Author's notes: This is all Bone's fault! Thanks to Bone, who takes blame very well, and K'Kathy, the fastest beta in the west, for beta-reading. Warnings: m/m interaction (like that's going to scare you off) and a smidgeon of plot. I hate it when plot sneaks into my PWPs!
The front door to the building squeaked at the halfway point, the way
it had for the last six months, then bounced off the wall as someone
powered through it, and Jim Ellison looked up from the pot of vegetable
stew he was stirring. He automatically concentrated his hearing to the
hallway three floors below. He was maybe a little over-sensitized to
slamming doors and the like, considering how often some low life crashed
through his. But this particular low life had a heartbeat as familiar
to him as his own, and while he frequently burst through the front door,
he always used his key first. Jim relaxed. A little.
The door bouncing off the wall was the first indication he had that Blair
was home, which sort of didn't make sense, since Jim had been listening
for him. Not with total concentration, true. Just in a hearing-dialed-up-but-in-thebackground
sort of way, but that was normally enough, because he could
zero in on his Guide, his lover, without even thinking about it. Even
in a crowd of 10,000 screaming Jags fans. Even on buy one/get one free
ice cream day at Wonderburger, when the crowd might only be twenty strong,
but was comprised of six-year-olds on a sugar high.
Jim turned off the burner and took a couple of steps towards the door,
frowning, playing back the sounds he'd heard within the last few moments.
The swish and rattle of traffic, people in the building, people outside
the building, cats in the alley a half block over, hissing of the ovens
in the bakery--but not the uneven sputtering of Blair's Volvo.
He grimaced, wondering what had happened to the car this time. Whatever
it was, it couldn't be too bad. He could hear Blair, in the elevator
now, humming to himself, and he couldn't help but grin. Some old sixties
song, completely out of tune. How could someone who had a voice so compelling,
so dominating, so powerful, not be able to carry a tune any better than
that?
But at least Blair was in a good mood, which was more disappointing than
surprising, since Blair hadn't given any indication that he was going
to be otherwise. Even though Jim had an appointment to go over his testimony
in an upcoming trial. With Beverly Sanchez. Over dinner. In an hour.
He drummed his fingertips on the countertop, bonked his forehead on the
cabinet door a couple of times, as he waited for the slow, creaking elevator
to complete its trip and deposit Blair on their floor. It didn't make
any sense really. At least, not that he'd been able to figure out. And
he had tried. Blair thought--the whole damned world thought--that Jim
Ellison didn't look at any question above the emotional level of 'What
am I gonna use to drown my steak tonight--beer or beer?' They were all
wrong. He did. He just didn't regurgitate his innermost feelings and
dissect them verbally the way some people did.
He had expected something a little more volatile than off-key singing
when he told Blair he was going to dinner with the best looking ADA in
the city, a gorgeous woman to whom he'd once been powerfully attracted.
And when it hadn't been forthcoming, he'd realized he wanted something
more volatile. He and Blair had been doing the nasty for months now.
Shouldn't his lover, the man who slept in his bed every night, be a little
upset, or maybe just a bit jealous, that Jim had what amounted to a date
with a woman to whom he'd once been attracted?
The only thing weirder than realizing he'd been looking forward to experiencing
a jealous Blair was that Blair hadn't said anything about Beverly or
the appointment. At all. And there were very few things on which Blair
Sandburg had no opinion at all.
Blair had just looked at him with that peculiar, piercing Sandburg gaze.
The gaze that would have been easier to bear if it just went clean through
instead of stopping right at the heart of whatever was bothering him.
With one look, Jim suspected that Blair knew what he was thinking and
what he was feeling. That Blair saw the excitement, the uncertainty,
the hope, the guilt. That he understood that this non-date with a woman
who had once made Jim's pulse race still had the same effect, but for
a different reason. Because Jim had never stopped wondering, questioning...
Couldn't stop even though it was the same wondering that had driven him
to actually go into a strip club and wander around, sniffing horny guys
and gyrating dancers.
That whole strip club scene was one of those surreal things that he kept
hoping would one day be funny. It should have been funny the night it
happened, except that his dick was involved. Or rather, his dick wasn't
involved. His dick hadn't even made a showing, until he got back to the
truck...and Blair. And that kind of thing made a guy wonder and worry
about himself. Ask questions no man wanted to be asking about himself...or
his dick.
The elevator signaled its arrival with a wheeze and a low grinding creak
that said if the door wasn't greased, it was going to stop opening altogether.
Jim bumped his head on the cabinet again. A little less forcefully this
time, though, because his skull was still vibrating from the last thud.
No, Blair didn't sound upset. In fact, he still sounded affable and out
of tune and...drunk? He thumped off the slowly opening elevator door,
backed up, then muttered at it while he waited for the door to open fully.
A moment later, Blair strolled into the apartment, moving more slowly
and much more carefully than usual. Then careful ended, and his backpack
went in one direction, his coat in the other. Surprisingly enough, the
coat actually landed on the coat hook. Rung like a horseshoe on a stake.
"Two points!" Blair rolled up onto his toes, minus his usual bounce,
miming dunking a basketball with his hand, and almost rolled right on
past the point of catching himself. It was a follow-through that would
have made any golfer proud. He turned from the coat rack and the controlled
fall, victory grin wreathing his face.
And that was when the smell hit Jim square in the face. Confirmation
of his suspicion. Blair and tequila. Lots of both. From the flush on
Blair's face, too much tequila for the amount of Blair. Jim's smile of
welcome dropped past the point of grimace. It went right straight to
frown.
Blair wasn't the least bit fazed. He wolf-whistled right through Jim's
glower as his blurry gaze swept Jim from head to toe and back again.
"Man, you look great! All except that frown, which you can wipe right
off. I know what you're thinking and you're wrong. I didn't drive like
this." The whole time Blair was talking, he was moving across the room
towards the balcony, shedding his outer layer of flannel as he went.
Despite the fog of tequila that had preceded him, he really wasn't slurring
his words too badly, just speaking a little slower, with a little less
precision than normal. But he did have that weaving slinkiness to his
gait that only happened when he'd had too much to drink.
Watching Blair's ass move beneath his jeans was almost enough to make
Jim forget that his apartment suddenly smelled like a bar. Or that Blair
had pulled that piercing gaze, mind reading thing again.
Blair stepped out on the balcony and craned to see down the street, waved
with expansive gestures, then came back in on a gust of cold air. "We
had a going away party for the sociology professor who's moving to New
York, and, yes, I had maybe a few too many drinks. But I didn't drive.
I bummed a ride from Julie." He jerked his thumb towards the balcony
as he came weaving back into the kitchen. "She even waited to make sure
I got inside safe."
Blair gave one of those I-know-you-can't-resist-me smiles and stepped
so close that Jim could feel the warmth of his skin beneath the layer
of cold that still clung to his clothes. "'Kay, Mom?" And he tilted his
face up for a kiss.
Jim rocked back from him despite the allure of the upturned, smiling
mouth. The alcoholic haze that surrounded Blair was enough to inebriate,
just from being in breathing range. It popped the dials on his sense
of smell. "You smell like a cantina." Underneath that cold smell was
the faintest hint of cigarette smoke and the yeasty, beer smell that
Jim associated with bars. And overpowering everything, tequila and lime.
"Did you take a bath in tequila?"
"We were doing shots." Blair let his head roll back, a boneless miming
of tossing back a drink, only this time, he was a little more careful
with his gesture, and he didn't wobble.
