Danger Zone: Tales of Military Passion

by Marie Harte

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  AFTER A LONG dinner, and Quinn getting plenty of pleasure from watching Con alternately squirm and enjoy the rest of the meal, they walked back to Con’s bike. And that’s when Con’s “you make the decisions” edict began to blur…but in a damned fine way.

  “Want to take a ride?” Con asked with a raise of his brows.

  “I’m not the ‘ride on the back of your bike’ type, Con.”

  “Fine. Then you can drive me.” Con got off and motioned for Quinn to get in the front seat. When Quinn did, Con had no problem getting on behind him. Grabbed around his waist to move himself close.

  And that’s when Quinn realized he hadn’t needed Con’s soft chuckle to know what Con had done. Not when he felt Con’s cock press his ass.

  “Don’t get ideas back there,” Quinn warned.

  “Too late—that ship’s sailed.”

  “Sailor language? Won’t they revoke your Army card for that?”

  “Fuck you,” Con shot back happily.

  “I don’t think so.” Quinn took off, feeling Con’s hands grip his waist hard.

  The hotel was only ten minutes away, but Quinn wasn’t about to make this trip a short one. Once he breezed past the exit for the hotel, he swore Con moved closer, his cock impossibly hard, trapping Quinn, whose own cock strained against his jeans. Between that and the bike vibrating…fuck. He’d never been one to hold back his pleasure—that was more a sub thing. He came whenever he fucking felt like it, and when Con’s hand rubbed his crotch…he let himself go.

  The orgasm shot through him like a rocket and he slowed the bike but didn’t stop, wanting the power to shoot through him at the same time. Con was rubbing his thighs through it and Quinn wondered, after his brain cleared, if Con had come as well.

  Didn’t matter. Now, he was going to pull over into the tangle of woods off the highway and put Con over his knees. But first, he’d make Con clean him with his tongue. Not allowing Con to come, as punishment for what he’d done right now—being pushy and bratty. Which were really two of Quinn’s favorite things.

  Con was breathing hard. “Do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Whatever’s got you looking at me like that.”

  “Come here.” His voice was gruff, an edge Con hadn’t heard before from him but he responded by moving close to Quinn, who told him, “With me, you don’t give the orders.”

  “You do,” Con said quietly.

  “Good boy. On your knees.” Con obeyed. “Take my jeans down. Clean me.”

  Con leaned in and began to lick him, teasing and yet cleaning him exactly the way he’d been directed to.

  Quinn tugged Con’s hair hard. “Eye on the prize. Or you’re not going to be happy.”

  With that, Con smiled. Sat back. “How not happy?”

  He twisted his hands back into Con’s hair and led his face back to his cock and balls and belly. Con’s tongue teased him further, until he was hard again.

  Perfect. He pushed Con away, zipped up carefully and said, “Pull your pants down.”

  Con stood, eager to do so. He appeared far less eager however, when Quinn unwound the leather strip from Con’s wrist—he’d been wearing it since the second day of the trip—and now tied it like a cock ring around Con’s cock, managing to separate his balls too before he made the careful knot. He checked his work, making sure it was neither too tight nor too lose.

  “I’ll never look at that bracelet the same way again,” Con confessed.

  “Me neither,” Quinn told him. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  Quinn pointed to the bike and Con pointed to his cock. “I can’t with this.”

  Quinn stopped him with a look. “On the bike. And if you come on the ride home…”

  “What?”

  Oh, Quinn loved a fucking challenge. “You think I don’t travel with a cock cage? I’ll make sure you don’t come the entire trip.”

  He knew Con wouldn’t follow that direction—partly on purpose but really, Quinn had set him up to fail. Mainly because he knew they’d both enjoy it better that way.

  *

  JESUS CHRIST, CON came so hard on one of the many unhurried laps around the hotel he whimpered. Loudly. And Quinn had to know what he’d been doing, the bastard. He knew Con had come when Con lowered his forehead to rest against Quinn’s shoulder.

  It was only then that Quinn pulled into the hotel garage, parked and waited until Con felt steady enough to get off the bike. Getting upstairs was a blur, and he just let Quinn guide him, a hand along his lower back, until he heard the door click behind them and felt the mattress under him.

