by Jo Davis
“Of course not. You don’t have to say you like having me around for me to know it’s true.”
“Good. Because I do, you know. Like having you around.” Damn, he had a feeling he’d just been played. But any annoyance over the fact vanished when Bastian graced him with a thousand-watt smile that illuminated his friend’s sexy face and did really weird fucking things to his insides. Sort of twisted them up and—
Shit, no. The warmth spreading from his belly to his groin was not arousal. No goddamned way.
“Michael, welcome back.”
The warm, husky greeting jerked him from his confusing thoughts and his steps halted as he looked around for the source. Their electronic-surveillance expert approached, hand out, a smile on her wide, luscious mouth that he couldn’t help but return.
“Katrina. It’s good to be back.” He shook the offered hand, noting how her strong, self-assured grip belied the soft, pale skin and slender fingers. Gorgeous on the outside, made of tough stuff on the inside. Not butch, but classy and confident. He liked that in a woman. A lot.
“I’ll bet. I can’t imagine being laid up for weeks,” she said, letting go of his hand. “Then there’s all the catching up to do. I don’t envy you one bit.”
God, that voice of hers. Low and smooth, like a palm sliding over his skin. It wasn’t like he hadn’t noticed how her sexy voice tightened his balls every single time she spoke. Because he had. Just like he noticed that her drab white lab coat couldn’t hide the curves on her lovely five-foot-nine-inch body. Or that wearing her hair pulled back into a serviceable ponytail, as she wore it now, couldn’t disguise how stunning the fiery mass was when freed from its confines. He’d always thought she looked like a younger, redheaded version of Rene Russo, and he wondered whether she heard that often.
The truth was, Katrina Brandt flat-out did it for him, even if it wasn’t appropriate to let on, what with being her boss. Sexual harassment suit, anyone? Still, if he was confused before about the heat enveloping his cock in Bastian’s presence, he certainly wasn’t now. Women turned him on, period. Relief overwhelmed him, nearly knocking him over.
“He’s not back,” Bastian grumbled, scowling. “He’s ignoring doctor’s orders, and I’m taking him home, where I intend to punish him. Severely.”
The redhead glanced between them, blue eyes sparkling. “Well, I’d pay good money to see that. I might even help, considering that the boss man here turned down my last vacation request.”
The three of them shared a laugh, but Michael sensed a peculiar tension underscoring her playful teasing. As though she really wasn’t joking at all. He shifted and pulled his jacket tighter around him, hoping it hid his heavy erection. Jesus, he needed relief. Soon, or he was going to explode.
He cleared his throat. “Crime doesn’t take the week off, and, as I recall, you asked me at a bad time.”
“Is there ever a good time in this business?” Her unwavering stare challenged him for a truthful answer.
“You have a point. Hell, I’ve been out for a month and the place obviously didn’t fall apart.” Thanks to Bastian, but he didn’t say that. “Tell you what—drop by my office with the dates you want off and I’ll approve them. You’ve earned it.”
“He means drop them off at my office,” Bastian said firmly. “He’s not supposed to be pushing himself just yet.”
“Will do.” Katrina swept each of them with what Michael swore was an appreciative look filled with sexual heat. “And thank you. Michael, take it easy. Gentlemen, I’ll catch you both later.”
Watching her walk away, he wondered which of them that predatory look had been for. Surely not both of them. It had to have been the lack of sex that had affected his poor, starved body and turned his brain to mush. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be entertaining such crazy ideas about one of his own employees. A soft whistle from Bastian interrupted his thoughts.
“Damn, that’s one helluva fine woman,” his friend said, leering at Katrina’s retreating backside.
A stab of annoyance went through him. “I thought you preferred men.”
Bastian looked at him in mild surprise. “You know perfectly well I’m bisexual. That means my options aren’t nearly as limited as yours, my friend. Come on, let’s get you home.”
My options aren’t nearly as limited. Meaning the man could indulge in the pleasures of either men or women without a care. And Michael might be straight, but he wasn’t blind—the man was pure sex and could have anyone he wanted, when he wanted.
