The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 14

Hello my lovelies, I thought you might like a bonus chapter to thank you for getting me above my 100 reviews, so here is a little more in the way of Mystradian shenanigans. I do have a bit of a hidden agenda, though. It means we can get to the bonking a bit quicker.

So remember, people, more reviews, more smut.

Oh, and for anyone who will be amused by such things, my husband just informed me in his usual cheerful way that it is very appropriate that our boys are drinking Jennings bitter, since it is brewed in Cockermouth. I leave you to your own conclusions…

Westminster. Greg was kicking himself. He should have known. Mycroft had the penthouse in a brand spanking new block on the far side of the river, a short walk across the bridge to Westminster Palace, and Whitehall beyond, and the enormous hulk of the MI6 building on the opposite bank further up. The flat had a separate lift for his sole use.

'Security,' he said. 'You can imagine how many people would like to get to me.'

Yep, Greg thought. Me for a start.

The lift opened into a lobby with a front door. Mycroft let them in, keys jangling. Beyond, it was elegant, open plan living all the way. Greg goggled.

'Can I get you a drink?' Mycroft opened a cabinet in the wall and took out a bottle of single malt while Greg stared around himself. It was dazzling, a bachelor pad from the pages of 'World of Interiors' magazine. Impeccable art and collector pieces of furniture.

Mycroft came up beside him and pressed a tulip-shaped glass into his hand. That was when Greg realised that this man really knew about his whiskies – no cut-class tumblers to diffuse the nose for Mycroft.

'Do you like it?'

'Its not what I expected,' Greg blurted out, and then cringed.

'I wanted something different from Sandon. Not heritage, if you know what I mean. Anthea got some decorator in to do it. It's a bit modern for me, but since I'm hardly here-'

Greg grinned at the thought that Mycroft considered a 1956 Eames chair 'modern'.

'Well, it ain't Chippendale, that's for sure.'

'I always find Chippendale rather a bore,' Mycroft said, as if everybody had Chippendale. 'One has to be so careful not to scratch it. Furniture should be used, in my opinion. As it is, Mummy insists on green baize over everything the minute you want to put a glass down. Very tiresome.'

'I can imagine.' He was standing in the middle of a huge shag pile rug so deep that it almost completely concealed his shoes. A sudden image flashed into his mind of Mycroft flat on his back in the midst of its fluffy surface, naked, legs spread. Oh God.

Mycroft had already seated himself on the white leather sofa.

'May I lay my cards on the table, Greg?'

'Yes.' Lestrade felt rooted to the rug by his fantasy, but he tried hard to concentrate on the man speaking to him.

'I'm getting on. I'm forty-eight. There will come a time when I shall have to retire, and when I do, I don't want to be one of those old Service soaks who drinks himself to death alone in his flat because he's spent his whole life being nothing but a spook. There is more, and I want it. I'm not looking for casual sex. I want a relationship. Seeing John and Sherlock has made me realise that. A man is not an island, as they say. But I am a busy man. I don't know if busyness makes one an island, but it certainly gives one very little room to develop a long term partnership. Nevertheless, that is my hope.'

Greg blinked. Had he heard correctly? They hadn't even kissed yet, and already Mycroft was offering him a long-term relationship. Of course, Mycroft saw through his thought-process immediately.

'Of course, if I am going too fast for you-'

'No! Look-' Greg put his scotch down on the coffee table and sat down beside the senior Holmes, resting a hand on his knee. He was gratified that Mycroft shivered at his touch.

'I'm fifty. Not far from force retirement age, really. I'm in the same situation.' He let his hand travel up and down Mycroft's pinstripe-clad thigh. It was deliciously muscular under the fine wool. 'I've, well, for want of a better word, fancied you for a long time, Myc – may I call you Myc?'

Myc –duly rechristened – nodded graciously.

'I figured you were pretty much out of my league, which is why I never said anything. But like you say, time's getting on, I'm not getting any younger, and I'm fed up of waiting for an angel to fall out of the sky and ravish me.'

Mycroft laughed.

'I need a connection. Someone to love. Someone to need. Someone to need me back.'

Mycroft gazed up at him for a moment, then reached out and cupped his cheek with his long sensuous fingers. Time was suspended by that gesture. Lestrade found that he was holding his breath, his hand halting on Mycroft's meaty leg. The spy lent forward and pressed his lips to Greg's. The leather under their rumps squeaked as they shifted to achieve a more comfortable position, and their first kiss dissolved into giggles.

'Whose idea was the leather couch?'

'It's got a metal frame,' Mycroft laughed softly in Greg's ear. 'You could tie me to it and fuck me senseless.'

Greg breathed heavily into Mycroft's ear. 'I'll put that one on the list for future reference.' And then he slid his hand over Mycroft's crotch and his tongue into his mouth.

Tomorrow, the bonking…