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Spirit
T
HE
first person Grant notices as he walks into Spirit
advertising agency is a tall guy wearing what is clearly a
designer suit. Just what Grant needs to see when he’s
wearing one from M&S, a little tight around the shoulder
blades because he had to take the nearest fit. The guy
glances his way, makes a last comment, too low for Grant to
hear, in a voice that has the effortlessly posh accent that
Grant's wouldn’t get in a million years, even if he wanted it
to, and strolls across to him.
“You’ll be Grant McDowell, the new recruit.” Grant
wonders whether he’s imagining the superior curl of the lip
from the other man. “I’m Tristan Wetherby-Hyde. You’ll be
working alongside me.”
Tristan Wetherby-Hyde, eh? No wonder his accent
comes out of the top drawer. This’ll be some relative of the
boss, CEO Sidney Wetherby-Hyde. Grant looks Tristan up
and down. A son, best guess. Just Grant’s luck to get stuck
with a tosser who’s here because of who he is, not what he
can do. Probably takes all the credit, too, at the end of a
project.
“Yeah. I’m Grant.” Short and not so sweet. Grant does
his best to smile politely. For God’s sake, he’s in advertising,
he’s got to be able to bluff his way through anything.
“Come and meet the team, have a look round.”
“Thanks.”
That’s how their acquaintance starts, and it doesn’t
improve from there.
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T
RISTAN
doesn’t like Grant, but he can’t help finding him
intriguing. Maybe it’s the attitude—Tristan got the message
on the first day that he wasn’t going to be Grant’s new best
friend, which makes a change. Usually people are too
concerned for their jobs to alienate the boss’s son. Maybe,
though, it’s the fact that while Grant’s ideas are generally
off-the-wall, slightly left field for this previously traditional
advertising agency… there’s a strangely seductive element to
them. Tristan suspects he’d buy something after seeing one
of Grant’s ad campaigns.
Trouble is, Tristan’s father doesn’t feel the same way.
Sidney Wetherby-Hyde was away when Grant was appointed,
and he’s managed to give the impression ever since that he’d
have employed pretty much anyone else. It’s not a total
surprise to Tristan: Grant isn’t, in his father’s terms, of the
right “class” of employee—in other words, he grew up on a
rough estate, probably went to a comprehensive school and
followed it up by getting a degree at one of the universities
that had still been a polytechnic, and therefore third class, in
Sidney’s day. Not to mention, Grant’s still got enough of his
Glaswegian accent to make Tristan’s father wince every time
he speaks. At the meeting about the new advertisements for
aftershave, however, Tristan’s father manages to show his
prejudices on different grounds altogether. Grant’s been in
control of the projected campaign, and his team has put
together several new cutting-edge ideas. Usually, the CEO’s
role is simply to nod through the plans, but Sidney
Wetherby-Hyde isn’t having it when it comes to this
particular campaign.
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“It won’t do,” he says gruffly.
Grant, politely, waits for more feedback. Tristan gives
his father a bemused look. This isn’t in the usual script.
“Why not?” Tristan asks.
Sidney Wetherby-Hyde takes a breath that puffs up his
chest to twice its usual size. “It’s unworkable. Anyone seeing
this will think…. It will hardly encourage men to buy the
product, as it stands.”
Grant leans forward on the table, apparently
unperturbed by the fact that he’s challenging the Lord and
Master of them all. “Why do you say that?”
Sidney looks at him as if there’s something unpleasant
under his nose. “It’s unmanly.”
“How?” asks Grant.
Tristan wishes Grant hadn’t asked. Now that his father
has mentioned it, he has a sinking feeling why he’s
objecting. And this is not going to go well.
“It seems to target them,” Sidney says. “Homos. Queers.
No proper man is going to buy a product that suggests to
him that it might make him attractive to other men. It’s
obscene.”
“I disagree,” Grant says quietly, his Scottish accent
more pronounced than usual.
Sidney ignores this, standing up and ripping his copies
of the campaign in half. He flings them on the table. “A new
campaign, gentlemen… and ladies,” he adds belatedly,
looking at the two female members of staff present. “One
which targets a real audience—the one we want to be
courting.”
Tristan winces internally but manages not to show his
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feelings on the surface. His father is his father, after all—and
also Tristan’s boss as well as everyone else’s. And if the boss
doesn’t like the campaign, it doesn’t get used. That’s all there
is to it.
“Well,” says Grant, picking up the torn copies of the
advertisement. “Sorry, guys. It looks like we’re back to work.”
Tristan says nothing.
O
F COURSE
, after the debacle at the meeting, the rumors
about Grant start. It doesn’t bother him much; he’s always
been out about his sexuality. Yeah, his boss turned out to be
a raging gay-hater, but it’s not like that’s never happened
before, either. But when Tristan fucking Wetherby-Hyde
comes over for a word when the office empties that evening,
it takes a bit of effort for Grant not just to shrug straight
past him. Like father, like son. That’s what they say, isn’t it?
On the other hand, at least it gives him a good reason for
disliking Tristan; to his annoyance, he’s had to acknowledge
to himself that the guy does a decent job in general, and isn’t
just there because of who Daddy is.
“I’m sorry about the campaign,” Tristan says, his voice
so cut-glass that it sounds almost fake—certainly so posh
that Grant wonders whether Tristan is actually trying to
accentuate the class difference between them. “I thought it
would’ve worked.”
“Aye, so did I,” Grant says shortly.
“I’ve… um… I’ve heard you’re gay.”
Grant raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? Well spotted. Any
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particular reason for sharing this little gem with me, or is it
your idea of small talk?”
Tristan runs a hand through his hair, and shrugs. “Just
interested.”
“Oh? Are you?” Grant grins suddenly. “I wouldn’t’ve
thought I was your type, but it just goes to show.”
“Not ‘interested’, interested,” Tristan snaps back.
“No?” Grant looks Tristan up and down, and is amused
to see the uncomfortable expression on his face. “I’m not so
sure that’s true, Tristan Wetherby-Hyde.” He puts emphasis
on Tristan’s surname, Sidney Wetherby-Hyde’s negative
attitude towards homosexuality still rankling somewhat.
“What would your father say? Still, I’m not one to refuse a
request like that.” He steps forward and kisses Tristan
plumb on the mouth.
“Um.”
Tristan hasn’t kissed him back, precisely, but he’s not
exactly sprinting in the other direction. And… Grant looks
down. Tristan’s cock is showing an undeniable interest in
Grant.
“Not interested at all,” Grant says, making the direction
of his eyes evident.
“And you?” Tristan drawls. “You don’t exactly seem to be
backward about coming forward.”
“If you’re so desperate for me, it would be cruel to deny
you.” Grant moves close, puts his mouth by Tristan’s ear.
“Have you been thinking about this for weeks, Tristan? Do
you lie in bed with your hand on your cock, pretending it’s
mine? Do you want to know what it feels like to have a real
man fuck you, rather than just a fantasy? I think you do.”
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“No.” But Tristan’s lie is so hasty and unconvincing that
Grant just laughs.
“Of course not,” mocks Grant, moving closer still until
Tristan’s erect cock bumps against his leg. “You don’t want
this in the slightest.”
“Grant.” Tristan’s voice has even lost something of its
usual confident tone, and Grant rather likes that.
“Yes?”
“Shit,” says Tristan fervently, and kisses him.
The kiss is deep and long, and unbelievably
unsatisfying. Grant wants more—he wants everything
Tristan has to offer, which he’s beginning to think is quite a
lot. Tristan’s hands are all over him, as if Tristan can’t bear
to miss touching a single part of him. Grant thrusts one of
his legs between Tristan’s and rocks him on it until Tristan
is murmuring incoherently against his shoulder.
“You like that, don’t you?” Grant says, biting gently on
Tristan’s earlobe. “You want me to keep doing this.”
“No.”
Grant doesn’t think Tristan even wants him to believe
the denial. It’s a face-saver, allowing Tristan to get himself
thoroughly fucked without losing all his pride in the
exchange. Whatever. Grant doesn’t much care, as long as he
gets to have Tristan. The son of homophobic Sidney
Wetherby-Hyde getting hot and sweaty over him, Grant
McDowell. And looking, incidentally, bloody sexy as he does
so. Tristan’s hair is sticking around his face; his eyes have
that slightly fuzzy look of someone who doesn’t quite know
how he’s managed to get where he is now, but would do
anything to stay there.
“No,” Grant agrees, dropping his hands to Tristan’s belt
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buckle and unfastening it. The fly follows, and Grant slips a
hand around Tristan’s oh-so-not-protesting cock. “Shall I
stop?” Grant whispers, and when he doesn’t answer, knows
that Tristan has chosen not to hear the question.
Tristan grabs Grant’s shoulders as if they’re the only
thing keeping him from falling down—which Grant has a
suspicion is the actual truth. Tristan’s desk is close by, and
the idea of fucking Tristan over his own desk is making
Grant too hard to think about anything else.
“Bend over for me, Tristan,” he says, maneuvering the
pair of them back toward the desk. “You know you want to.”
Tristan doesn’t even deny it this time. Instead, he
shrugs his trousers down as he turns to lean across the
broad expanse of wood next to his computer. Fuck, Tristan’s
got a good ass. Grant wishes he has some lube, but how was
he to know he was going to need it right now? It’s bloody
fortunate he’s carrying a condom. Still, given what he’s seen
so far of him, Tristan could probably pull any guy he wanted;
it’s unlikely that he’s going to be over-tight. Grant wouldn’t
mind hurting him—but only if that was what Tristan wanted.
And for now, he’s just going to do him as safely and
painlessly as he can. He moistens his fingers in his mouth,
then presses one gently against, then through the ring of
muscle protecting Tristan’s anus. Then two. Tristan makes a
small noise, whether of pleasure or protest Grant isn’t too
sure; but Tristan isn’t making any attempt to move away, so
he’s hoping it was the former. Pushing his own trousers
down impatiently, Grant slides the condom on himself. Then
slowly—but not too slowly—Grant exchanges fingers for a
spit-dampened cock, and as he presses deeper, Tristan
arches his back with a sound that is very definitely pleasure.
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“Fuck.”
“Yeah, precisely that,” Grant agrees, finding it difficult
to converse just now.
He moves his hand around to grasp Tristan’s cock
again, and Tristan is thrusting back against him, pulling
Grant deeper still inside him. Grant laughs and starts to
move faster, his hand working in time on Tristan’s dick.
Tristan’s ass gives under Grant’s pressure, letting—almost
welcoming—him in. Tristan’s certainly not giving the
impression of someone who would rather be elsewhere,
which makes Grant feel pretty damn good. Tristan Wetherby-
Hyde, showing off his pretty ass for Grant’s pleasure.
Who’d’ve thought? Who’d have thought Tristan would be this
damn hot, come to that? Grant thrusts harder still, that
thought in mind. There is a sudden rigidity in Tristan’s body,
and then Grant can feel the warm come trickling over his
fingers, which is such a fucking turn-on that it takes only a
few more strokes before he’s coming, too, out of control,
caring nothing about where he is, what he’s doing, and with
whom.
There is a minute or so when all Grant can hear is the
sound of his heart pumping, of his breath heaving through
his lungs. By the time he’s pulled himself together, mentally
speaking, Tristan has moved away and is pulling up his
trousers. He doesn’t look at Grant, doesn’t speak, just
brushes past him on the way out.
Grant feels cheap. Wonders whether Tristan set the
whole thing up in order to make Grant prove what a common
scumbag he is. That Grant’d fuck anyone, no matter who he
was, no matter whether Grant even liked him. He makes a
token effort at cleaning up, shrugs his leather jacket on, and
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walks home in the rain, wishing he’d never touched the
bastard.
