Dearest Milton James by N.R. Walker

Chapter Fifteen

At 6.25 Igot a text message from Julian.

I’m parked out front. Want me to come up?

I was going to reply but figured it’d be quicker if I just went to meet him. He didn’t need to know I’d been showered, dressed and ready for ages, counting down the minutes.

I found his car and he got out when he saw me. Walking around to the passenger side, he held my door open. “Good evening,” he said. “You look amazing.”

I’d put a bright orange dye over the fading purple streak in my otherwise jet-black hair. I wore tight black jeans with a vintage Guns N’ Roses shirt with the orange cross. I had bright orange ribbon laces in my Docs.

“Thank you. You’re as sexy as ever,” I replied, getting in his car. He closed the door and smiled at me the whole way around to his side.

“You changed your hair,” he said as he climbed in behind the wheel.

“It’s conveniently coincidental that it takes the same amount of time to dye my hair as it does to douche. I can multitask.”

He stared, then burst out laughing. “Okay then.”

“I wasn’t sure it would be required, but I didn’t want to regret not doing it. You did say you wanted to taste all of me, and I didn’t know if you liked to eat arse, but I like to be prepared.”

He made a fucking hot grunting sound as he shifted in his seat. “Christ, Malachi.”

His reaction made me preen a little. “Sorry.”

I was not sorry. We both knew it.

He pulled the car out onto the street, reached over the console and took my hand, sending a rush of warmth through me. “You feeling okay about today? Finding out about who Milton James was?” he asked.

I gave him a smile. “I feel better now, yes. What Denise said was right. They did find a way to be themselves and create their own community. I don’t know why I was so bummed when I first heard it. I just thought it was sad, but it was a different time. I can’t imagine . . .  I guess it was just a good reminder of how lucky I have it.” I squeezed his hand. “I’ve been out since I was like nine. It was never a big deal. I was a disappointment to my parents in school, at work, never went to college, got fired for wearing a skirt. So my gayness was probably a relief, to be honest. There was no risk of me being even more of a disappointment by impregnating girls all over town.”

Julian chuckled. “You mentioned siblings, yes?”

“An older brother and sister. They’re responsible and very heterosexual with their office jobs, picket fences, and 2.5 children, so all expectations landed on them. I’m the rainbow sheep of the family that gets to run loose in the top paddock.” I couldn’t believe we’d never really discussed our families before. “What about you?”

“I have two sisters, one older, one younger. My younger sister is bisexual, currently seeing a guy for about two years now. And my older sister is actually an ordained minister, if you could believe that. And she’s a foster mum. Has a brood with her at all times and is so busy, I’m positive she never sleeps.”

“Wow.”

He shot me a smile. “My parents have always accepted us as we are. Never questioned our decisions, just want us to be happy. My dad was a plumber until he hurt his back a few years ago. He’s okay now, but it laid him out for a while, and he took it as a sign to retire early so he sold his business. My mum is an accountant. They live in Ashfield, in the house I grew up in.”

“I love that.” Then I made a face. “Well, I don’t really need to tell you about my dad because you know him. Even though you told him I was your sexiest employee the other day.”

He laughed. “You know I didn’t actually say that.”

“What did you tell him?”

“He just asked how you were settling in. I said you were a great asset to the team and you fit in really well.”

“Was he surprised?”

Julian squeezed my fingers and left my hand on his thigh while he used two hands to drive. We’d turned off into a nice-looking residential street. “I don’t think so.”

“Speaking of team,” I mused. “I think telling everyone about the Milton James letters and deciding to find who this Raymond is was a good idea. Everyone was involved and they seemed really happy about that.”

“I noticed that too. There was a different mood at work today.”

“Like a team.”

Julian nodded. “Yeah. It was nice, actually.”

“Maybe every so often we could take an old case and do a team job on solving it. Like once a month or something.”

Julian smiled at me. “I like that idea.” He slowed the car and reverse parallel parked like a pro, then shut off the engine. “Well, we’re here.”

