WARNING: NC-17 Slash Fiction

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THE RING: Chapter One

Saturday,
September 23

Whitney couldn't think. Could barely breath. Couldn't have spoken if his life depended on it, although some might have said the wild, mindless gasps and moans being wrenched out of him were a language all their own — the language of blinding pleasure he had only known with one lover. Lionel was back from five endless days in Switzerland and he was doing an amazing job of reminding Whitney who he belonged to.

He was braced against the shower wall, spray and steam from the shower cascading over him, swirling around him, mingling and beading and running down his back in rivulets that Lionel greedily sampled with sharp biting kisses and tart licks of his tongue as his hips pounded out a relentless rhythm. Each thrust buried Lionel's cock a little deeper in Whitney's ass, each passage out and in hitting the sweet spot and making Whitney crazy for more.

"Oh, god, Lionel... Fuck me deeper. Deeper...please. FUCK!" Whitney had very few wishes of that nature Lionel didn't fulfill. One deep, sweet-vicious thrust buried Lionel to his balls inside Whitney and he froze there, panting from exertion and need.

Lionel's hands anchored hips, but Whitney needed one of them in a more intimate place. "Please, Lionel..." he begged, taking Lionel's right hand and guiding it to his cock.

"You are so tight, so hot," Lionel whispered in Whitney's ear, his voice ragged. He squeezed the base of Whitney's cock. "So hard..."

Much too slowly to do anything more than torture Whitney, Lionel stroked the hungry cock as his hips began rocking; slowly at first, then faster; hard jabs that connected with his prostate and made Whitney cry out with each contact. His circuits shorted as his body fought conflicting urges: the need to thrust into Lionel's hand and the equal maddening need to undulate his ass into the deepening thrusts of Lionel's cock.

"Come for me, love...show me what you need," Lionel purred in his ear, piercing the frustration of being so close and still so far from the white heat of the place Lionel delivered him to every time they were together like this.

Not entirely certain what was expected of him, he slid his hand over Lionel's. "Show me, Whit." At the faintly whispered encouragement, Whitney began guiding Lionel's hand on his cock, quickening the pace, tightening the grip, showing Lionel exactly what he needed.

He sensed that Lionel was almost ready to come even before he felt the change in Lionel's thrusts that signaled he was losing his grip on his amazing control. The rhythm became frantic, hard, almost desperate. Whitney struggled to hold on, to come with his lover, but Lionel was jacking him hard now. No finesse in the thrusts or the hand, and then came the words, a torrent of them... Lionel saying his name...a curse...a prayer... fragments of words that reached Whitney on a level beyond the pleasure... "beautiful"... "lover"... "my Whit"... "mine"... and Whitney lost it. He cried out and came hard in Lionel's hand, and Lionel came, too, thrusting hard, jacking, milking them both until the last wave of light had radiated through them and disappeared into the swirling steam.

When reality seeped back in, Whitney realized that Lionel's arms were locked around his chest, his bearded cheek was resting against his shoulder. They were still joined and Whitney felt complete.

A moan of pure loss, not pleasure, was wrenched out of him when Lionel finally withdrew. The loss was total when Lionel's lean, hard frame moved away completely. Whitney turned and sagged against the wall, boneless, spent, sated, and desperate to be in his lover's arms again. But Lionel had moved to the center of the shower where the jets and sprays converged. The water pummelled him, sluicing down his body, carrying the condom away toward the drain. It captured Whitney's attention and he checked one more day off his mental calendar. In another five weeks they'd seal the commitment they'd made to each other three weeks ago during their romantic reconcilliation in San Francisco. The deal hadn't been mentioned since that night, but it was very much a reality in Whitney's mind and in his heart. And in his bed, as well. He and Lionel were together. They were a couple. Not publicly, not in the press or the league or Lionel's high society, or even much beyond their separate, private circles of family or friends, but they were together. They belonged to each other. No one else shared Lionel's bed. Or his shower.

If it hadn't been for Lionel's frequent trips to Europe, these last three weeks would have been just about perfect.

"Welcome home, Lionel. I missed you."

"I got that impression."

Whitney grinned. So typical. He reached out for Lionel's hand and pulled him between his legs. "But God forbid you should admit you missed me."

"I believe I just did. Twice, as a matter of fact."

"Stubborn." The steam and the spray swirled around them as Whitney poured all the adoration he felt into a long, deep kiss. When the kiss broke, he nuzzled a spot on Lionel's throat just below his ear that he had learned only recently made his lover purr.

"I've made a decision," Whitney whispered in his ear and was rewarded with a chuckle that resonated deep in Lionel's chest.

"Oh, dear. That's never a good sign."

Whitney nipped his earlobe in playful retribution. "Be nice. This is serious. I'm tired of you being away so much," he said playfully. "If this two trips a month crap continues, you're going to have to buy Zurich and bring it to Metropolis lock, stock, and Matterhorn."

Lionel laughed. "I appreciate the sentiment, if not the practicality. Or the geography."

"Does that mean you won't even try to move heaven and earth for me? What's the point of being the lover of most powerful man on earth if he won't even move a small city for you?"

"How quickly they forget! I seem to recall you saying something about the earth moving not half an hour ago in the vestibule outside the elevator." He gave Whitney a swift kiss. "Now, let me go. We're going to be late."

Whitney did a sexy little nuzzle of that sensitive spot on Lionel's throat. "Isn't that fashionable?"

"Not when it's your own party," he replied dryly, and extricated himself from arms that were strong enough to hold him whether he wanted to be held or not.

Whitney grinned, tossed Lionel his loofa, and then began lathering his own. "So who are we entertaining tonight? All I got was a fitting for a new Armani and a somewhat terse note instructing me to meet you at the elevator at 4:45 p.m. precisely. 'Be punctual and naked,' the note said."

"And you follow instructions brilliantly. The rose was a particularly nice touch," Lionel said generously as he lathered up. "I am entertaining 40 very wealthy potential contributors to Senator William Grayson's gubernatorial campaign in an impromptu political fundraiser. Paul Jennett was supposed to host, but he and his wife were injured in an automobile accident Tuesday night. I generously stepped in to save the day, and even offered up the Sharks' new starting quarterback as bait."

"Lionel—" The reminder sent a cloud over Whitney's face that Lionel couldn't possibly have missed.

"Not now, Whitney. We'll discuss your handling of the media later. Finish your shower."

Whitney wasn't sure he could let it go. Last Sunday, he had taken the field in the third quarter of the Sharks' second game of the regular season and turned the team's second impending defeat into a stunning victory. On Monday, Lionel's last official act before leaving for Switzerland was to announce that Whitney Fordman was the Sharks new starting quarterback.

The resulting media frenzy had been intense. Interviews left and right, questions he'd never imagined, and some that he and Lionel had planned for. But somehow he'd screwed everything up, and what they had written about his relationship with Lionel...twisting his words... Whitney was furious, and Lionel...well, Whitney had no idea how Lionel felt about it, but he couldn't be happy.

"Lionel, please. You have to know—"

"Later, Whitney, when there's a little less water, at least one item of clothing in evidence, and a lot more time."

He turned his back to catch a jet of water, and that was the end of the conversation.

In three weeks, they'd performed the shower-groom-and-dress ritual just often enough to be able to indulge their own personal grooming idiosyncracies without getting each other's way. It helped, of course, that you could fit a small chamber orchestra in Lionel's penthouse bathroom. But Whitney had his own fully stocked vanities in both the bath and dressing rooms. Lionel had even cleared a portion of his off-season wardrobe to give Whitney closet space.

