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It was one thing to stand there for hours while Harold built a suit around him, but John felt pretty strongly there were some parts of a man's wardrobe that needed to be handled privately.
"That would be true, Mr. Reese," Harold said, rather cuttingly, "if there were any evidence that you'd handled it successfully. And while I grant you there are some billionaires who are less punctilious in their expectations," he added with a dry twitch of an eyebrow, "I'm afraid that Harold Crane would by no means have hired an asset manager who didn't present himself in a most particular way."
"I don't see anything sticking out, Harold," John said.
"Precisely," Harold said. "Whatever you're wearing is at least a full size too small in every dimension. Go and try these on."
He held out the stack of boxes peremptorily. John sighed and took them and went into the back room.
"I'm flopping," he muttered, after he'd pulled on the first one. It was baggy all over, sides and end.
"Have you secured the hood properly?" Harold called in from the first room. "It should fit firmly over the — "
"Feel free to come in and put this on me if you don't think I can handle it," John said, and realized his mistake after he heard Harold's faint sigh and the scrape of his chair wheels on the floor. He opened his mouth to say he hadn't meant it, but Harold was already there, staring as though John had inflated it like a balloon and stuck it on his head.
"What are you doing?" Harold said. "And does — " He picked up John's old one between thumb and forefinger with an expression of dismay. "Does this have Lycra?" He dropped it in the trash can, with distaste, and advanced on him. John yielded to his apparently inevitable fate and fixed his eyes on the transom window. Although if Harold pulled any hair —
Harold didn't pull any hair; he settled one hand against John's balls, palm under his cock, the base of the sheath secured with his thumb and forefinger, gripped him with the other hand and stroked him three times, quick and oddly professional. John's cock lengthened.
"Flopping, honestly," Harold was muttering, disdainfully. There was a small round silver knot near the base of the sheath; John had assumed it was just decorative, but Harold took it and pushed it up so it sat right under the head of John's cock, then pulled the rest of the hood down the other side. He pressed against it with his thumb, a firm squeeze, then ran his thumb down a thin silver filament the length of the sheath, aligning it, then ran his fingers down the underside to do the same there.
John tried not to make a noise. It was a bizarre combination of embarrassment and relief: the sheath abruptly felt much better.
"Now, then," Harold said, and wagged John's cock, up and down, and then jerked him firmly four times. The sheath warmed under his hands, and okay, it was starting to feel a little more secure — a lot more secure — Harold took the top band, looped it around the base of John's balls and buttoned it down; then he reached down and got the thigh band and hooked the loop down over the head, fitting just over the knot, and buttoned it as well. John swallowed a gasp.
"There," Harold said, stepping back and looking him over critically. John looked down. His cock was pinned securely down but full and heavy, swollen, obscene-looking. The sheath was silvery grey, translucent and incredibly thin; he could see his veins pressing against it.
"And you think that's not going to show?" he said. His voice sounded tight and high. It felt fantastic.
"Of course it's going to show," Harold said absently. "It's supposed to show." He shook his head. "It's infinitely better, of course, but the fit still isn't quite right. You need more room at the head. Take it off; we'll try the Ferragamo."
Three sheaths later, Harold was saying, "Of course what we really need is to get you into a proper tailor for a custom fitting," as he worked the Armani sheath on. He had to roll it up slowly at this point. John had to admit, in a distant way, that Harold knew what he was doing. He hadn't pinched or jabbed or wrenched even once. He also hadn't tugged or squeezed or stroked any more than was absolutely necessary. John was determined to be equally grateful for both things.
Harold finally got the sheath secured, top and bottom, and took his hands away again. "Hm," he said. He reached out and ran his thumb along the aligning thread, up and down. Then again. John's cock strained into the touch involuntarily. Harold stroked two fingers along the thread on the other side. "All right," he said. "That should do. Put your pants back on and we'll see how it lies."
Teeth clenched, John grabbed his pants off the back of a chair and put them on. He had a struggle with the button-fly; his fingers barely fit between his cock and the buttons. "Good," Harold said approvingly, watching. John glared at him and got the last buttons done up.
