by Elle Keaton
What was he doing standing in the hallway?
He pushed the bathroom door open. “Can I join you?”
Carsten laughed. “Get your butt in here. It’s small, but we can make it work.”
Without second-guessing himself, Beto stripped out of his button-down and slacks, not bothering to fold or hang them, just leaving them in a pile on the floor. He pushed aside the shower curtain and stepped in. Carsten was right, it was small, but being pressed up against his butt was no punishment. “Madre de dios, this feels good.”
“Mmmm, yeah, the water feels great.”
Beto slid a hand down Carsten’s lithe body to pinch his ass. Carsten laughed, looking over his shoulder. “Yeah, okay, this feels good too. Amazing. Although I hate the bruises on your neck.”
“They’ll fade. I’m fine.”
Beto wanted to know about the tattoo covering Carsten’s shoulder blade. It was a stylized bird of some kind; when he looked more carefully at it, he recognized it as a seagull. The tattoo artist had it positioned so the bird appeared to be about to soar over his shoulder and away. The artwork was remarkable, suggesting Northwest Coast–style art, like the Haida, perhaps.
Beto traced it with his finger, then leaned closer and used his tongue instead. Carsten mmmed, leaning back into him, letting Beto support his weight.
“Tell me about your tattoo,” he whispered into the shell of Carsten’s ear.
Carsten stiffened slightly and sighed.
“You don’t have to, I just wondered. It’s beautiful.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s a seagull. The day the men came to burn down the cabin, there was one calling overhead. It sounded like freedom.” He tried to shift away, but Beto held him close and Carsten relaxed again. “My friend Ben is a tattoo artist. I had him do this for me. When I get scared or, I dunno, have bad dreams, the seagull is there on my shoulder, reminding me I’m free—that I survived.”
Beto shut his eyes for a second, glad he could blame the spray from the shower for the wetness on his face. “You are a survivor. I’m so proud of you. What you did, what you and Troy did—it was wild, right? And reckless. But you two managed to do what we hadn’t been able to. Once we catch up with Dickson, Getty, and Dany’s uncle, you can rest easy.”
“Don’t you ever get depressed?” Carsten asked.
Beto frowned. “What do you mean?”
“There will always be people like these guys who think they are … better, I guess. Who think human beings are just another sort of collateral. I mean, yeah, not their families, but anyone ‘lesser’ …”
Beto grasped his hips and turned him around so they were facing each other. Carsten winced.
“Your feet sore?”
“Yeah, but I needed a shower.”
“Okay. Well, you’re right, this is a battle won. The war against human trafficking is ongoing, and it is depressing, but every time we manage to get one of these fuckers, it’s a shot in the arm—a boost. Will I always be a part of this kind of investigation? Probably not, but I’m not done yet.”
Carsten didn’t reply, just looked at him for a minute before planting a fierce kiss on his lips. The kiss didn’t end quickly; it softened into something more, a question and a promise. Beto felt both their cocks start to harden. Reluctantly, he pulled his mouth away.
“Baby, as much as I want to have shower sex, I don’t want to hurt your feet any worse. And selfishly, I want a mattress.”
Carsten grinned, sunshine from behind a cloud. “I already washed my hair and stuff—you’re it.”
Chuckling, they switched places, and Beto soaped and rinsed while Carsten gingerly stepped out of the enclosure and began to towel himself off. Beto turned off the water and pulled back the curtain. Carsten handed him a towel.
“We’re just going to have to shower again later,” Carsten commented.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
* * *
The sheets on the bed were scratchy and stiff, probably less than two hundred thread count—Beto couldn’t say why that little factoid popped into his head. He slid in next to Carsten, reveling in the feel of his body against his lover’s. Beto intended to be slow and gentle, to demonstrate to Carsten how loved he was, how beautiful Beto thought he was both inside and out.
Instead they came together like gasoline and flame. He wasn’t sure which of them was flame. Maybe each was a little of both.
He rolled toward Carsten and forgot everything, his mind a complete blank. Carsten flung the covers aside and lay on his back, stroking himself. Beto watched, fascinated, as Carsten’s cock hardened under his own grip. Up, back down, up, twist, back down.
