Page 12 of The Missing Page
“Do you have any other pictures of your father?”
“My uncle—not Rupert, but the uncle who was the vicar in Wychcomb St. Mary—had a photograph of him in uniform. But most of the family photographs wound up in my aunt’s possession, here at Blackthorn.” He tapped his aunt’s image, then sighed. “I don’t want to think about this anymore. How was your trip?”
He saidtripas if Leo had been on holiday. Leo forced a smile. “It was uneventful.”
“Likely story.”
“It was fine,” Leo insisted.
“Leo. You don’t have to give me details. But you needn’t lie to me, all right?”
Well, of course Leo needed to lie to James. Some of the truth was classified and the rest was unsavory. And while James knew, in broad terms, what kind of work Leo did, hearing the details might make him finally realize exactly what kind of person Leo was. Perhaps he had allowed some of his dismay to show on his face, because James leaned over and kissed his temple, of all things.
“I know you aren’t going to tell me the unvarnished truth, you silly man, but I want you to know that you can tell me whatever you want.”
And that only made things worse. It was as if James didn’t understand that he had invited into his bed—his home, his life—a person who was the embodiment of the things that woke him up in the night.
“Of course,” Leo said, and squeezed James’s knee.
“You look exhausted. I can’t believe you drove all the way here in that state. You didn’t even bring any luggage.”
“I knew you’d have packed extra,” Leo said absently, and James gave him a strange, soft look.
James slid to the floor, kneeling at Leo’s feet to pull off his shoes. “Come now, let’s get you undressed. Do you need a bath?”
“I showered at your house. Had to get rid of the blood.” James shot him an alarmed look. “Not my blood,” Leo said reassuringly. Christ, he had to stop talking.
“Good,” said James, and set about taking Leo’s clothes off, hanging each item carefully in the wardrobe. This was not a seductive undressing, and Leo needed to fix that immediately.
He grabbed James by the tie and watched in satisfaction as James realized what Leo meant to do. James gave him a look that was equal parts amusement and affection.
“But you’re exhausted,” James protested.
“Mm-hmm,” Leo agreed, and reeled James in for a kiss.
CHAPTER EIGHT
From a professional standpoint, James was adamant that Leo needed sleep. After forty-eight hours awake—and likely longer, because knowing Leo, he had underestimated—it was remarkable that Leo was still standing, let alone coherent. He needed a dark room, uninterrupted quiet, and some nourishing food upon waking.
But Leo wasn’t his patient. He was his—lover? Friend? Both designations seemed inadequate, almost coy, when used to describe a person who was becoming the fixed point about which James’s world orbited. And right now Leo needed him. Not to fret over him, not to put him to bed, but to—well, to take him to bed.
This was how Leo got when he was done with a mission. James was familiar with this reaction from the war. Some people responded to brushes with death with an urgent need for sex. James did not. James responded to brushes with death with an urgent need for barbiturates or, failing that, a place to quietly panic.
This train of thought was interrupted by Leo’s mouth reaching a particularly sensitive part of James’s neck. “I missed you,” James said, and Leo’s only answer was to slide James’s braces down his shoulders and start in on his shirt buttons.
“Just so you know,” James said a little breathlessly, “I’m viewing this as first aid.” Leo shoved James’s undershirt up and started mouthing at his collarbone. “Oh Christ—no, don’t stop, that feels nice. Anyway, I’m viewing all these encounters as first aid. Because otherwise I couldn’t make myself fuck a man who really needs sleep. No, Leo, why did you take your mouth away, damn you?”
Leo kissed him soundly and pushed him backwards onto the bed. “Because I don’t care if you view it as first aid or last rites or an arcane ritual. I just need you.”
“You have me,” James said, the words coming out more earnestly than he had intended. “You have me.”
It was wildly frustrating, one of the chief inadequacies of the English language as far as James was concerned, that there were no words to express exactly what James felt about Leo, and what Leo meant to him.You have mewasn’t nearly enough. The alternatives seemed either trite or florid, and he doubted Leo would appreciate them almost as much as he doubted his ability to deliver them with a straight face.
That left him with no choice but to try and show Leo how he felt, and right now that meant pulling Leo down to the mattress beside him, making quick work of his jumper and shirt, then getting a hand inside his trousers.
Leo hissed his approval and James rolled on top of him, bracing himself on one forearm. He kissed Leo again, trying to keep it slow and soft. He brought one hand up to cup Leo’s jaw and felt the other man’s pulse in his neck, a steady, reassuring thump. God, it was good to have him back. They had only met a little over two months ago, but James couldn’t cast his mind back to a time when he hadn’t known what Leo felt like beneath him, when he hadn’t memorized the precise shape and feel of Leo’s lips against his own.
Now Leo brought a knee up so their hips fit more closely together. James gave an involuntary gasp and pressed down in an automatic search for friction, then groaned when Leo arched up, evidently seeking the same.
