The Professionals Circuit Archive - Sweeter Than Wine       Sweeter Than
Wine

 

by O Yardley

  
 *Party Spirit series #18: After "Slush Fund"*

Christ! but I'd never been so afraid as I was in the seconds between
seeing that body under the sodden material and lifting it away to find it
wasn't Doyle. And then the sod went and whined at me for fooling around
with her headband. How was I to know it was hers? Could've been
anybody's...Van Niekerk's for all I knew. Anyway, he had no business
picking up birds when he was working. Thought she was the contact indeed!
Can't leave it alone, more like. Takes everything I dish out in bed and
still lays every woman he meets as well, randy old toad that he is.
Provocative too, flaunting it about, 'look what I've got' all the time.

And then he had the gall to tell me to stop looking moody as we finally
left to go home. Me! I was hurt and I said so.

He stared at me, not grinning but the crease down one cheek visibly
deepening. "You were perky as a kitten when you came out to pick me up
this morning, and now you've gone all broody."

I thought of him standing by that phone box looking like something the cat
brought in, all rumpled and bruised and put-upon, and remembered the silly
euphoria that'd engulfed me knowing he was safe, that Van Niekerk hadn't
found a third victim....

"Yeah, well," I said, aware of self-betrayal but incapable of stopping the
words, "I was pleased to see you, wasn't I. Scared the shit out of me
knowing you were out there on your own and that bastard on the loose.
Cowley should've known better than to send you out without backup."

The grin became more open. "I should tell him that if I were you."

"I did." I began to laugh myself. "Very loudly. I'm surprised half the
squad didn't hear me yelling at him."

"You...yelled at Cowley?"

"Yeah. And he yelled back, all red in the face..." Suddenly the stupid
little scene seemed exquisitely funny and the more I tried to sober down
and tell Doyle all about it the more me 'he saids' and 'I saids' descended
into incoherence.

"Cook you a meal for that," he said eventually, when he'd stopped holding
his ribs and swearing he couldn't breathe for laughing at the idea of me
threatening to resign because Cowley--Cowley!--had cocked things
up...again?

Makes me all warm inside when Ray laughs like that and I'm the cause.
Realised all in a rush that I like making him happy, and my guts went to
mush at the thought.

"You're on," I agreed. "Stop off on the way home and I'll buy wine."

******

It's ironic, but as we drove to his flat I was thinking smugly what a
near-perfect situation we'd made for ourselves--pull the birds when it was
convenient, made do with each other when it wasn't. No strings, no
commitment, no recriminations--fantastic. I was even congratulating myself
that Ray didn't want to make any demands of me for something I wasn't
prepared to give, something he appeared not only to find bearable but
actually to like. I didn't understand it but that scarcely mattered so
long as I was OK.

Anyone who tells you I'm selfish hasn't had to look too deep to discover
it. Even the few guilty twinges I'd had over getting so rough with him
last time had subsided quickly once he didn't seem to mind that much.

I don't remember what he cooked for us but I expect it was OK; his
cooking's usually pretty good, better than a lot of birds I've known.
Comes of all that independent living in police houses in his formative
years, when I was roughing it out in the back of beyond, eating straight
out of tins for the most part. I can make a meal out of improbable things
like hedgehogs or squirrels but fillet steak was a problem until I watched
his technique--surreptitiously, of course, else he'd've ribbed me
unmercifully.

"Bed?" I suggested afterwards, having paid my dues by way of the washing
up.

His instant agreement satisfied me immensely. Everything I needed in one
neat package... I even caught myself humming in the shower.

But then, as he towelled himself down after his I saw the dark swell of
bruising across his shoulders and down his flank and the graze on his
forehead and the panic I'd felt when I realised he was out there on his
own came flooding back...and this time I understood what had scared me.

Losing him.

Dreadful. Terrible. Not to be thought of.

And then that body in the shower, unmoving under wet, white cloth...

I tried to articulate something, couldn't think what, and ended up
crushing him to me manly bosom and slobberin' in a disgustin' and
sentimental manner.

OK, I'll come clean. I was crying. Huge great gulping sobs without
dignity. Don't remember crying like that since I first realised Aunt
Gwyneth hit me all the harder if I started howling. After that I used to
bite my cheek inside until it bled but I wouldn't give her the pleasure of
hearing me so much as whimper. She stopped beating the living daylights
out of me the day I got to the stick first and broke it in two in front of
her. Gave me a lot of satisfaction, that did.

Don't remember much of the next few minutes, I was too busy being
emotional and it's all a bit hazy; I wasn't coherent and he was doing his
best to keep us both upright as I clutched at him. I could hear him saying
things but my brain didn't seem to be able to make out the words.

Found myself on his bed, cuddled against him, his hands patting soothing
paths up and down my back. I sighed, recalling what I'd wanted to do for
so long and suddenly finding it easy, uncomplicated. Careful as a
collector with a piece of delicate, rare porcelain, I took his face
between my hands and sought his mouth with mine.

You could drown in the pleasure of his kisses, the feel of his lips and
the perfect taste of him... No lipstick, no sickly make-up, just the
fresh, pure essence of Ray Doyle offered for your delight. I feasted,
damned near purring at his instant response...shaky from the effect in a
new and amazing way.

