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A Very Happy Boy	By : Joodiff Category: S through Z > Waking the Dead Views: 1049 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own "Waking the Dead", nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-A Very Happy Boy
- 1
A Very Happy Boy

by Joodiff

Damned woman does it on purpose, he's absolutely sure of it. Boyd doesn't believe there's anything remotely accidental about the way she deliberately squeezes past him to get a better look out of the dingy, fly-blown window. He's simply nowhere near naïve enough to believe the way her backside is momentarily pressed firmly against his groin is anything other than entirely deliberate. Nor does he think for a moment that she isn't completely aware of the physical havoc her artful manoeuvre immediately wreaks on him. Age be damned, he can feel himself hardening instantly, and given that they aren't alone in the big, shabby room, it leaves him with something of a burgeoning problem. He could, of course, gamble that no-one will notice, but while that might be true for Spencer, Boyd isn't at all keen to test the theory on Eve, whose observational skills are legendary. Abruptly pinioned by his sudden predicament, he stays exactly where he is, keeping the aged, faded pool table firmly between himself and his junior colleagues.

By the window, Grace looks over her shoulder at him, and he knows – without question – that she's absolutely aware of his unfortunate situation and is hugely entertained by it. Incredibly inappropriate behaviour from someone of her age, experience and professional standing. Barely aware of doing so, Boyd grinds his teeth and concentrates hard on the incredibly technical soliloquy Eve's delivering. It has the desired effect on his rebellious physiology – there's nothing remotely erotic about the intricate minutiae of the comparative data between carpet fibres taken at various locations in the rundown social club they're all currently standing in. Finally able to move away from the pool table with confidence, he says, "So Jackson wasn't killed here?"

"Absolutely not," Eve confirms. "There's no evidence anywhere in the building of the amount of blood that would have been present, and there's nothing in the original forensic reports that could even vaguely indicate a link. Sorry."

"Strike one potential crime scene," Spencer says gloomily. "So… do we continue?"

"The tip-off we received is definitely wrong," Eve states firmly.

They're all looking at him, waiting for his decision. It doesn't help that there's an amused, knowing sort of look in the blue eyes studying him from beside the window. Grace knows perfectly well that more than half his mind is on something else entirely. Forcing himself to focus, Boyd makes a quick mental review of the situation. His instinct is to chase, to pursue, but sadly there are significant financial constraints to consider – the sheer cost of mounting a full-scale CCU investigation based on spurious information makes him baulk. He makes his decision, says, "Send Kat to interview Jackson's widow in the morning. If nothing new turns up… archive it again."

"Sir," Spencer confirms, turning towards Eve. "Want a hand packing up…?"

No longer paying attention to them, Boyd paces towards the window. Placing his hands on the wooden frame, he looks out into the darkness. There's not much to see in the small, fenced yard behind the club. A few empty metal beer barrels awaiting collection by the brewery, a couple of rubbish bins, a light sprinkling of dead leaves and general refuse, all faintly illuminated by the light spilling out from the window. Deliberately putting an edge of menace into his voice, he says softly, "One day, Grace… one day…"

Grace raises her eyebrows at him. Her reply is ingenuous and just as quiet. "One day…?"

Boyd has no idea how she can maintain such a facade of complete innocence. The only thing that betrays her is an almost-concealed sparkle of bright mischief in her eyes. It has a bad effect on his equilibrium, that impish glint. A very bad effect. She categorically knows it, too, and he's uncomfortably aware that she's perfectly happy to gleefully exploit every weakness in him she finds. Glumly, he wonders why he's so susceptible to all the mischievous things she says and does. He knows the answer. Of course he does. He's never been the kind of man to fall easily in and out of love – but when he falls, he falls hard and there's not a damned thing he can do about it. And that's how it was with Grace. The colleague who became a personal friend, the one he bristled at and fought with, and was terrified for when she became so suddenly and seriously ill.

"Boyd…?"