Jim closed his eyes to shut out the sudden, brilliant flash of image,
but it didn't help. He could still see it on his eyelids -- Blair doing
tequila shots. It was the kind of thing Blair would love--the ritual,
the ceremony. Salt. Tequila. Lime. The image was so sensual...darkened,
smoky bar, Blair lit with cool neon light, music vibrating the floor.
Blair's tongue snaking out and lapping up salt off his own skin, muscles
in his throat working as he threw his head back and swallowed, hair spilling
down his back. That lush mouth closing around a slice of lime. Sucking...
It did something dark and smoky to Jim's brain, as if he'd slipped his
teeth into the throbbing pulse right beneath that square jaw and mainlined
hot blood and sweet tequila.
"Hey, Jim, you okay?"
His eyes snapped open when Blair squeezed his forearm.
Blair was rocking lightly, maintaining his grip on gravity with his grip
on Jim. Peering up at him with a squint that said the world wasn't quite
in focus. "Where were you? Called your name twice and you didn't even
move."
Jim flushed. Busted. "You're drunk," he said, part accusation, part question,
all obfuscation to keep Blair from worming his tequila fantasy out of
him. He glared, expecting Blair to deny it, then watched, bemused, as
Blair shrugged.
"Toasted," he agreed amiably. Blair leaned back against the cabinets
and rested his arms along the counter top, probably to keep from sliding
right down to the floor. His head lolled as if his neck wasn't going
to hold it up much longer. His legs sprawled, one knee cocked outward
so that his thighs were spread. He looked relaxed to the point of stupefaction,
except for the one foot, tapping slowly to some internal beat, flexing
the muscle in his thigh. The movement pulled his jeans taut across his
groin. Flex. Release. Flex. And that was where the mask of relaxation
ended. His cock was half hard, revealed in the rhythmic stretch and release
of denim. Heat simmered just below the surface of his skin.
He surveyed Jim's work in the kitchen. "Whatcha doing?"
Jim tore his gaze away from his partner's body, reminding himself that
he had an appointment in less than an hour. He swallowed. His mouth was
as dry as if he'd been the one knocking back shots of tequila. "I was
making your supper." He turned away and pretended to be busy, giving
the stew another quick stir, gathering silverware and placemat and coaster.
"Not that it matters, now, since you'll be too busy praying to the porcelain
god to eat."
Blair repaid his sarcasm with such guileless pleasure it made him feel
guilty. "You made supper for me? Gee, thanks, man."
Jim shrugged and placed the things on the table, taking inordinate care
to situate the spoon at the edge of the placemat. "My night to cook,"
he said shortly. "Even if I am going out--uh, working."
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Blair for some reaction and
got none. It annoyed him and confused him and he didn't begin to know
how to frame the question that he wanted to ask. Okay, so he didn't talk
about his emotions until he was pressed. But he normally didn't have
to struggle for the words to start the conversation because Blair pressed.
But Blair wasn't doing his part in dissecting this, and Jim couldn't
bring himself to just blurt out a confession.
They hadn't talked about things like this. Dating. Women. Exclusivity.
Another experiment on his dick. Blair hadn't minded him going into a
strip club and trying to get a hard-on from an anonymous patron. But
he'd minded when he thought it worked. Did he mind Jim going out to dinner
with an ex-flame and trying the same trick? He wanted Blair to say he
understood and was okay with it. At the same time, he wanted to see the
resigned, deflated reaction he'd seen in the truck that night, before
Blair realized that he was the one who made Jim crazy enough to risk
a blowjob in a busy parking lot. It was stupid, wanting Blair to be both
sympathetic and unsympathetic to his concerns, but it seemed like the
least Blair could do. After all, it wasn't Blair who had a dick that
only worked with one person. Was it?
In shocked retrospect, Jim realized that Blair had never said he only
got hard for Jim. He turned to ask. Actually had his mouth open to say
the words. But did he really want to know the answer? Did he even know
how to frame the question?
Blair watched him open and close his mouth like a fish looking out of
a glass bowl, but he didn't change his sprawled posture. His head listed
to one side and he stared at Jim, doing that piercing thing again. "Did
you know Beverly and that hotshot lawyer called off their engagement?"
Jim started. No, he hadn't known. And he didn't know how Blair knew either.
The kid had a grapevine that the KGB would have envied. People told him
things. Inconsequential, important, personal, impersonal. And Blair remembered
it all and dredged it up at the most inopportune times. "How the hell
do you find out this stuff?"
Blair just grinned, that toasted tequila grin, and pushed off from the
counter. He sauntered the few steps to the table, into Jim's personal
space again. "You look good enough to eat, man." He ran a hand up Jim's
chest, smoothing the spotless white shirt over his chest, his shoulders.
He hesitated at the open button, teasing Jim's throat above the stand-up
collar. "I love this shirt on you. And these jeans..." His fingers danced
over the black denim, sliding from hip to hip. "...they're sinful."
"Sandburg..." Jim consulted his watch. "Beverly will be here to pick
me up in less than an hour." His voice carried a warning, but not a very
forceful one. Blair's hand felt good, hot and familiar. And familiar,
he had learned, could be very, very good. He took a breath. A deep breath
of air that seemed suddenly too thick. Musky and scorched with the scent
of Blair. Sludgy and shot through with tequila. He wrinkled his nose.
"Did you drink that stuff, or bathe in it?"
"Both?" Blair leered up at him and waggled his eyebrows.
So inviting. And so goddamned beautiful, even with his eyes edging toward
bloodshot. Air gummy with the scents of liquor and lime juice slipped
into his lungs as Jim breathed in. It was enough to choke him, but it
didn't stop him from tangling his fingers in his partner's hair, from
tilting the smaller man's face up for the kiss that he'd invited earlier.
It didn't stop him from opening his mouth to his partner's questing tongue
and inviting one of those time-stealing Sandburg kisses.
Blair didn't disappoint him. He grabbed onto Jim's biceps and kissed
back with slow, slurred grace. As if they had all night and part of tomorrow
and there was nothing in the universe more important than stroking Jim's
tongue with his.
Jim staggered, caught himself against the edge of the table. Steadied
himself with his grip on his lover, though there was no way to stop his
head from spinning, and it was silly to expect his drunken partner to
hold him upright. He sighed into the kiss, overwhelmed by the remnants
of tequila in his mouth. Blair in his mouth. Tongue on his teeth, brushing
against the roof of his mouth. Sucking at his lower lip.
He moaned softly and returned the pressure. The ardor. Felt the heat
behind Blair's jeans get a little warmer. The languor in his muscles
begin to show a little tension. And best of all, the taste of him, the
smell of him, changing to something hotter, darker. To something that
transformed scent into sensation. And sex.
"Brought you something," Blair purred. He pulled down lightly on Jim's
arms, then his fingers slid away, went to work unfastening his own jeans.
"Brought you a shooter."
Jim groaned. "Bad puns, Chief?" But it didn't stop him from edging them
around, propping Blair against the table, and sinking to his knees. Just
the way Blair wanted him. "Is that what tequila does to you?"
Blair paused, fingers tucked inside his jeans as he struggled with the
buttons, and peered at him muzzily. It took a moment, but then the light
dawned and he grinned. "No pun." And he popped another button and his
penis popped free. Already erect, flushed with blood. And pulsing with
the scent of tequila.
