by TA Moore
“Your turn,” Cloister said as he tilted his head back against the window and bit his lip. He wrapped his hand around his cock and pulled lazily on it with loosely clasped fingers.
Javi closed the distance between them, reached up to grab the back of Cloister’s neck, and dragged him down into a kiss. There wasn’t much height difference between them, but there was enough, and Javi didn’t stretch to meet. He kissed Cloister deeply and shoved his tongue into his mouth. Then he shoved Cloister around to face the window. Cloister caught himself with his hands against the glass, and the muscles in his upper arms and back were tight and defined.
“Dim the lights,” Javi said. The overhead lights dimmed to a shadowy twilight. Fucking Deputy Cloister Witte against a window was a fantasy. Having an audience in the street below would be a nightmare. He ran a hand down Cloister’s back—the long, smooth lines of it were clammy with sweat—to the curve of his ass. Even in the dim light, he could see it was evenly tanned all over and dusted with freckles. He flexed his fingers against it to feel the hardness of muscle under the layer of soft skin. “Last chance to change your mind, Cloister.”
He didn’t want to make the offer, and it might have held more moral weight if he hadn’t slid a hand between Cloister’s legs to roughly squeeze his balls. Cloister made a ragged sound that turned into a curse, and his breath dampened the glass in front of him.
Since a fuck wasn’t a no, Javi emptied the pockets of his exercise pants and then stripped them off. The condom and travel sachet of raspberry-scented lube punched another hole in his patchy excuse that it wasn’t planned. He ripped the corner of the sachet open with his teeth. The intense, sickly smell of sugared fruit was faintly repulsive but also familiar enough that, in a Pavlovian sexual response, it made his balls drag up tight to his body.
He coated his fingers and worked the slippery gel into Cloister. He pressed his fingers past the tight ring of muscle and deep inside. Then he hooked his index finger and grazed the firm bump of Cloister’s prostate. Cloister clenched his hands into fists against the window, and the knuckles pressed white against the glass. He swallowed hard with a noisy and wet-sounding gulp, and he rocked back against Javi’s fingers.
“Just fuck me,” he growled impatiently. The snap of command in Cloister’s voice should have pissed Javi off. Instead it hit some strange button he didn’t know he had. Maybe he knew he was going to fuck that starch right out of the good deputy.
He caught Cloister’s hips in his hands and his fingers around the hard knobs of his hipbones and repositioned him. When he finished, Cloister was leaning on the window instead of just against it. The long muscles of his legs were clenched to keep his balance, and his ass and inner thighs were shiny with raspberry lotion.
Javi’s cock was so hard it bumped against his stomach, and a dull ache worked its way through his balls and down his thighs. The desire to fuck Cloister, to have him against the damn window, was so uncomplicated he wasn’t sure he trusted it. There was no denying it, though.
“I don’t even know why I want to fuck you,” he said as he worked the tight rubber of the condom down over his cock. The sheath was a slippery, wet look against the darker skin of his cock and snug around the base. “You aren’t my type.”
Cloister was thickly erect. Reflected in the window, his cock jutted at a proud, untouched angle between his spread thighs. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t ask you to prom either,” he said. “But you’re here, so….”
It was exactly the sort of emotional engagement Javi wanted. None. So he could ignore the ember of annoyance that itched at him. He tugged the firm, freckled globes of Cloister’s backside apart and pushed his cock against the tight, puckered asshole. It stretched around him—a tight, gripping pressure on his shaft that popped fireworks of hot pleasure along his nerves and up his spine.
Moonlight picked out the bunched muscles in Cloister’s back and shoulders in hard lines defined under his skin. He rocked his hips back, working Javi’s cock half an inch deeper inside him. Javi leaned over, grabbed Cloister’s shoulder, and dug his fingers into the heavy arch of muscle and used it as a handle.
He pulled back, which made Cloister groan, and then thrust into him again. Sweat and raspberry lube slid between ass and thighs, slick and wet. Cloister swore and begged. He gasped the words out between ragged breaths.
