by Elle Keaton
Carsten felt light-headed. “Right.”
Two bedrooms were located next to each other down a hallway from the kitchen. Carsten stopped at the first one, flinging the door open but leaving the lights off. Beto bumped up behind him and let out a sexy chuckle. Carsten felt Beto’s erection against his ass through the thin sweatpants he still wore. He shuddered, his own body’s reaction immediate.
They fell onto the bed, both hungry, starving even, for each other. Carsten rolled toward Beto and they became a tangle of hands, arms, legs all touching not touching enough wanting to touch more. Carsten arched up into Beto’s mouth when he sucked one of Carsten’s nipples. “Oh Jesus.”
“No Jesus in this bed, baby. That’s just me, Beto Hernández, but I’ll take you to heaven, I promise.”
Carsten laughed. It helped him gain a little control of himself; at least he wasn’t going to come within the next two seconds. “Are you always this cheesy?”
Beto bit his nipple, sending a frisson of pain and want directly to Carsten’s cock. “Oh god—” he felt himself pulse a little; he’d never liked pain before, but with Beto it was exquisite “—please, I’m going to come. I …” He panted, arching up again as Beto gave his nipple one last tug before licking his way down toward Carsten’s leaking erection.
“Mmm.” Beto swirled his tongue around Carsten’s belly button. How a belly button could be sexy Carsten had no idea, but shit … He planted his heels against the mattress, spreading his knees, silently begging for everything he wanted from the beautiful man above him.
“I’m going to suck you off and swallow, then I’d like to fuck you—is that okay?”
Carsten felt his balls tighten, and another spurt of precome dripped onto his groin. He nodded, hoping Beto understood that was “Yes right fucking now, all the fucking.” Beto dragged the sweatpants down his body, tossing them aside.
“I’m, uh, not … please.” Carsten didn’t know if he would be able to wait.
Beto dragged his tongue down and then back up Carsten’s aching pole, taking the tip into his mouth with a luscious wet suck and running his artful tongue around the rim. These were things Carsten had seen watching porn, read about, but never experienced. Fast sex in clubs meant sacrificing intimacy. He tried thinking about things other than Beto’s mouth and the way his red lips were beautiful wrapped around him, wet with saliva, but he couldn’t. All he could do was fall into the sensation and let himself go.
His hands found their way to Beto’s head. He tried not to shove himself into his mouth, but Beto reached around to his ass and pushed him forward. Then he stuck the very tip of a finger into Carsten’s hole and it was over. He exploded. Beto sucked, Carsten pulsed and came and probably stopped breathing and still he wanted more. It should hurt; he was sensitive, but he wanted more; he wanted to feel Beto.
Beto turned him over with a tap on his hip. Carsten obeyed, wantonly raising his hips, resting on his knees with his head against the mattress and spreading himself. He heard Beto fumble around, and then the crinkly sound of a condom wrapper. Beto dripped a cool gel, some kind of lotion, against his hole and inside it. He doubted safe houses provided lube. He snickered at the thought. His cock twitched as Beto rubbed against and around his entrance.
“Mmm, you like.”
Carsten nodded, his cheek rubbing against the sheet grounding him a little. His heart was beating so hard he was sure Beto could hear it.
“You have a beautiful ass. It’s so sexy. I love the way you put it up here for me so I can see it and know you want what I want to give.”
He spread his knees further apart, begging.
A finger pushed inside him. Beto’s other hand stroked his cock from the back, and Carsten moaned shamelessly. Finger, cock, balls, two fingers, a stroke on his hardening cock, fingers pushing in making him feel full and only wanting more. Finally they brushed against his prostate, and a shock of sharp pleasure rolled through him. Carsten lost his ability to use words.
Beto pulled his fingers out, and Carsten whimpered.