Jim's jaw dropped, which was also probably the way Blair wanted him,
if not for the reason he'd intended. No wonder Blair smelled like he'd
bathed in booze. He had. Jim didn't even have to strain to see the sticky
residue of tequila and pulpy bits of lime on the straining erection.
He reached out slowly, not quite believing what his own eyes and nostrils
told him. All the blood was seeping out of his head, replaced with images
of Blair anointing his dick with amber liquid and rubbing himself with
a wedge of lime. He caught the waistbands of Blair's jeans and boxers,
tugged them carefully down to mid thigh. Leaned in, already half drunk
on tequila fumes and the anticipation of tasting Blair.
He might not have all the angles of this guy/guy, extra-dick-in-his-bed
thing worked out yet. He didn't understand why the only person who turned
him on was his brainy, quirky, male roommate. It might be a Sentinel
thing, or a reaction to pheromones, or a midlife crisis, or his closet
door finally creaking open, but there was one thing he didn't doubt,
question or wonder about. There was nothing that tasted better than Blair,
and nothing he'd rather have in his mouth. Whether his dick came back
on line for other people or not, whether they ever figured it out or
not, his Pavlovian response to Blair's dick was a given. Unfortunately,
Blair knew it, too. And used it frequently. Like now.
Blair held him back. Caught his shoulder and pushed, refusing to let
him closer, demanding patience where Jim had little and Blair shouldn't
have had any at all. "No, Jim, wait." He fisted his own cock and stared
down at Jim with an intoxicated, intoxicating smirk. "You gotta do it
right. First you get the salt." And he leaned forward, holding his erection
pointed out like he was offering a gift wrapped in red ribbon.
Jim inhaled sharply. Leaned forward, mesmerized by Blair's eyes and the
sluggish throb of blood pooling in his own groin. His cock was filling,
so slowly it ached, and his mind was shutting down.
Blair thrust his cock closer and caught Jim's face with his other hand.
Blair's fingers curled beneath his jaw, thumb slipped across his teeth,
hooked there, forcing him with light pressure to open his mouth wider.
"First the salt," Blair prompted, leaning closer. The slick tip of his
cock touched the corner of Jim's mouth, trailed a streak of wetness across
his bottom lip.
Jim tasted Blair's salty, unwashed thumb, smelled the salty, bitter,
sex scent that Blair was trailing across his mouth. He shivered. And
stayed where Blair wanted him, on his knees, staring up, mouth half open
to accommodate Blair's fingers in it. One of those low lifes crashing
through his door couldn't have convinced him to move.
It wasn't like Blair had all that many inhibitions to begin with. But
this... This drunken, tequila scented game had some tone to it... A wildness
that he could see, lurking behind the avid gleam in Blair's gaze, that
set his nerves to thrumming and his brains slithering south.
Blair's thumb teased the tip of his tongue, then his lips, mixing and
smearing precome and saliva. Then he cupped Jim's head and held him still.
"Do it."
He knew what Blair wanted. Jim resisted, just a little. Just for a moment.
Leaning back, letting the strength of Blair's fingers, the command in
Blair's voice, the knowing recognition in Blair's eyes, hold him in place.
Blair was pinging a fantasy he hadn't known he had, like radar bouncing
off an object and setting up a thrumming resonance over his skin.
He hesitated, just a moment longer, feeling the iron will of the man
above him, savoring it. He thought about resisting. Actually closing
his mouth and refusing to do what Blair wanted him to, just to see if
Blair would force him. But his cock felt like it was bent double in his
jeans. And Blair was dragging his cock across his mouth again. And Blair's
tongue snaked out, pink and wet, touching that full upper lip, and Jim
couldn't help but mimic the action, touching his own lips. He tasted
the salt, like wine, like a shot of pure sea air, as Blair stroked the
tip of his cock across his mouth. From one corner over to the other,
grazing his tongue. Back again.
Blair smiled at him, nodding approval. Sighed with pleasure. "Then you
do the shot. And the lime," Blair whispered. And he let his cock go.
Jim lurched forward, fingers digging into Blair's hips, dragging him
forward. Holding him. Insuring that he wouldn't be denied this time.
And he latched onto the hot, thick cock. Searching with tongue and teeth
for evidence of what his lover had done. Blair's cock was sticky with
tequila, rough with pulp that exploded on his tongue as he mauled it.
The combined scents had smeared across Blair's belly and dripped down
onto his balls.
Jim sucked at him hungrily, hard male flesh filling his mouth, spurred
on by the soft sounds of approval from overhead. And he tasted. Tequila
always conjured up two things in his mind--the beach and Mexican food.
Salt and sun, birds crying overhead and waves crashing, hot sand beneath
his feet. Spicy salsa and crunchy chips and sticky sweet caramelized
sugar over flan. Now he added Blair to the list. The top of the list,
because none of those other things measured up to sweat and male musk,
velvety skin, salty precome. He moaned happily, following a trail of
tequila down the fold of skin where Blair's leg met his torso.
Blair echoed the sound and leaned further back on the table, pushing
impatiently at his jeans. Jim helped him get them down, working jeans
and underwear, socks and shoes free, until Blair was naked from the waist
down.
Blair slid further up onto the table, shoving the carefully placed mat
and coaster over the edge. The spoon bounced off a chair and clattered
across the floor, and Jim tracked it with his hearing, with his vision,
watching the sparkles of silver as the thing skidded towards the refrigerator.
He came back to the pressure of fingers on his head. To the sight of
his lover, sprawled back, weight on one elbow, wearing only his smoke
scented t-shirt.
Jim got his hands under Blair's ass, tilted his hips, and swallowed him
again. He tasted so good, felt so good, pulsing against his tongue. Even
though he'd licked Blair clean, his enhanced sense of taste could still
detect a residue of sweet alcohol and tart citrus. It was almost as intoxicating
as the idea of Blair coating himself with lime and tequila. Hiding in
the restroom stall while he rubbed a wedge of lime over his cock. Or
was Blair actually drunk enough to have done it in the bar? Slipping
his wet fingers down inside his jeans while his friends stood nearby,
oblivious.
That fantasy, at least, was no surprise to him. Blair and public sex.
Him touching Blair while the crowds around them wandered by, unaware
of Blair's arousal. Not noticing how the smaller man writhed against
his hand. He lifted his head, letting the swollen cock pop free of his
mouth. He cupped it in his palm, stroking gently. "How'd you do it?"
he asked roughly.
Blair read his mind again. Licked his lips as he slurred sexily, "Went
to the restroom." He slipped his hand beneath Jim's, rubbed his thumb
slowly back and forth over the tip of his cock. "Made me so hard....
Made me think about your mouth." Blair grabbed Jim's hand, pulled it
up to his mouth and sucked two fingers inside. He laved them, tongue
darting back and forth across his fingertips, slicked them with saliva.
Then he pushed Jim's hand back at him. "Put your fingers in me."
Jim knew what Blair was going to say before he said it, and he still
felt the words, the way he'd felt Blair's tongue, slipping between his
fingers, the way he'd tasted tequila on smoky skin. It was all pressure
at the base of his cock. An arc of fireworks at the base of his brain.
Blair fell back on the table, sprawling the way he'd sprawled against
the counter, thighs falling open and body exposed, opening himself to
Jim. "Oh, man," he breathed as Jim eased his fingers into him. "I love
that." His head fell back, hair trailing across the table, curls of shiny
silk pooled on hardwood.
