was even more disappointed now, knowing I had missed meeting Clayton Webb before all the intelligence bullshit got between us.

"Yes, he was, rather. Of course he was able to participate in the '88 Olympics, but the Hungarians were just better than us and took the gold."

"And I'll bet that really burned his butt!" She looked away, biting her lips, and I felt heat climb my cheeks. Graduates of prep schools did not use such expressions in the presence of their friend's mother. "Sh... I beg your pardon Mrs. Webb. That was..."

"That was his precise reaction, Matthew. Clayton does not like to lose." Her eyes were warm with amusement. "I'm glad he had you for a friend! You know him so very well."

"Er, yes, ma'am," I mumbled. How could I have gotten so relaxed with her that I'd drop my guard?

"Markov."

"Mrs. Webb?"

"We'll have tea in here, if you don't mind." He nodded and left the room. "You will take tea with me, won't you, Matthew?"

I couldn't believe it! She was offering me fucking tea! Probably that damned Earl Grey that smelled like flowers, for god's sake, and those ridiculous cucumber sandwiches. I hated tea! I looked into her hazel eyes, and saw her son reflected back at me. I swallowed and said, "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

Before too long, her ... butler was wheeling in one of those trays with these tiny little cups on them. They were so delicate-looking I was almost afraid to pick one up.

Markov. I watched him from the corner of my eye. I felt a grudging respect for the man. When I'd asked for permission to photograph some of the photos of Webb as a teenager, his expression had become intent. He'd all but dismantled my camera before nodding to Mrs. Webb that it was nothing more than an ordinary digital.

I had wondered what Markov would do if he removed the 'smart card' and tried to access the information that it held. An action like that would have resulted in the computer's circuits being melted down, but I was sure he was unaware of that. The card and camera were just a prototype, something the DSD had come up with only recently, and it hadn't become general knowledge in the intelligence community.

This camera was something Mission: Impossible would have creamed its pants for. If I'd wanted to incapacitate everyone in Mrs. Webb's beautiful Tudor home, all I'd need to do was alter the setting slightly and squeeze the corners in a certain pattern. Another setting, and they all would have been dead.

The picture that grabbed me the most was one of a series of Clay on a long-legged roan, taking a water jump. The gelding looked as if he was flying on invisible wings, his mane and tail a rippling banner. Not much more than sixteen, Clay was crouched low over the animal's neck, his ass well off the saddle. I turned the photo over and read the inscription. "Clayton atop Jack Be Nimble, South Hampton trials, June, 1981." I memorized that.

"A perfect ride," his mother said with a proud smile.

If I'd been waiting in the stable when he returned from accepting the blue ribbon for that ride, I'd have tumbled him into the nearest empty stall, stripped off his jodhpurs, and fucked him senseless. I shifted as discreetly as I could.

It was a good thing Porter Webb was not looking at my eyes when I asked her if I could take a picture of that photograph. If she knew how much I lusted after her son, I think she would have taken that dainty little knife that was beside the tea she had offered me, and cut out my heart.

The worthy mother of a worthy son.

****

A few days after the funeral, and I was still trying to puzzle out how Webb could have come to the conclusion that I was the one in his mother's house.

I was in my office, completing a report that tied in with the sad demise of Michael Shaw. Some rather startling intelligence had come to light the day after his death, and it had been decided to bury the facts about the case, which was why the DSD was going along with the family's request to leave the cause of death officially as suicide. Seemed the little cocksucker really was sucking someone's cock. Mr. Wallace had been displeased to learn one of his senior department heads had promised the young agent a promotion in return for sexual favors.

Of course, I was as shocked as everyone else when I learned that Sperling, head of my own department, was the senior involved.

I sent the report to the printer and began to tie up some loose ends on another assignment.

The instant messenger service of my Internet provider sounded, those two bass cello notes that signaled the appearance of Bruce, the great white shark in Jaws. I toggled into that screen and saw that I was being invited to view a webcam. I made sure the door to my office was locked, then returned to my desk and clicked on acceptance. While I waited for the small box to appear, I activated my own webcam and slipped on a set of earphones.