As for their "idiosyncracies," they were fairly even in the amount of time it took them to get ready, particularly if Whitney didn't hurry. Lionel's beautiful dark mane of hair took longer to make presentable, but the fact that Lionel didn't have to shave usually evened things out. The only thing that wasn't even was their grooming attire — Lionel preferred to perform his ablutions in a soft, terry robe; Whitney enjoyed driving Lionel crazy by remaining completely naked until it was time to get serious about getting dressed.

Lionel pretended to ignore him, but Whitney knew that his lover watched him like a hawk and liked what he saw.

"So, how did you occupy yourself while I was away?" Lionel was trimming his beard. The light dusting of gray didn't seem to bother him any more than it bothered Whitney. "When you weren't giving interviews, that is."

The wall was a solid mirror that allowed Whitney to see Lionel's face as he answered, "The usual. Practice. Day dreaming about you. More practice. More thinking about you. Lots of exercise and cold showers. As for the giving of interviews," he interjected quickly, trying again. "Lionel, I never said—"

"I know you didn't."

"I told him exactly what you and I had agreed on if the question ever came up — that you've been a mentor. That the LuthorCorp scholarships opened doors for me. But that led him to ask how I came to your attention in the first place, and somehow it all got wrapped together with that Sharks scrimmage in Smallville and Dad's death..." Whitney moved to Lionel's vanity and sat on the edge, forcing Lionel to look at him. "I did not tell John Vincent that you're like a father to me," he said earnestly, weaving his fingers into the silk of his lover's hair.

"I believe you, Whitney." There was a distinct twitching around Lionel's mouth and Whitney realized that he was trying to hold back a smile! Lionel was doing everything in his power not to laugh!

Whitney was furious. How could he not be taking this seriously? "You think this is funny?"

"I think it's..." The twitching became a grin. "...amusing, yes."

Whitney came to his feet. What Daily Planet sports columnist John Vincent had suggested was just a little short of incest! Why wasn't Lionel outraged? "This is not funny, Lionel! Vincent twisted my words. He painted you as a surrogate Pop tossing around the old pigskin with Junior, and me as the lonely, desperate son searching for the father he'd lost. How can you think that's funny, for crissakes? Believe me, I never ONCE in my entire life had a feeling for my father even remotely similar to what I feel for you. And you think it's funny!"

Lionel was smiling outright now. "I'm sorry, Whitney, but if you want me to take you seriously, you're going to have to make your arguments in something other than your birthday suit. Indignation and half of an erection do not inspire gravitas." He laughed and that was more than Whitney could take.

"Fuck you, Lionel," he snapped and stormed toward the door. "I'm going to get dressed now, Dad, and I'm taking my erection with me! Hope you got a good look, because it may be the last one you see for a while!"

The sound of Lionel's laughter chased him all the way into the bedroom, where he slammed every door and drawer he could get his hands on until the anger passed. But he still didn't see the humor.

Lionel's valet and personal assistant, Hemingway, was an invisible and intuitive genius. Evidence suggested that he had already unpacked Lionel's bags, and he'd set out Whitney's wardrobe for the evening on a mahogany valet. Lionel always dressed in the vestibule of his walk-in closet.

The Armani fitting had been for an amazing black suit that Lionel had had designed especially for Whitney. The black jacket had no lapels and there was only the barest hint of a stand-up collar. The body-sculpted snow white shirt had an inverted Roman collar. The layers of black, white, and black were striking — or they would be if Whitney could manage to fasten the black band of the collar.

It was a beautiful gift. Thoughtful. Generous. Very Lionel-like. What he couldn't put into words, he said with money.

Whitney wanted the words.

"If you knew what looking at you did to me, you'd never be angry with me again."

Sometimes he got them when he least expected. Whitney turned to find Lionel at the bedroom door looking utterly magnificent in a simple black evening suit. Whitney didn't recognize the designer. Didn't care. The heat and admiration in Lionel's pale blue eyes were all that mattered.

"Ditto," he said when he finally found his voice.

Lionel smiled and sauntered to him. "Doesn't count. I said it first."

"Yes, but I make a bigger puddle on the floor than you do."

"Braggart." Lionel took the errant collar and snapped it into place, then completely melted any remnant of Whitney's anger with a deep, sensuous kiss. "I'm sorry I laughed at you."

Whitney was having trouble breathing, let alone thinking. "It's okay."

Lionel retrieved Whitney's coat from the valet as he explained, "There is a reason I wasn't especially disturbed by the conclusions Mr. Vincent came to. I know it's an uncomfortable analogy for you, but a public perception of paternal overtones in our relationship makes it easier to justify the two of us being seen together in public on occasion...a casual lunch...dinner..." He helped Whitney into the coat and smoothed the shoulders. "Of course, I don't think the ruse would stand up under scrutiny if someone saw me put my tongue down your throat like I did just a moment ago, but..."

His voice trailed off and Whitney tried to decide how he felt about this new 'party line.' "Public perception."

"It's everything, Whitney. Later this year I'll make a casual statement when I can be certain it will be quoted, that you've become like a son to—"

"No!" Whitney backed away. "Like Hell you will! I'm not your son, Lionel! I'm your lover, and if you don't know the difference—"

"Of course I know the difference, Whitney. Don't be an ass!" He grabbed Whitney's face in his hands. "We are going to make a mistake eventually, Whitney," he said hotly. "Hopefully not for a very long time, but it's inevitable that we will be seen in some not-quite-public place where a 50 year old franchise owner and his 22 year old quarterback wouldn't normally be found together. A camera will catch you smiling at me with that incredible light in your eyes, or my hand will be captured caressing your arm or your shoulder or your face because God-help-me I can't keep myself from touching you... A camera will steal the moment and eyebrows will raise, but this foundation will allow us to explain it away. Perception has nothing to do with reality, Whitney. We know the truth. But this is a perception that can give us greater freedom to be together. Is it wrong of me to want that for us?"

"No, but--"

Lionel silenced him with a kiss. "No buts. For now, we will say nothing. Let the story sit. It could be months before another reporter picks up the theme and tries to follow it through. It could be never. We'll wait and see. All right?"

Whitney nodded slowly. "All right."

Lionel released him and took a small gold box from his pocket. "For you."

A grin started inside Whitney and quickly worked its way out. God, he was a pushover! But he couldn't help it. He was in love. "You brought me a present from Zurich?"

"No," Lionel said gravely, but he was clearly fighting a grin of his own. "This originated a little closer to home."

Whitney opened the box and found a keycard identical to his pass key to Lionel's private penthouse elevator. He frowned. "You changed my security code? Do I need a new clearance—"

"No. You need no clearance at all. That card gives you unrestricted access to the penthouse. I'm tired of having to clear you with security every time you come over. This will let you come and go as you please."

Whitney recognized the gesture for what it was...another piece of the commitment that was forming between them. The reporter, their argument...everything else seemed inconsequential. "Thank you, Lionel." He leaned closer to seal the commitment with a kiss, but Lionel backed away a step.

"Whitney, there's something you need to know."

The gravity in his voice chased away all the joy from Whitney's heart. The compliments, the gifts, the mi casa, es su casa gesture... all part of a set up. The other shoe was about to drop.

"What?" he asked, afraid to breathe, already growing furious with Lionel for giving him something precious and snatching it away.

"I have a date tonight," Lionel said quietly.

"You—" A punched-in-the-gut feeling dried Whitney's mouth and made him nauseous. "You have a what?"

"A date," he repeated. "Celeste Willingham is my hostess for this evening's fundraiser. She will, in fact, be seen very prominently on my arm quite a bit in the coming months. Next week the society columns will be full of the news about the rekindling of our affair. As soon as you're ready tonight, I want you to take the elevator down to the parking garage. Sandofer will pick you up in a rented limosine, drive you around, and then deliver you to the main entrance so that you can arrive with my other guests."

