by Lanyon, Josh
Ryo reached for him, guiding him back inside the condo, and kicking the door shut behind them. “No. I came here to find out how you get those jeans off without throwing your back out.” Tashiro felt light and supple in his arms, insubstantial, and yet as immediate and active as electricity. His eyes, those unnatural turquoise eyes, were almost level with Ryo’s. They seemed to laugh silently into his own.
If there was one thing Ryo hated, it was being laughed at. He yanked Tashiro closer, letting him feel how aroused he was, and getting more aroused in turn, by the size of Tashiro’s erection through his jeans. He covered Tashiro’s mouth with his own.
Tashiro’s mouth was not soft and receptive. He kissed back with punishing fierceness, a forceful, hungry heat that met and matched Ryo’s. It surprised Ryo and daunted him. That wasn’t his style. He didn’t want a real fight, didn’t want to hurt or be hurt. Instinctively he gentled, turning his grip into a caress and his kiss into a coaxing, and, gratifyingly, Tashiro seemed to melt in his arms. His lips parted sweetly, he murmured something that could have been enjoining or supplication, but either way was totally exciting.
His hands went to Ryo’s zipper and Ryo went for Tashiro’s waistband, but that was awkward. Tashiro knocked Ryo’s hands away and wriggled out of his jeans with the agility of an eel. Even Ryo, occupied now with shedding his own garments as fast as possible, had to spare an admiring glance for those moves.
Tashiro kicked his jeans aside and punched his fists into Ryo’s broad shoulders, sending him back against the flat surface of the door. Ryo laughed. This kind of playful wrestling, he didn’t mind. He enjoyed it. He yanked Tashiro to him and they roughly rubbed against each other. Oh God. Hot, moist friction, soft skin, hard muscle…
It wasn’t enough, not by a long shot, but if they kept at it—
Tashiro pulled free, turning his back, and settling his ass into Ryo’s groin, grinding back in invitation. Ryo groaned and wrapped his arms around Tashiro’s slim waist, drawing him closer, pressing his cock against Tashiro’s ass, seeking entrance. Not that entrance. He wasn’t so far gone he didn’t remember where he was, and who he was doing this with. He was aiming for that shadowy divide halving the white globes of Tashiro’s buttocks.
There. There it was. Not what he wanted, not tight enough or hot enough, but time being of the essence…he thrust up. “Good. That’s good.”
“More!” Tashiro urged, thickly.
Ryo bent his head, nuzzled Tashiro’s bony shoulder, tasting perfumed soap and bare skin. His own cock was rigid and ready, pearling in anticipation. He reached down with his right hand, found Tashiro’s cock as stiff as his own, feeling the pulse of Tashiro’s heartbeat in that hot, hard length.
Tashiro moaned in answer to that first tug. “Do it.”
“Yeah?” Ryo gave a rolling upward thrust and Tashiro’s muscles clenched tight. Oh, this was sweet. Sweet.
Tashiro rose on his toes, offering better access. Home run. Ryo’s cock grazed past that tight, hot center. It required superhuman effort not to push right in.
“Come on,” Tashiro gasped between thrusts. “Come on. Fuck me.”
“…am…”
“For…real…”
Ryo panted, “Not…like this.”
“Then…how?”
“Not…bare…back.”
“I…don’t…care.” Kai’s voice cracked.
Ryo gulped, “I do!”
Tashiro’s muscles clenched tight and he shifted on the balls of his feet. Ryo rocked his hips and barely managed to avoid penetrating him. A well-fucked young ass, this, with the minimum prep needed. So easy to just give in and take what Tashiro was offering, so easy…but no. God, no. Ryo wasn’t completely stupid. He didn’t trust Tashiro and even if he had trusted him, well, he’d have to be crazy to trust him. So leave it at that.
That was the extent of Ryo’s thinking. The rest of his gray matter was preoccupied with sensation. The sounds of the creaking door and floor, the flowery smell of Tashiro’s hair, the feel of his sleek, hot body gripping Ryo’s, the taste of his flushed skin.
There was an enormous red-lacquered cabinet covering half the wall of the entrance hall. Chinese not Japanese. Maybe Tashiro didn’t know the difference. What did they call that color? Cinnabar? When Ryo closed his eyes he could still see that red blazing behind his eyelids.