Javi stroked a hand down Cloister’s side and over his stomach and felt the muscles clench and relax with each thrust.
“Do you want me to touch you?” he asked as he buried himself inside Cloister with one quick, hard shove. He splayed his hand out over that flat plane of stomach muscle, and his index finger bumped scar tissue. He pulled out and slammed back in again, clenching his jaw on trembling control. The need to fuck Cloister into the window pulsed between his ears and inside his balls, but he wanted this first. He spread his hand wider and dipped a slick little finger into Cloister’s navel. It was sharply suggestive, enough to make Cloister squirm back against him. “Cloister, I asked you a question.”
“Balls deep in me,” Cloister groaned, his voice cracking and uneven. It was probably petty to feel smug that he sounded more… undone than Javi did. Javi felt it, anyhow. “And you’re still a dick.”
“Are you complaining about my dick?” Javi asked as he rolled his hips in a slow, hard thrust that rattled a shuddering, sucked-in “son of a bitch” out of Cloister.
He dropped his head and got enough breath and composure to grit out, “Not your dick, just you.”
Javi moved his hand down and to the side, detouring around Cloister’s thickly aroused cock to the thin skin at the crease of his thigh. His body was pressed against Cloister’s back, and heat soaked between them. Javi could smell him—salt, dog, and sweat over the musky smell of healthy male body. It should have been a reek, but it was faded onto Cloister’s skin, and the combination was aggressively masculine.
He pressed a sharp, openmouthed kiss to Cloister’s shoulder and chewed that smell off his skin. He rocked his hips again and buried his cock deeper in that tight, hot ass. “You still haven’t asked.”
“Dick.”
“I told you. Only if you ask.”
“Touch me.”
Javi snorted. “Ask,” he said, “not tell.”
The sigh reverberated all the way through Cloister, even the parts of him wrapped around Javi’s cock. That was… interesting.
“Please,” Cloister said. There was less pissiness in his voice than there would have been in Javi’s in the same situation. Javi pressed another kiss to Cloister’s throat to feel the heat he’d already worked into the skin, and he wondered if he could make him beg.
Maybe. Not tonight, though. His muscles felt leaden, clogged with adrenaline and endorphins, and he could feel his orgasm in a knot of pressure at the small of his back. He decided the please was enough and wrapped his hand around Cloister’s cock.
It was heavy and hot against his palm—all soft, pliant skin and the throb of blood. Cloister jerked his hips forward into the touch, nearly pulling himself off Javi’s cock. His breath was ragged, and it seemed like he couldn’t even muster up a staccato swear word. The raw need trembling against Javi’s palm was almost better than begging. Well, close.
He shoved his cock back into Cloister, twisting his hand back along Cloister’s erection at the same time. That got an intelligible word out of Cloister—the gasped syllables of Javi’s name. The last threads of Javi’s control sliced out of his grip, and he let it go. He pumped his hand roughly along Cloister’s cock and kept a counterpoint rhythm to the jerky, jarring thrust of his hips. Hand and cock were never quite in sync.
Cloister folded his arms under him, and his elbows clipped the glass as he ended up braced on his forearms. He managed to dredge a few swear words again and interspersed fuck, dammit, and Javi between low, throaty grunts.
Pressure built in Javi’s spine, scraped up every misfiring, overstimulated nerve ending, and funneled it down into the hot, clenched sack of his balls.
He buried his face against Cloister’s back, keeping whatever spilled out of him mute. He mouthed against the tanned stretch of skin and hammered his cock into him.
He came, and for a second, the spill of come into someone else was all that mattered. The rest of the world, the Bureau, his career, and even poor, missing Drew Hartley faded into the background. The fulcrum of his world was the spot where cock met ass. Even the grunt and spill of Cloister’s orgasm, semen half on Javi’s fingers and half on the window, was a side effect.
It was why Javi preferred to keep his sex life and his life separate. Too distracting.
He pushed Cloister full-length against the window and pinned him there, which smeared Cloister’s own come over his belly and thighs. His cock was still inside Cloister, and the electric jolt of overstimulation was enjoyable in its own way.
