I'll Be Your Last

by Jane Leopold Quinn

An eye-opener for Woody had been an intense, six-month affair with a man so far in the closet he couldn’t see the light when the door opened and it was switched on. And it had been heartbreaking. He’d cared so much for Brad Payne. He’d given the relationship his all, believing his love would give Brad the courage to accept what he was and tell his parents he was gay. Then, that last night, they’d been out to a movie and had run into Brad’s folks, of all people. He could see it in the father’s eyes, see the suspicion and disgust. And the fear. In that moment, he realized what Brad was up against. What really killed him was Brad’s walking away as if they were strangers and had just spoken to each other that moment. That betrayal hurt. He decided he’d never let himself get involved with another man not honest, at the very least, with himself.

  In that case, Woody would be wise to forget he’d ever lusted after Penchant’s shoulders and that he ached to check out the striated belly.

  And he absolutely would not fantasize about the man’s ass. Or hunger for the feel of Penchant’s imagined broad-headed cock breaching the tight ring of his asshole. No amount of lube would make that comfortable. It wasn’t supposed to be comfortable, but it would be so fucking, voluptuously hot.

  Trying to stay focused on his conversation with Sam Cooley, he felt the heat of Mack’s concentrated gaze on the side of his face. His neck prickled with the sensuality. Don’t make it too obvious, guy. But he couldn’t stop himself from picturing the man’s cock—his hard, thick, long, wide-tipped, slit-leaking sweet, salty-fluid cock. God, stop this before you embarrass yourself. His own cock filled painfully, thickened and lengthened inside his jeans. Shit. He needed to get laid and by someone who didn’t resemble Mack Penchant in any way. He needed to get this guy out of his head. Nothing would 16

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  ever happen between them. It would be personal and career suicide in their line of work.

  He missed being in a committed relationship, though. He missed Brad, but Mack Penchant was out of bounds, although he couldn’t help but wonder if Mack was attracted to him—at least a little. His antagonism could hide fear. And lust.

  When the team left the bar, they walked back to the station parking lot in twos and threes. The eastern sky over Lake Michigan was brightening, the orange disk of sun breaking through the clouds.

  It was getting pretty cold out, which was normal for late fall in Chicago. Snow had been forecast for the next couple days, and he could already feel the damp creeping into his bones. Buttoning his jacket and jamming his hands in the pockets, Woody heated up watching Mack’s ass. He shook his head. That was not a good idea.

  What he needed to do was the smart thing and keep away.

  * * * *

  But a few days later, Woody sauntered past Mack’s desk and couldn’t help provoking him, drawling, “So, do I still look like a choir boy?” Smirking at the other man, he stroked the thick brush he’d grown on his chin and upper lip. He had no trouble quickly growing facial hair, and the thought of proving it to Penchant was quite satisfying, not to mention arousing. Maybe his sign of masculinity turned Mack on, too.

  Mack’s burst of laughter took him off guard, surprising him that the rich, deep sound turned him on. That laughter transformed the stern, cold features to younger looking and almost—sweet. Wow! His blue eyes sparkled in humor, and red patches flushed his cheekbones.

  He looked more human and approachable. This is bad.

  Woody’s drive to one of his usual gay-bar haunts out of town had been a mixed bag. He’d had no trouble hooking up, but to his chagrin, his temporary sexual partner had the same body type as Penchant, I’ll Be Your Last

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  even though he’d not purposely sought that out. He’d given the guy just what he’d wanted—an ass fucking it would take him a long time to forget.

  Woody’d just wanted to come, and it was Penchant’s ass he envisioned through the whole thing. Shit. Fuck. Damn. You need to get Mack Penchant out of your head!

  “Okay, fellas.” Fred Bonney called for everyone’s attention, shifting his gaze from Woody to Mack to Rich. “You three are going to the wholesale flower market on South Lower Wacker.” Whoo-hoo s and catcalls came from the other guys in the squad room. Fred groaned and held his hand up. “Ha-ha, now listen up. Mack and Rich, you’re haulers moving pallets from trucks to the stalls. Woody, you’re a flower buyer.”

