If I Ever

by SE Jakes

  Prophet stared at him, and then smiled too, one of those rare, true ones that broke him open like the sun on a warm summer’s day, basking Tom and making him shiver just the same.

  Fuck, he loved it when Prophet smiled. More so when he could be the one who made Prophet smile.

  He wasn’t disappointed when Prophet basically manhandled him onto his stomach until he was ass up on the bed, Prophet buried in him, fast and hard, with no other foreplay except the fight. It was all either of them needed right now.

  With his arms behind his back and Prophet plowing into him, Tom began to groan uncontrollably and he definitely did scream—Prophet’s name, and other more graphic things.

  “Like that, baby?” Prophet murmured against Tom’s cheek.

  “Huh—uh-huh.”

  Incoherent? Check. Tom needed it. They both did.

  And then Prophet let go of his arms, flipped him and re-entered. Forced Tom to wrap around him or slam his head against the headboard with each of Prophet’s thrusts. “T—”

  “Something smart-ass to say to me?”

  Tom nodded, then opened his mouth . . . but bit Prophet instead.

  “Yeah, just how I like it.” He thrust harder, loving Tom’s grunts and general whimpering with pleasure. It wasn’t often these days that he was able to get him into this headspace, so this was a goddamned miracle.

  Tom came first, his muscles straining until his body jackknifed and then come warmed their bellies, which was enough to make Prophet shoot, so hard he saw spots for several minutes.

  He collapsed, half on Tom, and when he was able to see clearly—or as clearly as he did these days, he glanced up to see Tom smiling at him. He noted how Tom’s eye color appeared more unbalanced after he came—wild, abandoned, and fuck, Prophet never wanted to stop seeing that look.

  But you will.

  “Sorry,” Prophet murmured finally.

  “Take as long as you need, Proph. Take the picture in your mind.”

  Something hitched inside of him and he stared for several minutes, noting the slice of Tom’s cheekbones, the fullness of his lips . . . and he brushed his thumb over them. Tracing. Feeling.

  Memorizing. He closed his eyes and did the whole trace again, the way Dean had taught him, mapping Tom’s face, recalling with his fingertips. He felt Tom’s smile under his attempt and he traced that too. He could feel the emotion.

  And Tom pressed his lips up to Prophet’s, and Prophet kept his eyes closed, kept his fingers in place as Tom deepened the kiss. For a while it felt like it would never end. But this one would. And there would be more behind it. Prophet had to believe that.

  Tom watched the change in his partner happen. Maybe he’d sensed it even before that. But he knew Prophet, could tell that his eyes weren’t terrible blurry, that he was just practicing instead.

  Because of that, he wouldn’t let Prophet stop kissing him. Not now. This was Tom’s version of a lifeline and it extended both ways—and Tom was never letting go of his end.

  He’d hold on, for both of them, if need be.

  Prophet moved to lift Tom up and Tom let him, and they stumbled, laughing and kissing, to the bathroom.

  Prophet’s eyes stayed closed . . . until they got into the shower, and then he opened them under the running water.

  Tom was glad. Because he didn’t want Prophet to waste his sight pretending he was blind. Even so, in the aftermath, it was all about Prophet tracing Tom’s body relentlessly. Restlessly. Creating a sightless map, measuring everything for precise placement and distance. It was why Tom had decided not to add any more tattoos—Prophet needed his map and Tom wouldn’t bring confusion to the memories.

  It made Tom sad but it reassured him. Prophet was preparing for the future. He wasn’t looking for a way out.

  “Any fucked-up psychic vibes?” Prophet asked when they were back in bed.

  Frustrated, Tom shook his head. Beyond the constant, ominous forbidding that pushed into his brain like a relentless drill set just high enough to buzz and torture him. “Now are you ready to tell me about Nico?”

  Prophet sighed and rolled over. “Way to kill the mood. And no, I’m not ready. At all. I think the concussion’s back.”

  “Start talking.”

  “Fine.” Prophet stared at the ceiling. “Obviously, I don’t like Nico. At all.”