“I’m coming back, baby.” Carsten felt the tip of Beto’s erection pressing against his hole for a moment before he pushed inside, opening Carsten wide and letting Carsten’s hole flex around him. It was Beto who moaned this time. “You feel incredible—dios.” Gripping Carsten’s hips, Beto thrust forward, sliding over Carsten’s prostate again and again. The pressure in his balls was building again; this time it was slow, a delicious burn as his balls filled and his cock began to harden. Beto was moaning and muttering in Spanish, or maybe it was both English and Spanish; Carsten couldn’t tell.
Carsten feasted on Beto’s lack of control it was like some kind of weird biofeedback. The more Beto muttered and pounded against him, losing the control he kept such a tight grip on in public—everywhere but the bedroom—the more Carsten’s own heart raced. The drag of him across Carsten’s prostate, the relentless thrust and tug, was intoxicating. Then Beto snaked a hand underneath Carsten’s body and gripped his dick in his fist. One hard pull and Carsten was gone, over the edge, pushing back against Beto as he pulsed into the condom with a long groan.
For a minute they lay as one, Beto plastered against Carsten’s back, both covered with sweat, hearts thudding in time. When Beto eased himself out, Carsten collapsed in the puddle he’d created, not even caring that he was going to have to take a shower later.
Beto got up and padded to the bathroom, coming back with a warm washcloth and proceeding to wipe both of them down as much as possible. Then Beto collapsed against his side, pulling him close so they spooned together.
Neither said a word. They both knew they’d crossed a line, a line that meant they weren’t alone anymore. Carsten tried to stay awake. He tried to worry about what tomorrow would bring. When, or if, Beto would realize he’d brought a jumped-up street boy to his bed.
“Shhh, I’ve got you,” Beto whispered. Carsten let himself drift to sleep, those words repeating until he could do nothing but believe them. He really needed to tell Beto about the shooter and what Dany had told him, but he couldn’t make himself wake up.
22
Beto
* * *
Carsten was a possessive sleeper. The man had fallen asleep almost immediately, twisting to wrap around Beto like a starfish on a piling. At first Beto thought he might not be able to fall asleep this way. The next thing he knew, daylight was … well, not exactly streaming in, but making itself known through the curtained window.
He shut his eyes and covered them with his forearm. He didn’t want to be awake yet. Once they were both awake, the day would take on a life of its own. This cocoon wouldn’t last.
Gentle fingers skimmed across his belly, making little circles on their way south.
“Hmm.” He didn’t move his arm; he enjoyed the sensation of not knowing, only suspecting, where Carsten’s hand would end up next.
Sure enough, Carsten’s fingers wrapped around his morning erection, gently stroking and pumping. Beto let himself fall into the feeling, didn’t fight it.
“Mmm, you like that?”
Beto nodded.
“What else do you like? Could you keep your eyes closed the whole time?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could I blindfold you?”
Beto’s eyes flew open, but he didn’t move his arm. He explored the idea, finding he didn’t think he would mind. He already had his eyes shut, after all; it wasn’t a stretch. “Okay.” Carsten shimmied out of bed, and Beto fought the urge to open his eyes.
He was back in moments. “Move your arm, but keep your eyes shut.”
Beto did as asked. Maybe this was a test of some kind, maybe it wasn’t; he didn’t care. A smooth, cool fabric was laid over his eyes. “Is that my tie?”
“Maybe.”
“I like that tie.”
“Mmmm. I do too.”
Beto’s cock jerked. Carsten slid his hand under Beto’s head, anchoring the silky fabric underneath him.
“You
’re sure you’re okay with this?”
Beto nodded again, the tie heavy against his eyelids.
Carsten knelt next to him, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a second there was nothing, only the sound of both their breathing. Beto knew it was coming, but when Carsten’s hot mouth encompassed his erection it was all he could do not to jerk his hips upward. Gritting his teeth, he kept himself under control. This was Carsten’s time.
* * *
Carsten flopped next to Beto on his back. Beto watched his chest rise and fall out of the corner of his eye.
“That was incredible.”
A slow grin crossed his face and he turned his head to look at Beto. “Yeah?”
“Sí. As long as my tie isn’t wrinkled.”
Carsten snickered and rolled into him. “It’s not any more wrinkled than when you wear it around your neck. But…” His expression turned serious.