Spencer's voice from the far side of the room. He looks round at his subordinate. "What?"

"We're ready to roll. You want us to wait, or…?"

"No," he says automatically. "Piss off home, the pair of you."

"Happy day," Spencer says, grinning at Eve.

They depart rapidly, doubtless fearing he'll change his mind. Boyd has no intention of changing his mind. He turns, leans his hip nonchalantly against the windowsill and folds his arms across his chest. Regarding her contemplatively, he says, "I think we should discuss this new penchant of yours for wholly inappropriate behaviour, Doctor Foley."

The smile she gives him is warm, intimate and distinctly wicked. "I don't know what you mean."

"Of course you don't," he says sardonically. "Let me guess, it's all in my imagination?"

"Absolutely. You really should see someone about these delusions of yours, Boyd."

"Psychologists scare me," he tells her, deadpan.

There's not much distance between them, and suddenly there's even less as Grace leans towards him. "Is that right?"

He can't stop himself flinching slightly in surprise at the bold, unexpected foray of her hand. She grins and doesn't pull back. There suddenly seems to be a lot of heat concentrating in a very specific area of his anatomy, a lot of blood rushing wilfully back towards his groin. Boyd feels like a teenager again, remorselessly driven by the impetuous response of his body to even the faintest possibility of sexual contact. He certainly doesn't feel much like an experienced man of the world who's a lot closer to sixty than fifty; a man who should be long past the hideous embarrassment of a raging, uncontrollable hard-on in less than suitable circumstances. But Grace is definitely not helping on that particular front; her explorations are firm and deliberate, and Boyd thanks whatever deity may be listening that she hasn't – so far – turned her attention to the zip that's helping to keep everything decently confined.

"Stop it," he growls at her, and he means it. He really means it. He mostly means it.

Grace doesn't stop it. The wayward hand remains present – and active. Sounding unbelievably demure, she asks, "Why?"

Boyd gives her a look. "Why do you bloody think? Prick-tease."

Grace laughs, quite evidently not at all offended at the less than flattering epithet, and he's briefly seized by the dark impulse to simply push her up against the wall and take her right there and then. He has a hunch she wouldn't be exactly averse to the idea, either, but the thought of Spencer or Eve wandering back into the room in search of something they've forgotten successfully curbs his libido. He settles for thinking about exactly what he's going to do to her the moment they get back to his house – or hers. Which, of course, is completely counter-productive, given the aching, throbbing hardness that's now the focus of most of his attention. He wishes he wasn't quite so convinced that Grace knows exactly what sort of purgatory she's putting him through.

Her hand drops away quite suddenly, and she smiles again. "Poor Peter…"

That's it. His fraying patience snaps, and he uncrosses his arms and catches hold of her. The speed with which he does it causes her to gasp involuntarily, and that, too, feeds straight into a very aroused, very primal area of his brain. Boyd doesn't think about what he's doing, he just kisses her; kisses her roughly, deeply. Her arms are almost instantly round his neck, and she gives him back everything – and more. It doesn't surprise him, not anymore. At first, it did. Back in the first few days of the tentative, uneasy transition from friends to lovers. Not now. Now he knows how wild, how uninhibited she can be. He's discovered that the old adage about still waters running deep is very apposite where Grace Foley is concerned. So calm, so composed on the surface, and so heated and so passionate beneath it. Being a fiery, reckless sort of creature himself, the hidden qualities in her delight him.

They pull apart, both breathing faster than usual, and maybe Grace reads something in his expression because she immediately says, "You wouldn't dare…"

But he would. He most definitely would. Boyd kisses her again, hard enough to make her aware of the urgency in him, and he grabs for her breast roughly enough for her to understand, gently enough not to hurt her. He feels the answering bite of her nails, and the fleeting pain only arouses him more. He is feral, he is dangerous, and Grace knows it. And – God help them both – she likes it. He doesn't think either of them has proved to be exactly what the other expected, but that's okay. More than okay, in fact. Boyd is too old and too jaded by far to be interested in the obvious, the mundane. The pretty girls that once so easily beguiled him barely provoke more than a swift, automatic sort of glance nowadays. He looks – of course he does – but not in the speculative, predatory way of his younger days. The battle-scarred old lion has found his lioness… and he has a very healthy respect for her sharp, possessive claws.