Tashiro knew exactly how to move to intensify the experience for both of them. He knew the sounds to make, the sounds that cued Ryo, that drove him on. Winded, wounded, wanton sounds, as though Tashiro were helpless with excitement and pleasure.
It was a turn on, no question.
Ryo jerked his hips in counter tempo to the hand briskly working Tashiro’s cock. Tashiro shoved his ass back in meter, and in far less time than it took to describe, they were both coming in molten and messy tandem.
Ryo slumped back against the door, loosening his grip of Tashiro, who fell to his knees. Neither spoke. Their ragged breathing was the only sound.
Chapter Three
“That was…wow,” Ryo managed, when he could form words again.
He had sort of been counting on their encounter lasting more than seven minutes. What now? Was he supposed to pull up his pants and say good night?
Tashiro was still trembling on his hands and knees, flame-colored hair tumbled over his skinny shoulders.
“Not that I didn’t enjoy that,” Ryo said, “but I was hoping for a drink first.”
Tashiro’s face jerked his way. He stared at Ryo. Ryo shrugged. “You know, get to know each other a little.”
It could have gone either way. Clearly Tashiro had a hair-trigger temper. Ryo watched him deciding whether he was offended or not. Then Tashiro laughed, a startled snap of sound, and jumped to his feet in a quick, lithe movement. “What do you want to drink?”
He seemed unconcerned with his nakedness. But then he was beautiful, so where was the ground for concern?
Ryo resisted the urge to reach for his own clothes. He was in great shape. There was no need for self-consciousness, right? “Martini?”
“Get out of here. Do I look like a bartender?”
“You look gorgeous,” Ryo admitted.
Tashiro stared at him in disbelief.
“Anything with vodka,” Ryo prompted, finally.
Tashiro’s eyes widened then he smiled a quirky, pointed grin. Ryo liked that, liked that Tashiro had a sense of humor, a sense of the ridiculous. Because this was ridiculous.
But ridiculous or not, he had every intention of spending the night with Kai Tashiro. He wanted to see for himself whether there was some way Torres could have duped Tashiro into covering for him. It wasn’t very likely, and the fact that one quick fuck had him trying to see Tashiro as an innocent bystander was bad news, but…Ryo liked to think of himself as a guy who dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s. So it was kind of his job to stay and see if he could punch holes in Torres’ alibi.
“Anything with vodka,” Tashiro repeated. “Doable.”
He disappeared into the kitchen and Ryo took a quick look around the condo. There were three bedrooms, one of which had been turned into an art studio. There was only a single long and very high window, and clearly no one had climbed out that way. It was a serious work space: oversized drafting table, meticulously organized shelves, compartments for art supplies, and carefully-planned lighting. Framed posters of luscious manga-style artwork lined the walls. Something Red Something read the kanji. At least, Ryo thought so. He was more familiar with hiragana.
The guest bedroom also offered no egress, but the master suite had double doors leading out onto a small balcony. Ryo checked out the balcony, but unless Torres had set up a trampoline in the pool courtyard or had sprouted wings like the gargoyle he was, he wouldn’t have had any way down from this fourth-story apartment. Let alone a way up again.
Ryo spared a quick look at the rest of the room and raised his brows at the sight of a black, wood, canopy bed sitting on a framed platform in the middle of the
room. Technically, Tashiro’s bed was on a stage. Swathes of white gauze draped tastefully over the raised framework. The remaining pieces of furniture were equally stylish and impractical. Off the bedroom was a sumptuous bathroom complete with a black marble sunken tub. A large walk-in closet was mostly empty. A few pairs of skinny jeans, boots, and hoodies. Ryo had more suits than this guy had entire wardrobe pieces.
The living areas offered pale wood floors, stark black walls, crisp white crown moldings and discreet recessed lights. The furniture was oversized sectionals, chairs and couch, upholstered in a smooth, gray fabric that looked like silk. There was a white fireplace that looked unused and a giant mural of girls in kimonos gettin’ jiggy with it. Not the peel and stick kind of mural you bought for two hundred bucks. This thing looked hand-painted, old, and extremely valuable.