  “I should wear something else, then,” Woody said, looking down at his jeans and hooded sweatshirt. “Do I need a suit or what?”

  “Actually, just jeans and a dress shirt is fine. You’re a floral designer. Since that last tip was bogus, I made some calls of my own.

  The dealers hang out behind the warehouse. Since the weather’s getting colder, they’re probably going underground soon. We need to get them before that happens. I don’t want to lose them again.”

  “How reliable is your intel, sarge?”

  Fred grimaced. “About seventy-five percent sure.”

  “Good enough for me,” said Mack. “So when and what time do we start? And do we have ID on these guys?”

  “Yeah.” Fred handed around surveillance photos of the suspects.

  “The Sanchez cartel uses the wholesaler, Flowers and Greens, to bring the drug into the country.”

  “We already knew that,” offered Mack.

  “But we don’t know who they deliver it to. That’s what you’re going to find out. Don’t make any moves, just find out. It might be to more than one floral outlet. It might be just one. So, Woody, keep your eyes and ears open around the stalls. Rich and Mack, do the same on the loading docks.”

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  “Are we sure the people we’re working with aren’t involved?” asked Rich.

  “Yeah, in fact, the owner of the shop Woody’ll be working out of is the one who alerted us to the situation. Mack, you and Rich start tomorrow morning. Be there at four.”

  “In the morning?” Mack winced, then frowned in Rich’s direction.

  Fred laughed. “Yeah, Mack. In the morning.”

  “How about me?” Woody asked.

  Fred turned to him. “Six. Be there at six and check in at Posies Galore.”

  “Oh, God, better you than me, kid,” Mack taunted. “Posies Galore? D’ya think you can handle that?”

  “I can handle anything that comes my way,” Woody snapped, letting his temper get the better of him.

  Mack half rose from his chair.

  Cooley held him back with a hand on his shoulder.

  * * * *

  At the end of shift, Mack spotted Woody in the locker room.

  “What was your problem back there?” Woody went on the offensive.

  Mack slammed the metal door back and jerkily grabbed his jacket out. “You forgot to call me old man this time.”

  “That’s all? Then quit calling me ‘kid!’ Quit treating me like some snot-nosed child.Can we just have a truce?” Woody turned big brown eyes on him. “We’ve got to get along here. That’s all that matters on the job. And I’m not so bad once you get to know me.”

  “Yeah. Okay,” Mack grudgingly agreed. He’d have to stop letting the kid get to him. It was a dead giveaway. Very much aware they were the only ones in the locker room, Mack ducked his head, surreptitiously watching Woody pull off his shirt, exposing a fine set of pecs and a flat stomach. The kid didn’t sport a six-pack like his, but I’ll Be Your Last

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  he’d still like to bite that belly. The kid’s nipples were tight and hard in the cool room. Mack’s gut clenched at the thought of clamping those sharp points between his teeth. He turned away fast before he gave away the fierce arousal flooding his cock.

  All his life, narrow hips, tight asses, and long, thick, erect cocks had turned him on. Muscled chests, flat chests, men’s faces, beards, scruffy stubble, it all aroused him. Damn it. The kid had all that, and, yeah, it turned him on. Another man at work hadn’t affected him this way in a long time. He’d had erotic t
houghts about other cops but was always able to control them without being obvious. Woody could break down the barriers he’d painstakingly built up over the years.

  He had to keep his distance. No one, especially this man who’d unknowingly dug in under his tough skin, could guess the truth. As a cop, if the suspicion got out, he could be dead, figuratively if not literally. “See you in the morning,” he said quietly, needing to get as far away from the man as possible.

  But they were stuck on the same job together in the morning. Son of a bitch.

