Jackdaw (The World of A Charm of Magpies)

“We’ll be gone tomorrow.” Jonah’s hips pressed forward, against Ben’s pelvis. “Who cares what they think.”


Ben, policeman of a rural town, had a fairly firm idea that leaving sheets stained by illegal acts would be a mistake, of the kind that led to questions, pursuit and amateur justice. He remembered the wild glow in Jonah’s eyes, defending him, that sudden sense of how ruthless his laughing lover was under threat. “No,” he repeated.

“But I want you,” Jonah whined, wriggling up a little.

Ben wrapped his hand around Jonah’s solid cock and his own, holding them together, brushing a thumb over both tips and feeling their mutual shudder. “You’re going to get me. But we’re going to destroy the evidence.”

“What?” said Jonah, with some alarm. “Oh, I see. Good plan. One should always have a copper along when committing illegal acts.”

Ben rocked against him, curling a slither of dampness over the head of Jonah’s cock with his thumb. “God. Jonah.” My Jonah, mine…

“I want…” Jonah kicked and shoved at the covers to loosen them, making space for movement. Ben rolled him over, pulling him effortlessly on top so Jonah was straddling him.

“Do you do something?” he asked. “Make yourself light?”

“A bit of a boost,” Jonah admitted. “Which…” His hands came down, cupping Ben’s arse, and pulled, and Ben felt himself lift off the sheets, astonishingly weightless for a second, grinding his groin to Jonah’s.

“God!” he yelped as he thumped back down to the mattress.

“I can’t keep it up for long. The power, I mean. Oh, shut up.” Jonah ducked down to kiss the smile off Ben’s lips, and they were clutching each other once more, skin to skin, so very hot and close. His tongue was licking inside Ben’s mouth, fingers probing, hard arousal driving against Ben’s, as though he wanted to possess every inch at once, and it was all Ben could do not to cry out his pleas. The thought of Jonah pushing his legs back, of wrapping his ankles behind Jonah’s neck and feeling the man inside him once more…

Not safe, not sane. This wasn’t the cottage they’d shared, where the sheets were their own concern. He held on to that thought by his fingernails, and instead pulled Jonah towards him. “Come up here.”

“Oh. Oh, Ben, my Benedict.” Jonah settled over him so that Ben could run his tongue up his erection. It was sticky-damp and salty already, Jonah always leaked quickly and copiously, and Ben relished that familiar taste, and the familiar sounds. He wished he could see Jonah over him, watch the expression of bewildered, blissful surrender that he knew he wore. Jonah was an active participant in lovemaking, pushing back as strongly as Ben thrust. He had taught Ben there was no real difference between who gave and who took, and until that horrible night at Runciman’s, Ben had never felt anything of submission or domination between them, no matter who fucked who. But when he sucked Jonah, it was different. Then the blue eyes glassed over, and his face became naked, helpless, showing him a slave to Ben’s mouth.

God, he wished he could see that one last time.

But he could at least hear Jonah’s whispers, broken as they were, as Ben took him deep in his mouth, using tongue and fingers, spreading Jonah wide open. “Ben, my Ben, my own. I’ll do anything. Oh God, Ben, I swear. Whatever you want. Please. My Ben. Oh God.” He was leaking hard now, about to come. There was salt in Ben’s mouth, and dampness, and there was salt wet on his face too, as he worked Jonah’s erection, because this was unbearable.

Jonah made a noise in his throat and came, filling Ben’s mouth. He gagged slightly—it had been a long time—swallowed, kept Jonah there, feeling him, memorising every ridge and vein of him.

Jonah was over him, hands on Ben’s shoulders. His breath was close and warm, his hair tickling Ben’s forehead. A little splash of damp hit Ben’s cheek, where the skin was already sticky-wet. He hoped it was sweat, knew it wasn’t.

Jonah was still and quiet for a moment, then he crawled backwards, without a word or a kiss, down Ben’s body.

“Don’t,” Ben said, because he knew bloody well he wasn’t hard any more, and he didn’t want Jonah to know that.

Jonah crouched there, over him, in unfamiliar silence. His fingers ran very lightly over Ben’s thighs.

“Everything I say is wrong.” His voice was very low. “Everything I do is wrong. I don’t know how to get it right. I think I could, if you told me.”

“Jonah…”

Jonah’s hands delved, a finger sliding over Ben’s balls in the touch that had never yet failed to bring a reaction. He clenched a hand in the sheets.

“I never learned how to do things properly. I don’t think. You think. You’d have known what to do in autumn, if I’d told you.”

Ben would have known nothing of the sort, but he couldn’t speak to deny it. Jonah’s hands were all over him, probing, stroking, gliding.

“I know I said this wouldn’t mean anything.”