Prodigal (Lost and Found Book 1)

by TA Moore

  “Then I’d shut up and prove it,” Morgan teased with that same half-crooked smile. He stroked his hands up Boyd’s thighs to grip his hips. “Or you want me to do all the work?”

  Boyd wrapped his hand around Morgan’s cock, latex slippery under his lube-slick fingers, and lowered himself onto it. The head pressed, blunt and thick, against his hole for a second. Then the muscle, already wet and loosened, relaxed enough for the cock to push in.

  “Oh damn,” he muttered under his breath as he felt himself stretch to accommodate the width of the shaft. It ached with a dull heat that spread through his ass and into his stomach and sent flutters of heady pleasure into his balls and cock at the same time. He chewed his lower lip as he rocked his hips slowly to work the length of it inside him. As the cock pulled him wider, Boyd wrapped his hand around his cock and tugged on it with jerky, impatient strokes.

  “Fuck,” Morgan groaned. He let his head fall back against the floor with a soft thud as he flexed his fingers around Boyd’s hips. “That feels good. You’re so fucking pretty, baby.”

  Boyd ran his hand along Morgan’s arm. “Prettiest assholes in the bar tonight,” he said.

  It made Morgan snort, and Boyd felt the vibration of it inside him. He sucked in a startled breath at how good that felt and pushed himself down until he had all of Morgan’s cock inside him. It felt… impossible—far too much of someone else inside him to make sense. His stomach tightened, and the long muscles under the skin trembled with hunger as he sucked in a deep breath through his teeth.

  “If Shay knocks on the damn door this time,” Morgan said, “he can fucking wait.”

  Boyd snorted again. “I think the last thing he wants,” he said as he rolled his hips against Morgan, the muscles in his ass clenched around the cock that spread him wide, “is to see your cock again.”

  “Good,” Morgan said thickly, his jaw clenched. “Fuck him. You feel so good.”

  Boyd lifted himself up, the muscles in his legs tight with the strain, and thrust back down again. The head of Morgan’s cock grazed his prostate and spilled a dark wave of pleasure down Boyd’s nerves. His cock was thick and flushed between his fingers as he stroked it, raggedly out of time with the stroke of his hips.

  Sweat slicked their skin, slippery and cool, as Boyd fucked himself on Morgan’s cock. His hand slipped on Morgan’s arm and he braced himself on his chest instead, fingers spread over the wide span of muscle. Each time he rolled his hips, Morgan’s cock so deep inside him that Boyd could feel his heartbeat, his balls pulled tight and tender toward his body.

  They felt weighted, almost dense with pent-up lust, and Boyd could feel his orgasm swell each time Morgan thrust into him and then ebb again as Boyd squeezed the base of his cock. Each time Morgan’s cock bumped against the nerve-rich nub of his prostate, he found it a little harder not to come.

  He worried the inside of his cheek between his teeth as he squeezed his eyes closed. The taste of his own sweat was salty and sharp against his tongue. Want cramped in his balls and stomach, a drumbeat of pleasure just at the border of pain. He dragged his hand along his cock, familiar with the right places to squeeze the shaft and the scrape of his callused fingers against the velvet-soft skin.

  “No,” Morgan said, his voice raw with lust. “I want you to look at me.”

  “I just….” Boyd bit his lips to hold back a whimper as Morgan thrust into him. He dragged a breath back in and tried again. “I’m going to come.”

  “Good.” Morgan pushed himself up off the ground and into a sitting position, one arm hooked around Boyd’s hips. He bit a kiss into Boyd’s shoulder and then up his throat, his teeth and lips rough enough to leave marks under the stubble. As Boyd opened his eyes, Morgan caught his chin between his fingers and pulled it down. “I want to watch you when you come. I want to see it in your pretty eyes.”

  There was someone’s cock deep in his ass, Boyd’s own hard-on trapped between their bodies, and Boyd still felt himself blush at the compliment as though it were a first date, not a hookup. Morgan laughed and kissed him.

  “You’re so damn cute,” he muttered against Boyd’s mouth. He tightened the arm he had around Boyd’s waist as he thrust into him with hard, fast jerks of his hips. Boyd’s cock rubbed against his stomach, sweaty skin slick against the hot length of it. “How can you be so cute and so fucking hot at the same time?”

  Boyd grabbed Morgan’s shoulder, dug his fingers into the muscles, and glared at him. “Bite me,” he muttered.

