Chapter 3: Marine One
The cold night air hit them like a sobering slap, but it did nothing to douse the heat between them. Matthew led the way, Lucas following a half-step behind, their shoulders brushing. The bass from the Marine House faded into the hum of the city, replaced by the tap of their shoes on wet pavement.
“Fuck, it’s cold,” Lucas muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Not for long,” Matthew said, and the promise in his voice sent a visible shiver through Lucas that had nothing to do with the temperature.
They cut through a narrower side street, a shortcut Matthew had learned. The sounds of the main road grew distant. It was there, under the single jaundiced eye of a streetlamp, that Matthew stopped. He glanced back the way they’d come.
Across the street and fifty yards back, two figures were just exiting the gate of 42 Wellington Road. Patrick’s taller frame, Mike’s solid one beside him. They were turned toward each other, talking, but as Matthew watched, Patrick’s head lifted. His gaze tracked down the empty street and found them, two shadows under the lamp.
A current, reckless and sharp, jolted through Matthew. The memory of Patrick’s watchful eyes at the party, of the sounds through the wall, fused into a single impulse.
He grabbed Lucas by the front of his jacket and yanked him into the black mouth of an alleyway, pinning him against the cold brick.
Lucas gasped, startled, but the sound was swallowed as Matthew crushed their mouths together.
This wasn’t like the tentative kiss in the bedroom. This was raw claim. Matthew’s tongue swept into Lucas’s mouth, tasting beer and the lingering salt of sweat. Lucas groaned, a deep, surrendering sound, and his hands came up to fist in Matthew’s hair, holding him close. The kiss was messy, hungry, all teeth and clashing breath fogging in the cold air. Matthew ground his hips forward, finding the hard line of Lucas’s erection through their jeans, and Lucas bucked against him with a choked-off curse.
“Jesus, Matthew,” he panted against his lips.
“He’s not here,” Matthew murmured, biting down on Lucas’s lower lip before pulling away. He glanced toward the street. The figures were gone, swallowed by the night or their own route home. A fierce, petty triumph flared in his chest.
The rest of the walk was a tense, silent sprint of anticipation. They didn’t speak. Hands found each other, fingers lacing tightly, squeezing. By the time Matthew fumbled his key into the lock of his building’s front door, Lucas was pressed against his back, mouth hot on the nape of his neck.
They stumbled up the stairs. Matthew’s apartment door opened and then slammed shut behind them, the sound echoing in the small foyer. The quiet of the flat was profound, a stark contrast to the roaring party and the windy streets. The only light came from the streetlamp outside, casting long, distorted shadows across the bookshelves.
They were on each other before Matthew could even flip a switch.
In the semi-darkness, it was all hands and mouths and frantic breath. Matthew backed Lucas against the closed door, his body pinning him there. He grabbed the hem of Lucas’s Henley and pulled it up. Lucas lifted his arms obediently, and Matthew dragged the shirt over his head, letting it fall forgotten to the floor.
The dim light carved Lucas’s physique into a masterpiece of shadow and pale skin. Defined pectorals, the hard ridges of his abdomen, the deep V-cut leading downward. He was all earned muscle, the product of relentless discipline, yet he trembled under Matthew’s gaze.
“Fuck,” Matthew breathed, the word full of reverence and hunger.
He splayed his hands over Lucas’s chest, feeling the rapid hammer of his heart, the heat of his skin. He leaned in and licked a stripe over one nipple, then took the tight bud into his mouth, sucking hard. Lucas cried out, his head thumping back against the door. Matthew switched to the other, his hands roaming down the quivering planes of his stomach, tracing the line of hair that disappeared into his jeans.
He dropped to his knees.
Looking up at Lucas from this angle was a revelation. The blonde was breathing hard, looking down with wide, dark eyes, his hands pressed flat against the door as if for support. Matthew made quick work of his belt, the button, the zipper. He shoved jeans and briefs down in one rough motion, freeing Lucas’s cock.
