Nurture

by Sarah Masters

  “Vic. Fuck. Stop.” I was too close. “Don’t…stop. Don’t stop.”

  But then he eased off enough to reach between us and unbutton my jeans.

  “That was you not muttering?” he asked.

  I blushed.

  “Yeah. That right there.” He took another long, slow kiss as he pushed at my jeans to get them down past my hips and off my ass. He stopped when they were halfway down my thighs, unable to reach to push them the rest of the way. His weight and the rough scrape of denim over my bare cock, my own jeans trapping my legs, jolted me out of the moment.

  “Paul?”

  “No, it’s—” I swallowed, met his gaze, and watched the concern chase away the desire. “I’m okay. It’s okay.” I was going to get past this. “Do something for me?”

  “Anything.” He trailed his fingers down my cheek then across my lips, distracting me enough so I focused on that light touch and not the roiling, unpleasant memories.

  I wiggled until I had my hands and arms free and stretched over my head.

  He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Is this some sort of test?”

  “For me, not you.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Please. Vic, just do it. Hold them.”

  For a long moment, he studied me. “Why do you want to do this?”

  “Because I used to like it,” I confessed. “I just—” How did I explain? I wanted to be me again. Not a victim. “I want to know.”

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  “I know.” I smiled. Or tried to. “I’m not asking you to. Just hold me.”

  Finally, he shifted so he straddled my thighs and leaned forward to grip both my wrists in one big hand.

  I strained, testing the conviction of his hold, and he tightened his grip. Every nerve in my body lit up. My chest tightened until I was panting, and still he just sat there, staring down at me.

  “What now?” he asked.

  I squirmed, feeling the friction of denim on skin, and my cock twitched. “What do you usually do with naked men under you?” The humor fell a little flat. I could tell he was worried, and I tried to bring him back. “Touch me.”

  He tilted his head and broke eye contact to take in the rest of me. “Naked men this gorgeous?” He glanced up and grinned a slightly sharp, hungry grin. “I tend to devour them.”

  Heat rippled through me and I groaned, tried to lift my hips then my head, reaching for him as he sat there and watched me struggle.

  “Where to start,” he murmured, shifting with my movements, but easily compensating, as though my attempts were inconsequential to him getting what he wanted. He had the air of someone who’d played Dom before and knew how.

  “You like it too.” Tension I hadn’t realized was there melted away inside. I squirmed more vigorously, tried harder to get at him somehow, and he finally took action, separating my arms to take one wrist in each hand so he had a balance point to lean forward.

  When he kissed me this time, there was no hint of hesitation, no holding back. It was possessive and hard, and every bit as aggressive as Carl had ever been, with one difference. He was giving me what I’d asked for. What I wanted, and not taking anything I didn’t want to give.

  Within seconds, my struggles ceased and the heat between us melted me into submission. He let go with one of his hands to yank at his jeans. His weight shifted, the kiss got messy as he kicked and shoved at the constricting fabric, then his hand was back, pulling mine down to his groin and the length of his hard dick.

  “Lube,” he muttered through the kisses. And once again, he let me go to find it.

  The warmth of his body as he got off the bed left, but the heat remained as I watched him saunter over to the nightstand to retrieve the tube. He knew he was built and gorgeous, and he knew I wanted him. He played the aggressive, in-charge top very, very well.

  When he came back, he stood over me where I was still lying on the bed, grinned, and quickly divested me of the remainder of my clothing. He didn’t disguise the hunger in his eyes now, and when he tilted his head, I knew exactly what he wanted. I lifted my knees and let them drop open. Exposure under that kind of scrutiny was nerve-racking. He just licked his lips and smiled that same, predatory smile, sending my blood pressure through the roof.

  For a minute, he stood there, watching me, stroking himself, and saying nothing.

  “What?” I whispered.

  He opened the lube then squeezed some onto his fingers, and again tilted his head. “You want me to fuck that?”

