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Ginger was in an introspective mood. Well, more introspective than normal. He’d seemed different, generally quieter and more thoughtful, ever since Algy had got back from India. But yesterday afternoon he’d been almost back to his usual self, pert and cheeky and full of life, right until they had arrived back at the flat and found Biggles only halfway through decorating.
It couldn’t be the fact that the decorating wasn’t finished. All right, it wasn’t Ginger’s favourite task in the world, but having to help finish the job wasn’t likely to have sent him into such a funk.
Algy didn’t think it was the reason for the unfinished tree, either. He was fairly sure he was the only one who’d fully understood the implications of the little wooden aeroplane and the flat neutrality of Biggles’s voice when he’d said, ‘something came up.’
Could it be the idea of Erich von Stalhein visiting for Christmas? Algy had been under the impression that any lingering animosity towards the Prussian was contained within his own breast, but he could be wrong. Perhaps he was worrying that von Stalhein’s presence would spoil Algy’s Christmas—it was the kind of concern Ginger would have.
Idly, Algy fingered the keys of the piano, coaxing out soft strains that were neither scales nor any kind of recognisable tune. If it was the idea of von Stalhein coming for Christmas, what could he do about it? Biggles had looked so warily pleased when Algy had extended the invitation, he was loath to take it back—but if it would make Ginger more comfortable, he would do it. After all, it was Ginger’s home just as much as Biggles’s.
“You’re thinking so loud I can hear you in the kitchen.”
Startled, Algy spun round, catching his weight on his good leg in the nick of time. Ginger was across the room almost before he had stopped turning, reaching to steady him, but letting his hand fall back at the last moment.
“Sorry.”
“What were you doing in the kitchen?” Algy asked blandly, ignoring the apology. He supposed Ginger couldn’t help hovering like a mother hen sometimes, though it drove Algy mad when he did. His leg was all but healed now, only giving him trouble now and then, and he really did not need a nursemaid.
“Making tea,” Ginger said.
“Why? It’s only three o’clock, and the others are still at the office.”
Ginger’s answering smile was wry. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said, ‘because I want to’?”
“Not when you phrase it like that, no.”
Ginger sighed. “I want to talk to you,” he said. “And, well, it’s what your—” He flushed suddenly, clamming up, and walked quickly back towards the kitchen. “Hark, that’s the kettle singing.”
It’s what my mother did.
Algy closed his eyes, visions of his mother’s delicate floral tea set floating through his mind, accompanied by snatches of half-remembered conversations: his decision to join the RFC; why he was going back to South America with Biggles; his determined insistence that Ginger was not his protégé. His eyes prickled suddenly, and he dug his fingers into the muscles of his thigh.
Don’t be stupid; she’s been gone twenty years.
There was a faint clatter of crockery as Ginger presumably set the tea tray down on the coffee table, and a moment later gentle fingers persuaded his own to relax.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
Algy glanced down at their joined hands, and then sharply up to Ginger’s face. “Would you stop apologising? I’m not going to bite your head off for making a pot of tea.”
“Aren’t you? That’s an improvement,” Ginger said dryly, squeezing Algy’s fingers to take the sting out of his words. “Come over to the sofa; you can’t drink tea at the piano.”
Resisting the urge to be deliberately contrary, Algy allowed Ginger to lead him across the room.
“What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Well.” Ginger busied himself filling two cups. “You told Biggles to bring von Stalhein here for Christmas.”
“Does it bother you?” Their fingers brushed lightly as Ginger passed Algy his tea. “I’ll take it back if it does.”
“It’s not that, exactly.”
“Then what?” Algy prompted, when Ginger failed to elaborate.
Ginger looked up, holding Algy’s gaze as he set his teacup down on the table. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to act if he’s here. I mean, am I allowed to do this?” He nudged Algy with an elbow, leaning into him momentarily, and Algy shivered.
“Yes.”
