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Arousal...Somehow, he was going to pay for this.Chapter One
Seto reached for the glass of water on his desk to wet a throat gone suddenly dry. Hopefully the cold would also counteract the heat that was urging an unwelcome migration of his blood into the beginnings of arousal. "So you're proposing KaibaCorp handle the financing of three new offshore rigs based on nothing more than marine surveys?" he asked in a tone of mild disbelief. This was a minor distraction, nothing he couldn't handle with a little concentration elsewhere. "Well, it's a little more than that," the man retorted. As he began his spiel once again, Seto's eyes were drawn back to that tie. Tie. Ties were meant to be tied, weren't they? Around... things. Wrists, for instance. Loose loops of fabric, something to hold tightly to, grounding even as they restricted... Oh for God's sake. Seto wondered if he could discreetly transfer an ice cube from his drink to his lap. Probably not. "So, do we have a deal?" Seto blinked, attention drawn outward as the other man stood, offering his hand. Apparently he'd missed the summary and silence was assumed assent. Shit. Shit, shitshit. Standing would be problematic at this point. "We certainly do NOT," Seto said, with a cold look. "Walk out without an agreement or sit back down, your choice." After a moment's affronted silence, the man sat back down. "Now, I'd like to hear about why Exxon isn't putting any more effort into alternative sources than is necessary for publicity's sake." Seto continued the conversation, he'd done his research beforehand and had conducted so many countless scenarios just like this one he could do it in his sleep. Which was good since underneath the flow of the negotiation, tucked in his mind where he didn't seem to be able to stop it, was a running commentary, complete with an image track, of just how that fabric would feel, just how Tristan would feel, just how long they could make it last if they really challenged each other... ... Every. Damned. Time. Enough was by God enough. Nothing short of drastic measures was going to get him out of this. Rolling his chair back slightly while still nominally keeping his eyes on his visitor, Seto dropped his hands, one still holding the icy glass. The widening of his eyes and the slightly sharp indrawn breath were the only telltales that escaped his control. When he could trust himself to speak in his normal voice again, Seto cut off the running monologue of the man in front of him. "I've heard enough. I think we have the basis of a deal." Rising and setting the now warmer glass to one side of his desk, Seto offered his hand. "Send the papers to legal and we'll wrap this up by early next week." As the man left, Seto allowed himself a shiver, caught between physical discomfort and the lingering wisps of erotic images. Somehow, and he wasn't quite sure how at this moment, but somehow Tristan was going to pay for this. Chapter Two
Standing near the door of the subway car, chin tucked into the collar of his coat against the cold, Tristan was startled out of his commute-induced coma when he inhaled a curl of warm, familiar scent. Nobody else wore aftershave that smelled quite like that…or at least none of the other men he knew, who preferred Stetson and Edge. It brought his breath up short as the faint smell settled in his chest and spread. Tristan looked up, searching in confusion for the body to match . None appeared in the mostly empty subway car, and yet he could still smell it, with the added delicacy born of body heat, bringing with it silly warmth and reassurance. Tristan looked down, shaking his head, and pushed his free hand into his pocket. Another puff of warm air exhaled up through the collar of his jacket. He understood then, and groaned, the sound taken for impatience by the other riders. That morning he’d gotten a late start, much later than he preferred, though by rights it was still very early in the morning. In his hurry to get out of the apartment, he snatched up a long-sleeved tee shirt hanging over his desk chair. It was close, convenient and after a perfunctory check his sleep-fogged mind reassured him it was clean. The shirt. He’d worn that shirt last night. And Seto…Seto had… Smooth lips against the hollow of his throat gave way to teeth and hard puffs of air. Seto broke above him, plugged into a current so strong that his body arched tight with it, and every brush of his skin threw sparks. Tristan’s mind filled with dangerous memories of hands gripping the points of his hips, how in their impatience his shirt hadn’t come off. Seto realized it was there and silently the hands left their grounding points, pushed beneath the already bunched fabric and— Down, boy. The smell wreathed around him as his breathing accelerated and the images grew more vivid. Tristan’s stomach tightened and he shoved the thoughts away. He couldn’t just start going off