T
RISTAN
swears at himself as he walks away. What the hell
came over him? He’d just wanted—expected—to have a few
words about the rejected ad campaign, try and show Grant
that he wasn’t the enemy, that just because his dad had
some ridiculous prejudices didn’t mean that Tristan did too.
Instead, he’d practically flung himself into Grant’s arms and
begged to be fucked. Which would be humiliating at the best
of times, with someone who didn’t resent him for who he
was. Given that it was bloody Grant McDowell, it was one
hell of a lot worse. One, sex with a partner he knows nothing
about isn’t a great plan. Two, sex with Grant McDowell
specifically is never going to be a good plan. Three, especially
when Tristan is supposed to be so far in the closet that not
even his shoes poke out. If Grant wants to expose him,
Tristan’s going to be buggered in a far more unpleasant
fashion. His father’s views on homosexuality are well known
and entirely negative; one word from Grant that Sidney’s son
is a raging queer, and Tristan’s going to find himself jobless
and isolated from the family. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Fuck.
Tristan’s just put his entire life in the hands of someone
who’d like nothing better than to ruin him. And all for the
sake of a quick fuck. He wonders just how bloody stupid he
really is.
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G
RANT
goes into work the next morning spoiling for a fight.
If Tristan’s intending to try and make him feel like shit for
shagging someone he doesn’t even like, Grant’s going to tell
him right where to get off. And it won’t be polite. Plus, of
course, what would precious Daddy Wetherby-Hyde say if he
knew how his son behaves when his back is turned? Tristan
can do the whole clichéd “I was just testing you out” line if
he wants, but he was gagging for it at the time. Grant’s sure
he was. Mostly sure, anyway. And he’s certain Sidney
Wetherby-Hyde won’t think humiliating Grant makes it
worth his boy giving up his pretty little ass. Grant’s got to
give it to Tristan, though: he was a damn good fuck. Grant’d
woken up in the middle of the night with the hard-on to end
all hard-ons, and with images of half-naked Tristan running
through his mind. Wanking had solved one of the problems,
but even now Grant’s having difficulty keeping his mind off
Tristan undressed.
But Tristan doesn’t come near him all day. In fact, if
Grant didn’t know that Tristan would think it beneath his
notice, he’d go so far as to say Tristan was deliberately
avoiding him. Even to the point that, although Grant
regularly gets the feeling that Tristan’s looking his way,
whenever he looks up, Tristan’s eyes are glued to his
computer screen. And frankly, the new campaign for the
aftershave brand isn’t that thrilling. Talk about unoriginal.
Grant still reckons his was a million times better, even if it
did (he hears Sidney Wetherby-Hyde’s voice in his head)
“target them.” Which, incidentally, it didn’t—not much,
anyway. It suggested it might make you irresistible, just like
the ads usually did, but added one man to the big group of
women following the lead bloke.
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As the day goes on, though, Grant has another thought.
He wonders whether Tristan is the company slut. Maybe it
was his welcome to the company: welcome to the Wetherby-
Hyde-owned Spirit—take a bit of the son home with you.
That would explain why Old Man Wetherby-Hyde is so anti-
gay too: he’s sick of seeing his son giving out to everyone.
Grant’s eyes stray around the workforce. Gary? Wouldn’t put
it past him. Julie? Hell, maybe Tristan swings both ways.
Julian? If Julian has had his cock in Tristan before him,
Grant’ll be sick. Even Tristan—surely even Tristan couldn’t
stoop that low? Becca, Freda, Jorgi…. Grant imagines
Tristan with every one of them, and the scenario seems more
likely all the time. Tristan’s not avoiding him; it’s just never
occurred to Tristan that Grant might be expecting some sort
of response today. This is just how life goes.
Fuck it. Grant walks out of the office and punches his
hand into the brick “feature wall” in the corridor. It shouldn’t
matter. It doesn’t matter. What the fuck does it matter if
Tristan’s fucking any and everyone? He’s a rich, daddy’s-boy
asshole. Grant knew that before he started anything. His
own stupid fault for falling for it, for fucking around with an
upper-class tosspot who probably spent his whole time at
private school being buggered senseless by all the other toffs.
Still, the least Tristan can do is to speak to him. And
with that in mind, Grant steps in front of Tristan five
minutes later as the guy is trying to walk past him. Again.
“Seems like you’re avoiding me,” Grant says.
He wonders whether he is imagining the quick jolt that
goes through Tristan at his words. Because before he knows
it, Tristan has his blandest possible expression on.
“Nonsense.”
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“Is it? You seemed to feel differently yesterday.”
“Look,” says Tristan coolly, “I’m not avoiding you, but
I’m hardly seeking you out. We’re just mutually
incompatible.”
“‘Mutually incompatible’? Wetherby-Hyde, I’m not
asking you on a date,” Grant drawls.
He’s certain he hasn’t imagined the jump Tristan gives
this time, nor the hunted look in his eyes. Hell, if this isn’t
usual behavior for Tristan, the guy’s running one heck of a
risk.
“Look,” says Tristan quickly, “this isn’t the time. I’m
working late, so if you want to discuss this further,
perhaps—”
“I’ll see you later, Tristan.” And Grant walks away.
I’
M WORKING
late, so if you want to discuss this further….
What the hell was Tristan thinking when he said that?
The last thing he wants is to talk to Grant about anything,
ever. Ever. And definitely not about anything that happened
yesterday. Fuck. Grant could ruin him if he wanted—and
Tristan can’t think of any reason why he wouldn’t want to.
The rest of the day seems to pass in a blur, and Tristan
watches the rest of the staff leaving with a helpless feeling of
terror. Maybe it’s blackmail. God knows what Grant might
ask for. He’s got to know that Tristan can’t do anything but
what he demands, no matter what it is.
Grant saunters over to his desk, and leans over.
“So,” he says, “you wanted to talk?”
Tristan has a sudden vision of the night before, him
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sprawled over this very same desk while Grant buggered him
to heaven and back. He’s ashamed to feel his cock hardening
at the memory.
“I thought you did,” Tristan says, getting up with
unseemly haste to walk to the water cooler. He’s aware that
Grant’s following him, and he turns round and says in
desperation, “Look, it was a mistake, a one-off. One of
those….” But he can’t finish the sentence. There’s no way on
earth that anyone could believe it had been “one of those
things.”
“Happens with everyone, does it?” Grant’s voice is quiet,
but Tristan can sense danger in the tone.
“Yes. No. Shit.” Tristan is remembering the night before
in technicolor detail, and his eyes have dropped to Grant’s
groin. God, he was so fucking amazing. So fucking big.
Tristan tries not to think about what it would be like to have
that in his mouth. “A mistake,” he repeats hoarsely.
“Then why,” says Grant, still quietly, “are you staring at
my cock?”
“I’m not.” Tristan drags his gaze away, but he can’t meet
Grant’s gaze. “Look.”
“You might be satisfied with looking, but I’m not.”
Tristan can feel Grant moving closer to him and is
horribly aware that his body is reacting to the closeness.
“Um….”
“You would, of course, object if I did this,” says Grant,
sliding a hand into Tristan’s back pocket and resting it
suggestively against his ass.
“Yes.” Tristan’s mouth frames the word but he’s aware
that no sound is coming out. He knows he ought to move
away, but Grant’s mesmerized him somehow.
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“And if I did this,” Grant adds, brushing his lips against
Tristan’s.
And Tristan’s control breaks. His body is pressed up
against Grant, as close as he can get, rutting against him,
cock rubbing (through unwelcome trousers) against cock. He
hears Grant groan, and the sound goes right through him,
making him shudder and press closer still. There’s enough
sense left in his brain that he knows he’s making a bad
error, a really fucking massive mistake, but he’s doing it
anyway; he almost can’t help himself.
Almost.
Making a supreme effort, Tristan breaks away from
Grant and stumbles toward the door. He really is supposed
to be working late, but it’s not like he’s going to achieve
anything of any use this evening. He is out on the street
before he can control his breathing, a lot longer before he
can do the same with his emotions. He sits in his sleek black
Jaguar for a full ten minutes before he’s recovered enough
actually to drive. And all the time, one thought is going
through his head—what the hell has he just done?
G
RANT
, left alone, raises an eyebrow. Tristan’s precipitous
exit doesn’t ring true with Grant’s earlier suspicions of the
guy. But if Tristan doesn’t usually act like this, it must be
Grant he wants.
Whoa, wait a second. Grant’s getting ahead of himself.
He must be. What the hell could fancy-pants Tristan
Wetherby-Hyde see in him? Unless he’s just the only gay guy
Tristan knows, which, geez—surely no one’s that sheltered
these days? And if the poor bastard doesn’t dare cross the
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door of a gay pub just in case Daddy finds out his son’s a
poof, what the hell does he think he’s playing at, fucking
about right under Daddy’s nose with a common-as-muck
guy Daddy loathes? Talk about suicidal!
’Course, Grant’ll find himself out on his ear if he even
suggests to Old Man Wetherby-Hyde that his son is gay as a
window. Perhaps that’s what Tristan’s banking on, though
Grant can’t help thinking that Tristan hadn’t exactly looked
like he was weighing up the risks just now. More kind of—
Grant finds himself needing to shift position as his boner
presses uncomfortably against his trousers—kind of wanton,
and really, really, hot.
Fuck it. Grant can do without lusting over Tristan
bloody Wetherby-Hyde. He doesn’t even like the bastard.
T
RISTAN
spends every minute of the next day waiting for
Grant to expose him metaphorically about having exposed
him literally. Every minute seems longer than the last, until
Tristan suspects that Grant’s waiting this long just so he can
make Tristan sweat that little bit more. Like having a fish on
the end of a hook, and just leaving it there, wriggling, letting
it hope that maybe it might be able to get away. Landing it in
the end is a kindness, and Tristan’s beginning to think that
perhaps it would be better if Grant just got on with it and
told the world that Tristan’s batting for the other side, with
an added predilection for getting himself fucked at work.
Maybe he’s spreading it as a rumor, letting office gossip
have its way until someone finally has the balls to come up
to Tristan and ask him if it’s true. And what’s Tristan
supposed to say then? Of course, an indignant negative
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would be best, but Tristan has a horrible feeling he wouldn’t
be able to be as convincing as he’d like. He finds himself
looking round at the other people in the department,
wondering who knows and who doesn’t, who’s sniggering
whenever he walks past. He’s always got on fine with most of
the department—apart from Julian, but Julian really is an
upper-class twat of the first order (if that’s how Grant thinks
of Tristan, Tristan’s not surprised the guy loathes him), but
a story like this would be too good not to share. Tristan
Wetherby-Hyde, whose father is about the biggest
homophobe this side of evangelistic churchgoers, is queer as
they come. It’s better than a novel.
Thing is, though, no one seems to be treating him
differently. No one. Tristan goes through the mill of hope,
fear, suspicion… until it finally dawns on him that it’s
possible that Grant’s not said anything. Not to Tristan’s
father, not to the staff, not to anyone. He’s not tried to
blackmail Tristan, not tried to get anything out of him. Why
not?
What if Grant fancies him as much as he fancies Grant?
The thought is appealing, but Tristan has no idea in hell how
to test it out. What’s he supposed to do, go up to Grant and
say, “Hey, I can’t stand you, but you’re a really good shag.
Fancy fucking again sometime soon?” He knows perfectly
well what Grant’s answer would be to that—Grant would
rather die than do Tristan on request. It’s equally possible
that the reason Grant’s kept quiet about the whole thing is
that he can’t stand the thought of anyone knowing that he’s
been up close and personal with Tristan Wetherby-Hyde.
Possible, but not certain. And Tristan could do with a
little certainty in his life just now.
