by Lily Harlem
“What do you mean?” Reece frowned as though confused.
“I mean those fantasies we talked about. They’re going to happen, in Vegas. Every…single…one of them.” Cade moved closer and kissed Reece again, his tongue sliding between his teeth and his breaths still fast and excitable.
Long, slow claps snapped around the room.
Reece broke the kiss and looked at the doorway.
Tom was standing there banging his hands together. He was smiling and his eyes were bright.
“Bravo,” he said. “Absolutely bloody bravo. Well done, both of you.”
“You liked it?” Cade asked, sliding his hand to Reece’s arse and giving it a grope.
“Yeah, I only caught the last minute but that was more than I’d hoped for. You’ve both got it. You know that?” He held his hands up and his smile widened further. “You’re both going to be bloody stars.”
Reece enjoyed a flush of satisfaction and achievement. He’d done it. He’d gotten it right and damn, he’d been paid for it as well. He could do this, he really could.
“I haven’t seen you take it up the arse before, Cade,” Tom went on. “You usually like to dish it out, not take it.”
Reece looked at Cade and raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
Cade shrugged. “Yeah, well I was caught up in the scene.”
Reece leaned forward and dropped a kiss to his lips. “Well thanks, you know, for trusting me.”
He shrugged. “You trusted me yesterday.”
“How was it from your angle, Jack?” Tom asked.
Jack nodded. “Great, got it all, won’t be much editing. Their positions were fine all the way through and they stuck to the script, mostly.”
Tom grinned. “That’s what I like to hear, and all done on one take. No waiting around for erections to show themselves again.” He paused and shook his head. “Yep, better than I’d dared hope.” He put his hand on the door and turned the handle. “Oh, and boys…?”
“Yes?” Cade said.
“Go get your passports.”
“Why?” Reece asked.
“Because you’re flying to Vegas in a few hours.” He grinned. “For real.”
Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:
Who Dares Wins
Lily Harlem
Excerpt
Chapter One
It’s the dreams that are the worst when Jack is away. They start off pleasant enough—me riding a bike in the woods, a picnic spread on a blanket with the sea breeze ruffling my hair, my handsome soldier-lover talking of our plans for the future—but they always turn dark, these dreams. Before I wake there’s a plunge into blackness, an abyss, like falling from a plane without a parachute and flailing for something to hold on to—reaching out and finding nothing.
When I do wake I’m left with this gut-wrenching breathlessness, my heart is racing and my limbs are heavy. Often it’s this one section of the night that lingers with me, it’s a sensation of running but not getting anywhere, putting all of my efforts into reaching Jack, battling uneven terrain, steaming uphill, fighting enemies. But my limbs are leaden, my efforts not rewarded.
I’m standing still.
It doesn’t take a psychologist to decipher the meaning. I’m just a deputy manager of a small town garden center and I can figure out the symbolism.
When my partner Jack is away on a mission and I’m left at home in our little Cornish cottage, I’m utterly helpless. Oh, not that I can’t get up in the morning and get on with my day. That’s fine. I’m just not part of his terrifying world. If something happens to him, then yes, they’ll tell me eventually, but not until it’s too late, not until it’s over for him. If he needed me, was shot by enemy fire, captured and tortured, I’d never know until his ordeal was history.
Until he was history.
“Morning, Ken,” Mary said, rattling a trolley of begonias past me.
I glanced up from the vegetable seed stock chart I was double-checking. “Hey, Mary. How are you?”
“Great, thanks. Busy though, boss. We’ve just had another delivery.”
I grinned. “Good, now stop slacking and go and earn your money.”
She stuck her tongue out, then smiled and carried on toward the aisle of sweetly scented border plants.
Working at Bedding Beautiful was a godsend. Not only did it take my mind off the scary times when my gorgeous Master was away on duty, it also provided me with a kind of pseudo family. Everyone knew and accepted that I was gay and that I was sometimes teetering on the edge of my nerves. They didn’t know what Jack did exactly, that was confidential information, but they knew he worked away and I was left home alone.
Stock check complete, I headed to the cold drinks machine, slipped in a coin and watched a can of Coke rattle to the bottom tray. I then grabbed a muesli bar from the shelf—I’d never have Jack’s honed physique, if anything I was a little on the skinny side—and flipped open my wallet to pay for the shop purchase.
An image of Jack stared back at me.
I paused for a moment, studied the close-up photo I knew and loved. Jack was so handsome, so testosterone-soaked. In this picture, taken on an exercise in Borneo by his colleague Slider, his face was marked with muddy camouflage covering his lips, nose and cheeks in angled streaks. His eyes held that determined, bring-it-on glint that made my legs go weak. The brimmed hard-hat he wore sat low on his forehead, netting material around it to aid his ability to melt into the forest, to hide and move without detection.
