by Peter Styles
That was all he managed to say before need took over. Jeremiah pressed back hard against Chris’s mouth as the other man pressed his tongue as deep inside his ass as he could. Heat rolled in waves over Jeremiah’s body, making his hand spasm hard and tug feverishly at his cock. He cried out, digging his forehead into the mattress while also pushing his ass back on that hot, wet tongue still working its way deeper inside. Chris’s face pressed against him, and every hot breath was euphoria.
“Chris, I need…”
“My Jeremiah, baby…”
Jeremiah waited for more but nothing else came as Chris backed away. Words had failed him. They were meaningless.
Something else pressed against his opening, but it was not wet even though it dribbled fluid in little streaks down his ass. It was hot, however.
“Lube?” Jeremiah suggested again, a little more urgently this time. Everything in him ached with anticipation for this to be good, for this to be all pleasure and no pain.
Chris chuckled. “Eager?”
I’ll let him think that.
“I’ve got you covered. Don’t worry.”
A bottle opened, the cap clicking faintly. Jeremiah waited, listening as Chris liberally applied lube to his own organ. Then, gentle fingers pressed the cold gel lube against his opening and slightly inside.
Relaxed now, Jeremiah wiggled his ass. “Come get me.”
“You’re supposed to come get me. The unicorn always comes for the fair maiden.”
“Fuck you!” Jeremiah shouted. He sputtered with laughter, quickly cut off by a sharp gasp as the bulging tip of Chris’s huge dick pushed inside his opening. His muscles clamped down, tensing hard.
A hand rested lightly on his back. “Ease up. It’s me. Using the back door because you trust me not to steal your fine china.”
With an effort, Jeremiah took a deep breath and forced himself to relax again. Chris’s cock slid neatly out of him and then back in, going no deeper than an inch or so. Over and over, they moved together just the slightest bit until a rhythm started to form. Jeremiah relaxed into it, moving his hand on his swollen member to the same beat; behind him, he heard Chris let out a soft grunt of exertion and knew it was time to continue. With the next thrust, he pressed harder back against the cock inside him. Chris gladly obliged, and the process began again.
Jeremiah didn’t think he’d ever enjoyed sex more.
By the time Chris was actually most of the way inside him, Jeremiah’s eyes were practically rolling back in his head. His cock was throbbing in his hand, begging for release. His breath came in shuddering gasps and his body bucked of its own rhythm with no heed for anything else.
Suddenly, he felt the firm length of Chris’s dick sliding all the way out of him. A cry rose up in his throat, disappointment forming in his heart, but his cry turned to a scream as the man on top of him suddenly buried himself back inside with a piercing thrust.
That was all Jeremiah could take. Every muscle in his entire body seized up, trapping Chris inside and squeezing tightly as an orgasm rocked through him. He was lost to the world, lost to everything but pleasure and heat and shaking, hardly aware of it when Chris orgasmed as well.
They collapsed onto their sides still entwined and adjusted until they weren’t.
“Chris,” Jeremiah started.
Chris’s hand stroked down his side, silencing him. “I know.”
Satisfied and suddenly exhausted as the adrenaline from sex drained away, Jeremiah fell asleep.
Chapter 19
Chris sat in his office, absentmindedly rubbing between his legs. He was between meetings, struggling to focus on the world before him while still caught up in all the sex he and Jeremiah had been having for the past three days. Jeremiah had risked his schooling, and Chris had briefly abandoned his work, taking his time to focus on the things that were most pressing and important to him.
However, life wouldn’t be put on hold for the sake of two lovers for very long before resuming itself. Jeremiah was back at college and Chris was here in his office, facing down a pile of paperwork that was probably taller than he was. He’d taken some of it home with him to work on between rounds with Jeremiah, but he hadn’t actually touched any of it because there hadn’t been any spare moments in which to do so. Now he was facing The Stack, and dealing with all the calls he’d missed, all the rescheduled appointments…
It almost made the whole three days not worth it. However, he would never think it wasn’t worth it, no matter how he weighed the risks and rewards. He had gotten to spend time with Jeremiah. They had talked and screwed and talked some more, and laughed over old cartoons at 2 a.m., and ordered pizza like crazy. It was almost like high school, carefree and intimate and yet somehow innocent.