  I nodded, my heart seemingly trapped in my throat, making words impossible. I reached down, cupped my balls and lifted, mostly just to have someone touching me. His eyes glittered, he curled his lips into a smug smile, and heat crept up my neck into my cheeks.

  He came closer, finally, one knee on the bed, and leaned down, face close to mine, closing his free hand over my wrist again. “That’s a very tiny hole, and I have a very big cock.”

  Shit, the things he says to me…

  “Yeah,” I said.

  His lips traveled over my jaw, my throat, chin—I lost track as he sent me spinning.

  “Lots of prep work,” he whispered.

  “Ye—ssss.”

  He slid his finger in without warning, the lube cold, the stretch tingling up through my gut and down through my legs. Another finger followed close and fast, and I hissed again as my eyes watered.

  “Ahh…fuck.”

  “Too much?” His lips were close to my ear, sending goosebumps racing down to meet the tingle of pain.

  He moved his fingers, in and out, and I groaned.

  “More,” I said.

  “Tough guy.”

  “‘S’good.”

  “My cock is going to be a big stretch, Paul,” he warned, rather unnecessarily.

  I’d seen it. He wasn’t just bragging.

  “Want it.”

  “I know you do.”

  He continued to work on me with his lips and fingers. My skin lit on fire, and I squirmed, bucking into his touch, trying to get some friction on my cock.

  He pressed his hips down, rubbing his long shaft against mine. “Ready?”

  “Uh-huh.” One good thing about my getting shot and his being a cop. Lots of blood tests, lots of proof we were both healthy, and no need for even the thin barrier of latex. I spread a little wider for him and held his gaze while he pushed into me.

  He was careful, doling out the burn in tolerable doses until he was well seated, propped on his elbows over me and looking down into my face. “Fuck me, you’re tight.”

  I laughed. More of the tension flowed away, and his grin answered my mood.

  “That is a big cock.” I wiggled a bit, to better feel the fullness inside, the stretch, and his weight.

  The light in his eyes danced as he wagged his hips back and forth in answer to my movement, and we both started to giggle stupidly.

  Free of all the constraints now, both physically and emotionally, I wrapped my arms and legs around him, pressing myself up so my cock dug into his stomach.

  “I do love you,” I said. It didn’t matter if he said it back. Some people didn’t say it. “Now move.”

  He did. Slowly, methodically, stroking his hands through my hair, his weight grounding me. It wasn’t long before the pace quickened, though, and he was thrusting harder, faster, and he stopped his stroking fingers, gripped, their tips pressing my scalp. He dipped his chin, his face nestling the side of my neck as his hips pistoned.

  I didn’t think he knew he was about to come. Some garbled, tangled words exploded from about mid-chest range, and he stiffened, every muscle locked tight, his arms squeezing the breath out of me. I heard a tiny whimper from where his face pressed to my neck, and he began to shudder, coming down from a climax so intense he couldn’t even lift his head.

  I stroked his hair and waited until his breathing returned, not to normal, but at least stable enough to allow oxygen to his brain.

  “You okay?” I asked.
r />   For a long minute, he lay there, heavy and unmoving.

  “Vic?”

  He sniffled. “Wanted that a long time,” he said, face still averted. “Didn’t think…”

  “Vic—”

  “Didn’t think you’d let me,” he said over my attempts to soothe him.

  “Well, shit.”

  A soggy gurgle of a laugh issued from him, but he still didn’t look up.

  I let him stay there and silently stroked his hair, one leg still slung over his hip, and waited. It was a long wait. At first I kept quiet, waiting for him to say something, some big revelation, but apparently, he’d said all he had to. And it was okay. He wasn’t a big talker. He’d demonstrated how he felt more than adequately over the past eight months, always being there, giving me a home, moving my stuff from my flat when I couldn’t bring myself to even go into the building, and never asking anything of me but that I not hide from him.

