Title: Charmed, Charmed Life
Author/pseudonym: Tinnean
Fandom: JAG
Pairing: Clayton Webb/Clark Palmer
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Nothing has changed in the last week or
so. <sigh> Bellisario still claims all things JAG. Let him explain that to
Webb and Palmer. Red Cell belongs to the LFN universe.
Status: new/complete
Date: 3/02
Series/Sequel: This is part 7 of the Mind Fuck
series, and follows Don’t Blame Me.
Summary: Clay learns he hasn’t seen the last of
Clark Palmer.
Warnings: m/m, spoilers for Webb of Lies
Notes: Thanks to Gail for the wonderful beta, and the
tape of Webb doing his CIA thing.
Charmed, Charmed Life
Part 1/1
I was going to kill Clark Palmer. I had told him that the
night before, but he had left me in such a satisfied state that it had been
merely a token threat. Now I really meant it.
Cocksucking son of a bitch. He’d had the nerve to jerk
off and leave the handkerchief that had caught his come on my desk, next to the
handcuffs that had secured me to my bed and a note that said, ‘Thanks for a
wonderful night. C.’
I stroked the cuffs, then examined my wrists. The skin
wasn’t sore, and the slight reddening had almost completely faded. My fingers
circled them and rubbed lightly, and my cock leaped to attention. Was this part
of the game? Had he known that was my secret fantasy, or was it something
he had wanted to do to me?
~~~~
When I had finally awakened, it was slowly, resurfacing to
consciousness in fits and starts. I wondered where I was. It was too quiet for
Paris, any part of Paris.
Then I remembered that I’d been able to catch a ride on a
private jet. Fuck. I hated owing that particular billionaire a favor. Especially
since we had wiled away the hours playing poker, and if we had been playing for
anything other than toothpicks, I would have owned controlling shares in his
company.
I was a mess. My lashes were stuck together, and when I
managed to pry my eyelids open, all I could do was gaze blearily at the ceiling.
My neck was sore, and I was still tired from too many time zones in too short a
period of time. I stretched until my joints popped, then turned over to check
the time.
The numbers on my clock radio were out of focus. I blinked
and dug the heels of my hands into my eyes, but that didn’t alter the time. It
lacked a quarter hour to noon. With a groan, I rolled back onto the pillows. How
could I have forgotten to set my alarm? I’d have to call Janet, my secretary,
and let her know I’d be coming in late.
The cotton sheet rubbed over nipples that seemed more
sensitive than usual, and it was odd because my pajamas generally did a good job
of buffering them. The memory of the most fantastic dream niggled at the edges
of my brain, and a flash of sexual heat shot through me.
I’d dreamed that Clark Palmer had somehow broken into my
house and had been waiting for me when I returned from Paris. I hummed
pleasurably and reached down to fondle my cock. He’d cuffed me to the bed
and…
Fucking hell! I sat up abruptly. The sheet pooled at my
waist, and my pajama top hung open, the buttons all neatly removed. My nipples
looked as if someone had spent the night toying with them, and I remembered
Palmer’s avid mouth suckling them voraciously. They grew pebble hard in
response to that memory, and my cock quivered.
I pushed the bedcovers further down and found large,
hand-sized bruises around my hips. Had he fucked me?
As quickly as the question arose, I dismissed it. Clark
Palmer had promised me he wouldn’t. And besides, I had categorized my various
aches, and that deep internal one of having been well-fucked wasn’t one of
them.
I looked down at my pajama top and sighed. Even if I
couldn’t find all the buttons, my tailor was certain to have replacements. How
the fuck would I explain it, though? I shrugged and swung my legs over the side
of the bed, then stood and staggered a bit, still a little jet lagged.
My destroyed pajama bottoms slithered to my ankles. Clever
Palmer. I had felt even more naked than if he’d stripped us both, and I
regarded them ruefully as I stepped out of them. They had been a gift from
Mother. And had been one of my favorites.
My mother had a rather strange sense of humor at times.
Every Christmas she made sure to give me one present that was certain to have me
cringing. I would never know which box held it, and she and Markov would watch
with bland expressions as I cautiously opened each package as if it contained
explosives.
I had a chest filled with shirts and ties and pajamas that
I would wear only under penalty of death. One day I intended to donate them to a
charity in her name, but not while there was a chance she might still ask me to
wear one. Unfortunately, this had not been one of those.
Palmer definitely owed me. I’d have to see about learning
where he lived and paying him a visit. I wondered how difficult that would be.
I considered the events of the night before. Clark Palmer
wanted me enough to circumvent my security system, incapacitate me, cuff me to
my bed and give me the best blowjob of my life.
