Red, Red Rose

Burns began to move toward him, across an expanse of distant seas and untraveled continents. And then the slender man began to fall.

In a split second, Thomas leapt forward and caught his lover. Had the man tripped? Or was he sick?

He held Burns close to his chest and began to intone a soothing mumble into his ear, reassuring him, letting him know he need never worry again, ever. 

He had no idea what he said. He wanted to say, I’m here for you, love. Always. I’ll never leave you again.

He closed his eyes, struggling to regain his composure, a sense of time and place.

And when he opened his eyes, Burns was standing in his embrace, looking at him with those smoldering sable flashes chasing across gray skies.

“Och, lad. Are you all right?”

“Of course. I-I’m bloody glad to see you.”

Burns spoke directly into his wanting mouth. “Thomas Fitzgerald, it’s been far too fucking long.”

Their tongues slid together, and Thomas found himself eating, biting, sucking as though his lover’s mouth was his last refuge, his only haven in a world of strangers. Burns’ stubbled cheeks, the warmth and aroma of him, the way his entire slight frame seemed to melt into his own muscle mass… Thomas was drunk already on hope and lust.

At last Burns pulled away. Putting both hands on his shoulders, he smiled.

“But I’m a rude host. Give me your jacket. Let me pour you a whiskey. I want to hear what you’ve been doing since we parted.”

“Burns, is everything—do you feel well?”

“Now that you’re here.” Burns cocked his head and raised one brow. “Why do you ask?”

Thomas could have sworn the man had stumbled, that even now he seemed a little unsteady.

He changed the subject and tried to smile. “Ah…whiskey sounds about right for luncheon, um, I mean for starters.” 

He watched the long dimples dance from his lover’s cheeks to the sides of his mouth. “You need to eat. While I myself could feast on you the rest of the day and never be hungry again. Come, sit.”

Until that moment when Burns broke from their embrace, his every sense had homed in on the man who’d somehow become half of every breath he took. Usually sensitive to any strange place he found himself, Thomas shrugged off the hoodie, handed it to Burns, and looked around for the first time. 

He was in a room both long and narrow, one that conformed to the unusual dimensions of the old building where Burns lived. Light poured in from a triple-canted bay window, revealing a room with high ceilings, wallpapered in a rich melon-and-leaf design, whose white friezes and ceiling made it seem much larger than it was.

It was his definition of “Victorian,” in every sense of the word: old, quaint, replete with dark brown wood and over-stuffed furniture, brought to life by the ornate wallpaper and a deep-pile oriental rug. It seemed that half the walls were taken up with gold-framed pictures and woven tapestries. 

Burns was standing at an antique liquor cabinet, its thick cut-glass panels beveled and inset with designs in tones of emerald and garnet.

“Find a comfortable place to sit, Thomas. You must be stiff from your journey.” Burns looked over his shoulder as he poured amber liquid into a crystal tumbler.

“Stiff. Ah, yes. I am that.” He felt himself blushing at his own words. Glancing around, he chose an elaborately-upholstered love seat and sat forward on its edge, his elbows resting on his knees, watching Burns pour whiskey into a twin tumbler.

Bloody hell. Why am I finding it hard to breathe?

Burns walked from the cabinet and stood in front of him. Thomas looked up, his eyes at crotch level, drinking in the outline of the man’s oversized cock which was riding high, like his own. It was damn hard to wrench his eyes away from the fly, up to Burns’ face. His host seemed vastly amused.

“Here, lad. A few fingers of Jameson, put in the right place, just for you. Do you mind if I sit beside you?”

Burns’ blatant erection and his words, damn tease that he was, made it even harder for Thomas to answer.

“Ah, yes. I mean—no. I do not mind. Damn it, Burns, just sit down. Please.” 

Burns laughed, and the sound was enough to stir the tiny winged things flitting around in his gut. What was it about this singular man that could set the toughest cop back on his arse?