by Kelly Fox
I’m not saying that we’d ever use this to play in public, but we could. If we wanted to.
“Would you like some coffee?” I ask, arching up a little, enjoying his teasing tongue on my sensitive nipples.
“Yes, that would be lovely. The coffee beans are in the cabinet above the coffee maker, and the bean grinder is on the counter.”
“Mmm, fancy,” I say, gasping as his enormous hand finds my stiff prick. He grazes my sensitive nipple with his teeth while working my foreskin over the head of my cock, my precum creating a delicious slide. He pulls me into a straddle across his upper thighs and pushes the head of his dick against mine, stroking along this bridge of dicks. I gasp again when his foreskin brushes over my cock, then mine chases back and is pulled by his stroking motion over his wet, glistening head. Oh, fgnhh. I’m not sure which side of that equation is hotter, and to be honest, I don’t give a fuck. His large hand covers both cocks, and he speeds up, messily, insistently pushing our heads together as he surrounds and strokes us with his strong fingers.
Motherjesus.
He leans in and sucks hard on the sensitive nipple, and I feel myself beginning to go. Just as I’m about to come, Jean-Pierre grunts and pulls his foreskin over my head, tightening a ring around it as he comes on a shout. The force of his cum floods the sheathed area, and the trapped, hot spunk against my cockhead is enough to seal the deal. I grab the back of his head, pushing him to suck harder on that one abused nipple as his hand strokes me to a hard-charging orgasm, the increased pressure under the foreskin, filled with our combined cum making my eyes roll back in my head. I arch from the never-ending orgasm, causing a huge load of cum to spatter… everywhere.
“Fuck, Jean-Pierre. Fuck,” I say, inarticulate and half hanging off the side of the bed.
It’s another ten minutes before I can even consider dragging myself out of bed to make us some magic bean water. “Cabinet above the coffee maker,” he mutters, still recovering.
“Mmmhmm.”
After a few minutes of puttering around in the kitchen, I look up to see Jean-Pierre, smiling at me. He is the safest person in the world, and this sense of domesticity is so much sweeter than I could have ever imagined. I don’t notice the large, white box in his hand until he puts it up on the counter.
“That for me?” I say, smiling as I hand him his coffee.
“Yes, it is. I reason with myself that if my beloved is a yoga instructor, then I should have options for him.”
I pull up the top portion of the box and set it aside, then push apart the white tissue paper, revealing layers upon layers of black material. Yoga clothes from my boyfriend’s clothing line, made just for me. The pants are skintight and slashed through with dark gray, but the material is quite comfortable, and I smile in Jean-Pierre’s direction. “What? You don’t like my fisherman’s pants?”
“I didn’t hate them, but they hide you. And I’d rather see all of you, if I’m given a vote.”
I shake my head at him, smiling. I next pull out a black-and-gray skintight, long-sleeved shirt that matches the yoga pants, and it’s made of the same material. It’s beautiful, and I know that the set together will be as functional as they are fashionable because that’s his brand. I reach in, pulling out the final piece of clothing. I smile as I pull out the very trendy, very modern black fisherman pants, in the same material as everything else. It’s not the standard linen, but it is a wicking fabric, light, airy and wrinkle-free. I mean mug him and laugh. “You got something against my wrinkles?”
“Not in the slightest. Wear your wrinkles however you see fit, just thought you’d like to see something slightly different.” He smiles and gestures at the box. “There’s one more gift in there for you.”
I dig once again into the layers of paper and find an oblong box. I look into his warm, brown eyes, and my heart wants to race and slow at the same time. I know what this is before I look. I lift the lid, and it’s even more than I’d imagined.
It’s a black steel necklace with a black, iridescent feather held in place with a locking mechanism. And it is long.
“I wanted you to have a reminder that you belong to me, and that you are safe. I also want you to know that, at all times, you also belong to you. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t—”
I interrupt him by holding out the box to him, asking him to do the honors. He delicately holds up a tiny black key dangling from a tiny black key ring. “May I?”