The street was lined with narrow two-storey townhouses, some with little porches and fences, some with plants and flowers. It was gorgeous. “You live in a townhouse?”

“I do. It’s small and very narrow.”

Then a horrific thought occurred. “Oh my god, do you have housemates? Am I meeting strange people in the next ten seconds? Because I’m not mentally prepared.”

Julian laughed. “No, I live alone. I would’ve given you plenty of warning before now if that was the case.”

The relief was instantaneous. Plus, I wasn’t up for sexy times with an audience.

We got out of his car and I followed him up to his door. His townhouse was a slate grey colour with a black wrought iron fence, gate, and window trim. It was lovely. Inside was a living room first, very narrow, like he’d said. But it was light with tall ceilings. His furniture was well chosen for the room, nothing cluttered, very trendy gay. The living room backed onto a kitchen, which was relatively new, also white and very tidy. He didn’t offer me a tour of upstairs, and I didn’t ask; I figured I’d see his bed later.

“Your place is beautiful,” I said. “Very grown-up. Makes my retro vintage seem rather childish.”

He chuckled. “Your place is very you.”

“What, childish? Or second-hand and cheap?”

He laughed. “Not like that. I meant bright, colourful, and lots of fun.” Then he took my hand and turned me a little before backing me up to the kitchen counter. He pressed against me, lifting my chin so he could kiss me, soft and warm and lingering. “I’ve wanted to do that all day,” he murmured before kissing me again.

There was no urgency, no rush, as if he wanted to savour every second. Like he wanted me to feel his tenderness and his honesty. Like he felt the same about me as I felt about him.

Like he knew this didn’t make sense, that it was all too fast, that we shouldn’t feel like this after so little time.

Eventually he ended the kiss and rested his forehead on mine. “So . . . dinner.”

“So, dinner,” I repeated in a whisper. I was ready to say fuck dinner, let’s go to bed.

“Ugh,” he said, taking a step back. “I’m trying to do the right thing here. As in, a proper date.”

“You’re doing a very good job.”

He shook his head and laughed. “So I thought I would try something new and I found a spicy Thai noodle dish that looked great, but then I panicked and I called Curtis, my friend. Anyway, I told him I wanted to impress you and he said to make you my linguine dish. So that’s what I went with. I had to get fresh linguine from the deli on the way home and Italian sausage and the proper ricotta.”

“Well, it sounds amazing . . . but you wanted to impress me? And you told your friend about me?”

He grinned and started taking ingredients out of the fridge, putting them on the counter. “Of course I did.” He met my eyes. “You said you told your friends about me.”

“Well, one friend. Moni. And yes, of course, I tell her everything. And I mean everything.” Then I rolled my eyes. “You don’t need to impress me. I’m already impressed.”

He smiled, blushing faintly. “Okay, so this dish takes no time at all. Did you want to help me slice and dice stuff, or did you want to pull a chair into the kitchen, sip on a glass of wine, and look pretty while you supervise?”

“I’m totally going to supervise. And look pretty, of course, but you just gave me the option to sit here and ogle you. That’s a no-contest, my guy.” I pulled a chair over, like he said, and sat at the edge of the kitchen. He poured two glasses of red wine and handed me one. “And,” I continued, “you don’t want me to help with cooking. I have many talents, however, cooking is not one of them.”

“Looking pretty is, though,” he said. “You do it so well.”

“I know. It’s a burden sometimes.”

He chuckled, then began to chop and dice, looking all kinds of relaxed and gorgeous moving around his kitchen. He fried and simmered stuff and the aromas were making my stomach growl.

But there was something I wanted to ask. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Today, when Paul had reduced the Duntroon list of names to two and I mentioned maybe contacting them, the look on your face told me you didn’t think that was a great idea.”

“Well . . .”

“Well what?”

He sighed and sounded apologetic. He stopped chopping and turned to me. “You can’t just call someone up out of the blue and say, ‘Hey, were you in an intimate relationship with a guy called Raymond in the 70s?’. He could be married with grandkids and doesn’t want anyone to know about that time in his life. It could be damaging for him.”