“O.K..” Ginger nodded. “What about this?” His hand rested briefly on Algy’s shoulder.
“Yes.”
“This?”
A warm hand settled on Algy’s knee, lingering for a long moment. Algy nodded. His throat seemed to be turning dry, but rather than take a sip of his tea, he placed it down next to Ginger’s.
“Yes.”
“All right. How about this?”
Gentle fingers interlaced with Algy’s and didn’t let go.
“Yes.”
“And this?”
One fingertip traced along Algy’s jaw, turning his head towards Ginger and his legs into jelly. Mutely he nodded, and Ginger smiled.
“This?” he whispered, lips a scant inch from Algy’s.
“Yes.”
“What about this?” The words brushed against Algy’s mouth, transforming into the lightest of butterfly kisses. He sighed, pursuing Ginger’s mouth, almost groaning as Ginger leaned aggravatingly out of reach.
“Damn you. Yes.”
“This?” It was a real kiss this time, a firm press of the lips that somehow remained chaste yet lit a fire elsewhere in Algy’s anatomy.
He slid a hand to the back of Ginger’s head and kept him close, answering directly against Ginger’s lips.
“Yes.”
He felt rather than heard Ginger’s next predictable ‘this?’, and then Ginger’s palm was on his cheek and Ginger’s tongue was teasing its way into his mouth, and his own fingers were flexing into the flaming red hair, and neither of them said anything for several long, blissful moments.
“Oh, lord. Yes.”
Ginger grinned, deft fingers moving to tug at Algy’s tie.
“How about this?”
“Oh! Well, I suppose so. As long as I’m allowed to reciprocate.”
A minute later, two ties snaked carelessly over the arm of the sofa.
“And this?”
A careful knee swung over him, and Algy found himself straddled by a lapful of pert, cheeky Yorkshireman.
“You don’t do that in front of Biggles and Bertie,” he pointed out breathlessly.
“Oh, don’t I? Perhaps I should start.”
“Perhaps you should, if you want to be the reason Bertie stops wearing his eyeglass and Biggles moves in with von Stalhein.”
Algy grasped the slender hips, pulling Ginger down fully into his lap and making them both gasp.
“You seem to be—oh!—on board with that idea.”
“And make von Stalhein happy? Never.”
Ginger shivered, shifting in search of more friction. “Damn von Stalhein. Make me happy.”
Algy ran a tender thumb down one freckled cheek. “I thought I already did?”
“You know what I mean.”
Those devilish hips ground down into his again, and Algy gasped, nipping at Ginger’s lower lip and squeezing his backside with both hands.
“You have precisely thirty seconds to grab those ties and get this into my bed.”
He had never seen Ginger move so fast.
Algy followed more sedately, testing his bad leg carefully. They had not made love like this since before India, largely due to his own unspoken fear that he now lacked the strength to manhandle Ginger in the way they both craved. He still had some doubts as to whether he would manage, but maybe if he focused on giving orders and tied Ginger down, they could somehow make it work.
By the time he reached his own room, Ginger was naked and sprawled across the bed, a trail of clothes scattered haphazardly across the floor.
“That was longer than thirty seconds,” he complained, shaking the ties at Algy, and Algy smirked.
“I said you had thirty seconds. I didn’t say I did.”
Ginger quirked an eyebrow. “Semantics,” he said. “Now, you have thirty seconds to take your clothes off and get yourself over here before I start touching myself.”
“Go right ahead,” Algy invited with an imperious wave of his hand.
He took his time undressing, eyes never leaving Ginger, and Ginger bit his lip, staring defiantly back as his slid his palm down his chest to take himself in hand.
By the time all Algy’s clothes sat neatly folded on the dresser, a fine sheen of sweat glistened on the pale skin, highlighting the freckles that Algy longed to taste. He would, he promised himself, as soon as Ginger’s hands were bound, one at a time with infinite care until Ginger was cursing freely and begging to be fucked. He would push him right to the edge before he pushed inside, driving him to orgasm as quickly as possible so that when Algy’s leg gave out, he could order Ginger to blow him like that had been the plan all along.
