by BA Tortuga
Heat spread between them, Paddy clinging, gasping, holding on.
Oh, that scent far outweighed the sunscreen, hot and earthy and enough to make Neil’s mouth water. He kissed Paddy’s throat, licking at the sweat.
Paddy stretched. “Promise me we can do this forever.”
“I promise, sweet.” He’d not heard a peep in his head lately of any of the echoes he’d had when they first went on the lam. He had high hopes they were well away.
“Good. I promise too.”
“Well, there you are.” Neil toppled, settling between Paddy’s thighs, letting himself rest and count freckles. “We’re decided.”
“Yep.” Paddy’s hands stroked his hair, smoothing it. “Decided.”
They rested, the sound of the people out on the beach far away, the slight breeze from the fan overhead cooling them. Neil devoutly embraced the idea that they would be safe and happy together forever. He’d keep a mental ear out for every other eventuality, though. Just in case.
Chapter Four
THE HAMMOCK rocked lazily, Sonny staring at the view every time he swung to the right. The left just gave him a look at the cabin wall. The right swing, though, oh, the right swing gave him MJ. Stretching. Naked.
He wouldn’t call it yoga. Hell, he didn’t think MJ would call it yoga. Maybe MJ’s momma would, but by all accounts she was a little weird. Still, all that bending and pulling and grunting would make a dead man sit up and take note. Or maybe a lazy redneck with waffle-weave print on his bare ass who needed to get out of the hammock.
One way or the other, the view was doing wonders for his cock. Which had no waffle-weave print, thank God.
“I might be permanently marked by this cheap-assed hammock, Precious.”
“That would be a fucking shame, man. I’m fond of your form.” MJ bent backward, spine popping as he walked down the wall.
“Uh….” Wait. How come he didn’t know before now that MJ could do that? That had some serious possibilities. Really, really. “I like yours too. Bendy.”
“Did you know I took gymnastics as a kid?”
No. No, he didn’t know that. Sliding out of the hammock and rubbing his sore ass, Sonny wandered over to run a finger along the straining muscles of MJ’s belly. “Nope. I had no idea. You’re holding out on me.”
Oh, look at MJ’s thighs go tight, that inked belly rippling as MJ started walking back up. “Fuck.”
“Okay. We can do that. I like that part.” He got a good hold on MJ’s cock the moment the man popped upright. He did like that laugh, all husky and deep and happy. He wouldn’t’ve thought the man had a sense of humor, but damned if MJ didn’t. Sonny rubbed a little, letting his fingers trace every vein, then the ink at the base. He grinned, licking his lips. “What else can you do, Precious?”
“I can set the lip of a teacup to blow when someone picks it up and drinks.”
“Not so handy in this situation. Focus, lover.” Lord. No exploding tea. Someone was still pissy about the Englishman, he’d bet.
“Focus. I can do that.” MJ’s hands landed on his belly, sliding down toward his cock.
“Mmm. Now, that’s much better. I like it when you focus on me.” Hell, he loved when MJ focused on a job too, but this was better. Hotter. “Lower.” Those fucking fingers slipped down, missing his cock altogether, wrapping around his nuts. Sonny went up on tiptoe, the pressure almost too much and not quite enough. “Goddamn, Precious.”
“Uh-huh. Focusing.” Those fingers slipped back, stroked the strip of skin behind his balls.
“I. Damn. More.” He braced his hands on either side of MJ’s head, leaning hard on that amazing hand, humping some. Goddamn, that felt good.
“So fucking fine.” Those eyes burned up at him. “Want you to ink me, Sunshine. Mark me and fuck me. Never done that.”
Sonny nodded. “I told you I had the design, yeah?” He barely remembered that he could move his hand, but he did, pulling at MJ’s cock.
“You did.” MJ’s finger moved back, nail just barely scraping. “Don’t tell me. I want to be surprised.”
“O-okay….” The man still got to him. Jesus, how MJ got to him, like they were on opposite ends of the same wire. A closed circuit.
“Mmm.” MJ did it again, watched him. “You like that.”
“I do. Christ, MJ. I told you I like all the parts….” His whole body rocked, rolling into the touch, then trying to get away. He could hardly fucking stand it.