Possibly even more valuable was the massive aquarium built into the wall opposite the bank of picture windows. Several pale blue koi, taki asagi, swam languidly in their giant tank. A fortune in fish. Maybe that’s what Tashiro spent his wardrobe money on. How the hell would you clean such a tank?
That reminded Ryo. He looked over at the front door, but the polished floor was immaculate once more. His clothes had been retrieved and draped over a low stool next to a flower arrangement that seemed to consist of green sticks in a white vase.
Tashiro appeared at that point, drinks in hand, and Ryo went to meet him. He took his drink in one hand, wrapped his fist around the ponytail of Tashiro’s hair and dragged Tashiro’s face to his for a kiss. Tashiro’s lashes went down submissively and he opened his mouth to Ryo’s kiss—then nipped him.
“Ow!” Ryo let go and drew back, touching his lip. He checked his fingers for blood. “What was that for?”
“If I wanted to be pawed, I’d get a dog.”
“Jeez, dude!”
Tashiro was smirking at him, untroubled, unworried. He had put his jeans back on, which seemed unfair to Ryo, who wasn’t exactly sure how to rectify the situation without looking like he felt at a disadvantage—which he naturally did. Tashiro held out his drink and Ryo automatically touched his glass to it. The rims rang with crystal cheer. “Kanpai.”
“Mazel tov.” Ryo sipped. Vodka soda. Unimaginative but reliable, and it was a good vodka. Kai was drinking pale green liquid from a martini glass.
“What’s that? Absinthe?”
Tashiro’s brows rose. “I guess you’ve never seen absinthe before.”
“Nah. I’m not an absinthe kinda guy.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Meaning you are?”
“Er …no.” Tashiro gave him that quirky, three-cornered smile again.
“So what are you drinking?”
“Shochu and Midori.”
“What’s shochu?”
Tashiro offered his glass to Ryo. “I thought you were Japanese.”
“Is that a turn on for you?”
Tashiro shrugged. “Depends who’s wearing it.”
“I’m American,” Ryo said, a little testily. But he sipped the cocktail. Mostly he tasted the sweet melon flavor of the Midori. He shook his head. “Doesn’t do it for me.”
“I don’t know why not. They call it the Japanese vodka.”
“Too sweet for me.”
Tashiro laughed. It was a mocking little laugh. Ryo liked his sense of humor less that time.
“So what’s the point of all this?” He gestured at the geisha mural, the bowls of smooth black stones and spartan orchid arrangements. “You have some kind of Asian fetish?”
Tashiro flung himself down on one of the low couches. “What’s wrong with embracing your heritage?”
“What heritage are you supposed to be?” Ryo tugged on a long red strand of hair.
Tashiro gave him a level look. “I’m fifth generation. Gosei.”
Ryo grunted. He was third generation. Sansei. Not that his family paid attention to that kind of thing. The Millers were as American as apple pie and baseball. Okay, apple pie. “Did you grow up in L.A.?”
“Is this part two of the interrogation?”
“No.”
“I was born in Montana. My parents died when I was eleven and I moved back here to live with my great-great grandfather.”
“What happened to your parents?”
Ryo was standing behind the sofa so he couldn’t really see Tashiro’s expression, just the angle of his mutinous mouth and lowered lashes. “They died in a house fire. Before you ask, no. I wasn’t there. I was spending the night at a friend’s.”
That was horrifying. Ryo didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”
Tashiro shrugged.
Part of being a cop, was you got hardened to other people’s tragedies. You tried, anyway, because it was the only way to survive the job. Even so…being orphaned at eleven… Still, if Kai Tashiro wasn’t crying over it, it sure wasn’t Ryo’s place. He twined a silky strand of Tashiro’s hair around his finger. “So you grew up around here? Where did you go to school?”
Tashiro shook his head briefly, impatiently, freeing his hair.
“Did you go to hoshu ko?” Hoshu ko were supplemental classes, typically weekend or after school courses, to teach Sansei kids to read, write, and speak Japanese.
Tashiro looked up, his expression sardonic. “Try Nihonjin gakko.”
“You’re kidding.” Nihonjin gakko was the kind of schooling the children of wealthy Japanese nationals received while they were living in the States. To send an American-born kid like Tashiro to Nihonjin gakko was, in Ryo’s opinion, bizarre.
