Famous Last, page 20
“You’re really making things up to me, aren’t you?”
Marshall removed the lid, then ripped the plastic cover from the inside. Whenever Spencer bought the ice cream, the top would be off within minutes of him bringing the carton home, and probably half the tub would have been devoured by now. As promised, Marshall fed him first, a small taste, and Spencer let out a suitably wanton moan of pleasure. Marshall simply stared at him.
“Would you have preferred this to a blow job?”
Spencer stared back, horrified, ice cream still on his tongue.
“Are you serious? No way. Although this makes for a nice carnal dessert course.”
Marshall poked his tongue at a dab of ice cream still on the spoon but pulled a face.
“Mmm, no. Too sweet for me. Honestly, if pushed I’d skip the dessert buffet and go straight to the savoury stuff, like the cold cuts and selection of cheeses.”
Spence remembered Marshall had said the same thing before but wasn’t about to let him off the hook.
“Heathen!”
Marshall laughed aloud and handed the spoon and tub to Spencer, leaning in to kiss him and dip his tongue in Spencer’s mouth. When he pulled his head away, he was still grinning as he nodded and reached across to wipe something from the side of Spencer’s mouth with his thumb.
“Although, I must say, the ice cream tastes much better from inside your mouth. Maybe it’s an acquired taste.”
The kiss fuelled something inside Spencer, and, placing the carton down onto the bedside cabinet, he leant forward and brought their mouths together again. Instead of pulling back, he deepened the kiss, allowing their tongues to dance and warm each other, while his icy hands cradled Marshall’s face. Moments later, Marshall’s fingers traced the bare contours of Spencer’s chest, making him shiver, especially when the thumbs brushed over his collarbone and down across his nipples. Unexpectedly, Marshall pulled his hot mouth away.
“Sorry, my hands are cold—”
Spencer pushed Marshall’s right hand down between his legs, in an attempt to warm the fingers. Marshall’s eyes opened wide before his lips met Spencer’s. Marshall’s breath deepened and his generous cock took notice, already beginning to rise from its slumber. After a few moments, Marshall withdrew his fingers and pushed Spencer down onto the bedclothes. Once again their mouths crushed together, Marshall instigating a hungry embrace, his hand smoothing into the many creases of Spencer’s body. This time around, Spencer had been so immersed in the sensation, in the writhe of their bodies, that he gasped aloud when a new coat of cooling lube pressed into him. Marshall’s intention became clear, switching to a couple of fingers to loosen him up, gently but firmly twisting and probing before adding another, all the while maintaining the eager kissing until Spencer felt ready to come unglued.
“Now, Marshall,” he said, pulling his mouth away. “Please.”
Marshall needed no more encouragement. Kneeling over Spencer, his eyes dark with lust, his cock straining erect, he slicked some lube onto his shaft before rolling on a condom and adding more. Without losing eye contact, he grabbed a pillow, lifted Spencer’s legs and placed the soft cushion beneath his lower back. With that, he fell forward until his face hovered over Spencer’s. Without asking for permission, Marshall crushed their mouths together and at the same moment the tip of his cock touched Spencer’s hole. Pushing firmly but still in control, Marshall began to enter him, to stretch him, a little painfully at first, but expertly taking his time, listening to Spencer’s body.
“That’s all of me,” said Marshall. “Now tell me what you want?”
“I think you can probably work that one out,” said Spencer, a sheen of sweat on his brow.
“Right at this moment, if you could have anything in the world from me, Spence, tell me what that would—”
Spencer’s patience gave out.
“Stop teasing me! I want you. I just want you. Please. Now.”
With a grunt, Marshall began the slow writhing dance of bodies. Spencer found the pain and pressure subsiding, replaced by a slow build of pleasure. Marshall moved purposely slowly, too carefully, until Spencer wrapped his legs around his lower back and began to push against him, encouraging him and wanting more.