in a car full of people on the subway. They’d stare…stare at Seto leaning back on the window, Tristan leaning just as hard against him, steadying him against the rocking of the car as they kissed…and kissed… Pervert, his conscience leered at him. For once Tristan couldn’t argue with it. Logically, he explained to himself how Seto could never be coaxed aboard mass transit, much less be coaxed to make out in public. …And kissed… Tristan abruptly decided to stop using trigger phrases in his vocabulary. He kept his mind carefully blank and preoccupied against the wall of warm musk seeping through his jacket. Maybe the brake discs he’d ordered last week were in. Maybe he’d get a steak sandwich for lunch. Maybe his paint guy was done with the BMW – the special mix of blue metal flake paint held them up but it shouldn’t take— In reality, the bike was going to be a deep ultramarine. Tristan thought ‘blue’ and immediately his mind supplied the most convenient point of reference for the color. And then he was right back where he started from. …And kissed… Tristan gave up standing and swung into the empty seat beside him, doubled over with his elbows on his knees. His jacket breathed Seto’s warm body scent as though the man were beside him. He paled at the sinking surge of arousal and leaned further, inhaling through his mouth with his head nearly between his knees. Slowly, slowly, the heat began to dissipate. When the train finally slowed at his stop, a large black woman in a security guard uniform patted his shoulder on her way out. Tristan cast a beleaguered glare at her back, but when he happened to look back he caught two faces staring expectantly through the glass. “I was sure that guy was gonna toss—!” Tristan heard the words above the quiet hum of the station before the rubber seals of the train hissed shut. On the stairs to the street, Tristan allowed himself a shiver, still attempting to shake tendrils of erotic images. Somehow—and he wasn’t quite sure how at this moment—Seto was going to pay for this. Conclusion
Sliding the car into the garage, Seto relaxed a fraction. At least that part of the day was over, and Tristan was coming for dinner tonight. Alright, Tristan was coming to cook dinner tonight, though it usually ended up being more of a mutual endeavor. Getting rid of the suit was the first order of business and Seto shed it like it were the symbol of all the day's troubles. As he buttoned up the cuffs of the clean charcoal shirt, Seto looked at the dominant feature of the room, the large canopy bed hung with thick swags, and remembered that it wasn't ONLY the business that had caused him trouble earlier. Thankfully, the trip between the Bronx and New Rochelle required transportation other than the subway, or Tristan might have been in trouble. As it was, he hit the road on the back of his Harley and kept his mind otherwise occupied with the minutia of controlling a speeding motorcycle. Up until this morning, he’d been looking forward to the night with gentle anticipation. All of the ingredients they planned to use had already been bought and stowed away in Seto’s kitchen a few days ago. It had started as a novelty and become a pleasant, familiar routine, though they never set a ‘day,’ or anything so domestic and predictable. Neither man saw any issue with that. Given the day he’d dealt with, from the morning’s close shave with a socially mortifying fantasy to the fender he nearly ruined when it crept up on him again… he was irritated at himself for his own lack of control and the niggling feeling that he’d misused precious time. At the same time, a hundred tiny tedious things continually pulled him away from the warm thoughts, until he was as grouchy as someone dragged too early from a cozy Sunday morning bed. The trip to Seto’s estate released Tristan’s thoughts from their inward coil of frustration, and he was in a mildly more agreeable mood when he put up his bike and walked up from the garage to the house. Staring at the bed was doing nothing to help Seto calm his circling thoughts. He had to figure out how to keep this from affecting him against his will, from imagining Tristan at the most importune moments, lying on that selfsame bed with a hungry, wild look, body flushed and ready, stretching out a hand to him... Seto acknowledged this might be a little harder than he thought. At least the kitchen was fairly innocuous. Since he was the first one in, Seto started taking the things out of the refrigerator to set on the counter, mushrooms, pea pods, onion, carrots, and was crouched for one last perusal when he heard the door open behind him. Tristan blew in with a heavy gust of wind that cut around the side of the building and sliced through his jeans like so much paper. He had to snatch at the storm door before it whipped open again behind him after he’d gone in. He still wore a dour expression, dealing with the silly (but rather justified) desire to lash out and