  It had been a struggle for me to be honest about the guilt and the anger. Fear was easy to admit to, and so were the memories. I’d not wanted to admit how furious I was at Carl, how horrible I’d felt as the truth about his past slowly had come out, or how much it had hurt when the cops had come one day to tell us he’d gotten in one prison fight too many. One he couldn’t win. Hell. Vic had even come to help me bury him.

  No. He didn’t have to say a word. I knew how he felt.

  “Hey.” Vic’s voice pulled me back to the present, and I tried to get a look at him, lying half on top of me, his head resting on my chest. “I guess that was a bit of a dud for you, huh?” He grazed a hand over my flaccid cock.

  “No. It was perfect.” I pulled him tighter to me and kissed his hair. “I’ll just put it in the bank.”

  “I could—”

  I shook my head. “Just hold me. I need to sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be hard enough without me staying up all night getting pounded into the mattress.”

  He grinned, but his eyes stayed serious as he smiled up at me and stroked my cheek. “If you’re not ready, no one will think less of you. It doesn’t have to be tomorrow.”

  “It has to be sometime, Vic. Lil’s right. I need it as much as the kids do. It’ll help.”

  He nodded. “Get some sleep, then.” He shifted around until I was comfortably snuggled against him, my head on his shoulder and our legs tangled together.

  “Someone should turn off the light,” I mumbled.

  “Yeah.”

  It was still on when I fell asleep.

  * * * *

  I’d somehow pictured a sea of upturned faces awaiting my every word, a bunch of teenagers itching to soak up my misery and horror and toss it back in jibes and sneering. I wasn’t prepared for a small room down the hall from the pool with a handful of frightened children needing someone to tell them it was going to be okay.

  “Shit. Lil—” I turned back from the doorway, but Lil blocked my path.

  “Just go inside. I’ll introduce you. Whatever happens, happens. Answer their questions.”

  He gave me a spin and a little shove, and I stumbled into the room.

  Everyone turned around to look at me.

  “Hey.” I lifted a hand, smiled feebly.

  No one spoke.

  Lil bustled in behind me and clapped his hands. “All right. Listen up. This is Paul.” He grabbed a chair from a nearby table and spun it around to face the small circle. “Sit.”

  Someone giggled nervously.

  I sat.

  “Paul?” Lil motioned to the group. “You’re here to talk to them?”

  I nodded. “Hi.”

  Lil rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  “Am I late?”

  Vic’s deep, soothing voice rolled over me. I turned, and he grinned at me.

  “I’m not? Good.” He got his own chair, set it behind mine, and draped an arm over my shoulders. He leaned forward so our faces were side by side. “Hi.” His gaze traveled around the circle. “Name’s Vic. I’m moral support.”

  I gripped the hand hanging over my shoulder. Tight.

  “Are you his boyfriend?”

  I wasn’t sure which kid asked, but Vic just nodded. “I am.”

  “You have a boyfriend?” This from a girl across from me. “Do you have sex?”

  “Uh…” I glanced at Lil, who shrugged.

  “Do you?” he asked, the question matter-of-fact and bare.

  “Yes,” Vic answered for me. “Now we do, yes.”

  “Weren’t you scared?” The girl’s gaze bored into me, waiting. “You know, when that mad guy…”

  “Umm. I—”

  Vic squeezed my hand.

  “I was,” I said at last, glancing at Vic. “Yeah. I was. For a long time.”

  Vic squeezed my hand again.

  No. He didn’t have to say a word.

  Also available from Pride Publishing:

  The Dreaming: Tools of Justice

  Jaime Samms and Sarah Masters

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Barry floated a bit, on drink or desire, not quite connected to himself as his lover laid the tie over his closed eyes and tied it. “Really?” A bit of his hair caught in the knot, and he squirmed.

  “Really. Trust me.” A tongue slicked over his ear, and the squirm turned to reaching.

  He should recognise the voice, thought maybe he did. Something shifted. A scent, making him think of blood or rust, drifted by like cigarette smoke. He stood still—nude, blind and bound—and the voice chuckled softly.

