by SE Jakes
No one had ever tamed Prophet. Tom could only hope to possibly keep the man’s interest while letting him run wild.
He swallowed hard as Prophet put his hands on the collar of his T-shirt and then ripped it in half as if it were made of paper. A clean split down the middle, and then he left it hanging there on Tom’s shoulders.
Tom stilled, left his hands at his sides. Prophet hadn’t commanded him to. Not with words, anyway, but it was times like this that Tom could truly see how completely badassed the man hovering over him was.
He wanted that. Craved it.
Prophet smiled then, the smile of someone who had a secret. He ran a finger around Tom’s nipple, tugged the bar almost absently, as whatever plan he was concocting unfolded inside his head.
In a split second, the mood changed. Prophet eased off him, and before Tom had time to miss the contact, Prophet flipped him so he landed on his face. Prophet yanked his arms up behind his back, like he was going to handcuff Tom, but used the ends of the shirt to tie him instead, which also partially immobilized his shoulders. The bindings were tight and impossible to rip, based on the position Prophet had him in.
He heard a couple of drawers opening and closing, but Prophet still held him in place with one hand. And then Prophet reached under him, unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans and pulled them down, along with his boxer briefs—carefully, no doubt because of the piercings. And then he slowly eased Tom’s hips into the air, spreading his thighs wide, which left Tom naked, open, and vulnerable.
He had no choice but to rest his cheek against the sheet, so aware of how bound he was, so painfully aware that he both hated this and desperately wanted this at the same time. He had no real way to move without throwing himself completely off-balance.
He’d have to rely on Prophet, let him take what he wanted, what they both needed.
As if to prove that point, Prophet trailed a slickly lubed finger between his ass checks, pressed against his opening, and Tom groaned. Tried to push against the finger and couldn’t. Prophet put a hand on his shoulder to both steady him and keep him from moving, from seeking the pleasure he wanted.
Prophet’s finger breached him, but it was too damned gentle. Tom tried to breathe, closed his eyes, tried to go with it. He was rewarded with a second finger and a sharp twist that made Prophet’s fingertips brush his gland. He whimpered as his body demanded more, immediately.
Prophet, though, was content with setting a leisurely rhythm, taking and keeping charge. Tom buried his face into the sheets, muttered, “C’mon Proph,” and was rewarded with a hard slap on his ass.
And by reward, he meant reward.
Tom blew out a hard breath at the sharp sting and waited for more. When none came, he begged, “Come on. You promised.”
“Fucker. Not supposed to enjoy it.”
But there was no way Prophet believed that. He was as intimately acquainted with the pleasure-pain continuum that Tom skated across as Tom was, because it was mapped all over his body.
As if reading his mind, Prophet reached his hand around and tugged a nipple bar hard. Tom hissed, and Prophet delivered several more hard, heated slaps. Tom wanted to reach around and grab his cock, tugged on the bonds in frustration. And the bastard chuckled. Moved his hand to play with Tom’s cock piercings, a slight pull on each of them until Tom was jumping out of his skin.
And so it went—slaps mixed with tugs, until Tom was so mixed up with the sensations that he didn’t know if he was coming or going. And he didn’t care as long as Prophet didn’t stop.
Finally, Prophet lined up behind him, dragged his cock along Tom’s ass, thrusting back and forth with that minimal contact that would never be enough. Tom’s skin was slick with sweat, and he’d nearly bitten through the sheets in an effort not to curse Prophet out for making him goddamned suffer.
And then Prophet was inside him, a long, not-so-slow slide that had Tom full-fledged cursing, yanking at the bindings, trying to get free and get closer to Prophet.
Prophet drew his cock out and in, the same goddamned slow pace he’d already set. A hand on his shoulder, holding him tight to the bed, the other on Tom’s hip. He thrust as he pulled Tom’s hips to him to make the force of his thrusts greater. Tom was trembling, inside and out. “Fucking the fight out of me?”