Except me.
If anything, his annoyance increased and he couldn’t fathom why. As he eased himself into the passenger’s seat of Bastian’s snazzy little red Porsche, he chalked it up to being tired. And horny, too, with no outlet except his own fist. How depressing.
As Bastian pulled out of the parking lot and drove past the guard gate, Michael removed his iPhone from the inside pocket of his jacket. “What do you want for dinner?” Every instruction regarding the household went through Simon. The aging butler liked to know ahead of time so he could inform Mrs. Beasley, Michael’s part-time cook and housekeeper.
“Nothing. I’m going home tonight.”
The calm, quiet statement socked Michael in the gut. “What? Why?”
Bastian gave a soft laugh that sounded sad to Michael’s ears. “If you’re well enough to ditch me and go against doctor’s orders, it’s probably time for me to get out of your hair. You don’t need me hanging around anymore, cramping your style.”
“What an asinine thing to say.” What the hell? “Just a few minutes ago, you said I’d lose my marbles without you there, and you’re right. Who’ll watch TV and hang out by the pool with me? Who’ll tell stupid jokes and make me laugh? Even Simon almost cracks a smile when you’re around.”
“I’m sure you’ll get by.”
“I don’t want to get by. I want you to stay . . . unless you’re sick of me.” Dread balled in his stomach at the prospect of Bastian leaving. Before his friend moved in to take care of him following his release from the hospital, Michael had never realized that his sprawling estate was nothing more than a gorgeous prison with a view.
“That’s crap and you know it.” Bastian sighed. “I’m happy to stay as long as you need me. I just . . . don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
“Not gonna happen,” Michael insisted. “I’m asking you not to go. Please.”
A pause, then, “Okay. I’ll stay.”
The knot of tension left him in a rush, and he sagged in his seat. “So, dinner?”
“Anything. Mrs. Beasley has me so spoiled it doesn’t even matter what she cooks.”
Giddy with relief, he placed a call to Simon requesting shrimp marinara, and then closed his eyes. He wouldn’t have to face his big, lonely house without his best friend, at least not yet. The near miss brought home a startling truth: somehow, in the past few weeks, Bastian’s steady hand and unconditional friendship had become like the air Michael needed to breathe. Seeing the man’s sunny face each day, brightening his home, his life, had become some sort of critical axis on which his world revolved.
And damned if that didn’t scare the shit out of him, more so than any bullet.
A half hour later, Bastian pulled up to the security gate and typed in his personal access code. Each person authorized to come and go from Michael’s estate had his own code, and Michael’s head of security—who lived on the premises and patrolled the grounds—received a daily report of exactly when those codes were used. Every inch of the property was monitored by video, as well. However unlikely it might be for Dietz or anyone else to breach the estate, the attempt on Michael’s life had caused a definite lock-down on security.
Michael let out a breath as the gate slowly shut behind them. “Home, sweet penitentiary.”
“Only for now. Once I wipe the scum that is Robert Dietz from the earth, things can go back to normal.”
“ ‘Normal’ is relative in our line of work, but yeah. When we catch him, we’ll be abl
e to finally relax a little.”
Bastian didn’t comment further on Dietz as he swung the sports car around to the side of the house and parked outside the four-car garage. Michael sensed a major brooding session coming on and headed it off with a suggestion as they got out and started for the house.
“You’ve been working too hard. Play hooky with me and let’s have a beer or three by the pool, take a swim.”
“God, you don’t know how tempting that is. But I’ve got reports, purchase orders to place on the new surveillance stuff, a briefing to prepare our agents who are searching for Dietz and more than a dozen other assholes on the FBI’s Most Wanted list—”
“You’re going to be the one in danger of having a heart attack instead of me if you aren’t careful.” He unlocked the side door and they stepped inside, Bastian trailing him through the laundry room and into the spacious kitchen. “I’m the boss, and I’m ordering you to take the afternoon off.”
“For totally selfish reasons.”
“So? Works, doesn’t it?”