With tears rolling down my face, I nod. He pulls the long chain out of the box and drapes it around my neck, pulling the ends together and locking it with the tiny key. I want to lean in and kiss him, but he holds up a hand and reaches into his shirt, pulling out a platinum angel wing attached to a platinum chain. My heart pounds as he slips the tiny key ring onto the winged pendant like a charm.
Running my fingers along the cool links, I ask, “It’s long enough for me to take off by myself. Does that count?”
Jean-Pierre looks at me incredulously. “It counts because I say it counts and because I want the choice to be yours, always. When I see that you have this on your body,” he says, sliding his hand up my neck, “it means that you choose to be mine.”
I lean into his choking grasp, the weight of the chain grounding me. Time is short, so all I can give him right now are meaningful looks, but there will be more to come.
Given that he’s been so thoughtful about the gift, I go with the more skintight option, knowing that it will tease him, should he decide to join this morning’s yoga class. I pair that with the tank and slip into my leather sandals and wool coat, standard Texas winter wear. Jean-Pierre’s eyes never leave me, not even for a second.
“I think, my raven, that you might be teasing me with my own clothing line.”
“I think, my angel, that you created a whole clothing line for me. So, this is not teasing. It’s appreciation.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure there’s some teasing going on here. Because we have to leave here in about two minutes, and that’s not enough time to do all of the filthy, dirty things that this outfit makes me want to do to you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time I go shopping on your website.”
I do pay for my teasing, however, when Jean-Pierre comes out in the same outfit, only with the black fabric slashed through with chartreuse. Jesus, he is one fine-looking man.
We finish our coffees and head into the gym a little early, where we run into my purple-haired sister and her fluffy, white dog, Cosette.
“Evie! How are you doing this morning?”
I’d forgotten that I was wearing an interesting bit of sartorial splendor, and her stunned expression takes me back for a second. “What? Do you not like it?”
She rolls her eyes and sweeps a stray hair out of my face. “No, Jake. I’d… I’d forgotten how beautiful you can be. I mean, you’re always beautiful, but this morning… I’m happy to see you happy. Though with that coat you look like a spy with a yoga habit. Are these from Jean-Pierre’s line?”
An earlier version of me might have scoffed at being called beautiful, but… I feel beautiful, and I know that most of the reason for it is Jean-Pierre. I’ve worked hard to stay sober and to get healthier, and that guy just makes me glow.
Fuck.
Seriously, don’t tell anyone I said that.
“Yes, ma’am. This is hot off the presses, a new yoga line from Jean-Pierre Sehene.”
I lean in to hug her as Jean-Pierre beams next to me.
“It is true,” he says, smiling broadly, so damned happy. “He is… beautiful.”
He says this without any shame or concern, even though Evie is right there. That fact alone makes my heart leap in my chest.
Jean-Pierre stands almost toe to toe with me, looking down at me as I look up at him. He goes in for a kiss and then hesitates, glancing over at Evie.
She throws up her hands, a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I’m leaving now. You two are just too gorgeous for words. Have a go
od day, and maybe we’ll see y’all later tonight at the shop.”
I smile at my sister, grabbing her hand and kissing the back of it, a sign of my affection and appreciation. She and I rarely need a lot of words between us; she merely nods her head and walks over to her car.
Jean-Pierre and I open the door and wait until we hear her pull away in her car, and then we collide, desperate. As if we’d hadn’t spent the better part of the night exploring each other’s bodies.
I pull myself away from him, running my hands over the luxe fabric, wishing I could tear it away from him. “Mon ange… I can’t… I don’t know what to do with you in this outfit. You are unbearably hot.”
Jean-Pierre smiles that broad, light-up-the-sky smile of his and shakes his head, replying breathlessly, “I have the same problem, my love. I can’t tell if I want to rip this off your body or pull it down just enough to fuck you.” He kisses me on the last words, pulling me against his strong, impossibly tall frame, burning out my circuits. Being kissed by Jean-Pierre Sehene is a luxurious, breathtaking, all-consuming affair, and oxygen is fucking optional.