Laughing at his impatience and his audacity, Grace breaks away from him. "Now who's behaving inappropriately?"

The lion's blood is up. He bares his teeth at her. "Keep pushing and you'll find out just how inappropriate I can be."

Boyd sees the dilemma register in her eyes. She's interested – definitely interested – and she's tempted, no doubt about it, but reason and common-sense are whispering in her ear. They're not reckless teenagers without a care in the world, either of them. They are highly-paid, respectable professionals. And they're both heading relentlessly towards retirement whether they like it or not. The whole thing is out of the question. Of course it is. A sedate drive home – to his or hers – a glass or two of good wine and an optional elegant, comfortable sort of tumble between crisp, clean sheets is far more… appropriate. Boyd is starting to hate that word. With a passion.

Grace says, "Like I said… you wouldn't dare."

It's a red rag to a bull. Exactly why she says it. No doubt about it. Boyd has quite enough self-awareness to know how easily manipulated he can be. In certain circumstances. Particularly by Grace. It's no secret to anyone that the best way to get him to do anything is to go through Grace – she knows it, he knows it. Everyone knows it. Fortunately for him, she's both shrewd and discerning and she knows how to pick her battles – anyone trying to use her as an easy route to him runs the risk of being very quickly sent packing with a serious flea in their ear. And everyone knows that, too.

There's more than a hint of challenge in the look she's giving him. It doesn't help Boyd rein in the temptation to call her bluff. The tension's crackling between them. Bluff and double-bluff. He doesn't often have much luck trying to second guess her, but he's fairly sure she's gambling on winning by default – simply because she thinks he won't run the risk of being caught out by their junior colleagues. Grace visibly jumps as he abruptly starts into moment, the challenge in her eyes giving way to bemusement as she tries to predict his actions. He's a step ahead of her. This time he thinks he's actually a step ahead of her. In passing, Boyd grabs one of the wooden chairs ranged around the collection of small tables, and maybe that's when she realises what he's up to, because he hears her say, "Boyd…"

He dares. Oh, he certainly does. It's a very old trick, but one that still works. He jams the chair under the door handle, kicks it hard enough to make sure it won't easily give way and turns back to face her. Her expression has changed again to become a thoughtful mix of comprehension and expectation. Boyd has the upper hand now. Not for long, maybe, but for now. Purposefully, he starts to stalk her, keeping his head low. The frisson of excitement running up his spine is very potent and very real. It's still a game, but the ambiguity has gone from it. He knows what he wants, and he fully intends to have it – to have her.

Seemingly unconsciously, Grace backs up as he approaches, her gaze locked with his. Boyd doesn't miss the way her pupils are widely dilated. It's not fear he can sense in her, but anticipation. Comfortable as they are with each other, there are still boundaries left to be tested and this… this is one of them. She's impish, she's bold and fearless, but the shadowy edge that exists in him isn't part of her. He's far more aggressive than she is, far more volatile and far, far more impulsive. She may yet surrender to the voice of reason, he thinks. May yet decide that this is a very bad idea indeed. But she stays silent as she finally runs out of room to retreat. Back against the wall, Grace watches him intently as he continues his relentless advance.

He wants her. He wants her more than is probably good for either of them. There's no shortage of notches on his bedpost, and over the years some spectacularly beautiful women have unwisely succumbed to the easy charm he's eminently capable of when he can be bothered, but Boyd genuinely struggles to remember the last time he was so thoroughly captivated by anyone. There's just something about Grace Foley that draws him in. He thinks he understands the old saying about the moth drawn irresistibly to the flame, but what he doesn't understand is what it is in him that seems to hold her just as spellbound. It's inexplicable, this thing between them.