  Morgan grinned and did as he was told. He bit a hard kiss across the seam of Boyd’s mouth. “Baby, I’ll do anything you want me to.”

  He thrust up with a hard, impatient slam that buried him deep inside Boyd’s ass, and Boyd’s fingers spasmed clumsily around his cock as he came against Morgan’s stomach.

  “Fuck,” he muttered as he felt his muscles clench tightly around Morgan’s cock to wring out the last teaspoon of come from his balls. He stared at Morgan as he came, and then he leaned in for a kiss. He rested his hand on Morgan’s lean cheek, his palm against the fine prickle of stubble and warm skin as he feathered the kiss over damp, parted lips.

  Morgan groaned and thrust into him again with two unsteady strokes that jarred through Boyd’s body as he came. Once he was spent, he slouched back onto the floor and pulled Boyd down with him. His cock slid out of Boyd’s ass as they squirmed to get comfortable, a tangle of dark-furred legs, bare, tanned ones, and ragged breathing.

  “I’ll talk to Shay,” Morgan said.

  He didn’t have any hair on his balls either, Boyd noticed as he pulled the sticky condom off Morgan’s cock and tied it up. Waxed, Boyd guessed, since he had a skim of light, golden hair on his chest and arms.

  “You don’t have to.”

  Morgan shrugged. “I’ll probably fuck your life up sooner or later,” he said. “It won’t kill me to do one thing that you want me to.”

  Chapter Ten

  MORGAN SPRAWLED out on the bed, linen sheets cool against his sweaty skin, and folded his arms behind his head as he watched Boyd get dressed. It was a good view, all long, lean lines and wiry muscle. Despite his jokes the night before, he obviously didn’t need to be self-conscious about his body. It was—Morgan tilted his head to the side and watched as Boyd hop-tugged his wrinkled jeans over the tight curve of his ass—definitely okay.

  The twitch of his recently spent cock, bare and sticky against his thigh, mocked Morgan’s halfhearted attempt to undersell how fucking hot Boyd was. He ignored it. It was never a good idea to get too attached to anything, anyone. Morgan learned that lesson young, and it had never steered him wrong since.

  Nice was safe.

  Boyd wasn’t. He was everything Morgan knew he couldn’t have and didn’t fucking deserve—good, kind, hot as hell, his pale skin marked from Morgan’s mouth and fingers, bruises on his hips and bite marks scraped over his chest and shoulders.

  Yeah, none of that was safe. So Morgan buried it, down deep where he didn’t have to remember it, and just enjoyed the nice.

  “You don’t have to talk to Shay,” Boyd said as he sat down on the end of the bed to pull on his sneakers. He was still shirtless, and the muscles in his back flexed under his skin as he tied the laces. “That wasn’t why I slept with you.”

  Morgan snorted and pushed his foot against Boyd’s ass. “Slept with means you got in the bed. We fucked.”

  The word felt uglier than usual in his mouth. Sprawled on the floor, his cock pressed against Boyd’s ass, fuck had been dark and sweet as Boyd begged for it. Now it was coarse and rough-edged, aimed to puncture whatever fantasies had settled in to make Boyd’s pretty damn eyes so bright.

  It was meant to make Boyd bristle—just because Morgan didn’t want anything more than this, didn’t mean he wanted Boyd to agree—and get the point. Instead Boyd just glanced over his shoulder and flashed a smile.

  “I’ve got to be at work in a couple of hours,” he said as though it were an invitation. He twisted around and
got his knee under him as he stretched up the bed to brush a quick kiss over Morgan’s mouth. “I’ll leave Shay’s number if you want to call him, but it’s up to you.”

  Morgan caught Boyd’s elbow as he started to draw back. Fuck that kiss. Boyd didn’t get to brush him off like some unsatisfactory one-night stand, with a dry buss and a number on the back of a coaster.

  He pulled Boyd back down into a wet, messy, careless kiss. It was rough and hungry, all bitten lips and stolen breath. The taste of Morgan’s skin was still on Boyd’s mouth, and he smelled of sex. After a startled moment, Boyd relaxed into it, his body sprawled on top of Morgan. His thigh nudged against Morgan’s cock, denim rough against the sensitive skin, and he curled a hand around the back of Morgan’s neck.

  “Okay,” Morgan said as he dropped his head back onto the pillow. “You can go now.”