Chris closed his eyes now, savoring all of those moments before asking himself that big question.
Would he be any better than Markus if he asked Jeremiah to tell him the man’s secrets? His techniques, his thought processes and the way he made decisions? Surely there had to be something, didn’t there? Or perhaps that was only him being petty and wanting revenge, which he was surely above.
The terrible thing was that he knew Jeremiah would tell him if he asked. The other man was still so high-strung; still so desperate to please. He had been taken advantage of so much that it was the norm for him, and Chris hated that; he was resolved to never treat him in such a way.
Which, he supposed, meant the decision had already been made. He wouldn’t ask, and he didn’t even need to ask since he was already doing better than Markus.
I didn’t want to be anything but competitors, he thought. But now I would gladly do anything to destroy you.
Breaking out of his thoughts with an effort, Chris reached for his pen from where he’d dropped it on the floor. As he did so, he leaned on the phone in his right pocket. His personal cell. Luck dictated that would be the exact moment that the phone started ringing, vibrating fiercely. Something about the combination of stretched fabric and phone placement made the vibration reach all the way to his dick. His poor, tired dick.
Stifling a moan, he placed the phone against his ear. “Jeremiah,” he said. “You gave me a tingle!”
There was no answer. Nothing verbal, at least. There was a sound of scuffling, as though someone tripped and fell while trying to right themselves. Wind whipped past the cell phone speaker, scraping harshly against his ear drums. Chris winced and pressed the phone harder against his ear, straining now. Car engines nearby; a distant honking horn.
And finally, a voice. But not a voice Chris had ever heard before. “You little shit!”
Chris stiffened. A chill raced up his spine, into his brain, and he saw red. His hand clenched into a fist around the pen he held, snapping it in half. Sticky ink spilled across his fingers, puddling on the desk.
That voice had been distant, like a shout. Where was the voice that should have been right there on the other end of the phone? Where was Jeremiah?
“Jeremiah!”
“Chris!”
His heart skipped and sputtered, awkward in his chest. Jeremiah wasn’t speaking. He was shouting from somewhere near the phone. Holding it? Impossible to tell.
“Chris, Chris, there’s someone…” The rest was lost beneath wind and the ambient sound of that nearby street.
Chris shouted, “Jeremiah, I couldn’t hear you!”
“…Someone… Me!” Adding to the complications, Jeremiah was out of breath.
Finding himself on his feet, Chris strode over to the office door. He meant only to stand in front of it, but before he knew it, he had tossed it open and was running through the hall and past the other offices. Heads turned in his direction, staring. He ignored them all, crashing through the stairwell door and bounding down the steps two at a time.
“Address, Jeremiah. Give me the address.”
Sputtering puffs of breath. Pounding footsteps, and a skittering of gravel kicked up. “…Lexington…”
And then nothing. Another scuffle, a shout
in the voice of the unidentified speaker. Then the call disconnected.
Fuck!
With the call cutting out like that, there was no way he could be certain of the street. Lexington Avenue? Drive? Street? Which district? North or south? Which way were they headed? Was Lexington even the road, or had it been the name of a landmark?
Chris threw himself into his car and raced out of the driveway. He drove with his knees, punching in Lexington into his GPS with one hand and calling the police with the other.
“Manhattan Police Department,” said a crisp voice. No doubt that professionalism was meant to soothe him, but Chris was not any normal citizen. Where the police were only trying to convey an air of confidence, a message that they had been thorough and done everything, Chris only felt like just another number. How was he any different from anyone else they saw, day in and day out?