Yes, that should work.
Picking up the ties, Algy nodded at each bedpost in turn. “You know what to do.”
Ginger did not need telling twice, and Algy made short work of binding his hands.
“All right?”
Green eyes flamed with heat, and Ginger let out a ragged breath. “Kiss me.”
“Who gives the orders here?” Algy demanded, but he obliged anyway, cupping Ginger’s jaw with a gentle hand.
Ginger grinned. “I do.”
“Think again,” Algy said, mapping the skin between Ginger’s freckles with a feather-light fingertip in an erotic dot-to-dot and smiling as Ginger fought to keep his voice steady.
“You love it when I tell you what to do.”
“I love it when you do what I tell you.”
“So tell me something, then,” Ginger challenged breathlessly.
“Lie back and think of England,” Algy retorted, lowering his mouth to Ginger’s shoulder and proceeding to drive him exactly as incoherent as he’d planned.
To his rising annoyance, Ginger watched him throughout, green eyes burning heatedly through the top of Algy’s skull as he traced every movement of Algy’s lips.
“Close your eyes,” he ordered, lifting his head for a moment, and after a beat, Ginger obeyed.
Algy let his mouth glide down Ginger’s stomach, surreptitiously taking himself in hand. The closer he was when he finally let Ginger have what he wanted, the easier it would be to pretend he could still do this.
The mewl of pleasure Ginger let out as Algy’s mouth settled around him did wonders in this direction. He kept up a litany of gasps and moans with every bob of Algy’s head and flutter of Algy’s tongue, and when he finally gasped out, “you can stop—oh!—torturing me n-now!”, Algy was more than ready to oblige.
Fetching Ginger’s favourite little bottle from the bedside table, he coated his fingers quickly and made short work of preparing him. It didn’t matter; Ginger preferred it fast and rough after a long session of teasing foreplay.
Well, at least I can still get that part right.
Algy took a steadying breath, lining himself up. “You can open your eyes now,” he said, waiting until the sandy eyelashes flickered upwards before he shoved inside, heat tearing up his spine as Ginger’s eyes blew wide and he all but screamed.
Long legs wrapped around his hips, clawing for the leverage to meet him thrust for thrust, and Algy gasped against Ginger’s throat, sucking up a mark right over his pulse point. It was fierce, and desperate, and everything that Algy had been craving for the last few months. Almost snarling out his release, he grasped Ginger firmly for three rough strokes, and together they tumbled over the edge into oblivion long before his leg gave out.
Afterwards, they lay tangled together, taking it in turns to draw on their traditional post-coital cigarette.
Algy had almost regained the ability to breathe normally when Ginger sat up, crushing out the remaining inch and regarding him seriously.
“I meant it, you know.”
“Meant what?” Algy asked, and Ginger bit his lip.
“I don’t know how to act on Christmas Day. Are you really all right with von Stalhein knowing about, well, this?”
Algy cocked his head, considering. “Well, I’m not sure it’s necessary for him to know about this,” he said, with a nod to the tie still coiled around the bedpost. “But do I care if he knows that I—”
He broke off suddenly, the words sticking in his throat.
Damn it all, I’ve never said that out loud, have I?
“That you what?” Ginger asked hoarsely, voice barely a whisper.
Algy cleared his throat, cupping Ginger’s cheek with almost painful tenderness. “That I’m rather exquisitely fond of you,” he finished in the most level voice he could manage.
Warmth and happiness and affection lit those stunning green eyes like a sunbeam.
“I love you too,” Ginger said, brushing the most heartfelt of kisses to Algy’s lips. “And I promise, I will never make you say that again.”
Algy grinned, curling an arm possessively over Ginger’s hip.
“I am rather exquisitely fond of you,” he repeated, “and I couldn’t care less if von Stalhein knows it.”