by SE Jakes
And then Prophet stopped fighting, because his entire body was out of his control, especially when Tom smacked his ass hard, several times in a row, and then continued licking him. He repeated that pattern as Prophet buried his face in the pillow, ass in the air, fighting that pleasure-pain line that Tom loved riding along . . . and he was putting Prophet there purposely, forcing him to just stay and feel, the way he’d done countless times before. But this time? Prophet was learning his goddamned lesson, didn’t have a choice, not with Tom centering him, making sure he—and nothing and no one else—stayed in his mind as Tom held him open, licking him, rimming him until he couldn’t even recognize the long, low moaning ripping from his throat.
Tom’s hand snaked under Prophet’s body to tweak his nipple ring, twisting, pulling until Prophet cried out Tom and fuck and more.
“Might have to pierce this one,” Tom murmured as he moved to roll the unpierced nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and fuck, Prophet hadn’t remembered being that fucking sensitive. But his skin was hot, pricking, nerve-endings firing nonstop, and every place Tom touched tingled, left a burning sensation that was only going to be quenched with Tom’s dick inside of him.
“Or maybe I need to pierce here.” Tom’s fingers played along Prophet’s frenulum and an involuntary shudder raced through him. “Ah, you like the thought of that.”
“I’m not playing that game,” Prophet ground out. But fuck, he did, and his mind and body were on a runaway train, flooded with emotions. His reactions were giving him away, selling him out, and there was pre-come dripping from his cock and no real way to hide it from Tom.
But why would you want to hide anything from him?
He didn’t. Not anymore. Tom knew everything.
Everything. And Tom? Was still here.
Tom bit his ass cheek to get him out of his head again, then speared his tongue into Prophet’s ass, and he let the pleasure overwhelm him, paralyze him. And finally, Tom was lining his body up behind him, grabbing his shoulder for leverage as he pushed inside of Prophet, not worrying about resistance or the pinch of pain, and then he was settled, his balls against Prophet’s ass as Prophet let out a plaintive cry of relief.
“So tight. So full. Fuck, you love that, right?” Tom leaned forward and bit his shoulder—hard. Prophet’s face was hot—fuck, was he blushing? And Tom knew it. “Look how sweet and calm you can be when my cock’s in you.”
Prophet opened his mouth to make some kind of smart remark but all that came out was, “Fuck, Tommy . . .”
Tom pulled back and pushed in again, stretching him, taking him, gliding and grinding against his gland. Prophet was going to lose his mind, dammit, and his dick? Didn’t give a shit as long as it got to come.
“Come on—don’t stop. Please.” Prophet was begging, which was against all his better judgment. Rocking, fucking himself with Tommy’s piercings, which added to the delicious friction and yeah, it was all good . . .
Until Tom held his hips still.
“Fucking not fair,” Prophet growled, and enough of this shit. His wrists came out of the rope and he had Tom on his back in seconds.
“How the hell?”
“Still underestimating me? Guess we’ll have to do something about that. Now, are you going to fuck me, or what?”
“Asshole switch definitely needs flipping.”
Prophet’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Is that what Mal told you? Because he’s definitely the asshole.”
“True, but I’m not interested in flipping his switch. So fucking ride me, asshole.”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Prophet raised his hips slightly, his hand circling Tom’s cock, and then he eased himself down onto it and for a second, they both just stilled.
“Mine,” Tom told him, in no uncertain terms.
“Yeah, Tom, yours. All yours. Was . . . from the beginning.”
Tom got onto his elbows so he could get better leverage and he was fucking Prophet, his hips pumping up and down, and Prophet moved in time with him and finally, he was coming, spurting over Tom’s chest and neck in white ropes, marking his man and rubbing it in even as his body shuddered from the aftershocks. When he finally lay down on top of Tom, he heard the frantic beating of Tom’s heart against his cheek, matching his, and Tom told him, “Yes, all mine,” against his ear.
“I’m sorry,” Tom said, when they’d both recovered sufficiently enough to breathe.
“For fucking what? Tying me?”
He smirked. “Definitely not that.”
“Yeah, me neither. So what, then?”
“I should’ve done it earlier.”
“Yeah, well, I probably should’ve too, but it didn’t seem to be in your comfort zone,” Prophet admitted.
“My comfort zone?”
Prophet gave him a small smile. “I’ve said it before, T, and I’ll keep saying it until you believe it. It’s not about sex. It’s about power . . . with Lansing, with John—they just used sex as their delivery method. We’ve both been fucked in other ways, by people looking for control.”
Prophet was comforting him when Tom knew it should be the other way around. “But what they did—it’s personal.”
“Anytime someone tries to take something or someone away from you, it’s personal. Anytime someone tries to break you, it’s personal.” Prophet rubbed Tom’s cheek with his knuckles. “I’m all right, Tommy.”