“Keep digging yourself deeper,” Prophet told him, slapping his already sore ass, and fuck, Prophet knew he would.
Several deep thrusts had Tom whimpering. Begging. Headed toward incoherence, which was obviously how Prophet wanted it.
“Please, Proph. You know what I need.”
“Yeah, Tommy. I do,” Prophet said quietly.
His hips snapped against Tom, flesh slapped flesh, and their groans and curses filled the room. Tom came with jerky motions as Prophet’s cock pressed against his gland, continuing to milk him, prolonging his orgasm much longer than he could ever remember it being before.
It was only after he was able to see again that he realized Prophet hadn’t come. And he didn’t seem to want to. He remained inside Tom, his body close as he rubbed a hand over Tom’s back instead, asked, “What did the police say to you when they released you?”
Not the normal post-sex talk, but nothing was fucking normal anymore. “They told me not to leave the city limits of New Orleans or these parishes.”
“Was I right about what happened to you in that cell?”
Tom glanced at him over his shoulder but couldn’t bring himself to admit it. “I tripped. Down the stairs.”
“I will fucking kill Lew.” Prophet ran a hand along Tom’s side. “Ribs?”
“Just bruised. And I’m not telling you what happened, Proph, because I don’t want you to do anything stupid. I’ve already done enough, okay?”
Prophet ran a hand over his cheek as if he knew that was as much of an admission as he’d get for the moment. Kissed the back of his neck before muttering, “Dammit, Tommy.”
“I didn’t think I’d be let out.”
“Etienne said the ME ruled it a suicide.”
“When have you ever known an ME to rule that quickly?”
“In this town, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but your ex’s family seems to be willing to lend a helping hand.” Prophet paused. “Although Etienne said that this time it wasn’t necessary. So what, you think Lew had an ulterior motive in letting you out?”
Tom nodded. Tested the bonds. Prophet’s hands landed on his wrists, letting him know he wasn’t being let go just yet.
“I want to call you fucking paranoid—and I hope to hell that’s all it is—but dammit, my gut’s screaming too.” He shifted off Tom, pulling out of him and pushing Tom so they were both on their sides, facing each other. “Which is why you don’t leave my side.”
“I didn’t mean to fight like that,” Tom said suddenly. But he’d felt like he’d been fighting for his life, fighting against everyone and everything in this goddamned place.
He’d been fighting his past. You’d think by now he’d have realized that never worked.
“If you harnessed your temper, stayed in control when you fought, you’d be as dangerous as fuck.”
“So teach me.”
“You’re dangerous enough already.”
Tom turned to stare at him. “You going to untie me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On if you’re going to continue to spiral down.”
Tom stared at the sheets. “Keep me tied.”
Tom woke from a brief nap with sore arms, a sorer ass, face, and ribs and less of a piss-poor attitude than he’d thought he’d have.
He glanced over at Prophet, who was texting, concentrating on the screen, a small smile tugging at his lips. Without looking at him, Prophet said, “I know you were dogging Cillian in Somalia. That you followed him to four different hotels. That you were nearly robbed and beaten twice.”
“How do you know all of that?” Tom demanded, attitude newly engaged and prepared to laun
ch, because he’d told no one that, not Cope or Phil. Hadn’t emailed or called anyone from his EE phone while he’d been there.
Finally, Prophet looked up at him. And lied. “Cillian told me.”
“Try again. He might’ve known I was following him, but I’m not that fucking transparent. Personally, I think it was just a lucky guess.”
Prophet sighed. “That lead you had on Cillian? That source who was helping you track him? Cillian was the source who tipped you off. You were going in circles most of the time. At one point, he had you tracking me.”
“Again, how do you know all these things that almost happened to me? Was Cillian following me? Why bother to throw me off the track then?”
“I have a lot of sources, Tommy.”
“Maybe someday I could meet some of them,” Tom shot back. “Are you working for Cillian?”