It sprang out, fully erect, thick and flushed. Matthew didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward and took the head into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the slit, tasting the first salty pre-cum.
“Oh, god,” Lucas whimpered, his hips giving an involuntary jerk.
Matthew took him deeper, his hands gripping Lucas’s hips to steady him. He worked him with a practiced, relentless rhythm, using his tongue, his suction, the wet, filthy sounds loud in the quiet room. Lucas’s fingers tangled in his hair, not guiding, just holding on.
“Matthew… I’m not gonna last… please…”
Matthew pulled off with a wet pop. He stood, kissing Lucas deeply, letting him taste himself. “Bedroom. Now.”
They left a trail of clothing—Matthew’s shirt, Lucas’s jeans, socks—a breadcrumb path of urgency down the short hall. In the bedroom, Matthew finally turned on a small bedside lamp, casting a warm pool of light over the disheveled bed.
They were both naked now. Matthew’s lean, smooth form a contrast to Lucas’s ripped, golden physique. Their cocks stood hard between them. The air was charged, thick.
Matthew pushed Lucas gently onto the bed, climbing over him, straddling his thighs. He looked down at the beautiful, wrecked face below him. Lucas’s lips were swollen, his eyes blown black with desire.
“What do you want?” Matthew asked, his voice low and rough. “You said you were figuring it out. So figure it out now. Tell me.”
Lucas’s gaze drifted down Matthew’s body, lingering with blatant hunger on his erection. He licked his lips. “I want to suck you,” he said, the words husky but clear. “I want to taste you come.”
The directness sent a shock of pure lust straight to Matthew’s core. He shifted, kneeling beside Lucas’s head. “Then do it.”
Lucas moved with an eagerness that was utterly captivating. He propped himself on an elbow, his other hand wrapping around the base of Matthew’s cock. He didn’t tease. He looked up, met Matthew’s eyes, and took him deep into his mouth in one smooth, stunning motion.
Matthew groaned, his head falling back. “Christ.”
Lucas was… shockingly good. For someone claiming inexperience, his mouth was a revelation—hot, wet, and relentless. He used his tongue expertly, tracing the vein underneath, flicking over the sensitive head. He deep-throated with a focused determination that made Matthew’s thighs tremble. The visual was obscenely beautiful: the young Marine, his crew cut faintly mussed, his lips stretched wide, totally devoted to the task of pleasuring him.
“Just like that,” Matthew panted, his fingers carding through Lucas’s short hair, not forcing, just feeling. “Your mouth is so fucking good. You swallow me so deep.”
Lucas moaned around him, the vibration rippling through Matthew’s entire body. The tight, wet heat, the hungry sounds, the sheer unexpected skill of it—it was too much. The coil in his gut wound tight, unbearably tight.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, his voice strangled.
Lucas just doubled down, his pace increasing, his free hand cupping Matthew’s balls, massaging gently. That was the final trigger.
With a guttural shout, Matthew came, pulsing hard down Lucas’s throat. Lucas swallowed convulsively, taking every drop, not pulling away until Matthew, oversensitive, gently guided his head back.
They both collapsed onto the pillows, breathing in ragged unison. After a moment, Matthew turned his head. Lucas was looking at him, a streak of cum still glistening at the corner of his mouth. He looked dazed, triumphant, and unbearably young.
Matthew leaned over and licked the streak away, kissing him softly. “My turn.”
He moved down the bed, kissing his way down Lucas’s chest and stomach. When he took Lucas into his mouth, Lucas arched off the bed with a sharp cry. Matthew worked him with a slow, deliberate thoroughness, paying back the pleasure. He could feel the tension building in the body beneath him, the muscles locking, the breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
“Matthew… I can’t… I’m gonna…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. His hips stuttered off the bed and he came with a choked-off sob, his release flooding Matthew’s mouth. Matthew stayed with him until he was spent, until he collapsed back onto the mattress, boneless and gasping.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their slowing breaths. Then a low, disbelieving chuckle escaped Lucas.