"Bonjour, Scaramouche," I heard in my ear.

"What's up, Spy Boy? We got problems?"

The grainy image on my friend from Section One filled the viewer. He was smiling, but almost in stop motion his smile faded and a frown appeared.

"It would seem so, cher homme. A very interesting gentleman paid us a visit."

I had a sinking feeling in my gut. "Oh?" I asked cautiously.

"A deputy director of the CIA, no less."

"Fuck."

"Oui, that is the word I would be inclined to use. He knows you were here in Paris, and that you met with me."

"How the fuck did he find out about that?"

Again as if in slow motion, he shrugged. "Has the leak in your company been plugged?" Then he laughed softly. It was impossible to tell how well the camera caught my look of disgust, but Michael Samuelle knew me well enough to realize his question was foolish. Of course the leak had been plugged. "Et bien, mon ami. I must tell you, this Clayton Webb of yours is most attractive. I would have considered taking him to my bed!"

"But you didn't." It was a statement.

"No, cher homme. Believe me, I was tempted. And to judge by the state of his cock, your Clayton Webb was tempted also."

I almost choked. "But you did nothing."

"Did I not just say that, mon ami? You know I do not poach."

A thought came to me. "Unless Operations orders you to."

"C'est vrai. This is true, but right now, Operations is so infatuated with young Hillinger, I do not think it even crossed his mind to keep his eye on the main chance."

"See that the situation remains the same. I'd hate to have to show up in Section some day and hurt him, Michael." I worried my lip. "So. What did Webb want?"

"The usual, my friend. He wanted to know what business the DSD had with Section." I didn't need to ask if Michael had given the CIA agent any information. Section's operatives were almost as close-mouthed as the DSD. Michael's look became pensive. "He kisses very well, mon ami, and he has a sweet mouth. It would have been very enjoyable, fucking him. Quel dommage, what a shame, that I prefer to bottom, eh, cher homme?"

"You kissed him?" Fuck. *I* hadn't even kissed him. Yet.

Someone spoke to the cold operative from out of eye range. "Un moment, Walter. Mon ami, one final thing. Be careful what you are about. This Clayton Webb has warned me off you."

"What?"

"Oui. I believe his words were along the lines of, 'You *don't* come, Samuelle. Not with me. Not with Palmer!' Interessant, n'est-ce pas?"

"Thanks for the intel, Michael." I licked my lips and shifted in my seat. I was harder than I'd ever been while I was at the office.

"He missed his flight, you know," Michael said musingly. "Operations had Davenport drive him all over Paris to confuse him. Your M. Webb was not pleased. Bon chance, Clark. It will be *very* interesting, I think, to see which of you will win this game you are playing. 'voir, cher homme."

"Au 'voir, mon ami." The screen faded to black, but I really wasn't paying attention. So. Cl... Webb had gone to Paris. I didn't flatter myself to think it was because of me. No doubt he had business in Europe, agents he needed to contact. The fact that I had been in the city of lights was just a coincidence.

But ... was it possible Clay was jealous? Somehow he had discovered I'd seen the operative from Section One, and from what Michael had observed, Webb didn't seem too happy about it. I ran a hard hand over the front of my trousers.

I wasn't concerned about anyone learning of the little job I had completed for Paul Wolfe. The Boss and Operations were the only other people to know what my task had been, and unless Wolfe let something slip during pillow talk, I didn't imagine word of what I had done would become general knowledge in the intelligence community. Mr. Wallace would never reveal anything.

Now, what was the next available jet out from Charles De Gaulle airport? And would Clayton Webb be on it? I cracked my knuckles and attacked the keyboard. It didn't take me long to find out.

I leaned back in my chair, folded my hands behind my head and contemplated the ceiling. This might be a good time to pay Clayton Webb's townhouse a visit. I'd always wondered what those expensive homes in Alexandria looked like from the inside.