Spirit | P.A. Friday
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T
RISTAN
seems to be avoiding Grant again, but to Grant’s
annoyance, he seems to be getting some sort of Tristan-
antenna and turns round several times to catch Tristan
staring at him. He’s aware in the afternoon meeting, too, of
Tristan’s gaze on his lips as he speaks. It’s off-putting
enough that Grant stumbles through his report and has to
acknowledge (privately) that Sidney Wetherby-Hyde’s
criticisms are more reasonable than usual. In fact, if Grant
hadn’t known that Tristan likes him about as much as he
likes Tristan—and that would be “not at all”—he might have
said the guy had a crush on him. Mind you, Grant’s dislike
doesn’t seem to stop him wanking every night to thoughts of
taking Tristan hard and fast in every office and over every
desk at Spirit. He wonders if Tristan wanks over him, which
produces a whole load more fantasies.
At the same time, though, Tristan’s being an utter toss-
pot in a work situation. He knows Grant doesn’t like him and
is living down to that opinion with not-at-all-veiled criticisms
of Grant’s work. Grant’s comments in return about rich
assholes who play at working get nothing more than a lazy
smile from Tristan. Tristan knows he does a decent job,
and—irritatingly—knows that Grant knows it too. Grant’s
started staying late at work, getting an extra hour’s work in
when he’s not disturbed (in any sense) by Tristan.
Until the evening when Tristan, too, outstays the rest of
the department.
“Aren’t you going?” demands Grant at last.
“Not yet.” Tristan’s voice is bland. “I want to watch what
you do in this time. It certainly doesn’t seem to be work. I
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19
suppose you’re just trying to suck up to the boss?”
Grant stands up so quickly that his chair clatters to the
floor. He takes two paces toward Tristan, his hands in fists
at his side.
“Say that again.”
Tristan is breathing faster than usual; Grant can see his
chest expanding and deflating. The bastard tilts his chin a
bit higher and says, “You heard, McDowell.”
Grant takes another step forward and then stops
suddenly, a breaking realization in his mind.
“You’re trying to provoke me,” he says, disbelievingly.
“Doesn’t take a lot.” There’s a—is it a hopeful look on
Tristan’s face?
“But provoke me to what?” Grant asks slowly. “To
punch you, or….” The final step he takes toward Tristan is
slow and quite deliberate, his eyes never leaving Tristan’s
face. “Or,” Grant repeats, then leans in and kisses Tristan
full on the mouth.
Tristan doesn’t move. A small secretive smile crosses his
face as Grant ends the kiss.
“I’ve seen you looking at me,” Grant says, his tone low.
“Can’t keep away, can you?” Tristan still says nothing,
watchful eyes on Grant. “Final warning,” says Grant. “Get
out now or take the consequences.”
“And if I want to take the consequences?”
Grant gives a brief laugh. “What was it you were saying
about ‘sucking up’? I’ve got to do what the boss’s son wants,
haven’t I?”
“Don’t call me that.”
Grant runs the fingers of his right hand through
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20
Tristan’s hair, leans forward, and takes Tristan’s earlobe
sharply between his teeth.
“Why not?” he asks, when he lets go. “It’s what you are,
isn’t it—Tristan Wetherby-Hyde?”
“Shut up.”
Tristan takes control for a second, his lips hard against
Grant’s, his hands digging into Grant’s shoulders. Grant
breaks away.
“I’ll do what I damn well like,” he spits at Tristan. “Or
perhaps I should say who I damn well like. And I’ll do it
because I want to, not because of who or what you are.”
Tristan’s laugh is a little breathless. “Yeah?”
“Oh yes,” Grant says, moving one possessive hand down
Tristan’s front to cup his erection. “And you’ll let me because
you want me to, won’t you, Tristan?”
“Maybe.”
Tristan’s hard as hell under Grant’s hand, but the guy
is proud. It’s hardly likely he’s going to admit to more than
that, but it’s good enough for Grant. He knows, and Tristan
knows, and Tristan knows he knows, that Tristan wants
him. That Tristan’s bloody set this up. Set him up.
They are kissing again: hard and passionate and hate-
filled kisses. Anger and bitterness and, oh fuck it, lust, is
driving Grant forward. Almost without knowing how he’s
done it, he’s got Tristan half-undressed and wanting.
Wanting.
“I had you over your desk before,” Grant says, his words
jerky. “I’m going to have you over mine this time. And then—
then, Tristan Wetherby-Hyde, whenever you come to make
your scathing little comments on my work, you can
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21
remember I’ve seen you half-naked and sprawled across
here, waiting to be buggered by me. Because you wanted to
be. Because you were desperate to be.”
“Not desperate,” whispers Tristan.
“No? I could leave you now.”
“You don’t want to.”
“You don’t want me to.” Grant moves away from Tristan.
“No,” Tristan admits, reaching a hand out and pulling
Grant back toward him.
It’s been fairly obvious how Tristan feels, but how
fucking horny does that make Grant feel in turn, having
posh boy Tristan admit that he wants him? He’s going to
make this so bloody good for Tristan that the bastard isn’t
going to be able to pass this spot without a hard-on. And
then let him try to make those petty criticisms stick. He
lowers his hand to Tristan’s exposed cock and runs it back
and forth with a gentle grip.
“Grant.”
“Yes.” It’s a hissed breath of a word from Grant. “Right
here.” He tightens his grasp on Tristan’s erection, firmly
enough that he knows it must hurt, just a little. He raises
his other hand, two fingers stuck out, to Tristan’s mouth.
“Suck.”
Tristan draws the fingers between his lips, caressing
them with his tongue, his head bobbing back and forth so
that Grant’s fingers slip in and out of his mouth. What
would it be like, Grant wonders, to have Tristan do that to
his cock? The thought makes him harder than ever, and
impatient; he drags his fingers from Tristan’s mouth and
pushes Tristan around so that he’s bent over Grant’s desk.
Then one of the saliva-slicked fingers is thrust deep into
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22
Tristan’s ass, none too gently. Tristan makes a small noise
that might be pleasure or pain—or both—and Grant
remembers his private vow to make this so good for Tristan
that he’ll never forget it. He moves the finger slowly in and
out, watching with satisfaction as Tristan squirms back
against his hand. Two fingers now, opening Tristan up, while
Grant tears the packaging from a condom with his teeth.
“Hungry for more?” Grant murmurs. Tristan says
nothing; Grant isn’t sure whether it’s the last vestiges of
pride or whether Tristan is simply past talking. He slides his
fingers out, uses his other hand to slide the condom over his
cock before positioning it at Tristan’s entrance. “Sure you
want this?” he asks mockingly.
He feels Tristan tense. “No.” The word, fiercely spoken,
hangs for half a second in the air before Tristan says angrily,
“Just fuck me.”
“Happy to oblige the boss’s son.”
“Fuck off.”
Grant smiles to himself: the brief profanity is miles from
Tristan’s usual debonair attitude. He pushes inside Tristan,
closing his eyes for a second as the sensation threatens to
overwhelm him. He’s definitely misjudged the guy—Tristan’s
ass is giving, just as Grant remembers it; but it’s tight
enough to suggest no regular partner, let alone a whole
string—and at that thought, Grant bites down hard on his
lip to prevent himself from groaning. Damned if he’s going to
give Tristan that satisfaction.
Sweat is beading on Tristan’s neck, dampening the dark
hair at the nape; his hands are clasped tightly into fists,
pressing down into the table on either side of his head.
Grant works Tristan’s cock in time with his own, and finds
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23
himself betrayed into an unpreventable groan as Tristan
thrusts back, forcing the pace to a higher tempo. Grant’s
aware of Tristan whispering words beneath his breath; he
can’t hear what is being said but is pretty damn certain it
isn’t the criticisms Tristan has been giving across this same
desk of late. Wresting control back, Grant moves to long
strokes, withdrawing almost entirely before pushing back in
as far as he can go. He’ll make Tristan come first, dammit;
the bastard won’t be able to claim that Grant thinks of
nothing but his own selfish pleasure.
But fuck, fuck, he is close and—and Grant doesn’t
know, in the end, which of them comes first. By the time his
head is back together, they’ve both shot their load, and
Tristan is gasping for breath against the desk. Grant realizes
his head is resting on Tristan’s back, almost as if they were
regular lovers, and he moves away hastily.
Something’s changed, though, with this fucking. Grant
now knows that Tristan wants him; it should be a powerful
feeling, except Grant also knows damn well that he wants
Tristan at least as much. Bastard doesn’t need that
information, of course, but still. There’s something between
them. Some sort of chemistry that Grant never believed
existed until now. He can hate Tristan to the sky and back,
but he’s still going to want him, whatever—whoever—he is.
And Grant still isn’t sure whether this is a good thing or a
bad one.
I
T
’
S
half past seven when Tristan finally gets to power his
computer off. He’s been here ages, far longer than he
wanted, idly clicking his mouse to arrange and re-arrange
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24
blocks of text on a puce background. Spirit has officially
been closed for nearly two hours, but bloody Julian has only
just left. Which leaves Tristan… and Grant.
Grant, who despises him because of who he is. Grant,
who wants him anyway.
“You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?” Tristan
smiles as he sees Grant leaning against the brick wall (“a
quirky feature,” the architect had claimed when he designed
it) outside the office. He grabs a handful of Grant’s cheap
shirt in his grasp. “I stay late, you stay late. I know what you
want. You’re waiting for me. You want me.”
Grant has never liked him nor forgiven him for being the
son of Sidney Wetherby-Hyde. Nothing could be more unlike
Grant’s background. Grant’s parents… who are Grant’s
parents again? Does Grant even know who his father is?
Tristan’s heard the rumors that Grant hasn’t the faintest
idea, and cares less. It doesn’t matter. Not really. Tristan is
as good at his job as Grant is—and doesn’t that just rankle
even more deeply with Grant?
“Fuck off.” There are some things Grant’s never going to
admit, however obvious they might be.
But Tristan knows that he’s right. Grant’s hard; Tristan
can see the bulge in his trousers. Like it or not—and frankly,
Tristan isn’t precisely over the moon about the situation
himself—Grant is as addicted to this as he is.
“I thought you might do that for me,” Tristan suggests.
Sometimes he wonders what the hell he’s doing. The
rest of the time, he knows. He’s playing with fire, and one
day he’s going to get burnt. Badly burnt. The trouble is, at
times like this it feels worth it.
Grant’s pupils have dilated; his breathing is shallow and
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25
fast. “Go home, Tristan.” He gives Tristan a half-hearted
shove away, but it lacks any sort of conviction. Tristan
knows—has always known—that if Grant wanted to push
him away, he certainly could. Tristan’s not exactly out of
shape, but compared to Grant, he’s softer than butter. In life
as well as body. God knows what Grant’s upbringing was
like, but Tristan would bet every pound he owns that it
hadn’t involved one of the most expensive schools in the
country, with every possible sort of “extra” added on. Horse
riding, music lessons, tennis coaching, debating club….
Lucky old Tristan, the world at his feet. And oh, the irony
that what he wants to do is fall down in front of Grant’s
slightly scuffed boots.
“You mean you don’t want me to do this…?” Tristan
presses his lips against Grant’s, opening his mouth and
sucking on Grant’s tongue, his desire heating with every
second. “Or this?” Tristan yanks the handful of shirt,
wondering if it will rip as he pulls Grant toward him. They
are touching from thigh to shoulder, and Grant has no
option of denying his erection. Fuck, he’s hard. So hard. So
fucking big. Tristan has to close his eyes for a second,
reminding himself of who he is, what he’s doing. He can’t—
mustn’t—give up everything for Grant. Doesn’t even like the
guy, for God’s sake. Just his body. Just his… fuck… his
cock.
