Cold-Hearted Concept

by Whitley Gray

  Beck turned off the bathroom light and came to the bed clad in gray boxer briefs and the scents of freshly washed skin and toothpaste. “What’re you thinking about?”

  “The Follower.”

  “Nice bedtime story, Littman.” The bed jostled as Beck climbed in and stretched out with a contented groan. “God, this feels good.”

  “Happiness is an orthopedic mattress after a long day.”

  Rolling on his side and up on his elbow, Beck said, “Happiness is someone to share the orthopedic mattress with.” Beck bent and kissed him, a gentle good-night press of lips. Pleasant and entirely appropriate.

  It had been a hell of a day, and neither of them had the endurance or inclination for a vigorous bout of lovemaking. But Beck’s kiss was enticing, and Zach felt a surge of interest, both mentally and physically.

  Wrapping his hand around Beck’s nape, Zach pushed his tongue past Beck’s chastely closed lips, deepening the kiss. And then they were making out in earnest, with nibbles and licks and the sweetness of lips moving together. Just when Beck seemed to be getting into the spirit of things, he pulled back.

  “More,” Zach whispered.

  Beck flopped down beside him. “It’s late, and I’m beat. Aren’t you beat?”

  “Yeah. But you started something, Stryker.”

  “That may be true, but I don’t know if I can finish it.”

  “You’re not that old,” Zach said. Beck was light-years from dotage.

  “No, but I’m that exhausted.”

  “It’d be relaxing.”

  Chuckling, Beck reached for his hand. “Sounds like rationalization.”

  Whatever. Zach rolled and pressed his semihard dick against Beck’s thigh. “Here’s my rationalization.”

  “Jesus.” With a groan, Beck shifted to face him.

  And the tide turns…

  Grinning, Zach ran a hand down Beck’s abdomen and over the soft material of his boxer briefs. Beck was ready to go, cock hard and hot and straining against cotton. He might be tired, but his body must want this as much as Zach’s did. Hell, Beck must need this as much as Zach did. That meant there was one solution.

  Zach rubbed the heel of his hand along Beck’s shaft. “Hmm. It appears we’re both rationalizing.”

  “Yeah? Let me check.” Beck’s hand dived inside Zach’s briefs and gave his shaft a gratifying pump.

  Zach hissed. Beck better have more game than talk.

  “Need more information.” Beck’s hand delved farther, cupping Zach’s balls. “Yep. Everything’s rationalized down here. And here.” Beck’s fingers stroked the sensitive skin behind the tight sac, a touch that was part tickle, part teasing drag on Zach’s hole.

  Oh God. Zach pushed his hips forward.

  “What would you like?” Beck kissed him beneath the chin.

  “For you to make the decision.”

  Staring at him in the gloom, Beck frowned.

  Since adolescence, Zach had been versatile with his partners and inclined to trade off when it came to topping. It was only fair. And with Beck it had been that way too. Beck was a generous lover, always putting his partner’s comfort and pleasure above his own. With him, sex was terrific any way it came, and Beck had never voiced a preference.

  It was all stellar, but somehow there was that little bit of extra wow when on the receiving end of Beck’s ministrations, like a gourmet meal topped off with a decadent dessert.

  More and more these days, Zach found himself wanting to be fucked. Tonight he wanted to be fucked through the mattress.

  Last October Beck had given him what he needed without question, without judgment. Without the benefit of knowing exactly what had sent Zach reeling, Beck had delivered what Zach had required. And that was what Zach wanted now: hard and dirty, and in someone else’s charge.

  “I don’t want to think tonight,” Zach said, “only feel. And I want you calling the shots.”

  Beck ran a hand through Zach’s hair. “Is this about the task force meeting?”

  “It’s—”It’s about the fact that I am so damn sick of making decisions. “Tonight I just want to be with you. I need you…” Zach shut his eyes. “I need you to take me. Fuck me hard and fast. Please.”

  Fingers tightening in Zach’s hair, Beck kissed him on the forehead, the tip of his nose, and then placed a warm and wet kiss on Zach’s lips. “Kick off your shorts.”

  Thank God. Zach slid them off while Beck likewise divested himself of underwear.