Jim rose up, wanting to see him. All of him, lounging back with such
lazy abandon that it was almost as if he wasn't aroused. Except for the
flushed, gorged cock lying across his belly. Except for the rippling
clutch at Jim's fingers as Blair's body accepted him. Tight. Hot.
Blair moaned his approval and gave a slow rock forward with his hips.
Jim was going to zone. He knew it. Felt it coming. Sometimes it was a
train wreck, slamming him into oblivion before he even knew what had
happened. And sometimes, it was like this, slow and sweet, giving him
all the time in the world to enjoy whatever had his attention, a thing
so seductive that he couldn't resist it. He let the edges of it tantalize
him, tickle at his consciousness, the pleasure of being lost in the sensations
of Blair's body.
Then he leaned down and nuzzled at Blair's cock again, letting the taste
and the scent pull him back from the edge of the zone. Let his thoughts
continue on instead of swirling in place. That was what a zone was like,
a whirlpool in which the same thing circled his brain until he drowned
in it. And there was too much to experience to drown in one thing. Like
thinking how much he wanted his cock to be where his fingers were. How
hot and tight it would be and how Blair would move, just like he was
now, slow and lazy. How he needed lube and a condom.
He managed to pull away, trying to remember if there was anything in
the bathroom, or if they'd depleted their supplies during their last
joint shower. He'd actually managed a step, brain working through the
haze of arousal, when Blair stopped him.
"Where do you think you're going?" Blair rose up clumsily from the table
and slid off, shoving chairs back out of the way. He caught Jim's arm
and used momentum to swing him around.
Mock wrestled him, not that Jim was resisting. He just let Blair push
him, guide him, and he was on his back before he realized it. More surprised
that a drunk Blair was coordinated enough to have unzipped him and pushed
him down and started unbuttoning his shirt than he was at ending up where
Blair had just been. Just as surprised that Blair had moved so quickly
when a moment before, he'd seemed in slow motion.
Jim's jeans were around his thighs, the table hard beneath his ass, cold
except for the space where Blair had been laying. The residual warmth
from Blair's body was as distinct as the grain of the wood, and he shifted
against it. It was like tasting the curve of Blair's hip with his skin.
Blair made it to the top three buttons of his shirt before the alcohol
caught up with his fingers. He fumbled for a moment, then gave up and
yanked, and Jim's buttons went the way of the spoon. Sailed away, bounced
on the chairs, and skidded across the floor.
Jim followed them with his hearing, annoyed that Blair had just ripped
the buttons off his favorite dress shirt. But to be fair, he'd done worse
to Blair's shirt that first time in the truck.
Blair folded the edges of the shirt back, with a careful, almost comical
neatness, baring him to the cool air, laying him out like a banquet.
Blair hovered over him, as if trying to decide what to do next. Which
flavorful bit to sample. Then he ran his palms from Jim's shoulders to
his hips. Back in slow motion again, with the deliberation of someone
who recognizes how drunk he is.
"Um-m-m. Next time, I think I'll just drink my shots off you." Blair
nipped at his throat, teeth sharp but careful. The lazy voice whispered
over Jim's skin, tongue following the path of words. "I can put my salt
here..." Blair licked at his nipples. "And my lime juice here..." Tongue
swirled around his navel. "And my tequila here." The same hot, slick,
rough tongue painted a line down his cock, circled his balls, tried to
dip down below them, then started back up again.
Jim arched--chest, belly, hips, in order, always a moment too late to
keep up with the teasing tongue. He pushed against the binding weight
of the jeans caught around his thighs. Blair's fingers were brushing
against his balls, teasing at the tender flesh beneath, but he couldn't
get his hand further down, and Jim desperately wanted it further down.
Wanted to open himself up for Blair the way Blair had for him.
He wriggled, came up on one hip, and Blair caught him, used the motion
and his own weight to turn him, slide him. Blair tugged his jeans down
as they shifted, caught one leg of them with his foot and held them down
while Jim worked his foot free of the tangled mess of clothing and sock
and shoe. He ended up on his stomach, feet spread wide, Blair's erection
burning a line across one buttock. He had only a second to think how
ridiculous he must look, bent over the table with his jeans still on
one leg, his shirt rucked up under his armpits, then Blair's weight came
down on him.
Blair still had his t-shirt on, and Jim could feel his navel and his
hipbones, the overheated cock. Blair whispered in his ear, "I want to
fuck you."
Jim grabbed onto the table to keep from just flying off, shattering into
the four corners of the room. It was still so new between them, Blair
taking him. So raw. He wanted it. He craved it, but he didn't ask for
it, because he didn't want to put pressure on Blair. Didn't want a repeat
of that first time, even though Blair seemed to have gotten the hang
of it just fine since then.
"Okay?" Another whisper in his ear.
He nodded, took a deep breath, trying to find his voice. His controls.
He pictured his dials, just the way Blair had taught him, but the needles
were all fluctuating wildly. Dancing to the crazy jerking pulse in his
cock.
Blair was the one who'd had too much to drink, yet he was the one losing
control. And he realized that Blair was doing it. Even drunk, his Guide
was using his senses to arouse him. What had seemed like a haphazard,
drunken seduction was actually a ragged, deliberate dance, keeping his
dials fluttering out of control as Blair leapt from one sense to the
next, from one act to the next, from one fantasy to the next. Sight and
sound and taste and smell. Drysweet, tequila flavored flesh, sweetly
whispered obscenities, intimate, knowing caresses.
Blair pulled away. His hands pushed Jim's shirt even higher, slid the
length of his back, massaging, stroking. Palms cupping his ass, spreading
him open, thumbs sweeping down the crease and then slipping away as he
arched, mutely begging for more.
"You want me in you?" Blair came back down on him, and his t-shirt was
gone.
At last. Warm flesh and the crinkly soft chest hair caressing his back.
Two hard little points of nipples and the long column of erection pressed
against him. All he could do was moan and slide his feet further apart.
Offering himself. Moaning again. "Yes. I want it."
Blair pressed down on his hips, said with his fuzzy, hiccupy command
voice, "Don't move."
Jim stayed as still as he could as Blair shifted away from him, listening
to the slap of Blair's bare feet on the floor. To the shifting of his
cooking utensils on the counter. Then Blair was against him again and
something clattered onto the table. Loud crockery sound, vibrating through
the polished wood. He twisted, trying to see back over his shoulder although
Blair's weight was pinning him again.
The porcelain butter dish was on the table, near his hip. Jim could feel
the coolness flowing off it. As he watched, open mouthed, Blair dipped
his fingers into the softened half stick of butter and tore off a piece
of it, all the while looking right into Jim's eyes, a beatific smile
lifting the corners of his gorgeous mouth. This sacrilege, this ridiculous
image--an angelic, drunken Blair about to use butter for lubricant--had
the power to cut through his arousal. "Sandburg! You're not going to--"
He twisted, trying to move out of the path of Blair's greasy fingers.
Instead of reaching for his ass, Blair reached for his hand. Twined their
fingers together. He was so surprised, he hesitated, and then it was
too late to protest. Blair's square, strong hand covered his. The buttery
scent overwhelmed the scents of booze and sweat and arousal. Blair's
fingers slid down, up, down, blunt fingers stroking his fingers the way
he would have stroked his cock. Caressing his fingertips. Slippery caress
of the web of flesh between. Down his palm. Waking nerves he didn't know
he had. Making him forget that butter was greasy and messy and a totally
inappropriate lubricant.