  Boyd started to follow his mouth down and then caught himself. He leaned back and licked his lips, his eyes narrowed in irritation.

  “What was that about?” he asked.

  Morgan shrugged offhandedly. “Just reminding you I’m not your maiden aunt since you seem to have forgotten.”

  The irritation flickered but hung on as Boyd shook his head. “I was keeping it casual,” he said as he pushed himself off Morgan’s chest. “That’s what you wanted, right? Asshole.”

  Not exactly. Morgan wanted casual, but Boyd was meant to want more than that.

  “Yeah, well, that’s the point, isn’t it,” Morgan grumbled as Boyd climbed off the bed. He watched as Boyd grabbed his T-shirt and impatiently dragged it on. “No way I’m this kid. I bet he’d never be a jerk, right?”

  Boyd raked his hair back from his face with both hands. He looked exasperated. “He was my friend,” he said. “My best friend. I loved him. But yeah, he could be an asshole. We were eight. Asshole was built in. If you want to prove you’re not Sammy, there’s better ways than trying to be such a jackass that nobody wants you to be. Call your mom. Your school. Your Boy Scout troop leader. Talk to Shay. Or don’t. Do what you want. It’s not my job to make you into anyone else.”

  “Do you want to?” Morgan asked.

  “Right now?” Boyd asked as his eyebrows shot up. “Not the time to ask.”

  He grabbed his keys and first aid from the dresser and stalked toward the door. Morgan tried to hold his tongue but couldn’t quite manage it.

  “What was he like?” he asked. “Sammy. Other than an asshole sometimes?”

  Boyd paused with his hand on the door. It took a second, but he finally answered.

  “Funny. Mean sometimes. Loyal,” he said. He dipped his chin and added with a laugh, “Shorter than me.”

  “Was he missed?”

  Boyd took a deep breath and let it out as he looked over his shoulder. “Still is.”

  He left. Just like Morgan wanted. The bitter taste in his mouth was just because… well, there was no way he was Sammy Calloway. He knew that already, but the proof was still a tough pill to swallow.

  People still missed Sammy, still loved him. Boyd did, even with the smell of Morgan’s sweat still on his skin.

  Morgan kicked the sheets down the bed and rubbed his hand over his stomach. His gut ached uncomfortably, and he wished Boyd had stayed to fight with him. When he was out of their lives, people only gave Morgan a second thought if he’d stolen their wallet out the door. No one ever lost sleep over him when he was a kid.

  Just call someone? Like anybody in Morgan’s life cared enough to remember he’d even been there, never mind send him to Scouts.

  He folded his arm over his face and closed his eyes. The light stayed on. It always did if he had a choice.

  In some ways it wouldn’t be so bad to be Sammy Calloway, he thought wistfully, but he knew better. It would be like every foster home that seemed okay, every teacher who seemed interested. They’d realize the truth about who he was, what he was, and then it was over. Back to shitty real life.

  Maybe not Boyd, some shit-stupid, hope-springs-eternal part of him clung to. But yeah, even Boyd. Sooner or later. That was the thing about the truth—you couldn’t get away from it.

  With that idea chewed loose, his brain was finally quiet enough to let him go to sleep.

  A 1969 E-series Plymouth Road Runner with a custom candy-apple black-cherry paint job. Twenty grand on the hoof, more if you had the right buyer on the line, and just parked on the curb outside the body shop as though it couldn’t be hot-wired and away in two minutes.

  Morgan pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose so he could check out the car. The gloss of the red-black paint was so high that the car looked sticky, like red candy.

  He still wanted to touch it.

  It hadn’t been difficult to find Shay, even if Boyd forgot to give him the number—not that many Calloways in town, and only one Gear Heads Body Shop on the books.

  Morgan could have called. The phone number was on the website too, but that…. It was too many steps. He’d have to call, leave a message, wait for a callback, arrange a meeting, and somewhere in there, he’d flake out. It was better to just turn up, put Shay at the disadvantage.

  That was the plan, at least, until he saw a ticket all the way to Mexico just left on the street like a common street car.

  Morgan skimmed his fingers along the baby-smooth curve of the bumper as he walked around the Road Runner and peered in through the smoked-glass windows. Someone had done that themselves, and the tinted film had scraped and started to peel at the corners. Morgan could still see the old black leather upholstery and stripped-back minimalist dashboard.

  “You like cars?” Shay asked from the other side of the car.

