“Stop,” Taggart barked.
Martin froze.
Taggart rubbed his head and looked around. The place was filthy, plates and utensils still lying out from when he’d managed to work up an appetite. There was a smell — Grunt had gone in the house again. He must have slept through the little guy trying to get his attention. “Why are you here?”
Martin shook his head in blatant confusion. “Did you not hear anything I just said?”
“I didn’t miss my appointments,” Taggart said. “I just didn’t go.”
“You just didn’t go,” Martin muttered. He rubbed his face, and gave Taggart an incredulous look. “I was — I thought you had . . .”
Taggart frowned, and winced when he shifted too much weight to his left leg. He righted himself. And leaned on his cane. “You thought what?”
“I thought you had . . . hurt yourself or something,” Martin said quietly. That didn’t last. “Why the hell would you just skip your appointments? This is important, Tag! You have to get through your PT to keep the leg; do you not know that the VA can take it back?”
“I know that,” Taggart snapped. “They can have it back for all the fuck I care. What do I need it for? What’s out there for me, huh? I’m a god damned cripple, Martin! What do you want with me?”
Martin straightened, and folded his arms. He looked away from Taggart, searching the wall with his eyes. His face grew darker, color flooding his cheeks, and his jaw flexed. Finally he looked at Taggart. “You’re an asshole. You’re — you don’t care about anyone but yourself. And you’ve been, what? Wallowing in self pity here in your own personal prison? You have people, Tag. And did Grunt shit in the house? You can’t just hide in a hole and ignore everything. Do you have any idea how — how worried I was when you didn’t show up and wouldn’t answer your phone?”
Every word struck the wrong nerve, until Taggart was trembling with rage. Who was Martin Warner to tell him what he should or shouldn’t do? He stamped forward, stumbling once before he caught himself. “How am I supposed to know how the fuck you feel about anything? I’m not a god damned mind reader. And what the hell I do with my life is none of your fucking business. If I want to hole up in my own god damned house and roll around in dog shit it’s got nothing to do with you or the VA or some fucking shrink or anyone else at all, Martin. You have no fucking clue what I’ve been through, what I’ve given up just to come back here and be some kind of leech who doesn’t do a god damned thing with his life but hobble around on a cane like an old man and fuck the help.”
“Fuck you,” Martin spat. “You fucking . . .”
Taggart waited, and then snorted. “I’m not dead. You can get out and report back. Mission accomplished.”
“Tag,” Martin sighed. He was still red with it. Anger. Funny, Taggart wasn’t quite sure Martin had that kind of fire in him. Now that he saw it . . .
Martin stalked toward him, that rage in his eyes, like he was going to slug Taggart in the jaw. Taggart braced himself to take it like a man. He could take a punch. Hell, he could take a bullet, or a fucking IED.
Instead, Martin grabbed Taggart’s head and kissed him, violently. Every bit as forceful as if he’d punched Taggart in the gut, and with about the same result. Taggart lost his breath, stunned, his lips on fire, his tongue acting out it’s own agenda, waging war with Martin’s and losing.
When Martin pulled away, Taggart lost his balance. Martin held him up.
“Don’t do this,” Martin whispered. “Don’t just give up.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Taggart grunted.
Martin grabbed his jaw, hard, his fingers digging into Taggart’s cheek. “Private Coulson,” he growled, “don’t you fucking roll over and die.”
Taggart jerked his jaw out of Martin’s grip. His free hand gathered a handful of Martin’s shirt, and he snarled at him, a wordless sound of frustration. Defiance flashed over Martin’s face. And then Taggart kissed him, hard.
Martin moaned against Taggart’s lips.
“Take your fucking clothes off,” Taggart growled.
27
Taggart gave Martin a shove, and Martin staggered back. For a moment, Taggart felt guilty. He’d gone too far, let his anger get the best of him.
But Martin, still glaring at him, took his shirt off. He dropped it on the floor, and came at Taggart like he meant to take him down. Instead, he tore at Taggart’s shirt, pulling it up until Taggart had to drop his cane. He lifted his arms, and Martin pulled the shirt off and threw it to the floor. His fingers clawed into Taggart’s chest, and their mouths collided again, biting and snarling.