Whitney felt sick. "You've got to be kidding."

"No. I'm not. It won't do for you to be here when the first guest arrives--"

"We can say I'm unfashionably early!"

"We will say nothing at all because you won't be here. You will arrive with the other guests—"

"And be greeted by Celeste? Your hostess?"

"Exactly."

"Then what the fuck does that make me?"

Lionel met his furious gaze with maddening calm. "The one with the key to my penthouse."

How could something so good turn into something ugly so fast? Whitney slammed the key onto the dresser. "Fuck you, Lionel. I'm not your backdoor whore." He spun on his heel to leave.

"Whitney!" His voice shot through the room — and Whitney — stopping him in his tracks. He turned and stood his ground as Lionel approached. "Did you at any point imagine that we were going to greet my guests tonight as Mr. and Mr. Happily Ever After? This is only the first of a hundred charades you and I will play over the coming months. We are not 'out.' To the world, we are not a couple, and as unfair as that may be, it is a reality we must endure. We are together here. In this penthouse. And your apartment. And I will endeavor to make other safe havens for us, but 'Lionel and Whitney' do not host society fundraisers. They do not walk hand-in-hand into The Metropolis Opera House, nor do they dance the night away in each other's arms anywhere other than my penthouse balcony." His voice became a whisper. "Celeste Willingham is one of many prices you and I will be required to pay in order to be together."

"Will you—"

"No," Lionel said firmly, resolutely. "Celeste is being well-paid for her services, which do not extend to the bedroom. Whether you believe it or not, I'm doing this for us."

"Then why does it hurt. Here?" Whitney tapped his fist on his chest directly over his heart.

"Because you are completely unrealistic. You still think you can have it all," Lionel said as though stating the obvious. "You want the fairy tale and you haven't learned that it doesn't exist. You're going to have to grow up, Whitney. Quickly."

Whitney forced a bitter smile. "And accept the fact that I can't have my handsome prince and fuck him, too? This is my first test and I'm failing, right?"

Lionel shook his head. "It's just a quiz, Whit. The hard lessons are coming up and the exams are all unscheduled."

"Gee, that gives me something to look forward to."

Lionel took his lover into his arms. "Behave yourself tonight, Whitney. Smile for my guests. Pretend I'm just the magnanamous franchise owner who's putting you on national TV this Monday Night as the Sharks' starting quarterback. Make nice, leave when the party starts to break up, and use your key to return through the private entrance after everyone has left. I want you in my bed where you belong tonight."

Lionel was right. Whitney was going to have to suck it up and learn how to pretend he didn't get hot every time he looked at Lionel Luthor. As he rode around Luthor Plaza in the limo Lionel had provided, he actually managed to summon a little enthusiasm for the charade. He could act. For four years he'd convinced his college buddies he was a cross between Sir Galahad and Don Juan — kissing often but gallantly refusing to tell. His current teammates thought he was having a torrid romance with his platonic best friend. His own mother thought he was still eating his heart out over his high school sweetheart Lana Lang. And there had been a thousand other charades over the years.

Whitney could pretend with the very best of them, and if that was the price he had to pay to be with Lionel, then he'd pay it. It didn't matter that he didn't want to pretend this time, that he was so crazy in love that if Lionel whispered, "Let's come out. Live with me in the open," Whitney would say, "Yes. Now," and let his career and his mother and the whole fucking world be damned.

Only he really did care about the career, and hurting his mother was the last thing he wanted to do, and most significantly of all, Lionel wasn't about to say those words.

Which meant Whitney was stuck with the charade. Three shots of vodka from the limo's well-stocked mini-bar helped convince him that he was Robert Redford personified, fully capable of giving a performance worthy of an Oscar. Celeste Willingham be damned, and Lionel Luthor be damned, too!

He was recognized in the lobby by two couples who turned out to be his elevator companions, and Whitney did what he always did when confronted with fans or football enthusiasts...he smiled his best self-effacing 1000-watt smile and greeted enthusiasm with modesty and skepticism with good-humor. Fortunately, these were generous fans and by the time they reached the 42nd floor, Whitney was ready for the game to begin.

And then the elevator doors opened to the muted strains of a string quartet, the indistinct murmur of guests in conversation..., and Celeste Willingham, poised, stunning, and elegant in a black beaded designer gown. Gracious and completely at ease, she greeted the quartet by name as they oozed into Lionel's living room, then turned a dazzling smile on Whitney.

"And you! I would recognize anywhere. Our hero! You were positively masterful last Sunday. Lionel!" She made a show of looking for him, then gave a queenly wave to draw the host away from the knot of guests he was entertaining. "Come see! Your young Melankomas of Caria has arrived!"

Lionel swept across the room, matching the enthusiasm of his hostess. "Whitney! Welcome. Celeste, my love, I do believe you've hit the nail on its proverbial head. He is indeed, Melankomas, one of the greatest athletes of all time." He shook Whitney's hand and ushered him into the room as he quoted grandly, "'Now since his was beauty of body, courage, a stout heart, and, besides, the good fortune of never having been defeated, what man could be called happier than he?' " Lionel looked at him — really looked at him — for the first time, making sure he got the message. Make nice. Be happy. "Eh, Whitney?"

Whitney had that punched-in-the-gut feeling again.

"Oh, Gad, now who are you quoting?" senator-cum-gubernatorial-candidate William Grayson boomed goodnaturedly as Lionel led Whitney to him. "Don't get him started, son, or he'll be reading Ovid before the night is over. Remember last time?" Everyone in the circle laughed whether they remembered or not. "Hello, Mr. Fordman. I'm William Grayson."

It took everything Whitney had to keep the smile plastered onto his face. "Yes, sir. I seem to recall voting for you not too long ago."

"And I hope you will again."

"You can count on it, sir."

Lionel made a whirlwind of introductions to the circle of Grayson's cronies, then bowed out gracefully to greet more guests. Whitney was trapped, but this was what he was here for. The conversation immediately fell into football -- ABC's Monday Night Football, to be exact, and the announcement earlier this week that Whitney was the Sharks' new starting quarterback. Whitney fielded their questions, but was relieved when Grayson's campaign manager and a man named Henry launched into a lively debate about ball control offenses.

Relieved of the focus, Whitney glanced around and saw Lionel in another knot of guests, one arm around Celeste's waist. He laughed at something she said, and leaned in to murmur in her ear.

They were without question the most perfect couple Whitney had ever seen. Her beauty and sophistication complimented Lionel's maturity and elegance.

Her heels brought her to not-quite Lionel's height, so that he only had to tip his head to put his mouth to her ear — or brush his lips across her cheek in a gesture that was far too intimate for Whitney's comfort. If Lionel was acting out a charade, he was a goddam master of deception. He'd called her "Celeste, my love," as though it was the most natural thing in the world, an every day occurrence. He'd used that endearment with Whitney exactly once in six months.

Whitney murmured an excuse and slipped away to find the bar. He was going to need a lot more vodka to get through the night. His teammate, Brandon Sutton, had beat him to it. The defensive Captain and All-Pro Free Safety greeted him enthusiastically. "Whit-man, glad to see you here."

Whitney ordered and turned to the slighty taller man, who had become a pal in Whit's short time on the team. "Got roped into this. You?"

"I host two charity events a year, I'm expected here. Listen, as much as I would like to hang and gloat over the nasty surprise you have waiting for you—"

"What?" They had a hot game of Internet Chess going.

"My Bishop has taken your Queen."

"Oh. You mean my bait?"

Bran laughed. "Yeah, bluff all you want, pal. I gotta get back to work. Drinks on me if you survive Monday night." A brilliant smile accompanied the remark.

