by BA Tortuga
“Feels… feels amazing, Precious.” Panting, Sonny started giving it to him, hips rolling, punching. That thick cock slid in and out, in and out.
“Oh.” He flexed, pulled his knees up and back, spreading himself right out.
“MJ….” It came out as a moan, rough and hard, Sonny’s voice just shattered. They moved with the motion of the water under the boat, increasingly violent as the wind blew up a gust, both of them grunting, humping.
“Fuck, yes.” His skin pimpled up, muscles rippling. Oh, he loved that, the cool wind on hot skin.
“Yes.” God, yeah. All they could do was move, rock, fuck hard. Sonny bit him, teeth scraping over his collarbone, sending shocks right up his spine.
“Do it again.” He demanded.
All he had to do was ask, because Sonny did it right away, teeth sinking in, stinging hard. Fucking A. It hurt in the best way.
He grunted, abs clenched tight, just drawing his balls into a tight sac.
“Gonna.” Sonny would too, just come again, just like that. This time he got to look up into Sonny’s face, watch the muscles strain in Sonny’s neck and chest as that big body rocked and rolled, convulsing on top of him.
It only took that and the squeeze and tug of Sonny’s hand to bring him along, just pulling the spunk out of him.
Sonny flopped on him, pushing the rest of the air out of his lungs, making him wheeze.
“Oh goddamn,” Sonny said, kissing the side of his neck. “Yeah.”
“Mmm-hmm.” The rain started, feeling like ocean spray at first. “Gonna be a wild night, Sunshine.”
“It is, Precious.” Laughing, Sonny slid away gently, hauled him up, and rubbed his sore ass. “Need to get the grill turned off, get everything lashed down. Then we can have that steak salad and some wild night loving. You can do me….”
He hummed, fingers trailing over Sonny’s hip. “Until you’re screaming for more.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve made me scream, would it?”
God, no. There was that one night, right off the coast of Aruba… damn.
“Won’t be the last. I have years’ worth of plans.” He grinned, laughing as the rain came harder. “I’m going to get things tied down downstairs and grab a head of lettuce.”
No sense losing stuff to the storm.
“Sounds good.” He got a smile, free and easy, Sonny just tanned and relaxed and looking so good.
He headed down, then looked back. “You ever miss it, Sunshine? Running a meth lab?”
He figured he had just enough of a head start to get the cabin door shut before Sonny tackled him and took him down. He was almost right.
Almost.
Steam and Sunshine
Prologue
HE BLEW the center out of a cinderblock when he was in the eighth grade for the science fair, dropping the chunk of concrete exactly where he wanted it, causing a fake river to redirect and feed the little fern forest he’d planted. A man in a pair of sandals and swim trunks came up to him after school and asked to meet his parents.
Manning took the guy to meet Mom and the Colonel, watched the Colonel’s eyes when the guy offered to take him north for the summer to a camp for gifted students.
He’d never had so much fun, and when August came, he didn’t go home. There were eight of them then. Seven boys and Paula, and they lived and breathed engineering. They built things; they destroyed things.
It was fascinating.
By the time he was eighteen, there were only three of them left from the original group. Greg and Paula and him. Others came and went; burnout and accidents took their toll. They worked and played and studied, and MJ found his niche in the lab. Explosives.
Big ones, little ones, sharp and deadly and specific and…. Yeah.
They called him Boomer, and he could set a charge anywhere. In a pen cap, in a coffee cup—anywhere. Tiny and perfect and deadly.
He excelled at his work—had his masters by nineteen, his doctorate by twenty-two, and he was in the zone.
One night he was up on the roof of the shed, harvesting a little of their crop of green to dry, when he saw Greg outside, talking to a stranger.
“… a risk to the project. She’s beginning to ask questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“She wants to know what the devices she’s creating could be used for. I think there’s a mole in the group, someone creating waves.”
“Fine. We’ll eliminate her at the first opportunity.”
MJ blinked and stopped. A mole. There could only be a mole if this was a covert group. This was college. This was engineering.
This was explosions.