“Holy shit,” he breathed.
Matthew crawled back up and stretched out beside him. A laugh bubbled out of him too, born of release and sheer absurdity. “Yeah. That about covers it.”
Lucas turned onto his side, curling into Matthew’s chest, one heavy arm thrown across his waist. They lay in the warm, messy quiet. The streetlamp glow painted their tangled legs silver.
“Was that… okay?” Lucas asked after a while, the vulnerability returning now that the frenzy had passed.
“It was a lot better than okay,” Matthew said, meaning it. He traced idle patterns on Lucas’s shoulder. “You’re a natural.”
Lucas smiled against his skin. “I had a good teacher. Just now, I mean.”
They talked then, in the quiet dark. Lucas talked about the terror and thrill of his first rifle qualification, the weird canned vegetables they got in care packages. Matthew shared a story about a diplomatic incident in Amsterdam involving a stolen bicycle and an irate ambassador. The conversation was easy, punctuated by lazy touches and soft laughter.
A glance at the clock shattered the peace.
“Shit,” Lucas groaned. “I have to go. If I’m not back by 0100, the Gunny will have my ass on a platter. Literally.”
The mood shifted, practical and hurried. They untangled and dressed in silence, the intimacy of moments before replaced by the awkwardness of pulling on jeans in the dark. By the door, Lucas hesitated.
“So… this was…”
“This was good,” Matthew finished for him. He stepped close, cupping Lucas’s face. “We’ll do it again. Soon.”
He kissed him, a deep, promising kiss that left them both a little breathless. “Be careful going back.”
“Always am,” Lucas said with a grin. He opened the door and slipped out into the hall.
Matthew followed, leaning in his own doorway, watching Lucas jog down the stairs. As the front door of the building clicked shut, Matthew turned to go back inside.
At that exact moment, the main entrance to the building opened again.
Patrick and Mike walked in, cheeks flushed from the cold and the walk. They stopped dead, frozen in the small foyer, just as Matthew, smiling faintly from his post-coital haze, was closing his own door. Their eyes went from Matthew’s clearly undressed state—shirt unbuttoned, hair mussed—to the freshly closed front door, then back to his face.
Understanding dawned on their features, vivid and simultaneous. Patrick’s eyes widened, a complex flood of surprise and something else—shock, maybe a flicker of the old heat. Mike’s expression was more guarded, but his observant eyes missed nothing, connecting the dots with swift, quiet accuracy.
Matthew held Patrick’s gaze for a beat longer than necessary. He didn’t say a word. He simply let his smile deepen, a small, private, victorious thing, and then stepped back into his apartment, closing the door softly but firmly on their stunned silence.
He leaned against the wood, listening. He heard their slow, heavy footsteps start up the stairs, passing his door, continuing up to the floor above. Not a word was spoken between them.
Matthew walked to his bedroom and collapsed onto the tangled sheets. The scent of sex and Lucas’s cheap cologne clung to the fabric. He stared at the ceiling, his mind a riot.
He had just fucked a Marine. A twenty-five-year-old guard from his own embassy. He had done it, in part, because he knew Patrick was watching. He had brought that boy here, to the apartment that shared a wall with Patrick’s, and had taken him apart with his hands and his mouth. The audacity of it sent a delayed shock through his system.
It wasn’t like him. The careful diplomat, the man who calculated every risk, had just taken a flamethrower to a dozen professional and personal boundaries. Lucas was sweet, earnest, with a killer body and an enthusiasm in bed that was genuinely thrilling. It wasn’t love. It couldn’t be. But it was a distraction. A potent, physical antidote to the haunting presence upstairs.
It could be fun for a while, he reasoned, the cool analyst in him finally resurfacing. Lucas seemed eager, discreet. The attraction was mutual and explosive.
