Chapter Twenty-Four
Taine
Sunday evening came far too quickly. Taine barely managed to see to catching up with everything from being gone for a week. He found time to get a trim of his hair and beard—no need to look like a barbarian, even if he planned to act like one.
Lunch with Scottie should’ve been skipped. The man injected every other sentence with an insinuation of one sort or another. It reminded Taine of how his friend had once described himself to a sports journo: “Scott’s a bit of a tosser, but Scottie is a complete and utter wanker.”
Today had been Scottie at his worst. Taine cared deeply for his old teammate, but enough was enough. He’d left him at the restaurant with the tab. Shaking off the uneasy energy, he focused on preparing for what would hopefully be a far more enjoyable evening.
With a bag of raw ingredients in his right hand and another in his left with less edible treats, Taine made his way up to Freddie’s flat. The nurse wouldn’t know what hit him.
He hadn’t expected to arrive to find the generally happy bunny frazzled—and jumpy, the perfect word to describe his mood.
Not good.
Any query into why garnered him a blank but slightly embarrassed expression. Time to move the conversation on to better topics. The mood would have to be lifted for anything even remotely enjoyable to happen. Spending the night suffering from stress-induced indigestion wasn’t on his to-do list.
Taking command of Freddie’s iPod, Taine thumbed through the playlists to find one with a somewhat decent collection of blues and jazz. He hit Play, set the gadget down, and caught the man’s arm to drag him over. His attempt at smoothly dancing the bad energy away ended pathetically with his partner hopping around on one foot.
“Do you even know how to dance?” Freddie rubbed the tips of his toes gingerly.
“Mostly. How hard can it be?” Taine hadn’t thought it a hard skill to fake. “I can haka.”
“Not exactly a slow dance, is it? Are you planning on going to war tonight?” Freddie wiggled his toes before kicking off his other shoe as well. He grabbed one of Taine’s hands to rest on his shoulder and put the other arm loosely around his waist. “This song? Close your eyes and feel the gentle, airy depths of the melody. It’s a blast of warm air after a muggy rain. You move with it, not against it. Think about running on a pitch, smoothly spinning around your opponents, aiming for a match-winning try. Sway with the music—hit the gentle staccato of the bass. There. See? You can do it.”
Taine wound his arm more closely around Freddie’s back. He let the magic of the moment carry them away until the song ended. Fingers gripping his shirt stopped him from pulling away.
Apparently, we’ll be going for at least one more tune.
They made it through two and a half songs before Bitsy wove between their legs and tripped them up. Taine caught Freddie just in time to stop him tumbling headfirst into the wall. He chuckled at the muttered, “Menace of a cat. No tuna for you. Ruining the moment.”
Deciding they’d faffed off enough, Taine grabbed the bag of food. The steak would be cooked and eaten. He would be able to handle meat of a different variety much later.
“Right. Are you ready to play sous chef for me?” Taine turned on one of the burners on the hob. “Do you have a baking pan?”
“My hands are yours—as are my pans.” Freddie darted into the kitchenette before Taine. He rushed around, pulling out accoutrements that he obviously believed would be required to prepare their supper. “I’ve beer and a bottle of wine. Gen bought it for me as a housewarming present.”
Taine glanced over at the bottle. He recognised the vintage from one Caddock and Francis had shared with him once, and gave a low whistle. “Expensive wine. You not a fan? I’d have drunk it by now.”
Freddie shrugged indifferently. “Never cared much either way.”
“We’ll have it with supper.” Taine returned his attention to unpacking the ingredients. He’d be making an ale-glazed steak with garlic parmesan seasoned chips. He handled the knife deftly on the potatoes. “Can you preheat the oven to gas mark six? These need to bake for a good bit to turn into strips of golden joy.”
The strains of Billie Holiday filtered through the flat while they found an easy companionship in the kitchen. Taine purposefully bumped into or brushed against Freddie repeatedly—always intentionally. He intended for him to have as heightened a sense of awareness as possible.
Little touches here and there; his hand grazed across Freddie’s arse more than once. By the time both the steak and chips had cooked, the younger man appeared far more flushed than the cramped nature of the kitchen would make him. An obvious bulge in his trousers indicated the source of his overheating.
The round dining table played right into his plans. Taine ensured his leg pressed against Freddie’s. After cutting up his own steak for easy eating, he dropped his hand high up on the younger man’s upper thigh; his fingertips grazed over the fabric-covered arousal.
“Are you quite happy with yourself?” Freddie glared at him but did nothing to dislodge the hand now directly over his shaft. “I’ll break a tooth on my fork if you keep making me jump.”
Taine squeezed him firmly in response. “How’s your steak?”
“Perfect.” Freddie tried to lift Taine’s hand out of the way, but he managed to twist it around so now the man caressed his own cock. “Is the plan to actually cause me to lose my mind over the course of supper?”
Taine grinned wolfishly when the heated arousal under their joined fingers twitched. “Eat up, Frederick. You’re going to need your strength.”
Freddie snagged one of the chips and shoved it into his mouth with exaggeratedly precise movements. He chewed with almost comical slowness. “Is this torture by supper?”
“No, it’s foreplay.”