There was only one “her,” and he knew. He knew she’d been asking the mentors questions, knew she’d been talking about traveling after going home to see her family in the desert. Knew something was up.
It was one of those weird, life-altering decisions, going down the stairs to see her—or a short-haired, older version of Paula, because she’d changed since that morning in the lab. He caught her loading a gun and a shit-ton of equipment into bags. “Paula? I… I came to tell you….”
“I know. I heard. Surveillance equipment. Thanks, Boomer.” Her eyes were blue. How could her eyes be blue? Her eyes had never been blue before.
“Your eyes.”
“Yeah. I… I have a new job, man.”
“Doing what?”
She grinned. “Fixing all the shit I broke. Don’t trust Greg, MJ. Don’t trust anybody. This setup… you look into it. You’ll figure it out. When you do, come find me.”
Then she was gone.
He did figure it out, and it didn’t take him long. He was quick and smart and partied and laughed enough that no one thought he could be sneaking around. It was harder to arrange his escape, but he had access to the right chemicals, access to the right explosives, and it happened. He poofed and headed toward the desert, where she’d said her family was. Where the encrypted emails sent from a Las Vegas motel led him, and he did find her in the middle of the low desert in a little cabin, her eyes still blue.
He and Paula worked together for six and a half years—he found out she was ten years older than he’d thought, that he was considerably dumber than advertised, that the people she worked for were very well-funded and very well-protected, that the desert was damned hot, and that he missed the beach. MJ also discovered that, much as he loved Paula, he didn’t want her, and as much as Paula wanted to, she couldn’t manage to quit hating anyone long enough to trust them. He kept being the junior partner, the sidekick.
One night, about three years after he’d come back to the desert after a big job involving an oil rig—involving meeting people, getting to know them, and then doing his job anyway—MJ caught sight of himself in a mirror and stared. He wasn’t a skinny little blond kid anymore. He was tanned and built and strong and, damn, blood did wash off.
He drove to Phoenix that night, got his first ink, got laid. When he walked in the door, Paula looked up and laughed. “It’s about fucking time, Boomer.”
“My name’s MJ, bitch.”
Things went better after that.
At least for a few years. Then Cairo happened.
Cairo, where they went to gather information and ensure that a certain man was delivered alive to his rescuers. Cairo, where someone lied and Paula ended up taking a bullet to the brain. Cairo, where Greg was suddenly standing there, familiar as anything, telling him they’d been wondering where he’d gone off to. Cairo, where he woke up in a five-by-five box, with a rotting partner and a broken shoulder and a pistol with a single bullet. The things that happened in that box were unthinkable, and he wasn’t coherent after what he figured was the fourth day.
By the end of the fifth day, he’d managed to blow the container’s lock using gunpowder from the bullet and shavings from the butt of the gun, with wadding made out of Paula’s hair. And by the morning after that, he’d killed twenty men, filled a lifeboat with weapons, foo
d, electronics, and ammunition, and then had set the main boat to blow, Paula’s body surrendered to the sea.
Then he’d become the senior and solo partner.
MJ went back to the desert house once, but Greg had already been there, the place ashes and smoke. He got in his ’stang and headed west, top down. He stopped twice—once to transfer Paula’s cash and add it to his, once to get some ink in her honor. Then he headed to the water to surf.
He was never going to be trapped again, and he was never going to settle down, and he was never ever going to work with a partner again.
He’d been wrong on all counts.
Chapter One
SONNY FIGURED he had this problem.
He had showered. He’d shaved his head. He’d wandered around poking at things. He’d even gone out on deck and tried to stroke off. None of it had even come close to easing his hard-on. So his problem was that he had an itch to scratch, and the one he wanted, hell, needed to fix it was below deck, plinking away at that fucking laptop.
Time to get serious about this.
Sonny considered himself a man of action, damn it. Semiretirement wasn’t gonna change that. So he went on down the ladder, sort of mourning the late-evening breeze, and went to retrieve his favorite toy. He wandered right on over to the little desk and sat on it, straddling MJ’s legs and pushing the laptop out of the way with his ass. Look at that. Presenting his assets perfectly.