But as he lay in the dark, listening to the old building settle, he knew the other truth. This was a live wire. A sweet, gorgeous, complicated live wire. He would have to proceed with a caution he had already abandoned, or someone was going to get burned.
The first creak from the floor above made him flinch. Then he heard the low, indistinct murmur of a voice—Mike’s, he thought. There was no response, no second voice, no answering creak of bedsprings.
For the first time since he’d moved in, the wall between them was silent. The silence, he realized, was worse.
The silence, he realized, was worse. It left room for his own thoughts, which were a confusing jumble of Lucas’s taste and Patrick’s stunned face. He slept fitfully, and when his alarm blared, the night felt like a fever dream.
It became a pattern, urgent and hungry.
Three nights later, Lucas texted: Going to Dicey’s. Come if you want. Matthew, who normally would have stayed in with a book, went. The club was a throbbing mass of bodies, sticky floors, and cheap neon. Lucas was with a group of other young Marines, their heads close together, shouting over the music. He spotted Matthew, broke into a radiant smile, and carved a path through the crowd to him.
“You came!” Lucas yelled, his breath sweet with cider.
“I came!” Matthew shouted back, the bass vibrating in his teeth.
Lucas dragged him into the crush, hands on his hips, grinding against him to the pulsing beat. It was animalistic and public, a claim staked in strobe light. Matthew let himself be moved, his back against Lucas’s firm chest, feeling the hard line of his arousal through their jeans. Later, at the Marine House, Matthew was handed a ping-pong ball by a grinning sergeant. “You’re on Lucas’s team, new guy. Don’t fuck it up.”
He sank two cups in a row. The roar from the Marines was deafening. Lucas slung an arm around his neck, kissing his temple roughly. “Fuck yeah!”
Matthew laughed, buoyed by the crude, uncomplicated acceptance.
They never discussed it. They just moved to Matthew’s apartment, usually late, bodies buzzing from alcohol or adrenaline or both. The sex was a constant, exploratory dialogue conducted with hands and mouths.
One afternoon, Lucas came over straight from the gym, his skin damp, smelling of salt and effort. He pushed Matthew against the bookshelf in the living room, sending a tremor through the spines. “Right here,” Lucas growled, his voice rough.
He dropped to his knees, yanking Matthew’s chinos and boxers down. He took him deep, gagging slightly, tears beading in his eyes from the effort. Matthew gripped the shelves, watching the top of Lucas’s head bob furiously. He came with a shout, his release painting Lucas’s flushed face. Lucas looked up, cum streaking his cheek, and smiled a wicked, proud smile.
“Your turn,” Matthew panted, pulling him up.
He bent Lucas over the arm of the sofa, spitting into his palm before pressing against his entrance. He pushed in slowly, relentlessly, as Lucas muffled his groans into the cushion. Matthew set a punishing pace, each thrust knocking the breath from them both. He knew the headboard wasn’t banging against the shared wall here, but their cries were loud, raw, and unfiltered.
“You like that?” Matthew grunted, driving deeper.
“Yeah, fuck, yeah,” Lucas sobbed, pushing back onto him. “Don’t stop.”
Matthew didn’t. He fucked him until Lucas came, untouched, with a shattered cry, his release soaking the upholstery. Matthew followed, collapsing over him, both of them slick with sweat.
After, as they lay tangled on the floor, Lucas would check his watch. He always left before the afterglow could crystallize into something softer, before Matthew could drift off. He’d dress with efficient, quiet movements. A final, deep kiss at the door. Then he was gone, back to his barracks world.
They developed an easy intimacy within these walls. Lucas would raid his fridge, complaining about the lack of “real food.” Matthew would find him asleep on his couch on a Sunday afternoon, a video game controller limp in his hand. They’d share a pizza, not talking much, just existing in a comfortable quiet that felt as intimate as the sex.