Taggart couldn’t tell if they were fighting or making out, or if the difference mattered, but either way he shifted his weight to his right leg and pulled at Martin’s scrub pants until the tie that kept them up ripped, and they came loose.
Martin responded in kind, pulling Taggart’s shorts until the button popped and the zipper tore. They dropped to the floor, and his cock bounced up.
“No underwear?” Martin asked.
“What do you want?” Taggart returned. He lifted his fake leg to get free of the tangled shorts, and quickly stepped free with his right foot as well.
Martin kissed him again, but Taggart pushed him away, toward the recliner.
“What do you want from me?” Taggart asked again.
Martin pushed his briefs down and kicked them off. “What do you think?”
Both of them stood naked, their cocks hard, breathing heavy, and tense with the intoxicating mix of anger and lust.
Taggart took careful, deliberate steps forward, ignoring the ache in his left leg from the pressure it wasn’t used to yet. “Say it,” he said.
Martin’s jaw muscles trembled. His nostrils flared. He was dappled with red from his cheek down to his smooth chest.
“Say it,” Taggart growled, taking another painful step forward, “or I’ll throw you out on your naked ass right now.”
It looked like Martin might march out on his own. He glanced at the door, making some decision behind his eyes. He squared off with Taggart. “I want you to fuck me,” he said. “Like a god damned man. Like a Marine.”
Taggart shot his hand out, and pulled Martin to him. His bit his lip, thrust his tongue into Martin’s mouth and held him still. Martin sucked at his tongue, massaging it with his own, his body shaking in Taggart’s grip.
When Taggart pulled back, he had a handful of Martin’s hair in his fist. He pushed him down with it until Martin’s knees bent and he knelt. “Get me wet,” he ordered.
Martin didn’t hesitate, or question. He reached up to grip Taggart’s cock in one hand, and sucked it into his mouth from tip to base all in one smooth motion.
“Fuck,” Taggart rasped, and let his eyes close. The pain in his left leg faded into the background, eclipsed by the heat of Martin’s mouth, the velvet softness of his tongue, and even the light graze of his teeth as he worked him over.
Martin sucked and stroked like he meant to break something, and Taggart kept his fist tangled in Martin’s hair. He braced himself on the back of the recliner with his free hand, and gave himself over to the urge to use Martin’s mouth, guiding his pace with the hand that controlled Martin’s head. He made the defiant little asshole go slow, all the way to the very tip and then down until Taggart was hilt deep in the wet suction.
Martin made hungry, desperate sounds that rang in Taggart’s ears and wore away at what little patience he had. He let it go on, though, until he felt his balls start to pull up. When that happened, he pulled Martin off of his cock and dragged him up again. He jammed his tongue into Martin’s mouth, tasted the slightest hint of his own juices there.
When he was done waiting, he let Martin’s hair go and shoved one shoulder until Martin turned around, and gave him another shove between the shoulder blades. Martin bent over the arm of the recliner, his legs already spread.
There was plenty of saliva left behind to make Taggart slick, but he wasn’t unaw
are of the mechanics he was up against. He braced himself on Martin’s hips until he was steady, and pried his cheeks apart until he could see what he really wanted. Martin’s ring, waiting for him, inviting him.
He knelt onto his right knee, using his grip on Martin’s ass to ease himself down, and with one hand reached between Martin’s legs to find his cock hard and slick at the tip. He pulled it down, and held on tight, and dipped his head forward.
Taggart thrust his tongue against the tight entrance, and Martin howled for him, spreading his legs wider. He even reached back with one hand and pulled one cheek to the side, making room.
It wasn’t a decision so much as an instinct, but once Taggart started he thought he could go for days. The way Martin’s hole danced when he licked it, speared it, and massaged it open — the way Martin gasped, and whined, and begged Taggart to go deeper — fired up something in Taggart’s groin until the tip of his dick tingled with a dull, electric ache. He continued to tug at Martin’s cock, using it to pull himself further in, and pull Martin’s ass toward him.
