Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Author’s Note
Exclusive Excerpt
More from K.A. Mitchell
Readers love the Bad in Baltimore series by K.A. Mitchell
About the Author
By K.A. Mitchell
Visit Dreamspinner Press
Copyright
Bad Behavior
By K.A. Mitchell
Bad in Baltimore: Book Five
In a lifetime of yes, no is the sexiest word he’s ever heard.
After one too many misunderstandings with the law, wealthy and spoiled David Beauchamp finds himself chained to the city by the GPS and alcohol sensor strapped to his ankle. Awaiting trial, cut off from usual forms of entertainment, he goes looking for a good time—and winds up with his hands full, in more ways than one. The situation only gets more complicated when he’s summoned for a random drug test and comes face-to-face with the dominant man who took him for one hell of a ride the night before.
Probation Officer Tai Fonoti is used to handling other people’s problems, but he’s horrified when one of the extra clients his boss dumps on him is the sweet piece of ass he screwed the night before. It makes getting a urine sample a pretty loaded situation. Tai’s unique brand of discipline has Beach craving more. But while Tai relishes laying down the law in the bedroom, the letter of the law stands between them and kinkily ever after….
Thank you to everyone who helped me tell this story: B.F.S. for trusting me, Erin for making me go deeper, and Beach and Tai for the lovely inspiration.
Author’s Note
WARNING: THIS book is kinky. I mean kinky. With lots of sex. It describes a fully consensual, intense D/s relationship that changes a character’s life. It includes impact play and bondage along the way to a very happily ever after.
Chapter One
THE PREMATURE ejaculation of a Second of July firecracker exploded out of the night. Without a backward glance, Beach stepped from the steam of a Baltimore summer into Grand Central and took a deep breath of sweat, spilled booze, and sweet, sweet testosterone. The opportunity for a nameless fuck on the nearest convenient surface was one of the reasons Beach loved having sex with men. Women were not without their charms, though the maybe/maybe-not dance could get tiresome. But men, especially the men who came to Grand Central, weren’t there for that kind of dance.
After waving over the bartender, Beach paid for a local bottled beer he would be scrupulously obedient about not drinking and scanned the sparse weeknight offerings. He knew exactly what he wanted—or at least, he would when he saw it. He could never say for sure what would catch his eye. All he knew was he had to find it.
Tonight more than usual.
His gran always said Beach had ants in his pants when he fidgeted, unable to keep still or hide his boredom at being stuck anywhere for any length of time.
And stuck he was. In Baltimore. Until his lawyer managed to work a deal with the DA over something that had created far more inconvenience for Beach than it had for any of the birds on the sanctuary he’d allegedly trespassed on.
But the trapped feeling wasn’t all that had pushed him out the door tonight. He was looking to forget the voicemail he’d gotten while in the shower.
Hope you’ll take some time during celebrating the Fourth to think about your old man spending his twenty-fifth year in exile from his country.
As if Beach could avoid thinking about his father, when an effort to bring him home had taken him to the bird sanctuary and was the whole reason why Beach now possessed a cane and custom-fitted ankle jewelry courtesy of the Maryland Department of Public Safety and Correctional Services.
And this jittery sensation that he had to do something right now or come out of his skin.
The itch burned like an infection in his blood, a desperate fever heat. Without any chemicals to take the edge off, not even a sip of beer, it was impossible to ignore.
But there was always something better than beer or chemicals if you knew where to look. Something exactly like… that. A crinkle at the corner of an eye. Warm tan skin over a broad cheek.
Beach shifted off the barstool to make a better appraisal. The object of his fascination leaned over a pool table. Jeans showcased a firm ass, and a tank top showed off intricately patterned black ink from shoulder to elbow. Though it also served to draw attention to the massive muscles on the arms and the breadth of chest that turned the hot ache under Beach’s skin to fire. Whether a guy was a top or bottom, Beach had never had any trouble getting exactly what he wanted. And he wanted that.
The man became aware of Beach’s greedy stare and glanced over. If Beach hadn’t already been determined, the smirk would have done it. The eyes, the not-quite-smiling lips, the black slash of his brows. All of it together promised he could bend Beach in half, make him beg the Lord for mercy, and smile all the way through it.
Beach tipped the bottle toward the man, then brought it to his lips, suggestion in the way his mouth covered the rim. Without losing any of his smirk, the man turned back to his pool game, lining up his shot. Beach didn’t know much about pool, but he had a fair understanding of physics, and the shot was at a difficult angle.
When the man spread his arched fingers on the felt to make a bridge for his cue, the strength on display from fingertips to shoulder made Beach’s mouth water. He barely refrained from fanning himself in an imitated swoon. A dip in the music let him hear the sharp click of the colliding resins, the softer thud of ball on bumper. The resurging volume of music couldn’t drown out the groan from the man’s opponent. Beach’s target lined up another shot, and with a shake of hands, the game was over.
