by SE Jakes
They both stopped when sideways hail began hitting the window above the kitchen sink. The house creaked, the lights flickered, and then went out.
Prophet blinked and tried to swallow the panic. He started counting as soon as the reassuring hum of the generator kicked in—ten seconds down—and he continued to count, even as Tom nuzzled his chest, then bit his nipple hard enough for Prophet’s cock to stir.
He wound his hand in Tommy’s hair and breathed, and then the kitchen lights returned.
Tom’s head lifted. “You installed a generator in my aunt’s house?”
“Someone had to.”
Tom balanced his chin on Prophet’s chest. “Hope you bolted it down.”
“And alarmed the fucker too. And set up a trap to catch anyone who went near it.” Prophet paused. “I wasn’t going to tell you that before you went out to check the oil.”
“Fucker,” Tommy muttered. “You didn’t even know I was coming.”
“You said you couldn’t.”
“Don’t look at me that way—I didn’t come here to see you.”
“God forbid,” Prophet grumbled.
“I didn’t know you’d be here, Proph,” Tom said, his voice gentler now.
“Cut the innocent act, Voodoo. Unless you always carry condoms in your pocket when you travel.”
“Dammit, Proph . . . okay, look, I just knew it was as important as fuck for me to get here. I don’t ignore my gut. Not anymore.”
Jesus, Prophet didn’t want to do this yet. Things were so goddamned fragile between them, and the second either one of them pressed for more, it could all fall the fuck apart. Prophet refused to risk any of it to the threat of reality. Because the indisputable fact remained that he’d come here for Tommy, yes, but Tom had come for Della. No matter whether he’d thought Prophet might be here, Tom still hadn’t chosen him. “Things are better when we’re fucking. Simpler, at least.”
“I’m up for keeping it going.”
“You can’t even move.”
“Neither can you.”
Prophet held up a hand, then gave Tom the finger. “See? I moved.”
Tom lunged to completely pin him. Prophet was quicker, and they rolled underneath the table and hit the bench. Tom ended up on top, and as he leaned in for a kiss, Della cleared her throat in the most obvious of ways before coming into the kitchen.
They both glanced over and saw her feet, and Tom turned back to press his face against Prophet’s chest to keep from laughing. Prophet wound a protective hand in Tommy’s hair, and felt the man’s heartbeat, steady and strong against his.
“Roger and Dave enjoyed the show,” Della said. “I’d have charged money had I known. And nice to see you, Tom. Don’t get up. Just let me know if the house starts to float away.”
Prophet hooted softly, and Della left.
“She’s not pissed,” Tom said, and as he lifted his head to stare at Prophet, Prophet let his hand slide down to Tommy’s neck and then between his shoulder blades. “She actually sounded . . . happy. How long have you been here?”
Prophet snickered and rubbed Tom’s calf with his foot, spreading his legs so his cock touched Tom’s. “Long enough that she likes me better than you.”
“Such an asshole,” Tom muttered, but he shifted, a catch in his breath because they were both getting hard again. “What are they predicting? I couldn’t get a report during the last few hours before I got here.”
“I don’t listen. They’re never on target—it’s either way worse or not as bad.”
“Yeah.” Tom’s hand slid along Prophet’s chest and Prophet was dangerously close to rutting up against him again. And really, he saw no reason to try to control himself, but he did.
He needed a distraction. “Guess you’ve been through enough storms.”
“More than I can count.” Tom traced a finger along Prophet’s jawline. “Are we really talking about weather?”
“Yeah. Weather.” Prophet ran a hand down to Tom’s hip, the other cupping the back of Tom’s neck.
“Better than fighting.”
“Not by much. Fighting leads to fucking.”
Tom leaned in to kiss the hollow of Prophet’s neck, then murmured, “Weather leads there too,” with his lips still against Prophet’s skin.
Prophet closed his eyes for a second, secure with Tom’s body this close. “I don’t want to talk about all the shit we’re supposed to talk about. For tonight, let’s just not go there. There are other things I want to do more.”