Whitney watched the Stanford grad walk away to effortlessly work the room. He thought fleetingly that he should get Bran to give him lessons. For the next hour, every time Whitney found a quiet corner to sip his vodka and brood, someone from the campaign would drag him off to shake hands with another potential Grayson contributor. Three more Sharks players arrived to take some of the pressure off, but Whitney was the new star, which put him in constant demand. It was probably a good thing, because Lionel and Celeste were doing a bang-up job convincing everyone they were a couple. A very happy, brilliantly matched couple.

Every conversation he joined contained at least one quietly worded comment about Lionel and Celeste. Everyone was whispering. "...so happy together..." "...been alone too long..." "...much better for him than..."

One conversation in particular caught his ear...

"Personally, I'm shocked to see them back together. Celeste hinted that he was completely smitten with one of his boytoys."

"You mean the Italian actor? Didn't you hear? He dumped him when he realized he could get Celeste back."

"An actor?"

"Ummm? Blond, built, and exceedingly well-endowed from what I heard. And younger than his usual fare. You didn't think all of those trips to Europe were for business, did you?"

Great. Was he the "Italian actor," or did he have yet another rival for Lionel's affections, because that's what Celeste was quickly becoming in Whitney's mind. The more Whitney watched them, the more depressed he became. Celeste was from Lionel's world. She knew all the right people. Lionel was obviously attracted to her sexually or he wouldn't have been dating her before Whitney had come into his life. He might not be planning to sleep with her, but if Celeste decided she wanted to seduce him...

Whitney made another trip to the bar.

The nearest one was a floating island in the enormous open floor plan of rooms that allowed a flow of guests through nearly half of the 32nd floor. From the bar, Whitney had a clear view of Celeste smiling up at Lionel adoringly, her hand resting with perfect ease on his chest as she laughed at something he said.

"Handsome couple, aren't they. Think I should start getting accustomed to calling her Mom?"

Oh, shit. Lex. He must have arrived late. Whitney would rather have walked through a pit of vipers than deal with Lex tonight. Come to think of it...

He took his drink from the bartender and turned to his tormentor. "Don't start polishing the wedding silver for her just yet, son," he said softly, but pointedly.

"Ooh! Direct hit." Lex ordered a Scotch from the bartender, then returned his full attention to Whitney. "But I guess I should have said, 'when do we start calling her Mom' since I somehow managed to gain a younger brother this week. You are younger than me, right? I'm still the heir apparent, or are you angling for that as well as palimony?"

"Did you have that rapier wit sharpened just for me, or are you just naturally an ass?"

Lex looked shocked and threw an arm around Whitney's shoulder. "Why, brother!"

"Get your arm off of me or I'll break it, so help me, God!" Whitney growled.

Lex removed his arm but not his attitude. "Ummm. Better be careful, brother. I think you may have had one too many those." He nodded toward Whitney's drink.

"Mind your own business, Lex," Whitney said, then moved off, looking for a quiet corner. A brisk evening breeze had driven the carefully-coiffed party-goers off the balcony, and that's where Whitney sought refuge. Unfortunately, Lex wasn't finished with him. When he heard the sliding door open and close behind him, he knew before he even looked that Lex had followed him.

"Good idea, brother. No one to eavesd—"

Whitney whirled and glared at Lex. "If you don't quit calling me brother, I'll—"

"Break my arm, yes, I got that. The threat of physical violence is a little cro magnon, even for you, Quarterback. This is polite society. We handle our differences with more civility."

Whitney took a deep breath and collected himself. Lex was trying to bait him into creating a scene. Whitney wasn't about to give him what he wanted, nor would it do to let Lex sense blood in the water, either. It might be a little too late for that, though.

"My apologies, Lex. Let's start again, why don't we? How's Clark?"

Whitney could actually see Lex slide into defense mode. Lex had made it clear that he had what he considered to be two good reasons to dislike Whitney — one was his relationship with Lionel, though why it was any of Lex's business, Whitney couldn't have said — and the other was the fact that Whitney had had a very intense sexual relationship with Lex's lover two years ago. It was Lex's fault for having left Clark, and Whitney hadn't stood a chance of salvaging the relationship once Lex decided he wanted Clark back, but a strong and lasting friendship had been forged that summer, and Lex didn't like it one bit. In Lex's shoes, Whitney wouldn't have liked it, either.

"As beautiful as ever, thank you for asking. Oh, and he told me to thank you for the ticket to Monday night's game."

"Is he going to be able to make it?" Whitney asked, unable to keep a hint of hope out of his voice.

"Oh, we wouldn't miss it for the world!"

"We?"

"Of course. I have season passes, courtesy of Dad."

"But you never go."

"Well, this is a horse of a different color. How could I possibly resist the opportunity to watch you get creamed on national television?"

"Don't put any money on Pittsburg," Whitney advised him sourly. Without really realizing he was doing it, he looked through the glass, scanning the crowd for Lionel.

"It's like a car wreck, isn't it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Watching Dad and Celeste... You don't want to see it, but you can't quite take your eyes off of it."

He looked at Lex and saw a measure of understanding. But, of course, he would understand — his relationship was Clark was only marginally more open that Whitney and Lionel's.

"Yes," he admitted, then couldn't keep himself from asking, "Why is she doing it?"

"Doing what?"

"Playing Lionel's beard."

Lex looked shocked. "What makes you think they're playing anything?"

Whitney saw straight through the ploy. "Don't even think about it Lex, I'm not that drunk or gullible. You know it's an act."

Lex shrugged. "All I know is that before you came along, Celeste Willingham was telling her friends that she was going to be the next Mrs. Lionel Luthor." Lex studied Whitney for a long moment. "You really think you're the only one he's fucking, don't you?"

"I know I am."

Lex glanced at Whitney's vodka, neat. "Then why are you drinking those like they're gatorade in August?"

"Because it's an open bar and I have to deal with assholes like you."

Lex shook his head. "Whitney, I'm going to tell you this for you own good. My father was never faithful to my mother a day in their marriage, and he loved her. You're just a pretty face with a tight ass."

The shot hit a little too close to Whitney's insecurity and he didn't want to play any more. "Fuck off, Lex," he said as he walked away.

"Brilliant rhetoric, Quarterback," Lex muttered, then called pleasantly to his retreating foe, "Been lovely chatting with you!"

Whitney returned to the penthouse having had about all he could take for one night. He didn't doubt Lionel. He really didn't. But the performance with Celeste was incredibly convincing and try as hard as he might, Whitney couldn't come up with a single reason why a woman as beautiful and as wealthy as Celeste Willingham would pretend to be Lionel Luthor's paramour. Her late husband had left her filthy rich, so she didn't need the money; she couldn't openly date other men while she was seeing Lionel. What currency was Lionel using to pay this woman to live her life behind a smokescreen?

It was a puzzle too complex for Whitney to reason out. He just wanted the damned party to be over so he could leave and come back and spend the rest of the night where he belonged. Where Lionel had told him he belonged.

He glanced around and realized that the crowd had thinned considerably. Moreover, the string quartet was no longer playing. In its place a Mozart sonata rolled luxuriously from a piano — presumably the one in the Conservatory that housed Lionel's collection of antique instruments.

Wave after wave of the glorious music rolled through the penthouse, filling every crevice, silencing the guests and drawing them to the lone piano that commanded — demanded — their rapt attention. Whitney followed too, captivated. He loved the piano; his favorite evenings with Lionel were spent with something classical playing as a backdrop to their chess games and debates on politics, art, history, music, anything and everything as far as Whitney's limited knowledge would allow him to take any argument. Lionel, on the other hand, was a fountain of knowledge on every subject.