So he doesn't waste any more time trying to explain it. Boyd pounces. And from the look in her eyes and the way she grabs hold of him, it's an approach that works just as well for Grace as it does for him. Some wily part of his brain files that interesting piece of information away for future reference. Thus far he's been almost obsessively gentle with her, painfully aware as he is of just what she's been through in the last six months. But it seems she's not opposed to the idea of a little more… assertiveness… from him. It does things to him, that thought. Very elemental, primitive things that are only encouraged by just how small and slight she feels drawn tight against him. But there's nothing delicate and fragile about the way she kisses him, and the sheer strength of the all-consuming need that roars into him actually catches Boyd by surprise.

He's captivated. Completely and irretrievably. The smell of her perfume, the softness of her hair, the warmth of her skin. The way her breasts and her hips are pressed firmly against him. There's nothing about her that doesn't work some kind of dark primeval magic on him, in him. His heart is beating fast, and his aching hard-on throbs in perfect time with his pulse. It's not clear who's kissing who more fiercely, and it doesn't matter anyway. Her fingers are raking through his hair, his hands are trying to force their way through the layers of her clothing. It's not a sophisticated, genteel seduction; it's greedy, elemental and raw. On both sides. He doesn't expect her to grab a fistful of hair and pull his head back roughly, breaking the kiss, nor does he entirely expect the look in her eyes – fierce, intense. Hungry.

He'll have her up against the wall, just as he imagined. He'll pin her against the faded, old-fashioned wallpaper and he'll plunge into her so deep and so hard that she'll howl his name and tear at his shoulders. Consumed by the thought, by the vivid images flashing through his mind, it takes the sensation of her teeth nipping his neck to bring Boyd back to himself, back to the reality of the moment. Focusing on her, he's not entirely surprised by the impatience he can now read in her expression – but the way she puts a hand on his chest and pushes confuses him. For a moment he takes it as rejection, and he doesn't understand, but Grace looks past him and nods, and when he glances round her intention becomes clear. The seating in the big room doesn't only consist of the chairs round the tables – there are low, padded benches, too; modular seating areas tucked against the walls.

Boyd goes with the revised plan, lets her push him back. He likes the up-against-the-wall idea – he likes it a lot – but it's hardly a new addition to their growing repertoire. His fault, naturally enough – he's not renowned for his patience, after all. If Grace wants to take control, that's fine by him. It does amuse him, however, the way she's guiding him with a succession of small, sharp pushes. There's no doubt that she knows as well as he does that there's no way on earth she'd be able to shift him unless he acquiesced – she's too small, too slight, and he's just too big. And that works for him, too, the uncharacteristic touch of submissiveness she's calling forth in him. What he doesn't expect is the incredibly deft manoeuvre that results in his jacket abruptly slipping off his shoulders and falling to the floor.

Raising his eyebrows at her, he says, "You could just have asked…"

Grace shakes her head. "Not half as much fun."

"Oh?"

The assault on his shirt isn't any more subtle. In fact, there's a moment when Boyd fears she's going to lose patience altogether and simply rip it from him, buttons be damned – and the thought does nothing to ease the powerful throbbing in his groin. Nor does the way she's suddenly kissing his bare chest. When he feels her teeth on his nipple he almost literally jumps out of his skin. Grace looks up at him, heated and artful. "Problem?"

"Do that again and there just might be…" Boyd admits. He's not altogether joking, either. And it doesn't help at all when he feels her fingers on his zip. Though the resulting reduction in the tight constriction is very welcome. He has just a second or two to enjoy it before her hand's moving, manoeuvring.

She sighs loudly. "Trunks, Boyd? Are you trying to make my life difficult?"

"What, you expect me to go commando on the off chance you might want to – "

"Works for me."