“While the world falls down around us?”
“Especially because of that.” Prophet paused, then, ignoring his own advice, admitted, “You were . . . unexpected.” And not just because he’d walked through the door in the middle of a hurricane.
“You hate that.”
“Yes.”
“Because you’d rather be the unexpected one.”
“Yes,” Prophet said with relish. And that was the truth, although whether it was on purpose, or whether he was wired that way, he had no idea. It probably didn’t matter, but either way, it was something he’d cultivated out of necessity.
Tom laughed, seemingly with empathy rather than at him, and pressed another kiss to his collarbone, probably because Prophet had slowly started to move his hips, even as he asked, “So how did you make it here?”
“I have my resources, same as you.”
Prophet frowned at him. “I’ll fuck it out of you, if I have to.” And when Tom shivered at the implicit promise, Prophet chuckled. “You’re easy.”
“A slut for you,” Tom said seriously.
Prophet stared into Tom’s dark eyes and knew Tom was purposely repeating those words, the same ones Prophet had uttered to him months earlier. “Good.”
“At least we agree on something.”
Prophet apparently definitely agreed with him, because as soon as Tom had uttered those words, Prophet was kissing him. Honest to goodness holding him, kissing the shit out of him. His body flooded with heat, and he was like a giddy kid, floating from the attention. And even if he didn’t know anything else, he knew for sure that Prophet had come to New Orleans for him. But it didn’t so much matter why, it just mattered that he was here.
The other thing he knew for sure was that sex gave them a way to tell each other all the things they couldn’t bring themselves to say out loud.
Yet.
He rolled them back out from under the table, and then dragged Prophet up and pulled him into the bathroom off the laundry room. He’d noticed Prophet shivering, and while there was still hot water—hell, while there was still water, period—he figured they might as well try to get the mud off themselves. And their clothes. “Shit. Wait here.”
“Where would I go?” Prophet asked wryly, and Tom wagged a finger at him. Right now, Prophet was all goddamned his, all here and present in the moment, and Tom planned to keep it that way.
Quickly, he went out naked into the storm to retrieve his bag from the ground by the door where he’d dropped it when Prophet had tackled him. It was soaked through, so he threw those clothes into the washing machine, as well as their dirty clothes scattered all over the kitchen.
Finally, they were under the warm spray. Tom reveled in the chance to clean Prophet, who seemed content to let him fuss. And Tom did, because he couldn’t seem to help himself around Prophet. He washed Prophet’s hair, his back, cock, ass, and everything in between, taking way more care with the other man than he did on himself.
Prophet watched him the entire time, eyes like liquid steel boring into him with a thousand unasked questions. But when Tom moved closer to check out what looked like a knife wound on Prophet’s shoulder, Prophet’s expression shuttered. “What?” he challenged Tom.
“This isn’t from our mission.” He couldn’t bring himself to mention Sadiq’s name.
“It’s been four months, Tommy.”
Four months since Tom had chosen Cope. Four months during which Prophet had simply disappeared. “Where were
you?”
“On jobs.”
“Where did you get these jobs from?”
“You know . . . around.” Prophet motioned in the air and Tom shut the water off abruptly, the familiar agitation rising. But he wanted to give Prophet the benefit of the doubt that he wasn’t pulling away. Not this soon. Plus, Tom had agreed not to push the talking while the world was falling down around them. So he’d give Prophet until the hurricane passed before he started pushing.
And he’d also make damned sure he didn’t let go this time.
In front of him, Prophet shivered again, and Tom grabbed a towel and dried him off.
They each secured a towel around their waist as they walked out of the bathroom, and Tom peered into the kitchen. “We’re still alone.”
“They’re not coming back down here tonight. Well, maybe Roger.” Prophet dropped the towel and tugged his arm, and before Tom could react, he found himself naked—again—and sitting on the washing machine. Prophet moved between his legs and pulled him forward so he was balanced on his ass, clinging to Prophet’s shoulders as the man kissed him.