“Get lost, you English twat,” Grant says, but his body
says something else.
“You want me to go away?” One of Tristan’s hands slides
down to Grant’s ass; he is kissing, licking, sucking Grant’s
neck between each word he says. He shouldn’t be doing this.
Why is he doing this?
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26
“Yes. Oh God, yes.” But Grant is not referring to his
earlier denials.
“You don’t want me, say, to kneel down in front of
you…,” Tristan murmurs in his ear, his own voice husky
with desire, his mind full of wanton, desperate imagery, “to
flick open the buttons on your trousers… to raise my face
and take your hard, hot dick into my mouth?”
Grant groans, one of his hands tangling in Tristan’s hair
as he kisses the other man needily. And oh, Tristan loves
these moments—lives for these moments—when he feels that
it’s not just him, it’s not just that he desperately needs
Grant, but that Grant needs him too. Wants him too.
“I hate you,” he says.
“I know.” Tristan can feel the warmth radiating from
Grant’s skin. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” The word is reluctant, but Grant has said it, and
it can’t be taken back. Grant can lie with the best of them—
they work in advertising, after all—but not at moments like
this. At least Tristan hopes so.
“Grant,” Tristan murmurs, letting go of Grant’s shirt to
dig sharp, determined fingers into his shoulders. “Tell me
you want this.”
“Almost,” says Grant, dark eyes glinting with malice, “as
much as you do.”
“Almost,” agrees Tristan unhappily, unable to prevent
himself from dropping to his knees in front of the other man.
“Do all your lovers do this to you?” he asks as he snaps open
Grant’s trousers, pulls his cock from his pants. He licks a
line from the base to the tip of Grant’s cock and back up
again. He does it twice, three times, each time finding
himself that little bit more turned on, that little bit more
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27
desperate. “Do they kneel in front of you and tell you how
fucking big you are, how hot? Do they?”
Tristan hates the idea of Grant having other men. That’s
why he can’t leave the idea alone, like scratching at a sore
patch of skin. Grant is his, his. And Tristan will prove it any
way he damn well can.
“Shut up.” Grant gags Tristan in the best possible way,
thrusting forward until Tristan’s mouth is too full of cock for
him to speak. Tristan groans around his dick and notices as
the sound—the feeling—sends shivers through Grant.
“Fuck.”
“Mmmmm.” Tristan laughs softly at the thought. He
shifts position so that one of Grant’s legs lies between his
own, so that he is humping against Grant’s boot, even as he
sucks him. Grant is still, eyes wide open but unseeing,
strong, pale hands clenched hard into fists. It is Tristan who
is moving: his lips up and down Grant’s shaft, his cock
against the black boot leather. It is Tristan who eventually
pulls back.
“Do your lovers do this?” he whispers again. “Do they?”
Scratch the sore patch. Make it bleed. Later, perhaps,
Grant will truly make him bleed. It won’t hurt as much as
this does.
Grant looks down, every muscle tense. “None of your
damn business.”
Faceless men, their hands, their cocks, all over Grant.
Touching him, making him hard, letting him fuck them.
Bastards. Bastards. And Tristan still can’t stop himself from
asking, over and over.
“Do they beg you to fuck them, beg you to take them
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28
now—right this second—because they can’t wait a moment
more? Do they?”
“None of your—”
“Grant….” Tristan’s voice is ragged, catching at the
edges. “Grant.”
He wants him, so much, so badly. Grant fucking
McDowell, who has no idea who his father is. While Tristan’s
would disown him if he knew about his son, knew that his
son was begging to be screwed by a guy from a dodgy crime-
infested estate somewhere round the edges of Glasgow. A no
one. A nobody. Tristan has so much to lose, and he still can’t
stop himself. It’s like an addiction, but his father would
accept any other addiction in preference to this.
“Shut up,” hisses Grant, before pulling him roughly to
his feet. He turns Tristan around and pushes him against
the scrubby wall. Ironic, really: here's this red brick wall,
and Grant didn’t even go to a redbrick university, Tristan
thinks, irrelevantly. Then he forgets everything as Grant
unzips his trousers and pushes them down with his
underwear so that they pinion his legs together. “Just shut
up,” Grant says again.
Tristan hears the sound of Grant moistening a finger in
his mouth, then feels as Grant pushes it, slippery, inside his
ass, past the clenching ring of muscle and deeper inside.
“More. God, more.” And Tristan would give up
anything—anything—for this.
Grant’s hand is on Tristan’s neck, not-quite-squeezing
the breath from him. “I told you,” he says, his voice savage,
“to shut up.”
Tristan’s head drops forward against the wall; he feels
the bricks scratch at his forehead. He wants to beg, over and
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29
over again. He wants to grovel for this man—this man who
he knows loathes him, except at moments like this. He
wants Grant to take him so hard he screams. He wants to
hurt, to plead, to lose himself and become nothing but what
Grant makes him. He would do anything just to be here,
now.
One finger becomes two, and Grant doesn’t try to be
gentle. Grant would never try to be gentle with Tristan; it is
not what they get from each other. Pleasure is in pain, in
humiliation, in the eroticism of knowing this is something
that must never, never, be spoken of. Tristan still isn’t sure
what Grant has to lose, but there must be something.
Something stopping him from exposing Tristan as the
cocksucker he is. Grant knows—he must—that Tristan is
risking so much by doing this. Why hasn’t he told? Office
gossip would absolutely love a story like this. So what is it
that Grant has to lose which is so important that it makes
publicly unmasking Tristan a minor detail? Grant hates him,
and frankly Tristan’s not that fond of Grant. They have
nothing in common… save this. Tristan takes a gasping
breath, lets out a groan.
“That’s better.” The smooth self-satisfied tones of
Grant’s voice make Tristan want to punch him, to make him
grovel.
“I hate you,” he says.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Grant mocks.
Tristan spits out every bad word he knows, several
times, as Grant exchanges fingers for sheathed cock, as he
stretches Tristan to burning point and beyond. Grant slams
into Tristan, who in turn slams into the rough-edged wall.
There is blood on his hands where the bricks have dug into
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30
him; the stains merge with the rusty red of the bricks
themselves. But Grant would not care about that. Even if
Tristan begged him to stop, to be gentle, to have mercy, he
wouldn’t—and Tristan needs that more than he likes to
admit. He is addicted to it. He bites back the pleas that
threaten to spill from his mouth, for if he were ever to ask
Grant to fuck him more, fuck him harder, Grant would
probably stop altogether, out of spite. Hell, Grant would cut
off his prick to spite his body if it would spite Tristan too.
Grant’s hand reaches round to hold Tristan’s cock; he knows
just the pressure to use, just what will send Tristan over the
edge. That, in combination with Grant’s cock hitting
Tristan’s prostate, over and over until it makes him see
stars, almost undoes Tristan, makes his curses become
unintelligible babbling as he comes closer and closer to
release. Eventually, just one word, over and over.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck….” Dimly,
Tristan knows he shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be
saying this. Shouldn’t be needing this. “Fuck.”
“Yes.” The word is panted in Tristan’s ear as Grant
thrusts inside him, suddenly slower, but harder than ever.
Then Tristan hears it, that hissed breath Grant makes as he
comes. Of all things, Tristan cannot resist this—cannot
resist the moment when Grant needs him as much as he
needs Grant. He comes, jerkily, messily, in Grant’s hand and
across the wall.
He is still coming down from the orgasmic high when he
becomes aware of Grant pulling out, dressing himself,
moving away. There’s never any talk after the event, when
both parties have received what they came for—or come for
all they’re worth, perhaps. Tristan pants breathlessly against
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31
the bricks, staining them with his tears as he has with his
come, as Grant leaves. Grant has left him, just as he always
does. But he’ll be back. Tristan knows it. Grant will be here
again, and Tristan will find him again, will find him waiting
for him.
“See you tomorrow, Grant,” he calls. “Fuck me again
tomorrow,” he adds… but too softly for the retreating Grant
to hear.
But it’s not as easy as that. Tristan spends the evening
in his room cursing himself for having fallen for Grant again.
This has got to stop. It has to. His father—God knows what
his father would say if he knew what his son was doing.
Tristan swears to himself that tonight was the last night. He
won’t go after Grant, won’t give in to the shameful desire to
do anything, if only Grant will fuck him.
Tonight it ends.
T
WO
weeks later, Grant is on his way to the photocopier
when he hears Old Man Wetherby-Hyde speaking loudly to
someone who is clearly Tristan.
“You need to remember that you are my son, and act
accordingly.”
Grant stops short, realizing he’s overhearing a
conversation not meant for his ears. Part of him—the cool
surface he has learned to adopt since leaving school—tells
him he ought to walk away. Listening to private
conversations “just isn’t done, don’t you know?” But the
superficial veneer of polite manners is undercut by years of
doing whatever he needed to get by, and if the chief executive
of Spirit advertising agency is giving his son a bollocking,
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32
Grant wants to hear it. Wants to hear anything that may give
him the edge over Tristan. Tristan, simultaneously his
nemesis and his object of obscene lust. Grant doesn’t know
why it’s Tristan who does it for him. Doesn’t know why he
can’t just leave the guy alone, leave the smug bastard to his
own devices.
More than that, though, he doesn’t know what Tristan
gets out of it. The guy is rich, powerful, successful. Son of
the fucking CEO, for Christ’s sake. He’s also bloody
gorgeous, so why he’s playing around with Grant-from-
nowhere God alone knows. Tristan, the rich, handsome
playboy. Well, no—playboy isn’t fair; Tristan works as hard
as anyone, and is good at his job, damn him. It would be
easier all round if he weren’t. Then Grant could at least have
the pleasure of despising him for getting his job through his
connections rather than his skill. As it is, the bastard does
everything right—up to and including Grant.
“I’m not in danger of forgetting my background,” Tristan
says.
“Are you not?” Grant hears Sidney Wetherby-Hyde,
Chief Executive, breathe out heavily. “We have certain people
in our… employ. Many of them have useful skills, but there
is no need for you to… associate with them. Julian tells me
that you’ve had a couple of run-ins with McDowell. I need
hardly tell you that he is—well. If you find him impossible,
there are many people more our level whom we could
promote.”
McDowell. Grant had wondered whether his name would
come up. He was one of the few people, it seemed, prepared
to challenge Tristan’s ideas. But the Old Boys Network
clearly didn’t like that sort of thing. After all, how could a
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33
pleb have ideas to beat those of a public school boy?
“I’ve also,” Wetherby-Hyde continues, “become aware
that he is… well, one of ‘those’. A queer.” His tone of voice
suggests that he might prefer to be employing a mass
murderer than a gay guy. Grant wonders what Wetherby-
Hyde’d do if he found out his son was as bent as they come.
“He doesn’t bother me,” says Tristan coolly; and Grant’s
hackles are raised higher by this than by anything before,
because damn it, he wants to “bother” Tristan. He wants
Tristan to fucking care; he wants anything rather than to be
dismissed as unimportant. He’s had a suspicion for a while
that Tristan’s taken a vow to keep away from him, and he’s
damned if he’s going to let that pass.
Which is why, this evening, Grant is leaning against the
wall by Tristan’s office, waiting for him to finish work.
Waiting for him to—well, why not face facts? Waiting for
Tristan to come out so that Grant can fuck him. It’s been too
long; if Tristan’s been evading him, he’s going to have the
chance no longer.
Grant hears the click of the door handle and leans back
with a casual air even he thinks is probably overdone. He
watches as Tristan catches sight of him, sees the momentary
gleam of lust in Tristan’s eyes before Tristan schools his
expression to blankness.
“Going somewhere, Tristan?”
“Home,” says Tristan shortly.
