Dearest Milton James by N.R. Walker

Chapter Seventeen

We’d found him.

We’d found the man who wrote the Dearest Milton James letters.

It took all of us, and there was absolutely no way I could’ve found this information on my own. Certainly not so quickly.

But it was a good lesson for the benefit of teamwork. Sharing mystery cases, or difficult cases, or seemingly lost causes, just might be doable if we put our skills together.

Julian was going to hand-deliver the letters to Raymond tomorrow, being a Saturday. He didn’t say it to the rest of the team, but I was going with him. There was no way I wasn’t going.

It didn’t feel real, but we were all so happy and hyped for the rest of the afternoon, the remainder of the shift passed in a blur. And before I knew it, Paul and Theo were putting their cages away. I checked the time.

4.58pm.

Holy shit.

I rushed to pack up my stuff.

“Oh, how was your super-hot date last night?” Paul asked as he was packing his desk.

Just so happened that Julian walked out of his office to take his coffee cup to the sink.

“Oh, so hot,” I replied, grinning. “And tonight’s going to be even hotter.”

“Is that why your hair turned orange?” Theo joked. His jokes were so bad.

“Yep, totally the reason.”

“I like how the orange matches your boot laces instead of your boots this time,” he said.

I glanced to my feet. “Oh, thanks. Colour coordination is important to us gay folks.”

“Sooo,” Paul hedged. “Second hot date, two nights in a row. It must be serious.”

Julian stopped near the breakroom door and turned to face me. By this time, Theo and Cherry were also standing there, waiting for me to answer.

Christ. What was I supposed to say to that?

Julian was right there!

So I decided to put all my freaking cards on the table. “I hope so,” I replied, choosing not to look at Julian. “He’s amazing, and he’s sweet and smart and gorgeous and funny.” Then I put my hands about ten inches apart. “And you know those huge salami they hang in the deli windows?”

“Oh, that’s enough,” Julian said, barrelling into the breakroom.

Cherry laughed.

“Yeah, I get it,” Paul said. “No need to go there.”

Theo said, “I don’t get . . .” Then his gaze went to mine, eyes wide. “Oh.”

Yep, he got it.

“Anyway,” I said brightly. “I better run if I’m going to catch the bus. Need to make myself all pretty.” I laughed as I walked out with Cherry. “He’s gonna kill me for that,” I told her.

She laughed again. “They don’t know who you’re talking about though.”

And then my phone beeped. It was a message from Julian. I laughed but then I wondered if he’d be mad.

Salami?

I took that as a good sign.

Oh yes, please. A good nine to ten inches tonight, as promised.

His text bubble appeared then disappeared, then appeared and disappeared again. But then my phone rang. It was him. I showed the screen with his name on it to Cherry before I hit Answer.

“Am I in trouble?” I asked instead of saying hello.

“I’m considering it.”

“Mm, do I get to pick my punishment?”

He laughed. “No. Then it wouldn’t be a punishment.”

“I could pretend to not like it. If that helps.”

He chuckled again. “I’ll pick you up at seven. You might want to bring a bag with clothes for tomorrow if we’re going to deliver these letters to Mr Dunn.”

Mmm, I was staying another night.

“Need me to bring anything else?”

“No. I have everything.” He paused. “And Malachi?”

“Yes?”

“I hope you like salami.”

I laughed and the line went dead in my ear. I might have blushed. Cherry took one look at me and shook her head, but the bus pulled up and we couldn’t sit together because it was crowded.

I waved to her as I got off and she yelled out, “Good luck!”

I was getting giddy.

This was ridiculous. But so help me, I was so ready for tonight.

I swung past the chemist and grabbed extra condoms and lube and a few douching bulbs and put my time to good use when I got home.

I showered, cleaning my body, inside and out. Dressed in my skin-tight white jeans, a neon orange T-shirt, and a white bomber jacket. My black boots with the orange laces matched my hair perfectly.

Not that it mattered. I had no intention of wearing anything for long.

I put some food out for Buster Jones so he wouldn’t be yelling at my balcony door all night, and at five to seven, my phone beeped.

I’m here.

I grabbed my bag and skipped all the way downstairs and to his car like an excited boy on Christmas morning. “Oh, salami home delivered,” I said. “I hope you packed the extra-large.”

He grinned. “Nine and a half inches, just like you ordered.”

I laughed but then . . .  “Is it actually nine and a half inches. Because I wouldn’t doubt that at all. But have you measured it?”

He laughed again. “Good evening, Malachi.”

So that was a yes. “I totally would have measured it too, if it were mine. Let’s be real.”

He laughed some more. “So, I’ve ordered dinner to be delivered at eight thirty. I felt like Vietnamese. Is that okay?”

“Perfect. Um . . . any reason we’re not eating for an hour and a half?”