“Anyone could see you,” he rasped in Cloister’s ear. Cloister’s haphazardly chopped blond hair tickled his jaw. “Fucked raw and sticky from enjoying it. What do you think they’d do then?”
Cloister rested his forehead against the glass to catch his breath. “I don’t know,” he said. “Probably take a picture.”
He sounded unconcerned, but that was probably because he didn’t think it was likely he’d see anyone he knew. If one of his neighbors did walk by, Javi doubted he would be so cocky. Not that it mattered anyhow, he reminded himself.
Exhaustion tugged at him. He felt wrung out of come, and he hadn’t slept properly in a couple of days. The bedroom seemed unfeasibly far. If he didn’t have company, he’d have folded himself onto the couch and napped. Since he did, and showing Cloister to the door would, as with bed, involve crossing a ridiculous distance, he idly considered various solutions.
The sound of a yawn that didn’t come from either him or Cloister pushed fresh energy into his muscles. He pulled away from Cloister, the back of his neck raw with paranoia, and twisted around.
Instead of… whatever he expected… he found that damn dog stretched out on his leather couch and watching them with what could best be described as an unimpressed expression. As much as a dog could have an expression.
“Was your dog watching us fuck?” He dragged the condom off and bent down to grab his exercise pants off the floor. The dog dropped her chin to her paws.
“Well, it’s not like she can turn on the TV,” Cloister said mildly. That should have been the nail in his coffin. Somehow, when Cloister, through a jaw-cracking yawn, asked if he should go—
“No,” Javi said, yanking his pants back on. His voice sounded dour, and he wasn’t sure what he wanted it to actually sound like. More enthusiastic? Less? In the end he went with the familiar suite of emotions—frustration and banked lust. “It’s late. You’ve been drinking. Stay the night, sober up, and you can go in the morning.”
Chapter Eleven
THREE HOURS’ sleep was not enough. Javi woke up groggily just before it turned five. He was facedown on his bed, sweating sex into sheets that smelled like fabric softener instead of bodies. Cloister had crashed on the couch, and his long legs dangled ridiculously over the edge. At the time, Javi was relieved. He preferred to sleep alone, especially in California. Winter in Minnesota could make spooning seem appealing. Midwinter in San Diego and you ended up glued to the other person like a sweaty thigh to vinyl.
But waking up alone and smelling of sex felt odd and empty.
He rolled over, sat up, and squinted into the glare of lights through the window. The waistband of his pants cut low across his stomach, baring the dark trail of hair that arrowed down to his groin. He scratched it absently as he listened for the sounds of someone moving about. Nothing. Cloister must still be asleep.
That was an… odd thought. Usually the only people there were Javi’s housekeeper and, once a year, his family. The thought of someone new sleeping in his space felt more intimate than he was comfortable with. Of course, he thought with a jab of bitter self-mockery, sharing a coffee cup was more intimate than he was comfortable with.
He slid out of bed and grabbed his phone from the bedside table on the way by. It hadn’t rung during the night, so nothing dramatic had changed in any of his cases. He flicked through his notifications anyhow, scanned the important ones, and logged the actions he needed to take.
An email from J.J. Diggs directing him to funnel all further communications with the Hartleys through him. It ended with an allusion to their onetime fuck that was so veiled Javi wasn’t sure if it was a threat or an invitation. A text from Frome telling him that Reed would be available for an interview tomorrow afternoon at four, which would take some schedule reshuffling. He tapped over the screen and fired off a quick email to Debi to do that once she got in at eight, and he stepped into the main room.
He looked up and frowned as he hit send. The room was empty, the sex-smeared window wiped down, and the bedding he tossed to Cloister the night before neatly folded on a side table. No wonder the place was quiet. Apparently Cloister liked to get his walk of shame over with early.
“Son of a bitch,” Javi muttered.
It took him twenty minutes to shower and get dressed. He shrugged his suit jacket on and ignored the drawling memory of Cloister admiring his body. The bedding and the crumpled-up towel he found under the TV—covered with dog fluff and slobber—he tossed in the laundry basket for the housekeeper.