Finally, after standing there for a little bit too long, kissing a little too passionately for what will be a public space in short order, we break apart, slightly embarrassed by our display.
“We’re going to have to wrangle these under control,” I say, gesturing at our two hard cocks, each tenting hilariously in matching stretch fabric. “I can’t start a class like this.”
“True story,” he says, looking around. “I’m surprised people aren’t here yet. Lucas had mentioned he was going to try to make the class today.”
“It’ll be good to get to meet him. Also, I think Benning and Ivan are coming in together this morning, if I understood his text correctly.”
Jean-Pierre checks his naked wrist and thins his lips when he realizes he’s left one of his worth-as-much-as-a-nice-car watches at home. “What time is it?”
I check my phone, and we still have a few minutes. It’s also the morning that Nick and Elijah sleep in, so I smile. “More make-out time, I guess.”
Just as we move toward each other, my phone rings. It’s DB, so I complete the kiss as a peck and then accept the phone call, snuggled up against Jean-Pierre’s strong, tall form. “DB, a bit early for you, no?” I ask as I hear the front door open, and a vaguely familiar scent fills my nose.
“Jake, I have been trying to get a hold of you all morning. We just received confirmation that the asset is in Austin. I’ve called Nick, and I need you to…”
His words begin to flow into one another nonsensically, then drop off entirely. I shake my head, trying to clear it, wondering why DB sounds like he’s yelling at me through a busted drive-through speaker. Somewhere in this fog I register a dangerous, unmistakable aftershave, and the world goes still, crystalline.
Fuck, I need oxygen, I think to myself. My breath is a loud scraping sound in my ears, and I need to turn around, to see for myself, but I can’t.
Jean-Pierre’s eyes light up with recognition. “Lucas! I’m so glad you came—who’s your friend? Come, meet Jake!”
I’m waiting for his voice—that deep, Russian accent—to shatter me. Instead, an almost nasal flat, Midwestern accent rings out, but it comes from above, creating a shiver of doubt. “Jake! Buddy! I feel like we’re already great friends. I’ve known Jean-Pierre a while now, and he talks about you all the time.”
My heart is jackrabbiting, and I feel chills in weird places on my body. On my ribs. In my armpits. In my lungs.
“Oh, come on, Jacob. Don’t be rude.” It’s only on the last three words that he switches back to the accent of my nightmares.
It’s him. He’s here.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jake
Two and A Half Years Ago – Paris, France
Paris at night is breathtaking. It had showered earlier in the evening, and the droplets of water sparkle in the Parisian lights. Couples of all stripes walk through downtown, arm in arm, laughing and kissing and generally being romantic. Paris is good for that.
As I walk, the sleeve of the jacket I’m wearing skims my knuckles, and the tie twists in its knot, driving me batshit. I hate the color, and I really hate the fit, but the maroon suit will have to do.
Thank fuck for smoke breaks, I think to myself.
Literally the only competent thing they’d done was tie me to that damned chair and make me feel like I was drowning. They were dumb as a bag of hammers about everything else, including how they took their smoke breaks.
Here’s a hint: you’re not supposed to leave the government-trained weapon you kidnapped alone, or they will figure out a way to escape. That’s just Bad Guy 101. I’m almost embarrassed for them, but my left flank and both armpits hurt like a motherfucker from the cigar burns (mostly first-degree burns, y’all… goddamn amateurs) and my pinky nail isn’t ever going to be right again, so fuck ’em.
Once I’d worked myself free of my bindings, I’d gone out the fire escape in my underwear, reaching back in at the last second for the dark gray wool coat. A few blocks down, I found a Peugeot with dry cleaning hung in the back. I should feel bad about smashing the back window, but it was a Peugeot. I put the suit on while walking, a trick I’d learned from years of one-night stands.