He rocked, riding his cock against the table, against his belly. Oh,
god, he was going to come, just from having his hand stroked! He shuddered.
And Blair eased the weight on him, rolled him back onto his hip, easing
the pressure on his erection. He mumbled wordless disappointment and
tried to hold onto Blair's slippery fingers
"Sh-h-h...it's okay. It's okay," Blair soothed him. He reached for more
butter, returned to Jim's fingers. "Slow down. We've got time."
"You're killing me here, Chief," he whispered, rotating his thumb within
the circle of Blair's fingers. Thrusting into it.
Blair smirked. As if to say, 'tell me something I don't know.' And he
drew Jim's hand down to the table, slipping under his raised hip. Guiding
Jim to grasp his own cock in his slippery fist.
Jim jerked with the sensation, tightened down to near pain before Blair
guided him to move. To stroke himself while Blair reached for more butter.
This piece was bigger, soft and solid and cool in the center. It melted
as they stroked his cock together, making him so slippery he could barely
hold on. The butter dripped through his fingers onto the table and smeared
his belly.
Then Blair pulled both their hands away, pushed him down on his stomach
again. His cock slipped and slid easily between his abdomen and the slick
table. Cool, slippery hands grasped his ass and a slick thumb slipped
across his anus. Then the other. Alternating. Rhythmic. Brushing across
his opening, slicking him but not pressing hard enough to enter, and
the sensation was like fire. Like ice. Like being drunk. Like having
the worst itch gently scratched.
He pressed his mouth to his forearm, breath steaming his skin, to keep
from whimpering like a baby. The taste of starched cotton filled his
mouth. The scent of butter dragged at his senses. And Blair switched
him to touch, nuzzling up under his bunched up shirt, kissing and biting
his way across Jim's back, using his teeth on the bony protrusions of
his spine. The hot, wet tip of Blair's penis grazed his balls as Blair
rocked against him.
Blair never let up the stroking against his ass except to reach for more
butter. Making him hot with it. Slick with it. Loose with it, until Blair
was no longer able to just stroke lightly because his thumbs were sliding
in.
Blair moaned against his spine. "You're getting all loose for me," he
whispered. Sexy, throaty voice that caressed as surely as his hands did.
"Feel yourself." Blair caught his hand, guided it back, across his hips,
forcing his fingertips into his crease. "Feel how open you are."
Jim gasped and curled the fingers of his free hand around the edge of
the table hard enough to hear the ligaments strain against the bone.
Heat rushed over him. Arousal and shyness all flushing him at once. He
twitched, almost pulling his hand free of Blair's. Almost refusing. He
couldn't do that...but he did. He was. Touching himself. Stroking himself
and feeling his body open even more. Loosen. Beg for penetration.
"Do it, Jim. I want to see you." Blair's hand was heavy on his, pressing.
Sliding more butter in against his skin.
He was as helpless to resist this as he was anything else Blair wanted.
His body tried. And then gave. Allowing him in. Tight, hot heat. His
own heat. Perfect pressure, no pain. Because he knew exactly how to touch
himself, even though he'd never done it before. He groaned, writhed,
but there was no place to go. No place to hide. No way to even pretend
that the idea, the act, didn't arouse him to the point of insanity. Knowing
that Blair was doing this to him, with him. Watching him stretch and
stroke his own body.
Blair was no longer leaning down over him. He had one hand braced on
Jim's hip, the other cupping his hand, and he wedged a slick finger in
alongside Jim's. Both of them, penetrating him together, stroking him
inside.
Jim gasped and arched. The fireworks that had been sparking at the base
of his skull spreading down along his spine, shattering out across his
lower back, around his hips, tendrils of fire that threatened to singe
his whole body.
"Oh, man, you are so hot. So incredible. You're making me so hot. Got
to have you." Blair pulled away, shoved his hand away. A thicker, rounded
heat pressed against him, and Blair slid into him with one full, easy
stroke. There was no hesitation, no careful slipping back and forth until
his body opened. No coaxing.
No condom.
He jittered, on the edge of protesting, on the edge of losing control.
He knew he was clean, couldn't conceive that Blair wasn't. And he knew
it was stupid to not play safe. But Blair, naked, inside him, was too
good. Skin against skin. Slick and velvety and hot. He knew that Blair
had felt him tense, because he had gone unnaturally still, fingers digging
into his skin, waiting for him to decide.
"Jim?" Blair lay fully across his back. "Is it okay?"
The weight slid Blair deeper into him, where no one's bare flesh had
ever touched. And he could feel every curve, the raw pulse of blood beneath
Blair's skin. And heat. Such heat, the way it was supposed to be. "Oh,
god, yes." He barely recognized his own voice. Raspy, deep, twisted with
arousal. It was going to be fast. So fast now and he could just let go.
And he would feel Blair come in him, the way it was supposed to be.
Then Blair rocked back off him, taking away his weight, leaving the sweaty
imprint of his body cooling all along his back and hips and ass. He grasped
Jim's hips and rocked him back, once again taking the pressure off his
cock. Leaving him not enough friction to finish. "No," he begged. "Please.
I can't take anymore." His cock was so hard it felt like it would break.
His balls pulled up tight against his body.
And all Blair did was caress the length of his back, soothing the knotted
muscles, painting buttery streaks amongst the sweaty ones. "Sh-h-h. It's
okay. You'll like this." And he settled into a slow, steady rhythm as
if they had all night. As if Jim wasn't about to combust and go up in
smoke.
"Of course I'll like it," he ground out. "I just won't live through it."
He grabbed onto the table again, sure that he was leaving fingerprints.
No, not fingerprints. Indentations. Finger shaped depressions in the
wood.
Blair laughed softly, hiccuped, and shifted his angle of penetration.
Again and again, each stroke different until Jim groaned to let him know
he'd got it right.
Oh, god, had he got it right! "There. Just like that. Just like that,"
he gasped. "But faster." Blair stayed there, just where he wanted him,
but he didn't move faster. Every slow, lazy thrust, each lingering withdrawal,
stroked across his prostate. Rocked his weight forward, then back so
that his cock was being crushed from the outside, stroked from within.
He held his breath between each thrust. Waiting. Waiting. Straining for
the internal caress, for the outer compression, as Blair stole his sense
of time and place. And his urgency.
He had no idea how long he lay there, gasping with the measured thrusts,
rocking back slowly to meet Blair. Rocking forward slowly, feeling the
slip and slide of his cock against his belly. Eyes closed, fingers locked
around the edge of the table. The scents of their lovemaking swirling
through him like colors. Right on the edge of orgasm. He hadn't known
he could stay there so long without falling over. He didn't know how
Blair had the concentration, the focus, the willpower, to keep him there.
Then Blair leaned down and kissed that sensitive spot just below his
shoulder. Lapped at a streak of butter, and said, "You ready to come?"
He would have laughed, but it would have taken more concentration than
he wanted to give to anything not connected with the slow, sweet firing
of his nerves. "Yeah," he mumbled against the table. Yeah. "I've been
ready for days."
Blair pulled back. Pushed into him. Hard. Fast. Once. His nails dug into
Jim's hips and his teeth latched onto the sensitive spot. And then he
slammed into him again and that was all Jim needed.
He fell. Everything seized. One big contraction that froze his lungs
and his muscles and his brain. And then the orgasm just rolled over him.