“What?”
“I didn’t have any shoes on last night, and Dany grabbed me a pair from your closet.” He cringed. “But I didn’t have time to put them on and ended up kind of throwing them in some bushes.”
Beto kissed his beautiful lips, his mouth that curved up into a smile. “Shoes don’t matter, you matter.”
A few minutes later they broke apart. Beto sensed Carsten still had something on his mind.
“What are you thinking about?” Beto wondered if Carsten was worried about Soren.
He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t want to leave our little safe bubble. Everything else seems far away right now. But …” His eyes darkened slightly, and Beto saw the concern and apprehension expressed in them. “Last night, I … I recognized the shooter. Dany did too and told me it was a cousin or uncle of his. I didn’t recognize him at first, at your house—he had something over his face—but then he drove past us in a truck and I saw him from the side. It was one of them, Beto, one of the men who came and set the cabin on fire. The men at the hospital. I mean, the fire was nearly six years ago so he’s older, but it was him, I am sure of it.”
Beto sat up. “I need to call my team.” He fumbled for his phone, then remembered he’d left his clothes in a heap on the kitchen floor.
He stood, the cool of the flooring against his feet a bit of a shock. Carsten shifted around and stood next to him, and Beto was momentarily distracted by his pale skin and long limbs. He shook himself. Now was not the time. Moving quickly, he strode to the kitchen with Carsten behind him. His jacket was the only item hanging up. He plucked his phone out of the pocket.
“Keep talking. I’m going to text Ferreira.”
“Dany probably told them all this too,” Carsten said.
“I want to hear what you saw.” He tapped his phone and scrolled to Sammy’s number.
Finally, Beto thought, the dots were connecting. Clearly one of the ways they’d been able to stay hidden for so long was the extensive network of people they could tap to move in and out of the area. With Petyr linking his extended family to the now-dead Matveev and his cronies who were already known traffickers, the last link would be whose balls they had in the police department.
“What did you say this guy’s name was?”
A panicked expression crossed Carsten’s face. “Steven? Or Stephan? I don’t know, you’ll have to ask Dany.”
“No worries, we’ll find him.”
They were going to find the shooter and put him so deep in prison he never saw the light of day again. Beto would personally make sure of it.
23
Carsten
* * *
Carsten turned the tap and waited for the water to heat up. Casey Olsen was his past; the survivor was Carsten Quinn. Casey was only a memory, Carsten a phoenix rising from the ashes. After last night with Beto he felt incredible, his body sore and definitely used but also worshipped—and, Carsten admitted to himself in the privacy of the bathroom, the feelings he had were dangerously close to love. Putting aside the extreme emotions of last night, Carsten knew he could fall for the sexy detective. Beto was like him, a survivor, and he was kind. He listened to Carsten—actually saw him. Carsten chuckled. He was getting way ahead of himself.
He made himself scarce while Beto talked to the agent who showed up ten minutes after Beto texted. It wasn’t one of the agents from the night before. Sammy Ferreira was shorter than Carsten and slight, but he had one of those personalities that made a person immediately like them. It was clear he and Beto were old friends.
Carsten didn’t have two brain cells to rub together, so he’d escaped to the shower, still limping from the cuts and bruises on his feet.
The hot water felt incredible, his sore muscles relaxing under the spray. Shutting his eyes, he let the water flow through his hair and down his back; across his ass, which was sore for a different reason. He couldn’t help but huff out a pleased snicker. A couple of tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner sat on the lip of the tub, and he used almost all of the contents scrubbing his hair and scalp clean. When all this was over, he was cutting his hair off. The only reason he’d kept it long was out of fear, to hide behind—and he wasn’t hiding any longer.
Beto knocked on the bathroom door while Carsten was putting yesterday’s shirt and sweatpants back on. The filthy socks he rolled up and tossed in the trash.
Beto spoke through the door. “Sorry, Carsten, we need to get going. Things are shaking up much faster than we anticipated. With the information you and Dany gave us, we’ve connected a few more dots.” His voice was strained.