A scathing retort dies on Boyd's lips as he feels her fingers close round his shaft and draw it carefully forth, and he can't prevent the instinctive urge to push urgently into her hand. Grace laughs softly – a sound that sends a shiver up and down his spine – and says, "Patience."

"None," he tells her brusquely. "Jesus, Grace…"

When she releases him, Boyd almost whimpers in frustration – hardly the manliest response – but when Grace pushes his chest again and he feels the solid edge of one of the low couches against his calf muscles, his interest spikes. He subsides down on the couch without complaint, looking up at her speculatively. Grace-on-top is suddenly every bit as appealing as having-Grace-up-against-the-wall. Sadly, experience teaches him that it won't be a protracted encounter – she will ride him hard, mercilessly, and he'll be coming almost before he knows it. It doesn't do much for his sensitive male ego, but it does quite a lot for his aching hardness. Free from confinement, his cock jerks autonomously, and seeing it, she smiles. Damned woman just smiles.

It's the smile – sly and knowing – that makes Boyd's breath catch, but it's the way she slides easily onto the couch next to him and returns to kissing his chest and flicking her tongue over his nipples that nearly slays him. It doesn't seem to matter how many times they travel this road – he's still surprised by just how uninhibited she is, how very like him she is in her ability to simply… enjoy. Grace doesn't need coaxing or cajoling – quite the opposite, in fact. She's confident, she's skilful and she knows exactly what she likes. Boyd doesn't think there's another combination of qualities that could turn him on more.

She looks up at him as he manages to locate and release the button on her trousers. He smirks at her. "What?"

"I did wonder if you were ever going to bother trying to catch up."

"Now, now," he says mildly. "Play nice."

Grace snorts. "When did 'nice' ever do it for you?"

She has a point. Bad girls are infinitely more fun, in his considerable experience. And against all the odds Grace can be a very bad girl indeed. When she wants to be. And Boyd's fairly certain she's about to prove it. He still yelps when she suddenly ducks her head and closes her mouth briefly around him. Far too briefly for his liking. It's her turn to smirk as she glances up at him again. "Are you in pain?"

"Fuck's sake," he grumbles at her. "Why do you always do this to me? Drive me half-crazy then – "

Rational thought disappears. Utterly. There's just sensation. It takes every ounce of self-control he possesses not to grab her head and thrust hard into her mouth. Lips, teeth, tongue. Hellish heat; heavy suction alternating with feather-light caresses. Fingertips tracing tiny, intricate patterns across the suddenly hyper-sensitive skin of his scrotum. He wants to twist away from her, he wants to buck into her; he wants to howl like a bloody wolf. She pulls back, blue eyes laughing at him. "You were saying?"

He growls low in his throat. A primeval warning. He catches hold of her on impulse, twisting at the waist and bringing his greater weight and strength to bear. What plants the idea in his head, he's not sure, but it's suddenly there like a ten-foot high neon sign. Pool table. Pool table equals flat surface. Flat surface at a particularly convenient height for him, given his length of leg. It hits him like a sledgehammer, the idea, and he's on his feet and dragging Grace with him almost before he's finished registering it properly. Pool table. Dimly-remembered adolescent fantasy. Boyd pulls her after him, not listening to her half-hearted protests. He's damned if she's going to have everything her way.

She's so light it costs him nothing to hoist her up and dump her unceremoniously on the edge of the table. Her hands are on his shoulders, and from the look on her face she's absolutely caught up in where he's heading. She'll lock her legs round his hips in an instant and Boyd knows it. Won't be the first time. His desk, her desk. They've tried both on dark, late evenings when it's just him and her and everything that's happened to bring them together. But Boyd has other ideas, and all of them involve the hurried removal of all the items of her clothing that are very definitely in his way. Grace shakes her head at him, more indulgent than anything else, and does what she can to assist.