  Quinn wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t rough either, when he turned Con, tugged his boots and jeans off—the leather bracelet too—and then took Con’s own hand and wrapped it around his cock. “Go ahead. Stroke it.”

  Con looked down. “Jesus, Quinn, I came hard enough to keep me soft till next week.”

  “Bullshit,” Quinn shot back. “Do it.”

  Con grabbed his cock and began to stroke. To his surprise, he hardened almost instantly, and holy hell, could Quinn actually command him hard?

  As if he knew exactly what Con was thinking, Quinn smiled. Wickedly. “This won’t be your last orgasm tonight.”

  He lay next to Con, watching him. Urging him on with dirty talk and suggestion. Mentioned how he had a vibrating dildo around here somewhere and he could simply plug Con with it, tie him up and let him go all night.

  “Fuck…” Con came hard, his back arching off the mattress, the orgasm not exactly painful but not the most pleasant either.

  When he blinked again, Quinn was smiling, rubbing a finger in his come and circling the still way too sensitive head of his cock. “Good. One more.”

  “Again?”

  “Yeah, again.”

  “Quinn, I can’t.”

  “Better figure out a way to turn that into a can,” Quinn told him. “Here, let me help.”

  Christ, he spread Con’s legs and began to lick him, cock and balls, then lower and hell, it was the best rim job Con had ever gotten. He was opening Con, licking along the sensitive channel, spearing him with his tongue. Using his fingers to rub Con’s gland.

  “Stroke yourself,” Quinn commanded and then used his tongue to torture Con again. There was no way this was happening, except his belly coiled and his balls tightened after about ten minutes…and fuck, this one was going to hurt.

  When he came, it was pretty much a dry orgasm and he was begging, his muscles straining. “Quinn…”

  “I’m here, baby. You did such a good job.” Quinn stroked his hair out of his eyes. “Next time you pull that, I’ll find a nice young twink to bring home with us.”

  “Yeah, for what? You’re already bored with me?”

  Quinn smiled. Wickedly. “Not a chance. I just think he won’t mind jerking you until I tell him to stop.”

  Con’s eyes widened. “Sadist.”

  “That’s a bad thing?”

  Con managed a tired laugh. Exhausted, smiling, he fell asleep across Quinn’s chest. “Thank you,” he murmured.

  “My pleasure.”

  *

  IT WAS ONLY a catnap, one that had Con waking and groaning, but smiling too. He was sore, but he’d felt Quinn cleaning him, putting salve on his cock and ass and yeah, he was satiated and still had hours of sleep ahead of him.

  “Here—drink this.” Quinn held the water to his lips and Con drank gratefully. “Need some pain meds?”

  “No. I’m good.”

  Quinn nodded. “Good enough for me to start your tattoo?”

  “Too bad you’re not traveling with your guns.”

  “Stay right there,” Quinn told him.

  Con rolled his eyes, but obeyed, which was another turn-on. Quinn grabbed the stencil he’d been working on and brought it over. Transferred it to the top of Con’s shoulder.

  Quinn stared at it for half a second, then went to his bags on the floor, rifled t
hrough them and came out with tat guns. Smiled once he saw the grin wipe off Con’s face.

  “If you do this—ink me—I’ll always have a memory of this trip. Of you,” Con pointed out.

  “Is that bad?” Quinn asked.

  “Not something I can answer yet.”

  “Does this mean you don’t want the tattoo?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Quinn appeared to be only half listening, but Con knew he had the man’s attention. He was only applying the stencil now, checking it. Taking it off. Reapplying. Finally he said, “It’s only one piece of it. And it’s not going to look exactly like that—I’m going to freehand it. But I wanted to give you an idea of what it’s going to start out looking like.”

  “Start out?”

  “It’s going to run the length of your biceps,” Quinn explained, helped him up and guided him to the mirror.

  Con stared at it, sucked in a breath as he stared at the combination of the skull and the dagger…part Delta symbol and part Quinn’s own design of Celtic knots, blended together to form a one-of-a-kind symbol… “Fuck.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  He glanced through the mirror at Quinn behind him. “Good. Really fucking good, Quinn.”

