“Sure,” Ethan said, still looking up at the sign, and Randy smiled to himself as he turned around, put on his helmet, and aimed the bike toward the street.
“Hold on.” Randy allowed himself a moment to enjoy the feel of Ethan’s hands closing around his middle again, then took off.
They slowed way down as soon as they hit the Strip, of course. It was just past one a.m. on a Friday night, and the place was still going strong. Randy didn’t mind because it gave him the chance to point out bits of trivia to Ethan about the casinos, the Strip throughout history, and Las Vegas in general.
Plus, with the slow speed, Ethan’s hands had fallen down to rest more on Randy’s thighs than his waist, and sometimes his fingers teased—he was pretty sure deliberately—at Randy’s crotch.
“Vegas is what it is now because of Hoover Dam. The workers needed somewhere to spend their money, and Nevada had legal gambling and prostitution. Las Vegas was thirty miles away. Perfect setup. Then the mob came in and put some organization to it all and turned the town into a machine.”
“Is that the mob Crabtree is a part of?”
Randy cursed the need for helmets—if safety didn’t demand them, Ethan would have whispered it against his ear instead of shouting it at plastic. Of course, if the helmets weren’t there, he could be looking at their splattered brains across pavement as he drifted off to the afterlife.
“The mob isn’t really here anymore. Crabtree’s more of an artifact than anything. The mob was biggest in the fifties and sixties. It carried into the seventies and eighties, and it will always be around, but ever since the regulation laws and the Black Book—the official blacklist of people who can’t legally so much as set foot in a casino—mostly the mob is a shadow. In the fifties and early sixties they were caretakers. People say Vegas was the safest damn place you could live back then, so long as you didn’t cheat the mob. They kept their house clean, no crimes in town outside of the skim in the casinos. Killing happened out of town. But then Howard Hughes bought them out, and they got old and the Chicago Outfit took over instead, and things changed. Mostly now there are just ghosts. And guys like Crabtree.”
“But you said he’s killed people.”
“Oh yeah.” Randy waved a hand to take in the Strip. “You ever watch Casino? Or The Cooler? He was part of the old school of taking care of people who cheated the casinos. There’s still some of that around.”
Ethan’s body shifted closer, and Randy felt a clunk as their helmets met awkwardly. Fucking safety.
“Randy?”
There was a husky quality to Ethan’s voice Randy loved. “Yeah?”
Ethan’s hands slid into the junction of Randy’s thighs, into the crease of his pants, then over to find his cock, which was rapidly coming to attention at the thought of Ethan’s hands saying hello.
“Randy, I think I’m a little drunk.” The hands massaged Randy deliberately. “I want to fuck you. Now. And I don’t want Crabtree to fuck you ever again. I don’t want him to tie you up.”
The lights of the Strip pulsed around Randy, as did the noise of the traffic and the crowd. His bike roared as he flexed his hand on the accelerator, and they cooled their heels at the stoplight next to Circus Circus. Randy felt drunk too. Drunk on Slick. He turned his head so Ethan could hear him.
“Then who’s going to tie me up, baby?”
The helmet slammed into his again, but it didn’t matter. Randy could imagine what it would have felt like to have Ethan’s tongue inside his ear.
Ethan tightened his hands on Randy. “Me.”
By sheer force of will alone was Randy able to keep from running the bike into the cab in front of him. Suddenly he hated the traffic. He wanted to leap onto the sidewalk and run the pedestrians down, because the thought of putting off the sensual promise in Ethan’s words and hands another minute was too much to bear.
“Hold on.” When the light changed, Randy wove through cars, illegal as hell, and when he got onto the 589, he turned right and sped like a bullet toward home.
He put the bike in the garage only because he had to, but once they were off, he tossed his helmet into the corner, grabbed Ethan’s, gave it the same treatment, then hauled his lover into his arms.