“Home to Daddy?” mocks Grant. He knows Tristan still
lives in The Family Home. Mind you, the Wetherby-Hydes
live in a house so big that Tristan could probably go weeks
without seeing his father. In fact, Grant’s entire flat would
probably fit into one room.
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34
“If you’ll excuse me….” Tristan brushes past Grant and
then dusts off the jacket sleeve where it has touched him, a
gesture that Grant suspects is intentionally offensive.
“Don’t want to be late for teatime. Would you be sent to
your room in disgrace, do you think?”
“Leave me alone, Grant.”
“Or what? Are you going to go running to Daddy and tell
him that common queer McDowell is ‘bothering’ you?” Grant
demands. “Why don’t you tell him I’ve been screwing you
into the ground for the last couple of months as well, while
you’re at it?”
Tristan turns at that. Striding suddenly back, he slaps
Grant, hard, across the face. Grant’s head jerks back with
the blow, but, strangely, inside he’s smiling. It’s rare to get
such a rise out of Tristan these days. Still, pretty, rich boys
ought to be careful before they try such tricks with a
comprehensive kid from the rough side of Glasgow. Grant
probably had more fights in his first term at secondary
school than Tristan’s had in his life. Being intelligent, gay,
and poor was a bad combination: Grant had to prove he was
as tough as anyone before he was let alone.
Now, he grabs Tristan’s wrists, pushing him against the
wall and pinioning his hands on either side of his head.
“You do know, don’t you,” Grant says, “that people tend
to do what they want done to them? Do you want me to hit
you, Tristan? Do you want to be dominated as well as
fucked? Would you like me to slap you around a bit before I
take you hard and fast against the wall?”
The slight flush in Tristan’s cheeks as Grant finishes
speaking is worth a million words. Grant’s mouth falls open
in shock.
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35
“God, you would as well. Do you get off on being pushed
about?”
“No.” The response is quick this time, but the ever-
deepening color of Tristan’s complexion gives the lie to his
words.
Grant meets his gaze. “I—think—yes.”
He leans in and kisses Tristan hard, his hands
tightening cruelly around the other man’s wrists. He’ll leave
marks; and Grant finds himself suddenly hard at the
thought of marking Tristan as his own. He tries not to think
about how hot and hard the thought of fucking Tristan until
he begs for mercy is making him, but the ache in his groin
won’t be subdued. And Tristan, despite himself, is
responding, his cock stiffening to a bulge in his trousers.
Grant pushes one of his legs between Tristan’s, rubbing
against Tristan’s erection.
“Get off me,” Tristan growls.
Grant laughs. “If I did, you’d come crawling after me,
begging me to come back. Do you really want to go that
route?” He lifts an eyebrow. “My, you really are into some
twisted things, aren’t you?”
“Fuck off.”
But Tristan is making no effort to get away. Grant
hasn’t got that firm a hold on him. Not with his hands,
anyway. If Tristan really wanted out, he’d be halfway down
the corridor by now.
“What, when you’ve been panting for something like this
to happen?” Grant taunts him. “What am I, your Glaswegian
bit of rough?”
“I hate you.”
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36
Grant laughs dryly, and lets go of Tristan’s wrists. He
moves back a step to rake his eyes over Tristan’s body. “Aye,
well, tell that to your cock. Your cock loves me.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you. And believe me, I’m going to. Because
you’re desperate for me, aren’t you?”
Grant flicks open the button of Tristan’s trousers and
slips a hand enticingly around his erection, the lightness of
his touch intentionally teasing.
“Grant….” Tristan’s voice has changed timbre; it is
deeper, hotter.
“Are you going to beg me for more?” Grant asks huskily.
“Well, are you?”
Tristan’s eyes are glazed with a mixture of hatred, anger
and need.
“Yes,” he whispers finally, one hand tangling in Grant’s
hair, pulling him back in.
The dislike is tangible, almost visible, but the lust is
stronger. Grant wonders for the first time whether Tristan’s
dislike is aimed at him—or at Tristan himself.
“Yes—what?”
“You.”
It might have been intended as the first word of an
insult or a plea, but Tristan cannot finish, instead pressing
his mouth to Grant’s with an angry intensity. Grant’s hand
is still on Tristan’s cock, but he wants more—so much more.
Tristan owes him that much.
“Beg!” Grant orders, pulling away from the kiss.
“I….”
Grant knows that Tristan is close to submitting, but he
Spirit | P.A. Friday
37
is still refusing to give that ultimate satisfaction.
“No?” Grant asks softly. He can’t even threaten to walk
away. This is too good—far too good to leave. He won’t be
satisfied until he’s pushed his way inside Tristan, fucked
him hard and strong and long.
“You… Grant, please… you….”
Grant will treasure the sound of that “please.” He will
wank to the memory of it. But this time, he has the real
thing, and he’s going to do everything he possibly can to
make this a moment to remember.
“Turn around.” Tristan hesitates, and Grant slaps him,
watching as the red print of his fingers stains Tristan’s
cheek. Fuck, Tristan’s hot like this. “Turn around.”
Tristan does as he’s told, and Grant could get off on this
sort of power over Tristan for months. He pushes Tristan’s
trousers and underpants out of the way, unzips his own fly,
and slides a condom onto his aching cock.
Tristan’s tight, though he shouldn’t be by now, and
Grant hears him gasp as he pushes into him. His eyes
squeeze shut with the intensity of the feeling; his teeth bite
down on his lip to stop himself groaning aloud. He won’t give
Tristan that satisfaction. He won’t. He doesn’t bother me.
Doesn’t he, Tristan, doesn’t he?
Slowly, Grant begins to move, thrusting himself further
into Tristan with each motion. At first, the resistance is
great, but as he rocks backward and forward, it’s as if
something in Tristan gives, and Grant… Grant….
“Uhhhhhh.”
The moan is forced out of him. But Tristan, as if set free
by this sign of weakness, is also keening the same words,
over and over: “Yes. Fuck me, hurt me, yes.”
Spirit | P.A. Friday
38
God, Grant wants more, wants more and more and
more. He pushes Tristan’s head against the wall, thrusting
into him hard and fast and unremittingly. The noise coming
from Tristan sounds like a mixture of pain and pleasure.
Grant feels beads of sweat forming and running down the
back of his neck. His hand slips round to pull hard on
Tristan’s cock; he suspects painfully so, but Tristan urges
him to more with every sound, every movement he makes.
“You… you like it like that.” Grant finds it hard to get
his words out as he pants his desire against Tristan’s
shoulder. “You… want to be fucked… want to be fucked by
me. Me, Grant McDowell, from fuck-knows-where. Don’t
you?”
“Yes… yes!” And Tristan is thrusting back against
Grant, increasing the rhythm, forcing him harder and faster
inside.
“Mine,” growls Grant, taking back control, pulling
Tristan’s hair with a violence and passion, and biting down
hard on the other’s neck. His movements are slower now,
but firmer, his right hand tightening and squeezing on
Tristan’s erect and throbbing cock.
Tristan makes a sound such as Grant has never heard
before from anyone: a gasp-howl-cry-need that heralds his
orgasm with such force that Grant can hold his own back no
longer. He can feel Tristan’s warm come on his hand as he
pants his own ecstasy against Tristan’s shoulder, can, even
as he shudders in need, feel wetness on his face that he tells
himself is sweat.
As the shivers stop, Grant has a strange urge to pull
Tristan toward him, and he holds Tristan close as they catch
their breath together. It’s as if all the violence has died out in
Spirit | P.A. Friday
39
their mating; suddenly they are just themselves, with none of
the usual barriers of pride or defiance. Tristan shrugs his
clothes back together and looks, almost shyly, at Grant.
There is a moment when Grant thinks Tristan will speak,
but then the other man turns away; and Grant realizes that
this time it is he who needs to plead, he who needs to shed
his inhibitions and speak out. He’s always known, after all,
that Tristan has so much more to lose. Grant could walk into
another job tomorrow; Tristan couldn’t find another family.
“Tristan?” Tristan stops, turns. Grant shrugs,
embarrassed. “Fancy a drink? There’s a decent pub close
by.”
Grant is aware of Tristan’s hesitation, knows that
Tristan is wondering whether this is another game. He meets
Tristan’s eyes openly, hiding nothing, and Tristan, slowly,
smiles.
“Yes,” he says, his voice somehow lacking the note of
arrogance that usually annoys Grant so much. “Thanks. I’d
like that.”
T
RISTAN
’
S
still not sure what made Grant ask him out. Still
not sure he even likes the guy. But somehow, they seem to
start going out regularly, so that Tristan finds himself
looking forward to Wednesday, because that’s “their” day.
For a long time they avoid controversial topics—Tristan’s
family is off-limits, though Grant tells Tristan a bit about his
kid brother Jimmy, who’s doing well at college. Money’s
never mentioned, and Grant won’t even let Tristan buy him a
drink once in a while—they’re always responsible for their
own alcohol habit. Even the whole sex thing—though they’re
Spirit | P.A. Friday
40
still fucking at work, never anywhere else, for some reason
Tristan can’t explain—isn’t talked about. There seem to be
two things going on: the friendship with Grant, and the sex
with Grant, and it’s as if they are happening with two
separate men.
G
RANT
can’t pinpoint the moment when he realizes that he
actually likes Tristan. It’s a shock, really, when he thinks
about it and has to acknowledge that yeah, the sex is bloody
fantastic, but aside from that, Tristan is someone he actually
enjoys spending time with. Tristan Wetherby-Hyde, for fuck’s
sake. There’s still the elephant in the room, which is
Tristan’s father and the fact that it’s quite evident that
Tristan is anything but “out” about his sexuality, which
doesn’t look like changing. For a while, Grant quite enjoys
being Tristan’s dirty secret; he sits in meetings listening to
Sidney Wetherby-Hyde put him down in one sense and drifts
off into fantasizing about Wetherby-Hyde’s son going down
on him in quite another.
Lately, however, it’s begun to rankle. Grant can think of
things he wants to do, places he’d like to take Tristan.
Things that are never going to be possible just in case
someone sees them together. And sees them doing what?
Dating. It’s hardly a fucking crime. He spent so much time
before this fighting to be out and proud, and now he’s being
treated by his own boyfriend (is Tristan his boyfriend? Grant
doesn’t even know) as if he’s something to be ashamed of.
Tristan says he’s not embarrassed by Grant, but he’s not
exactly acting like it. He’s being weird, sometimes, after sex,
too, and it is with all this in mind that one Wednesday,
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41
instead of just drifting down and meeting Tristan at the pub,
he makes a different suggestion.
“Shall we skip the pub? We could try having sex in a
bed for a change.” Grant’s smiling at Tristan, the mockery
aimed at them both.
“Um.”
“We can go to mine. Don’t want your father knowing
you’re hanging around with the scum of the earth, do we?”
It hurts, when Grant puts it like that, but Tristan can’t
deny it. His father would rather see him dead than being
fucked by Grant McDowell, and there’s not a thing Tristan
can do to change that.
“Sounds good,” he says, raising a smile.
They’re barely through the door of Grant’s flat before
Grant has him up against the wall, firm mouth against his.
Tristan’s already hard; just being this close to Grant does
that, especially when Grant’s in this sort of mood. Dominant.
Demanding.
“Oh yes,” Grant murmurs, his breath hot against
Tristan’s ear. “You want this, don’t you? You want me to
take you, fuck you, break you.”
“Yes.” Grant’s rubbing up against him, and Tristan’s
already broken, if only Grant knew.
“Ask nicely, then.”
Tristan wonders whether it’s because he’s his father’s
son that Grant gets off on this. But when he spends his days
being put down by Sidney Wetherby-Hyde because he didn’t
go to the right school, who could blame Grant if he gets off
on screwing the boss’s son?