"I look like I just got head in a back alley," he said tightly.
Harold made a small exasperated noise without looking up from John's crotch. "The opposite."
"And looking like I'm desperate is the idea?"
"The idea, Mr. Reese," Harold said, looking up at him finally, an eyebrow raised, "is to convey that you have the virile energy to take anyone in the room, with the implication that you are restrained from doing so only by immense self-control. It is, of course, an aggressive display, one calculated to make other aggressive men in the room feel challenged and uncomfortable; that is precisely the effect that John Rooney desires to have."
"And John Rooney's employer?" John said, deliberately eyeing Harold's pants: he realized belatedly that he could see, actually, a faint suggestive curving against the inner line of the left thigh.
Harold glanced down at himself. "This isn't one of Mr. Crane's suits, I assure you," he said. "I prefer a relaxed but restrained style, personally; he has rather more particular tastes."
John leaned back against the desk. He started crossing his legs and had to think better of it and stop at the ankles. "I'd love to see," he said silkily.
Harold raised an eyebrow at him. "When and if that becomes necessary, Mr. Reese, I'm sure you will. For now, I believe you have an appointment to get to."
#
John didn't get to see one of Mr. Crane's suits for a while. By then he'd gotten hooked on John Rooney's sheathing style himself, when there wasn't a reason to dress otherwise. It was more comfortable, and though John had never consciously realized it before, it turned out almost everyone at least glanced. Now they routinely glanced long enough for him to notice, even though usually they didn't mean to.
It was especially entertaining when he ran into bruisers; they almost all added an extra edge of aggressive and sloppy as soon as they'd looked — and they all looked.
Naturally he looked, too, when he finally got the chance. The latest number was Amelia Higby, a senior deputy chief of development at the Metropolitan Museum, which seemed to mean someone who raised lots of money from very rich people. Harold made a few phone calls, wired over a chunk of cash, and it turned out she was delighted to have lunch with Harold Crane and his asset manager.
"We'll meet in the Greek and Roman galleries at twelve," Harold said, pushing himself up from his desk.
John raised an eyebrow. "Going somewhere before then, Harold?"
"Certainly, Mr. Reese," Harold said. "Home to change. As, I trust, are you."
The galleries weren't that busy in the middle of a weekday in late February, and full of sunlight; John had a perfect view for appreciating the details of Harold Crane's suit as he approached: razor-sharp creases and the subtle dark purple pin-stripe, the perfect polish of the shoes, the glowingly crisp color of the tie. Everything looked luxuriously comfortable and like it had come out of a box five minutes ago, at the same time.
And of course, there were the more intimate details to examine — or in this case, the lack thereof. He raised an eyebrow as he joined Harold in front of a very big urn. "I thought it was supposed to show?"
"Hm?" Harold leaned back and glanced at him. "Oh, it does, quite dramatically; but only under limited circumstances. Somewhat uncomfortably, in fact," he added, rueful.
"And what's that supposed to imply?" John said.
"That should those circumstances arise," Harold said, "Mr. Crane would expect them to be handled immediately and efficiently."
John was deeply amused by that for about three seconds before the implications of John Rooney being with Mr. Crane landed; he abruptly developed a fascination with reading every single detail about the urn and where they'd dug it up and how old it was, trying as hard as he could not to imagine — not to think about —
That worked about as well as could be expected.
Ms. Higby was enthusiastic and chirpy and sharp-eyed. She darted one fast look at both of them, assessing, trying to decide who to say hello to first; her eyes did in fact linger on John's crotch a tiny bit too long, but Harold was the one she turned to, smiling. "Mr. Crane? I'm Amelia Higby. It's lovely to meet you!"
They had lunch in a beautiful private restaurant overlooking the park. Harold bluejacked Ms. Higby's phone and accepted her invitation to show him a few special items in the stacks, while John ostensibly headed back to the office. Instead he slipped down the hall to her office, and started downloading her files and email. He idly scanned through the inbox while they copied, then stopped abruptly at Hey, have you noticed these discrepancies? from her secretary.