My heart sank. “I know, and that’s a fair call. I’d need to do more research first. And once we’ve gathered all the info we can find and we’re pretty certain it’s the right guy, we’ll make an informed decision then, if we contact him at all. I wouldn’t just drop a bombshell for my curiosity’s sake.”

Julian gave me a soft smile. “I think our only point of contact should be Raymond.”

I sipped my wine and let him explain.

“For all we know, the guy he wrote about doesn’t even know the letters exist. And maybe they’re completely fictional. They don’t read like they are. Everything he talks about feels real, but how do we know? He could have been writing a story to make it seem real, just to be read out on the radio like it was a real relationship. Like a radio serial story. He mentioned going to uni for English, so maybe he liked to write stories. We just don’t know.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

Julian sighed. “I want it to be real. I want there to be some kind of happy ending, but . . .” He shrugged. “We just don’t know.”

“That’s a fair call,” I allowed.

He turned back to his chopping board and scraped the diced greens into the pan. “Can I be totally honest with you?”

Oh god. “Yeah, of course. Although that pre-empt never ends well, but sure.”

He chuckled and leaned his hip against the counter. “Don’t be mad at me.”

“Oh, for fuck sake, Julian, are you married?”

“What? No!”

“Straight?”

“Definitely not.”

“Seeing someone else?”

“Not at all.”

“Then I won’t be mad. Unless you’re the type of person who pours the milk in before the cereal.”

“Who does that?”

“Heathens.”

He laughed. “No, it’s nothing like that.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, here goes. When I asked you to help me look into these letters, I didn’t think we’d ever find the person who wrote them, or who he sent them to or who Dearest Milton James was. I didn’t think we’d ever find them. They were old and so vague, and there was no address, no real names, no anything.”

Uh, what . . . ?

“Then why did you suggest—”

“I needed an excuse to spend time with you. I wanted to see you outside of work and I was too gutless to just ask.”

“Oh.”

“I’m so sorry. It was never my intent to deceive you. I just didn’t know how to ask you out without giving myself hives. And then you actually began to find information and it was exciting. And for the record, I’m glad we’re finding them. I’m glad we have all these leads. If we can return the letters to Raymond, then that’ll be awesome. I just never thought we would.” He put his hand to his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “What are you sorry for? That’s kind of sweet. You certainly didn’t lie. You told me you thought we should try to find them. And we did try. That’s not lying.” I got off the stool and went to him, cupping his face in my hand. “I’m glad you asked me, and I’m glad we spent time together outside of work. I just think it’s funny that you were too nervous to ask.”

“I wasn’t lying when I said I’ve been out of the game for a while. Everything I’ve told you is the truth. I like you, and I want to keep seeing you. And I do want to find this Raymond guy and return the letters to him. I just never thought we would.”

I leaned up on my toes and kissed him softly. “I like you too, and I want to keep seeing you. And I’d be a big fat liar if I said I didn’t agree to help you find him just to be able to spend more time with you. Though I had visions of us staying back in your office and having super-hot desk sex, but dinner dates are also fun.”

Julian chuckled and pulled me in for a proper kiss, his arms around my back, holding me close while he deepened the kiss.

Until my stomach growled, and he broke away with a laugh. “Okay, I will feed you first.”

I was torn between being starving hungry and horny. “Sorry, apparently my stomach approves of your cooking. It smells so good.”

Ten minutes later, we were sitting at his dining table eating the best pasta I’d ever tasted in my life. I considered licking the empty plate but thought I’d better not. “Please thank Curtis for suggesting you cook this. I’m more than impressed, and now the bad news for you is that I will expect this level of brilliance every time you cook for me.”

Julian laughed, pushed his plate away, then sipped his wine. “I’d like to take the credit, but honestly, the Italian deli I get the ingredients from makes it impossible to taste bad. They make the pasta themselves, it takes five minutes to cook. And they import the sausage and ricotta direct from Italy, and I’m pretty sure the vine-ripened tomatoes are grown out the back of the store.”