****

"Is this what the CIA considers security?" I muttered to myself as I disabled the alarm system. It might have stopped your run-of-the-mill crook, or maybe someone from the CIA, but as far as I was concerned, it was child's play. I let myself in and caught my breath.

Why was I so surprised at the subdued elegance of Webb's home? Of course he'd know what looked good in a room. His mother's house was beautiful, and he'd grown up with that.

I dropped the small dufflebag that held my equipment near the door to a large, airy room. Grand salon, great room, I didn't know what the fuck it was called. Before I had escaped to boarding school, I'd lived with my old lady, and the series of men I'd called 'uncle' in an apartment that would have fit in a corner of this room. We didn't even have a living room. I pushed uncomfortable thoughts out of my mind and set out to see how a spook lived.

I trailed my fingers over the silky black finish of the grand piano, and wondered if Clay preferred classical music, or if, maybe like me, he leaned toward the blues. I'd toyed with playing a jazz sax for a while when I was younger, but just hadn't had the time to give it the concentration it deserved.

On an occasional table was a framed headshot, obviously done by a professional, of a blonde in a gown that elegantly showed off her shoulders and bosom. I grinned into the vapid expression in her green eyes. The photo had to be a plant. Webb would never date such a blatantly dumb woman.

I frowned, considering the kind of women he would date. It hadn't taken me long to discover Clayton Webb was bisexual, I mean even before he sucked me off in the men's room of Raphael's. He dated clever, brilliant, gorgeous women, and he fucked men.

I turned the photo face down, and wandered through to Clay's living room. An in-home theater system took up an entire wall. In the center was a large screen TV. What looked to be ornamental woodcarvings on each side of the television turned out to be drawers that slid out, containing shelves for videotapes in both VHS and DVD formats.

Damn. He had a DVD player? I still hadn't found the time to research the best model.

The titles were interesting, and they were all prerecorded. The Desperate Hours, High Sierra, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Why buy them, when you could tape them off premium cable stations? He seemed to favor post war Japanese directors and...hold on! *I am Curious, Yellow*? Why, Clayton Webb, you naughty boy! Chuckling softly, I squatted to examine the lowest shelf, which held series that had been shown on Masterpiece Theatre. I, Claudius, Brother Cadfael, and All Creatures Great and Small.

I left his video collection and strolled over to the bookshelves that had been built into one wall. They were all hard cover, mostly legal thrillers, but there was everything written by Stephen King and the entire set of James Bond. I selected one at random and turned to the flyleaf. *Thanks for everything, Neville. Your ideas got me this book deal! All my best---Ian.*

Neville Webb had known Ian Fleming? Well, fuck me!

I thought of the three-shelf bookcase in my own apartment, and the books that were in there that I rarely had time to read, and I turned away.

A glance at my watch told me Webb would have landed at Dulles. At this time of night it wouldn't take him long to get to Alexandria, but I was pretty sure he'd stop at Langley first. I went upstairs to see what his bedroom looked like. Maybe I'd even play Goldilocks.

****

It was well past midnight when I heard the cab pull into his drive. I fitted the mask over my face and set off the first of the gas canisters. An invisible mist was saturating the entire first floor by the time his key was in the lock. Good thing I'd re-armed his security system. He automatically punched in the code that reset it once the door had been closed again.

Even though it was less than thirty-six hours since I'd last seen him, the difference was unbelievable. His face was almost grey with fatigue. His eyes were heavy, and I wondered if he had the same problem as I did about sleeping on transatlantic flights.

He smothered a yawn and hung up his overcoat in the closet.

I triggered the last canister. Clay was heading for the kitchen, but he stopped abruptly, gave his head a shake, then staggered, catching himself at the last minute. He turned and made his way to the stairs that led to the upper level.

I waited until I heard the shower running before I followed him up the stairs. In his physical state the amount of gas he'd inhaled would have him incapacitated within fifteen minutes. I didn't want him drowning in the shower.