“You have no clue. I trained in everything from kendo to chaji.”
“Tea ceremony!”
“Hey, if it was good enough for the samurai…”
Samurai? Tashiro was offering that funny, mocking smile again. It dawned on Ryo that maybe the person Tashiro was really mocking was himself. He said boldly, “Yeah? Well, I learned ikebana.”
Tashiro blinked. “Flower arranging?”
Ryo grinned sheepishly. “It was my mom’s idea. I was the only kid, well, the only boy, in the entire class. It was mostly all these older ladies.”
“No shit!” Tashiro chuckled and all at once, unexpectedly, they were laughing together, in something like harmony.
Never in his entire life had Ryo expected to share that bit of personal history with another dude. Of course, in his case Japanese school had only amounted to Saturday classes at the cultural center and as soon as he’d been old enough to make his feelings properly known, they’d been replaced with Little League practice.
“So your grandfather was pretty traditional?”
“You could say that.” Tashiro’s tone was dry. He said, “My turn. What made you become a cop?”
“Instead of a math professor?” It was Ryo’s turn to be dry.
“No. I’m not a math professor.”
“My mom is. My old man was a cop.”
Tashiro snorted. “Let me guess. He was killed in the line of duty.”
“Dude, you have a nasty tongue. No. As a matter of fact, he put his back out golfing and took early retirement. He lives in Florida now with his second wife.”
Tashiro laughed and finished his drink. “What’s your first name?”
“Randall. Randy. Ryo to my family and friends.”
“Well, I’m neither, Randall, but if you want to put that drink down, I’ll show you just how nasty my tongue can be.”
One thing about Kai Tashiro. He was a man of his word.
Ryo’d had plenty of blow jobs in his life but they seemed like dull exercises in spit and sucking compared to the wet hot miracle of Kai’s beautiful mouth wrapped around his cock. Kai gave head with consummate skill. Such discipline and delicacy. Ryo found himself wondering if he’d had training in that, too. How the hell did a guy learn to do that? Ryo had always thought tying knots in maraschino cherry stems was pretty cool. He’d have to rethink his party tricks.
And then, just as he was dangling there on the razor’s
edge of orgasm, Kai spat him out, sat up and said, “Now fuck me.”
Ryo’s eyes flew open as a foil packet landed on his groin. He fumbled the condom on, rolled onto his knees, reaching for the proffered bottle of oil. His hand was shaking, whether from the immediate disappointment or the anticipation of what was promised, he wasn’t sure.
“Massage into lather, rinse, repeat as necessary,” Kai remarked.
Smart-ass. But the sarcasm somehow added to his appeal, or at least to the desire to fuck him into mewling submission. Ryo wanted nothing more than to bury himself to his balls in that long, lithe body. He slicked his stiff cock with a couple of quick swipes of oiled hand, and leaned over Kai. Kai bent his knee and shoved his ass up. Not the most dignified position in the world and yet somehow he did it with grace and efficiency. He reached behind himself with one black-tipped hand and spread himself for Ryo’s viewing pleasure.
Ryo’s throat moved in a sound that was close to a gulp. Probably inaudible given the boom of his heart in the ō-daiko drum of his chest.
“You’re…” Beautiful? Strange? Unique? Words failed him. English or Japanese.
“You talk too much.” Kai’s voice came out squeezed and breathless.
And talking made it personal? Okay. Maybe Kai was right. Maybe personal wasn’t a good idea.
Ryo guided himself toward that sweet little target, the pink bull’s-eye, and Kai shoved back to meet him. Ryo’s stiff cock penetrated the ring of muscle and slid home like a foot shoving into winged sandals. Contact. He was already taking flight.
Kai gave a long, lush moan—an X-rated sound if there ever was one—and made a sinuous kind of wriggle so that Ryo was indeed buried to his balls.
“Oh, yeah,” Kai breathed. “Oh, that’s it. That’s so good. Oh, yeah. Move like that.”
Ryo obliged, feeling gratified when Kai sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh. Oh, yeah. Again.”
Ryo gave a couple of tentative thrusts.
Kai made a keening sound. “You’re so big, Ryo. So big, so hard, so hot…” And then another of those gasps.