MJ slid down, lips on his belly, finger still tapping and scratching. Spreading his thighs, Sonny braced himself against the wall, staring down at MJ’s sun-bleached hair. “Gonna suck me, Precious? Please?”
“You know it. Hell, if you’re a very good redneck, I’ll suck you, then slick your ass so I can fuck any lingering hammock marks off it.”
Such a generous asshole.
“That’s my MJ. Always thinking of his fellow man.” There was a lot he would do for that mouth and that prick. Yeah.
“I’m a sweetheart, really.” MJ bit his hip good and hard right before those lips slammed down around his prick, one finger pushing at his hole. His whole body went stiff, every muscle clenching up like he was gonna have a fucking heart attack or something. Fuck, there was nothing like MJ when he focused. Not a thing in the world. MJ could suck-start a leaf blower, he swore to God. That mouth just went to town, lips wrapped tight, tongue damn near slapping his shaft.
“MJ….” Sonny groaned it, one hand leaving its post on the cabin wall and slipping down to comb through MJ’s hair. He held that hair in his fist, pushing MJ’s mouth harder and faster. There wasn’t much hotter than looking down, seeing that hard little body sweating, cheeks hollowed as MJ sucked good and hard.
His thighs worked, his ass clenching as he pushed between MJ’s lips. He could do this all fucking day. Except for that whole oh-God-I-gotta-come thing.
The one finger turned into two, spreading his hole, pushing right in.
“Uhn!” Zero to sixty in nothing flat, better than his old Starfire would do, Sonny shot for MJ, right into that waiting throat. He thought he might just die happy, hammock-burn and all.
MJ licked him clean, then swatted the tip of his cock with that tongue.
“Bitch.” His arm shook, but it held him away from the wall, and his legs held him up. “Gonna get to the other part of the deal here soon?”
“Pushy redneck.” MJ nudged his balls out of the way, pushed deeper between his legs.
Now he wished he was the one who could do that bend-over-backward thing so MJ could get to him a little easier. Instead, he pulled away just long enough to turn around, to give MJ better access. MJ’s hands landed on his ass—just a little harder than necessary, thank you very much—and spread him, that tongue hitting just where it needed to so it could melt his butter. “Christ.” There was no wall to lean on now, so Sonny just put his hands on his knees and let MJ have him, thinking about inking that skin and about how that sweet cock would feel in his ass and kind of admiring the view. It was the ocean now….
A sharp bite made him jump. “Focus, Sunshine.”
“I am. Trust me.” Yeah, okay, so he’d come and his brain was a little loose in his head. That didn’t mean he wasn’t into what MJ was up to. Or vice versa.
“I do. How do you want to do this?”
“Huh? Is there more than one way?” You got it up. You put it in. “Come on, Precious. Work with me.”
MJ bit him again. “Look, asshole, you’re too tall for me to do it standing, unless you have a spare box hanging around.”
Laughing, Sonny dropped to his knees, pushing his ass back for MJ to do whatever he damned well wanted to. “Well, come on, then, lover. I’m ready.”
“Ah, the light dawns.” MJ scooted right up, nudging his balls, lips on his shoulder.
“I’m trainable.” That lean, hard body felt so damned good against him, and he wanted more, so he pushed back again, demanding. “In.”
MJ chuckled, lips hot, right by his
ear. “You’re so fucking not. That’s why I need you so goddamn bad.”
Then MJ pushed in, filling him up. His spine tried to arch in a way it just didn’t. MJ’s did, but his wasn’t built that way. Didn’t stop Sonny from trying, though, his ass tilting to take more, his head falling back to rest cheek to cheek with MJ. “Fucking love you.”
“I know.” MJ was everywhere—in him, on him, just fucking everywhere. Reaching back, he found MJ’s thighs with his hand, fingers digging in against the heated skin, the hard muscle. Bracing himself, he started rocking, pushed MJ deeper and deeper. MJ grunted, slammed into him; one hand slid down his belly.
“MJ. Come on, lover. Need you so bad.” His voice lowered to a growl, his throat just barely able to force the words out.