“Listen closely,” he began. His voice was tense. The officer on the other end of the line went silent, clearly listening. No doubt this would come back to bite him in the ass later, but Chris couldn’t help it. “Someone is chasing my boyfriend. He called me. He was terrified!” His breath came in ragged gulps, like he was the one who was running scared. “All he could tell me was Lexington. I don’t know anything else or where they’re headed, please…”
“Okay,” the cop said, cutting him off. “We’ll send cruisers by all prime locations. Meanwhile, I need you to stay on the line with me and come to the station. What is your name, sir?”
No way in hell was Chris going to go to the station and sit there while god knows what happened to his precious unicorn. He said, “My name is Chris Finley. Blond hair, tanned skin.”
The officer sounded puzzled. “Okay?”
And Chris turned off the phone and threw it to the side, where it bounced off the passenger seat and clattered to the floor. It immediately began to vibrate as the officer tried to call him back but he ignored it. His point in describing himself was so that the police had less of a chance of mistaking him for the bad guy. After all, he hoped to soon be chasing after Jeremiah too.
All that was left to do was floor it and hope against hope.
Chapter 20
He had no idea what he’d done to deserve this. He didn’t know who he had crossed or offended for this to happen. He didn’t know any of it. He just knew he was running for his life, thankful for all the wrong reasons that the man chasing after him didn’t have a gun. He did, however, have a baseball bat that was wrapped in chains and barbed wire. For all intents and purposes, that might have been even worse. At least a bullet would be a clean, swift death.
I can’t believe I was so happy just this morning and now I’m wishing for death. Jeremiah’s lips twisted but they couldn’t hold their position as ragged, explosive breaths burst up from his lungs again and again. He was sweating profusely, his clothes soaked and dragging at him. His arms ached. His legs ached. His lungs were absolutely on fire. He didn’t even know where he was. Street signs and other identifying marks flew by him without rhyme or reason and he couldn’t stop to look at them all, not when he could practically feel hooked metal tearing into the soft flesh on the back of his neck.
Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to rid them of the salt dripping into them in a steady stream, Jeremiah twisted around away from the main road and into another alley. No passersby would dare try to help him, even if they understood why he was running; he didn’t blame them, because he certainly wouldn’t have risked his own life to intervene in the life of someone who was being chased by a mugger. They would both wind up dead that way!
And he hoped that the cops might be called, but so far all the sirens were distant and no one found him. Not even Chris.
“I’m gonna getcha!” the man chasing him cackled. Why he didn’t seem to be tiring, Jeremiah didn’t know. Were all muggers in such good shape? Jeremiah hadn’t met one before to ask.
But Jeremiah was definitely tiring. His legs were like lead. He couldn’t move them fast enough, like they were made of cinderblocks and he was dragging them instead of being propelled by them. Death drew closer and closer behind him. He pumped his arms and tucked his head down to try and gain some speed but he had already attempted those things some time back. There was nothing else to do.
Another alley opened up at his side and he took the turn… and collapsed hard onto his hands and knees as his feet tangled together and tripped him. “Ah!” he cried out, clutching his bleeding palms to his chest. Pain distracted him for a moment, but a moment was far too long to spare. He tried to stand again, to run once more, but his legs were gelatin. They wobbled and quivered but couldn’t move.
I’m dead.
Another set of footsteps slowly padded up behind him, accompanied by a distinct metallic scraping as the modified baseball bat was dragged over the concrete. The mugger took his time, unhurried. Like a wolf that bled its prey and wore it down, he knew there was no longer any chance of escape.
“I’m sorry to do this to you, kid.”
It didn’t sound like a very heartfelt apology. Jeremiah cringed in on himself and covered his head with his hands, mouth opening to sob even though there was no breath in his lungs with which to weep.
“It’s just business, you know? Someone wants you gone an’ I’m the only one who can make it happen. So say your prayers.”
The information given to him almost carelessly took a moment to sink. This wasn’t a mugger then. This was a hitman. But why? Maybe it didn’t matter. He was already dead.
Which meant he had nothing to be afraid of. If death was here, it was here no matter how uselessly he held up his hands or flailed around.
