Page 18 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
What the hell kind of question was that? And what kind of life had Turner lived to wake up in such a fashion?
“It’s Radnor,” he answered, slightly stunned by the force with which he had hit the floor. Turner was kneeling over him, one knee on his chest, his hands pinning Lawrence’s wrists to the bare floor. If that was what he could do while still half-asleep, Lawrence didn’t want to find out what he was capable of at his best.
It occurred to Lawrence that perhaps Turnerhadn’tbeen menaced by any of Lawrence’s theatrics. He could defend himself against a man of Lawrence’s size, which was certainly not a skill typical of a secretary. But Lawrence already knew that Turner was no ordinary secretary. What the devil he actually was remained unclear.
“Radnor,” Turner repeated in confusion—and was that relief?—taking his knee off Lawrence’s chest so he now was kneeling astride Lawrence. “What the devil are you doing in here?” His voice was hoarse, tired.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Lawrence pointed out. There was just enough light to see Turner’s black eyes, his sleep-tousled hair falling across his forehead as he leaned over Lawrence. Lawrence let his gaze drift over the other man’s chest, lean and wiry.
Neither of them moved. Surely one of them ought to, but it wouldn’t be Lawrence. The mere proximity of this man was doing dangerous things to his already chancy grip on self-control.
“I take it we’re even now.” Turner’s mouth, alarmingly close to Lawrence’s own, crooked up in the ghost of a smile.
“Even?” Lawrence, frantically trying to persuade his cock that now was not the time to get ideas, was not following the other man’s logic.
“Now we’ve both nearly killed one another after being startled from our sleep.”
“I’m very sorry about—”
“What a pretty pair we make.” Turner was looking down at him with an expression that Lawrence couldn’t read, but which his prick seemed eager to interpret.
Still neither of them moved.
Lawrence might go the rest of his life without ever being this close to another person again, without feeling his body stir, without absorbing heat from another man’s touch. Even this simple contact, Turner’s hands pressed against his own, might be something he would never know again. Perhaps that was why he made no effort to get free of Turner’s grip.
But that didn’t explain why Turner didn’t let go.
Lawrence squeezed his eyes shut. He had come here to behave decently, to act with whatever shreds of sanity he could muster, not to nurture lascivious thoughts. “If you choose to leave, I’ll pay your wages through the next quarter and write you a character.” Another moment, another rising and falling of chests. “You’re a very good secretary. I should have told you that earlier.”
“That’s why you came to my room in the middle of the night?” There was amusement in Turner’s voice. “To praise my secretarial skills?”
“Technically, I came into my own dressing room.”
“I’m not quitting my post.”
Lawrence flung open his eyes. “But—”
“As you said, I’m a good secretary.” Turner’s dark eyes sparkled even in the dimness. “I don’t think you have any malice in you.”
“I—you don’t know what I’m capable of.”
“Stop.” Turner’s hands closed tightly around Lawrence’s much larger ones. “Stop,” he repeated. He shifted on his knees in a way that couldn’t help but cause his thigh to brush against Lawrence’s cockstand.
Ripples of sensation coursed through Lawrence’s body, causing want as sharp and needful as thirst. His hips wanted to buck upwards, and he had to exert all his will to keep them decently against the floor.
But then Turner shifted, and they brushed together again. This time Lawrence couldn’t help but let his hips move, seeking relief that he would never—could never—achieve.
He waited for the inevitable moment when Turner would recoil in disgust and alarm. But that moment never came. Instead they remained half-tangled together in the silence and darkness.
“You should go.” Lawrence groaned. “Or I should.”
Another shift of their bodies, another fleeting ripple of pleasure. “What if I don’t want to?” Turner’s voice was arch but with a hint of huskiness.
The only response Lawrence could make was a guttural grunt.
“Make me.”
“Pardon?” Lawrence managed to say.