  “Roll onto your belly.” Beck’s voice had roughened.

  Heart racing with pleasure, Zach complied, folded his arms, and cradled his cheek on his hands. The bedside table drawer slid open, shut. Ah, yes. The necessities. Plain lube or fancy? Slow prep or fast? No matter. A little burn on entry would be welcome.

  “Legs apart,” Beck said.

  Wordlessly, Zach parted his thighs. Usually they did this step face-to-face and at a leisurely pace—as foreplay. Beck was a big proponent of making the preparation a delectable appetizer before the main course. Something to be savored instead of rushed. It made a difference in a good way.

  But tonight Zach hoped getting ready was efficient instead of prolonged.

  Tiny kisses peppered his shoulders, traveled down his spine, and paused at the top of his cleft, raising goose bumps. Zach held still, anticipating. Behind him, Beck gave a shuddering sigh and stroked Zach’s side. Would Beck use his tongue? The lube? Would he tease with his hand?

  Beck’s cool, slippery fingers traced Zach’s crease, and he shivered. This was good; better to go slow and enjoy the ride. He caught a whiff of the sweet-scented slick. Vanilla. One blunt fingertip pierced him. Warm and wet and sort of rough. A slippery but welcome intrusion working through the ring of muscle. A taste of things to come. The sting faded away. It was a claiming as much as foreplay. You belong to me. Beck made a sensory feast of the ritual. Zach moved his hips against the sheets and let out a contented moan.

  “Good?” Beck sounded happy.

  “Very good.”

  A second finger joined the first—gentle and unhurried—working the vanilla-scented slick into Zach’s body. Freshly awakened nerve endings generated heat at the base of Zach’s cock.

  Beck asked, “How about now?”

  Zach managed a moan.

  This. The intimacy of offering up his ass to another man—of offering up control—this was what he needed. Closing his eyes, Zach relished the pressure and soothing strokes in his body, the tingling in his channel and dick and balls.

  “Okay?” Beck sounded a bit breathless.

  “Just keeps getting better.” And it did. It felt like an inner massage designed just for him: a little stretch of muscle, a little rub on the prostate. A flood of sparks shot up his spinal column to his brain.

  Beck’s fingers pulled away too soon.

  But he was about to feel Beck’s weight pressing him into the mattress from top to bottom…

  “On your knees.”

  Or not. Zach got to his hands and knees.

  Beck settled behind him and stroked his spine. “Ready?”

  “Do it. Go.” Beck’s cock poked once and shoved inside, stealing Zach’s breath and filling him with a sweet agony. A few deep breaths and the discomfort transformed to an exquisite ache. Zach was conscious of Beck leaning over him, chest pressed to Zach’s spine.

  “Okay?” Beck gasped.

  “Yeah. I’m good.” Zach shook. Full.

  Beck wrapped an arm around Zach’s belly. “Slowly drop to your stomach.”

  With a grunt, Zach lowered to his elbows, let his legs slide out from under him, and then spread his arms out to the sides. The delicious mass of Beck’s muscular body pressed Zach into the bedding, and his dick worked deep inside. Beck’s minty-fresh breath warmed Zach’s ear.

  “Still okay?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” It was good. Very good. Great, in fact. “Go.”

  Nothing happened. Beck didn’t move or talk; there was no to-and-fro.


  After what seemed an eternity, Zach asked, “Um, Beck? Everything okay?”

  Beck gave an uneasy chuckle. “I just… I want to see your face.”

  Zach examined that. They’d done it before without positioning face-to-face. What was up? “Any particular reason?”

  “Because this feels like fucking, and it means so much more than fucking when you love someone.” Beck kissed his shoulder. “I love you, and I want to make love. I want to watch your face.”

  Zach’s heart gave a happy skip, and his insides melted into a sweet gooey puddle. Make love. They’d never referred to it as that before. “Okay. You want to pull back and I’ll roll over?”

  Beck stayed put. “Sure that’s okay?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The ache ramped up when Beck withdrew, but faded as Zach flipped onto his back, bent his knees, and spread his thighs. A little more of the lube, and he was ready. Smiling, Beck stretched out on top of him, and Zach shifted to make room. He grinned, and Beck kissed him.