Suddenly, all his fear melted away. There was no escaping this. Jeremiah turned to face it head-on, sitting up straight and tilting his head back to look up at the attacker right in the eyes. What could be seen of the eyes, at any rate. He wore a ski-mask. There was no way of telling what any of his facial features looked like, or the color or length of his hair. He was of medium build, neither unimpressive nor anything to write home about.
Maybe, just maybe, the baseball bat made up for all those things that were distinctly lacking.
“Done praying?” the man asked, lips moving beneath the fabric of the mask.
“Go… Go screw yourself!” Jeremiah spat.
Though he couldn’t see, he felt the other’s anger. “Maybe I’ll screw with your corpse!”
And the bat raised up, metal and wood polish glinting in the sunlight. Jeremiah stared up at the tangle of wires and closed his eyes to let the first blow land where it would. He imagined the ripping, tearing pain; the first splash of blood hitting the ground…
“NO!”
His eyes snapped open in time to see a large, tanned blur go flying past and tackle the mugger directly from the side. Both men grunted and collapsed on the concrete, hands clawing and struggling to reach for the bat that fell only a few inches away. Chris adjusted his grip, no longer reaching for the bat but holding the other man’s collar in his fist. His other first came slamming down repeatedly against the mugger’s face, over and over so hard that the opposite cheek slammed into the concrete with each strike. Blood flew in little streaks and splatters across the ground.
Not about to become a damsel in distress that could only stand by and be rescued, Jeremiah reached for the baseball bat. A heavy, dirtied hand settled over his. “We won’t need that. Best not to get your fingerprints on it anyway.”
Jeremiah turned to face Chris. “But… what if he wakes up?”
“If he wakes up and gives us some trouble, you can whack him. Otherwise, I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”
Jeremiah looked over at the unconscious mugger and shook his head, tucking his body in close to Chris as the stronger man hugged him tightly. “How did you do that?” he whispered.
“I told you I take dance lessons.”
“And?”
“I may have neglected to tell you that I’ve also taken self-defense classes.”
/> Leaning his head on Chris’s broad shoulder, Jeremiah said, “Is there anything you can’t do?”
Chris was silent for a minute. Somewhere in the distance, police sirens wailed. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re safe. I don’t know what I would have done if I lost you.”
Jeremiah nodded. His bravado toward the end there felt like something that didn’t entirely belong to him. “I just don’t understand what happened here.”
“That’s not for us to know. That’s for the police to figure out.”
They held each other tightly, crouching there in the pool of blood until the police arrived. They came on foot because their cruisers couldn’t fit into the narrow alleyway but, judging from the sound and lights, they had the exits blocked. As the cops came, bearing their pistols and brandishing batons, a thought occurred to Jeremiah.
“Chris, how did you find me?”
“Pure dumb luck,” Chris admitted. He hugged Jeremiah even tighter, pulling him into his lap. “I dumped my car in the middle of Lexington Street and ran around asking people if they’d seen a cute guy being chased.”
“But… how did you catch up to us?”
“That’s a secret,” the other man replied.
“It’s because you’re in shape, isn’t it? Of all the times to be bragging, Chris.”
Just then, the police arrived. One of them immediately headed over to the mugger and crouched over his prone, groaning form with a pair of handcuffs. Others guarded the exits, while two came up to Chris and Jeremiah.
“You two do that?” one of them asked, gesturing at all the blood and the dropped mugger. His badge declared him to be a deputy, while the other cop was in plain clothes.
“I did, sir,” Chris replied. “I’m the one who put in the call and this is Jeremiah, my boyfriend who was being chased.”
It was without a doubt the weirdest way Jeremiah had ever been introduced. Nevertheless, he leaned against Chris and nodded a lot to agree that he was indeed the one who was chased.
The cop pulled out a notepad and jotted something down. Chris spoke again as soon as the writing stopped, explaining exactly as he had to Jeremiah how he managed to stumble across the scene just in the nick of time. “I hit him. A lot. But not with that bat.”