“Not for him. He had a job. A one-off. Offered it. I took it. Freelance. All mine. And for the record, he made sure you were a good three days behind me every step of the way.” He paused. “That was early on, when you first got to Eritrea. And you were alone, right? Not with Cope? Zero backup in a part of the world you’re not familiar with?”
Tom hung his head. Prophet stood, pocketed his phone, and knelt on the bed behind Tom. Untied the T-shirt and rubbed his wrists and arms to get the blood circulating. Tom didn’t deserve that at all, but Prophet didn’t seem angry anymore. He’d softened, and that made Tom feel worse. “Cillian played me. Asshole’s better than I gave him credit for.”
“He’s good, T. Really fucking good. You need to back off him completely.”
“Why aren’t you? Is this about Sadiq?”
“What’s your issue with Cillian?”
“I don’t trust him.”
“But he’s not doing anything for you to trust or not to trust.”
“He’s looking into things for you. Anything that concerns you . . .” He stopped, feeling more than halfway foolish by saying it out loud. Putting stuff like that into an email was one thing but . . .
Prophet stroked a hand along the back of his neck—a cool touch against his suddenly overheated skin. “He was.”
Tom turned to stare up at him. “And?”
A tick in Prophet’s jaw, and then, “He told me John’s dead.”
“And I know you can’t be fucking thinking about believing him.”
“I have no reason to think he’s lying.”
“Bullshit you don’t. Prophet, come the fuck on. You searched for the guy for two years, found nothing. I’m sure, even after you came back from the search, you kept looking, am I right? And in the space of what, weeks, Cillian finds his body?”
Prophet blinked at him. “Maybe it was never lost.”
Tom slammed a fist against the bed. “I don’t know why I bother.”
“Me neither.”
“Fucking impossible.”
Prophet nodded, accepting that easily. Like the guy enjoyed owning it. And then he conceded slightly. “Look, I also took that job—a lot of jobs—to throw Cillian off track.”
“How so?”
“If Cillian knew I was too busy to sniff around—because he’s gotta know I don’t fully believe him about finding proof of John’s death—and he knows you can’t get close to him, then he’ll go about his business like he’s got nothing to worry about.”
“Does he, though?”
“Yep. Mal.”
“So Phil knows . . .”
“Nothing,” Prophet said sharply. “He can’t know. For his safety. For the safety of everyone else at EE.”
Tom nodded and tried to process everything Prophet had just told him. “Did I fuck things up?”
“No. It actually helped,” Prophet admitted grudgingly. “Your reaction to Cillian . . . is that because you don’t like the guy or because—”
“It’s not because of Cillian. I just don’t believe him. And neither do you.” Tom pointed at him, then dropped his hand. “Let me help you find John. I want to be your goddamned partner. And I know I chose Cope—but I guess I was hoping we could still . . .”
“Fuck?” Prophet asked.
“I didn’t want to lose you, Proph. That’s what it was all about.”
Prophet nodded tiredly. “Can we deal with one thing at a time? Your crisis is a little more pressing than a man I’ve been trying to find for ten years.”
“Yeah. But can you do one thing first?”
“What’s that?”
“Put that back on me?” He motioned to the bracelet on the table next to where Prophet had been sitting. “I wanted to, but it didn’t seem right.”
God, could he sound more fucking stupid? But he was done hiding, and it was the way he felt.
Prophet didn’t hesitate, got up, grabbed the bracelet, sat next to Tom on the bed, and tied the thin strip of leather around his wrist. Tom flashed back to the first time he’d done so, before the cage match, when Tom had been as turned around as he was now.
But he knew a hell of a lot more now, about himself and Prophet, and he took comfort in that as he slid his hand into Prophet’s. He was thinner but somehow more muscled, the look of a battle-worn soldier who used his job in lieu of a gym. “I keep getting you in trouble.”
Bad loque.
“I’d follow your gut anywhere, T. That’s not the issue. I’m worried about you.”
“I know you get angry, Proph. Don’t you ever fight? Just fucking lose it and start punching whoever’s closest?” He realized he’d growled those words, that his hands had fisted.