  “Better?” Zach asked.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Zach ran his hands over the succulent rise of Beck’s ass and urged him forward. The tip of Beck’s cock nudged the entrance, slid away, and then hit home, gliding deep inside. This time the burn peaked and then dropped into a full, aching throb. Together like this, they were one. The concept of making love somehow rendered it better.

  Beck gazed down, a tumult of emotion filling his eyes. “God, I love you.”

  “Same. I love you.”

  The response was a hungry kiss. They moved together, slowly at first, warming to the rhythm of the dance. Beck’s cock scraped along Zach’s channel, the throbbing turning sweet. Gentle strokes became robust but cherishing. The pressure of Beck on top of him, squeezing his cock, and inside him, pinging his prostate and electrifying his nerve endings, was almost beyond what Zach could bear.

  “More,” Zach said in a hoarse voice. “More.”

  “Okay.” Beck’s voice had similarly deserted him, but his thrusts gained power and momentum, short and forceful.

  And it felt right. It filled him up—inside his body, inside his head. Zach was so full of Beck there was no room for anything else.

  At the small of his back, the familiar electric buzz built, sending jolts up to his brain and along his arms and legs. His heart thundered in his ears as the tingle amplified and closed in on his cock. It was too much; surely he’d combust from sensory overload. The buzz came in a tidal wave, engulfing his hole, tightening his balls, searing his dick, and he was coming in strong, vibrant pulses. He bit Beck’s shoulder and helplessly rode the crest.

  Drained and coming back to earth, he felt a burst of heat inside him as Beck hit liftoff and came with a yell.

  Panting, Beck buried his face in the curve of Zach’s neck, hot, moist breath steaming over his throat. Zach ran his hands down Beck’s sides and licked his shoulder. Smooth, salty skin, and faint marks from Zach’s teeth.

  Beck pushed up and pulled out, leaving a sudden ache in Zach’s body. “Back in a minute.”

  And he was, bringing a warm, damp cloth and cleaning them up before climbing into bed and pulling Zach into his arms. “I love you,” Beck whispered. “No matter what else is going on, that’s not going to change.”

  “I love you too.” Zach craned his neck and caught Beck’s gaze. His gray eyes were soft and serious.

  “We’re good together.” Beck kissed Zach’s forehead and tangled their legs. “We are worth fighting for. I’m not letting go.”

  Zach closed his eyes. “Me either.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Bzzz…

  Beck rolled over and glanced at the clock. Oh, hell. Three thirty in the morning?

  Bzzz…

  “What is it?” Zach rasped.

  “Phone.”

  Bzzz…

  “Yours or mine?”

  “Mine.” Unfortunately.

  Zach grunted and pulled the pillow over his head.

  Beck picked up the cell. The watch commander? This better be good. “Stryker.”

  The female sergeant’s tone was crisp and wide-awake. “Sergeant Trout here, Detective. Good morning.”

  Honestly? It was the middle of the night. “Morning. What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

  “I have information for you.”

  Talk already, for Christ’s sake. I’m exhausted. “I’m listening.”

  “The Follower hit again.”

  Fuck. They hadn’t been fast enough. Beck sat up and pounded his fist on the mattress. Another body. Another bloodbath. Another number.

  Zach shot upright in bed, eyebrows drawn together, listening as Beck asked, “Who?”

  “Van Gates.”

  Beck’s chest constricted. No. No, no, no. He closed his eyes and summoned up every ounce of official detachment. His voice still came out unsteady. “Where did the attack happen?”

  “His place. He survived.”

  * * * *

  The hospital smelled of ammonia-based disinfectant, damp carpet, and medical-grade plastic. Too-shiny surfaces gleamed, and those that didn’t were bone white. Beck shivered. It reminded him too much of his own tenure as a patient there.

  Intensive care allowed one visitor only. In Van’s case, one visitor allowed because of the criminal origin of his injuries—the man was hurt. Van’s doctor had not been glad to see law enforcement show up, demanding access to the patient.

  As the task force leader, Beck went in alone.