This is what he wants. The warm, living body under the fabric. He leans into her as she reclines back on her elbows against the blue baize, bare legs hanging over the edge of the pool table. Boyd drops his head, kisses the soft, sensual curve of her belly. Grace moans softly, and it sends a tense jolt of triumph through him. Quite intentionally, he rubs his chin against her skin, letting her feel the harsh prickle of his short goatee beard, and he hears – distinctly – the sharp intake of breath the sensation causes. He smiles to himself, but his satisfaction is lost as he catches the scent of her. Not just the artificial perfume, but her own natural, aroused scent. It registers exactly where it's supposed to register – deep in a very masculine area of his brain.

Her voice is husky as she says, "Boyd…"

She's not afraid to ask, but Boyd doesn't want to listen. He lifts her slightly, re-positioning her to reduce the stress on his back, and he dips his shoulders beneath her thighs. Her reaction is a low moan and a look that is greedy and needy, tinged with selfish desire. Before she can say a word, he plunges. Grace makes an odd mewling noise, but Boyd barely hears it. His far too caught in the smell of her, the taste of her; how soft she is, how wet she is. Absurdly, he has a fleeting mental image of the look on Eve and Spencer's faces if they returned now to find Grace half-naked on the pool table and him with his head buried firmly between her thighs. Not going to happen. Thank God.

Boyd changes tactics, reduces the ferocity of his attack, switches to long, slow strokes of his tongue that make her shake and swear softly. The obsession to satisfy her is taking a firm grip on him, and he opens her with his fingers, delving deep with his tongue. The response is a tautening of muscle and a low sobbing noise that feels him with a raw sense of self-satisfaction. He backs off a fraction to ask smugly, "Good…?"

"Oh, God," she says, her voice uneven. "Boyd…"

Maybe this is what she sees in him. But he knows she's not that shallow. Not her; not Grace. He lowers his head again, his mouth as tender as it is assertive. He sucks, he licks, he nibbles. Boyd does everything instinct and experience tell him to do, and Grace starts to pant, to shift her hips impatiently and arch her spine. He wants to push her over the edge, wants to feel her bucking out of control against him, but it seems she has other ideas. She moves, manages to catch hold of his forearm. "Boyd… please…"

So be it. He leaves her with a long, lingering kiss and a final teasing flick of his tongue. Straightening up, he drops his hand to his belt and pulls the buckle loose. Moments later he's as semi-naked as she is. He grasps his rigid shaft firmly, his gaze locking with hers again. "What do you want, Grace? You want this?"

He knows she does. She's never made any secret of how much she likes the sensation of having him deep inside her. Her response is simply another low moan. Boyd pulls her hips forwards again, takes a moment to rub the blunt head of his cock against her, letting her slick folds lubricate him. Grace flinches – not from pain – and expels a pent-up breath. He knows how she feels. Every nerve-ending he has is screaming at him to hurry up and bury himself inside her. Rebelliously, Boyd draws the moment out, rubbing against her, letting her feel the size of him, the implacable hardness of him.

"Feel what you do to me, woman," he says simply.

He sees her swallow hard. "Peter…"

Shifting slightly to find the right angle, Boyd slowly bears against her and feels the transitory resistance of her flesh give way to him. The instinct to drive recklessly into her is elemental, powerful, but not as strong as the desire not to hurt her. He rocks his hips, nudging forwards, pulling back, edging into her slowly. In its own way, that slow possession is almost more erotic than simply forcing himself home in a single blind thrust. Her eyes are closed and she's biting her lip, a look of intense concentration on her face. Grace seems to be appreciating the drawn-out sensation every bit as much as he is, and Boyd grins fleetingly in recognition of the fact – why wouldn't he want her to appreciate every last inch of him…?

She's so tight. Hot and slick, but tight. Boyd doesn't question why. Maybe it's age, maybe it's more to do with being without a regular sexual partner for however many years. He's always been far too gallant to ask, and far too fixated on just how good that exquisite tightness feels. He reaches down, takes her hands and draws her up against his chest. They are one creature. For now. It's affection more than anything else that makes him wink at her. Grace chuckles and rests her head gently against his shoulder for a moment. Bizarrely, it's a very tender moment and he kisses the side of her neck softly before asking quietly, "All right…?"