Maybe I owed him.
~~~
A glance at my clock radio told me it wasn’t getting any
earlier. And I couldn’t understand why Janet, my secretary, hadn’t called to
find out where I was.
I really wanted a shower, but I’d have to make that phone
call first.
“Deputy Director Webb’s office. How may I help you?”
“Janet…”
“Oh, Mr. Webb. I’m so glad you called again.”
“…I’m … Again?”
“Yes, sir. I got your message on my voice mail this
morning, saying you probably wouldn’t be in today, and to cancel all your
appointments. Is your jet lag better?”
“Excuse me?” Son of a bitch! Palmer had called
in for me! I remembered him saying something about it, but I thought he was just
being Palmer, and taunting me. “Oh, yes, thank you, Janet. I…uh…I just
wanted to let you know that I’m quite recovered now, and will be in sometime
after two. I’ll need you to rearrange my schedule accordingly.”
“Of course, sir.” She sounded her usual competent self.
Sometimes I thought nothing short of the apocalypse would rattle Janet Watson.
“Will you be needing me to stay late, Mr. Webb?”
“Possibly, Janet.” I’d have to see how backed up this
late start would make me. “Will that be a problem?”
“Not at all. Oh, by the way, sir, Agent Cooper stopped
by.” Her voice became a little droll.
“Which one?” It was hell having two Coopers in the
Company, although I found it amusing to see outsiders try to figure out their
relationship. Spouses? Siblings? They were neither, but they loved to keep
everyone guessing.
“David Brendan.” Her tone was even drier.
“D.B.? Why?”
Could he have more information about why Special Agent
Clark Palmer was keeping a file on me? D.B. had been the one to tell me that
Palmer was collecting information about me, which was the final clue I’d
needed to solve the puzzle of who had interviewed my mother under the disguise
of being Matthew Robinson, someone with whom I had gone to Exeter. The last time
I’d seen D.B., on the day of Michael Shaw’s funeral, he’d come to me with
the intelligence that an antiterrorist organization in Europe was trying to
access my personal files. He also informed me that not only did Clark Palmer
have connections with Section One, but he had just returned from a trip to meet
with Michael Samuelle, that connection.
“He didn’t say, sir.” Janet’s voice interrupted my
thoughts. “Shall I let him know
you’ll be in this afternoon and see if he wants to set up a meeting?”
“Yes, Janet. Thank you. Anything else of importance? Then
I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” I hung up, chewing on my lip. There
would be time enough to learn why D.B. wanted to see me.
****
I pulled out a navy blue suit, pale blue shirt, and a red
and blue diagonally striped tie and laid them on the bed.
Maid service would be in sometime in the early afternoon. I
placed Clark’s mementos in the middle drawer of the desk and locked it,
realizing suddenly that the key to the cuffs was missing. Had Clark taken it
with him? I swore. My erection would no sooner subside than something would
remind me of last night, and I’d be hard and ready to fuck in a split second.
I growled under my breath and folded my red and green and
black pajamas and stuffed them into the back of my closet. I didn’t have time
for this.
After a tepid shower that washed away the last of the jet
lag, I wrapped a towel around my hips and studied my face in the mirror
dispassionately. The spot where Palmer had injected me was barely noticeable. I
ran my fingertips over it. A small Band-Aid would conceal it. If anyone asked,
I’d just say I cut myself shaving. No
one at Langley or State knew me well enough to know I used an electric razor.
I shaved and dressed, then hurried down the stairs to where
I had left my briefcase the night before. On the occasional table the picture of
JessicaTheDumbBlonde, so named because of her vapid expression, was lying face
down. She was my buffer against unwanted inquiries into my unattached state.
Both Commander Rabb and Lieutenant Roberts had complimented me on my taste in
women. After the incident on the Kamiko Maru, when I had been declared dead,
they had gone to my townhouse and had seen her photograph. The mystery woman.
Who she was was a mystery to me as well.
I set it upright, made sure it was in its proper position.
Then I shrugged into my overcoat and left.
****
My fingers were flying furiously over the keyboard. I must
have been typing close to a hundred words a minute. Then I paused to read back
what I had keyed and swore. It was all gibberish.
My intercomm buzzed. “What?” I growled into it at the
same time my door opened.
“You don’t sound like a happy camper, Clay.”
“Just wanted to let you know Agent Cooper was here, Mr.
Webb,” my secretary said.
“Thanks, Janet.” I took my finger off the switch and
scowled at my friend’s cheerful face. “What are you so happy about,
David?”
The corner of his mouth kicked up in a grin. “Whoa! The
only time you call me David is when you’ve got your shorts in a twist! Who’s
been after you, Clay? That asshole, Rabb?”