“Uhn.” MJ’s teeth sank into his shoulder, hand finding his cock.
“Christ!” Sonny humped that hand, his whole world tightening down to MJ’s hands and cock, all over him. His balls drew up again, ready to blow, even though he was the one who’d already come. “You with me, Precious?’
“Yeah. Yeah, fuck. Sunshine.” MJ shoved in deep, hard, heat flooding Sonny.
“Oh….” Caught in the pleasure, Sonny hung there, his cock and balls emptying, his whole body shaking. Goddamn.
MJ’s weight landed on him, heavy, damp, solid as a rock. Sonny lowered them all the way to the boards of the little porch, and he moaned as he finally took his weight off his arms. “Just what I needed, Precious.”
“Mm-hmm. Much better than yoga.”
“You know it.” Yoga. No matter how MJ could bend, Sonny wouldn’t call it yoga. More like stretching.
One way or the other it worked for him.
Chapter Five
COWBOY CHECKED his setup one last time.
Late night, college campus. The cleaning crew wouldn’t get to Camden Hall for another forty-five minutes. The professor was alone, little pencil tapping a rhythm in shadow, grading papers, only one lamp lit to help him see. The windows of the old brick building would creak too much to go in that way, but they’d be a good out if he needed it. There was only one unlocked door at this time of night, but there was no security camera.
He’d much rather just take the shot from where he sat on the roof of the building opposite, but his client wanted it to look like someone had surprised the man, maybe robbed him. Not to mention that whole “get a vial of blood, before and after death” thing. Creepy fuckers. That cost them an extra mil up front. He wasn’t into that sort of kink.
He was into a lot of kinks, but that one you had to pay the good money for. Maybe he ought to make it look like some random asshole just stuck the guy for fun, like a college student with a movie adoration complex might.
Fuck, he hated it when the client tried to dictate the method.
After folding his scope down, Colby packed up, then policed the area to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind. A single fiber could get a man these days, which was why he went for the high-tech fatigues and watch cap, just in case. He grabbed his bag and headed down, slipping like smoke through the night, avoiding the lamps that illuminated the sidewalk. His timing was just right; he didn’t meet a single soul.
Now all he had to do was go to office 104 and do the job.
His rubber-soled boots made hardly a sound, and he made it to the office door in his allotted ten seconds, counting off two more before he tried the handle. Locked. Huh.
So Colby did the only reasonable thing he could. He knocked.
“Just a sec.” He heard happy whistling, the door unlocking and opening. “Can I help you?”
Wait. Professors were supposed to be older and distinguished and shit. This guy was a young thirty, tight T-shirt and jeans highlighting a pretty little hard body, too-long dark eyelashes, too-big dark eyes behind tiny wire-framed glasses.
Cowboy didn’t bother with words. He just clamped a gloved hand over the man’s mouth, manhandling him back into the office and kicking the door shut behind him. He pushed the prof backward across the man’s own desk, pulling out the garden-variety pig sticker he’d bought at a pawn shop. Those brown eyes went wide, shocked and scared for a second before they went hard and fiery. One hand shot out, grabbed a round glass paperweight, and bashed him right in the head.
Jesus fuck! He saw stars but held on, riding out the pain without bellering like he wanted to. His hand was on the way, pushing in to slip that blade between two ribs, and….
And he just couldn’t do it.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. His fucking arm was held in a grip that was too fucking strong to belong to the little fucker—held stiff and still, the bones creaking, threatening to break. He met bright green eyes that had a ring of pure orange fire around the edge.
What the fuck?
That fucking glass thing hit him again, and the slippery mark popped down, slid between his legs, and scrambled toward the door.
Oh, fuck no. He didn’t think so. He got a handful of shirt, whirling the guy around like they were dancing, slamming their chests together. His empty hand clamped over the guy’s nose and mouth, holding hard.
He could feel the guy’s heart, humming against him like a little bird’s, the son of a bitch fighting him, panicking. That would just help him out, really. The man would pass out soon. All he had to do was hold on.
Of course, that assumed the fucker didn’t peg him in the balls.