They made out up against the bike, because it was there and because it was sexy-dangerous. The tailpipe still burned hot, and the whole thing seemed ready to tip over any second. Ethan sent the button to Randy’s pants flying off into the darkness, and he practically tore the zipper off its threads as he yanked Randy’s waistband down and freed the cock he’d been teasing for the past forty-five minutes. Straddling the bike, Ethan pushed against Randy’s shoulders. Randy watched, then gasped as Ethan took hold of his cock, stroked it, then slid his hand up and down the length. When Randy began to shake, Ethan leaned forward, and with his hand still on Randy’s dick, kissed the divot above Randy’s collarbone. Then he licked it. Then he opened his mouth, sucked the skin, and nipped, hard enough to make Randy cry out.
“I want to fuck you, Randy.”
Please do, Randy thought. “Here on the bike?”
“In the house.” Ethan nipped again and tightened his grip. “In your bed.”
“Still going to tie me up?” Randy’s body somehow seemed to have lost most of its bones. He already knew all his blood was in his crotch.
Ethan’s laugh was wicked. “Oh yes.”
They stumbled into the house, through the door, down the hall and into the room—Randy threw the door closed, but it banged back open, and Ethan didn’t seem to give a damn about it. Well, Sam and Mitch can just have a taste of their own. He cried out as Ethan’s mouth closed against his neck.
Slick was a biter. Who would have thought?
Ethan bit, licked, and sucked his way across Randy’s shoulders, arms, chest, and thighs. Randy hoped this was something special, this Ethan Slick gave him. Maybe this was all the pain and emptiness that had been scaring the shit out of Randy all day turned on its head, pouring out in a ruthless game of poker, a ride down the Strip, and enough gin to float an oil tanker.
He hoped, at the very least, idiot Nick Snow had never had a taste of this Ethan, because he didn’t fucking deserve him.
“Where?” Ethan slid up Randy’s belly. “Where—? I want—” His hands closed over Randy’s wrist, pinning it down.
“Box. Floor. Behind you.” Randy’s mind ran a swift inventory of the box’s contents, and his cock hummed in anticipation. He fell onto the sheets, clutching at them. “Use whatever you want.”
Ethan moved away, and Randy lay still, quiet, waiting. He worried maybe Ethan would see what was in there and freak out, but he pushed the thought aside. No. That wasn’t going to happen, not tonight.
Now who’s betting on black?
Randy wasn’t betting on black. He bet on Slick. That was different. His hands, now sweaty, tightened on the sheets. He hoped it was different.
The pause went on a little too long, and Randy got nervous. Then Ethan loomed over him, his eyes wild, but with lust, not disgust. He held up a pair of shackles and a harness in his hand. “Show me how to use these on you.”
Randy did.
There was some awkwardness but not much, and Ethan’s enthusiasm for binding and probing Randy more than made up for it. Whispering, nudging, encouraging, they moved through the dark, Randy explaining in exquisite, erotic detail how Ethan could best spread him open, pin him down. Ethan did. It didn’t take long for him to have Randy kneeling over a bench, his ankles held wide apart by a metal spreader, his hands cuffed almost painfully behind his back and attached to the chest harness. Knees braced against the cushions and his forehead pressed to the bench, Randy trembled, open and waiting as Ethan decided what he wanted to do next.
Randy knew what he wanted—for Ethan to pick up the paddle he’d ignored, and he wanted Slick to slap him with it. But even though he absolutely wanted it, Randy was fine with skipping that for now. He’d only ever let Crabtree paddle him before. Well, and the one time wit
h Sam, but it was different. It had been for Sam. This—this would be for him. This would be about letting go, about being safe with Ethan.
It was a bunch of shit, is what, because he was not safe with Ethan, not yet, not after one day. He was an idiot for doing this much. This was too much, too fast, for both of them.
But sweet Jesus, Randy wanted Slick. He loved kneeling here, nervous and twitching, knowing Ethan was behind him, still mostly dressed, hesitant and powerful all at once. Ethan whom twice now he’d made sweet love to, the kind he never did, not even with Sam, and now here he was with Ethan.
Oh God, he wanted this to turn loose. He wanted Ethan to slap him. Spank him. Whip him with the lash—stupid, stupid that one, because Slick didn’t know how, and how fucked up was the sub teaching the Dom how to hold a whip?