“No, I haven’t been to JAG in weeks.” I swore under
my breath. Were the remnants of jet lag still clouding my thinking?
It would have been better if D.B. thought the Navy lawyer was the one who
was making me crazy. I didn’t want anyone to know that Clark Palmer had gotten
to me, in more ways than one. “Never mind about me; what’s gotten into
you?”
He smiled wolfishly. Diversion successful. “It’s not
what’s gotten into me; it’s what I’m going to get into!”
“Jesus, D.B., not another civilian who’s going to
rhumba all over your heart, like that redhead last year!” It was easier dating
someone who knew the score, who accepted that I’d be called away at a
moment’s notice. I was up front about that with everyone I saw, but it was
exhausting. Maybe that was why I was having such a dry spell myself.
A frown creased his forehead. “How could she throw me
over for an accountant, Clay? An accountant, for chrissake!”
“You know as well as I do that anyone not in the intelligence community assumes that when you made a date with her, you’ll at least be in the same country to keep it.” I sighed. “Well, good luck. You’ve got my phone number if you need to cry on someone’s shoulder?”
”Thanks, Clay. You’re a good friend.”
I picked up a pen and began fiddling with it, tapping it
against my desk blotter. “What did you want to see me about?”
Immediately he got serious. “It looks like Red Cell is
reactivating.”
“Well, isn’t that an interesting tidbit?” I pulled up
the file we had on the terrorist organization, something from the DSD that
Michael Shaw had passed to D.B. because mention was made of an operation run
by… “Clark Palmer?” Jesus, every time I turned around, there he was,
involved up to his ass! Fuck! I forced myself to stop thinking of his
ass. “Uh, all this stuff that Shaw let you have. Did he also happen to give
you Palmer’s home address?”
“Yep. That was the first thing he sent over,” D.B. said
absently, studying the profile on the man called The Cardinal. “It’s in that
attachment I sent you with the report on Section One.”
“Thanks,” I remarked in a casual tone; I didn’t want
my friend to know how important this was to me.
****
It was well after eight by the time I left Langley, a slip
of paper with a certain address in my wallet. It had been a long day, and I
regretted not using Palmer’s excuse to stay home from work. I called for a cab
to drive me home, and almost dozed on the short ride.
The cab pulled up in front of my drive. I handed him the
fare and the tip, and got out, observing the areas of light and shadow
cautiously. It seemed safe enough. Then again, it had seemed safe enough the
night before.
I inserted my key in the lock of my townhouse and let
myself in.
Reset the alarm, hang up my overcoat, place my keys on the
table… On the table beside the door, next to the mail was a rectangular
package, wrapped in the signature paper of an exclusive men’s shop. There was
a small envelope wedged under the ribbon that decorated it, and suddenly I had a
funny feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Very carefully I removed the pale grey square and teased
the flap open, withdrawing the note it held. ‘Hi, baby. Sorry about ruining
those nice pajamas. This should make up for it. C.’
Palmer wanted me to open that beautifully wrapped box
immediately, I could feel it as surely as if he were in the room, urging me to
obey him.
Stubbornly, I replaced it on the table. Maybe I’d open
that package, and maybe I wouldn’t. It was a childish thought, like thumbing
my nose at him, but I felt better for it. I stuck the note back under the ribbon
and went into the kitchen. I’d heat something up in the microwave and make an
early night of it. Tomorrow I’d be back to normal, and then Clark Palmer would
learn what happened when you fucked with the CIA.
The sudden image came to me of bending him over my desk at
Langley and pounding into his ass with deep, hard strokes. I ruthlessly banished
it from my mind.
There was a Styrofoam container on the second shelf in the
refrigerator, which I didn’t remember seeing earlier. I took it out, and found
a note taped across the lid. ‘Had a feeling you’d want to eat first. Keep
it light, baby. You need your rest, and a heavy meal will keep you up all night.
I’d rather be the reason for that. C.’
My cock got so hard so fast that I gasped from the need to
fuck or be fucked.
My fingers tightened around the container, which had the
logo of a local deli across the side, tempted to heave it against a wall.
Instead, I drew in a deep breath, removed the lid and sniffed the contents.
Chicken soup. I got a spoon and gave it a stir. Carrots and celery and grains of
rice.
A suspicion was gnawing at the edges of my mind, but my
mouth was watering and my stomach was making whimpering sounds, and I was
suddenly too hungry to pay it any heed. I surrendered and poured a portion into
a bowl, then put the soup in the microwave and set the timer to reheat it.