He glanced over at me. “So here’s what I was thinking . . .  I’ve had an erection problem since we spoke on the phone. It won’t go away on its own.”

I laughed, my insides warming deliciously. “Oh no. Is that something I can help with?”

“Well, I’d like to think it’s your fault,” he said with a grin. “I just have to think of you and my body starts to . . . get a mind of its own. Then you mentioned the salami thing and if you were in trouble and could pick your own punishment, and I began picturing what I’m planning on doing to you tonight and how it’s going to feel.”

“Okay, I like where this is going. What do you plan on doing to me tonight?”

“Well, that’s the thing. Round one, intermission with dinner, hence the order for eight thirty, then round two afterwards. How does that sound?”

“That sounds like a three-course meal to me.” He chuckled and I slid my hand onto his thigh and up a little higher, and a little higher, until my pinkie traced the crease at his crotch. “Now about that erection.”

“I’m not kidding. I have a permanent hard-on. I haven’t been like this since I was sixteen.”

I just went right ahead and palmed his monster cock, which was slung across to his hip and facing me. “Good. I get the feeling I’ll be wanting it a lot.”

He moved my hand and shifted in his seat. “Malachi,” he said, his voice strained. “If you want round one to last more than thirty seconds, you’re gonna need to give me some slack.”

I laughed and put my hand on my own leg instead. “Okay, okay.”

He shook his head and ended up laughing. “You are trouble.”

“I am trouble? Or I’m in trouble?”

“Both.”

Aaaaaand twenty minutes later, I was starting to think I was in actual trouble.

I was sprawled naked on his bed, slicked with lube, my arsehole stretched and stretched until I whined at him to stop playing with me.

But then he rolled on a condom and poured on some more lube, and I was beginning to wonder if he’d actually fit.

I leaned up on my elbows. “Holy fuck.”

He grinned and turned me over so I was face down on his bed, and he brought my arse up a little. Positioning me just how he wanted me. He spread me, teased and stretched me some more, fingers, tongue, and a lot more lube.

It was at this point I entered another realm of pleasure.

Everything, every touch, every groan was too much and not enough. I was too desperate. I wanted more. I wanted his cock. I wanted to feel him inside me. I want to take him, feel him. I wanted him to own me.

“Julian,” I growled. “Give it to me.”

“Oh, baby, I will,” he whispered. Then his fingers were digging into my hips and the blunt head of his huge cock was at my hole.

Thiswas what I wanted.

“Yes,” I breathed, trying to back onto him.

He held me still, spread wide, and he began to push into me. He was slow and gentle, murmuring soft nothings of encouragement and desire. And he pushed a little further . . .  The stretch, the burn, it was a lot.

It was too much.

I gripped the sheets. “Oh fuck,” I cried out.

Julian froze but didn’t pull out. He stayed still and rubbed my back. “Are you okay?”

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, and the pain eased. Julian added more lube, then rocked a little and something seemed to give and he slipped in past the tight ring of muscle.

Fuck. Was that just the head?

“Oh god.”

But it was easier then, and he pushed in another inch, then another. He groaned like I’d never heard a man groan. He gripped my hips and pulled back a little only to slide in even further.

There was so much of him. “Fuck, Julian, you’re so big.”

He leaned over my back, pushing in some more, his lips near my ear. “Breathe, Malachi.”

“Fuck.” I took some rapid-fire breaths and eventually slowed my breathing right down. I relaxed, and my mind went to that other place.

That other place where only pleasure exists.

“That’s it, baby. Breathe nice and slow for me,” he murmured again, his voice tight. He held himself still. “You can take me, I know you can. You can take all of me.” Then he began to push in again, giving me more and more of him, pulling out a little only to push back in.

I dug my forehead into the covers, arching my back, and let him do what he wanted with my arse. He was so far inside me, pushing further in until his fingers dug into my hips. “Fuck. To the hilt. Ugh, Malachi,” he groaned, then began to slowly thrust, moaning with each movement.

Or maybe that was me.

There was some noise coming from somewhere in the room . . . I think it might have been me.

But he held me still and rolled his hips, thrusting a little harder. “Oh baby, I can’t last like this. Stroke your cock for me.”

My cock?

God, I forgot I even had one . . .

And I was surprisingly hard. I hadn’t even realised. Yes, it all just felt so good, but I was too caught up in him, too caught up in that feeling of euphoria to think about my dick.

A few long pulls were all it took for fireworks to spark behind my eyes. Was being so full of dick a magic button for me?

I think it was.

I came like a tonne of bricks and Julian slammed into me, groaning long and loud as he filled the condom inside me. I felt every pulse and every jerk of his cock, and every moan vibrated through me.

I’d never felt anything like it.

He slowly, slowly pulled out of me, then collapsed on my back, breathing hard and whispering sweet nothings in my ear. His still-hard cock was pushed between my legs, and so god help me, I wanted more.