“Fine, you win. You take any pain pills today?”
“Nope, not a one. Bring it—I’m good.”
Reaching into the fridge, his friend pulled out two bottles of beer and twisted off the tops, then handed a cold brew to Michael. “Two is your max,” he said in a firm tone. “You’re still recovering, and I’ll be damned if I put in all this effort getting your ass healed just to have you screw it up.”
“Yes, dear.”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.”
Bastian took a long draw on his beer, and Michael found himself transfixed by the sight of his lips wrapped around the opening, the strong column of his throat working. The way his position, leaning against the counter, stretched his dress shirt across his lean but nicely muscled chest. What the fuck am I doing?
“Um, I’m going to change,” Michael said hoarsely, backing toward the nearest escape route.
“Watcha gonna be?”
In spite of himself, Michael gave a short laugh at the lame joke. “Funny. Meet you by the pool. Bring more beer.”
Carrying his bottle with him, he practically jogged through the living room and up the stairs to his bedroom. Once there, he smacked the bottle down on the dresser, not bothering with a coaster to protect the smooth mahogany surface from a ring. Nothing mattered at the moment except tearing off his clothes before his body incinerated.
Months of forced abstinence—that’s all it was. First because of Maggie’s murder and his ensuing grief, and then because he simply couldn’t imagine being unfaithful to her memory—though she’d be the first one to object to his self-imposed loneliness.
God, he needed. So fucking bad.
Naked, he stretched out on the bed and spread his legs, cupping his balls. They were full and heavy, ripe for someone’s touch. Rolling them between his fingers, he tried to picture Maggie crouched between his thighs, the way her hair had trailed over his lap and her eyes had danced with mischief as she worked him. But using the memory of a dead woman felt wrong somehow, even though she’d been his wife, and the mirage faded, leaving him bereft and alone with his own hand.
He tried relaxing, letting his mind roam as his fingers skimmed his engorged erection. Ripples of delight skittered along his cock and he gripped it, pumping slowly from the leaking head to the base and up again. His bones melted and he became nothing but the heat lapping at his cock and balls as he stroked, increasing the pressure. Oh, so good.
Another image formed, this time of its own volition. Not a memory, but a fantasy. A beautiful redhead between his knees, her mass of hair thrown over one shoulder. Katrina. Her breasts swayed as she bobbed up and down on his cock, tongue laving the sensitive underside of his dick. She deep-throated him, buried her nose in the curls at his groin, worked him with her throat. Sucked and licked, driving him out of his mind.
“Oh yeah.” His hips thrust rhythmically, driving his cock into that hot, wet heaven. Again and again, delicious, driving him higher, until his balls tightened and he felt the warning tingle at the base of his spine.
In the next instant, his release came and he shouted, fist pumping furiously as warm streaks hit his belly. His dream lover vanished and he released his softening cock, staring at the stripes of cum cooling on his torso. One corner of his mouth lifted in immense satisfaction.
Hetero with a capital H. There was the evidence to prove it.
Ignoring the slight pinch in his abdomen from the surgery that had saved his life, he pushed up and padded into the bathroom to clean up and pull on his swim trunks. The pool, beer, and the company of his best friend were all he needed to keep him content for now.
But soon he’d have to do something about making that dream lover a reality, even if it couldn’t be Katrina.
Bastian stood frozen, fist raised to knock on Michael’s bedroom door, gaping at the sight that greeted him through the crack. He’d stopped by after changing in his own room to see if Michael was ready and ask about something regarding work. Damned if he knew what the question had been.
Because the sight of the man he loved and lusted after above all others, splayed and jacking his cock, seared through his retinas, into his brain, and left him stupid. When rope after rope of cum streaked the man’s broad stomach and chest, he’d have given his soul to be there, lapping the salty-sweet cream from that smooth, taut skin.
Lowering his hand, Bastian backed away from the door and turned, heart pounding and cock painfully at attention, fleeing as quickly and quietly as possible. He didn’t know what Michael would do if he knew Bastian had witnessed such a private moment, and he didn’t care to find out.