That their debates eventually led to sex was a given.

Whitney moved into the Conservatory and was dumbstruck. Metropolis glittered like a constellation in the night sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows; Whitney didn't notice. All that existed for him at that moment was the music. And the man behind the music.

Lionel was at the piano, lost in the sonata, transported someplace well beyond the growing knot of spellbound guests.

Lionel played the piano. Brilliantly.

Whitney hadn't known. Would never have guessed. An adagio rolled through the room, sweeping over Whitney like a caress. He was captivated.

"You seemed shocked, Whitney."

They'd only met this evening, but the voice was already seared in his brain. Whitney collected himself and made sure he had control of his voice before he turned to Celeste. "Stunned is more like it. I had no idea the boss was musically inclined."

"Oh, yes," she said warmly, her face radiant. "He's quite extraordinary."

"I can tell."

"Celeste! What a pleasure it is to see you!" Lex joined them, his voice low but enthusiastic as he took Celeste's hand and kissed it with old world courtliness. Whitney thought he might puke.

Celeste looked slightly surprised. "Hello, Lex. It's delightful to see you, as well. Lionel and I had given you up for lost."

"Sorry. Business kept me late at the office."

"I understand, of course. We're just happy you made it. I was just telling Whitney that candlelight, a bottle of wine, and Lionel at the piano is my favorite way to spend an evening."

Whitney looked at Lionel lost in the music and felt the inevitable tug of desire. "It would be mine too," he said softly.

"I beg your pardon?" Celeste inclined her head to him.

"I love the piano," he recovered quickly. "Sitting and listening to someone play would be a nice way to spend an evening. Especially if it was someone I loved."

"How charming," Lex said dry. "I had no idea you were such a romantic, Whitney. Your girlfriend — what's her name? Lola? — must be overwhelmed by your romanticism."

"Lois," Whitney corrected him.

"Sorry," Lex said, but clearly he wasn't. "Tell me, Celeste, when did you and Dad rekindle your romance?"

Oh, God! Lex was going to punish him by making him listen to Celeste wax poetic about her imaginary affair with Lionel.

"Last month," she replied without hesitation. Clearly she was ready with a well-rehearsed story. "We ran into each other in Paris quite by chance and..." She paused and tried to blush but couldn't quite pull it off. Still she seemed almost demure as she recalled, "...we rekindled the spark."

"Well, Dad's certainly happy about it," Lex gushed.

"Entirely mutual, I assure you. Whitney, tell me about this lady friend of yours," Celeste invited. "Is there a wedding on the horizon?"

Unable to take his eyes off of Lionel, Whitney was having a hard time following the conversation. And that wasn't the only thing getting hard. "We haven't managed to situate ourselves in the same city yet, so a wedding might be premature," he managed.

"Really? That's wonderful!"

"Careful, Celeste," Lex warned her with a chuckle. "If you're thinking of going after Whitney you'll risk making Dad jealous!"

Whitney shot him warning look, but Celeste didn't seem to notice. She laughed airily. "Sorry, Whitney. That didn't come out quite the way I intended it. I was just thinking that if you're relatively unattached you'd be a perfect candidate for the Bachelor Auction I'm organizing in November."

"Bachelor Auction?"

"For charity."

Lex was frowning now. "The Lillian Luthor Foundation auction?" he asked. "I didn't know you were chairing that committee."

"Oh, I'm just lending a hand," she said airily. "Will you consider it, Whitney?"

Lionel concluded the sonata and his audience rewarded him with a burst of applause. Whitney was so focused on Lionel he was only half aware of answering with a vague, "I'll think about it."

"Excellent! I'm counting that as a yes."

Whitney barely heard her. Applauding, he stepped to the piano as Lionel rose to acknowledge the accolade.

"Bravo!" someone shouted.

Lionel bowed deeply. "Thank you! Now pay up, Dennis! That was a $1,000 contribution from every member of the Art d' Cuisine for one Mozart sonata."

"Worth every penny I'll force them to cough up!" real estate magnate Dennis Covington called back. There was more banter and gradually the audience began milling and mingling, working their way back to the main room. Lionel came around the piano to Whitney.

"Brilliant, boss," Whitney said for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. He angled his body to the piano, looking around casually as he quietly added, "You are so going to regret this."

From the other side of the room, the Governor mimed solo applause and Lionel accepted it with a nod of his head as he replied sotto voce, "Not that I agree with you, but regret what?"

"Not telling me you played."

"You never asked, and why would I regret not telling you?"

"Because I'm so hard right now that I may not be able to leave the nook of this piano until your last guest is gone." Whitney laughed when Lionel's gaze dropped automatically to his crotch. "Tell me, Lionel, have you ever had someone suck you off while you're playing Chopin?"

"No, but I once had something akin to a religious experience with a hand job and Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue." A very hot gaze met Whitney's. "Care to try to top it?"

"How soon can you clear the penthouse?"

"Brilliant, Lionel! You were positively marvelous, darling," Celeste enthused, sweeping in to take control of her date. Whitney was edged aside as Lionel took the society maven into his arms with entirely too much ease.

"Thank you, my dear," Lionel replied warmly. The heat that had been directed at Whitney now belonged to Celeste, and the entire room ceased to exist for them. Celeste whispered something in his ear that obviously pleased him and Lionel murmured back, bending his head to hers.

No! Whitney knew what was coming next and everything inside him shrank into a tight ball of dread. Time moved in slow motion as Lionel captured Celeste's mouth in a deep, sensual kiss that should have been Whitneys, would have been his if the world wasn't cold and narrow and totally fucked up by prejudice and paranoia. This beautiful, brilliant man was his, and no one knew it. No one would ever know it. Watching Lionel kiss Celeste, Whitney suddenly wasn't even sure of it himself.

"Careful, Quarterback. You're jealousy is showing," Lex said whispered in his ear.

Whitney couldn't bear to see any more. Ignoring Lex, he turned from the piano and began weaving his way out of Lionel's audience, out of his Conservatory, past his office, through his dining hall, past his servants...

Once he made it that far, he didn't see any reason not to keep right on going.

When the last guest had departed, Celeste made a final sweep of the party area, giving mostly-unnecessary instructions to the clean-up staff. As near as she could tell, the small crew was composed entirely of Lionel's people; the caterers had been dismissed. The only conceivable reason for that was if a second, more intimate event was scheduled following the fundraiser.

She smiled ruefully at the notion. Knowledge was power, and she was fairly certain she'd gained an extraordinary amount of power tonight. Of course, the idea of using that power against Lionel Luthor was ludicrous, not to mention suicidal. She had far more to gain as Lionel's friend than as his enemy.

"Celeste, you were magnificent!"

She turned and smiled at the praise. "That is what you've hired me for, isn't it?"

Lionel approached with her full-length sable coat draped over one arm. "Well, yes, but I do hope that we won't have to reduce it to those terms very often. Frankly, our friendship is the only thing that makes this arrangement palatable."

"I'm flattered." When he unfurled the coat and held it open to her, Celeste turned and slipped into it. "Thank you."

"No, thank you. The fundraiser was an unqualified success. A triumph for something thrown together on such short notice."

"It wasn't as complicated as many would think. The Jennett's caterers had everything well in hand; it was just a matter of moving the venue to the penthouse."

"Nonetheless, I appreciate your handling of the affair."

"It was my pleasure." She hesitated a moment, weighing the pros and cons of her next move. With Lionel, a direct approach wasn't always the wisest course. Still, given the circumstances he would expect this sooner or later. Clearly he was ready for her to depart, but she decided to get the issue out of the way now. "Lionel, as your friend may I give you a piece of advice?

"Of course."

"Don't do this again."