I chuckled. “Well, thank them for me too. This was delicious.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Though I didn’t get anything for dessert. I can offer you more wine. Or an espresso?”

“Or you could make dessert out of me and take me to your bedroom.”

His gaze shot to mine; he had fire in his eyes. “Malachi,” he breathed.

He wanted me as much as I wanted him. There was no denying it. And I’d always been upfront about what I wanted.

And I wanted him.

I pushed my chair out and stood, going to him. I lifted my leg and straddled him, sitting on his lap, on his crotch. He was still sitting at the table, so it was kind of crowded, but he quickly put his arms around me and looked up to my face. “You’re very bold.”

I rocked forward a little, grinding on him. I slid my arms around his neck and kissed him. If he was hesitant at all, it melted away as soon as my tongue touched his. He groaned in my mouth and tightened his arms around me.

I could feel his hardening dick as he pulled me closer, kissed me deeper.

“I have my last STI test results in a text message on my phone,” I whispered, desperate. “I am good to go.”

He inhaled deeply and put his forehead on my chin and caught his breath. When he looked up at me, his eyes were sharp and dark. “I was tested for everything after my ex . . .  I haven’t been with anyone since.”

“No one?” He shook his head, and I smiled. “Then you must really want to come so bad.”

He stood so quick I thought he was dumping me off his lap, but he held onto my arse and lifted me with him.

Oh, hell yes.

Never breaking eye contact, he slowly lowered me to the floor, keeping me pulled close. “I want you,” he whispered. I thought my knees might buckle, but he took my hand and led the way up the stairs. His room was long and narrow. His bed looked huge and soft, the covers light grey. There were books on his bedside table but I didn’t have time to read the spines because he pushed me onto his bed and crawled on after me.

He prowled up my body, between my legs and undid my button and fly.

Holy fuck.

He freed my cock from my briefs and, locking eyes with me, he leaned down and licked me. He ran his flattened tongue right up the shaft, tongued the head, then took me into his mouth. Just for a taste, because he pulled off and sat back. I was about to protest when he began to pull my jeans off, then my shirt.

“Want you naked,” he said.

“You too,” I said. My voice sounded like I’d smoked two packs of cigarettes a day for sixty years. It made him smile but he unbuttoned his shirt and popped the buttons on his pants like a fucking porn star. I had to squeeze my dick to stave off my orgasm.

I was so ready for this.

He smiled as he gripped my base and took me back into his mouth, sucking, swirling, licking, pumping, and fingering my balls.

Fuck.

“Julian,” I murmured. “I’m close already.”

So of course he grunted and took me into his throat, and that was the final push. I gripped his bed covers and tumbled over the edge, coming down his throat.

My entire body convulsed, and he sucked every drop out of me.

“Gawd.”

He hummed and pulled off, smiling, victorious. Then lifted me like I was a paper doll, leaning me against the padded headboard. He straddled my chest, took his huge fucking cock in his fist, and I certainly didn’t need telling to open my mouth.

There was no way I could take him all, not even close. But I worked the head of his cock like a Chupa Chup, and I was rewarded for my efforts. He was so hard and swollen, and he grunted and cussed when he came, gripping the headboard as he pulsed in my mouth.

I had to wonder how much self-control it took not to thrust into my throat.

When his orgasm had run its course, he pulled back and manoeuvred me down the bed a little so he could wrap his arms around me. It might have been the best thing ever.

But then snoozing became snogging and more kissing became mutual hand jobs, and it was around midnight when we went downstairs for a snack.

“I guess I should go home,” I said. “But I’ll call an Uber. You don’t need to drive me.”

He stepped closer and fed me a cracker with cheese. He thumbed a crumb off. “Or you could stay.”

He chuckled at my very surprised expression. I forgot to chew the cracker and tried to speak. “Uhmff?”

“Stay.” He laughed again, tracing his fingers through my hair. “I can drive you past your place on the way to work tomorrow morning if you need anything. Stay tonight.” He kissed me again. “In my bed.”