Prophet, of course, had too. Reached out and physically unfisted Tom’s hands. “I try not to. And when I do, I don’t fight angry. Anger gives your opponent the upper hand.”
“Ivan didn’t have the upper hand in that cage match.”
“Of course he did—you hurt him when you didn’t mean to, and that shit will haunt you forever.”
He hated Prophet for being right. “You took care of John like this. And you grew to resent it.”
“After a while, yes. I hated feeling guilty about it, about him. But the more violent he got, the more angry he became. It escalated, and by the end, I was more his keeper than his lover. And I won’t go there again. I can’t. Because as shitty as it was for me, it was actually worse for John. Much worse. So that was my fault.”
“You’re not responsible for anyone else’s—”
“I made myself responsible,” Prophet interrupted, and Tom knew when to cut his losses, so he closed the subject and opened a new one.
“I’m going to clean up. Then I need to make a stop. Will you come with me, Proph?”
“Of course, T,” Prophet told him without a second’s hesitation. “’S’why I’m here.”
Prophet followed Tom through the bramble of tall grass and other plants that lined the bayou. The heat of the day had waned as the afternoon pushed into early evening, and there was still a decent breeze, the remnant of the hurricane that had put all this shit into motion.
Granted, something good had come out of it. Someone. It hurt to watch Tom’s shoulders set so stiffly as he walked ahead, like he was marching to his death. Tom wouldn’t tell him where they were going, only assured him that no one would follow their asses out here.
And Prophet could see why. You could fucking die out here, and no one would ever find you.
At first, they’d driven Etienne’s old Jeep through flooded roads. The sun was fighting to come out and water had receded somewhat, leaving some roads still inaccessible, but Tom knew every single back road and shortcut in this damned place.
They’d left the Jeep half a mile back.
“This is a graveyard,” Prophet said suddenly as stone mausoleums suddenly loomed out everywhere between the tall grasses.
“Yes.”
“Why isn’t it underwater?”
“It’s never flooded. It’s one of the only places that doesn’t.”
“But the bodies are still all above ground.”
“Yeah, they’re sho
ved into these mausoleums together.” Tom pointed to the nameplates on the sides as they walked.
“That’s not right.”
“Everyone says it’s not right that this place never takes on water. It’s low enough. The surrounding areas always flood.”
“So what, Mother Nature has respect for the dead?”
“They say it’s because there’s evil buried here.”
“Evil?”
“People who weren’t allowed to be buried with their families. The unclaimed. Criminals.” Tom’s face wore a troubled expression. He’d stopped at a small clearing and Prophet came up next to him to see a small gravestone, the only one that was clearly marked and not brimming with overgrowth. Someone tended lovingly to this grave.
“That’s my mom’s grave,” Tom said in answer to Prophet’s unspoken question.
“She’s all by herself.”
“They have too much respect for the criminals to bury them next to her,” Tom said, his voice tight.
Prophet put a hand on his shoulder, but didn’t push Tom further. Everything in its time. “Do you do the upkeep?”
“When I’m here. When I can’t be, I pay old man Brown to come out here and do this for me. Don’t want her to be forgotten. Feel bad the rest of them are.” He shrugged sadly. “I was too young to have a say where she was buried, because it sure as hell wouldn’t’ve been here. But I don’t believe in disturbing the dead unless I absolutely have to.”
“How old were you when she died?”
Tom glanced at him. “She died in childbirth.”
“Ah, Tommy.”
Tom shoved his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for coming along. I know you wouldn’t let me go alone, but that’s not the only reason I asked you.” He glanced at Prophet with a hint of laughter with zero humor behind it. “Correction: I shouldn’t come alone. Don’t say you can’t teach me anything.”
Prophet gave Tom’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Want me to give you some space?”
“Yeah. If you don’t mind.”
Prophet didn’t, backed away to where he could keep an eye on Tommy and the area that surrounded him. He’d never been a religious man, but he’d been known to say a prayer or two. So he sent one up for Tom’s mother.