If It Fornicates (A Market Garden Tale) by Aleksandr Voinov, L.A. Witt

separated during the night, as they often did, but as Nick stirred, and a moment later Spencer did too, they gravitated towards each other again. Nick wrapped his arm around Spencer like he had last night. Spencer slung his arm lazily across Nick’s stomach.
    “So we have all day.” Nick kissed Spencer’s forehead. “Question is, what do we do with it?”
    “Hmm. I guess your arm would get tired if you beat me all day.”
    Nick laughed. “Yes. Yes, it would.”
    Spencer chuckled. “Well, what do you think about going out?”
    “Out?” Nick looked down at him. “Like, out where?”
    “Don’t know.” Spencer lifted his shoulder in a sleepy shrug. “Go into the city. Get something to eat. I think the Tate has an Impressionist exhibit right now.”
    They were really doing this? An actual . . . date?
    “You sure you don’t mind being out in public with me?” Nick immediately wanted to take it back; he didn’t like the insecurity that had crept into his tone. He cleared his throat. “I mean, my clients are out there.”
    Spencer pushed himself up onto his elbow and met Nick’s eyes. “Most of them would be discreet, wouldn’t they?”
    “True.” Nick shrugged. “Most people don’t like advertising the fact that they’ve rented someone like me.” He reached up and touched Spencer’s face. “But they might recognize me.”
    “Well, if we’re going to be doing this,” Spencer said, pausing to kiss Nick’s palm, “then people will see us out and about. They’ll have to get used to it, and so will we.”
    Nick couldn’t find his breath. Of course they were dating, and Spencer had never judged him for being what he was, but his unflinching acceptance that people ought to just get used to seeing them together was . . . unexpected.
    “Are you sure?” he asked softly. “I mean, I’d love to, but . . .” He raised his eyebrows. “You’re really okay with us being out together in public?”
    “Of course.” Spencer smiled. “You’re my boyfriend. I’m not going to hide you.”
    Nick swallowed. “Okay, then. What do you have in mind?”
    “Oh, I don’t know.” Spencer shrugged. “Lunch and a visit to the Tate?”
    Nick chewed on the idea for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. Let’s go.”
    They got up and showered. Not together, or they’d never get anywhere except back into the bedroom. After they’d dressed—so domestic, keeping clothes at Spencer’s house like he’d started doing recently—they had some coffee and a light breakfast, and then headed out into the city. In public. Together.
    Spencer took him to a small brasserie in Soho for lunch, tucked away and not overrun by tourists, even on a Saturday, and it all felt so normal. But in a good way, not a boring one. In fact, he got a kick out of flirting in public with Spencer, easily the best-looking guy around, and hitting the submissive button every now and then. He’d give Spencer an order where other boyfriends would have phrased things as a request, and he loved how Spencer responded immediately. He especially loved how Spencer would not just obey, but give him one of those sexy looks that promised submission and acceptance and scorching sex when they returned.
    From there, they took the Tube to Southwark and walked to the imposing brick mountain of the former power station that now housed the Tate. He hadn’t known that Spencer was into art, though his house certainly suggested that he appreciated good design. Nick had been to too many clients’ houses to assume that gayness came with inbuilt good taste.
    Wandering through the collection, it struck him that Spencer was pretty well-rounded as a human being. Many finance guys in the City only cared about art when they knew the price tag, as an investment, or as something to go with the couch. Spencer, on the other hand, could easily hold his own in a conversation about Expressionism, for example, and as a bonus, managed to not sound like a pretentious arsehole the way so