  “Got that loud and clear. Tell me about Nico and Doc and the dead thing,” Tom urged, rolling onto his belly so he could watch Prophet.

  Prophet finally lowered his gaze to meet Tom’s. “Look, the shit between him and Doc is Doc’s—Nico’s—to tell.” He drew out Nico’s name sarcastically. “But Nico was part of a joint task force.”

  “He was SAS?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But—”

  “The American accent is fake. He’s British, which never sat well with King or Mal. But Doc was part of the task force and that’s where they met.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “The dead part,” Tom prompted.

  “Oh. Right. We thought he was dead but I guess Doc knew he wasn’t, the end.” Prophet jumped him and Tom figured that he’d gotten all he could out of the man for one night.

  Tomorrow. They always had tomorrow. And he refused to think any differently.

  Prophet eased out from underneath Tom and went to find Dean. He tried not to do too much sleeping these days, because he never knew what would trigger a flashback and nobody wanted more of those.

  Nico was nowhere in sight, which was good, because Prophet didn’t think Dean would allow him to strangle the fuck out of Nico . . . but hell, if he could cover Nico’s mouth while he did so, how would Dean ever know?

  “Stop planning Nico’s murder and get your ass in here,” Dean called into the hallway.

  Prophet didn’t bother denying it. “Lucky guess.”

  Dean snorted. “Come sit down and eat something.”

  There was a spread of food on the coffee table by the couch and Prophet happily obliged him. There were plates of shrimp and stews and breads and rice. All the good stuff. “Delicious.”

  “How’s Tom?”

  “He’s good. Sleeping. I’ll try to save him some.” Prophet ate in silence for a few minutes, then sat back and asked, “So, what the fuck happened to you?”

  “I’m assuming you mean when I was kidnapped? Why are you bringing this up now?” Dean glanced at him. It was unnerving, but every once in a while, he’d fucking turn his gaze so direct, Prophet would swear he could see.

  Now, Prophet realized that was simply wishful thinking . . . on both their parts. “You know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t. I was kidnapped. It wasn’t fun.”

  “But you know enough . . .”

  “To what—fight that many men off? Risk my life? For what?” Dean challenged.

  “Forget it,” Prophet muttered.

  “You want me to give you hope, Proph? Tell you everything’s going to be exactly the same? It’s not.”

  “Great. Thanks for the newsflash.” Prophet got up and walked away from him onto the back porch, because everything here was safely behind bulletproof glass.

  Dean didn’t leave him alone, walked up next to him. Slung a heavy arm around him. Prophet stood stiffly, still angry.

  But Dean pulled at him until Prophet was putting a head on his shoulder, a finger running along Prophet’s cheek to wipe the tears that’d come so silently they’d surprised him.

  “It’s not the same, Proph. Sometimes, it’s better.”

  “Yeah? How? Because you can’t see the kidnapper’s faces, so they know you won’t be able to identify them?” Prophet challenged.

  “Well, yeah,” Dean answered seriously. “Nobody bothers with a blindfold. People take for granted that you’re entirely disabled. Treat you like a princess. Serve you.”

  Prophet’s eyebrows shot up and Dean snorted, apparently feeling the surprised expression on Prophet’s face. “Figures you’d like that part.”<
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  “Fuck off.”

  “You can still do that too. Better, even.”

  “Better? I’m already pretty fucking perfect.”

  “And yet so humble,” Dean added, without a trace of mockery.

  “At least you’re still smart enough to agree.”

  “You know, I didn’t realize I was bi until I was blind,” Dean said.

  “I’m not going to realize I’m straight, am I?”

  Dean laughed at the horror in Prophet’s voice, although really, Prophet saw nothing funny about it. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m sorry my hotness confused you.”

  “Jesus, you’re such an asshole.”

  “Thank you,” Prophet replied automatically. “Most of the time it comes naturally. Occasionally, I’ve got to work at it.” He paused. “So, you’re blind and fucking men. Any other surprises I need to know about?”

  Dean considered that. “I fuck women and men. And you’ve definitely got a lot to learn.”

  “Says the man who thinks fucking men is something you can do without practice.”

  “There’s no app for that,” Dean said seriously.

