The Professionals Circuit Archive - Sweet Surrender on the Quayside	  
 Sweet Surrender on the Quayside

 

by Felicity M Parkinson 

 
 *(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 --

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