He did it until he heard Martin say what he wanted him to say.
“Jesus, Tag. Fuck me — please just fuck me.”
Getting back up was trickier than kneeling, but Taggart managed to do it. As soon as he was on his feet again, he held steady with one hand, and used his other to thump his cock against Martin’s exposed hole, until Martin’s hips swiveled and searched, trying to find Taggart and swallow him down.
He pressed the head of his dick against that wet ring, and it opened for him, tight and warm. Martin whimpered once, and sucked in a long breath, and the ring relaxed and let more in. Taggart spit carefully, and smeared it around the base of his shaft, pulling out slowly and before pressing in again.
He sank into Martin’s body, unable to keep his eyes focused. The warm tunnel squeezed him, sucked him down, and held him in a quivering grip which sent tremors down into his knee and made it hard to keep standing. He bent at the waist, and slipped his arms around Martin’s body, for all the world like a mindless dog driven by mindless need.
Taggart pulled out until only the head of his cock was inside, and thrust in again, hard, down to the hilt. Martin groaned, and his cock leaked over Taggart’s fingers. They moved together, Martin’s body arching to meet Taggart’s invasion.
“You wanted this,” Taggart grunted, thrusting hard. “You wanted me inside you?”
“Tag,” Martin moaned. “Oh, God. Harder. Make me . . .”
He didn’t have to elaborate. Taggart spit in his hand, and reached back beneath Martin’s body to find his dick. His fist enveloped it and he stroked Martin slow, the way he liked, as he found a rhythm that matched his thrusting. Each time his palm slid over the head of Martin’s cock, Martin’s ass clenched around Taggart’s.
They gave over to grunts and moans, moving faster, until finally Martin cried out, and his dick pulsed in Taggart’s hand, and hot come burst over Taggart’s fingers. At the same moment, just as Taggart remembered from the first time, Martin’s ass contracted, squeezing him tight and releasing in rapid succession. Taggart drove himself home, pounding deep, his hips slapping against Martin’s cheeks, until he lost himself to a detonation at the tip of his dick that travelled down into his nuts and back out again.
He buried himself deep inside Martin’s quivering body and jettisoned every scrap of self into that hungry depth while Martin moaned and writhed against him, his hips still pressing back against Taggart as if he thought he could somehow get Taggart deeper still.
Taggart’s vision went black, closing in to a pinpoint for half a second before it began to clear. He breathed again and held tight to Martin’s waist.
They stayed like that for a time, both of them sweaty and catching their breath. Taggart’s eyes grew heavy, and he almost thought that he could fall asleep like this, if it weren’t for the strain on his right leg. Still, he ignored the discomfort for the moment. Now that he’d spent his anger, and sated his hunger, all he was left with was the feeling of Martin’s body molded to his, and the gentle after-burn of pleasure that lingered in his muscles and nested in the base of his skull.
Grunt crawled out from under the futon, wandered in a few circles, and braced himself to piss on the carpet. He looked up at Martin and Taggart, his ears angled back, and gave a tiny grimace of shame as he did.
“God damn it,” Taggart muttered.
Martin laughed, and Taggart did as well. When it looked like he wasn’t in trouble, Grunt wagged his tail, as oblivious to what was funny as Taggart was but happy the fighting was over.
28
Martin winced a little as Taggart pulled out of him. Spit wasn’t an ideal lube, and now that the intensity of the moment had wound down to a dull buzz he was a little sore.
That didn’t mean it hadn’t been unbelievably hot in the moment.
He straightened from the side of the recliner, and excused himself. When Taggart’s deposit was out of him, he came back to find Taggart gone, and for half a second thought that maybe he’d left.
The front door opened, though, and Taggart came back in with Grunt. “Had to take him out,” Taggart said. “You okay?” He looked Martin’s naked body over.
Martin ducked to pick up his scrub pants — which were pretty well ruined now — and his briefs, to dress. “I’m still pissed at you,” he said.
Taggart sniffed, and let Grunt off his lead and out of his harness. “Alright. I’m not too sure what I’m supposed to do about that.”