But they were both switches, really, and fucking hell Randy wanted it, wanted it—
Thought stopped as Ethan’s cool hands closed around his cheeks. Then he moaned as, with no preamble, Ethan’s tongue pushed inside him.
What Randy liked about the spreader, about being restrained, about having to hold himself still while someone else took pleasure from his body, was how outside of his head and even his body the sex became. He was aroused, physically—his cock was rock hard, and he was gasping and sweating—but more restrained than his body was his mind, hyped on the experience of having Ethan—Ethan, my God, Slick, baby—behind him, his hands on him. Ethan, who ran so hot and cold, so reserved, who right now was so incredibly not reserved. Here was Ethan tongue-fucking him. Here was Ethan who had broken down two, almost three times on him now, come close several others—Ethan demanding to know how to tie Randy down so he could dominate him. Randy submitted to him, because…
Because he was Ethan.
Randy would have yielded for Ethan, would have held himself open for him, would have guided Ethan inside, but Ethan had taken that away, so Randy enjoyed being taken, especially when Ethan switched to lube-slicked fingers, thrusting as he ran his mouth over Randy’s back, his butt, his thighs, biting again, nipping as he fucked him. Randy rode it, accepted it all, hoping he at least had one souvenir hickey in the morning.
Except he’d have a souvenir Slick too.
Ethan had already loosened him, but Randy relaxed further as Ethan donned a condom and began to push inside him. Yes. This, he wanted this—he wanted this, hard and fast, with Ethan slapping his ass, but he’d take it however it came.
All of a sudden Ethan was gone, and Randy opened his eyes, blinking as the shackles of the spreader fell away from his ankles, and then Ethan’s shaking fingers fumbled at the restraints at his back.
He tried to turn his head. “Slick?”
“I want—” The wicked, possessed Slick was fading, caught in some internal storm.
“You want me on the bed, baby?” Randy kept his tone seductive, not brash. “You want to push me onto the bed and fuck me?”
The hands stilled, then clutched at Randy. “Yes. I can’t—it’s—I want it, but it’s too—”
“Too much too fast. It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere, baby. We got time. You need help undoing those straps?”
Ethan laughed, an almost mournful sound. “I’m sorry, Randy, I’m sorry—”
“Slick, honey, I hate to burst your bubble, but I’ve been in worse fixes than this.” He kept his voice easy, reassuring as he coached Ethan through undoing the restraints, and then, because he could tell Ethan needed to put the whole box behind him, the harness too. He rose from the bench, took a second to work the kinks out of his knees—such a bitch, getting old—and led Ethan toward the bed.
Sure, people turn their noses up at somebody topping from the bottom, but that was what Randy did, lifting their hands together over his head, then turning his wrists, guiding Ethan to take control, which he did. He nudged Ethan into pinning him to the bed, pressing their bodies together, pushing Randy down. Then he stalled, so Randy lifted one leg and slid it up alongside Ethan, threading it through their arms and up, and by then Ethan had picked up on it and moved Randy’s other leg up on his own. Ethan looked flustered and still slightly lost. But he was stiff, pressing up against Randy’s thigh, and it was enough.
Ethan rested his forehead against Randy’s calf. “I’m so fucked up.”
“I like you fucked up.” Randy turned his captive hands and stroked Ethan’s fingers, then laced their fingers together. “I like you, Slick. You’re weird. But you’re something else, something I’ve never seen before. And I live in Vegas, baby. That’s quite a statement.”
Ethan’s face was obscured by the dark, but Randy could still read the tenderness there. “I like you too, Randy.”
Randy nudged against him. “Fuck me, Slick.”
He did. He pushed inside Randy, bent and kissed him, soft at first, hard as he began to move. Letting go of Randy’s hands, Ethan rode him. Randy took it, a rough, twisted little fuck, with so much switching he couldn’t keep up.
It worked. And it was good.
It was really fucking good.
ETHAN WOKE ONCE again in Randy’s bed. His head hurt four times as much as it had the day before.
He couldn’t even roll over because the thought of moving hurt too much, so he pulled the pillow more completely over his head and concentrated on trying to absorb himself into sweet, soft oblivion where he might have a prayer for peace. Certainly none was going to be found inside his skull. Or his stomach. This was twice now in a row he’d had too much to drink, and he was too old for this.
