This Other Country (3 page)

Ben held Nikolas’s hair, running his fingers through it, tugging it for encouragement when he needed more, and then they were coming together. Nikolas lifted up slightly off Ben’s belly, allowing Ben’s cock to jettison freely over their chests while he groaned as he unloaded deep into Ben’s body.

When he was done, he lay heavily on the soaked, hot body beneath him. Ben’s fingers still played restlessly with his hair until with another pull Ben urged, “Let’s go home tomorrow—wait there until we hear from Kate.”

Nikolas nodded. When he was embedded in Ben’s body, soaked with his juices, he’d agree to just about anything Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen wanted.

CHAPTER THREE

Home was a glass edifice of architectural wonder nestled incongruously into a sunlit Devon valley on the southern slopes of Dartmoor. An old manor house, dating back in sections to Tudor times, had once stood on the land, which had been granted to Ben’s family by William the Conqueror. Ben, a newcomer in the family welcomed by incest, intrigue, and murder, had naturally not been all that keen on rebuilding the old house when it had been destroyed in a fire. Nikolas, however, had seen the destruction as an opportunity for a new start for both of them. Or, if he had to be totally honest with himself—which he wasn’t all that often—a chance to make a statement about his relationship with Ben without actually having to come out and say anything at all.
Until death parts us
had lost some of its allure as an expression of binding commitment when he’d believed Ben to actually be dead. He preferred this declaration of light and life and all the things he’d thought he’d lost, Ben being both his light and his life.

So, with a little help from his impressively well-connected acquaintances, Nikolas had commissioned a unique house, which appeared to float from the very granite of the tor it was anchored to, like an exhalation of the rock itself. It was designed in two halves, and a swim lane joined them into a whole. This, Nikolas knew, was something particularly unusual for an English house, but as he pointed out to Ben, he
wasn’t
English. He wasn’t restrained by an Englishman’s worst trait: a puritan distrust of anything luxurious. Also, obviously, he was a billionaire, so he wasn’t curtailed in most other ways either. He wanted a swim lane so he had one built. The rear wing, the one emerging from the tor, was their private area: bedroom, bathroom, Nikolas’s study and Ben’s gym. The front wing was much larger and was used both to run Nikolas’s charitable foundation ANGEL and for their friends to have accommodation whenever they wanted. Its central hub was a vast kitchen and dining area, which for two men who couldn’t cook often seemed a bit of a waste, but one or other of them occasionally expressed a desire to learn, so that seemed enough of a reason to justify the commercial-grade stove and superb cooking utensils that graced the rack hanging from the glass ceiling. Leading off this central hub were spokes, or segments, each one containing a guest suite and these in turn led to the outer rim of the house, the living area, which encircled the whole construction and was open plan. This then created a circular meander from a main sitting room, through to a high-tech office, on into a music room with a grand piano, and then to a billiard room, a library, and a television room; these sections only divided by vast chimneys made of Dartmoor granite set into the middle of the floor space, each housing a log burner surrounded by leather seating.

The house was beautiful whatever the weather. Made almost entirely of glass, it let in the sunshine whenever Devon graced them with sun, but when it didn’t, and southwest drizzle swept down off the moors for long hours, there was nothing more enticing than to be inside with the wood burners fighting the dark bleakness outside.

Nikolas had taken to drinking again. But now it was wine only and only in the same quantity as Ben drank. Nikolas wasn’t in the habit of letting anything control him, and he didn’t see a reason why alcohol should be any different from the other demons, human and non-human alike, he’d fought and conquered. So he’d begun joining Ben with a glass—or two, sometimes three—of red wine as they sat in the evenings by one of the fires, or played billiards, or as he played the piano. He sometimes told people the grand piano had been his only personal extravagance in this house he’d built for Ben. He occasionally managed to say this with a straight face. Although he claimed he was rusty and played very badly, he played well enough to impress Ben, and that was good enough for both of them.

That Nikolas had actually indulged himself in many other areas of the house’s design and construction was most obvious in the grounds. He’d restored the tennis court and had stables built for his horses. His horses had now been moved from their royal stable block to this new one, and they didn’t seem to mind the change. They had adapted quickly, perhaps because they now were ridden every day on Dartmoor.