"What?"

"Invite Mr. Fordman to one of our public appearances."

Lionel's face went very subtly to stone. "I don't know what—" His protest died and he pursed his lips. "Sorry. I won't insult you by denying what I knew you would inevitably guess, since this was only a dress rehearsal for other, more challenging events to come. I didn't think you would unmask us quite so soon, though. Obviously, I overestimated Whitney's capacity for subterfuge."

"And your own," Celeste said with a rueful chuckle. "Lionel, your eyes followed that boy like a compass follows true north. I would have counted myself a lucky woman indeed if you'd ever looked at me like that when we were dating in earnest."

"Don't be absurd. You're exaggerating!"

"I am not! Admit it.There was never a moment that you didn't know where he was tonight!"

Another protest formed, then bit the dust. "Apparently Whitney and I have work to do."

"And bring your son to heel while you're at it," Celeste advised, rather enjoying the storm cloud that formed on Lionel's brow.

"What did he do? I had already committed myself to playing the Mozart when I noticed Lex had arrived."

"He made a beeline for Whitney," Celeste informed him. "The tension between them was palpable. I can't imagine that anyone but me noticed the byplay between you and Whitney, but the contre temps with Alexander will be commented upon next week. You should be prepared for it. They had a rather heated exchange on the balcony. And he also gave a rather nauseating performance for Mr. Fordman's benefit by pretending that he was happy to see me. Tell me, Lionel, has Lex ever approved of any of your paramours?"

He managed not to scowl, but Celeste knew him well enough to sense that he was not amused. "There are days when I'm convinced Lex doesn't approve of my continued presence on this planet. He would find a reason to be displeased if I joined a monastery and left LuthorCorp to him outright. But don't worry about the rumors.The animosity is easily explained. If anyone asks you about it, tell them that Lex was a business partner with Whitney's high school sweetheart back in Smallville."

"And let them draw their own conclusions."

"Precisely. The inference will do them both good. Celeste..." He grazed her cheek with a kiss. "Thank you."

"I'm happy to be your ally, Lionel. I appreciate your trust."

"Yes, well... About that." He stepped behind her and ran the backs of his hands lightly down either side of her neck before sliding the sable from her shoulders. "You and I need to chat."

Celeste suppressed a small shudder of fear. Damn it. She should have kept her mouth shut. "Lionel—"

He bent his head to hers, whispering in her ear, "It's all right, Celeste. You're in no danger."

She didn't find that quite as reassuring as Lionel obviously intended. He indicated that he wanted her to follow him into the study, and only years of graceful navigation through the halls of power kept her composure in place. He tossed her coat over one of the leather wing chairs and Celeste retrieved it, drawing it around her to ward off the deathly chill that suddenly penetrated her bones.

"Should I have held my tongue, Lionel?" she asked as Lionel unlocked a deep drawer in his desk.

"On the contrary. You laid your cards on the table in a gesture designed to convince me that you stand ready and willing to watch my back. I appreciate that. But now you need to see my cards."

Celeste closed her eyes and ran two fingers lightly across her forehead, massaging the sudden headache that was splitting her in two. She had more or less expected what was about to happen, but hadn't really allowed herself to believe it would come to pass. When Lionel had approached her with his offer, he'd given no reason for the ruse and she hadn't felt it necessary to ask. They both knew he was trying to protect a relationship a male lover — one that was obviously very important to him considering what he was giving up.

The very nature of his offer made her privvy to a Luthor secret, and it was widely speculated that Lionel Luthor only shared secrets with those who were protecting even bigger secrets than his.

Celeste's were in the manila folder Lionel laid on his desk and slid toward her.

Without picking it up, she flipped the folder open, saw what she expected to see, and closed the file.

"This wasn't necessary, Lionel."

"Of course it was." He came around the desk and sat in the other wing chair. "Celeste, this has nothing to do with our deal — that will proceed as agreed upon. Nor should it impact on our friendship. My lover is 22. I'm hardly in a position to judge your penchant for young men — although I do believe the fifteen year old son of your neighbor, Judge Allen Richter, was a questionable choice from a legal standpoint."

Celeste leaned back into the corner of the chair. "Would you believe me if I told you I had no idea he was under age?"

"I wouldn't care if you told me you had no idea. Judge Richter might not be so forgiving."

"Lionel—"

He silenced her with a wave of his hand. "That wasn't a threat, only an observation. That folder is nothing more than my insurance policy, Celeste. These photographs and what they represent will never see the light of day as long as I have no reason to believe that you have disclosed what you know — or think you know — about my private life."

"You couldn't just trust our friendship?"

Lionel laughed. "My dear, friendships are bought and sold every day. They are cheaper than dirt. You keep my secrets and I'll keep yours. Betray me and I'll destroy you."

She raised one sculpted brow. "He's that important to you?"

"I protect what's mine, Celeste. Now... " He rose. "I believe your car is waiting."

Lionel escorted Celeste to the elevator, pleased with result of their chat. He honestly hadn't expected her to put the pieces of the puzzle together until after next month's Charity Ball at least, but he was glad to have everything out in the open. More or less.

That was the extent of his pleasure. He was furious with himself for having shown so much to Celeste, and even more furious with his son. Lex had no doubt decided it would be fun to bedevil Whitney about the article in the Daily Planet. Given Whitney's sensitivity to the topic, Lionel didn't blame him for leaving early, although he did wish that his lover would develop a slightly thicker skin.

He had a suspicion that Lex wasn't entirely to blame for Whitney's early departure. On his way back to his office, Lionel called his houseboy away from his clean-up duties.

"Mioshi, did you see Mr. Fordman leave tonight?

"Yes, sir. Mr. Fordman very sad," Mioshi informed him.

Lionel scowled at the commentary. "That wasn't my question, Mioshi. When did he leave?"

"After your Mozart. Miss Willingham kiss you and Mr. Fordman leave."

Lionel bit back a curse. "Mr. Fordman has not returned has he?"

"No, sir."

"Thank you."

He moved into his office and let the curse fly. Several of them. So Whitney's tender young feelings had been twisted out of joint. How could he fail to see that everything that had transpired tonight was for his benefit? Did he think that suitable consorts like Celeste Willingham came cheap? The photographs were nothing more than insurance; their real arrangement was costing Lionel in ways that went far beyond money. He was letting go of a piece of his past. For Whitney.

Why couldn't he see that and accept it?

Perhaps because you haven't told him?

"Yes, well, there is that," he muttered, wishing he could ignore the little voice in his head. He hated explaining himself. In any given situation he took the most logical course of action and expected everyone involved to understand and accept it, without question.

His hotheaded young lover had not grasped the concept of quiet acceptance. Irritating as it was, part of Lionel hoped he never did.

Firing up his computer, he logged into the LuthorComplex security, ran a trace on all of Whitney's security codes, and learned that he had returned to his condo.

He picked up the phone and dialed.

When the phone rang, Whitney was sprawled in his boxer-briefs under a single sheet, his head and shoulders supported by pillows, his favorite dog-eared paperback propped on his chest. The soundtrack to Les Miserables was playing softly on the CD player across the room.

"Whitney? It's Lionel."

Of course, this wasn't his favorite book of all time, just something appropos for this particular time in his life. It would be really pathetic predictable for a gay athlete's favorite book to be a fairy tale about—

"Whitney. I know you're there. Pick up the phone."

—a gay athlete who salvaged his career—

"Damn it, Whitney. Pick up the phone!"

—after he was outed for kissing his lover in—

"Goddamnit!"

—the dressing room at Neiman-Marcus—

"Whitney!"

—and still managed to win it all.

The voice on the phone grew soft. "Whitney, please. We need to talk."