Now, I did feel bad about stealing a nice pair of handmade leather shoes from the family-owned shop down the street, but after a few hours of torture, I deserved something nice for myself.
The United States government had spent years trying to identify the assets that had given up scores of troop locations in Iraq. We knew that the Russians had been feeding intelligence to the Iraqis for a while but had been unable to find and stop the source of the information.
My team’s mission was to extrajudicially find the leak and plug it… hard. We had a lot of eyes in a lot of different places, but the break that came was so small that we were led to believe that we’d almost missed it. A dark web chat room revealed that we were looking for a Russian contact, low-level, blond, tall, last seen in Paris. Likes to party. Not much to go on, but we were convinced that it was the thread we needed.
It quickly became clear that the “low-level person of interest” was meant to distract and waste resources, but the clubs and parties frequented by Russians were rich with intelligence opportunities, and DB was good at figuring out who got talkative when they drank or when they fucked. In the end, it was a bit of pillow talk from DB’s favorite brunet that led me to the bigger fish trolling us just beneath the surface, and we’d felt pretty smug about besting the Russians at their game.
We called it in, and the decision was made to abandon the search for the likely fictitious minor player and instead directly go after the motherfucker who was getting our people killed on the ground. I was the last out of country, erasing our footprints before planning to hitch a ride on the first transport that would get me back to Iraq, where I’d meet up with DB and the team to plan next steps.
We generally operated outside of the Naval command structure, save for transportation, since it was best to avoid commercial travel where possible. As I packed up our equipment, I was mentally preparing to spend the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours getting bounced around from helicopter to carrier to helicopter while being yelled at by every damned CO I’d encounter about getting my hair and uniform in regulation. A few days at sea did have its advantages; fucking or getting fucked by a hot, strike-force ready man of my persuasion was almost a given.
Unfortunately, I never got that far.
As the head analyst, I was the one smart enough to figure out that the minor player was a time-waster. I wasn’t, it seems, smart enough to know that we’d been made. I was on my own when they struck. They wore masks and spoke with Russian accents, and I had no idea what they looked like. But a few horrible hours out of a whole life is nothing. Nothing at all. I just needed to get to a phone and a bottle, and I’d be square in no time.
I mean, I still don’t know how I, big s
hot, miles-above-top-secret, best of the best, all the right stuff black-ops intelligence agent, ever let the mission get so badly fucking compromised, but I’ll be fine. At least I didn’t get anyone on my team killed, and I’m pretty sure that I put them on the right path to take down the asshole leaking our positions, though who the hell knows, you know? I mean, our position got leaked, so… yeah.
There is the small matter of not being able to hardly breathe because I still have water in my lungs. But hey, I’m aces.
Several blocks down from the shoe store, I painfully shrug into my coat and call it in. DB reads something in my tone and orders me back to headquarters, setting me up on the first flight with an open seat, early the next morning. I end the call and walk into the upscale club that DB recommended. The bartender, a handsome, middle-aged fellow, strides over to greet me in French. “And what can I serve you tonight, sir?”
Every damned pill that you have and all of the gin you can muster.
“A gin and tonic, please.”
He makes the drink quickly, setting it down in front of me with a soft smile. His kindness causes my throat to constrict and my eyes to prickle, especially since I’m planning on stiffing this establishment. Pull it together, Koenig.
I take a deep breath and down the glass in one go. The bartender lifts his eyebrow but replaces the glass without comment. My hands shake slightly, which is just ridiculous, so I force myself to slow down and sip the second drink as the liquor begins to hit my veins.
“Is anyone sitting here?” asks a slight man in an expensive, well-tailored business suit, sidling up to me on my left.
I shake my head. “The chair is open, and you are welcome to sit in it.”
His eyes widen, and he switches to English. “Your French is good, but your accent is strange. Tell me, where are you from?”
Hardly able to stand myself, I turn on the charm. “Texas.”