It didn't slam into him the way he'd expected it to. Didn't cause those
finger shaped indentations on the table. It just washed over him. Slow,
sweet, lazy. Just the way Blair had been moving in him. Swelling like
a tidal wave. Building and building.
His semen spilled, pulsed and flowed out of him like lava, hot, thick,
slow. Coating his pulsing cock and the table. Mixing with the slippery
butter. His brain catalogued scents, gathered them, making a crazy kind
of tactile connection with the ecstatic firing of his nerves. Salt. Tequila.
Lime. Blair. Butter. Semen. Pleasure. Blair. Pleasure. Blair. He released
the stabilizing grip on the table, the tenuous grip on his senses and
let the smells and the sensations take him flying. Swirls of amber and
green and yellow that he could taste. Sounds that he could feel. The
table was slick beneath his cock, but he could taste the rough grain
of it.
He groaned softly, whispered Blair's name, and Blair moaned softly, "Oh,
god, Jim. I can feel you. Oh, man..."
And still Blair kept thrusting into him. Drawing little shudders of pleasure
from nerves that should have been numbed and dead. Then Blair shouted,
pushed into him so hard it was like Blair was trying to climb him, and
he could feel Blair. Coming in him. Naked. Feel the heat and the wetness
filling him. And he groaned again, shuddering with the pleasure of that.
Of Blair coming, groaning loudly. So loudly that he hoped the neighbors
weren't home yet.
Blair thrust another couple of times, but Jim was beyond feeling it now.
He was all rocked out, numbed, beyond even moving. Even when Blair fell
forward over him, panting and sweaty and crushing the air out of him.
If the table was just a little less hard, a little less rough to his
over-stimulated nipples, he could have slept there, too limp and sated
to move. Too breathless to protest.
Blair finally roused him by mumbling against his back, "Wow. That was
incredible."
Blair's voice was slurred, but Jim wasn't sure if it was the tequila.
He suspected his own voice would sound just as garbled. God, what an
afterglow. He could barely make out the texture of the table beneath
his fingers. His vision was tinged a tired, unfocused grayish blur, as
if he'd come so hard he'd gone color blind. And his hearing was pleasantly
muffled by the slowing thud of Blair's heartbeat against his back. Underneath
was just a soft warm hum that left him aware of his surroundings, of
the building and the street outside, but didn't intrude on his lassitude.
Until he heard the main front door open. It reminded him of how he'd
heard Blair when he came home. Then the staccato beat of a woman's heels
on the tile in the hallway tapped towards the elevator, and a rush of
shock and memory slashed through him. He struggled to get up, to push
the heavy, sleepy, tipsy weight of Blair off his back. "Jesus, Chief,
get up!"
Blair mumbled a protest, something that sounded suspiciously like, "I
hope you're not talking to me."
Jim reared, stiff arming them both up with returning strength. He caught
Blair and righted him as Blair rolled, still boneless, off Jim's back
and melted off the table. "Beverly's here. She's almost to the elevator."
Jim looked down at himself. His previously starched and spotless shirt
looked like he'd slept in it for several nights. Slept in it, fucked
in it, then used it to clean the kitchen, maybe not in that order. His
jeans were down around one ankle. His stomach and his hands and the table
were smeared with butter and his semen, and he could feel the same buttery
stickiness gluing his shirt to his back. And ample evidence of Blair's
passion and their lack of common sense trickling down the inside of one
thigh.
The room was no better off. Blair's clothes littered the floor. The place
mat was under a chair that had been pushed, at an odd angle, three feet
away from where it should be. Something that resembled a stick of butter
was oozing off the dish onto the table. The air reeked of sex and tequila
and butter.
And Blair... Jim listed towards him automatically, his fingers reaching
to touch, to pat and caress, before he brought himself up sharp. Jim
would have ordinarily spent hours admiring him, grooming him back to
cleanliness. Blair looked like a debauched angel, hair wild about his
shoulders, face flushed with pleasure, cock nestled, all slick and spent,
in the thick curls at his groin. His nipples were shiny with butter,
and Jim didn't have the faintest idea when that had happened. But he
wanted to lick them clean anyway.
Blair blinked, owlish, as if he needed his glasses to see. He was still
a bit unfocused, still a lot lit, not standing quite solid even though
his feet were firmly planted on the floor. Glowing with satisfaction.
Jim allowed himself a moment of feeling smug and skillful. That glow
had nothing to do with being lit.
Blair's gaze slid around the room, up and down Jim, and he swayed way
forward to look down at himself. When he straightened, his eyes were
crinkled with suppressed laughter, totally unrepentant. "Oops," he said
without one drop of sincerity.
"Sandburg..." The growl that didn't have the effect it should have, since
Jim was dancing on one foot, trying to untangle his jeans. He heard the
ding of the elevator as it opened for Beverly on the first floor. He
could feel his face getting redder, but Blair capitulated just as he
thought the veins might start to swell.
"Okay, okay." Grinning, weaving slightly, Blair scooped up the dish of
mashed and abused butter and deposited it neatly into its slot in the
refrigerator door.
Jim looked up from where he was now hopping on the other foot, getting
his sock back on. At least, he thought it was his sock. There were two
other white ones that looked suspiciously like his lying near Blair's
tennis shoes. "Sandburg, tell me you didn't just do what I think you
did. Tell me you don't think we're going to keep *that.*"
Blair glanced back at the fridge, as if just realizing what he'd done,
and grinned sheepishly. "Don't sweat the details, Jim. Let's just get
you presentable, huh?" He scooped up a towel, held it under the faucet,
hosing half the counter in the process, squirted dish soap on it and
advanced on Jim.
"That's a dish cloth!" Jim tried to snatch his hand back as Blair grabbed
it. Not that it mattered, since there wasn't much greasy residue left
on his fingers. He'd already smeared most of it onto his jeans and his
sock.
"It'll wash," Blair answered calmly and rubbed Jim's belly and groin.
Jim jumped like he'd been shocked. Yelped, "Dammit, Sandburg. That's
cold."
The elevator whirred, protesting, into life, and Jim gave in, steeling
himself for the clammy wipe-down. What choice did he have?
Blair swiped the towel across his chest, reached around, peeling his
shirt away from his skin and did the same for his back, his ass. Reminding
him of just what they were cleaning up. Jim shivered and leaned towards
Blair again before bringing himself up short.
Blair turned the towel on himself, scuffing his clothes into a pile with
his feet as he scrubbed.
Jim reached the top buttons on his shirt and found them missing. "Shit.
I can't wear this."
"Yes, you can." Blair slipped into his jeans, sans underwear, and his
shoes, sans socks.
The sight of Blair's bare, furry belly, disappearing behind the buttons,
stopped Jim. That was one of the nastiest games Blair played with him,
leaning over someplace public and whispering, *I don't have on any underwear.*
Or even worse, coming back from the restroom and slipping his rolled
up boxers into Jim's coat pocket. Or just dropping them onto the couch
between them.
Knowing Blair had on no underwear was so delicious, so decadent. Knowing
that there was only a layer of much-washed denim covering his tight ass.
Knowing that all he had to do was unfasten a couple of buttons to get
to that bare, velvety penis. That it was so easily within reach of his
tongue. Oh, boy, he had it bad...standing there dreaming of stripping
his lover after what they'd just done. Of licking him...
Unaware of the scrutiny, Blair juggled his t-shirt, trying to right it.