But they never went to dinner. They never walked by the river. They never talked about the past, or the future, or what they were doing. Matthew rationalized it. They had little in common besides a fierce, chemical pull. He worried, though, in his quieter moments. The way Lucas looked at him sometimes—with a kind of awed, focused devotion—felt dangerously like attachment.
The embassy, of course, knew. It was a village, and he was sleeping with one of its most visible young guards.
“So,” Laura said, sidling up to his desk one Tuesday morning. “Word is you’re a pint-pong champion now. My, how the mighty have fallen.”
Matthew didn’t look up from his report. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“And that you and Private Pretty have tested the structural integrity of every surface in your flat. The security guys have a pool going on which room is next. I’ve got five euro on the kitchen counter.”
He felt his ears grow hot. “It’s not like that.”
“It’s exactly like that,” Sean chimed in, appearing as if from nowhere, holding two mugs of tea. He handed one to Matthew. “And the entire economic section is taking bets on whether the newlyweds upstairs are getting a free audiobook to their romance. You’re the talk of the town, Yank. Quite the scandal for a political officer.”
His tone was light, but his green eyes were sharp, missing nothing. There was a strange tension in his smile, an unasked question.
“There’s no scandal,” Matthew said, too quickly. “Two consenting adults.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Sean said, leaning close. “Just mind the consent doesn’t come with expectations, yeah? Young hearts are fragile things, even when they’re packaged like that.”
He winked and sauntered away, leaving Matthew unsettled.
The promised dinner with Patrick and Mike arrived, an unavoidable diplomatic engagement. They met at The Brazen Head, all low ceilings and ancient wood. The air was thick with the smell of stout and stew.
It was civil, even pleasant. Mike asked thoughtful questions about Matthew’s work. Patrick shared an amusing story about a misunderstanding with the Irish forestry service. They avoided the elephant in the room, until the second pint.
“So,” Patrick said, his tone casual, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “I hear you’ve been spending time with Lucas. The Marine.”
Matthew took a slow sip. “Here and there. He’s a good kid.”
“Seems like more than that,” Patrick pressed, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “The embassy gossip mill is calling him your boyfriend.”
The word landed like a stone. “He’s not my boyfriend,” Matthew said, his voice flat, definitive. “We hang out. That’s it.”
A beat of silence passed. Mike, who had been quietly observing, cleared his throat. He looked at Matthew, his expression kind but unflinching. “You should know,” he said gently, “I ran into him at the gym last week. He talks about you. A lot. The way he talks…” Mike paused, choosing his words with a diplomat’s spouse’s care. “I’m not sure Lucas has gotten the ‘that’s it’ memo.”
The pub noise faded into a dull roar in Matthew’s ears. He saw the truth in Mike’s perceptive gaze. He pictured Lucas’s earnest face, his eager hands, the way he’d fallen asleep on his couch just last Sunday, utterly at home.
He had been so focused on the physical mechanics, on the distraction, on the petty theater for the wall. He had meticulously avoided any conversation that felt like a promise. But he had invited him in, again and again. He had let Lucas become a habit, a familiar warmth in his bed and his space.
The realization was a cold splash. This wasn't just a fling anymore, not to Lucas. The ease between them, the intimacy he’d enjoyed—it was a language Lucas was interpreting differently. He had gotten in too deep.
“Excuse me,” Matthew mumbled, standing up abruptly. “I need some air.”
He pushed out of the pub into the chill evening, the laughter from inside feeling like a taunt. He needed to step back. Create distance. Let this cool off before Lucas’s hopeful heart got trampled.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Lucas.
Hey. Off at 2200. Can I come over?
Matthew stared at the words. His body responded before his mind could, a sharp, familiar pull of want deep in his gut. He thought of Lucas’s mouth, his hands, the weight of him. The sheer, magnetic relief of losing himself in that perfect, unthinking physicality.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cold stone of the pub. The rational decision warred with a five-alarm hunger. His fingers hovered over the screen.
If his body would let him walk away.