throw a punch into the wind for being so contrary. Of course, all previous things considered, Tristan really didn’t have expectations for the night. He knew it would go all right, he just— Seto was home. Tristan’s thoughts abruptly snapped out of their downward spiral, as though someone grabbed his wrist and yanked him from a sucking whirlpool. He stood just inside the doorway, the cool of the outside air still chilly at his back, the warm kitchen breathing over him, and Seto’s outline radiating strength and familiarity. Right, so there was a reason that Tristan fantasized about the man on the subway, after all. The sour downturn of his mouth faded. His jacket hit one of the kitchen chairs with the wet slap of leather as he walked through the large space between them and obligingly held the refrigerator door open for his partner, smiling down at him over the edge. Celery in hand, Seto stood up and returned the smile with one of his own. He set the celery with the rest of the vegetables before sliding his arm around Tristan's waist. Under the influence of Tristan's presence, Seto was trying to remember why he'd thought being irritated was a perfectly sound and justified idea. Alright, so just the thought of the way they felt together was enough to slide through the cracks in his legendary control. Tristan was comfort and power, arousing as hell and this was a bad thing, why? Still... Pulling away with a quick brush of his lips, Seto reached in the cabinet for the cutting board. There really did need to be some sort of consequence for today but there were ways of making him pay... and then there were ways. Maybe it should be more of payback than pay. Tristan smiled into the kiss, and for the first time today found it simple to focus on one thing. Seto didn’t ask him about how his day went…and at the moment Tristan appreciated that small kindness, and he returned the favor. A part of him recognized, right or wrongly, that this was their time, and work, and life outside these walls…had no place in it. Seto was handling knives, and so Tristan didn’t duck to kiss the side of his neck as he’d intended, but slid his hand over the small curve of the older brunet’s back on his way to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. He handled the package of chicken, knowing from past evenings together in this kitchen that Seto was even more averse to the texture of raw poultry than he was. And while handling meat, he certainly couldn’t think anything naughty. The guilt alone of thinking naughty things while slicing slimy chicken would keep his hypersensitive brain at bay. It wasn’t until the chicken was white in the oil at the bottom of the wok and filling the kitchen with the spice of ginger and sesame that he started into his confession. “I thought about you today.” Seto was chopping the carrots, the bowl in front of him already half-filled with the bright orange disks resting atop the jumble of light and dark green vegetables. Tristan's voice didn't surprise him, it belonged in this kitchen, warm and comfortable. His words however... well, that was the perfect opening if Seto had ever heard one. The rhythmic slide/thunk of the knife slowed as Seto considered his response. "Really? Should I be concerned that it's such a unique occurrence you feel the need to mention it?" His voice was light and even though his hands continued their smooth work the smile could be heard. “No,” Tristan chuckled, expecting that response moments after the words left his mouth. He gave the browning chicken a shake, and a fragrant hiss rose up from the heated metal bowl. “I was on the way to work and…well…” How to explain? “Last night.” Tristan said at last, and looked over his shoulder at Seto, grinning briefly, almost shyly, before he turned back to what he was doing. It would have been shy if he did shy, which he didn’t. “I guess you weren’t done with me yet,” he continued to smile, at the chicken now, “because you got me again. On the train, Seto. Do you know how hard it is to—” To what? To hide a hard-on? Tristan trailed off, snickering at himself. “People were staring at me.” Realizing how that could be taken, he resisted the impulse to slap a hand over his eyes. Oh, nice one. Rather than try and explain further, he steeled himself for the inevitable stare and the laughter he rightfully deserved. The thud of the knife stopped dead as Seto tried to follow the half-sentences and innuendo in Tristan's words. The fact that his own experience was simmering in the back of his mind let him make the connections faster than usual. Picking up the large metal bowl that was now filled with the rest of the ingredients, Seto moved behind Tristan to place it on the counter before snaking one arm carefully around his waist, aware of the proximity of fire and oil. "So, I 'had' you on the train," Seto purred. He had never been on the subway in his life, therefore the picture taking shape in Seto's mind was a fuzzy, idealized