Whitney glared at the answering machine on the bedside table. "Fuck you, Lionel."

"Whitney... ?"

Whitney closed his eyes and fought the urge to grab the phone. That kiss with Celeste kept playing over and over in his head, and no matter how many times he told himself Lionel was doing this for them — for him — he couldn't rid his memory of the heat and vigor and pleasure Lionel had poured into that kiss.

Avoidance seemed like the wisest policy at the moment. He was too confused to talk, too hurt to trust himself not to say something stupid like, "Go to hell, Lionel. I never want to see you again." He couldn't say that because it wasn't true, but loving someone wasn't supposed to be this hard, was it?

When he realized he'd squeezed a tear onto his cheek he cursed and reached for the phone, but the question mark hanging in the air was cut off by a soft click before he got to it.

"Good. Fuck yourself tonight. Or better yet, fuck Ms. Perfect!" He closed his eyes again. "No, don't. Please don't."

He went back to his book -- The Dreyfus Affair. It was like the best kind of old friend; funny, comforting, and easy to be with, even when you hadn't seen each other for a long time. Whitney read the words without really digesting them, keeping his mind focused on anything but Lionel, until finally the book fell aside and sleep claimed him.

Alcohol made the sleep deep and the dreams vivid.

He was at the fundraiser. Music. Chatter. People everywhere, all in tuxedos — even the women — so that all the couples appeared to be men. Lex was there, adjusting Clark's bow tie and smoothing the fabric of his plaid flannel Armani. Brandon Sutton was there, giving a little wave from the bar. The Senator was standing between the two enormous pillars that guarded the entrance to the foyer, scrambling to pick up coins being tossed at him by the party goers.

The crowd seemed to swell, then ebb, like a wave rushing to shore then retreating, and suddenly everyone was gone. Lohengren was being played on a piano, and Whitney followed the music to find Lionel and Celeste in a room full of candles and roses, all in white, a bottle of champagne between them on a white blanket.

Whitney tried to go to Lionel, but Lex shoved him back and he was forced to watch as Lionel kissed Celeste, pushing her back onto the floor, connecting the length of his body with hers. The move was accompanied by laughter and applause, and when Whitney looked around he saw the distorted faces of the Senator and his cronies, cheering on the festivities. When Whitney forced himself to look back at the floorshow, the floor had become a bed. Lionel and Celeste were in it. Naked. Lionel was between her thighs, thrusting into her as Celeste writhed beneath him, calling his name, urging him on, begging him to fuck her harder and faster, and Lionel complied with every request. Except one.

"Lionel, stop it!" Whitney shouted from his front-row seat in the audience beside the bed. He tried to lunge forward and topple Lionel from his berth, but he was tied to his seat, his wrists bound securely to the arm of the chair. The cronies around him boo-ed his shouts, but he kept begging, pleading with Lionel not to do this until finally Lionel looked at him. His thrusts into Celeste slowed, then stopped. Never taking his eyes off Whitney's, he pulled out of her, roughly flipped her onto her stomach, spread her legs, and shoved his cock into her ass. Celeste cried out in orgasmic ecstasy, urging him on even more vigorously than before.

"You see, Whitney? Why would I need you? Why?" Lionel laughed and the Senator's cronies laughed, and Celeste screamed a noisy, endless orgasm and Whitney tried to fight his way out of the chair.

"Whitney, wake up! You're dreaming! Wake up!"

Still flailing against the restraints on his wrists, Whitney followed the voice that offered him an escape from the image of Lionel and Celeste. When he opened his eyes, still thrashing against the restraints, he found Lionel over him, straining to keep his wrists pinned to the mattress on either side of him.

Not nearly as relieved as he should have been, he stopped fighting and glared at Lionel, the hurt from the fundraiser mingling with the disgust and horror of his dream.

Lionel released him and eased back, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Awake now?"

"Fuck you."

"Not a pleasant dream, I take it," Lionel quipped sarcastically.

"Like I said..." Whitney rolled away and came to his feet on the opposite side of the bed. Through the haze it occurred to him that Lionel had never been here before. "How did you get in here?"

Lionel rose, too. He was wearing a nondescript gray jogging suit with the hood pushed back. The hair that normally framed his face was fastened with a rubber band at the back of his head. The flush on his cheeks indicated that he'd jogged here. Whitney was too upset and disoriented to be impressed.

"Owning real estate has its perks. My personal security team ran interference with Building Security to get me up here unobserved, and I have my own passkey."

Whitney scowled at him. "How do I change the lock?"

Lionel didn't move a muscle, but his whole body seemed to retreat, as though he'd retracted anything that might be exposed and vulnerable. There was an interminable pause before he replied, "I'll see to it tomorrow." He reached into the zippered pouch of his jacket and tossed the cardkey onto the bed. "Excuse the intrusion. Pleasant dreams." He turned and headed for the door.

Shit. Whitney couldn't tell what was real anger and what was residue from the nightmare. "Lionel! Wait."

He stopped, paused as though weighing his decision, and finally turned. He said nothing, just regarded Whitney coldly, waiting.

The ice in Lionel's eyes was enough to give Whitney chillblanes, but I'll be damned before I apologize, he swore to himself. "I have a right to be pissed that you have unrestricted access to my home."

"Why? You have access to mine."

"By your choice," Whitney pointed out, reaching across the bed for the cardkey. "I, apparently, don't get a say in the matter, even when it comes to my own property."

"Point taken. As I said, I'll talk to Building Maintenance about having the locks changed tomorrow."

"Don't bother." Whitney tossed the card like a miniature frisbee. It made a pinwheel in the air and Lionel caught it with ease. "You're welcome here any time."

It wasn't at all romantic, but it settled the issue. Lionel tucked the key in his pocket. "Why didn't you come back to the penthouse tonight as we agreed?"

"Gee, let me think. Could it have anything to do with not wanting to walk in on you humping Celeste?"

Lionel sighed with exasperation. "Quite aside from the fact that I've told you I'm not sleeping with Celeste, why would I bed her believing you were on your way?"

"I don't know. You seem to think ambush is a perfectly logical way to run a relationship."

"When have I ambushed you?"

"You're kidding, right? How about the cardkey? Or enrolling me in a fundraiser without asking me? Or telling me you have a new girlfriend five minutes before she arrives? Or shoving your tongue down her throat right in front of me! Pick an ambush, any ambush! And that's just from today!"

Lionel went to the closet and rifled until he found a robe, which he promptly tossed at Whitney. "Put this on."

"Why?"

"Because you're 95% naked and I can't argue effectively when my cock is screaming 'Shut up and fuck him!'"

"Fat chance."

"I got that impression. Now, dress!"

Whitney's glare sizzled in the air between them, but he did as requested. Just to be contrary, he refused to belt the robe, letting it hang open however it wanted. "Better?"

"Only marginally." Lionel shook his head his head in frustration and sighed deeply. "You are turning out to be exceedingly high maintenance, Mr. Fordman."

"Then why do you bother?"

"For reasons that pass understanding, I seem to think you're worth it."

The backhanded compliment was meant to charm him, but Whitney refused to be charmed. "For how long?"

"Is there a meter running? Do you have an expiration date I should know about?"

"I'm serious."

"Far too much so. Why are you so angry?"

"Because I want you to stop treating me like a piece of furniture! I'm not Whitney the Fuckable Futon Action Figure! Dress him in designer suits, wind him up, fuck his ass, and stomp on him if he gets too close, asks for too much, or dares to be hurt by watching the man he loves kiss his former mistress!"

"You're exaggerating!"