  “Ready, baby?”

  He nodded, straining to find the familiar—so close he could almost reach a name, a face…something he knew. The hands that had tied his behind him, lowered him until his chest rested on something hard under an inadequate layer of padding.

  “Relax.”

  Easier said than done. Barry let out a breath.

  “It isn’t going to hurt. Promise.”

  “Tag?”

  “Shhh.” A hand ran through his hair.

  Had Barry caught the scent of Old Spice? The particular drag of Tag’s bad leg?

  “What’s next, Tag? Tell me.”

  “You’ll see.”

  There was a sound behind him—shuffling, grunting—then frigid air engulfed him. He shivered, glanced over his shoulder as though his covered eyes could make out what was going on.

  “What?”

  The hands that touched him next weren’t Tag’s. They were too rough, too demanding, and he flinched, made a move to stand. The hands pushed him back.

  “Tag?”

  “Shh.” The sound seemed so far away, too little for comfort or reassurance.

  Cold air swirled around him. He struggled to stand, but whoever held him was too strong.

  “Don’t. Tag, don’t go!” Panic squeezed out rational thought, and he strained. The only answer was a tighter grip on the back of his neck and one of those rough hands running up the inside of his thigh. “Tag!”

  The hand moved to clamp over his mouth, leaving him struggling for air. His bare feet on the cold cement chilled him, toes ineffectual claws, gripping nothing. No more floating. Only shivering, cold, and a gag—its straps cutting into his cheeks—and no idea how it had got there. The ball clogged his words, turned his begging to garbled, tear-washed nothing. He shouted inarticulate sounds no one was going to hear. Struggling only earned him bruises and didn’t stop the invasion of those rough fingers or the wave of pain from being stretched too far, too fast.

  The hand came back, around the front of his neck this time.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Not how he wanted to go—bound and gagged and fucked, for Tag to find his body like that.

  Blackness darker than the blindfold sucked him under…

  He awoke screaming.

  He always awoke screaming. His voice had gone raw from it, and he only barely remembered the terror that haunted the dark. He glared at the obnoxious red glow of the clock. Not quite five. His gaze shifted to the bottle
distorting the numbers, but, for once, he turned away from it, untangled himself from the sweaty sheets, and shuffled off to the bathroom.

  * * * *

  An hour later, a good portion of the tar-like station coffee he’d tried to pour himself landed on the table beside his chipped mug. He sopped it up with the last of the napkins and tossed the sloppy mess into the trashcan. What was left of it, he took to his desk. It might taste like all hell, but it would scour the fuzz off his tongue. The computer hummed when he turned it on, the sound a comfort in the dim stillness of the deserted police station. Maybe he could get a few reports finished before his shift started. Better paperwork than the four walls of his empty apartment.

  He wasn’t sure how long the screen had been staring back at him, or how long the flying toasters had been careening around the black void, when he blinked back from his stupor.

  “Hey, Wiki.”

  He jumped at his partner’s hot breath on the back of his neck.

  “Still daydreaming about Tag banging you within an inch of your life?” He thumped Barry on both arms.

  The coffee cup slipped from Barry’s grasp. The last few, cold sips dashed out across his desk and spattered the screen, the keyboard, and his pants.

  Ross snickered and plopped down in his seat across from Barry. A glare only quieted the man’s mirth—it didn’t banish it.

  “Fuck off.”

  “Hey. I tease because I care.”

  Barry relegated his response to single digit sign language.

  “Seriously, dude. You have got to move on.” Ross shook his head and jabbed at the ON button of his monitor. “That ship has sailed, man.”

  “Sank, more like,” Barry muttered, conceding to truth.

  “Whittaker!” Captain Taggart’s voice sliced through the room, and Barry winced. “My office.”

  “Used to like the sound of that,” he murmured as he gave his splattered khakis one last dab and rose. Ross didn’t snicker this time, and Barry patted his shoulder as he passed. “Just call me Davey Jones.”