There was nothing better than Prophet’s kisses. They were as full of life and heat and as demanding as his fucking. He put everything he had into them, and the intensity flared to life between them again. It was like neither of them would get their fill anytime soon, and Prophet was right. This was so much easier than talking.
Prophet rocked against him, palmed both their cocks to stroke them languidly, his tongue still sliding against Tom’s, keeping him locked into the kiss.
After what seemed like hours of keeping him on edge, Prophet broke away from Tom and went into the kitchen, then came back with a condom and lube.
Tom shook his head. “You could’ve mentioned that you had lube the whole time.”
“Wanted to see how creative you could get,” Prophet told him. He rolled the condom on as Tom watched, and then squirted some lube on his fingers.
With that predatory gaze Tom wouldn’t forget if he lived forever, Prophet pushed him back slightly with a cool palm against his chest, forcing Tom’s legs open. Balanced precariously, he braced himself palms down on the washing machine as Prophet slid a finger inside of him.
He tensed at first, but Prophet smiled at him, and Tom relaxed into the fingering. “Yeah, Proph. That’s good.”
His body buzzed as Prophet added another finger and twisted them before hitting his gland several times without giving Tom a chance to recover. His mouth fell open as the sensation of needing to come that fucking instant rushed through him.
“Not yet, Tommy,” Prophet warned, wrapped his free hand around Tom’s cock and squeezed the base to quell any hope of an impending orgasm. “You’re going to have to find some patience.”
“Maybe . . . you can let me . . . borrow . . . some of yours,” Tom managed, and for that, Prophet added a third finger and simultaneously bit his nipple, and then tugged at the nipple rod with his teeth. Tom lifted his hips to fuck Prophet’s fingers and within seconds, he’d almost lost control again.
Their first time tonight had been about release and relief, almost an out-of-body experience, but this time, Tom had to say that—for once—the reality was just as good as the fantasy. Maybe even better, because there was no arm’s length between them. Tom had finally gotten through. Prophet was present and accounted for, staring right at Tom, daring him to notice.
And Tom had fucking noticed everything. Because Prophet was all his. Tom would set about proving that he’d never thought any differently, despite his choices.
Prophet stilled his fingers, then said, “I’m not, Tommy.”
“Not . . . what?”
“Pulling away. Just . . . not ready to go there.” He glanced over at the scar on his shoulder, then back at Tom. “But I’m here.”
He was, gloriously here.
It got wet and messy and urgent. Again. Tom was panting as Prophet replaced his fingers with his cock. When he was halfway in, Tom hooked his legs around the backs of Prophet’s thighs and pulled. Then groaned as his body fought to adjust.
It didn’t take long before they were incoherent again. Everything vibrated around them as the storm picked up, and then the washing machine went into spin cycle and . . .
“Holy fuck, Proph.” Tom was thankful the wind hid his near yell as Prophet laughed and continued thrusting inside of him, filling him as they both shook from the machine.
But more than anything, Tom loved watching Prophet during sex. It was like the man was surrendering to the act, forcing Tommy to do so as well. There was no choice, and the slow buildup of the climax curled his belly, tightened his balls until he shot between them like the orgasm had been yanked from him.
Prophet came several moments later, just as Tom was recovering, pulling him into a dry climax, because the man’s orgasms were a whirlwind that caught him up, slammed through him like a fucking tornado, and left him weak, out of breath, and not sure where the fuck he was.
It was awesome.
“Holy fuck,” he muttered when he had the power of speech again. “Never doing laundry without this again.”
Prophet laughed weakly against his ear.
Tom shuddered. “Are we just going to keep having sex so we can avoid talking about what we need to talk about?” Prophet pulled back and looked between Tom’s legs. “What?”
“Just checking to make sure you still have a dick.”
“Same one that fucked you through the wall while you begged for it,” Tom pointed out, and Prophet’s eyes grew heavy lidded with lust again. “You’re so easy, Proph.”