Clay's eyes were heavy-lidded when he left the bathroom, drying himself off lackadaisically, and he never saw me in the shadows. He dropped the towel, and I almost came right then, seeing him naked for the first time.

Jesus, he was beautiful! His back was smooth, the line of his legs was long and clean, and his ass... He bent to get something from under his pillow. I shuddered and closed my eyes. All I wanted was to tackle him to the bed and bury myself between those firm, tempting cheeks.

By the time I opened my eyes again, he was buttoning the top of a pair of Jacobean patterned pajamas, swirls of red and green on a black background. Trust Clayton Webb to be one of the handful of American males who sleep in pajamas. Why couldn't he have slept in his shorts, or better still out of them? And that goddamned hank of hair falling across his forehead and into his eyes.

He got into bed and was out before I could count to ten.

I licked my lips and tried to get my breathing under control.

The gas had done its job nicely, and he slipped into REM state, sprawled out like the Naked Maja, that painting of the Duchess of Alba by Goya. A vision to behold.

I checked my watch and saw it was safe to remove my mask. There had been more than enough time for the gas to dissipate.

I placed the syringe with the antidote on the nightstand, then turned on the bedside lamp and climbed onto the bed with him, so hard I ached. If I didn't want it to be touch and go as to who came first, I'd need to do something about that. I reached into my jeans and gave myself a hard squeeze.

When I was sure I wouldn't do anything juvenile, I pulled out my knife and pressed the release. The blade flashed in the lamplight, sharp and deadly. I ran it up through the waistband of his pajama bottoms, and it cut through the soft material as if it was butter. His cock sprang free, fully erect. Drops of pre come beaded at the tip.

//Who's in your head, Clay? Who's giving you a hard on?//

I wanted to taste him, but there were other things that needed to be done first. I straddled his hips, and with an easy motion of my wrist, I sliced off each button of his pajama top.

He moaned and reached over his head to grasp the spindle headboard, his chest arching into the caress of my knife. He clutched the spindles tighter, shivering and whimpering as I stroked the blade across his nipples. Something else I wanted my mouth on. But I could wait. I was very good at waiting.

I got rid of the knife, fished the handcuffs out of my back pocket and snapped one around his left wrist. It only took a second to thread it through the headboard and manacle Clay's other wrist.

Now he was mine!

I brushed my lips over first one nipple, and then the other. They seemed to be extremely sensitive. Clay moaned steadily, rocking his hips against me, his cock rubbing along my inseam.

It wasn't easy to ignore the needy sounds Clay was making. I wanted to swallow them, but I had no intention of kissing him when he was lost in a dream. When I kissed Clayton Webb, he would damn well know who was ravaging his mouth. I dragged my tongue over a nipple, then closed my lips around it, pressed it up to the roof of my mouth, and suckled it.

"Clark! Baby, no! I'm going to come!"

Me? He was thinking of me? I laughed, feeling like that kid in the movie about the boat that sank. "Not yet, baby." I reached through my legs and squeezed the base of his cock, forestalling his need to come. But he was still more asleep than awake, and when I had him, I wanted him knowing whose mouth he came in. I groped for the syringe and pressed it against his neck.

I knew the exact moment he came out of the dream and realized that it was for real. His eyes snapped open, and he stiffened beneath me.

He could feel me above him, from groin to chest, moving to get into the best position. My knees were between his thighs, and I spread them, forcing his legs apart. That made a nice space between them for me, and I thrust gently, nudging my jeans-covered dick against his.

I saw the drop of blood on his lip. "Cut your lip, baby?" With a flick of my tongue, I licked it off. "Let me kiss and make it better."

"Goddammit, Palmer, are you out of your fucking mind?" Clay turned his head to get away from my mouth, and I let him have his little victory. He tugged experimentally on the cuffs, and wisely chose not to struggle. They were snug enough to rub his wrists raw if he tried anything strenuous.

"It's my turn now, baby." I leaned closer and nuzzled the spot on his neck where the syringe had left a tiny bruise.