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  Chapter Three

  Mack was not in a good mood this early. Still being awake at that time because of an op was one thing. Getting up to be on duty at an ungodly hour was another. His regular coffeehouse wasn’t open as early as fucking four o’clock in the fucking morning. He missed his caramel macchiato and had to settle for regular coffee from a fast-food place. At least it was hot, because it had, indeed, snowed overnight as predicted by the TV weather honchos. The ground cover on the grass and side streets still looked pretty and pristine. But inside the warehouse, he and Rich stamped their feet and hugged their torsos in the frosty morning air coming through open bay doors. They’d warm up enough in the coming hours by hauling the damn flowers into the market stalls.

  In a couple of hours Woody would show up. Hopefully, they’d have discovered some information by then and this op would end quickly.

  Time crawled. Finally, a Flowers and Greens truck pulled into the bay next to their position. Rich gave him a nod, then hoisted a box to his shoulder and headed closer to the vehicle. Mack followed suit but came up short when he heard a voice.

  “You, there. Where are my tulips? If you hold them up out here, they’ll die of cold, and I’ll have your thick heads on a platter.” The kid’s tight jeans displayed every sinewy ass and thigh muscle there was to see, not to mention an impressive package. He heard Rich’s truncated laughter but didn’t dare acknowledge it. All he could do was narrow his gaze and pretend he wasn’t staring. Kane’s shirt fit just as closely as his pants, molding his chest and trim belly to I’ll Be Your Last

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  disappear behind a belt with a buckle the size of Texas. Low-slung, the buckle drew attention to a goddamned bulge the size of— damn it—the size of Alaska. Jesus. What the fuck is the son of a bitch doing?

  “Hey, you in the knit cap, what’s your problem?” Woody, a smirk tipping the corners of his mouth and his brown eyes sparkling devilishly, hooked one hand in his belt. He snapped the fingers of his other hand in Mack’s face.

  Mack pressed his lips together at the taunt. All he could hear was the outright laughter of the other haulers, including Rich.

  He couldn’t talk, but he could look. That package, that bulge, was showcased by the jeans. His cheeks heated. Goddamned if he wasn’t getting aroused. Kane’s cock looked huge, and Mack wanted to suck it into his mouth and lick the hell out of it. He’d make the kid pay for this. Somehow, he’d make sure he suffered. Mack was glad his pants were loose and his jacket long enough to cover the erection growing and thickening every second he stood there. He finally huffed a laugh.

  Maybe the bulge was really a stuffed sock made to look penis-like.

  One could only speculate.

  “Get the lead out. I need those flowers in place before the market opens.”

  Mack pushed the pallet through the plastic strips. “Putting it on a bit thick, huh?” he muttered cantankerously, making a point to stare straight ahead and not at the bulge.

  “Just doing my job.”

  “Later,” Mack growled. This is going to be a long, long op. Fuck.

  * * * *

  It had been as interminably cold and tedious a day as he’d known it would be and with nothing accomplished. No intel had been picked up. A frustrating waste of a day in all respects. Finally at home, Mack slammed the door to his apartment with all the force he could manage 22

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  and was greeted with an excited yip. Sometimes he wondered at himself and why he’d felt the need to rescue the pint-sized mutt, but he enjoyed the sound of another living creature in his home, as well as the sound of doggie toenails clicking across the old hardwood floors.

  Kiki, with her mixed heritage and long, whitish hair, had lived with him for six months. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten along without her before. He smiled. She was the first thing in his life totally dependent on him, and they seemed to be doing okay.

  Mack headed for the kitchen, Kiki following and antsy for her dinner. Absently watching her chow down, his thoughts went back to Woody. He wanted the kid. Wanted him bad. Those tight jeans had him salivating, wanting to suck that dick, to feel it grow harder and longer in his mouth, to tongue the little slit. He wanted to thrust his hungry, greedy cock into that tight behind, hear the kid shouting out with every savage pump of his hips. Just once. One time. That’s all it would take to get the kid out of his head.

  Sometimes he hated living the lie. Because he’d been a Marine and now a cop, he’d hidden his true sexuality for so many years and, at times, had denied it to himself. In the service, he’d even dated women, had made himself have sex with them.