§ § §

All this hedonism was balanced somewhat by their work with ANGEL. Ben sometimes had to remind himself Nikolas actually spent his own money on the projects they sponsored. Unlike most charitable foundations, they didn’t ask for money or help in any way. He constantly worried Nikolas would take on too many projects, that the ones they currently supported would be ruined if he bankrupted himself, but Nikolas only pointed to another conflict, another war somewhere or other in the world, and claimed there was little danger of his vast fortune, built entirely on misery, ever running out.

Ben slowed the car slightly as they crested the ridge at the entrance to the grounds and then bounced along the unpaved, overgrown driveway that ran along the ridge until plunging down into the valley. By mutual agreement, they’d left this track and the original gate in the dilapidated state they’d been in when they’d first discovered the house. The disrepair always reminded them of the strange twists of fate which had made this unlikely place so central to their lives over the last few years.

There was nothing left of the old manor now, no indication of where it had stood or the secrets it had contained. If sunlight and pure air could banish demons, Nikolas had done a pretty good job of giving Ben the weapons he needed to win that war. For Ben knew very well Nikolas didn’t sleep easy these days—he was often awake when Nikolas endured his nightmares, woken already by his own suffocating dreams of imprisonment in the dark, burning. Each time Ben entered this house, it was as if another chink of light was being let into his coffin, another sliver of darkness expelled.

The most amazing thing about Nikolas’s gift to him was just that: Nikolas had designed and built this house for
him
. Nikolas didn’t often say I love you, but when he did, it was memorable.

They weren’t the only ones who loved the house and returning to it after any time away. Radulf, in his darker world, had discovered other benefits of living in a house permanently flooded with light. He knew the rooms and all their contents so well now he could navigate around as if he were seeing the same world the others did.

Ben went directly to the kitchen. Nikolas trailed after, watching him, leaning in the doorway. “What do you want to do now…?”

Ben flashed him a look, knowing that tone only too well. He smiled privately. It was nice to be constantly wanted. But instead of accompanying Nikolas to the bedroom, as he knew Nikolas wanted, he sat at the table with his phone. “I’m going to call Kate. She’s spooky good. She may have something already.”

Nikolas huffed. “In that case, I think I’ll go for a ride.”

Ben nodded absentmindedly. Nikolas glanced at Radulf, murmuring, “We’re being ignored, dumbass, as usual. Do you want to come out for a run?”

Radulf lumbered up from his basket and followed the sound of Nikolas’s footsteps.

§ § §

The dog had enough sight in one eye to distinguish dark from light and in bright daylight to be able to see objects and avoid them. Running on Dartmoor, therefore, was fairly easy for him, as there were few obstacles, and he could apparently make out the large shape of the horse in the bright light. He trotted happily alongside Nikolas up through the back of the grounds and then out through the dry stone wall to the moors themselves. Encumbered by the dog, Nikolas didn’t give free rein to his horse and kept him at a steady pace, heading up a valley toward one of the highest points around: Drover Tor.

As they approached the rocks, Nikolas called Radulf even closer, slowing to a walk. One of Dartmoor’s most notorious bogs lay deceptively serene and enticing just to the south of the tor, forcing them to take a less obvious route. It occasionally crossed Nikolas’s mind that Radulf might one day blunder right into this death trap. It wasn’t a thought he wanted to test.

It took them just under an hour, taking this longer track, to reach the top of the tor. For the last hundred feet, Nikolas dismounted, hobbled the horse, clipped Radulf to his lead, and climbed. The granite rocks were easy for a human but contained hundreds of hidden traps for a horse’s legs.

From the top, Nikolas could make out the coastline with the Breakwater and Plymouth Sound hazy in the distance. The other way, he stared out right over their valley, and all he could see was the tops of trees. There was no indication of the house or the rest of the estate. He smiled. It was just how he liked it. He sat on the rocks and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Old habits died very hard for Nikolas. He made elaborate plans and decisions to give up, but he enjoyed smoking. He’d enjoyed it since he was ten and didn’t see why all the good things he had in his life now should be held in some kind of bargain with God against the bad. He’d used the same rationale with the red wine and that was working out pretty well too. He limited himself to one or two cigarettes a day, always at moments like these when he was completely alone. They helped him think.