"I'm also emotional and irrational! Why don't you beat me over the head with that, too! Lionel—" He stopped, closed his eyes, and massaged the pounding in his temples. On top of everything else, he was being attacked by a massive hangover. "Lionel, I didn't come back to the penthouse tonight because I was afraid I'd tell you to take your girlfriend and shove her up your ass. Now, unless you want me to say things we'll both regret, please leave. I love you, but I can't handle this right now. I don't want to handle this. Okay?"

"When do you think you might be ready to address the problem?"

"I don't know. Just not tonight." Whitney shrugged out of the robe, crawled into bed and slid under the covers. "Don't take this the wrong way, but please leave." He rolled over, presenting his back to Lionel. "Get the light on your way out."

There was a long pause before the light was extinguished. But instead of quiet footfalls on the carpet, Whitney heard the rustle and brush of fabric. Moments later, the mattress sank behind him.

"I have a guest room."

"I know."

Lionel shifted closer until he was spooned against Whitney's back. Naked. The flesh-on-flesh sent an involuntary tremor through Whitney; the warm, moist breath on his neck made him close his eyes as though that would shut out the sensations.

"I'm pissed at you, Lionel."

"I know that, too."

"I don't want to be fucked."

"Yes, you do," he whispered. His tongue made a lazy circle on Whitney's shoulder, and one hand began a slow exploration of his chest, pausing to roll one nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then lightly tease the crest with the tip of his fingernail when it hardened. Whitney groaned.

"Damn it, Lionel... Don't make me want you."

Lionel ran his hand down Whitney's flank, sliding beneath the band of his shorts. By the time he made it to Whitney's cock, it was twitching in anticipation. "Too late..." Lionel whispered.

Whitney moaned as Lionel's talented fingers played over the head and shaft of his cock, coaxing it to hardness. As though the two were somehow connected, Lionel's cock hardened as well; Whitney could feel it against his thigh, growing longer and thicker. He ached to touch it. Taste it, but he had to remind himself that this wasn't something he wanted.

"I'll never forgive you." It was a whisper in the dark, as was the reply.

"Yes you will. Where are your condoms and lube?"

Need. Hunger. Pain. A hand on his cock driving him insane. "Bedside table. Behind you." Whitney moaned when Lionel rolled away from him and sighed when his heat and hardness returned. Lionel peeled Whitney's boxer-briefs down, but he couldn't free his cock or bare his ass without Whitney's help.

Whitney levered his hip off the bed and kicked away the last pretense that he didn't want Lionel's cock in his ass making everything go away but pleasure of being fucked.

He felt warm breath on his cheek as Lionel whispered, "Thirty-one days, Whitney. I count them." A lube-slick finger teased Whitney's ass, tracing the pucker, and Whit drew one knee up toward his chest, granting the access Lionel needed."Thirty-one days until we can be tested and know that we're safe, know that I can breach you with only my cock, just me fucking you with nothing between us." The finger slid gently inside, moved, twisted, found its target, making Whitney gasp and writhe.

"Oh, God, Lionel," Whitney moaned.

"I want to feel you, not latex. I want to pulse inside you. Every sensation, raw." Whitney was grinding now, fucking himself on the clever finger in his ass, and then the magic was gone, but only for a second. Lionel's cock pierced his tight rim. He grabbed Whitney's hips to anchor him as he pushed in another inch, then two, gently easing the way. "How can you imagine that I would snatch that pleasure away from us for a meaningless fuck with Celeste when this is all I want? All I think about... All I crave..." Lionel's voice was as raw as the hunger he described. He thrust hard, buried deep, then slid his hand down the back of Whitney's thigh, reaching between his legs to gently cup his sac, kneading it.

Whitney twisted his torso, flattening his shoulders on the mattress so that he could claim Lionel's mouth in a searing kiss. Their tongues mated, dueled, and when the kiss ended, Whitney couldn't remember anything but how much he loved this man. "I love you."

"I know."

"Fuck me."

"Say please."

"Please, oh GOD, please!" Lionel withdrew his cock almost completely and Whitney knew what was coming, knew that Lionel was going to give him exactly what he craved.

"Hard." Lionel rammed into him and Whitney cried out. "Again!"

He fucked him harder, rocking in and out, but the angle wasn't quite right. Whitney raised his leg and cried out as each stroke connected with his prostate, stroking and hammering, stroke, hammer. The rhythm was hard and fast, relentless. Whitney's weeping cock pulsed like the beating of his heart, screaming for friction until Whitney could stand it no longer. He began jacking himself mercilessly, his pace as hard and fast as the cock in his ass. Lionel's cock. His beautiful cock. Fucking him. Hard. Taking him. Murmuring in his ear again. Not sentences now, though. Not even random thoughts, just words of ownership. Not love, never love, but possession, hunger, completion, the ragged voice telling Whitney over and over who he belonged to.

Whitney came to the sound of Lionel's voice, spilling onto the sheets in hard jets, and even though he could tell that Lionel was nearly there, his lover reached out and grabbed his cock, jacking the few final strokes, coating his hand in Whitney's cum and thrusting frantically, flesh slapping against flesh as he came, filling the reservoir of the condom as he pumped until there was nothing left but his sated cock buried to the hilt inside his lover, held in place by muscles that clenched around him.

"Don't pull out," Whitney pleaded as Lionel's arms wrapped tightly around him, fusing them together. "Let me feel you."

Lionel's soft kisses were warm on his neck. "All right."

Silence as their breathing returned to near normal, then, "Tell me why."

"Celeste?"

"Yes."

"I'm giving her the thing she craves most."

Whitney knew what he wanted most; he was cradled in its arms, its sated cock still buried in his ass. If Celeste's desire crossed Whitney's, there was going to be hell to pay. "What?"

"I'm stepping down as chairman of the Lillian Luthor Foundation and endorsing Celeste for the position."

Whitney was beyond amazed, stunned. The Foundation that was his late wife's legacy sponsored more than half of all the charitable social functions in the city. The position would make Celeste the most socially powerful woman in the state. "Lionel... You've held onto that chair with a death grip since Lillian died."

"Since before she died," he said softly. "She turned it over to me before her last operation, when we both knew she'd run out of time."

He covered Lionel's hands with his, ran them up and down his forearms. "Why would you give it up?"

"Rumors are growing that I have a lover in Metropolis and I can't let them lead to you. There are a score of social functions this fall and winter in which I must participate, and if I don't have someone on my arm, the scrutiny will become intense. You must be protected at all costs." The arms around him tightened. "Our relationship could destroy you, Whitney. If I wasn't a selfish bastard, I'd give you up for your own good, but I can't do that. All I can do is protect you the best way I know how. Celeste is the perfect solution to my problem. I give her the power she craves, and in return, I get what I want."

"What's that?"

Lionel wiggled his hips. "It's in my arms and sheathing my cock right now."

He sounded sleepy, like Whitney felt, but he couldn't let it go. "Lionel..."

"Mmmm... Yes?" his voice was barely there.

"Is... Never mind..."

Lionel roused himself a little. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Will it fester?"

"Probably," Whitney admitted.

"Then ask."

"I'm high maintenance, too sentimental. Emotional, unrealistic. Is there anything beyond the physical that makes you want to be with me?" He held his breath, waiting.

"Yes."

Relief, but not the sweet bliss of belief. "What?"

He felt Lionel shake his head. "If I tell you, you'll become self-conscious. Everything will change."

Whitney knew he was right. He still wanted to know, but he couldn't press. "But I'm not just a pretty face with a tight ass?"

The beard against his neck tickled. "No. Now go to sleep."

A long silence, deep, even breathing, then, "Don't you want to know?"

A groan. "What?"

"If I think you're more than a pretty face and a hard cock?"

Whitney felt Lionel's smile. "You mean a long hard cock, don't you?"