Jim caught the rebellious sleeve, gave it a twitch and the shirt unwound.
He held it out, bottom down.
"Wear your gray sweater over it. It'll look fine." Blair wriggled up
into the shirt, yanked it down over his head, and his hair exploded out
of it, wilder than ever. He looked at Jim, obviously surprised to find
him still standing there, staring. "Go! It's in your sweater drawer.
I'll straighten up down here. And use some cologne. Lots of cologne.
You smell like a bakery."
Jim sniffed the air. The lemony smell of the soap had nothing to dilute
the scents of their lovemaking. Tequila. Semen. And Blair was right.
Enough butter to bake a cake. But it wasn't just him. "Yeah, and what
do you think you smell like, Juliet?"
Blair smirked. "I'm not the one with the hot date, Romeo."
"It's a working dinner," Jim growled and aimed a mock blow at Blair's
head.
Blair tumbled into his arms, snickering. Mouthing his chest where his
shirt gaped open.
The bell on the elevator pinged, indicating that Beverly was at their
floor. The door creaked, reluctant to open, and Jim thanked whatever
spirits looked out for Sentinels that he hadn't called the super to get
the damned thing greased. He kissed the top of Blair's head before he
rushed up the stairs. He pawed through his dresser, looking for the sweater
Blair had suggested, listening with half an ear as Blair clattered around
the kitchen, as the elevator door finally opened, as Blair answered the
knock on the door and exchanged pleasantries with Beverly Sanchez. Telling
her with breezy laughter about the party and his alcoholic consumption.
It was only as he thrust his head through the neck of the sweater that
he wondered why any of the others that he had tumbled in his search wouldn't
have done just as well. Because Blair had said the gray one, of course.
God, did he have it bad!
He checked himself in the mirror, smoothing his hair, making sure he
hadn't left anything unbuttoned or hanging out, but there was no chance
of that. The long, thick sweater covered him to below his hips, effectively
hiding the rumpled shirt. And most of him. He wondered if that wasn't
why Blair had suggested it, and for a moment, he contemplated changing
into something that showed off his body a little better, just to see
his partner's face when he came down the stairs. Then Blair was calling
up to him that his date was here and he needed to hurry. His speculation
shifted to one of throttling his Guide.
As he descended the stairs, smiling a hello to Beverly, he glanced at
Blair. His partner was standing at the table, one hip leaning innocently,
sexily, against it. The table had been wiped, but barely. Jim could see
a shiny patch on it near Blair's hip. Jim felt heat spread from beneath
his collar, rise up the back of his neck. And Blair had his boxers, socks
and the spoon clutched behind his back. The heat crawled around to his
face.
"Jim. Hi." Beverly greeted him. She was dressed casually, too, in tight
jeans, an even tighter sweater and a suede jacket. Her hair was down,
curling and glossy about her shoulders. She didn't exactly look like
an Assistant DA, out for a night of work. "Ready?"
"Yeah, sure." He strode across the room, reached for his coat, studiously
not looking at Blair. Or the table. "You gonna be okay, Chief?"
"I'm fine." The words were just a little high pitched, studiously pronounced.
"We're going to try that new barbecue place over near the pier. You can
call if you need him," Beverly told Blair, as Jim held the door for her.
Then to him, she said, "Have you been baking? You smell like butter."
Jim bit his lip, not sure whether he wanted to laugh or to sink through
the floor. Either way, his color climbed another notch. He risked a glance
back at Blair as he slipped out the door.
Blair was grinning widely, his eyes as bright as candles in a darkened
room, and it was obvious that he was going to opt for laughter just as
soon as the door closed. He waved good-bye to Jim with the spoon. "Have
a good time."
Jim paused. "I'll talk to you later," he warned.
The sound of Blair's laughter, husky and delighted, the slither of cloth
on skin as Blair stripped his way towards the bathroom, followed Jim
all the way to the car. Halfway down the block. Then he heard the shower
go on, and Beverly looked at him strangely, and he had to dial it down
and find something to talk about.
Just like she always had, she made it effortless. The remainder of the
ride to the restaurant passed easily, filled with small talk about the
weather and the department and her new car.
Even on a weeknight, the restaurant was, like any new place in Cascade,
busy. But Beverly had called ahead, and they were quickly seated in a
booth in a quiet corner. The table was a heavy, rough-hewn pine, and
there was a candle in a bowl of sand in the center of it. The setting,
dark enough to be shading towards romantic, made Jim a little uncomfortable,
especially when he noticed Beverly wasn't wearing an engagement ring.
He cursed Blair silently for putting such thoughts in his head. Just
because he was tacky enough to consider using an ex-girlfriend as a test
case for his dick didn't mean she was coming on to him.
He felt even worse when Beverly brought out the case file just as soon
as their beers were delivered. Even so, he couldn't help but look at
her. Admire how really beautiful she was. Dark skin and black eyes made
even darker by the flickering candle on the table. He couldn't help but
remember how good she'd felt in his arms. How good she'd smelled.
Beverly leaned close, lifting up a piece of paper from the file. Her
arm brushed his hand.
Her skin was warm and soft. He remembered that, too, even without the
casual touch. He remembered liking that. He wanted to like it again,
if only for a moment. If only to prove to himself that he still could.
Still did.
He'd completely lost the thread of what she'd been saying. He shifted
a little, not sure whether he was comfortable with his thoughts. He loved
Blair. He loved, craved what they shared in bed. But this was more than
just wondering about himself. He needed to know. He needed... And
he opened up his senses to Beverly Sanchez.
The apartment was dark when he came in, smelling of furniture cleaner
and recently snuffed candles. It was lit only by flickering static on
the television screen. Blair was asleep on the couch, glasses clutched
in one hand, a thick book open across his spare belly.
Jim had seen him do it a thousand times. Lay the book down, take his
glasses off and arch back, sensual stretch of his spine and shoulders,
and snap off the reading lamp. He rarely got around to turning off the
television because he was usually half asleep by the time he flopped
back down on the couch.
Jim knelt beside him and slipped the glasses from his limp fingers.
Blair sighed and mumbled, and Jim could smell toothpaste and mouthwash,
soap and shampoo, warm skin. Gone were the scents of lime and cigarette
smoke, the slick warm scent of butter. It didn't slow the arousal that
swept over him, warm and sweet as the taste of tequila on Blair's skin.
He ran a palm over Blair's chest, encircled his throat, feeling the heavy
pulse, the sharp point of adam's apple, the healthy scrape of beard beneath
the jaw.
Blair woke, blinked up at him with sleep heavy eyes, but didn't seem
at all surprised to wake with his lover's hand across his throat. "You're
home." It was a statement, warm welcome. Not surprise.
The words, the belief, rumbled beneath Jim's palm, vibrating the pad
of flesh beneath his thumb, starting the dance of sensation across his
lower back. He straightened, spreading his knees to accommodate the first
rush of blood into his groin, and slid his fingers into the thickness
of Blair's hair. It was soft and silky, still damp where it was thickest
at the base of his skull.
Blair smiled and stretched, sending a rush of soap scented air sliding
across Jim and the book edging towards the floor.
Jim caught it and lowered the heavy volume to the floor before he did
the same with Blair. Tugged him off the edge of the couch and swung the
stocky legs until Blair was kneeling between his thighs. The way he had
allowed Blair to propel him earlier, Blair now gave up physical control
to Jim, allowing Jim to position him where he wanted.