  “Then come on. Let’s start.”

  Chapter Eight

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  THE NEXT NIGHT came fast—a long day of driving, split between them, and then a good meal before they headed back to the room…and a movie. And more tattooing.

  Con’s arm wasn’t that sore—“Not as sore as my ass,” he’d said, and so Quinn cut him a break on that. Besides, he was into this damned project. Con’s skin took the ink so well—he was tanned and he healed well.

  But the next night…that was a different story. It started out just fine—driving, check in and showers. Dinner. But then Con wanted to go out…found a bar. Found a pool table. Accepted some bets.

  Third verse, same as the first. Because again, it was Con dealing with a small mob of angry guys who’d been hustled. Quinn basically told them they had no idea what they were thinking, since they’d pushed a soldier into it.

  The guys backed off when they’d heard Con was military, and that was something that appeared to annoy Con greatly.

  He’d walked away from Quinn, refused to get into the truck. Quinn went back to the hotel without further argument, letting Con walk off his anger—or hopefully some of it.

  When Con finally appeared an hour later, Quinn was waiting for him. Crossed his arms as Con defiantly slammed the door behind him. “What the fuck, Quinn?”

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  “You’re doing everything possible to keep your Dom down,” Con said seriously. “Why’s that?”

  “Did you just say, keep your Dom down?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  The thing was, the only way Quinn could handle this was to not keep his Dom down. His Dom stopped the emotions, which had suddenly started to spill out like crazy where Con was concerned. “You really do like to be ordered around.”

  “And you like ordering. Why fight your impulses.”

  A light went off. “Basically, you’re telling me you need to be punished for hustling.”

  “Maybe. At the very least, taught a lesson.”

  Quinn’s cock hardened, something Con noticed, almost defiantly. Quinn responded by pointing to the couch in the suite section of their room. “Take your pants down and lean over the back.”

  Something flashed in Con’s eyes, a surrender that Quinn loved seeing, before he did as Quinn told him to. Bare-ass up, his hands on the cushions, he waited for Quinn to finish assessing him.

  Instead of bringing his hand down hard, Quinn rubbed Con’s ass. He heard a whimper escape Con’s throat, like the pressure of the sweet touch was almost too much for him. Like he needed so much more.

  Quinn’s hand finished caressing and then came down hard on the opposite cheek. His hand never hit the same place twice, and he watched as Con’s ass reddened nicely under the smacks.

  He could go harder, use a belt or a paddle…but Con liked this. And that was enough to make it work for both of them.

  “Quinn…please….” Con’s voice sounded strangled. With that, Quinn made a quick decision. He pulled Con upright, turned him and sank to his knees in front of Con. Knowing Con wasn’t going to last, he swallowed Con’s cock, keeping eye contact. Letting Con know he could come when he needed to.

  Con’s hand twisted in Quinn’s hair. “Want this to last,” he groaned, but a few quick snaps of his hips and it was over and he was shooting down Quinn’s throat.

  When Quinn released him, Con sank to his knees and wrapped his arms around Quinn, murmuring, “What you do to me, Quinn.”

  What you do to me, Con…you have no idea what you do to me…

  *

  LYING THERE, AN hour or so later, Quinn stirred. He’d been too damned comfortable and he noted that Con was awake, had no doubt been looking between him and the TV. Or specifically, Quinn’s own sleeve of tattoos.

  He had a lot of them, had been tattooing himself since he was fifteen or so. And over the years, he’d been covering up and cleaning up some of the mistakes, making the better ones clearer. He did a lot of his own, but he also traded ink with some of the best in the business, which was a definite perk.

  He wasn’t fully covered, not by a long shot. He wanted to be careful, only wanted tattoos that meant something to him. He took out his love of tattoos on his customers.

  But Con had been studying Quinn’s arm for a while…and Quinn knew why.

  “Who’s Gerry?” Con asked the inevitable question. It must’ve shown right on Quinn’s face, because Con nodded. “Got it. Off limits.”