“You knew what he’d do.”
“Yes.”
“Did it help, knowing ahead of time?”
“Helped me to plan. It was a tactical move.”
“One way to look at it.”
“If you let him win, T—because he did it to hurt you. To break us. If you let him . . .”
“He didn’t.” Tom’s words held a reassuring urgency.
“Then put it out of your mind. It was no different than any fight I’ve been in. Another form of torture.” That wasn’t exactly true, but Prophet wasn’t going to let John get the final word.
Tom smiled. “Say goodbye to your ghosts.”
“Say hello to a partner you can’t kill.”
“If I can’t kill it,” Tom started as he entered Prophet again—not too roughly, but not babying Prophet either.
“Marry it,” Prophet finished with a gasp.
“Yes,” Tom told him.
“Yes, Tommy. Yes.”
Mal had taken Remy to the movies three nights in a row after that, but last night, they’d all stayed home together and watched movies.
Now, feet propped on his desk at EE, Prophet rubbed his chest and felt the bandage in his way. He’d nearly forgotten about it.
Earlier that morning, before going into EE, Remy and Tom had approached him—accosted him, really—and told him he was getting another tattoo.
“What for?” Prophet had demanded. “I won’t be able to see them.”
“But I can,” Tommy said softly, rubbed Prophet’s shoulder.
“I’m supposed to go through pain so you have something pretty to look at?”
“I already have something pretty to look at,” Tom pointed out. “But I want to mark you.”
“You did that last night.”
“TMI,” Remy said loudly.
Tom ignored him. “Permanently.”
Tom wasn’t getting any more tattoos, because Prophet needed to picture him the way he remembered. Every night, he closed his eyes and mapped them out on Tom’s body. It was his way of counting sheep, and usually, it led to neither of them sleeping, at least not right away, but neither one of them had any complaints.
“Go for it,” he’d said to Remy, who tattooed Prophet a compass. Prophet could still see it, and hell, maybe he’d always be able to. Then again, maybe not, and he’d prepared for that.
The hardest part would be letting others do things for him. At times it would be vaguely frustrating, and others, terribly embarrassing. Soul-baring vulnerability, Dean called it, and Prophet hadn’t understood the implications of it until right then
.
When he’d told that to Tom, Tom had asked, “And you’re okay with it now?”
“It’s never going to be perfect,” Prophet had explained. “It shouldn’t be. It can’t be. But you know what? It’ll be okay.”
“More than,” Tom had murmured, his drawl heavy.
“Yeah, more than,” Prophet had echoed.
Now, he smiled and continued trying to saw his cast off. With a letter opener. He hadn’t moved into Phil’s office yet, and neither had Tom. Instead, he was in his old office, with Tom’s desk across from his, where it all began.
And that was very okay.
As Tom watched, Prophet tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear. A tarp was half on whateverthehell he was building—the few times Tom had tried to investigate it, Prophet had sworn it was some kind of remote bomb-robot hybrid—and he was halfheartedly trying to saw his newest cast off. With a letter opener. Which only seemed to succeed in making the edges rougher.
Tom’s back bore the scratches as evidence.
Prophet even had a pile of mail on his desk, like that would somehow fool anyone. But when he looked up, Tom just smiled. Checked his email to see Cillian’s email—and a video attachment. “Does this mean he’s okay?”
Prophet shrugged. “He better be or I’ll kill him . . . unless Mal gets to him first. What’s it say?”
“‘Figured this would make up for the last one,’” Tom read out loud.
“Better not be the couch,” Prophet said, rolling up next to him decisively.
He was still holding the letter opener and Tom tried to ease it away from him under the guise of holding hands. Until he saw the video playing.
It was more of a still taken from a video, a slideshow, with the first frame showing Prophet sitting at the kitchen table, leaning in toward Remy, and then one of Tom watching, smiling . . . and then Remy and Prophet hugging and finally, Prophet and Tom hugging and Remy, covering his eyes and laughing.
Tom bit his bottom lip. “It’s definitely better than the first video he sent.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Prophet said softly. Tom slid his hand into Prophet’s . . . along with the letter opener. “We’re back where we started.”
“After a million miles in between,” Tom managed, although there was a hitch in his voice.
Prophet smiled, and then demanded, “Now stop being sappy and help me get the damned cast off. And hurry, before Doc comes back.”
After a brief hesitation, Tom did exactly what Prophet asked. Because if he was going to be in trouble, doing so with Prophet was the most fun of all.
“He’s still an asshole for spying,” Prophet grumbled.
“Aren’t you still spying on him?”
“Yeah, but that’s different.”
“How?”
“Because it’s me doing it,” Prophet said as if that completely justified it.
Somehow, it did.