Gagging silently, he folded himself down on top of that surprisingly wiry body, pushing his weight against the man’s lungs, his hand clamping harder. Come on, asshole. Pass out.
He could swear the dude had… grown, swollen, as those dark eyes—wait… dark? Yeah, yeah, black-as-pitch dark—rolled, the mark fighting for all he was worth, and then they finally rolled back, the lean body going still under him, settling.
Shitfire. That little bastard could fight. Colby panted, shooting his sleeve back to look at his watch. Ten minutes. All of that had only taken ten minutes. Okay. Okay, he had thirty more minutes. But he just…. Shit.
He couldn’t do it. Not with the guy out like a light. Not without figuring shit out, like how a lean little academic could leave bruises that he felt bone-deep or how black button eyes went green like a Heineken bottle. After grabbing a roll of duct tape out of his utility pocket, Colby taped the well-shaped mouth and pulled out plastic riot cuffs to bind the guy’s hands.
So he’d just have to take the good professor with him. Somebody was willing to pay big, big money to have him dead. Colby reckoned somebody might be interested in keeping the prof alive.
Somebody like him.
Jesus. He was losing his motherfucking mind.
Colby should’ve known the job was horked when they’d wanted blood.
Chapter Six
OH.
Duncan’s head felt like he’d been ten rounds with a tractor trailer.
What had he been drinking?
He frowned, trying to remember, trying to force his eyes open. Had he gone out with Lloyd and Brian? Had someone slipped him something?
He blinked, looking around in the slice of light that came from his office… bedroom… uh. No. It was a door, but it was maybe a hotel room?
Hotel room? Where were his glasses…?
Wait.
Wait.
What?
His hands were all tied up, and he wasn’t into that stuff (no matter what he and Price had gotten up to in Hollywood that one time…).
There was something covering his mouth too. Not a gag. More like… tape? It was tape. Oh shit.
Duncan panicked, pure and simple, rolling and yanking at the tape, the string or whatever it was on his wrists digging in, room starting to go a bright, sparkly white at the edges.
The light in his room clicked on, and before he could even blink there was a hand on his throat, holding him down. Just that easily. “Now, now. No thrashing. You’ll just hurt yourself.”
Who? What? What the fuck? He jerked, fighting to focus, trying to fucking thin
k.
“Stop it, now. Stop fighting me.” That thumb closed on his Adam’s apple for a moment, making him grunt and go still. Then the tape flew off his mouth, his lips stinging like mad.
“Who? Who are you? What the fuck is this?” Duncan swallowed, over and over, fingers fisting in cloth and holding on.
“You want some water? I got some ice….” That voice. It wasn’t local, certainly. It had a pure, heavy West Texas twang, deep and rich, not Dallas, not bayou, not even a hint of Mexican and…. A plastic cup bumped his lower lip, cold and damp.
He drank deep, the water focusing him a little bit. He didn’t know the guy holding him—the man looked like those Marlboro man ads from when he was a kid. Really.
“There. Better, yeah? Now, just calm down. You have a heart attack on me, it could be inconvenient.”
“Who… who are you? What are you doing?”
“No questions for you, not right now. I just need you to be calm and quiet. I know you can do that, Professor.” Once his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see blond hair curling under the cowboy hat, light gray eyes in a tanned face, and a neat little mustache.
Professor.
Okay.
Okay, now, he hadn’t failed any jocks, hadn’t come on to any students. Hadn’t even pissed off the rest of the faculty, not yet. Right? “I don’t know you.”
“No, sir. You sure don’t. Good thing too. I’m a hard son of a bitch to get to know.” The man patted his chest before getting up, standing next to the bed, and stretching until his back popped.
Okay. Okay. He wasn’t a stupid man. He could handle this.
Duncan wasn’t sure how, yet, but he could. “What do you want?” There. That was a good start. Go him.
“Well.” That head tilted. “I was gonna kill you. But then I just couldn’t.”
Well, he was glad to be involved in a sudden attack of moral strength. “Uh. Good?”
“Not so much. See, I need to figure out how to make you look dead for my client, else both of us are in a mite of trouble.” That smile was completely at odds with the companionable tone.
