Chapter 35

And the kilt doing its thing, too.

As the night drew in, and the slow songs took the place of the thumping disco, Mike caught a flying hand and dragged the twirl of tartan in for a hug-and-sway routine more suitable for copping a feel. Stephen laughed, eyes bright, and settled against him to sway, kissing Mike’s ear and calling him a soft old bastard.

“Yeah, sometimes. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, no, my secret.”

“You worn out yet?”

“Little bit. Why?”

Mike pressed his mouth to the hot juncture of Stephen’s neck and shoulder, and kissed a pulse thumping away there. A five o’clock shadow had crept in. The smell of deodorant had long since fled, replaced bythe warm, sleepy smell of Stephen himself.

And between his knees, Mike could feel a bare leg, and the heavy fall of the kilt.

“Come on,” he murmured, patting the bony arse hidden in the great folds of skirt. “Hotel room.”

Stephen burrowed his nose into Mike’s shoulder and squeezed tight.

“You promised,” Mike reminded him.