image of clean seats and translucent windows, and Tristan- solid and perfect and not fuzzy at all, smiling suggestively at him. His fantasy immediately supplied a conveniently placed low railing. "Sounds intriguing." All of Tristan’s movements stilled with the warmth of Seto’s arm belting him firmly close to the older man’s hip. Seto was— —Not laughing at him. Surprised, pleased, remembering belatedly that Seto rarely laughed at him when the joke wasn’t shared (had he ever?), Tristan glanced sideway at him once, quickly, and went back to the tricky job of keeping the chicken from burning. Soy sauce, ginger (and how often did he have ginger that wasn’t freeze-dried?), pepper… “More a matter of me having you,” Tristan replied, cheeks lifting in profile with a hellraiser smile. Seto's breath hissed against Tristan's back as he inhaled while the image shifted and now Tristan was laying over him on a suitably vague bench, his clever hands moving downward... Dragging his mind away before he got completely lost and would that be such a bad thing, really? Seto swallowed before he replied. "Whichever. It still sounds interesting." Tristan's smile was more interesting, with it's promise of more and later Reluctantly, Seto pulled away, acknowledging Tristan had to concentrate on cooking for now. "It's rather nice to know you can affect me in the same way I..." Seto stopped. Wait, that wasn't what he meant to say. “Mm?” The bowl of vegetables scraped across the counter and then stilled abruptly before Tristan could lift it and drown out the other man’s words with the hiss of damp produce striking hot oil. Tristan stared down at the bowl and the chicken in the wok, both of which had lost their substance, so much so that he might as well have been looking through them, for all they were there. Slowly, deliberately, he switched the fire off and turned to face Seto. One hand rested on the raised aluminum lip of the cooktop. His smile widened as the silence grew, as he gazed unwaveringly into the wide blue eyes. “Well, go ahead.” Seto shifted his eyes to look defiantly at the table for a moment, before dragging them back to Tristan's and offering a rueful smile as an apology. Seto was trying to stop that. "You had your revenge, alright? A deal with Exxon West almost went wrong because I couldn't stop thinking about you." And that was about all the trying Seto was going to stand for. He turned away from Tristan's smile, moving farther across the kitchen. Tristan sobered immediately. “Almost?” He asked, voice following Seto as Tristan reached for the bowl of ingredients and whipped the fire back up. He might have been proud of the distraction he’d caused, some other time. Maybe later, he would be. "Yes, almost," Seto echoed, sitting down in one of the solid, wooden chairs at the table. "I could make a deal like that in my sleep though." His words were proud, sure and confident. They withered in the silence that followed. A silence that felt anything but comfortable and companionable to Seto, a growing pressure in his mind. "It was that damned red bedspread of yours," he finally said, simply for something to say, to wipe away that choking silence. "His tie was almost the exact same color." As if that one confession had opened the door, Seto related the whole story and as he talked he relaxed, able to see at last the twisted humor of the whole business. By the time he related how he'd finally ended up resorting to a glass of icewater for God's sake, Seto was smiling and shaking his head, though he still hadn't looked at Tristan through the whole story. By the end of the story, Tristan’s hand had found its way over his mouth, fingers spread, barely concealing the smile that once again overtook his features. He straightened up; the chicken was done and he had vegetables to add and the whole process was going to take a few minutes and quite a bit of concentration. And yet. “If I have to change my bedspread, you’ve got to stop using that aftershave,” Tristan turned the heat off a second time and turned around to look at his partner, relieved to see that the smile he heard in Seto’s voice was real, after all. “I accidentally wore a shirt to work that smelled like you…” And on the story went, Tristan’s half of the day explained from the shirt that he wore last night, to the kindness of strangers on the subway and the fender he nearly ruined in the shop. “What are we gonna do?” he asked after a pause, still smiling. “Even if I do get rid of that spread, better than even odds we’ll find a new way of messing with each other.” "No bet," Seto replied instantly, before swinging off the chair and around to face Tristan in one fluid movement. "And I didn't say you had to loose the spread," he continued, stalking back to Tristan with a firm, slow step. "In fact, I rather like that color." “I like it too,” Tristan agreed readily, leaning back a little, watching him come. It was his favorite color, and he was