Inevitably—and far too soon—his body began the delicious but irreversible headlong rush towards orgasm. Marshall drove into him, exactly where he needed him, wanted him, until he grabbed for his own cock and pulled a couple of times, issuing a wanton moan as his muscles clenched tightly, his legs wrapping firmly around Marshall as he spurted warm liquid onto his chest and stomach. And as the muscled strength in his legs subsided along with his twice-spent body, he felt Marshall thrusting erratically and shuddering on top of him, felt sure he sensed the condom inside him filling with warmth.
Spencer blinked his eyes, blissed out and sublime, unable to move. He barely noticed Marshall rise from the bed and disappear for a moment before returning with a warm damp cloth and dry towel. Spencer opened his eyes again to watch as Marshall gently cleaned him then lay back down again, their heads touching on the bedclothes. Spencer reached down to knit his fingers with Marshall’s.
“Hey, I’ve got an interview tomorrow with Ed Coleman, editor-in-chief of the National Herald. Did you happen to have anything to do with that?”
“I’m not going to lie. We met up last week about some other things and I might have mentioned you. But just so you know, someone else already put him onto you. He likes your work, Spence, and he’s been meaning to contact you, but I think I might have given him the nudge he needed.”
Someone else had recommended him? Spencer wondered who else knew about his work and also knew Ed.
“Well, anyway, thank you for that. I’m seeing him at ten tomorrow. What’s he like?”
Marshall admired Ed, who he described as a no-nonsense, hard-working journalist, someone who had made his way to the top in an undeniably tough and cut-throat industry. Marshall talked about hotspots around the world they had visited together, adding anecdotes of their time in the field.
“By the way, I need to leave very early tomorrow morning for a prior commitment. Hope you understand?”
“Of course,” said Spencer, staring up at the ceiling. He had been hoping they might have breakfast together before he headed for his interview. “That’s fine.”
“Oh, heavens, Spencer,” said Marshall, pulling Spencer into his arms. “You think I wouldn’t rather be here with you? Of course I would. But I’m helping pack and deliver food parcels and Christmas presents for the homeless, something we do every Christmas. It’s a UK-based charitable organisation I’ve supported for many years. But we’re having to do it in shifts this year and I happen to have picked the early morning shift. Originally they said they only needed my face as an ambassador, but I prefer to get stuck in and help with the heavy lifting, so to speak. What they’re doing is vital, especially this year with the virus taking away a lot of people’s livelihoods. We’re not the only country in the world where the number of homeless has risen at a time of year when people should be preparing to celebrate the festive season with their families and loved ones. So I want to help where I can. What I’m doing is a drop in the ocean, but I like to think that every tiny bit helps.”
“Now I feel dreadful. If I didn’t have an interview to stress over, I’d join you.”
“Tell you what,” said Marshall. “Come back here tomorrow night and I’ll cook you dinner. I’d like to hear about your interview. And I want to pamper you for a change. Deal?”
“Definitely. I’ll head home after the interview, feed her ladyship, and pack a bag. What time shall I come back?”
“Six too early?”
Spencer leaned in and kissed Marshall.
“Six is perfect.”
Chapter Seventeen
The second time Spencer awoke he was alone.
Much earlier that morning, he had sensed Marshall trying to slip quietly out of bed, but the man had not been able to resist leaning over and kissing a bleary, half-awake Spencer. After which, they’d made out until Marshall had pushed his body gently away and insisted he go back to sleep and wake refreshed for his interview. At first Spencer had complained, wanting to spend the precious few morning moments in the shower with Marshall—until being reminded that they would be together again later that evening.
Right now, everything in Marshall’s huge bed felt soft and comfortable and excessive. He pulled one of the fine cotton pillows from the other side of the bed and pressed his face into the softness, the scent of Marshall still lingering in the fabric. Certain parts of his body ached, but not in an unpleasant way. If Marshall had remained in bed with him, he would have happily instigated another round of lovemaking. Pushing the pillow away, he stretched his arms out across the mattress and grinned at the ceiling before pulling his knees up to his chest.