Twice, too, he’d had mind-blowingly intense sex before going to sleep. Three bouts of sex total—in twenty-four hours. He’d thought he was too old for such things, but clearly not.
He opened his eyes and stared at the white nubs of cotton, remembering, or trying to. What his brain was telling him had happened could not be what actually happened. Because he would not have—
Memory flashed, sharp frames of video, and he saw Randy bent over a bench, wearing this black strap thing, his arms—his legs—
Ethan’s head still killed, but his eyes were wide now, and he was absolutely awake. He could not have done that. He didn’t doubt Randy would have, and yes, there was a part of him curious, but he never—he wouldn’t—
He maneuvered himself to the edge of the bed, then over onto the floor, half-climbing, half-falling out as he made his way to the small wooden chest tucked against the wall beside the nightstand. He flicked open the catch and lifted the lid. Blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes, he took in the sight before him. The black strap thing with silver rivets and a ring. Another one which they hadn’t used but he vaguely remembered Randy explaining was to help hold a plug in place. Which they hadn’t used, because Ethan had wanted full access to Randy’s ass. He flushed in memory, remembering feeling rough and raw as he’d said it, wanting to use Randy—use, not make love to, not have sex with, use—and he thought he might have said so, and Randy hadn’t even blinked, just continued to explain how better to strap him down.
Ethan reached into the chest, touching the dildos, the whips, the long wooden paddle. What the hell was he thinking? He hadn’t thought. He’d been drunk, stung by Crabtree’s beating, caught up in the feel of Randy and the pulse of the bike and the sensual swirl of Las Vegas at night, and like a fool, he imagined he could be as good as the gangster. That he could be what Randy wanted, what he wanted for himself—
A soft knock startled him, and he slammed the chest shut, catching the edge of his finger on the way down. “Shit.” His fingers flew into his mouth as the door opened, and Sam stuck his head in.
“Ethan? Are you—?” Sam spied Ethan on the floor. “Oh, you are up.”
Embarrassment colored Ethan in a wash, and he looked around for loose clothing to grab, but Randy had cleaned it all up. He tugged a pillow from the bed instead.
Sam’s gaze slid over him, and he smiled briefly before putting on a pretty, paltry mask of indifference. “I thought you might be getting up soon to go to Crabtree
, and I wondered if you wanted breakfast first. I’ve got coffee on. Would you like some?”
“Sure. I’ll come and get it.” He started to rise, felt his head swell and fell down with a groan.
“No, let—” Sam bit his lip. “I mean—let me bring it to you. Do you—I mean, some people need to eat when they’re hung over, and then some don’t—”
“Food would be a godsend. There should be—Yesterday I asked Randy to get yogurt, and granola?”
“Sure, sure. And I’ll bring you some water too, because it will make you feel better than anything.”
“I honestly can get myself to the kitchen,” Ethan insisted.
“If you’d rather, okay. But I’ll get it ready for you.” He disappeared and shut the door.
Ethan did manage, but it was rougher than he would have cared to admit. He pulled on a pair of Randy’s sweatpants, stopped at the bathroom, avoiding his own reflection, and then staggered into the kitchen where a canister of yogurt, a box of high-quality granola, and a bowl were waiting for him, alongside a spoon and a steaming mug of coffee and a bottle of water. Sam sat on the other side of the table, eating a bowl of Froot Loops.
“Have a seat.” His smile tipped a little. “And sorry we keep meeting embarrassingly in the morning. I’m really sorry about yesterday.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Ethan waved the concern away and reached for his coffee. He slurped, winced, then set it down.
“Shit, did I make it too strong?” Sam started to rise.
Ethan rubbed his temple. “No, it’s my head.”
“Drink the water. You need to replenish your fluids.”
Ethan saluted weakly and uncapped the water. “Forty-year-old men are not supposed to behave like I’ve been behaving. I deserve worse than this headache.”
“You’re forty?”
“Yes.” He put the bottle down. “Old enough to know better.”
Double Blind Page 13