Although I couldn’t see it, I knew he was holding a gun, a big heavy machine he could use with seamless efficiency. He wasn’t nicknamed Jack One Shot for nothing—he always hit the target, no matter what he was aiming for.
My imagination could easily conjure up the rest of the photograph. Khaki standard issue uniform trousers that sat at a sexy angle on his hips, the folds around his groin just tight enough to give me a hint of what was beneath, just loose enough to keep the mystery. Clumping great boots that in any other situation but a war-zone would seem ridiculously big and heavy, but on Jack, in his uniform, were enough to make my cock swell. Once, on my birthday, I’d even asked him to make love to me wearing his trousers and boots. It had been late at night and we were swapping fantasies, messing about. We did that a lot if Jack was in his relaxed, on-leave mood. That was the beauty of having been together for so long and understanding each other so well—recognizing moods and sharing fantasies came easily and naturally.
I shut my wallet, cracked open my drink and took a gulp.
Another fantasy we’d often talked about was a threesome. After eight years committed to each other, monogamous and faithful, we both had daydreams of sharing another lover, together, exploring another man’s body, seeing what turned him on, watching him come, seeing what new delights he could offer us.
Jack was particularly taken with the idea of giving me, because I was his, to someone and watching me be seduced. He wanted to be a voyeur, see me in the throes of passion while he sat calmly and studied my every expression, my every twitch of ecstasy and cry of pleasure.
Of course it had never happened. Our quiet seaside hometown had yet to deliver us a gay hunk who was ready, willing and able. But still I thought of it often. Pleasant images of Jack’s cock in my mouth as another lover took my arse could wile away empty hours. As could a little self-pleasuring fantasizing about Jack watching as I was stripped naked, kissed all over then rimmed by our pleasure-seeking Adonis.
A nameless, faceless Adonis who for some reason always wore the same combat uniform as Jack and had a similar musky, raw scent.
Delicious.
The daydream of Jack watching me being seduced, his dick hard and aching, his keen eyes registering every bit of the action, had me almost coming in my pants whenever I thought of it.
Fuck, now my cock was stiffening at work. It was pressing up against the zipper of my neat navy trousers and making it uncomfortable to walk.
But I did, thankfully, and w
as grateful that no one was taking any notice of me as I headed into my office, shut the door and wished the next twelve hours would pass at super-sonic speed. Because that evening, God willing, Jack would be walking through our front door and shouting, ‘Come here, Ken, I want what’s mine’ in his gravelly do-as-I-say voice.
And of course I would be there for him, ready to give him whatever he desired.
* * * *
“Come here, Ken, I want what’s mine.”
My heart felt as though it had flipped, my stomach clenched and I flicked the stove to simmer to keep the mushroom risotto I’d cooked warm.
Finally, after two weeks away, my Jack was home.
I dashed across the kitchen, straightening the cutlery on the table set for two as I went, and careened into the hallway.
Would he have me there, straight away? Bend me over the cabinet holding our holiday photographs and plunder his needy, greedy cock straight into my arse?
I hoped so.
Perhaps he’d just kiss me, sweetly at first then ravenously, hungrily until we could take it no more, before he’d push me to my knees and have me suck on his gloriously thick cock until he came in a rush?
That would be good too.
Or maybe we’d dash upstairs, strip, and leap into the shower. He liked me to fuck him in the shower, loved the water slipping around my cock and onto his balls as I penetrated him, so he said.
I’d be up for that. In fact my dick already was.
“Hey, Jack, I’ve…” My words trailed off and my steps faltered.
Jack was not alone.
He stood, in his casual gear—thick boots, mud-brown combats and a tight black T-shirt—side-by-side a man in identical clothing.
A man I recognized as Slider, Jack’s long-term friend and fellow officer.
Their stances were mirror image. Feet apart, hands on hips, heads stooped slightly because of the low beams in the cottage hallway. The way their clothes hugged their sleekly defined muscles also matched perfectly.
The only difference was Jack wore a hat, a peaked cap, hiding his super-short crop cut, while Slider didn’t. His stubbly short hair was visible.
“Oh,” I said. “We have company. Hi, Slider. How are you?”
“Been a long time, Ken.” Slider nodded, his lips remaining in a tight line, his face as weathered and serious as I remembered it to be.
“Yes, it has.” I glanced at Jack, silently asking why he hadn’t let me know he was bringing a soldier friend.