She looks up at him with a slight smile. "Mr Sensitivity."

"That's me," he agrees nonchalantly. "Now shut up and brace yourself."

Grace laughs and kisses him quickly and firmly. "Get to it, big man."

He does. He laces his fingers with hers, tight and possessive, he closes his eyes and he starts to thrust, steady and deep, concentrating on the sensations that roll through him. Everything he is, everything he thinks and feels, all of it is exclusively concentrated in the pulsing heat of his groin. He grinds his teeth, increases the pace without even knowing it, and he's only dimly aware of the way Grace tightens her grip on him and huskily voices words of flattery and encouragement. Even the proverbial wild horses would have to fight hard to pull him away. He is primal, he is nothing but animal instinct and primitive need. Boyd burns. All of him burns. The fire runs down his spine and into his hips, obliterating everything but the need to thrust and keep thrusting.

Someone's calling his name. Boyd opens his eyes, not breaking the fast, hard rhythm, and Grace is looking straight at him, her mouth opening and closing. The unheard words wash over him, meaningless and irrelevant. He's too far gone, too lost in the tight heat of her, too close to coming deep inside her. The only thing that reaches him is the flash of real pain as she raises their linked hands and bites his wrist. Hard. It provokes a stab of genuine fury in him and he curses at her. "Fuck's sake, Grace… Jesus… What the hell was that for?"

"Slow down," she orders him, a clear edge to her voice.

He bristles at the command and forces her hand back down. "Like hell I will."

Nor does he, but as he pounds into her, he frees a hand and reaches between them, searching, finding, using his fingers to create an external friction that makes Grace moan loudly and dig the nails of her released hand into his hip. The aching heaviness in his balls intensifies and he knows he's there, right there on the precipice. The surge starts deep inside him, and he's suddenly deaf and blind to everything. The only thing that matters to Boyd is the last hard thrusts as he comes. He's not aware of the deep, guttural sound that breaks from his throat, nor of the way she's suddenly bucking up against him. He's only aware of jets of liquid fire pouring through him, of the tearing ecstasy of the moment. He freezes, the last contractions far less intense than the first, but still all-powerful.

Boyd opens his eyes, chest heaving, head pounding sullenly. The first thing he sees are wild blue eyes, desperate eyes. He realises Grace is grinding against him, trying to take what he's no longer giving. Calmer now, he understands, and he collects himself enough to resume thrusting, slower and steadier now. He sees her gratitude, sees the way some of the desperation leaves her. His fingers are cramping, but he stoically ignores the discomfort to give her what she wants, what she needs. The hand on his hip tightens, and he can feel the tremors going through her tense muscles. Her moaning increases in frequency and pitch, and then – thank God – she's there, internal muscles clamping on him in convulsive waves as she digs her fingers into his hip and bites her lower lip.

She is – in that moment of complete abandon – quite staggeringly beautiful. No question about it. Boyd has never understood her insecurities about her age and appearance, not really, and he understands them even less as he looks down at her and simply sees the most vibrant, beautiful and genuinely awe-inspiring woman he thinks he's ever known. The sight of her caught in those moments of ecstasy strips any lingering aggression from him, replaces it with tenderness and protectiveness. He knows – has always known – that he would willingly fight for her, die for her. Do just about anything for her. As Grace starts to calm he gathers her into him, wraps his arms around her and cradles her against his chest. It's the most important thing in the world to him. He can feel her heart beating wildly; can hear her breathing quick and hard.

Boyd is not a sentimental man. Never has been, never will be. But he's entitled to his moments, and into her ear he murmurs a quiet, "Christ, I love you."

Her renewed grip on him tightens, but gently this time. Grace doesn't say a word, doesn't move. Boyd waits, uncharacteristically patient. His back's aching in a dull, uncomfortable way, and rapidly cooling sweat is sticking his open shirt to his skin in a less than pleasant fashion, but he waits. It seems to be a very, very long time before she says, "Peter…?"