Even after all that.

I wiggled my arse a little. “More?”

Julian laughed. “Want dinner first?”

“No.”

He stilled. “Are you being serious?”

“I think I’m going to want a lot more. I told you that.”

So, without another word, Julian climbed off the bed and dragged me by my ankle so my arse was at the side of the bed. He pulled off the used condom, gave himself a few strokes, and rolled on a new condom. Flipped the lid on the lube, poured it over both of us, positioned my hips over the edge of the bed so my arse was at that perfect height, and he just slid straight back into me.

All the fucking way.

“Oh my god,” I whimpered, gripping the rumpled bedding.

He whispered in my ear, his hands on my hips, his cock buried inside me. “I told you I haven’t been this horny since I was sixteen. I want to fuck you all night long. I don’t know what you’ve done to me. But I want more.”

I melted into a fiery pit of lava, and he did exactly what he said he was going to do.

Except this time, the fireworks behind my eyes were blinding, the pleasure was so encompassing, so thorough, my whole body trembled and convulsed.

He’d found my prostate.

When it was over, when I couldn’t take anymore, he cradled me in his arms.

I would never be the same again. I felt put back together and humbled, and a teeny tiny, quite possibly a little bit in love.

We ate the Vietnamese food a little cold but I didn’t care one bit. Then he showered me, washed me, tenderness in every touch, and we went back to bed.

To sleep this time, though. He pulled me straight into his arms, his hold on me lovely and secure, infrequent kisses in my hair.

I wanted to tell him thank you. I wanted to tell him he was amazing and that he could call me at any time. No matter where I was in the world, I would come to him, be naked with my arse in the air any time he wanted it.

That was a sign of the perfect top. Well, for me at least.

But two mind-blowing orgasms later, a belly full of food, and strong arms around me, and all the things I wanted to say floated away when I closed my eyes.

* * *

I sleptlike the dead and I woke to a smiley Julian sliding a tray of toast and coffee onto the bed. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

I had to blink a few times. “Hey.”

“We have to leave soon,” he said. “If you want to come with me to deliver these letters to Mr Dunn.”

I sat up, still naked, and pulled the covers up to hide my junk. I sipped my coffee. It was divine. “What time is it?”

“Half eight.”

“I’ve never slept so well.”

“I think I wore you out.”

“You can wear me out like that any time you want.”

He hummed. “Are you sore this morning?”

I wiggled my butt, taking a mental stocktake of any soreness or aches and pains. “Nope. Feel fine.” And I did. That was no lie. All that stretching and prepping that I’d complained about at the time had come in clutch. “You know what you’re doing. I was in very good hands.”

He blushed a little. “I like looking after you.”

I picked up a slice of toast. “You did more than that. And you brought me breakfast in bed. I feel like a king.”

He grinned. “I’m going to take a shower. Won’t be long.”

* * *

It didn’t really hitme what we were about to do until we were in the car and driving to the Northern Beaches to go meet Raymond.

We were meeting the Dearest Milton James man. We were returning his letters to him after all this time.

Those letters that had sat there for so long . . .

I tried to prepare myself for bad news. It was a possibility. Actually, it was more than likely going to end in some kind of bad news.

That he never saw his lover again.

That they did see each other but couldn’t be together, they had to marry girls even though they still loved each other.

Or maybe Raymond would tell us every letter was complete fiction. This whole thing had been a made-up story in hopes of having it read on-air.

I wasn’t sure which would be worse.

“Here it is,” Julian said, pulling up to the kerb. The house was cute, quaint, and probably worth a fortune, given its location. Raymond had done well for himself, obviously.

I just hoped he was happy.

With a nervous smile and a sinking heart, I got out of the car. Julian was by my side, but I stopped outside the gate. “God, Julian, what if he—”

“Hey,” Julian replied gently. “Whatever he says, whatever he does with the letters is fine. There’s no wrong reaction, and whatever he says or does is the right answer for him.”

I nodded. He was right. He was always right. We had no control over Raymond’s reaction. We could just give him back the letters and be on our way without so much as a conversation.

That’s it.

Then our job would be done.

With a nod, Julian gave my arm a squeeze, then opened the gate for me. I walked along the small path, up the three porch steps, and with a deep breath, I pressed the doorbell.

A dog barking echoed on the other side of the door, then “Oh, Penelope, shush.” Then the door opened and a man stood there. He was around seventy, at a guess, with short, neat grey hair, faded blue eyes, and a kind face. He was holding a Pomeranian, who I guessed was Penelope.

“Raymond Dunn?” I asked.

He smiled cautiously. “Yes?”

I put my hand to my chest. “My name’s Malachi Keogh, and this is Julian Pollard. We’re from the Dead Letter Office.” I knew Julian hated when it was called that. “We called yesterday about some found letters.”

His smile widened. “Yes, please come in.”