*Never been like this... Don't understand. Doesn't matter...just enjoy.
Relish. Perfect word. Better than the best food...headier than matured
malt... *

So I sound sloppy--why be ashamed? He wasn't, and the few words that did
make sense in between the nibbles and licks and deep tongue-searching
explorations were as fatuous as those I uttered whenever my mouth was
unoccupied long enough.

That was nearly all it took, just long minutes of kissing and the rough
press of his tongue on mine...that and the feel of his hardness throbbing
against my belly and I was there, sliding over the top and inhaling the
lush breath of his coming as it rushed over my lips.

Beautiful!

"I've wanted to do that," I said, eyes still closed, "for so long..."

"Don't try'n claim you're deprived," he said acidly. "You never 'ad a bird
yet that didn't come across."

"Not that, you one-track-minded cretin." I reached up to rub my thumb
lazily at the corner of his mouth. "Kissing you."

"What?" He tried to sit up but I tightened my grip on him. "You've been
wanting to kiss me?"

"For ages," I admitted, finding it easy to.

"Then why didn't you, you daft sod?"

"Scared to, I think."

"Scared? What of?"

"Making you laugh, I expect. Besides, I didn't think you wanted it. Was
going to once, ages ago, but you wouldn't let me."

"Wouldn't let you? You're making this up."

"No, I'm not. Anyway, what does it matter?"

"Not a bit now," he conceded, relaxing. "But what a pair of prats!"

"Pair?"

"Yeah. Thought you'd think it was...well, mushy." He chuckled. "Not very
macho."

I quirked an eyebrow his way. "And 'avin' it off with each other is?"

"It's never dented my self-image."

Lucky, lucky Doyle! My eyes slid away from the confidence in his. "It's OK
for me," I said, saying the first thing that came into my mind to cover my
confusion, "I haven't got a family to care, but you Mum's still alive,
isn't she?"

He pulled a face. "I won't tell her if you won't. Nor Tel either."

"Won't tell who?" I asked, confused.

"Tel. Terry. Terence! My brother."

His brother? I never knew he had a brother and I said so.

"No, well, avoid him like the plague, don't I! Know when I'm not wanted."
I looked at him enquiringly and he added: "Very political, Tel is, hard
left, and he married a rabid Militant Tendency member who thinks all
policemen are sickos who get their kicks out of bullying people. You'd've
thought World War Three 'ad broken out when she 'eard I'd joined CI5. Went
rantin' on about secret police and living in a fascist state...Mum started
crying (she lives with 'em, see) and Tel accused me of breaking her
heart." I shuddered, picturing the scene with distaste. He raised his
eyebrows and smiled faintly. "'aven't been to see 'em since and I don't
think I'm missed. Never was the family favourite anyway. Runt of the
litter...seven months baby and undersized. 'ad a vicious temper too, just
like me Dad's 'n 'e was no loss when 'e went under that bus."

But his eyes were sad in spite of his offhand shrug and I hugged him.
"Families, who needs 'em! Turn your face up here, will you!" I wanted to
kiss him again, needed the taste and feel of his response. He met me more
than halfway. Was odd, running my tongue over that chipped tooth I'd got
so used to seeing. I inched even closer, pulling him to me, supporting his
head with my hand. His hair tangled round my fingers.

"Who's to know anyway," I said, coming up for air. "'s been a year or two
now and no one even suspects."

"No one'd better suspect. We'd be asked to resign quicker'n Cowley can say
Glenfidditch if this got out."

I didn't want to discuss it. Didn't want to talk. I kissed him again
instead.

He gave me an odd look when we surfaced and I asked what was up.

"You're an evasive bastard when you want to be, aren't you!"

"Not a bastard," I said, deeply affronted. "Aunt Gwyneth wouldn't've had
anything to do with me if I wasn't strictly legit. 'ad very serious views
on that sort of thing, did Aunt Gwyneth."

"Then she wouldn't've liked this." He gestured at our entwined bodies,
sticky with drying semen.

"No," I said, brightening. "She'd have abominated it. Can I stay the
night? She wouldn't approve of that either."

"You going to do everything your Aunt Gwyneth wouldn't approve of?" he
asked, pulling away and rubbing at the sticky patch on his abdomen.
"Bloody stuff doesn't half tickle when it dries, doesn't it!"

"'ave a lot of fun if we do," I assured him. "She didn't approve of sex or
booze or dancing or films or sunbathing or darts or football or..."

"I get the picture. She didn't approve of having a good time."

"Didn't care for church-going either, only chapel. People who went to
church were in league with the devil. And as for the Catholics..."

"Don't look at me," he said hastily. "Dad might-ve been once but he'd
lapsed long before I was born." He clambered off the bed and ambled out to
the bathroom, coming back with a damp towel which he rubbed luxuriously
over his stomach before throwing it my way. I dabbed at the patch on his
quilt and then cleaned myself, while he wandered about turning off lights,
opening windows... Pity we didn't have a cat to put out, I thought,
chuckling as I got under the covers.

"Just thinking how domesticated I am these days," I said when he asked
what was tickling me.

"You? 'bout as domesticated as a panther," he told me, prodding me
heartlessly and claiming (untruthfully) that I was encroaching on his half
of the bed.

"There you are, see." I wriggled to lie perched in martyred discomfort on
the far edge. "Proves it, talking about your half of the bed."

He looked so self-conscious at that that I crowed in delight and wrapped
myself around him, finding his mouth once more. 

"Kisses sweeter than wine," I said when he eventually let me go.

-- THE END --

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