  That easy surrender was what Quinn normally would’ve wanted. But nothing about this with Con was normal at all. Instead of feeling relieved, it pissed Quinn off that Con didn’t give a shit enough to push, to dig deeper. “Right. Wouldn’t want to go anyplace uncomfortable.”

  Con’s gaze was steady. Calm. He could’ve been a Dom, Quinn was pretty sure, if he’d chosen to. Because Quinn felt at once chastised and safe, more so when Con offered, “Why don’t you tell me about him?”

  Quinn shoved a hand through his hair and shrugged. “We were together for a long time.”

  “How long?”

  Quinn resisted the answer, long enough, finally opting for the honesty of, “Ten years.”

  Con gave a low whistle.

  Instead of waiting, Quinn said, “I came out to California for him. He was my mentor as a tat artist. He encouraged me to follow my instincts, sexually. He never judged me at all. And then, three years ago…

  Three long years ago. He sucked in a breath.

  Jesus, the diagnosis hit them both like a speeding train. They had no preparation, no time to jump out of the way. Just thinking about it made him feel like he couldn’t breathe. And he guessed he couldn’t, since Con was next to him, telling him to take it easy. Pushing his head down between his legs. Rubbing his neck and back and then yelling at him to motherfucking breathe, okay?

  Okay, yes, he could do that. And he did, keeping his head down until the tears ceased. Enough, anyway. “He was my everything, Con, you know? It didn’t matter what sexual position were in, or who was playing Dom…none of that mattered. It was just us, taking care of each other. That was all we needed.”

  He hadn’t truly mourned Gerry. Not yet. He’d been angry and sad and moody and he’d bargained enough when Gerry had been sick that he was surprised he was still around, because of course, he offered himself like some kind of crazy human sacrifice to anyone up there who’d listen. He felt like the priest at the end of The Exorcist, screaming, “Take me instead, you bastard,” and hell, he’d been serious, but Gerry had woken up, laughed and called him a drama queen. Tenderly.

  He died peacefully—as peacefully as the morphine could make him—in Quinn’s arms that night.

  And Quinn told Con all of this
now, because fuck, it was safe. Con didn’t know him enough to care, right? But he still understood, could tell the way Con just stared at him, then blinked, and yeah, he got it, Quinn knew. And then finally, it was out there.

  “Does Scott know?” Con asked quietly.

  “A little. He knew about Gerry. I told him…that we broke up. Because he was away and you’re never supposed to bother deployed soldiers. Can’t distract them. And I got that. I really did, Con.”

  Con just hugged him hard. “You shouldn’t have had to carry this alone for so long. Fuck the military rules you were brought up on. Scott doesn’t believe in those—you know that.”

  Quinn did. He also felt lighter. Looser. He drew in a suddenly shaky breath and tugged Con close and Con didn’t resist at all, let Quinn tighten his arms around him and press him against his chest, allowing Quinn to take back his familiar role of being the one to give the comfort.

  “I’m so sorry, Quinn,” Con murmured.

  “Me too.” Quinn tightened his arms around Con.

  They stayed like that for a while, until Con asked, “Who does this for you?”

  “No one has, for a long time.”

  “Since Gerry?”

  “Not until you, Con.”

  “You don’t have to say that.”

  “I know. Do I seem like the type to say anything I don’t mean?”

  “No.”

  “So shut the fuck up and take your clothes off.”

  A slow smile slid across Con’s face at Quinn’s words, and for the rest of the night, Con let Quinn do whatever he wanted to do.

  *

  NOW, QUINN STARED at the ink on Con’s arm as Con slept. The sleeve was far from finished. It would be bad-ass once it was. But finishing it meant…finishing it.

  Road trip over.

  Contact, over. Most likely. Not that Quinn would bring up the possibility of anything beyond this trip, for so many reasons. Because he wasn’t ready for anything. Because he told himself Con wasn’t.

  Because this had been forced, possibly orchestrated by his seemingly all-knowing brother.

  Quinn couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened had Scott been able to make the trip. And then he pushed that out of his mind as he checked his work over while Con slept. He looked so peaceful, so thoroughly into his sleep.