“For you.”
There was so much goddamned meaning behind those two little words, and the way Prophet said them, with a slight catch in his voice . . . those two words said everything else he couldn’t.
Tom swallowed hard and tried to convey the same sentiment when he simply told Prophet, “Me too.”
And then Prophet smiled mischievously. “Can we fuck again so we don’t have to talk? Because technically, what we just did counts.”
Tom laughed. “No, it doesn’t. But we can fuck anyway.”
It was more of a mutual handjob, with Tom on top of the dryer this time, still wrapped around Prophet, and it seemed to wring everything out of them. After a while, though, their skin began sticking together from sweat, and Tom thought about moving.
It was only then that he realized they were almost totally in the dark, because the door had swung closed and there was no light fixture in the small room . . . save for a green glow that he remembered well.
Prophet was looking up at the glow stars that were reflecting off their skin. Tom leaned in and kissed his neck. “I put those stars on the ceiling in sixth grade.” He remembered choosing the laundry room because it was small and dark and safe. Tucked out of the way. You could tell secrets here—or reveal them—and it would all be okay.
“Weren’t enough stars in the sky for you?”
“None that were just mine. Those were for everyone—the people I loved and the people who hated me. But these . . . these were all mine.”
Prophet didn’t say anything, just threaded his fingers through Tom’s. Tom turned to trace a star pattern on Prophet’s shoulder.
What were the odds of Prophet being in one of his childhood homes—the happy one?
Whenever he’d come into the French Quarter, he’d stepped into a different world. Being with Prophet felt exactly the same. He was always slightly off-balance but knew that nothing truly bad could touch him. How such an insane man had become his safe place would probably haunt him for the rest of his life.
“So you liked it here?” Prophet asked.
Here, Tom had still been looked on with suspicion, but no one had actively tried to hurt him. Not physically. “Yes. But Della took a lot of shit whenever I stayed with her.”
“That’s the job of an adult,” Prophet said, and Tom knew Prophet liked Della well enough, but he still heard anger in the man’s voice. “You’d pro
tect you in that situation, right?”
“With my life.” Tom stared at him in the semi-darkness. “I was protecting you with my choice, Proph. You know that.”
Prophet didn’t say a word, but his body tensed up. He didn’t pull away from Tom, but still . . .
“You’re all scary calm,” Tom whispered, “but I know you’re so pissed at me.” As much as they tried, they couldn’t completely avoid this topic tonight, not unless one of them took Viagra or the hurricane ended immediately.
A long moment of silence passed. “At you,” Prophet finally admitted. “At myself. You ran. But I let you. Then I ran too, and I don’t fucking run. I go into the fire, T, not away from it.”
“This was a different kind of fire.” Tom stared at him, the glow pattern dappling Prophet’s skin. Prophet, in his world. Under his stars. “Why didn’t you want a partner to begin with? Because of what happened with John?”
“I don’t work well as a team player.”
“I don’t buy that. I know why you had problems with me as your partner: my temper and almost killing that guy during our cage fight. And almost costing us our mission.” He had to get it out, had to articulate it, had to say it out loud to try to absolve himself.
It never worked.
Prophet shook his head. “Your temper doesn’t scare me. Not the way you think. I know tempers, but I’m worried about you.”
Tom was worried about both of them. “Did you read my emails?”
“Nice change of topic.”
“Proph . . .”
“Yeah,” Prophet disclosed grudgingly. “All at once, two days ago. I couldn’t open them before that, because I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That I’d come back. To you, for sure. And I’ve never done that, T.”
“Even with John?” There was no malice there. The ghost of John that had hung between them four months ago had dissipated.
“It was different with John. From the time I was twelve, he was my one constant.” Prophet paused, looked away as if wrestling with something he didn’t want Tom to see. A long moment ticked by, and then Prophet locked his gaze on Tom, much the way he’d done that very first time they’d met, a raw, almost brutal stare. “I searched for him for two full years after everyone said he was dead.”