Deeply, easily indulgent, he asks, "What?"

"Did I mention how bloody uncomfortable this is?"

Sometimes she amazes him. Boyd shakes his head ruefully. "And that's the best thing you can come up with, is it?"

"It's the most… pertinent. Right at this moment."

"Thanks, Grace."

She kisses the centre of his chest, her lips soft and gentle. "Do you actually need me to massage your ego? Really?"

"No," he admits. "Probably not. Wait a moment."

Slipping free from her body and disentangling himself is easy. Managing not to fall flat on his face given that his trousers and underwear are bunched round his ankles, less so. He manages it. Just about. The air is thick with the heavy, musky smell of sex. His scent and hers. Not unpleasant, but distinctive. Boyd pulls his underwear and trousers up together, takes time to arrange himself comfortably before zipping and buckling. Grace is watching him with a slight smirk. He frowns. "What?"

"You're so… methodical."

"I'm a man, Grace."

Apparently growing impatient, she says, "Yes, I'd actually noticed that. Have you finished? Will you please rescue me?"

He lifts her down gently, holds onto her to steady her, grinning as she sways slightly. "That good, huh?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Boyd."

Boyd grins again in significant self-satisfaction. "Admit it, Grace, I'm a bloody tiger."

"You're certainly something," Grace says in a dry tone. Her sharp glance holds suspicion. "What are you smirking about now?"

"I'm a very happy boy," Boyd says, stooping to gather her discarded clothes for her. "I just remembered I always wanted to do it on a pool table."

"Oh, for God's sake... you're so childish."

The rebuke doesn't stop him grinning. Not at all.

-oOo-

"Really?" Grace asks him, much later.

Still lounging in the bath, Boyd looks round at her. She's standing at the basin, staring into the mirror as she brushes her still-damp hair. Contemplatively, he rests a foot on the smooth, cool enamel by the old-fashioned taps. "Yeah."

"Why?"

"I don't know. When you're seventeen you want to do it everywhere. Or anywhere, in fact."

Grace chuckles. "Do you actually remember being seventeen, Boyd?"

He glares at the back of her head. "Cheeky bloody mare."

"I can't imagine you as a teenager."

He just knows she's trying not to laugh. "What, because I was born middle-aged? Thanks, Grace. Thanks a lot."

She pauses in the steady brushing and then says, "I just had a very depressing thought."

"What?"

Grace pulls a face in the mirror. "When I was at university you were still at school…"

"Wouldn't have mattered," Boyd says, stretching. He puts his hands behind his head. "I'd probably still have tried to get you to go behind the bike sheds with me. I might even have saved up my pocket money to buy you some sweeties afterwards."

"Boyd?"

"Mm?"

She smiles sweetly at him. "Do try not to drown in there, won't you?"

Ignoring the gibe, he gazes up at her bathroom ceiling. Just to annoy her, he says casually, "I bet there's room in my house for a pool table, you know." The look Grace gives him is one that could very definitely be described as old-fashioned. He shrugs insouciantly. "No? Okay. It was just thought…"

"Are you coming to bed?"

"Maybe. Depends…"

"On?"

He grins at her. "Do you really have to ask…?"

"Incorrigible," Grace says firmly, and walks out of the bathroom.

Boyd stays where he is. The water's pleasantly warm, and it's soothing all the aches and pains he really doesn't want to admit to. It's late, almost midnight. He likes this time of night, likes its quiet, its tranquillity. He works too hard, drinks too much and he spends far too much time shuttling between his house and hers, but on balance he's a far happier man now than he's been for a long, long time.

Her voice calls impatiently, "Come to bed, Peter…"

His life has been full of mistakes. Catastrophic mistakes in some cases. But Grace Foley isn't one of them.

- the end -
- 1
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A Very Happy Boy