Jim used his thumb to tilt Blair's head back, then he kissed him. Hard,
demanding, the hot desire that he'd been holding so closely in check
for hours suddenly spilling over.
Blair grunted softly, arms going around Jim's waist as he tried to lever
himself even tighter into the embrace. "Oh, man," he moaned as Jim eased
the kiss. "How can you still be so wired? Does this mean you answered
all those burning dick questions you've been struggling with lately?"
Jim froze, his tongue against Blair's full lower lip. How the hell did
he do it? Where the hell did the words come from? He edged back, just
far enough to see Blair's face. To glare into the sleepy blue eyes. "I
hate it when you do that," he said finally.
"What?" Blair grinned up at him, impertinent, sexy. Running his tongue
across the spot on his lip that Jim had just left wet. "Read your mind?"
Jim choked, speechless, watching the path of that pink tongue tip. As
he was supposed to. "Smartass," he growled. He caught the hem of Blair's
sweatshirt, tugged at it, then gave up when he realized that Blair was
just going to lean there, shirt caught between his back and the edge
of the couch. Grinning up at him.
He stripped his own sweater off instead. The air was cool on his throat
and down his chest where his shirt, bereft of buttons, gaped open. And
still, Blair just sat there, legs sandwiched between his, knees resting
against his balls, back braced on the edge of the couch, that Mona Lisa
smile on his face. Jim shuddered and gathered him close, leaned his forehead
against Blair's. "You knew. Is that why you--? You know...before I left...?"
Blair shifted, moving away to strip the sweatshirt over his head. "I
thought you seduced me," he murmured.
Jim glared at him and Blair grinned wider, sliding back in his arms,
shivering slightly, but Jim couldn't tell if it was the cool air or the
way he ran his hands over Blair's chest, paused at his nipples, then
slid around to map his soap-clean back.
"No, Jim. I was not trying to fuck you mindless because of Beverly. We
abused the kitchen table because I was toasted and you are just too damned
sexy to resist."
Jim couldn't help it. He glanced toward the table. The kitchen was in
shadow, the top of the table above the level of his vision. And still
he wanted to check it.
"I cleaned it," Blair said, laughter in his voice.
"We'll see," he answered gruffly, slumping back down again. He knew he'd
have to scrub the table. There was no way they were going to eat muffins
and drink coffee off that table until he scoured it with bleach. Even
if it did send his sense of smell off the scale. Even if he did wind
up sneezing for three days. After a moment, while Blair stroked his back,
smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt, he took a deep breath and asked
the question he should have asked days ago. "It didn't make you jealous
to know what I was thinking? To know why I agreed to go out with her?"
The slow stroking paused, then resumed. "You sound like you want me to
be jealous."
It was the typical Sandburg non-answer answer, guaranteed to make his
jaw ache. And to make him think. To make him honest. "Maybe. Maybe I
do. Did. A little." His hands aped the movement of Blair's, up and down,
although he couldn't reach as far down on Blair's back. "Chief..."
Blair had leaned into him, slumped against his chest and fitted his head
beneath Jim's chin. He was as heavy as if he was about to go to sleep.
"Hm-m- m?"
Jim took a deep breath, deciding he wasn't going to wait a week to ask
this question. Might as well just do it all at once. Even if it did use
up all his reserves of inner reflection. "Do you get hard for other people?"
The words all gusted out in a rush.
Blair stiffened, losing that sleepy limpness, but he didn't shift out
of Jim's arms, and that told Jim that the question was okay. That Blair
was just surprised. Or thinking. Or probably constructing another one
of those non- answer answers.
"I-- I guess," Blair said finally. "I don't know. It hasn't come up."
Okay, so Blair had been thinking up a bad pun. And he hadn't really answered
the question. "Smartass. Answer me."
Blair chuckled against his shoulder, huffing steamy breath through his
shirt, but when he answered, it was with seriousness, and Blair pushed
back to look right into his eyes to show him that. "Jim, what difference
does it make? I haven't even bothered to try. Why should I? Even if I
looked at someone and my dick liked him or her...it wouldn't matter.
It doesn't matter where I get my appetite. I know where I'll be eating
dinner." Blair edged his hands between them, aiming for the remaining
buttons on Jim's shirt. "And breakfast. And lunch. And between meal snacks."
Jim sighed. The kid did have a way of putting words together. And a
way of cutting straight through to his heart. He nuzzled past all the
curls, burying his face against Blair's neck. There was nothing in the
universe that smelled better than that one spot, almost to the back of
Blair's neck. Although, the very center of his chest, where the hair
was thickest, ran a close second.
"So," Blair said casually, still tugging at his buttons. "What did you
find out?"
Warm air brushed Jim's ear. A hand slid between his thighs, pressed hard
against his swollen cock. Kneaded him. Jim pressed up into the touch,
then pounced. Held Blair against the couch and was rough with him. The
way he'd never been able to bring himself to be rough with a woman, even
though he'd sometimes wanted to. He mauled Blair, with his hands, with
his teeth, marking the smooth skin. Pinching his nipples so they puckered
up, hard and tight. And the words came so easily. "I was sitting there,
watching her eat. Thinking how beautiful she was. How much I wanted to
know if my dick would get hard, if I just gave it the chance. And I let
the dials go, opened up my senses to her."
Blair moaned, let his head loll back, baring his throat. "What happened?"
he asked breathlessly. "What did you sense?" But it was obvious he wasn't
paying as much attention to the words as to Jim's teeth, worrying at
his flesh.
"You. Oozing out of me."
Blair laughed, a little breathlessly, and arched his neck. "Eeuw. Squick.
Wet shorts."
"Smartass." Jim growled, bit him. Sucked hard enough to leave a mark.
If he was going to be marked, forever remembering how it felt to be slicked
with Blair's passion. Remembering how it felt to sit there, across from
a beautiful woman, and feel his lover's come trickle out of him, then
Blair could stand being marked for a few days. "It wasn't like that."
He breathed the words across the wet mark at the juncture of Blair's
shoulder and throat. "You wouldn't even have been able to feel it. But
I could." He shivered. "I could."
"Oh, man..." Blair moaned, rubbed roughly up and down Jim's cock. Pressing
hard enough that it would have hurt, without the layer of denim to protect
him. Blair laughed, low and evil, deep in his throat. Suddenly, he was
the one on the offensive. He pushed Jim hard, bending him towards the
coffee table.
The edge of the low table caught Jim in the small of his back, and he
shifted, levering himself up onto it, allowing Blair to push him down.
Once more on his back, splayed over a piece of furniture. He resisted
a little. Wasn't this where they'd started the evening?
Blair reared up over him, ran his palms up Jim's thighs, cupped his erection,
fingered his zipper. He caught the tails of Jim's shirt and held them
in his fists. "You still haven't told me what happened with her," he
said. Mock accusing. Pretended threat. "What did you find out?"
Jim smiled and let the tension ease out of his muscles. Let himself sprawl
back on the coffee table. "That I want to come home for dinner, Chief."
The last of his buttons sailed into the air.
End
Some of the events mentioned in this story take place in Bone's Territorial Imperative, Parts 1-4, but they contradict the canon of her Part 5. She said I could blame her for that, too, but...the truth is, I goofed. I re-read Parts 1-4 at least twenty times (it's a dirty job...), but I forgot to check Part 5. Bone was kind enough to allow me the error in continuity stand. You can probably understand this without reading her stories, but read TI anyway. It's too good to miss.