"What did you do to me?"

"A little antidote to the gas canister I set off just after you locked your front door. You never listened to Rabb when he told you how bad I was. Poor Clay." I explored the shell of his ear with the tip of my tongue and ran my mouth over his cheek. Stubble scraped my lips. I bit down gently on his chin and shook it. "Oh, you should have shaved, baby. Want me to set your alarm little early? You'll definitely have to shave come morning!"

"Don't do this, Palmer!" he begged, and I could tell he hated the pleading sound in his voice. I, on the other hand, loved it.

"Clay, I'm the best! You can't tell me you don't like what I'm doing to you! Oh, maybe intellectually you can convince yourself you don't want it, but your body is begging for it!" I rolled onto my hip and got my fingers around his cock.

He was breathing so heavily he couldn't put that mouth of his to use and make a smart retort. Tremors coursed through his body, and abruptly, all I wanted was my lips around his cock.

I started to move down his body, making sure he felt me. I couldn't resist tormenting those nipples of his; they just seemed to beg for it. "Want me to fuck you, baby?" My voice was dark, promising delights that would leave him melted in a puddle of want and need. Clay's body jerked and shivered, and he yanked frantically on the cuffs. He cried out when they bit into his wrists. //Shit.// I wanted him hot, not scared, and I got worried. "Stop that, Clay. You're just going to hurt yourself." I trapped his wrists in one hand to keep him from damaging the skin and grabbed his chin with my other, and forced him to meet my eyes. "Listen to me! I won't fuck you. I promise." I lightly slapped his face to make sure I had his attention "I *promise*!"

"What are your promises worth, Palmer?" he spat at me. His eyes were thoughtful for a flash, but I might have imagined it, because almost immediately they were bitter. "They're not worth any more than your friend, Michael's!"

"What are you talking about, Webb?"

"Samuelle told me he promised you he wouldn't fuck me."

"Are you saying he lied?"

"Yes, that's what I'm saying, so if you plan on fucking me, you'd better use plenty of lube, because he left me really sore!" He was absolutely still under me. Still, and... still hard. He wasn't frightened. He was trying to up the ante in our mind games.

"Michael fucked you? He really fucked you?" That was Clayton Webb I told myself: if he went down, he went down swinging, aiming for my most vulnerable spot. And he thought betrayal by a friend was that spot. He was right. I didn't have that many friends. If Michael ever broke his promise to me, it would have ... bothered me. But I had never exacted such a promise from the Section operative, and if he had gone to bed with Clay, Clay would have been the one to do the fucking. I started to laugh. It began as a soft sound that built to a roar. "Clay, I...I *like* you!"

I could read the confusion in his eyes before he quickly masked it, along with a touch of disgruntlement. "Then you won't fuck me?" His tongue swept out to moisten his lips.

I was still chuckling. "I had no intention of fucking you tonight, Clay."

Oh, the look on his face! It was priceless! He actually looked disappointed, before he wiped his expression clear. I was tempted to start laughing again.

I wriggled down his body, scraping his nipples with my fingernails, and he trembled. The sensations pulled urgent, gasping sounds from his throat. Did he think this was it, that I would climb off him, slink away into the night and leave him to jerk off in his lonely bed? I didn't think so.

He had a nice cock, decent girth, good length, nothing that would get him hired for a porn flick, but then, who would want something ten inches long rammed down their throat or up their ass? My thumb gathered the moisture that was oozing from the slit at the tip of his dick, and rubbed it in lazy circles. I blew on it.

"Jesus Christ, Clark! What the fuck are you doing?"

"Can't you tell, Clay? I must not be doing it right, then." I took the head of his cock between my lips and swiped my tongue over the tip, finally tasting him, and his hips surged up, driving his shaft deeper into my throat. I laughed, and the vibration had him whimpering and trying to fuck my mouth.

My hands had a hard grip on his hips, and I wondered if there would be bruises in the morning, but I was only going to let him move so much. I was the one controlling this episode.