  Prophet patted Dean’s chest. “You’ve still got some asshole in you left.”

  When Prophet went back into their room, he had a plate of food for Tom, who he found awake, dressed and kneeling on the bed that was now covered in paper maps.

  “Thought you were sleeping.” Prophet put the plate down on the night table.

  “I thought the same of you. And these maps of Dean’s are better than anything I’ve seen.” Tom grabbed his phone and started taking pictures of them, until Prophet took the phone and threw it onto the nearest chair.

  “Bed’s too damned crowded,” he said as he grabbed Tom. The wall would have to do. Because his single-minded focus was all on the man in front of him. He was ripping Tom’s shirt off—literally. Yanking down his cargos that hit the ground with a heavy thud of hidden weaponry stores.

  Tom, naked.

  Score.

  Prophet couldn’t wait, just unzipped his pants and grabbed Tom’s hips.

  Lube. Shit. He turned to see if there was any in arm’s reach—because that was definitely not out of the realm of possibility.

  “Do it.” Tom’s voice was a low rasp, his eyes glittering with need as he reached under Prophet’s shirt and tugged hard on his nipple ring.

  It was a straight line of jolting heat from nipple to cock. “Jesus fuck, Tommy.”

  “Do it,” Tom insisted, wrapped a leg around him. And tweaked the piercing again.

  He swiped pre-come off Tom’s cock and mixed it with his own to slick himself, then shook his head. “Don’t want to hurt you, dammit. So wait.” He pushed Tom’s leg off, found the lube and was back in position in seconds.

  Still not fast enough for Tom, who demanded, “Do it,” again.

  “And here I thought I was in charge,” Prophet murmured.

  “I . . . let you think . . . fuck!” Tom yelled as Prophet seated deeply inside of him in one push. And there wasn’t time—or energy or breath—for talking. Just sweat and grunts and prickles of pain that gave way to intense pleasure. Prophet sucked several red spots that blossomed along Tom’s shoulders like symbols of everything—a map over Tom’s heart, around the compass, his own way to protect Tommy—and Tom continued to tug on that damned nipple ring until Prophet started coming, hard, grabbing on to Tom and the wall.

  Tom laughed and came moments later, spilling his load between them, leaning in to bite at Prophet’s shoulders. Prophet’s muscles shook from exertion, but the relief was intense. He felt too good to move and for several long moments, they just remained, propping each other up.

  Until Tom urged, “God, again. Come on,” and Prophet’s dick stirred.

  “You’re lucky I’m younger.”

  Tom nodded in agreement because he obviously needed more. God, they were like fucking teenagers around each other. Since the beginning.

  “Don’t see it changing,” Tom said, reading his mind.

  Prophet smiled. “Don’t need it to. Want it to.” Ever. “Come on.” He pushed off Tom and went to the bed. Tom helped him quickly move all the maps onto the floor and then Tom was under him and Prophet was fucking him. Again. Staring at Tom’s different-color eyes, refusing to break his gaze.

  This time was far less frantic but no less heated. Prophet took his time, lazily pressing into Tom, teasing him, taunting him, twisting his nipples, biting them, getting off on Tom’s groans and protests.

  Finally, Prophet began snapping his hips, a driving rhythm that got them both panting and ready.

  Marry me.

  Prophet thought it with every stroke. Tom writhed against him, slick with sweat. Barely holding on and neither of them letting go.

  Marry.

  Me.

  Tom managed, “Yes, Proph. Yes.” And then his orgasm swept him as Prophet watched his body arch with pleasure. “Come on, Proph—Lije—your turn.”

  It didn’t take much to bring him over the edge. He bucked, cried out Tom’s name, and finally buried his head against the crook of Tom’s neck. Tom reached around to cup the back of his neck, stroking it, murmuring, “Thank you,” and whether it was for the sex or the proposal, Prophet didn’t know. And it didn’t matter. Tom was his.

  Finally, he lifted his head and slid out of, and off, Tom, ending up on his back next to him. Tom turned onto his side, a hand on Prophet’s chest. “We getting married here?”