“Dios,” Beto whispered.
“I don’t think god can help you here. Are you going to watch or participate?”
“I … I …”
“Ooooh.” Carsten let a small smile cross his lips. “How about we start with you watching? I’ll show you what I like. I’ve practiced. A lot.”
Beto groaned, quiet and low. Carsten raised his knees, pressing his heels into the mattress and letting his legs spread as they would. He kept stroking and bucking his hips upward. His moans and gasps were mesmerizing. Without touching himself, Beto was fully hard, and dios, as Carsten moaned again, a little precome dribbled from his dick. He moved to at least squeeze, to keep himself from being so excited that when he was finally inside Carsten he’d come immediately.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” His hand was still on the base of his cock.
“Don’t touch yourself. Hands off; that dick is all mine. When I’m done here, I want you so hard and dripping you can’t form a sentence. I want you to be so ready you’ll beg me to touch you anywhere. Maybe everywhere.” Carsten moaned loudly as he jacked himself, the soft skin of his penis sliding under his hand.
“Dios,” Beto repeated, whispering as if there were anyone to hear them, but he took his hand away. His cock was erect enough that it didn’t quite touch the sheet as he lay on his side, precome dripping steadily from the tip. “Carsten.”
“Watch me, Beto, eyes on me.”
With those words, Carsten began to pump slightly faster. Then he reached his other hand down behind his balls and began to finger himself.
“Oh, jesus fuck me, that feels good. Not as good as you’re going to feel, Beto, when your big cock shoves inside of me—when I can squeeze down on you and feel you come. But almost.”
It was killing Beto to wait, to listen … but he would do whatever Carsten wanted him to. If Carsten wanted to stop things right now—well, he’d be uncomfortable and might go jerk off in the bathroom, but he wouldn’t argue.
“Lay on your back.”
Beto turned onto his back but kept his gaze on Carsten.
Carsten rolled so he was sitting up, his ass resting on his calves, his engorged cock pointing toward Beto. As Beto watched, liquid squeezed out, hanging on the tip for a minute. It was a waste; Beto wanted to taste it.
“Oh, yeah, you’re ready for me.”
Leaning across Beto so he wiped precome across his abs, Carsten plucked a condom out of the box. While he ripped it open, he flung one lean leg over Beto’s hips and squatted back on his thighs. Slowly he rolled the condom down Beto, and the sensation was almost too much to bear. Then Carsten squeezed lube onto his fingers and let Beto imagine what he was doing to his hole. Finally he scooted up and lowered himself onto Beto.
Beto shut his eyes. It was taking everything he had to let Carsten take the lead. Instinctively he flexed his hips, needing the slide and pressure—wanting it so badly. “Jesus, Carsten, you’re killing me.” A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead.
“Okay—daddy—take me home.”
“I never should’ve told you that.” He’d thought it was hilarious an hour ago, but now, now he needed to make Carsten forget his own name.
Grasping Carsten’s hips, Beto pushed upward. Carsten pushed down at the same time, crying out, “Oh, god.”
&nbs
p; “Not daddy, not god. Beto.”
He pushed up again. By Carsten’s twitch, Beto knew he’d found Carsten’s prostate. Straining with effort, he pushed Carsten upward and pulled him down again and again, sliding across the gland, loving how the action made his lover lose control.
Carsten jammed himself back down onto Beto, his wet hair swinging between them. Carsten’s hole clenched around his cock and then he was coming, ah fuck they were both coming, Beto out of control, jackhammering into Carsten while his lover writhed over him in ecstasy, come spurting between them and landing on Beto’s stomach.
Carsten collapsed on his chest, their come squishing between them. Normally Beto would be pushing his partner off and rushing to get a washcloth. He thought about it for a second and realized he didn’t care; in fact, he found he liked the idea that Carsten had marked him, they’d marked each other. He and Jerry hadn’t ever had sex like that. Beto was already thinking about the future when they’d be able to have sex without condoms.
“Holy cow. I’m not sure I can breathe,” Carsten muttered into Beto’s shoulder.