One week later . . .
Cillian blinked and wondered if the drugs were that good . . . or if Mal was really standing there.
He reached out and winced. Mal’s hand met him halfway.
“If I’m going to die, you’ll be the one to kill me. That’s what you came here to say, right?” Cillian managed, and Mal nodded solemnly. “Fuck, at least you’re honest.”
Not going to do it now. Too easy. Fish in a barrel, Mal signed.
Cillian laughed . . . even though it hurt.
Mal continued, Guessing you didn’t find Ahmet.
Cillian shook his head. The failure of that, and of letting LT get the best of him? He took it as a personal affront. “You?”
Dead fucking end. Like he disappeared into thin air. I went to the facility Karen had been in and asked around with King and Ren. Opened up walls and shit. Traced the phones. Either she had a lot of help or she was really goddamned good. Mal’s fingers paused. There was one thing, though.
“What’s that?” God, Mal looked so good—the phrase a sight for sore eyes made so much more sense right now, and Cillian wanted him to stay. But then again, he’d never ask him to.
There was an alarm set up to go off at random intervals. It was weird. Like she was structuring her day in an already super structured environment. Like she was training for something.
“And she was successful. I’m sure Prophet’s taking it hard.”
Mal nodded. He’s running EE now, with Tom. We’ll get her back, and Ahmet too.
“I’ll take that bet.” Cillian paused, not sure he wanted to know the answer to the next question, but he asked anyway. “Who really sent you?”
You’ve got a lot of people looking for you. I came by myself.
“I heard SB-20’s gotten in touch with you.”
MI6 actually gives you intel?
Cillian smiled. “I’m not even sure they really want me alive. I got that intel from a source I’ve got in here.”
Mal didn’t even bother to ask why MI6 rescued him. Smart man. SB-20 wants me to work with them—with you as my handler.
“And you said yes?”
I didn’t agree to anything yet. But I can’t work for Prophet. Can’t bring my family shit into Remy’s life. It’s not safe.
“What kind of deal did you make to get Ren out of trouble?”
I asked them to bury Ren’s files. In return, I’m going to help them with my family.
“That’s insane, Mal.” He hadn’t meant to give away what he knew about Mal’s family, but Mal had to assume he’d dug . . . especially after everything that had happened in Amsterdam.
Mal simply shrugged. You planning on hanging out here much longer? When are you being released?
Cillian didn’t push the family issue, instead just glanced at the glass partition. “I don’t exactly know what MI6 means by ‘being released.’”
And you’re just going to lie here and wait to find out?
Cillian glanced up at him, then pulled the sheets back to show he was dressed in jeans and boots. “Shirt’s by the window.”
Mal frowned. Give me a minute. He came back and said, Got your meds. He was wearing a white coat, complete with a doctor’s ID badge, and scrubs, pushing a wheelchair. This way, he could take his IVs with him and let them finish out. We’re going out the front door. Simple.
Simple. Despite the fact that there was nothing simple between him and Mal, he couldn’t deny that, sometimes, the simplest plans were actually the best.
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As always, it takes a village, and mine includes Rachel Haimowitz, May Peterson, Alex Whitehall, L.C. Chase (another gorgeous cover!), and everyone else at Riptide who helps to ensure my releases go smoothly.
A special thanks to Madeline M. (aka Mad who owns Blue), who gave the perfect name to one of the CIA agents in this book, ensuring he’ll show up in other, unexpected places in future books.
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bsp; Also, to my readers who understood my (unplanned and unexpected) hiatus and hung in there, and to my family, who I couldn’t do this without. More to come, and I hope you all love the final installment of Prophet and Tommy as much as I do!
Havoc Motorcycle Club
Running Wild
Running Blind
Running on Empty (Coming soon)
Hell or High Water (EE, Ltd.)
Catch a Ghost
Long Time Gone
Daylight Again
Not Fade Away
Men of Honor
Bound by Honor
Bound by Law
Ties That Bind
Bound by Danger
Bound for Keeps (EE, Ltd.)
Bound to Break
Phoenix, Inc.
No Boundaries
Standalone
Free Falling (EE, Ltd.)
Dirty Deeds (EE, Ltd.)
Dirty Deeds
Dirty Lies (Coming soon)
Dirty Love (Coming soon)
Inked
Hold the Line
Thirds
SE Jakes writes m/m romance. She believes in happy endings and fighting for what you want in both fiction and real life. She lives in New York with her family and most days, she can be found happily writing (in bed). No really . . .
SE Jakes is the pen name of New York Times best-selling author Stephanie Tyler (and half of Sydney Croft).
You can contact her the following ways:
Email: [email protected]
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Truth be told, the best way to contact her is by email or in blog comments. She spends most of her time writing but she loves to hear from readers!
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