“Please, Grant.”
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42
“Please, Grant, what?”
“Fuck me. Fuck me so hard I don’t know my own name.
God,” says Tristan hotly, fusing his mouth against Grant’s,
pulling him as close as is physically possible with the barrier
of clothes between them.
Grant pulls away. “On your knees.”
Tristan’s not sure he can stand up without Grant’s
support. On his knees, his face is level with Grant’s cock,
and unbidden, his mouth opens slightly.
“God, I want you,” he whispers, pulling feverishly at the
fastenings on Grant’s trousers. “Grant… Grant, please.”
“What do you want?”
“I want your dick in my mouth. I want to—please.”
Tristan hasn’t got words.
Grant shrugs off his trousers and pants, then walks
over to a door. “Through here.”
Tristan stumbles to his feet and follows into what is
clearly Grant’s bedroom. The bed is large, taking up most of
the room. Tristan tries not to think about Grant fucking
other men on it. Grant is sitting on the side of the bed, legs
apart.
“Is this what you want, Tristan?”
“Yes.”
And Tristan is on his knees between Grant’s legs, mouth
raised greedily to his cock. Forget the other men. Forget
them. They’re not here now. Tristan is. Possession is nine
tenths of the law, even if it’s Tristan who’s hoping to be
possessed. Grant is digging his fingers into Tristan’s
shoulders, gripping him tightly enough that he’ll leave
marks. He’s done that in the past, and Tristan has run his
Spirit | P.A. Friday
43
fingers over the marks later, when he’s wanking alone,
remembering. Grant’s dick is large, so large that Tristan’s
jaw aches with taking in his length, and that shouldn’t make
him harder, but it does. Later that cock’s going to be
embedded deep in his ass and fuck, that thought is hot.
“Come on,” Grant says, almost to himself, it seems.
Then, “That’s right, Tristan—like that. You know what to do.”
His breathing is speeding up, and Tristan has a hand
between his own legs, touching himself through his trousers,
because Grant… Grant….
Grant pulls him up. “I’m going to fuck you now,
Tristan,” he says, voice low. “You’re going to lie underneath
me on this bed—my bed—and you’re going to beg me to fill
you up, then fuck you so hard you scream. But first you’re
going to undress for me. You’re going to stand there in front
of me and take your clothes off so I can see precisely what
you’re offering me.”
Tristan is still thrown off balance by the fact that he’s
not got his mouth round Grant’s cock anymore. He looks
dazedly at Grant.
“Grant.”
Grant smiles. “Clothes off, Tristan.”
Tristan automatically obeys, pulling his shirt over his
head before slipping his trousers down past his painfully
engorged erection, tugging his pants off. There is an
expression on Grant’s face as he does it that makes Tristan
want to do anything he asks: a lascivious look that makes it
more than clear he’s turned on by Tristan. Tristan’s eyes fall
to Grant’s cock, and he takes an unsteady breath.
“Grant, please.”
“Grant is very pleased,” says Grant hoarsely. “Come
here.”
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44
Tristan tumbles onto the bed, and Grant is on top of
him at once, skin against skin, mouth against mouth as
Grant takes possession. Tristan’s hips hitch forward against
Grant’s, almost unbidden, and Grant sinks his teeth into
Tristan’s neck, slips a hand down between them to catch
both cocks in one hand.
“God….”
“Yes.”
Grant slathers lube on his hand, slides on a condom,
then pushes Tristan’s legs apart so he can take him.
Tristan’s aware he’s making little moaning noises, but he
frankly doesn’t care just now as long as Grant will fuck him
’til Tristan couldn’t speak even if he wanted to. Which is
what Grant seems quite prepared to do, moving with one
slow but firm motion inside Tristan.
“You want me, don’t you?” murmurs Grant. Tristan
groans, but doesn’t say anything coherent. Grant slaps him,
hard, across the face. “I said, you want me, don’t you?”
Grant repeats.
The heat of the blow seems to tingle right through to
Tristan’s cock. “Fuck, yes.”
“God, you’re gorgeous,” Grant says, and then he is
moving, moving, moving, and Tristan feels the world spiral in
and out on him and wants nothing more than for Grant to
keep doing just what he’s doing, just that, because….
Grant comes first, but the sensation of Grant coming
inside him is all that Tristan needs. He groans, hitching
himself up one last time against Grant.
It feels so good.
It’s only afterward it feels bad.
Spirit | P.A. Friday
45
T
RISTAN
’
S
turned his head away from Grant, but Grant
knows he’s crying. Tristan won’t let a sound out, though.
Won’t admit to any of it. He’s done this once before,
afterward; it caught Grant by surprise. This time, though,
Grant’s going to find out why.
“Tristan.” When Tristan doesn’t move, Grant grabs his
shoulder, hard, and forces him to turn over. “Look at me.”
His voice is still rough from the sex, his mind still set at
domination. “Tristan.”
Tristan brushes an arm across his face, wiping the tears
away. “Sorry, Grant. Not a very flattering reaction. I can
assure you, you performed as well as usual.”
“Fuck ‘performance’,” Grant says. “What the hell’s up?”
Tristan sits up and swings his legs off the side of
Grant’s bed, turning his back to him again. He fumbles for
his trousers and pulls them on.
“Nothing. Just—nothing.”
It’s never been about the soft, gentle emotions between
the pair of them. Lust and hatred turned to pure lust, and
now—and now Grant’s not sure where they are. Whether
they’re even “together,” or whether he’s just Tristan’s fuck
buddy—the one person who Tristan knows won’t let out he’s
gay, because it’d be Grant’s job on the line if he did so.
Tristan makes for the door, but Grant’s seen this coming,
and he puts himself in the way, leaning up against it.
Tristan’s not going anywhere until Grant’s found out what’s
going on here. Tristan won’t try and push past him—even if
he did, they both know he’s not a match for Grant. Hasn’t
needed to be: Tristan’s had a soft life, everything handed to
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46
him on a plate. Grant’s fought for everything. It occurs to
him he’s fighting for Tristan now, and the thought unsettles
him. That, and the fact that he’s standing there stark-
bollocks naked. He reaches over to the bed and picks up a
dressing gown, shrugging it round him.
“It’s about time you started talking, I reckon. What the
fuck’s going on?” Tristan won’t look at him. “Tristan!”
Tristan’s hand is shaking as he puts it across his face.
“Christ, Grant, don’t you understand? I’m so bloody
ashamed of myself.”
Grant’s hackles rise. “What, I’m not good enough for a
Wetherby-Hyde?” he demands. He’d begun to think Tristan
was better than that. Stupid of him. Grant was okay for a
passing fuck, but now Tristan’s been to his flat, seen the
difference between them—the different “level” as Sidney
bloody Wetherby-Hyde put it so coolly—and he’s turning
Grant down cold.
For a moment, Tristan looks like he’s going to say
something, and then he shrugs in defeat. “Yes.”
“You’ve spent months begging me to fuck you senseless,
but now you’ve seen where I live, it’s not so great, is it? I
don’t quite make the mark.” Grant stands aside from the
door. “See yourself out. It’s not a mansion like you live in.
You’re not likely to get lost on the way.”
Tristan picks up his shirt mechanically and puts it on.
But when he gets to the door, he halts, leaning his head
against the frame. When he speaks, his voice is dull,
hopeless.
“You’re right. I’ve been begging you to fuck me, begging
you to do anything you like with me. What sort of pathetic
failure am I that I get hard on that? That I want you—need
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47
you—to push me around, that I’m so fucking pathetic that
I’ll do anything, anything, just for that?”
“Tristan….”
“You could live anywhere, and I’d still want you. God,
my father already thinks I’m a failure, and he doesn’t even
know we’re fucking, let alone that I can hardly wait ’til we’re
alone so I can go down on my knees for you. You despise
me? Hell, Grant, not half as much as I loathe myself.”
He shrugs and walks through the door. Grant’s
dumbstruck for a moment, stunned.
“Fuck.”
Grant stares at the space where Tristan was, and thinks
about how much he’d like to castrate Tristan’s father. Then
he’s running, charging out of his front door and after
Tristan, realizing just a little too late that all he’s wearing is
a dressing gown.
“Tristan!”
But Tristan’s gone.
B
ACK
in the flat, Grant pours himself a glass of white wine
and sits on the sofa thoughtfully. He’s always told himself
that while he’s had to fight for everything, Tristan’s just been
offered it all on a plate. He’s beginning to realize that where
it matters, he’s the one who’s got it all. A mam who’s always
loved him and been proud of him, his kid brother doing well
at the tech back home. And Tristan’s had his father telling
him how to behave, telling him that the only way to act is to
piss over those beneath you, that anything else makes you a
weakling. Telling him nothing he ever does is good enough.
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48
Giving him the best fucking academic education in the world
and the worst education on life.
T
RISTAN
’
S
going to get drunk tonight. Very, very drunk. But
only when he’s showered off the smell of Grant from his skin.
He still wants him, even now. Tristan puts the shower on full
pelt and steps in, swearing at himself for being such a sick
fuck. Who the hell got off on behaving like a whore, ready to
do anything Grant tells him? No wonder his father despises
him. But no one hates Tristan quite as much as Tristan
hates himself.
The shower is too hot, and Tristan feels it burn against
the bruises he begged Grant to deliver a few hours earlier.
He looks down at the finger-shaped marks on his skin, signs
of his own inadequacy. He knows that if Grant asks it of
him, he’ll do it all again—and he doesn’t know whether he
hopes or fears it. The idea of never having Grant again is
torturous, the idea of doing it again almost unthinkable.
Tristan thinks he’d probably give everything he owns to be
normal, to want to settle down with a woman, sex once a
week, on Fridays, the whole lot. Instead, he….
He towels himself dry roughly and then pours himself a
whisky. Followed by another and another. For one morbid
moment he considers suicide, but even as he thinks about it
he knows he’d never do it. Or at any rate, not ’til things get a
lot worse. The whisky sinks low in the bottle, and Tristan
cries the easy tears of self-loathing and drunkenness,
eventually falling asleep in the chair where he sits.
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49
G
RANT
’
S
not going to let Tristan walk away from him
without making a damn good effort to keep him. It’s funny—
the thought of losing Tristan has really brought home to
Grant how much he wants him. Wants him. Likes him.
Needs him. Of all the people in the world to do it for Grant, it
had to be Tristan fucking Wetherby-Hyde, didn’t it?
Grant’s in early next morning, waiting for Tristan to
arrive.
“You’re coming over to my place after work,” he tells
Tristan bluntly, and watches as Tristan takes a quick look
round, to check whether anyone has heard Grant’s words.
“I’m allowed to talk to you,” Grant says irritably. “It’s not a
fucking crime.”
“No. Sorry.”
“We need to talk.”
Tristan raises a faint smile. “I think it’s all been said,
hasn’t it?”
“No, it bloody hasn’t.” Grant’s voice is incautiously loud;
Jorgi and Becca, from Accounts, look round, and Grant
senses rather than sees Tristan twitch with nerves. “Or do
you want me to say it here?” he asks, hating himself for
reverting to threats.
“No. Okay.”
Tristan’s face is pale green, and his eyes are red-
rimmed. Not an attractive combination. He looks like he’s
not slept in a week. Grant feels like a total bastard.
“I’ll see you then,” Grant says and walks away.
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50
O
H
G
OD
.
Oh God oh God oh God.
Tristan can’t concentrate on anything. What’s he
supposed to say to Grant this evening? He’ll die of
humiliation if he has to talk about—that—again. Yes, okay,
he’s a coward. And a poof. And some other things he doesn’t
want to think about. He should never have become involved
with Grant in the first place. Easy to say, of course; less easy
to carry out. Tristan knows that even now, if Grant makes a
move on him this evening, he’ll do anything Grant wants.