disinclined to let go of it when it already had so many good memories attached. “But that leaves us back at square one.” "Agreed." Seto reached Tristan and stopped, a scant breath of air away, close enough he could feel Tristan's heat radiating through the barriers of cloth between them. Close, so close and deliberately not touching. "The only logical choice is to stop having sex." His voice was low and intimate, a verbal caress and his eyes were full of slow promise. “Is that my only option?” Tristan stepped backward, shifting away from the stove as well as deliberately testing Seto to see if he would follow. “You know…” He continued backing, until an outstretched hand collided with the edge of the counter and his opposite hip struck the countertop running perpendicular. Cornered. Tristan waved a warning index finger. “…somehow I don’t think that’s going to solve anything.” "Maybe not," Seto allowed, as he advanced on Tristan again. He stopped a half-step away at the slight widening of hazel eyes, close enough to touch but not crowd. "Do you have a Plan B then?" Another image assaulted him then, Tristan sitting on the counter while he wrapped his legs around Seto's waist, the two of them kissing as if they were starving for each other, hands sliding over naked skin... "Tell me you have a Plan B," he breathed, as he felt the familiar thickening of arousal tighten his body. Automatically Seto's hand fell on the countertop beside him, smooth coolness steadying against the way his muscles wanted to loosen, send him sliding to his knees while pulling Tristan down on top of him. “Eat dinner.” Tristan moved outward suddenly to turn the imagined space between them into nothing at all. He released the edge of the counter and slipped his arm around Seto’s waist. “Then I think…” he went on thoughtfully, wearing a you’re going to love this one grin, “you know…the natural way to defuse all this is to vent the tension.” As their bodies came in contact, Seto grinned in satisfaction at the feel. "So, let me get this straight." He responded with his body just as much as his words, bringing his leg against Tristan's so they were joined in one long line from ankle to shoulder. "We should have more sex? A sort of...immersion therapy?" Seto half-turned, using the leverage of Tristan's arm around him to pull the younger man with him, turning the tables as it were and now Seto was the one against the counter with Tristan in front, flush against him. Even if Tristan had guessed before, he would now have proof that Seto was hard and ready. Turning a heated smile onto his partner, Seto leaned back on the counter with both elbows behind him, tucking his chin down over his neck, a deliberate mixed-message body language. "I like the way you think." In that instant, dinner could just go fuck itself. Tristan might have been all right if Seto had only smirked at him. He might have had a chance if it was only the casual slide of bodies, the barrier of fabric denying steel-on-flint brush of skin. But Seto…had to do that…the posture prompted a strangled exhale and an instant darkening of Tristan’s eyes. Eat dinner, hell. There were more attractive things on the menu. Once again, two bodies seamed together as the larger man’s hands found purchase on the counter and on the underside of Seto’s thigh. Tristan eased forward, brushing Seto’s chest as he slid into the other’s kiss and sought to raise that downturned chin. Sliding his arm up around Tristan's neck, Seto let part of his balance depend on his partner's stability, the rest on where his elbow leaned against the countertop. Tristan's kiss was full of passion and challenge and the unique taste of the man himself. When it ended, Seto looked up into smoldering hazel eyes, grinning with an edge of triumph. Long moments passed before Tristan cut through the heady buzz of arousal understood what Seto was getting at. “You want dinner first?” He responded between hard breaths, fingertips tightening on the other’s thigh as though to remind Seto just what was going on here, and did he really want to pass this up for stir-fry? A hard exhale was forced from Seto before he could reply. "No, not really," he answered, fingers smoothing along the back of Tristan's neck for the sheer feel of skin-on-skin contact. "I just thought..." The heat of Tristan's desire sizzled along his skin, distracting as hell, "...thought..." Tristan's breath feathered warm against his lips and he knew there was a thought in there somewhere but it couldn't possibly have been as important as the kiss he reached up to claim. “That’s the probl—” Tristan started to smirk but didn’t get much further than a damn good start as Seto found a much better use for the dark, smug curve of his lips. Now this was payback. A delicious shiver danced between them, dissolving in the heat that no insubstantial fantasy could hope to recreate. Back to Collaborations Home |
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