Rather than lying naked, overthinking things, he swung his legs to the side of the mattress and sat up. After pushing his hands through his hair, he noticed the blurry outline of a blue Post-It note stuck to the bedside clock. He snatched up his glasses and read the words.
Morning, Sleepyhead. Follow the Post-It trail. Next stop, kitchen.
Spencer laughed softly to himself. Even though the clock read seven-thirty, and he felt sure no house staff would enter the apartment without knocking, he pulled on a pair of track pants and a white tee before jumping onto the carpeted floor.
In the kitchen, he spied a yellow note affixed to an impressive stainless steel coffee machine, not dissimilar to his parents’ new purchase. Beneath the spout sat an empty white mug with the red logo of a news television channel.
Press the caffè latte button and wait. Next stop, living room.
After doing as instructed and waiting as the machine churned to life, he peered around Marshall’s kitchen. Brand-new appliances filled a room more spacious than Spencer’s living room. With a shake of his head, he wondered how many of the devices ever got used. When the machine began to slow, and the smell of coffee reached his nose, he let out an involuntary carnal moan and grabbed the mug.
With the vessel beneath his nose, he ambled into the living room. There on the coffee table a plastic covering sat over a dinner plate with a Post-It, this time in pink, stuck to the top.
Eat me. Next stop bathroom.
Beneath the plastic covering, Spencer found one of the chocolate croissants and some freshly cut fruit—watermelon, honeydew melon, orange, mango, and pineapple slices. Not unexpectedly, a pile of the day’s newspapers sat on the sofa, already scanned by the looks of the ruffled front pages. Spencer plonked himself down, grinning at the little windows into Marshall’s life, into his daily routine. While enjoying the light breakfast, he flicked through the papers, noticing Marshall had ordered pretty much all the dailies. With pleasure, he dug out the National Herald so he could swot up on the paper’s main stories before his meeting. After reading from cover to cover, then checking messages on his phone—none from Marshall—he yawned into the morning and headed for the bathroom.
There, hanging from the door of a bathroom wardrobe, he found his freshly pressed suit and shirt. Marshall had even brought his socks, underwear and newly shined shoes into the room and placed them on a wicker bench. Two green Post-Its were pinned to the jacket pocket.
Suit, shirt and shoes ready. Rock the interview. Enjoy the shower and use anything you want. Fresh towel left out for you. Next stop second bedroom.
By the time he had finished his shower and dressed, checking himself in the mirror to assess his suitability and deciding he looked as good as he ever would, he returned to the kitchen to refill his coffee cup. While the coffee brewed, he headed to the spare bedroom, which appeared made up but empty. This time an orange note sat on the duvet cover.
Unless my mother stays, this room rarely gets used. But I’m giving you the virtual tour anyway. Now go and be fabulous like I know you can be. MJHx
Smiling to himself in the hall mirror, and feeling happy at what he saw, he made sure he had everything before closing the apartment door behind him. Downstairs, as the lift door opened, a new, younger concierge smiled a welcome then went back to working on his computer. On his way to the door, Spencer plucked out his phone and used the map app to find his way to the nearest Tube station.
Leaving at eight-thirty, he knew he could be at the newspaper offices at just after nine, find a nearby coffee shop and hang out until around nine-forty. That way, when he turned up at the reception ten minutes early, he wouldn’t seem too desperate and more importantly, would not be late. Had he been like Bev, he would have left everything to the last minute, trusted there would be no delays or obstructions, and—not in Bev’s case, of course—he would have turned up not only a sweaty wreck but a bag of jangling nerves. In his book, the extra time and caution was simply a fallback in case things did not go to plan.
As he marched along the road towards Herald Towers, his phone began to ring.
“Squirrel,” said Bev, her cheerful voice instantly putting a smile on his face. “Good luck today, baby. Tried to call you yesterday night but I got your voicemail, so I guess you were at home. How are you feeling?”
