Page 119 of Men in Shorts

“You are,” Colin said, though he knew he was breaking character.

“Just seeing me like that, all…you can’t—you can’t stop.” Andrew’s knees shook. “You’re going to come any second.”

Colin wanted to watch Andrew’s face, as it was his favorite sight in the world. But he knew a warning when he heard it, so he closed his eyes to keep them clear.

Andrew uttered what sounded like an “Och.” Colin felt a warm splash on his tongue, then his nose, then his forehead, and finally his tongue again, dribbling now. He moaned at the taste, craving more but awaiting Andrew’s next directive.

“You tell me to”—Andrew fought to catch his breath—“to lick your cock clean. Lick your slit, get every…mmph, every drop.”

As Colin did so, greedily, he opened his eyes. Andrew was staring down at him with a hazy look of triumph and awe.

Like this, gazes locked, there was no pretending they were each other. It was Colin here on his knees, cheeks warm and wet with the come of an aristocrat.

No, not an aristocrat. Andrew. The man Colin would have died for last September, and next September, and all the months in between.

The man who was now dropping to his knees in front of him.

“Thank you.” Andrew kissed him, long and deep. Then he took off his shirt to clean Colin’s face. “I needed that.”

“We both did, all of it.” He traced a finger down the center of Andrew’s bare chest. “It was pure hot.”

“Wasn’t it just?” Andrew chortled, sounding almost like his old self again. When they’d both tidied up, he tossed the shirt toward one of the walk-in wardrobes, then sat back with a contented sigh. “Maybe we’ll be okay after all.”

It seemed an odd statement, given the timing. “We’ll be great,” Colin said as he reached for him.

Andrew met his embrace, slumping forward as if suddenly boneless. “Promise?” he asked in a voice that cracked Colin’s heart in two.

“Nae need for promises.” Colin held him tighter than ever. “We’ve got us.”

Chapter9

As Andrew satin the courtroom Tuesday morning, waiting for his life to begin again, he was swept with a sense of déjà vu. Everything was the same as when his bodyguard, Reggie, had been sentenced in early December—the judge in her wig and red-and-white robe reading statements from the bench, the accused standing before her as she pronounced their fates. The only difference was the lack of Christmas decorations.

Once again Andrew’s family, including Colin, sat at the back of the crowded courtroom. They planned to make a quick exit after Jeremy’s sentence—the last of three scheduled this morning—to avoid the media jackals lurking in the front row.

Sitting beside him on the aisle, Colin kept a firm but gentle grip on Andrew’s hand. With their shoulders pressed together, Andrew was sure his boyfriend could feel every tremor running through his body.

He glanced at his parents to his right, admiring how stoic they appeared. His siblings sat in front of him, and while Andrew could see only the back of George’s head, he had a clear view of Elizabeth’s stony countenance. He tried not to stare at her, as she’d always had preternatural peripheral vision.

To corral his racing thoughts, Andrew focused on the words of the judge, Lady McIntyre, while she sentenced a seventeen-year-old lad who’d pleaded guilty to culpable homicide. As the stabbing incident was recounted in hideous detail, Andrew noticed Colin’s free hand begin to twitch where it lay upon his own thigh. Perhaps he was getting the urge to rub the scar created by Reggie’s knife, as he often did these days when he was agitated.

Andrew wondered whether Jeremy’s crime would seem mild compared to the brutal assault being described now. Each case was meant to be considered on its own merits, but still…judges were only human.

Finally the disturbed young man who’d slaughtered his foster mum was led from the courtroom. Before Andrew could brace himself, the door opened to the next accused—Jeremy Colback, his once-cherished friend and mentor, a man who’d been more of a brother to him than George had ever tried to be.

Jeremy couldn’t have looked less like a prisoner if he’d been wearing the judge’s own robe. His chestnut hair was carefully styled as ever, and he wore an elegant charcoal-gray Dunhill suit with a?—

Andrew’s fist clenched on the edge of his seat. Jeremy was sporting the same blue-and-silver-striped tie he’d worn the last day they’d seen each other, the day of the Scottish independence referendum. The day Jeremy had promised him a brilliant political future—a future Andrew had spurned in the most obnoxious way possible.

As he was led to stand in the dock, Jeremy scanned the back of the courtroom. Elizabeth’s hand began to rise in a wave to her estranged husband, but George grabbed it and put it back in her lap. She hunched her shoulders, face flushing at her reflexive show of emotion.

The judge cleared her throat and began without further ado.

“Jeremy Colback, you have pleaded guilty to the crimes of conspiracy to abduct and conspiracy to commit culpable and reckless conduct, in which you showed an indifference to the potential injury and suffering of others. You and Reginald Murdoch subjected your brother-in-law, Lord Andrew Sunderland, to a sustained campaign of harassment and intimidation, the final act of which endangered Mr. Sunderland’s life and resulted in the grievous bodily harm of his partner, Colin MacDuff.”

Jeremy’s head bent slightly, and his elbows tucked closer to his sides. From the back, he looked almost like a child awaiting a beating. An unwelcome pang of sympathy poked at Andrew’s gut.

“There is no doubt,” Lady McIntyre said, “that you were the instigator and driving force behind this conspiracy and that Mr. Murdoch simply went along with your instructions. He has already received a four-year sentence for his crimes of stalking, possession of a knife in a public place, and culpable and reckless conduct.”

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