Jack gave the smallest shrug and I remembered that he hadn’t taken his mobile phone, as was often the case.
“Yes,” I said, “it must be a couple of years since you visited, but it’s great to see you. I have plenty of dinner. Jack is always ravenous when he gets home.” But usually ravenous for me, I added silently, feeling hugely disappointed that I wouldn’t be getting up close and personal with the cabinet to my left, or dashing up to the shower to plunder Jack’s horny arse.
“I am,” Jack said, dropping the black canvas bag he was holding with a thump and stepping up to me. “Very hungry.”
He curled his hand around the back of my head, encasing my crown in his big palm, and leaned down, his lips hovering above mine.
“And I’ve missed you,” he said, sinking his fingers into my long strands of hair. “So fucking much I could kill something.”
I gasped, pressed my hands over his chest and lost myself in his dark, dangerous eyes that were shadowed by his cap.
He never gave in to public displays of affection.
Ever.
It just wasn’t Jack.
“Killing is perhaps a bit extreme,” I managed as a tumble of lust rolled in my stomach. The look he was giving me—it was that dominant, determined glint that made me want to obey, submit, fold to the floor.
His lips twitched, kind of a smile, then he kissed me. Not just a peck but a hard, passion-infused mating of mouths. His tongue searched for mine, thick, wet and insistent. Our lips moved firmly against each other and his breaths blew onto my cheek.
Eventually he paused for air and smiled down at me properly. “That hasn’t even begun to take the edge off my needs but it’ll do for now.” He stroked his hand down my back to my arse and squeezed my buttocks through my trousers in an unabashed grope and a serious act of possession.
A quiver attacked my arsehole, my bollocks tingled in a heavy, hot way and my dick surged to attention.
“Ah, you two are so good together,” Slider said, also dropping his bag. “You’re a lucky man, Jack.”
He stepped up to us, slapped his hand on Jack’s shoulder and stared down at me.
Despite my shock at the sudden turn of events, I studied Slider’s eyes.
There was something I hadn’t seen there before. Not that we’d had lots of contact in the past, but still, there was something new—a certainty, a contentment, a trust.
And maybe even…desire…
“I know I’m lucky,” Jack said. “And whenever I face my maker, I ask to be spared so I can spend my life taking care of Ken.”
It was an unusually romantic thing for Jack to say, which could only mean one thing. Whatever it was he’d been doing had been damn dangerous. He rarely told me anything about his missions—they were classified, top-secret—but he couldn’t censor what he said in his sleep and murmurs of desert rats, infested jungles, enemies crawling nearer and shouts of warning stayed with me long after they’d been uttered. The images then sat heavy in my imagination, and stole my thoughts in the dead of the night when he was away.
“I’m glad you’re both back safe,” I said, glancing between the two hot, but now that I looked, weary soldiers standing before me. “Come, let’s eat.”
‘I’ll go wash up,” Jack said, finally releasing my arse with a playful pat. “Slider, you can use the bathroom through there.” He indicated the downstairs washroom then reached for his bag and banged up the stairs.
Slider didn’t move. Instead, he looked at me intently then let his gaze roam my body, slowly, deliberately, toes to face, in a way he never had before.
Butterflies tickled my insides. My cock refused to behave and was still surging up against my boxers—I was sure the outline would be visible.
I’d been gay all of my life, never been any other way, and I was pretty damn sure that Slider was giving me the look of a man who wanted to peel my clothes off, bend me over and ram his dick where the sun doesn’t shine.
A tickle of lust rushed over my scalp and down my spine.
I wouldn’t fucking complain if he did. The guy was hot, but…he wasn’t gay.
Was he?
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About the Author
Lily Harlem lives in the UK with a workaholic hunk and a crazy cat. With a desk overlooking rolling hills her over active imagination has been allowed to run wild and free and she revels in using the written word as an outlet for her creativity.
Lily’s stories are made up of colorful characters exploring their sexuality and sensuality in a safe, consensual way. With the bedroom door left wide open the reader can hang on for the ride and Lily hopes by reading sensual romance people will be brave enough to try something new themselves–after all, life’s too short to be anything other than fully satisfied.
Email: [email protected]
Lily loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.
Also by Lily Harlem
Thief
Escape to the Country
Treble: Orchestrating Maneuvers
Stand to Attention: Who Dares Wins
Wild Angels: Burning Rubber
Christmas Crackers: Candy Canes and Coal Dust
Bollywood: The Unwholesome Adventures of Harita
Caught on Camera: Part One
Totally Bound Publishing
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