Shit, all those brave thoughts in the shower, and now all he wanted to do was run and hide under the bed. “Okay.”
“Can I open the door? Are you dressed?”
“Sure.”
Carsten’s stomach was in knots now, twisting and churning, the relaxing effect of the shower erased. He’d separated himself from yesterday’s events, but now the bubble had disappeared and real life was back with a vengeance. The few hours’ sleep (and sex) had allowed him a much-needed sense of safety. A feeling he hadn’t experienced in years, maybe ever.
It was hard to know what was real when running and hiding was the way you lived. Yes, he’d hidden in plain sight in Skagit—no one had known who he was or what he’d been—but Carsten knew. Troy knew because he’d recognized a kindred soul, and they’d become best friends. AJ and Ben probably suspected, although they never asked questions.
With a start, he realized Beto had opened the door and was watching him with concern. “I’m sorry about this. I thought we’d have a little more time.”
“I’m okay.”
Beto lifted Carsten’s chin with his index finger, looking him directly in the eyes, unflinching. “You’re not okay. But I promise you, I will do everything I can to make it okay. This is what I do. Taking down motherfuckers like these subhumans is something I have devoted a great deal of my life to.”
Carsten hadn’t known Beto long, but two things he knew instinctively: Beto didn’t use profanity very often, and he didn’t make promises. The words didn’t really make him feel any better, but the fact that Beto Hernández, Skagit cop who was actually a federal agent working to break a human trafficking ring, would say them, meant everything.
“You’re going to need warmer clothing. And,” Beto looked down at Carsten’s feet, “shoes.”
Shoes would have to wait until they got back into town. For now, Carsten carefully picked his way from the front door to the car.
* * *
They were speeding along a rural road outside of Skagit. Agent Ferreira drove while Beto made notes on his smartphone. Carsten didn’t know where they were; he didn’t venture out of town much. It was enough he drove in the city without legal ID. He didn’t want to get stuck out here.
Farms and homesteads flashed by, dreary and gray. The occasional faded red or brown barn added an even more pastoral feel. The region was beautiful and lush, though understated, with obvious pockets of poverty. The SUV raced past several farms that had seen better times: sagging houses, the
remnants of machinery strewn about like toys a child had forgotten after being called inside. The heavy rains had done damage, saturating the fields. Carsten could see where huge puddles—lakes, really—had formed.
He wondered if they’d had any news about Soren Jorgensen, but it didn’t seem the right time to ask. The night before, Beto had only said he’d survived surgery and was in the ICU: It was up to Soren’s body now.
Carsten wanted Soren to live. He didn’t want to be responsible for any deaths. What had happened to Troy weighed on his conscience already.
In the distance next to the highway, a larger building loomed. As they drew closer, Carsten saw a modern spire and then a whole church. The driver slowed as he approached it, as the church was built on a curve in the road. The parking lot in front of the enormous building was mostly empty. Carsten didn’t know what day it was, but it must not be Sunday.
A battered blue pickup truck was parked to the side of the church. Carsten wouldn’t have noticed it except for the lack of other cars. He must have gasped or made some kind of sound; he didn’t think he’d said any words. He blinked and looked again, but they were already past, the church and the truck behind them.
“What? Ferreira, slow down,” Beto barked.
The car slowed, but the parking lot had disappeared from view.
“That truck—” He couldn’t get the words out. He could almost smell the smoke from the flames licking the small cabin, feel the heat hitting his face in waves. He could see that same face driving by in the SUV, hear the report of the gun as it fired, see the pizza guy lying dead at his feet.
Beto turned around in his seat, trying to reach Carsten. “Carsten, breathe. What did you see? Dios, Ferreira, stop the fucking car so I can get in the back and find out what Carsten saw.” Apparently he lost patience during the zero point four seconds it was taking the driver to slow down; unclicking his seat belt, Beto twisted around, and by the time the driver had pulled to the side, Beto was already halfway into the back seat. If Carsten hadn’t been so freaked out, he would’ve laughed.