  “Nice cars,” Morgan said as he straightened up and looked over the roof at the blond asshole. “Boyd didn’t say what you did.”

  Maybe he thought it would be too much temptation for Morgan, with his rap sheet. Or Morgan just hadn’t asked. He still wasn’t entirely clear what Boyd did, other than he made enough to not miss fifteen grand in bail money. Or that’s what Morgan wanted to believe, anyhow.

  He squashed the thought for now, as though Shay might smell his bad intentions on the air, and rapped his knuckles against the roof of the car.

  “It belong to some collector?” he asked.

  Shay gave the car an odd look. It wasn’t easy to read. “No,” he said. “He’s mine. My first love. Pretty sure my ex would have named him in the divorce if she could. Come on in. I’ll pour you a coffee.”

  Morgan stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Why? You don’t want any witnesses when you punch me?” he asked. “Or you just punch guys you know aren’t going to hit you back?”

  Emotions chased each other over Shay’s face. A flash of anger tightened his jaw and narrowed his eyes. Then it was promptly punctured by shame. He rubbed his hand over his mouth and swallowed hard.

  “I’m not going to hit you,” he said. “I shouldn’t have hit Boyd. I’m not proud of that. I’m not like that anymore, and I’ve apologized to him. But don’t try to take the high road with me. I still think you’re a con artist.”

  Morgan would have taken offense if he hadn’t just worked out what he could get if he boosted Shay’s car.

  “Like I care,” he said. “But in that case, why did you want to talk to me?”

  Shay curled up the corner of his mouth in a wry smile. “Because no one else has seen through you. Yet,” he said. “So you’re a con artist I have to deal with. Do you want coffee or not?”

  He waited, eyebrows raised expectantly, and Morgan scowled at him. After he split Boyd’s lip, Morgan had been ready to dislike Shay anyhow, but add to that Shay Calloway was tall, clean-cut, and broad-shouldered. Handsome enough, Morgan supposed, but respectable looking. The sort of man mothers approved of and dads made plans to watch the game with.

  “Whatever.” Morgan pulled his hand out of his pocket and waved toward the shop. “After you.”

  Shay rolled his eyes and led the way across th
e cracked asphalt into the shop. Yellow fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling on dusty chains, and it smelled of oil, damp concrete, and flux. A half-rebuilt Impala, the undignified canary-yellow paint job stripped back to raw metal on the door and roof, was jacked up over the pit.

  It was familiar, even down to the owner being an asshole, and Morgan let his guard down a bit.

  “Business slow?” he asked. “Or you just shit at it?”

  Shay snorted an unexpected laugh. “Bit of both,” he said “Mostly the latter. Grab a seat.”

  His office was a corner of the workshop, walled off by filing cabinets and a heavy-duty steel table that supported what looked like the remains of three different engines. There was a kettle balanced on top of a stack of files, and Shay briefly lifted it to check the heft before he turned it on.

  Morgan spun the chair around, straddled it, and folded his arms over the backrest. Last night’s brawl had worked some of it out of his system, but he was still spoiling for a fight, even if it was just words, not punches. The odd, shabby domesticity of the off-white cups and the kettle that spat as it boiled undercut that urge.

  “You’re not my brother,” Shay said. He tipped coffee and a spoonful of creamer into a cup and then left it while they waited for the water to boil.

  “Never said I was,” Morgan said.

  Shay leaned his hips back against the desk and crossed his arms. “I never said you were stupid. You don’t need to say anything. The less you say, the easier it is for us to fill in the gaps with what we want. My brother used to sit like that.” Shay nodded at the turned-backward chair. Morgan straightened up and leaned back, suddenly awkward. “So do a dozen people I know. It means nothing unless I want it to. Then it means everything.”

  “Fuck off,” Morgan told him. “You think I wanted this? I’ve lost my job, my apartment, and I could end up in prison. All because some asshole can’t run DNA properly. What am I going to get here that makes it worth my time? Your mother rich or something?”

  “No. Never. And less now that she’s doled out what she had to anyone who turned up at her door with a ‘clue’ or a piece of evidence the cops missed. She paid nine hundred dollars once for a backpack this woman said was Sammy’s. Only it turned out that she’d seen it in the paper and copied it—right down to the badge he got the summer before. Now I pay her bills, give her some cash, and sometimes she still finds a way to stuff an envelope with fifties for a psychic reading. Tell me, Morgan, you ever thought you might have a gift?”