On the way down to his car, he called Frome.
“Pull the case files on the Utkin disappearance for me?” he said when Frome answered. Frome had that “awake but low on coffee” scrape to his voice that meant he was either up early or up late. A less hot version of Cloister’s rasp.
“Utkin? Why?”
“Call it a hunch.”
“Okay. I’ll have them sent to your office.”
“I’ll pick them up this afternoon,” Javi said.
Frome grunted his agreement, and Javi hung up. He hesitated with the phone in his hand and wrestled over whether or not to call Cloister. He needed to talk to him and make sure they were on the same page about last night. But he also needed to get on the road if he was going to get to RJD Correctional Facility and back in time to look over the Utkin files.
He also didn’t want to have an awkward conversation. So the phone went in his pocket, and he got in the car and switched the engine on with a touch of a button. The radio beeped gently as it synced with his phone, and his driving playlist queued itself up automatically. Javi canceled it midsong, glanced over his shoulder briefly as he pulled out of the space, and put the phone into dictation mode.
It was two and half hours to the State prison on a good day. Throw in at least one traffic jam, and Javi would have time to narrate most of the reports he’d put on a back burner during the week.
PRISONS ALWAYS smelled foul. It was a mixture of body fluids, boiled grease, and misery. The prisoners probably had more pressing issues to worry about, but it caught in Javi’s nose whenever he had to visit.
He sat on the hard metal chair in the interview room with Branko Nemac’s file open on the table in front of him as he flicked through it. The photo attached was of a smiling, middle-aged man with a nicely starched collar and a sharply trimmed beard standing in for an actual chin. The leader of a local Albanian gang, Nemac thought he was untouchable until Saul linked the murder of a young waitress to the outwardly affable gangster.
He killed her because he thought she spat in his food.
There were plenty of criminals with a reason to have a grudge against Agent Saul Lee, but Nemac was the only one with a grudge and the resources to do something about it. He wasn’t the boss these days. That hostile takeover had left three people dead and Nemac short half a lung, but he still had contacts. More importantly, or so the FBI believed, he still had access to a significant amount of money he’d skimmed off the top over the years. In his circles the money meant more than the loyalty.
The shuffle-rattle of chains in the hallway distracted Javi from the file. He flipped the cover shut as he looked up and kept his face
composed as the door opened and Nemac shuffled into the room.
The meticulously barbered beard was scruffier, and the affability had worn off. Otherwise Nemac hadn’t changed. He still smiled too much.
“Agent Merlo. The pretty boy,” he said. “I’d heard you stepped into Lee’s shoes. Who’d have thought he had a heart, eh?”
The guards shoved him into a chair and cuffed his hands securely to the table. He went along with it genially and tapped his fingertips absently on the scuffed Formica. Job done, the guards gave Javi the usual list of rules and told him to yell if he needed help.
Javi waited until they left the room, and then he raised his eyebrows at Nemac.
“It sounds like you’re still holding a grudge against Agent Lee,” he said.
“Me?” Nemac asked. “He’s dead. I’m not. I win.”
“You’re still in here.”
Nemac shrugged. “And he’s in the dirt. I still win.”
“Winning seems very important to you,” Javi noted.
Contempt twisted Nemac’s face. “That’s because I’m a winner.” He slapped his cuffed hand on the table. “You know who says winning isn’t important? People who don’t win.”
“So when Agent Lee arrested you, that must have been a blow.”
A humorless smile folded Nemac’s mouth. “Don’t think anyone fucking enjoys it.”
“True, but most people don’t spend as much time boasting about being untouchable as you did,” Javi pointed out. “What was it you said when you were sentenced? He’d regret it, that you’d take everything away from him…?”
Nemac sat back in the chair with his arms stretched out in front of him. The cuffs of his shirt slid back, flashing the heavy black iconography worked into the skin of his arms.
“And like I said, he’s dead. I’m not.”
“Agent Lee’s grandson has gone missing,” Javi said. “Eighteen-year-old waitresses and ten-year-old little boys—sounds like your speed, doesn’t it?”