Kick him out? Maybe not, considering how he’d practically begged Bastian to stay. But it would sure make things awkward between them. Friendship was all he had of Michael, and the thought of losing that made him sick.
“Why did I have to fall for a man who’s so straight, his spine is made of titanium?” he muttered.
And he knows how you feel about him. Why do you put up with this shit, letting him stomp your heart into the dirt under his polished shoes?
“Because I’m an idiot.”
In the kitchen, he stood for a few minutes, willing away his raging hard-on. And not a second too soon. After snagging two more beers from the fridge, he greeted Mrs. Beasley, who’d just come in, huffing and carrying three plastic grocery bags. The plump, gray-haired woman was flushed and breathless, as though she’d been hurrying to complete her errand and get back to her kitchen.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, stopping to plant a kiss on her cheek. Taking two of the sacks from her, he placed them on the granite countertop.
“Oh, you!” She blushed harder and swatted at him, setting the remaining bag, along with her purse, next to the other two. Digging inside one bag, she began pulling out fresh produce, and nodded toward the bottles. “Not letting Mr. Ross have too much of that, are you?”
“No way,” he assured her. “This is his limit. Can’t say the same for me, though.”
“Humph. The drink will put you in an early grave. Mark my words.” The woman kept at her task, putting away the groceries, movements brisk.
“My grandfather drank a fifth of whiskey every week and died at age ninety-seven. He also ate biscuits and gravy for breakfast more often than not.”
“He was likely a laborer, not an office man. Things were different then, when a man had to toil all day to make a wage. Kept a man’s body fit and his mind clean, and what little rest or nip of spirits he got was sorely earned.”
Well, he could hardly refute that. “You’re right. He worked in a steel mill, dawn to dusk. Each generation of Chevalier men has definitely gotten softer since then.” He waved a bottle at the portly woman. “Are you worried about me, Mrs. Beasley?”
She sniffed. “Of course not. And you’re not soft in the least, just a little slow.”
He blinked at her. “What? How do you mean?”
“You’l
l figure it out sooner or later.” Facing him, she fisted her hands on ample hips. “Now, what do you boys want for dinner?”
“Michael told Simon he wanted shrimp marinara, I think.” Slow? What the hell was she talking about?
“I haven’t been around to get the message,” she said in annoyance. “Why that old geezer insists on being privy to every little thing, right down to my menu, is beyond me. It would be a lot simpler if Mr. Ross would phone me directly with his requests when he’s out.”
Bastian shrugged. “You know Simon. He’s very old school that way.” Or something. Probably just liked to see the woman all riled up.
“An old snoop is what he is,” she grumbled. “Always skulking around, getting into my business.” As she turned to the task of dinner, Bastian made his escape.
Bastian didn’t see Simon, skulking or not, on the way to the pool, though, in truth, his attention was riveted on the lush surroundings. Michael’s home was designed to be an oasis, a tropical-themed sanctuary from the outside world, and the pool area was no exception. Built indoors as part of the house, the huge space was covered and surrounded by walls on three sides. The fourth wall, made entirely of bulletproof glass, faced the outdoor patio, complete with a large barbecue pit, tables, and loungers. A door leading to the patio was propped open if Michael entertained, but was normally kept closed and required anyone wishing to gain access to the pool from the outside to enter their code.
In his opinion, no safety measure was too great when it came to Michael. The man was the head of a covert agency, was in close contact with the president, and as such was always a potential target.
Bastian set the beers on a small table and waded into the water on the shallow end, relishing the cool wetness lapping at his overheated skin. He dunked his head and then floated on his back, trying to concentrate on the beauty of his surroundings rather than the memory of his friend pulling on his hard, reddened cock.
Good thing the swim-up bar was only manned during parties, or Bastian would be sorely tempted to imbibe something with a lot more kick than beer. And he still might hunt down a tumbler of whiskey, despite the admonishment from Mrs. Beasley. Anything to help kill this insane longing for a man who’d rather cut off his prick than be with Bastian or any man.