While I was waiting I went into the media room to select a
CD to listen to. I found the latest by Diana Krall and loaded it into the CD
player. The mellow strains of ‘SWonderful filled the first floor of my
townhouse. I was about to return to
the kitchen but jolted to a stop, that uncomfortable sensation raising the hairs
on the back of my neck back in full force.
JessicaTheDumbBlonde’s photograph was face down once
again. I walked over to it, licked
my lips, and then set it upright.
I had assumed that Palmer had had the package and soup
delivered while the maid service was here and that someone on the crew had
accepted them. Was I wrong? Could Palmer have been in my house again? The timer
pinged, and I went back to take the bowl out of the microwave. The fragrant
steam tickled my nostrils, and I gave a little hum of pleasure, then set it down
and took a bottle of Perrier and a fresh lime from the refrigerator.
As I poured the sparkling water into a glass of crushed
ice, I mulled over the possibility of Palmer holding that picture of
JessicaTheDumbBlonde. Why? And why place it face down? I rinsed the lime and
rolled in on a cutting board, then sliced off a wedge and squeezed it into the
Perrier.
I sat at the butcher-block table in the center of my
kitchen and thoughtfully tasted the soup that Palmer had brought me.
****
The bowl and glass were rinsed and in the dishwasher. I
gathered the elegantly wrapped package and went up the stairs to my bedroom,
sparing one last glance for JessicaTheDumbBlonde.
I placed the box on the bachelor chest and undressed, then
showered and brushed my teeth and put on another pair of pajamas.
Unable to delay any longer, I slid a thumbnail under the
tape that fastened one end of the paper and tried to ease it open without
tearing it. Grimly I forced myself to take my time, and I succeeded quite well,
freeing the box eventually. I flipped off the top and parted the tissue paper.
They were patterned in swirls of green and purple on a
black background, silk so fine that I wouldn’t have been surprised if it could
have passed through the eye of a needle. I raised it to my face and rubbed my
cheek against it. So soft, so sensuous. I wanted to make love to it.
A piece of paper fluttered to the floor, and I stooped to
retrieve it. ‘Knew you’d want to eat first, baby. I always figured you to
be a believer in delayed gratification! So am I. Don’t wear these until I can
take them off you. C.’
God*damn* Clark Palmer! My cock was tenting my pajama
pants, and I knew I’d never get to sleep without jerking off first. And I’d
be jerking off with him in my mind. I growled, folded his gift and replaced it
in the box.
I strode to my bed and was about to fling back the covers
when I noticed their rumpled condition. Something propped on the pillow
reflected back the lamplight. I leaned forward and picked it up.
It was a Polaroid snapshot. Lying on my bed, one hand
cuffed to the headboard, the other resting on the bulge beneath his fly, oh,
yes, there definitely was a bulge there, was the DSD agent, a smug grin on his
face. Bastard. He must have come from work. He was wearing a tailored shirt, the
tie casually loosened and a couple of the top buttons undone. His fly was
unzipped, and if I looked really hard, I could just make out the wiry hairs that
covered his groin.
Handcuffed…
I bolted to the desk and fumbled with my keys to find the
correct one to open it. The cuffs were still there, along with the handkerchief
and two notes.
Two notes? That wasn’t right. I picked them up. One was
from the night before, but the second was new. ‘You might want to look into
having your security system upgraded, baby. I’d demand a refund myself. C.’
I was gritting my teeth as I shoved the notes into the
drawer, slammed it shut, and locked it. That system was CIA quality, the very
latest that we had been offered.
When I got my hands on Palmer, he’d have a lot to answer
for. I pictured myself, with my hands on his body, and I smiled.
Palmer would expect me to go after him, to retaliate
quickly. After all, that was how the DSD worked. And I’d been so fucking hot
for him the night before, he’d think I’d never be able to resist him, and
dammit, there was my dick, agreeing whole-heartedly with that.
But I was also the son of Neville and Porter Webb. Cunning
had been bred into my bones.
I sat on the edge of the bed and made sure that this time
my alarm was set to go off at the correct time, then swung my legs up onto the
comforter and slid my hand past my waistband. My cock was hard and slick with
pre come. I ran my fingertips along its hot length and circled the crown. I
teased myself higher. Suddenly I remembered Clark’s mouth fitting around me,
swallowing me, and my strokes became rough and fast. That was all it took to
trigger an orgasm almost as good as the one he’d given me.
I reached for a handful of tissues and wiped my fingers
off, planning my next move.
I was going to pay Clark Palmer of the DSD a visit, but not
tomorrow. Not even the next day.
He was going to be in for a surprise.
I began to laugh as I shut the light and got under the
covers.
~End~