Two minutes later he'd found the trail: chirpy Ms. Higby had been helping herself to a healthy finder's fee on big donations, for roughly the last ten years. She'd also helped herself, according to the label on the empty envelope on the desk, to a ceremonial dagger from the Near East collection in an excellent state of preservation, and not of much historical interest.
John nodded to himself, satisfied; it looked pretty open and shut. Then he noticed the email Higby had sent back, just half an hour ago. She'd told the secretary that the discrepancies had somehow gotten filtered into a separate account; she'd found the money. John frowned and looked harder — then he realized Harold's donation was nowhere to be seen.
John knocked down three security guards and set off two alarms on the way, heart pounding in time with the wailing sirens until he found Harold, panting and with a small scratch on his cheek, stumbling out of the stacks from between two looming caryatids. "Where is she?" John said.
Harold waved a hand breathlessly, back towards the dark crammed room behind him. "There was a handy sarcophagus," he said. "I thought she couldn't do much damage inside there." He looked up at the wailing alarm. "Perhaps we'd better leave before too many questions are asked. I doubt Ms. Higby will volunteer any information that would upgrade the imminent charges against herself from — embezzlement, I assume? — to attempted murder."
John got them out an emergency stairwell and into Harold's car, which luckily had been waiting out front. Harold clambered in and collapsed back into the seat, still breathing hard and flushed; John climbed in after him and yanked the door shut. "Madison and 35th," he told the driver, and pushed the button to slide the divider up.
He sat back and relaxed as they pulled into traffic, one anonymous towncar of five on Fifth Avenue just in eyeshot, even as the museum guards came spilling bewildered out of the side of the building. John grinned towards them through the one-way glass of the window, then looked over as Harold made a small noise of discomfort.
He was dabbing the small cut on his cheek with a handkerchief, but it had already crusted over. His tie was snug, barely a quarter of an inch off from center; the creases were only a little softened, but the contrast was sharp. He was erect, visibly, almost rudely; not just a subtle curve but a distinct bulge against the fly, distorting the line of the pants. John could see part of the outline of the thigh strap under the material.
Harold ran a hand over his face and reached for one of the bottles of water sitting in the seat divider. He caught John looking and grimaced, unselfconscious. "I don't believe there's such a thing as excessive attention to detail," he said, a little plaintively, "but I didn't really anticipate a lunch meeting would be a source of, well, excitement."
"Adrenaline usually does it," John said, hand clenched on his thigh.
"I would have thought the blood would have an offsetting effect," Harold said. "But evidently you're right." He drank thirstily and grimaced again. "And I suppose at this time of day it will be at least half an hour back." He shifted on the seat, uncomfortably.
The divider was up, soundproof, smoked, but it wasn't completely opaque; good bodyguard style. The driver couldn't watch their mouths but could see their bodies move. John watched the driver's head and heard himself say, "I'm pretty sure Mr. Crane wouldn't tolerate waiting that long."
Harold halted, the bottle halfway to his mouth, and gave John an astonished look that clenched his stomach into a hard knot. But then Harold turned straight ahead again, blinked twice, and abruptly he lowered the bottle and capped it and put it back into the cupholder.
"No," he said, "not at all," a remote, steely note in his voice that sent a shiver of relief and lust along John's spine; and John Rooney, who knew damn well when he was the smaller shark in the pond, went to his knees in the footwell and reached up to open Mr. Crane's pants.
Harold only watched him, steadily, and didn't offer any help. John unbuttoned him carefully, respectfully, and folded back the sides of the fly. The sheath had a long thigh tether: that was why it bulged; that also made it very easy to undo. John unbuttoned it, slipped the straining top loop free; Harold sighed out almost soundlessly with relief as the restraints were removed, relaxing into the seat. The sheath itself wasn't even really a sheath — just a wrap of soft, cool, parchment-thin linen, very loose, stitched with silk thread. It opened with four small buttons along the length.