  “Fuck, I’d love that. But . . . I want Remy there when it happens.”

  “Agreed.”

  As soon as this is over. Prophet didn’t want to voice that thought again, was tired of putting his life on hold for John, but knew it was a necessity.

  “You’re already mine,” Tom reminded him with a tug on the nipple ring. “No matter . . . the ceremony’s for everyone else. We already know.”

  “Yeah,” Prophet drawled, but in perfect Tom cadence, because it made him smile. “Shower?”

  Tom shook his head. “Want to smell like you for a while.”

  “So dirty, Tommy.”

  “Yeah, bébé. Only for you.”

  “Won’t be like this forever.”

  “Better not be,” Prophet muttered thickly, heat and sand turning his mouth into cotton. He blinked as if it would get the sun out of his eyes. But that just made things worse as the grit seemed to make everything feel raw and scraped. On fire.

  Getting away seemed to matter less and less, because his mind wandered. Neither man could walk in a straight line, and this getting captured crap? Way better at teaching shit like survival and E&E than any drill ever could.

  Prophet knew then and there he could learn to survive things way worse. Why he should have to was another story altogether.

  His feet were strangely numb—maybe it was the chains, the scrape of bare feet across hot desert sand. Later, his skin would swell and peel, the results of burns and blisters that would heal, despite Prophet’s not caring much about what was happening.

  He was delirious. Dehydrated. Half the time, he wasn’t sure who leaned onto who, but when they heard the chopper, they had to reassure each other that it was a rescue, not a recapture.

  After that it was a blur. What he recalled most was sand. So much fucking sand . . . Prophet remembered finding it everywhere for weeks after he got home. He tried brushing it off his hands, his body but it seemed to multiply . . .

  “Proph, come on. You’re home. You’re safe, so wake up before Dean and Nico come running in here,” Tom urged now, and Prophet was back in Eritrea, in a bed in Dean’s house, Tom’s hands on him despite how dangerous a prospect that was.

  Prophet realized he was attempting to grab hold of Tom as well, like he’d been reaching out, needing Tom to pull him out of the sandpit and back into reality.

  Sand. Motherfucking sand and blood and fuck, would this ever be over?

  “Same one, or something new?” Tom asked after several quiet be
ats. He was sitting on the side of the bed, fully dressed, had probably been preparing to leave the room and let Prophet sleep.

  “Shit.” Prophet avoided his eyes, stared at a point over Tom’s shoulder, like he was watching a movie. When he started, he was aware that his voice sounded odd—distant. “All that fucking sand, T. It never went away. Kept multiplying.”

  “The sand we found in the apartment?”

  Prophet nodded woodenly. “I kept some of it but it kept multiplying . . . like it did when we were walking . . .” He realized he was slipping back into the past, tried to shake it off but remained in that space between the two, off-center and vaguely threatening.

  “Proph, you don’t have to—”

  But he did. They both knew it. “We’d been captured—me and John.”

  “Fuck, Proph. You never . . .” Tom brushed the blame off quickly, maybe realizing that Prophet was planning on plowing ahead with the explanation and not wanting to stop it.

  “I never. I couldn’t, T.” Prophet touched his face but still didn’t look directly at him. “’S’what started all of it—for John. For me. Our first mission.”

  He took a deep breath and spilled it all. “We were the only two sent in. We finished with SERE training and some of the other schools you go through for qualification training. Because John and I were pretty much tied for top of the class in close-quarter battle, weapons training, unarmed combat and demolition, we caught the eye of the CIA director. They needed two men to bodyguard an embassy official. Military. So John and I were handpicked for the detail.” Prophet grimaced. “Seemed like a great thing at the time. Never an easy mission because you never know.”

  The US Embassy, located in Kinshasa, was being used for training purposes, care of the Marines, when a riot started outside by locals, deeply unhappy at some new policies they believed the Americans had instituted. It was really fucking bad—so bad that, as he was watching it unfold, he knew it would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. The swell of people was the kind of angry mob no military man wanted to be caught in—and they’d be unhesitating in tearing Prophet and John alive, limb from limb, dragging them through the streets just to prove their hatred of American military men.