“Heh, I’m not sure I’m conscious. I hope I didn’t hurt you.” He ran a hand along Carsten’s hip and ass, loving the way Carsten’s skin felt under his fingertips.
“Hell, no. That was fucking incredible.”
“I need to take the condom off.”
* * *
Beto brought a washcloth back from the bathroom, figuring what was sexy in the moment might change. Carsten smiled sleepily at him while Beto wiped down his stomach and groin.
“You like to take care of people,” Carsten stated.
“I do.”
“I do too. Are you going to let me take care of you?”
Beto let the damp washcloth fall to the floor, sliding in next to Carsten. He was warm and smelled like sex. Like the sex they’d had together.
“Well?”
Beto snuggled in close. This time he laid his head on Carsten’s shoulder. “I can be kind of difficult.”
“Is that a yes?”
Beto smiled against Carsten’s chest, knowing the other man could feel it. “Yes, that’s a yes.”
“Okay then.”
27
Carsten
* * *
They sat bumping elbows at the table in the kitchen the next morning. Carsten was regretting the instant coffee provided by the feds—and realizing Beto was left-handed. Beto’d been on the phone with his boss for a few minutes, but Carsten hadn’t heard much other than grunts and the occasional “Yes.”
“What did Mr. Klay say?” he asked when Beto sat down again.
Beto had just raised his coffee cup to his lips. He choked, nearly spitting out his coffee. It took a minute before he finished coughing, his laughter reduced to a painful wheeze.
“‘Mr. Klay,’” he sputtered. “I can—ooh, hang on.” He took some deep breaths to control himself. Carsten watched him with curiosity. Beto was normally so serious, the times he laughed were like gold—even when it was Carsten who was being laughed at.
“Agent Klay,” Beto corrected when he could speak again. “Heh, Mr. Klay—anyway. Klay didn’t have much to say. None of the fugitives have shown their faces in any of their usual haunts. Dickson’s unfortunate wife claims he hasn’t called and didn’t come home last night. Getty, unsurprisingly, is divorced.”
Klay was bringing in all his team’s resources to locate Stjepan Petyr. From what Beto had told him, Petyr, Dickson, and Getty had all disappeared into the wind—or more likely the vast forest blanketing the north Cascades. Dickson and Getty, Beto assured him, would show up sooner than later. They had family ties, and their bank accounts were frozen. Petyr was a different kind of fugitive, one who was used to being on his own and had no fear of the law.
Carsten had been thinking. “I was thinking.”
“Yes?” Beto zeroed in on him with his full attention, all traces of laughter gone. It was a little disconcerting, after years of trying to be invisible, to be so very seen by this particular man.
“Petyr knew where the cabin was. I know that was years ago, but maybe Garrett wasn’t the only one of those guys with property in the middle of the woods.”
“It’s possible. It’s pretty far from here, right?”
“The cabin? A few hours drive.” He shuddered. The idea of the burned-out cabin creeped him out.
“Hmm. It does seem like a long way, but I wonder …” Beto’s voice trailed off.
He frowned and narrowed his eyes, staring somewhere over Carsten’s head. His expression changed from thoughtful to serious, and he was on the phone in a flash. Carsten’s morning lover disappeared, replaced by federal investigator in under a second.
“Klay. Hernández. Yes. When I was first briefed on this case, the perp you took down, Matveev? Right. He had ties all over the county, property under all different names and shell corporations. Wasn’t there an abandoned housing project? The area was declared unsafe due to a landslide, right? Yeah, so … right, where’s Stjepan Petyr been living all this time? How come we can’t find a trace of him anywhere? … Right. I think it’s worth a shot, otherwise we’re going to have to start looking farther afield.”
Beto clicked off the call and set his phone on the table. “I hate waiting.”
Carsten’s stomach sank. He worried Beto would regret hooking up with him. He knew he was being emotional, getting attached too quickly. He needed to slow himself down. Unfortunately he didn’t think his heart wanted to go slow. His heart wanted the man sitting next him. His stupid heart, which had never wanted anything before, had been fine with getting through each day, each month, each year—now his stupid heart wanted something, and it was like wanting the moon.