Tristan stumbles through the day; he doesn’t really
know how. He’s aware of his father looking at him during the
meeting—knows he’s not living up to Sidney Wetherby-
Hyde’s standards. (Again.) Tries not to think what his dad
would say if he knew why Tristan is such a mess today.
Pukes his guts out in the toilet at lunchtime, a mixture of
hangover and nerves. He’s tempted to go home early, say
he’s ill—but what would be the point? He’s going to have to
face Grant at some stage; that much is clear. Better get it
over with sooner rather than later.
G
RANT
watches Tristan through the day and feels like the
biggest bastard alive. A couple of times he walks toward him,
wanting to say—what? That this evening’s off? That he’s not
holding threats over Tristan’s head? Each time, though, he
stops. He and Tristan need to talk. Whatever happens, they
need to talk. Maybe Tristan will realize things aren’t so awful
after tonight. Maybe.
Spirit | P.A. Friday
51
T
RISTAN
and Grant walk to Grant’s flat in silence. They leave
the office separately, meeting up a couple of streets down.
Tristan thinks it probably sums the whole thing up. Grant
and he are streets apart. Tristan’s the “poor little rich kid”
whose family doesn’t understand him. Grant’s a man. A real
person, not a pathetic joke like Tristan. And irony of ironies,
Grant seems to think Tristan’s looking down on him.
When they’re in the flat, Grant pours Tristan a drink of
white wine and takes one for himself.
“Now,” Grant says, getting straight to the point. “What
the fuck is going on?”
That’s Grant all over. Tristan would probably have sat
there all night not getting to the point. Putting off the
moment when they had to talk about the unspeakable.
Grant comes right out with it.
“It’s over.” Tristan didn’t know he was going to say that
until the words were out.
“What is?” snaps Grant.
Tristan looks down at his wine. Intending to slosh it
round inside the glass, instead he spills half of the damn
thing in his lap. That figures.
“This. Us. Whatever it was.” Tristan buries his head in
his hands. “I don’t even know what it is.”
“You don’t know what it is, but it’s over?” demands
Grant, his tone brusque.
“Yes.” Tristan pauses, and then takes a deep breath and
says the words. “Whatever it is. It’s wrong. I’m wrong. It’s
over.”
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52
G
RANT
pauses for a second. He’s been told he’s evil, told he’s
a sinner, many times before by the gay-haters. He’s had
people like Tristan’s father look down on him because he’s
common as muck, too. But this is different. This is Tristan.
He stops himself from saying the first angry thing that comes
into his head and instead tries a different approach.
“Why is it wrong?” he asks gently.
Tristan looks as if the gentleness is almost worse. His
head still buried in his arms, he says, “It’s humiliating.”
“Because of who I am?” But Grant doesn’t really think
that’s it, not now.
“Fuck’s sake, you know I don’t care about that. Oh God.
It’s that I get off on it. That I—I—fuck, you know this—that
I’d do anything for you to fuck me, anything.”
“And you don’t think it’s the same for me?”
“You—you’re… at least you’re a man,” Tristan says, the
self-loathing in his voice tangible. “You don’t get hard
crawling for someone else. You….” He breaks off.
Grant thinks about how much he wants to drag Tristan
out of the pathetic heap he’s in and screw him so hard, so
well, that he’s got no mind left to think like this. Tristan
would let him, too—but that’s the problem. Afterward,
Tristan would feel worse. Before Grant can lose his nerve, he
speaks.
“Fuck me.”
“What?” The unexpectedness of the words make Tristan
half lift his head from his arms to look at Grant for a second.
“You heard,” said Grant, digging his fingernails into his
palms to stop himself from backing out. “Come on, Tristan,
don’t tell me you’ve never topped.”
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53
“A couple of times, but….” Tristan has straightened up
and is staring at Grant. “Why?”
It’s Grant’s turn to be uncomfortable. “Please,” he says.
Tristan looks uncertain. Grant can’t explain what it is,
this feeling, this knowledge that Tristan needs to understand
that he’s got power over Grant as much as the other way
around. That Grant needs this, wants this, as much as
Tristan does.
“If it’s going to be over, leave me with this. Please,” says
Grant again, kissing Tristan softly.
“Okay.”
They kiss for a while, getting in the mood. Grant lets
Tristan make all the moves—something Tristan’s pretty
damn good at anyway. But this time… this time there is
nothing of the power struggle, of the originally serious, and
since then, almost teasing, fight for control. Grant doesn’t
want control—a new experience for him. Kissing moves to
touching, to frottage, to struggling out of clothes, which
seem an inconvenient barrier just now. Then Grant’s lying
on the bed, looking up at Tristan slopping lubrication onto
his fingers.
“You’re certain about this?” Tristan asks.
Grant forces a smile. “Hell, no. Shit scared, thanks.
Please, Tristan.”
Tristan brings his hands down to touch Grant. One of
them strokes Grant’s dick, which doesn’t seem to have any
qualms about what’s going to happen, no matter how the
rest of Grant feels. Tristan’s other hand is making Grant’s
ass wet—cold for a split second and then warm, warm.
“But you’ve done this before?” Tristan says.
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54
Grant’s been expecting this. He takes a deep breath.
“No.” He adds, self-mockingly, “So be careful with a terrified
virgin, there’s a good boy.”
Tristan leans over and kisses Grant, hard, on the
mouth. “You don’t have to do this.”
“No, I don’t,” Grant agrees. “But I want to.”
It is only half a lie, after all. He’s heard it’s supposed to
be painful the first time; but when Grant thinks of all the
times he’s done Tristan, with little more than a bit of spit
and a few moments warmup, he can’t turn round now and
say he’s scared of being hurt. Big fucking wuss, he thinks to
himself.
“God, you’re gorgeous,” Tristan says, nuzzling the tip of
Grant’s cock. “I could just….” He looks at Grant inquiringly.
“Tristan… I want you. Please?” Strange how difficult it is
to say aloud; Grant had never really realized that before.
Tristan presses a finger inside Grant; makes it two.
Grant grunts in slight discomfort, but after a few seconds,
the discomfort eases into an intense sensation. Grant’s done
this much himself, so it’s more the fact that someone else is
doing it… then he looks up and remembers that this isn’t
just “someone else,” this is Tristan. Tristan has never just
been “someone else,” whether Grant’s liked it or not.
“Okay?” asks Tristan.
In answer, Grant drags a pillow underneath his ass,
throws Tristan a condom, and hitches himself up, further
onto Tristan’s fingers. Tristan seems to get the message,
moving his fingers inside Grant before putting the rubber on
his cock and positioning it between Grant’s legs, sprawled
apart to take him. Grant fights the temptation to tense up,
instead keeping his gaze on Tristan as his lover pushes into
Spirit | P.A. Friday
55
him. There is a strain, a tug. Tristan keeps still, his dick just
grazing Grant’s entrance. They move gently against each
other for a moment or two, and Grant realizes just how
vulnerable he feels, his legs spread apart for Tristan’s dick to
push inside further. Tristan is still working Grant’s cock,
and fuck, he’s good at it; Grant begins to think that Tristan
could do what the hell he liked as long as he keeps doing
that with his hand.
“More?” Tristan suggests.
“More,” grunts Grant.
Tristan’s fingers are moving on Grant’s prick in time to
the motion of his own erection plunging in and out of Grant’s
ass, slowly to start with, then faster. The sensation is not
entirely pleasurable, but watching Tristan’s face, his hair
flopping round him, feeling Tristan’s fingers move in unison
with his cock…. Grant’s really not complaining. And
Tristan’s expression is—bloody hell, does he look like this
when Grant fucks him? They need to fuck face to face
because he’s so damn gorgeous with that expression, which
says that Grant is all-and-everything-that-matters. So
vulnerable and open and goddamn hot and needy. Grant
forgets that there was anything scary, anything not good
about this, and just feels and groans and pushes himself
forward, further onto Tristan’s cock.
Then, suddenly, Tristan pauses for a second, and Grant
feels the orgasm overtaking his partner—and God, that feels
good. More than good. He shuts his eyes and lets go,
spasming in Tristan’s hand as Tristan’s cock does so in his
ass. It’s not the same as topping, but it’s not nearly as bad
as Grant had feared it might be. In fact….
Grant rolls over and holds Tristan, leaning a sweaty
Spirit | P.A. Friday
56
head on an equally sweaty shoulder. There is silence for a
while.
“
W
HY
?” asks Tristan a little later.
Grant shifts uncomfortably—and not because of a sore
ass. “D’you feel more of a man now?”
“What? Oh.” Tristan looks embarrassed. “I shouldn’t
have said—it’s not that, not really.”
“Of course,” Grant says thoughtfully. “You could say
that it’s me who has the issue. I mean, I’m getting off on
hitting someone physically weaker than myself. It’s not
exactly a great portrayal of masculinity to slap someone else
about, is it?”
“But it’s not—”
“Of course it isn’t,” Grant interrupts. “I don’t hit you
because I can, I do it because you want me to, because you
look so damn hot with my marks across your body and
looking at me like all you want me to do in the world is to
screw you into the middle of next week.” His cock, which
might have been thought to have had enough attention, bobs
up slightly as he speaks, and he looks down, then gives
Tristan a rueful grin. “See what the thought of it does to
me?”
To Grant’s amusement, Tristan blushes. “But why did
you ask me to…?”
“To fuck me?”
“Yes.”
“I guess because.” Grant stops, swallows, tries again. “I
guess for me it’s a power thing.”
Spirit | P.A. Friday
57
“Electricity?” suggests Tristan, trying to lighten the
mood.
“You fucked me because I let you,” Grant says bluntly.
“I know.”
“I fuck you because you let me. There’s no less power.
You could tell me to throw myself over a cliff.”
“I couldn’t,” Tristan murmurs.
“Yeah, well.” Grant grabs Tristan’s chin and brings his
face round to look at him. “Me neither. And I’ve always been
fucking terrified of bottoming, but not as scared as I was
about losing you, all right? So, yeah.” There is silence for a
while as Tristan works through this. Then, suddenly, Grant
speaks again. “Do you think your dad’s right about me?”
Tristan frowns. “You know I don’t.”
Grant holds his gaze for three solid seconds before
speaking. “Then why do you think he’s right about you?” he
asks.
“
T
HEN
why do you think he’s right about you?”
Tristan goes home with those words buzzing in his
head. He’s always known that he is a disappointment to his
father; not the son Sidney Wetherby-Hyde would have
chosen, given the option to choose. And it has always—
always—hurt.
It’s only when Tristan is home, sitting in his room on his
own, that another of Grant’s lines comes back to him.
And I’ve always been fucking terrified of bottoming, but
not as scared as I was about losing you, all right?
Seriously, Grant was prepared to do that for Tristan? To
Spirit | P.A. Friday
58
do something that terrified him just to show Tristan he
meant what he said? Tristan’s been ashamed of himself for
years… but with a sudden clarity he realizes he’s been
ashamed of the wrong thing. Ashamed of wanting what (who)
he wants, when he should be ashamed of not having the
guts—not having the balls—to tell his father who and what
he is. He’s gay. It’s not a sin. Loving Grant is not a sin.
Loving Grant?
Loving Grant?
T
RISTAN
leaves without saying anything, and Grant wonders
whether he’s just fucked up majorly. He can tell himself he
was losing Tristan anyway, but the point still stands. Tristan
just walked out on him. Stupid bastard. It’s not a comment
aimed at Tristan but at Grant himself. Why the fuck would
Tristan bother with him? Grant stupid McDowell falls for the
least available guy on the planet, and then is surprised when
the guy in question walks off and leaves him. Honestly, how
stupid is he?