“Hey, Precious.”
Those bright blue eyes slid right on up him, from crotch to eyes, admiring all the way up. “Hey, Sunshine. You look… interested.”
“I have been for oh… an hour and a half. I’m starting to feel like the warning on a Viagra bottle, and you? Have been ignoring me.”
“Oh, tell me you haven’t been in the medicine cabinet.” MJ grinned, hands sliding right up along his thighs, thumbs pushing in hard. Look at the little shit, ignoring his remark about—well, ignoring him.
“Only for the shave cream.” Leaning back on one hand, Sonny used the other one to rub his scalp. “You like?”
“Mm-hmm.” MJ nodded, too-fucking-long blond hair bouncing like a girl’s as those hands moved up higher. “I like. You know, I was trying to invest our money….”
Like MJ gave a shit about that right now.
Sonny shifted a half an inch to the right, his cock slapping MJ’s hand. “Uh-huh. You do that daily.”
“Hmm?” MJ’s fingers wrapped around his prick, hot and just right. “Daily?”
“Uh-huh. Just like we do this. Okay, so we do this more than, uhn. There. More than once.” The way MJ’s thumb ran up the underside to stroke the vein had him stuttering.
“Uh-huh. Fuck, you smell good.” MJ leaned forward, lips open, tongue just barely flicking the tip of Sonny’s cock.
“You… you feel good, Precious.” Like just what he’d been needing. All. Damned. Day. Sonny put one hand on the back of MJ’s head, pushing just a little.
That got him a nip, MJ resisting. “Pushy asshole.”
“Self-absorbed terrorist.” If the mountain wouldn’t come to Mohammed…. Sonny arched his hips up, sliding between MJ’s lips, thumb rubbing the thick scar that ran from cheekbone to temple. His scar. Oh fuck. Hot. MJ’s hands slid under his ass, tugged him in deeper. “Good. Good.” Loved that mouth. He surely did. Sonny thrust, letting MJ feel his pleasure. His heat.
MJ’s thumbs pressed his hole, teasing, making him push even more. His hand slipped, and he barely missed the laptop as he sprawled back. He managed it, though, because MJ would tear him up if he damaged that thing.
“Excellent save.” Those bright-bright fucking blue eyes danced, the tip of that tongue sliding over parted lips.
“Why, thank you.” Batting his eyelashes, Sonny pushed MJ back and slid down on his thighs. “Hi.”
“Oh. Hey. You’re welcome.” MJ leaned back, hips rolling up, nice and easy.
Perfect. Now they could rub together, really going to town. He had to dig for MJ’s cock, those thin linen pants just enough of a barrier.
“Watch the nails, Sunshine. You scratch it and it might fall off.” MJ grabbed his hips, helping their motions smooth out.
“No, not gonna hurt you. Not unless you want me to.” He grinned wildly, got them lined up and rubbing.
“Promises, promises.” MJ’s head fell back, throat working. “Right there, man. Right. Fucking. There.”
“Uh-huh. You know it.” He knew another there, and Sonny hit it, biting at the base of MJ’s throat, letting his teeth pull up a mark.
“Fuck!” Those fingers squeezed down hard, leaving bruises of their own. Oh yeah. That was it.
“Come on, Precious,” he said. “Show me what you got.” He could always goad MJ into higher, faster. More.
MJ’s head rolled, and, fuck, wasn’t that a great moan. “Yeah. Yeah, Sunshine. Soon.”
“Uh-huh. Wanna see you give it up.” He loved that. Loved it when MJ came, when the smell of spunk was right there on the air.
“Shit, yeah.” MJ grinned, tugged him down into a kiss, their teeth clicking together as spunk sprayed between them.
Sonny lost it, coming so hard he saw stars, his body undulating on top of MJ. “Fuck, Precious. Uhn….”
“Uh-huh. That’s it. Just…. That.” MJ nodded, groaning.
They sat there, blinking, sort of sliding into a doze until his chin clunked MJ’s shoulder. Then Sonny sat up. “There’s a really pretty breeze up on deck. If you want to scratch my itch again up there.”