John's heart was pounding as he worked it carefully open. He bent his head and took Harold's cock into his mouth: the smooth head, the faintly salt taste. Harold put a hand on John's head, not demanding. He didn't need to demand. Harold was going to come in his mouth, and John was going to swallow. He was going to lick him completely clean. He was —
John gripped the seat with one hand to keep it from shaking. He wrapped the other around the base of Harold's cock and slid his mouth further down, careful of his teeth, careful of Harold's body, its limitations. He eased the head deeper along his tongue. His cock was straining against his own sheath, urgent but comfortable; in the sheath Harold had gotten made for him, the perfect size, perfect not just to make a statement but perfect to wait in, because sometimes John Rooney was expected to — to manage assets. John shut his eyes and sucked.
Harold's breath quickened; then a little more; then he was coming — no delay, no holding back; John swallowed and waited, made sure Harold was done, softening; he carefully let him slide out and laid him back in the sheath: buttoned it again, secured it, tucked him back in. He buttoned up Harold's fly.
He got up and sat back on his own side of the car, breathing hard. It hadn't taken more than five minutes. Rooney would have opened a bottle of water right away, taken several deep drinks. John licked his lips and kept the taste in his mouth: bitter and odd, a kind of trophy. He stared out the window at the dark city. Rooney and Crane would never discuss this; would never talk about it.
"That," Harold said, sounding wobbly, "was extraordinary."
John jerked his head around. Harold was leaning back in the seat with his eyes wide, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling; he looked utterly relaxed, and nothing like Crane; Crane would never have allowed himself to look so vulnerable.
"How far are we from the library? No, never mind, that's intolerable," Harold reached forward a hand and pressed the intercom button. "Driver," he said, "I've changed my mind; take us to 15 Central Park West." He released the button.
"What's there?" John said, his voice harsh in his own ears.
"Mr. Crane's residence," Harold said. "I'm not waiting through midtown traffic at this hour. My God." He shut his eyes and gave a small groan, unashamed.
John had to look away again. His leg wanted to start jittering. "Won't Mr. Crane's doorman be curious?"
"Mr. Crane has a personal staff, of course; under the circumstances, I think it's quite reasonable for Mr. Rooney to be added to the access list."
"So he's getting a promotion?"
"Oh, no," Harold said, mildly reproving. "That would be quite crass, really. Unworthy of the gesture. Merely an acknowledgement of — fallen boundaries, shall we say."
Crane's bedroom had a wall of windows looking onto the park, crisp white sheets and a spare titanium bedframe. John thought Rooney was going to get tied to the bed at some point soon and experimented with. "I do think Crane will find him increasingly fascinating," Harold murmured in agreement, pressing warm tender kisses down John's chest, his skillful hands working on John's pants. John shuddered, lifting his hips to meet the brush of Harold's fingers. "Finding such an unexpected capacity for devotion would, after all, be remarkable. If you find a sincere one plausible; I doubt Crane could be deceived easily or for long."
He bent his head and closed his mouth over the head of John's sheath, breathed out: the warm puff stirred the whole length of the sheath. John panted. "I think Rooney — likes power," he managed.
"Mm," Harold said. "Yes. That does sound workable. Both the exercise and the — experience thereof?"
"Yeah," John said, and then Harold slid the sheath off him, and they didn't speak for some time. Mr. Crane probably wouldn't give his asset manager a blowjob, but it turned out Harold felt no similar constraints, and John couldn't find any words while it lasted except for please.
They lay side by side catching their breath afterwards. The sun was slanting low across the park, the changing trees a blur of red and gold this far up. The bed was warm and unbelievably comfortable, luxurious, silky-cool sheets all over his entirely naked body. As he stopped shuddering, John rolled onto his side and nuzzled at Harold's neck, slid a hand over his hip and cuddled in, daring; Harold made a small pleased noise and put an arm around John's shoulders, the tips of his fingers sliding into the hair at the base of his head.
# End