After he’d pulled his shirt on, Martin draped his scrub top over the recliner’s back and shook his head slowly. “Are you kidding me? I want you to go back to PT and therapy.”
“I get what you want,” Taggart sighed. “I don’t get why you want it. Or why we keep doing this.” He’d had enough of standing, apparently, because he thumped over to the futon and sat down on it, rubbing his thigh as he sat the cane aside.
Martin frowned as he moved around to the front of the recliner and sat down in it. He tried to collect his thoughts. It seemed like a bad idea to promise Taggart too much; especially when he knew, intellectually, that there was something entirely unhealthy about their involvement.
“Much as I like being inside you,” Taggart said while Martin worked his part out, “you can’t fuck me better, Martin. I’m not gonna magically become whatever it is you want me to be, just because you get me off. I admit that maybe pity sex is a perk — god knows there ain’t any others — but I don’t want to be the problem you try and fix.”
“It’s not pity sex,” Martin groaned. “Why is it so hard for you to believe that I just — that something about you just . . . that I just like you, Tag?”
Taggart gave a mirthless laugh and rolled his eyes. “Cause I’m not a nice guy, Martin. Can’t you see that? I’m an asshole, and that’s probably not gonna change. Just then? When I bent you over that chair? I wasn’t making love. I wanted to hurt you.”
“I know,” Martin whispered. “And, probably, there’s something messed up in my head, but that felt almost more real than what we did before. More . . . us.”
“Don’t say ‘us’,” Taggart said.
Martin watched Grunt for a moment. The puppy came to him when he saw he was the object of attention, and pawed at the foot of the recliner.
“He wants up,” Taggart said.
Martin tried not to smile, but Grunt was working hard to make a show of doing it himself, even though it didn’t seem like there was any way he could. Martin leaned over, and scooped Grunt up onto the recliner, and schooled his expression.
Grunt snuggled down into the space between Martin’s leg and the arm of the chair, and laid his head on Martin’s thigh, his eyes moving from Martin’s face to Taggart’s before he gave a world-weary sigh.
Martin looked at Taggart. “Do you want to stop?”
Taggart grunted a noncommittal sound at first. After a few seconds he rubbed his thigh, and shook his head. “No. Do you?”
“No,” Mart
in said.
“It’s gonna go bad,” Taggart sighed. “You know that, right? I’m not just a little skittish these days, Martin. I wake up at night from — the things I dream about. I can’t even drink myself to a blackout because the way there is too painful.”
“I know the symptoms of PTSD,” Martin said gently.
Taggart shook his head, grim faced. “No, you don’t. You’ve read them, maybe, in a book. I did too, a long time before I went to war.”
“Fine,” Martin said. “Then I’ll learn. And I’m not proposing. I don’t know where we’re gonna end up but right now I just . . . I need this, okay? And so do you, so, why not?”
“You need this?” Taggart snorted. “That’s a riot. You could fuck any guy you wanted.”
Martin smiled. Not that he didn’t know he was attractive, but that was about as close as Taggart was probably going to get to telling him he was. “It’s not about that, it’s,” Martin said as he scratched Grunt’s head. “I’m under a lot of pressure. And I don’t know why but this feels, somehow, safe.”
“Your judgment is pretty skewed then,” Taggart said. “The VA that hard?”
“It’s not just that,” Martin muttered. He massaged his forehead, and ran his fingers through his hair. God, he was tired. He still had to drive tonight, too. “I take care of my Aunt Janey. She was diagnosed with dementia a while back and it just gets worse and worse. I’m all she’s got left. I’ve been trying to make some kind of arrangement for her, and some of the people back home have been trying to help. You know how they are. But they can’t do it forever.”
Taggart frowned. “Your dad’s still?”
“Yeah,” Martin sighed. “I don’t know if he’s still shooting up or not. He went to rehab a couple of years ago, right before Keith was killed. It didn’t take. It never has.”
“Shit,” Taggart said. “I’m sorry. That’s why you keep running back and forth? Why you took the time off work?”
Grudge (Virtue & Vice Book 5) Page 14