As the man rounded the table, Beach transferred his weight to his good leg and contemplated leaving the blasted cane against the bar. He already felt hard muscles under his palms, heard the slap of their flesh as their bodies pounded together. The itch that had driven him here rushed to his cock, pulsing hungry and insistent. Catching the stranger’s eye, Beach tipped his head in the direction of the bathrooms.
The smirk grew more promising, more pronounced on his handsome face, leaving Beach more determined to see him follow through on it.
Then the man plucked the plastic triangle off the wall and began racking the balls for another game. He might as well have racked the ones hanging heavy under Beach’s dick. The bastard had turned him down in favor of another game of pool. It was a damned sorry state of affairs when men came to Grand Central to fondle billiard balls instead of each other’s.
Beach dragged his bad leg back up onto the barstool and had almost opened his mouth to order several double Maker’s Marks when the ankle shackle on his other leg caught the footrest. Right. Even that consolation was denied him. And nothing but the threat of the absolute loss of freedom was enough of a deterrent to keep him sober.
With a disgusted sigh,
he slammed down the bottle he’d been using as a prop and placed a different order. “Bourbon and soda. Hold the bourbon. And keep ’em coming.”
Beach grew aware of a few other approaches as he drank his utterly impotent soda. But he wasn’t interested. All he could see was that damned smirk. The mesh-and-block-patterned tattoo on the solid shoulder. He had developed a craving, and nothing else would satisfy, though his wounded pride kept him from glancing back toward the pool table.
When three glasses of soda made another need equally insistent, he clamped a straw between his teeth and slid off the stool, propping his cane under the bar. Affecting the rolling stride he’d developed to mask his limp, he headed for the men’s room. He should probably get it checked out again, but a few weeks in a coma and then surgery to put a rod in his snapped tibia had exhausted his tolerance for doctors for the foreseeable future.
The day he needed support to stand long enough to drain the snake was the day he went off a bridge headfirst on purpose. He was shaking himself dry when he heard the door open, but before he could tuck and zip, a hard body clamped around him and a hand covered Beach’s on his cock.
There couldn’t be two men in the bar with a chest like the one Beach felt against his back. But he snuck a glance at the arm around him to be sure. There was the same intricate tattoo, ending at the elbow.
He felt the voice before he heard it, gravel-rough and smoky-smooth like the best bourbon. The voice alone could harden a man’s cock at ten paces.
“Give you a hand?”
Beach’s dick had never had much pride. It was all ready to forgive the earlier insult, jolting forward at the offer. “Near missed your chance. Thought you weren’t interested.”
“Like hell.” Sweet Lord, the voice was sin. “But I make the first move.”
“You can move it anyway you like if your cock can cash the check your mouth is writing.” Beach pulled his own hand away.
The hot grip was all his cock needed to shift from leaping to lunging for attention, dragging his hips forward in search of friction.
An arm wrapped around Beach’s hips and pinned him back, denial and promise in the press of a cock against his ass.
Beach’s friend Gavin would probably be able to predict the exact inches and circumference from that brief grind. All Beach knew was it was solid, hot and thick, and felt damned good. He pushed back to indicate he was on board with the plan.
All he got for an answer was a grunt as he was dragged backward into the end stall. The wider one with the rails. The man wasn’t rough—not by Beach’s standards—simply forceful as he shoved Beach face-first against the tiled sidewall. There was a stone window ledge to lean on or to grip if things got as wild and fast as he hoped they would. That the other man wanted to take charge was no hardship. The more responsibility someone else took, the more Beach was free to focus on how good everything felt.
Except there wasn’t any feeling good at first. Beach had been ready to go since he set his eyes on his prize, but a hard dick didn’t automatically make his ass soft. He hadn’t been fucked since before his coma. This was where chemicals were so damned useful, right here when he was trying to trade the discomfort of a thick callused finger jamming lube into him for the tingle he knew would happen if that finger curled the right way.
It didn’t.
His jeans were snug enough to stay bunched under his ass after the man had shoved them out of the way, and they made it tough to spread his legs to accommodate the added stretch of another finger. Beach wiped his forehead on his forearms where they rested on the window ledge and tipped his ass up, looking for that good pressure, the way the muscles would give and the nerves would start singing praises louder than the Sanctuary Choir on a Sunday morning.
He didn’t get it.
He shifted more of his weight onto his whole leg, wondering if he wanted to turn around and see the size of what the man behind him was sheathing in latex before it went up his ass. Then the man grabbed one of Beach’s hands and put it on the smooth, covered flesh. Maybe the guy meant to prove to Beach the condom was on, maybe it was to give Beach some lube on his hand to help him work his own cock, but as Beach’s hand closed around the dick a few inches from his hole, all he could think of was the heft and the width spearing into him. The strain that had been balanced between a throbbing hunger and a gut-churning tension snapped. Beach spiraled into a hot, dizzy space where pain and pleasure were all part of the same beautiful sensation to send him out of his head, better than any drug ever could.