  The gray of predawn filled the windows, but the ICU was as bright as day. Under unforgiving lights and surrounded with monitors, Van looked washed out, as if the encounter had stolen his color. The blue-sprigged hospital gown made him seem vulnerable. Stitches ran along his hairline, bright blue against the ivory pallor. His lower lip was split and swollen.

  The doctor had explained the extent of the damage as a concussion, broken ribs, and various cuts and bruises. Not exactly a cakewalk from Van’s standpoint, but still—a mark in the win column. Gulping, Beck approached the bed.

  Van’s bleary-eyed gaze roved past the doorway, then back, and skidded to a stop on Beck. Van squinched up his eyes. “Hey…”

  “Hey.” Beck resisted the urge to squeeze Van’s shoulder. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’m wrapped in cotton.” He shifted onto his side and winced. “They’ve got me pretty doped up.”

  No doubt. Van wasn’t competent to give a formal statement, but Beck would take anything he could get. This wasn’t a deposition. It was a fact-finding mission. “Up to answering a few questions?”

  “I… Yeah.” Van licked his lips. “Water?”

  Beck found the cup with a bendy straw and held it while Van took a sip and then flopped back on the pillow. “Better?”

  “Mmm.” Soft brown eyes at half-mast, Van inspected him. “You look good.”

  Uh, what? It was the middle of the night. Must be the drugs. Beck schooled his expression to friendly but professional. “Thanks.”

  Van grinned as he studied the ceiling; Beck followed his line of sight. The ceiling over the bed sported a yellow smiley face. There had been none of that above Beck’s ICU bed, only perforated panels. Good thing Van’s new friend, morphine, could make him smile at something so silly. Or maybe that was the point.

  “Ready to talk?” Beck pulled out a notebook, pen, and a compact tape recorder.

  “Yeah.”

  Here we go. Beck hit Record. “Walk me through the attack.”

  “About midnight I took the garbage out to the Dumpster in the alley. It was dark. The light’s burned out back there.” Van closed his eyes.

  After a moment, Beck tapped his shoulder, and Van’s lids lifted. “What happened next?”

  “I tossed in the garbage.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “No.”

  Hope waned. It had been an ambush. “Then what?”

  Van frowned, as if hunting for the right words, and licked his lips. “He
came from the side and cracked me on the head with something. Rang my bell but good. I went down face-first.” He ran a fingertip over the sutures at his hairline and winced.

  “Okay…”

  “Then he sat on my back like I was some kind of ninety-nine-pound weakling.” Van looked affronted. “And then he tried to cuff me.”

  Was their suspect law enforcement? “With handcuffs?”

  “Yeah…”

  “And you fought back?”

  “Course I did. Bucked him off and landed a punch in his gut.” Van made a fist on top of the sheet. “He landed a hard one on my jaw.” He lifted his fist toward his mouth. “He was wearing gloves and a full face mask. I tried to break his nose. By then the neighborhood dogs were going crazy.”

  “And then?”

  “He rolled away, got up, and ran.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Dunno. I think I passed out. Woke up when the paramedics were loading me into the ambulance.”

  Beyond the bed and the door of Van’s room, a blonde woman walked by, slowed, continued past. Yikes. Van’s fiancée—er, former fiancée—Katie Coleman.

  Beck shifted closer to Van. “What do you remember about him?”

  “He didn’t say anything. The outfit he had on was dark and slippery, like some sort of special sports material. Like…Tyvek. I couldn’t hang on to him.”

  That wasn’t much to go on. “Anything else?”

  “He was agile—hung on like a monkey. Hard to knock off. And he reeked.”

  “Like body odor?”

  “No…different. Worse.”

  What smelled worse than a bad case of BO? Pig manure? Septic tank? Three-day-old fish bait? “Can you describe the smell?”

  “He smelled like the morgue.”

  * * * *

  Zach took Beck to an all-night restaurant for a crack-of-dawn breakfast. When it came to early-morning wake-up calls, Zach liked to fuel up with a good breakfast and plenty of coffee. Having eaten too much institutional food in his time, he’d vetoed the hospital cafeteria. Beck had suggested the diner.

  They opted for a booth instead of the semicircular counter. A vapor of coffee and grease permeated the dining room; the tables had the residual stickiness of maple syrup. The food made up for it. Damn good eats for a dive.