I sucked cock well. Hey, I had told the CIA spook who was moaning and writhing under me that I was the best, and he was going to learn that first hand. I shifted, and while the weight of my shoulders kept him in place, one hand plucked and squeezed his nipples. The fingers of my other hand were parting his ass cheeks and stroking across his hole, teasing it.

"Please! Please!"

I let him slip from my mouth. He was almost sobbing in desperation, and his hips jerked involuntarily, needing the hot suction on his dick.

"Say my name."

"Wha...what?"

"You want to come. Say my name, baby, and I'll give you an orgasm you'll never forget!"

I wasn't sure if he would do it. Clayton Webb was a man in control of himself at all times. I pressed a little more firmly against his opening. I sucked the head of his cock a little harder.

"Clark!" He surrendered.

I slammed my mouth down onto his dick, letting him feel the edges of my teeth, and he erupted with a cry, pouring himself down my throat. Spasms rippled through his muscles as he rode down from his climax.

He lay under me, sounding as if he'd never be able to catch his breath. I swallowed the last spurt of his come and propped myself up on my elbows. "You taste good, Clay." He was watching from under his lashes, and I licked my lips. "I knew you would." It was time to leave. I levered myself off him and reached for the syringe. I didn't want him getting nervous; he was CIA, I was DSD, and we were both in an occupation where needles could easily spell death. "I'm going to uncuff you, baby, but since I don't think I'm your most favorite person right now, I'll have to send you beddy-bye, first. This will wear off in about half an hour, and you'll fall into a natural sleep. Why don't you sleep in tomorrow? I'll even call in for you, if you'd like."

I liked the idea of leaving a message with the Company, letting those assholes know their deputy director of counter intelligence wouldn't be in until later, if at all that day. I was willing to bet I could alter my voice enough to pass for him when he was suffering from jet lag. Hell, I'd fooled Chegwidden once, convinced him I was that shit, Rabb.

"Bastard. You know I'm going to kill you, don't you?" There was no heat in Clay's words. He might be a little annoyed with me right now, but I could tell from the boneless sprawl of his body that he was also extremely sexually satisfied.

I gave a huff of laughter. "You can try, Clay." I smoothed back the lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes and leaned close to his mouth. "Know what you need, Webb?"

He peeled open an eye. "I feel sure you're going to tell me, Palmer." His tone was bored.

I pressed the syringe against his neck. That spot was sure to be sore in the morning. Oh well. "You need to be kissed. Long, and often, and by someone who knows how."

His lips parted, and I waited for him to tell me to take a flying fuck, that he didn't want to hear any fucking opinions of mine. I almost fell off the bed when he asked, "You have someone in mind, Clark?"

"Me?" I was laughing as the solution in the syringe did its job.

I unfastened the cuffs, and I should have left right then, but I was still hard. Damn. And I wanted to come in Clayton Webb's bedroom. I unbuttoned my jeans and pulled my cock out. There was no time for finesse. With my eyes on Clay's face, I jerked off fast and hard. It was only a matter of minutes before I came. I cleaned my hand off with a handkerchief, then tucked my dick away and got myself in order.

****

It was getting late. Or getting early, depending on how you looked at it. In a couple of hours dawn would start to lighten the sky behind the curtains that draped over the bedroom windows. I gathered all the canisters and put them into my duffle, then went back upstairs to make sure Clay was all right.

His pulse was steady, his breathing was normal, and he looked like goddamned Sleeping Beauty, lying there. I was no Prince Charming, but I kissed him anyway, just a brush of my lips over his, and I fucking got hard again.

I growled and turned away. If I did this again, I'd need to make sure I was outfitted with a cockring.

On the desk by a window was a note that read, 'Thanks for a wonderful night. C.' Next to it was the neatly folded, slightly damp handkerchief, as well as the handcuffs. The key, though, was in my pocket.

I paused at the door for one last look, then ran lightly down the stairs, reset his house alarm, and let myself out.

~End~