  He sure as hell didn’t date them anymore. He didn’t have relationships with men, either, just one-fuck stands. The world didn’t need to know that he’d finally admitted to himself he lusted after the male body. At times, his loneliness overwhelmed him, and he wished for another warm body in bed with him for a whole night. That led to danger, though. The warm body might want a repeat, or a commitment, or a relationship. When he finally sought out sexual partners, it was miles away from the city. He never stayed. He never brought anyone home. Every time he walked through his door, he came in alone. That was the way he’d always wanted it. He wasn’t relationship material, hadn’t been raised to believe in them.

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  Except he had Kiki now. He didn’t have to hide anything from her. She didn’t nag him for more than he could give. She was just here for him, as he was for her.

  Mack glanced around his apartment—six-hundred-fifty square feet of space. He didn’t need much and didn’t have much. He’d been trained well in the military, and his place was neat as the proverbial pin. White walls, a black leather couch with matching recliner, a dark-wood side table between them for a beer or pizza, and a forty-two-inch flat screen were all he required. He thought the leather couch and chair were probably a bit cliché for a guy, but they would take the most wear and be the most economical. The bedroom was just as barren, with a nightstand, a dresser, and a bed with no headboard.

  There weren’t any pictures or decorations on the walls, but he had two bookshelves full of popular mystery-suspense novels—Connelly, Turow, Kellerman—and some presidential biographies. Heading for the fridge, he yanked out a bottle of beer, twisted the top off, and took a long swig. He had all he needed.

  The beer didn’t help. The vision of that bulgy package stuck in his brain. Glancing at the clock on the stove, he wondered if he had time tonight to hook up with someone in Milwaukee. No night was a bad night in a gay bar. His cock wanted ass. He could keep sex simple.

  Like his decorating style.

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  Chapter Four

  Woody had bought his house knowing it would need a lot of work. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a living-dining room, and kitchen were all his. With money he’d inherited from his mother when she died two years before and the help of his dad and sister, he’d renovated the kitchen and bathroom, splurging on granite countertops, porcelain tiles, and good quality fixtures and cabinetry.

  HGTV was a secret vice.

  Molly, his sister older by four years, and her little daughter, Evie, advised him on furniture. They’d had a grand day checking out the discount stores and found a chocolate-brown microfiber sofa, a red plaid chair, and the requisite coffee and side tables. He bought a
king-size bed, which gave Molly fits of giggles at his expense. She knew about and supported his sexual direction, and, as any sister, older sister, would, she felt the need to tease him. He wasn’t offended. She didn’t cross the line, just embarrassed him a little. He could forgive a lot to have this loving family in his life.

  He pulled the burger and fries out of the fast-food bag he’d brought home. Not much of a cook, and with his work hours, it was usually just easier to pick up something than to plan ahead and buy groceries.

  But before he could eat, he had to pry himself out of the jeans and into loose sweats. Watching Penchant’s expression that morning had been torture. The looks he got every time he headed out to the loading dock completely melted every muscle in his body until he thought he’d become a puddle of goo on the floor of the market. No wonder he’d been half-erect most of the day.

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  He reminded himself he was taking a break from men, especially men like Mack. Woody couldn’t deny the hostility and resulting tension was arousing in a perverted way, but he had to remember he tended to gravitate toward what he considered wounded creatures.

  Witness Brad.

  What he needed most right now was to hear his dad’s voice.

  Woody’s father lived on the northwest side, miles away from Woody’s Lincoln Park house. They talked often, and he got together every couple of weeks with his dad, Molly, and Evie. Molly had not married Evie’s father, who now wasn’t even in the picture. In his opinion, it was probably for the best. The guy was a jerk and didn’t deserve the two girls in his life.

  “Hey, Dad, how’s it goin’?”

  “Things are good, son, but the weather sure could be better.”

  “Yeah, we got that snow today, but I guess it’s late enough in the season and you gotta expect it.”