“Terrified.”
“Do you want me to courier you a Valium?”
Spencer laughed aloud.
“Do people actually do that kind of thing?” he asked.
“All the time.”
“Thanks anyway, but I’ll manage. And I’ll let you know how it goes later.”
“Are you coming in afterwards?”
“No, I have the day off today—” Right then, his phone buzzed with another call. Marshall. “Bev, can I call you back? Marshall’s on the other—”
“Speak to you later. Break a leg.”
Spencer thumbed the button for the new call.
“Marsh. How’s it going?”
“This manual work thing is entirely overrated. We haven’t stopped packing boxes and loading them into vans all morning and we’re only just stopping for a cuppa.”
“Poor you. But keep in mind the good you’re doing. I bet there aren’t many in your profession who would roll up their sleeves and muck in. I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you, Spence.”
Spencer could tell from Marshall’s tone that he appreciated the compliment.
“More importantly, how are you doing?” asked Marshall.
“Nervous. But I’m about to hit the coffee shop.”
“You didn’t get coffee this morning?”
“During my guided Post-It tour of your apartment, you mean? Yes, I did get coffee. But I’m very early and it’ll give me time to settle down and calm my nerves. Thanks for ironing my suit and shirt, by the way.”
“All part of the service. You can make it up to me later. Hey, I’m phoning to ask what you fancy for dinner tonight. Any thoughts?”
“Many. But I’m in public and most them are pretty indecent, so best not to say them out loud. But, just so you know, one of them involves that easy chair you have in the corner of your bedroom—”
“Uh, Spence,” came Marshall’s lowered voice. “I’m sitting here with a group of volunteers, people I don’t know. And I have to stand up and carry on working in five minutes, so could you maybe save the lurid descriptions—”
Spencer burst out laughing.
“Sorry. I’m really sorry, Marsh,” said Spencer, still chuckling. “I should have realised. As for tonight. Your choice of takeout. Although not South Asian, please.”
“Takeout? Who said anything about takeout? I’m cooking at home for you tonight. See you at six. Are you still heading home first?”
“I’d planned to. Why?”
“Pick up another change of clothing. I’m driving tomorrow, so I’ll drop you into work.”
Spencer had visited Herald Towers a couple of times over the years. The first three floors constituted a vast shopping mall with a large cinema complex on the third floor, and shops and restaurants scattered around the other two. Being in the Tier Two restriction zone, the area was considered high alert for the coronavirus, and he expected most shops to be closed for the day. Luckily enough, he found an open coffee shop inside the ground floor, probably catering to office staff. Although he couldn’t sit in the premises, he still purchased a takeaway coffee, then went outside the building and found a small concrete garden area with wooden seating.
After checking messages, he brought up a browser and mugged up on basics about the newspaper group, such as how they employed around three to four thousand people globally. By comparison, Muriel’s Blackmore Group had at most seventy to eighty staff. Estimated daily circulation figures for the National Herald came in at just under one and a half million, which did not include online subscriptions. Blackmore Group, a wholly different beast with primarily monthly publications, had a circulation of under two hundred thousand. Not that a person could fairly compare like for like.
After what seemed like an eternity, he finished his coffee, waited in the newspaper reception area, and stared at the neat row of clocks above the familiar newspaper logo, announcing the time in five different time zones.
Through a glass dividing wall, Spencer observed Ed Coleman finishing up on his computer. He could not even hazard a guess as to the man’s age. Sporting a grey ginger comb-over, combined with being overweight, Ed appeared younger than someone in his fifties, but then Spencer had never been good at guessing people’s ages. On the surface the man’s whole face appeared to be a perpetual frown as he glared at his monitor, from the troughs across his forehead, the fixed furrowed brow, the deep parentheses around his mouth to the stubbornly neutral mouth giving nothing away. And he typed brutally with only the forefingers of each hand as though he were trying to kill some annoying insect running across his keyboard.