“Oh, that sounds much better than working down here.” MJ leaned in, lapped his nipple, nibbled a little bit.
“I thought it might.” Much as he hated to give up that sensation, Sonny moved until he got wiggle room and stood. “Come on, Precious. Let’s go moonbathe.”
“Mm-hmm. Right behind you. Right there.”
Finally. The man was paying him some attention.
Good thing he had at least another two go-rounds in him. Even without hitting the medicine cabinet.
“ARE WE there yet?”
It had to be the eightieth time Sonny had asked, and this time he poked MJ in the ribs. Somewhere around 2:00 a.m., MJ had gotten a wild hair and started up out of their bunk to go pull anchor and sail… God knew where. It was now 6:00 a.m., and Sonny was hungry and horny.
“Did you hear me? I said are we there yet?”
“Are we where yet?” MJ was bouncing, ass going up and down and up and down.
“I don’t fucking know, Precious. You’re driving.” Steering. Captaining. Whatever.
“Well, yeah. I’m just going.” MJ pointed. “That way. For a while.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Sonny peered out over the wheel. “Well, head that way instead.”
They’d been traveling fairly parallel to the shore, and “that way” for Sonny would take them to a nice cove. Christ, for a pair of semiretired boys, they sure traveled a lot.
“What’s that way?” MJ turned, heading the direction he pointed, still bouncing, still moving like a toy on a string.
“A place we can anchor. I want breakfast.” What the hell? “You been taking speed, man?”
“Hmm? Would I do that? I mean, you’re the meth dealer….” Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Jesus Christ, almost two years since MJ fucked up his sweet still, and the damned asshole was still teasing him about cooking something more potent.
“You just do odd things, so running hooch doesn’t trip your trigger. You’re fucking scary. Blow shit up. Try to cut people’s thumbs off.” He reached out and turned the wheel toward his cove.
“I wasn’t trying to cut it off. You were choking me. That’s not odd. Odd is not letting a man walk by in a fog.”
“You blew up my road.” Some people just had a blind spot for the fucking truth. Jeez.
“Your name wasn’t on it.” Like that would have mattered.
“It was, actually. But you just can’t read Carolina ridge runner.” Another wee turn had them heading inland. “
Throttle down, Precious.”
“Is that like Cajun?” MJ chuckled, easing back, heading them in a little too fast, but sure as shit, they didn’t die or run ashore or anything.
“No, more like asshole environmentalist, but smarter.” Shithead.
“I do not have my own language, Sunshine. Although that would be vaguely cool, something with explosives and special words for the good money and shit. Not that I’m still in the business, because I’m retired, but still. Cool.”
“Uh-huh.” There. They turned in a wide, soggy circle before settling, and Sonny wasted no time dropping anchor. “We’re there.”
“Go us.” MJ killed the motor and started wandering, looking, whistling.
“Uh-huh.” Sonny did some looking too, at MJ’s ass. And at other bouncy bits when MJ turned toward him to pace back.
Okay, somebody had some happy drugs and wasn’t sharing, which was against the rules. Well, unless he was doling them out, and that was less a not-sharing thing and more a friendly thing.
“You’re holding out on me, Precious.” Sonny started stalking that fine ass, watching it sway.
“Holding out on you?”
Mmm. That man had some fine, strong thighs.
“Uh-huh. You’ve been snorting at something…. Tell me what?” Sonny reached out and stroked the flat belly, feeling muscles twitch.
“I just was trying to remember what was in that little envelope. You know, that one we picked up from that guy? I should have marked it, but I didn’t, or if I did, I forgot or it faded. Something.”
“You bastard. You didn’t share.” Not that Sonny reacted well to some of the shit MJ did anyway, physically. But he had to keep up….
“There wasn’t enough. I sorta sneezed.”
“You sorta. Oh Jesus fuck, MJ.” The man was a menace.
“Yeah. Sorta.” MJ started backpedaling, fingers drumming on the rail of the boat.
“You’re the worst druggie I’ve ever met. That’s downright incompetent.” Turning on his heel, Sonny went to rummage through MJ’s little bag. Surely there was something….
