(The sequel is One Good Turn, by ET)


The broad-shouldered man made his way along the dockside, sure-footed and silent in the pools of light and shadow. The night was chill, his breath clouding the air in front of him. Winter, with no sign of spring.

He halted in the shadow, eye caught by a movement in the warehouse doorway opposite. There it was again. The figure moved forward slightly, the light briefly catching tangled curls.

No doubts now, as the stocky man made his way towards the doorway, staying in the shadows, slipping quietly along the warehouse wall.

And there he was: his quarry, leaning against the door-frame, hidden in shadow. He didn't give the ex-mercenary a second glance.

The one-time soldier came closer, propped himself against the warehouse wall. He too stared out into the darkness, not looking at the other man.

"How much?" he rasped, his voice no more than a whisper in the night.

He was subconsciously aware of the man's gaze appraising him, considering a number of possible answers.

"Whatever it takes," the curly-haired man finally allowed.

The ex-soldier's eyes gleamed; narrowed. "You owe me. And it's time I collected."

Moving swiftly, he pinned the slighter man against the door, holding him there with the strength of his body.

"No."

"Yes." He rubbed his hand slowly across his victim's groin, feeling the growing hardness constricted by the cloth. "You're not fighting me. Admit it - you want it." He used his free hand to trace the line of the man's throat and jaw.

"Your hand's cold." Complaining.

The hand slid round the back of the man's head, inexorably pulling them together, as the ex-soldier's lips closed on the other mouth: demanding, arrogant, bruising, then softening, tongue begging entrance, relaxing, tender.

He moved both hands down the other man's back to the taut buttocks, holding him close, thrusting their bodies together, pushing erection against hard erection.

Finally he broke the kiss, acknowledging the reaction in the smouldering eyes, the body moulded against his, the straining urgency of his willing victim.

"Come then," he whispered against the man's ear, "let's finish it," and reaching back turned the handle of the door, unlocked, as he had known it would be. Pushing his prey inside without releasing him he silently closed the door, turning the key in the lock, and held the man against the unyielding surface.

"Damn you," came the whisper, "finish it then."

The dark-haired man made no acknowledgement, unzipping the heavy leather jacket, reaching out with both hands to rip apart the half-unbuttoned shirt.

"Dammit, your hands are cold..."

The ex-para laughed quietly, and knelt, undoing buckle and belt, fastening and zip: pulling aside constricting clothing, to reach hardened flesh. He captured the erect shaft with his mouth, working lips and tongue over sensitive skin, causing the other man to groan and arch, thrusting himself further into the welcoming throat. His hands fondled the taut sacs.

Hands reached out to clasp the dark head, as the one-time mercenary shifted slightly to grip the narrow hips, bracing them both against the door.

"Go on...oh god..." And the man came, pulse upon pulse till spent, and as he was released, collapsed to his knees, using the broad body as a support as his labouring breathing eased.

Bodie held on to the temporarily sated body, wiped away the sweat trickling down across Doyle's forehead, kissed the closed eyes. He watched as they opened, cat-like, and Doyle smiled.

Bodie kissed him thoroughly on the lips again. "You an' your bloody fantasies," he murmured indulgently. "Never thought to spend your birthday like this."

"Best present I ever 'ad."

"All part of the service, sunshine. Now do us a favour, will you?"

"Yeah, I know. C'm 'ere."

-- THE END --