T
RISTAN
knows what he’s going to do. He knows what he has
to do. When Grant comes in to work next morning, Tristan is
sitting on his desk. Before Grant can say anything, Tristan
speaks.
“Grant, I’m sorry.”
He sees, or rather, senses Grant tense. “What do you
mean?”
“That I’m a coward, or I have been.” Tristan takes a
Spirit | P.A. Friday
59
breath. “I’m not going to be anymore.” He grins ruefully.
“Well, to be honest, I probably am. But I’m going to do my
best. Starting with telling my father.”
“Telling him what?”
“About me. About us.”
The tension in Grant turns to wide-mouthed shock.
“What?”
“About time, isn’t it?” Tristan says. “Unless…. I don’t
know. I don’t want to make things difficult for you. With my
dad, I mean.”
Grant snorts. “You might not’ve noticed it, mate, but
they’ve always been difficult. Your father can’t stand me.
Don’t you worry about me.”
“Good job you’re dating me and not my father, then.”
Tristan hesitates. “We are, aren’t we—dating, I mean?”
“We’re together,” says Grant bluntly. “And just in case
you’re still wondering—no, there’s no one else. Just you.”
Tristan feels his heart do a little flip inside him. He’s
always been insecure, felt so inadequate; after all, why would
Grant bother with him? For months he’s tormented himself
with visions of Grant with guy after faceless, nameless guy.
Bastards, all of them. Also, as it turns out, nonexistent. He
realizes he’s grinning like an idiot.
“Really?”
“No, Tristan, I’m lying to make you feel better,” Grant
says immediately, a teasing look in his eyes. “Of course
‘really’, you idiot. What, don’t you think you’re enough for
one guy to handle?” Which is, of course, precisely what
Tristan’s been thinking. It must show in his face, too,
because Grant stops teasing. “What with fucking you, and
Spirit | P.A. Friday
60
fantasizing about fucking you, I’ve got no room for anyone
else,” Grant says gently. “I don’t want to have, either.”
Tristan nods. Bites his lips. “I’ll tell him. My father. I
owe you that much.”
Grant shakes his head. “You owe me nothing.”
“Say I want to do this, then,” Tristan suggests. “For both
of us.”
“For both of us,” repeats Grant. “Sounds good.”
G
RANT
wonders all day whether he’s gone mad or Tristan
has. Did Tristan really just tell him that old man Wetherby-
Hyde is about to be informed that his beloved son is queer as
they come—and fucking a lower-class oik like Grant to boot?
And Tristan’s doing it for him, for Grant. Grant’s not one for
sentiment, but that’s a pretty amazing declaration of intent
on Tristan’s part. Grant just hopes that it gets the reaction it
deserves, and that the Old Man doesn’t throw Tristan out of
his family on the spot.
Grant gets up and goes to find Tristan. He can’t let his
lover do this, not for Grant’s sake. But he’s too late. Sidney
Wetherby-Hyde’s found him first.
“
T
RISTAN
.” Sidney Wetherby-Hyde catches his son. “I want a
word.”
Tristan turns, a rather forced smile on his lips. “Me too.”
He follows his father into the CEO’s office.
“There are a few things I’ve been wanting to speak to
you about,” says his father. “First of all, it has come to my
Spirit | P.A. Friday
61
notice that you have been spending time with McDowell. I
don’t know whether you are trying to educate him up to our
level”—Tristan winces at that “our”—“but my advice would
be to leave well alone. You do know what sort of person he
is, of course?”
Tristan knows to what his father is referring. “You mean
he’s gay.”
Sidney Wetherby-Hyde’s lips make a little moue of
disapproval. “Quite.”
“Before we continue this conversation, I think I should
say at this point that Grant and I are together.” Tristan looks
his father in the eye and waits for the world to explode. In a
way, Sidney Wetherby-Hyde, all unintentionally, has made
this easy for him. Tristan has been wondering how to broach
the conversation; his father bringing up the subject of Grant
has forced Tristan’s hand.
“What do you mean?” his father says sharply.
Grant would probably just come out with “We’re fucking.”
Tristan tries a softer approach.
“We are seeing each other, out of work. As more than
friends.”
Much more than friends. Tristan hears Grant’s comment
so vividly, it is as if his lover is there beside him. He sees his
father blanch and feels sorry for him in a way. Would feel
sorrier if his father hadn’t made him feel that way so often in
the past.
“You’re….” Sidney stutters to a halt, apparently unable
to bring himself to say the word.
“Gay. Yes. Dating Grant. Yes.” It’s taken Tristan long
enough to say anything; he is not going to let himself wimp
out again this time.
Spirit | P.A. Friday
62
“I see.” The words are quiet, with none of the anger
Tristan had expected. Instead, his father looks gray and
shocked.
“I know I’ve never been the son you wanted,” Tristan
says, looking down at the blue-carpeted floor of his father’s
office.
“No,” his father agrees.
“I’m sorry for that. I never could live up to your
expectations.” Tristan can feel the blood pumping around his
head as he says all the things that have haunted him for
years.
“No,” says his father again. There is a hint of tears in his
eyes. Tristan has never seen his father cry.
“Dad,” Tristan says, but his father hasn’t finished.
“I have always said, and always believed,” he says, “that
any success I achieved was due to my own skills. I would be
lacking in logic if I did not believe the same about my
failures.”
“I’m sorry I’m a failure.” Tristan had never expected to
hear his father say it out loud like that, but he’s always
known, really, that it was how his father saw him. It hurts,
but so much has hurt.
“The failure is mine.” Sidney holds himself erect, and
although there is a crease between his eyes, they are quite
dry now. His lips are straight. “I will have to live with it as I
have lived with my successes and failures in all other walks
of life.” He dismisses his son with a nod of the head. “Rest
assured I will not allow family problems to affect business
issues: although I personally do not like the style of his
work, McDowell is doing well for Spirit, and your own
performance is quite acceptable. However, we will discuss
Spirit | P.A. Friday
63
the other work matters later; at the moment, I require some
time to myself. Excuse me.”
Tristan leaves the room quietly.
“
Y
OU
okay?” Grant asks, knowing that the answer is no.
“Yes.”
“Liar.” But Grant takes Tristan’s hand as he says it. “It’s
five. Let’s leave early, go and have a drink.”
“Okay.”
Grant takes him home rather than to the pub. He’s
going to make Tristan tell him what’s up, and they need
privacy for that. For oh so many reasons.
“Drink.”
“No thanks.”
“It wasn’t an offer,” Grant says, thrusting a glass of
white wine into Tristan’s hand. “It was an order. Come on,”
he says, more softly. “Tell me. Your father, yes? I’m beyond
contempt, yeah?”
“Me, I think,” Tristan replies quietly.
Grant bites down the angry words that surge through
him at Tristan’s reply. He can tell Tristan that his father’s a
bastard and not worth listening to, but that won’t change the
ultimate fact: Sidney Wetherby-Hyde is Tristan’s father, and
if the old man’s been criticizing Tristan, it’s going to hurt,
however used to it Tristan may be.
“What did he say?”
Tristan takes a long swig of wine. “That if he claimed
responsibility for his successes, he also needed to for his
failures,” he says, his voice dull. “That last would be me.”
Spirit | P.A. Friday
64
Grant wonders how Sidney Wetherby-Hyde has stayed
alive this long. Just now, Grant is quite prepared to end that
run. “Bastard,” he says, unable to keep the word back.
“No,” Tristan disagrees. “I’ve always known I’m not the
son he wanted.”
“Okay, forget bastard,” says Grant, trying to lighten the
tone. “After all, that’d be me. It’s one of the reasons he hates
me, isn’t it? He’s an idiot.” He runs a hand through Tristan’s
hair. “You’re not half-bad, you know. Want me to prove it?”
Tristan dumps his glass on the table and turns to him,
and Grant can see that he’s desperate for something—
anything, to make him forget his bloody father’s words.
Grant leans in and kisses Tristan, hard on the mouth, and
he melts back in, toward Grant, opening his mouth to
entwine his tongue with Grant’s. Grant pushes him back
against the sofa and climbs astride him, deepening the kiss
further and further until they are both hot and gasping for
breath.
“God, I want you,” says Grant, his hands busy with the
buttons on Tristan’s shirt. “Here. Now.”
“Yes.”
Tristan wriggles underneath him so that their cocks are
rubbing against each other, and Grant takes a hissing
breath.
“So fucking hot,” he whispers, pushing Tristan’s shirt off
and biting down into his lover’s shoulder.
“Fuck me, Grant,” says Tristan, his voice needy.
“Oh yes.” Grant moves away and strips Tristan of his
trousers and pants, then slips his own off. “You won’t even
remember your name by the time I’ve finished with you,” he
promises.
Spirit | P.A. Friday
65
“I want that.”
Grant slaps Tristan hard. “What do you want?”
“You. God, Grant.”
Grant runs his fingers down the hot red streak on
Tristan’s face, then moves his hand over Tristan’s chest,
down to the curling hairs surrounding his cock. Tristan
makes a small pleading noise as Grant touches everywhere
but where he wants to be touched most, and Grant kneels
down by Tristan and sucks hard on one firm nipple as he
touches Tristan’s prick with teasingly frustrating, light
movements.
“Grant,” Tristan whines.
Grant slides further down Tristan’s body and sucks
Tristan’s cock into his mouth. Tristan groans, his hips
thrusting as if he can’t prevent the movement. Grant moves
up—down—up, the slow buildup frustrating him as much as
it does Tristan.
“Do you want more?” he asks, moving back.
“Want you inside me,” says Tristan.
Grant pushes Tristan back so that he is lying across the
sofa and moves his tongue a couple of inches down until it is
pressing against Tristan’s anus, teasing the ridges around
the edge before pushing inside the ring of muscle, while one
of his hands encircles Tristan’s prick. Tristan is sweating
and groaning and pleading, all at once; so damn hot and
gorgeous and Grant’s that Grant feels like he’s going to come
just from watching his lover squirm. But he can feel Tristan
getting close to orgasm, and he wants to be inside him when
that happens. The tongue is replaced by fingers and then
Grant’s cock; Grant is too impatient to be careful and gentle,
but Tristan’s loud cry is more pleasure than pain. Grant
Spirit | P.A. Friday
66
knows, too, that Tristan’s always loved that curious place
where pain becomes pleasure in itself. He wants it to last
forever, but they’re too damn needy, and it’s only a short
time later before they are lying, panting, in a sweaty heap,
arms curled around each other as if it’s always been like
this, it’s always been meant to end this way.
They lie together for a long time, and Grant listens to
the rapid beating of Tristan’s heart. Finally, he lifts his head
and looks down at his lover.
“You know,” says Grant, “with all we’ve ever said, there’s
still one thing I’ve never told you.”
Tristan looks worried. “Yes?”
“I love you,” says Grant, and he smiles.
About the Author
P.A.
F
RIDAY
lives in the UK with one partner, one child, and
one cat and has a creeping paranoia that she is obsessed
with the number one. The only time when “one” cannot be
used to describe her, however, is in her writing: she fails
dismally to write one sort of thing and, when not writing
erotic romance of all sexualities, may be found writing
articles on disability, pagan poetry, or science fiction. She
loves wine and red peppers, and loathes coffee and
mushrooms.
Visit Penelope’s blog at
http://penelopefriday.viviti.com
She tweets at penelopefriday and has a Facebook account.
You can contact her at penfriday@gmail.com.
Copyright
Spirit ©Copyright P.A. Friday, 2012
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
382 NE 191st Street #88329
Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art by Catt Ford
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is
illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon
conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No
part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the Publisher. To
request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 382 NE 191st Street
#88329, Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
Released in the United States of America
March 2012
eBook Edition
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-385-2