He released the man’s cock and held himself open, rocking back onto the blunt head, wanting to push them faster into the rhythm of the fuck, those few moments of perfection where nothing existed but pleasure.
Beach wanted to rush them, rush himself past the first moment of I-can’t-take-this, but a bruising pinch on the swell of his ass made him lurch forward. Before he could spin around with an affronted remark about not being a cocktail waitress, the man wrapped an iron-muscled forearm around Beach’s waist.
“I make the first move, remember.”
It was a statement, not a question, but Beach nodded. Beach didn’t know how he could forget anything said in that voice. He should have had it available to read him his textbooks in school. Should hire the man to record the latest board of directors’ update.
He wished there’d been a need for more negotiation, the kind of dance he’d come here to avoid. Because then the voice would roll over them, fill the air like fog, the kind thick enough to grab on to. He waited, hoping he’d get rewarded with more of it.
When it came, it curled inside him, an added sensation to build the agony of waiting. “Good.” The voice trailed over him, a hand stroking down his back, rubbing the pinched spot for a soothing instant.
Then the arm around Beach’s waist pulled him back, forcing his hips out so torso and legs made a comfortable angle. Beach smiled, imagining the man lining himself up with the same care he used on his pool shot, and hoped his skill translated.
It did.
It really did.
The first push had the head in, smooth and easy at first, until the man held them there. Beach’s nerve endings, his pulse, his muscles all screamed a reminder that they were doing this without any of the usual enhancements, that this was the only part about getting fucked he wished he could skip, the sting of too tight focused right there in too small a spot, straining tolerance to the limit. This was the part so easy to forget once everything was friction and heat and pressure.
A harsh breath stuttered, echoed into the tiled space, and the rasp in Beach’s throat let him know it came from him. He’d half a mind to tell this smirking prick what he could do with his first moves and weird pauses. But they were almost there now, and hell if Beach would back down from a challenge.
The man moved, finally, but it seemed to take forever for him to work it in. The scrape and burn had faded, leaving an even emptier craving. The damned bastard better have stamina to make up for the torturously slow entry.
Beach gripped that window ledge with all the strength in his fingers as his ass swallowed up the thick length. By the time the man’s balls swung into Beach’s, his manicure was shredded.
Beach shifted a bit under the grip keeping him tight against the other man’s hips, wanting more—more room in his ass, more movement between them, every bit of sensation. One of the man’s hands was flat on Beach’s chest, the other pinning them together at the hips. Beach was sure the man felt the leap of his heart as someone came in to the bathroom, letting in a blast of music before the door swung shut, muffling it again. A scrape of shoes, the sound of a zipper.
No patron of Grand Central would be shocked to stumble over men fucking in the bathroom, so Beach couldn’t explain why tension had his muscles locked, his teeth clenched to hold back any sound. After all, fucking had been about the only item not on the list of things forbidden until his trial.
As the stream splashed into the urinal, the man behind Beach used his mouth
to shift aside the hair from Beach’s neck, kissing away the sweat, then drawing the already tight skin into teeth, sucking a burning mark to make Beach’s ass throb harder around the rigid heat inside it.
The chuckle the man outside the door gave as he washed and shook dry his hands made Beach’s cheeks flush, as if this was the most outrageous thing he’d ever done—instead of something mildly impulsive.
His exhale as the door closed behind the other man was full of relief.
“What’s the matter? Didn’t want to share?” The voice purred against Beach’s back, across the bite on his neck and into his ear.
Something insaner than usual had gotten into Beach since he’d glimpsed the crinkle of eye above tanned cheek, leaving him damned near broken to saddle, but he found his footing.
“Starting to think there’s nothing here to share. You all talk? Have to go that slow to keep from shooting soon as you get it in?”
Beach expected a rough, if not violent reaction, a quick withdraw and a slam forward, finally getting the pounding he’d been looking for, what he’d known he needed when he parked his car down here on Eager Street.
But despite an even tighter clamp of the man’s arms, it was only a long, smooth, and—damn him—perfect stroke. He shifted Beach, lifting him up and back a bit more. No wonder the guy was so good at pool. He knew his angles, that was for hell sure. And Beach didn’t care if the guy was playing Beach’s body like he owned it; that was what Beach wanted. This, all of this, was the answer to the itch that had been driving him out of his skin. Steady, deep pressure, exquisite burn on the backstroke. The hand on his chest found a nipple under Beach’s shirt and pinched until Beach gasped, dropping a hand to work his cock. He could manage to whisper all kinds of sweet things to a partner when he was the one driving his dick into them, but right then all he could handle was an endless repetition of harsh breaths and moans.
The build inside made his lips and tongue start to shape the word please, as if he couldn’t manage his own climb. It was like he’d forgotten his dick was in his hand. He shivered and started working it, hand and fingers providing all the friction he needed to turn the pressure inside into one hell of an explosion.
Bad Behavior Page 1