A soft stroke on his cheek interrupted his self-pity. Beto leaned close, close enough Carsten could see the slight variation of browns in his eyes. “Where’d you go?”
Carsten tried to stand up so he could find someplace to hide and pull himself together. He was better than this. Beto didn’t need a wet-blanket, possessive boyfriend. A firm hand kept him seated in the wooden chair.
“Talk to me.”
“I’m sorry for making you wait. I know it’s because of me.”
Beto stroked his cheek again. Carsten wanted to lean in like a cat. He may have leaned just a little.
“Corazón, it’s not because of you.” Beto shook his head. “First of all, it’s protocol: I was involved in an ‘event,’ and I need to step aside and let the other very capable agents on my team do their jobs. I am emotionally compromised, and it’s not only because of you.”
“Oh?” Words threatened to spill out of him if he said anything more.
Beto smiled. “Yes.” He looked up at the ceiling and back down. “I am terrible at this stuff. In the past, I’ve been perfectly happy to let my boyfriends—for example, my partner Jerry—do the heavy lifting, and if he didn’t, neither of us did, and we existed in an emotional black hole. I’ve never felt invested before you.
“I don’t like to wait. I hate waiting; I want to be where the action is—but if the alternative is leaving you here alone, I want to be here. I’m not sure it’s going to be easy for you to get rid of me.” He cleared his throat and continued, “I come with a lot of baggage. And I don’t know what will happen now that my cover as an SkPD detective has been blown sky-high. Klay might ask me to stay here in Skagit, or I may have to go back to LA. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I guess maybe it’s—I’m yours if you’ll have me.”
I could love you. The words wanted to burst out over the top of Carsten’s internal dam, but it was too soon to say them out loud, He knew the emotion was genuine, though, even if it was soon. What they’d experienced in a few weeks was what most couples probably experienced in … months or longer. He knew exactly what Beto was trying to say. When they were both ready they’d say the words.
There was a screech as Beto scooted his chair closer to Carsten’s. He leaned in to drag his lips from the base of Carsten’
s neck and across his stubbly cheek to claim his mouth with a passionate kiss. Carsten let himself fall into it, allowed himself to open up to accept the silent promise Beto was making, to let Beto fill him. Carsten turned the tables, sucking Beto’s tongue into his mouth, and Beto groaned.
* * *
Waiting was hard on Beto. Carsten could see it and feel it: the twitching, the pacing, the muttering. He’d done what he could to distract him, to the point where they were both going to be severely dehydrated if they had any more orgasms. Finally Carsten resorted to turning on the television, and they spent several hours streaming Netflix.
Carsten couldn’t help but wonder if it was healthy to yell at the TV as much as Beto did. It reminded him of the way other guys watched sports. When the main detective was obviously about to miss a huge clue, Beto would groan and talk about rookies, crime scenes, and the inability of that guy to “find his own ass with two hands.” Beto seemed to love the British detective procedurals, although they’d gotten distracted by time his phone rang.
Beto pulled his tongue out of Carsten’s mouth. “Hijueputa,” he grunted, fumbling for the device. “Hernández.” He adjusted the phone so he could hold it to his ear and still caress Carsten’s cheek with the other hand. The voice on the other end of the connection spoke quickly. Carsten couldn’t make out the words, but he could tell the speaker was excited. All Beto did was grunt, with the occasional “What?” and “Huh,” which gave Carsten no information whatsoever.
“What?” Carsten demanded after Beto ended the call. Something had happened, that much was clear.
Beto leaned back against the couch, grinning. He was a handsome, sexy man; a smile made him irresistible.
“That was Gómez. The team found Dickson and Stjepan Petyr hiding out in one of the abandoned houses at the Oso housing site. Apparently Dickson didn’t put up a fight at all. Stjepan has a few new holes, but he’ll likely survive. From what Gómez said, it was Sacha Bolic who tracked them down. He’d already made the same connection we had about the housing project. Unluckily for Petyr, Bolic harbors grudges against human traffickers and murderers. It won’t be long before we dig up Getty too.”