Introspection. Ben had accused him of it the night before. And he’d been right—it wasn’t something Nikolas usually indulged in. The visit to the superbly named Doctor Wood had disturbed him.

He preferred his relationship with Ben to be like the house: invisible unless you knew where to look. When they’d first met, it had been completely secret from everyone. He’d booked hotel rooms for them to meet in. They’d had sex, and then they’d gone their separate ways, not even using the rooms to sleep in afterward. Gradually, he’d started inviting Ben down on weekends, but then the sex had mostly been out of the house—on the beach, in the grounds—except for the billiard room, which was understood to be his domain and had a good lock on the door. Then Ben had moved in with him. From that point on, Ben had been removing the metaphorical trees that hid the truth of their relationship. Soon, Nikolas knew, there wouldn’t be much left standing between him and a realisation of what they were—what he was. And he didn’t appreciate it.

Take yesterday for example. Tim answering him back…Ben kissing him in front of Tim and treating him as an…of course, Ben
was
his equal…Nikolas wasn’t implying he wasn’t. Or at least, not when Ben was actually present. But still…Nikolas scrunched his face and considered this concept of their equality for a while. Then he lit another cigarette. One wasn’t enough for such a deep level of contemplation.

Even pretending, he hadn’t enjoyed speaking about his relationship at the doctor’s office. What did that say about him? Why was he like this?

Sooner or later, Nikolas knew he was going to have to address the issue of whether he was…He’d been going on the later option—maybe when he was sixty—but events were spiralling out of his control somehow. Ben had kissed him! Mocked him! In front of Tim and that other idiot! Ack, but he was refusing to address the main issue. He’d teased Ben back. For one moment, he’d forgotten how things were supposed to work, and, entirely unselfconsciously, he’d made fun of Ben back as if they were…

Nikolas took a deep drag of smoke and filled his lungs, relishing the pleasure.

Smoking had been so difficult in prison. He’d had a nice seven-year habit going by the time he’d been committed—in young lungs, too. He’d had no intention of giving up, so, along with food, that had been another thing he’d had to work hard to be allowed to enjoy. If the prison had been filled with women, he’d have fucked them for a cigarette or a hunk of bread. It was no different. It didn’t make him…

But it hadn’t been full of women. It had been packed with men, and the next prison, and the one after that…A vast succession of men, which in its own way had formed another habit hard to break…It wasn’t all bad, however. He’d learnt early to use his power, to flex what psychological muscle he had, and he was not blind or stupid. He knew people desired him, feared him—gravitated to him. They would desire him, fear him and gravitate to him a great deal more if he’d let them. He’d never needed any of it, so held the world at arm’s length. But habits formed in prison had continued into his life in Special Forces. He fucked women when it suited him, but, like prison, Special Forces tended to be a world of men, most more than willing to explore games of dominance and obedience, reward and punishment.

So how did any of this make him…?

He lit another cigarette.

He had to conclude, therefore, having looked at it from all angles, he was definitely not gay.

Ack, who needed fucking therapists? Pussies.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out, checking the caller ID. He smirked. A text from his second favourite person.

Have u learned 2 text yet?

He snorted and replied:
what do u think?

Ok. Boring and slow. I have 2 do essay. Title: Can 9/11 b directly linked back 2 Soviet actions in Afghanistan? Help. Any suggestions—as actual Soviet person in Afghanistan…… xxxxx

He stuck his cigarette in the side of his mouth and texted:
I have perfect answer for u: No.

He waited, smoking happily, and got back.
More words maybe?

Yes and no?

Thank u. How r u? school is brill

He squinted at this, shaking his head in despair. No one was supposed to enjoy school. But it had been one of his better moves, he thought, bringing Emilia from Russia to school in England—well, Scotland. A school recommended by Philipa, favoured of her favourite royal and perfect for a girl like Emilia who didn’t see the world in a conventional way. They had an unconventional relationship, Nikolas and Emilia. Neither understood it, so both left its possibilities hanging there to be examined at some later date. They were having too much fun to tie down what they were to each other in customary terms, and Nikolas, like Emilia, could never be bothered to conform to other people’s expectations. That he was a forty-five-year-old man and she was a thirteen-year-old girl with no relation to him didn’t bother them at all.