He punched the key-less remote for his BMW, following the squeaky toy noise of the lock disengaging. He was almost surprised to find Nik leaning against the passenger side door, a jacket hanging casually off his shoulder. “No Hummer? No Escalade?” he wondered, arching one of those insanely smug brows.
Fitz arched both of his in arrogant retaliation, before getting in at the driver’s side. “Don’t tell me a Beemer isn’t straight enough.”
“No, it’s just boring.” Nik slid into the passenger seat without waiting for an invite. As though he just expected Fitz to make a place for him. God, that was hot. “That, you see, is what’s troubling your people up there the most: that you’re deadly dull and it’ll cause tongues to wag.”
“Right now? The only tongue I’m interested in is yours. What you can do with it. Where you can put it.” He actually leered, earning a tensed jaw and a muscle jumping in that smooth, barely-stubbled cheek.
Nik very carefully placed his jacket in the back seat. Only then did he actually address what Fitz knew had been pretty far over the line. “Listen, Mr. Fitzpatrick. I like this just about as much as you do. I would prefer making over the image of someone who actually needed it, rather than reminding you to parade about with a hot chick on your arm and a Bud Light in your hand. But here we are. The least you can do is stop…”
“…giving you fits?” he suggested, with an apologetic look. A pretty charming apologetic look, if he did say so himself. The one that had gotten him laid for the very first time when he was fifteen.
And it still had its power eleven years later. Because Captain Consultant finally gave up and smiled. Right before he stretched across the shift column, curled his fingers in Fitz’s t-shirt, and pulled him in for a kiss.
***
The gay golden boy had finally stopped talking. Hallelujah. Nik grinned triumphantly against the soft contour of Fitz’s mouth, before sliding his tongue into the surprised ‘o,’ deepening the kiss, roughening it. Waging war against wisecracks flavored with the citrus tang of Gatorade. Sure, he was a pro athlete, but Nik had been playing this game far longer. So he could ignore his own rising need, the telltale swell beneath his fly, and ruthlessly shove Fitz away. “Like I said: Don’t fuck with me,” he warned, harshly, as he returned to his own seat and belted himself in. “And don’t make out with your tricks in the stadium parking lot.”
Fitz blinked at him with those guileless chocolate-dark eyes, his hard and hulking body still angled toward Nik, his mouth wet and parted with shock…with something that looked a little like hurt. “B-but you kissed me!” he sputtered ineffectually, automatically glancing out the windshield to see if they’d had any witnesses. “I’ve always been discreet.”
“Could’ve fooled me. When I walked into that locker room, Simon LeBon could’ve joined you in your stirring rendition of ‘Hungry Like the Wolf.’”
Confusion replaced surprise. “Who?”
God, he was young. Young and infuriating and gorgeous. And Nik wanted to kiss him again. Lick into him and strip him naked and fuck him until the only words coming out of his mouth were “yes” and “sir.” Instead he focused on the drab concrete outside the window as Fitz navigated the BMW out of the garage, and studiously avoided the hotshot’s attempts to engage him in conversation. Choice of radio stations. The weather. What sports he actually did follow. Nik kept his gaze on the road and his tongue to himself. A few miles went by before he registered one thing he actually had to respond to.
“Listen. I don’t know what they told you, but I’m not going back in the closet,” Fitz said, all pretense of flirtation gone. “Who I am is an open secret. They knew that when they signed me. I’m not the only gay man in the NFL, and I’m not slamming the door that Michael Sam opened for us.”
“That’s not what I’m here for,” he assured, sharply. “Honestly, I don’t care if you fuck a tight end on the ten-yard line as a halftime show at the Super Bowl. I just need to fulfill my contract with your bosses and be done with it.”
“And what exactly does that entail? Making sure I land in the tabloids, naked with a few C-list actresses or swimsuit models? I don’t need a consultant to tell me how to party. I’ve been managing it just fine for years.”
Nik was surprised when Fitz actually expanded on that thought, explaining that he’d partied his way through four years at OSU, with no one looking too closely at who ended up in his bed at 2 in the morning. Usually anal-retentive business majors who wanted to be back in their own beds before their roommates even knew they were gone. “Then why are you giving everyone such a hard time now?” he wondered.
“Because I’m 26 years old and all I’ve ever wanted to do in my life is play ball. I don’t care about getting my name on a shoe or selling jerseys or being the next contestant on some dumbass dancing show. What does being a football player mean? Marrying Giselle? Landing on a Wheaties box? No. It means the game. That’s it. And that’s all I want.”
It was Nik’s turn to blink. To be utterly bewildered. Good God, the kid really was perfect. A paragon. A totally fuckable saint. He tried to remember if he’d ever been this earnest and came up empty. After being disowned by his parents at sixteen, he’d lost every last bit of naiveté. Couch surfing and waiting tables until he could scrape up enough money for his own place had beaten the idealism out of him. It wasn’t until years later, when he’d remade Nikhil Sahani as the ultra-hip, completely badass Nik Shah, that he’d finally developed a solid sense of self. And that self was growing more attracted to Emerson “Fitz” Fitzpatrick by the minute.
“No response to that? No lesson to share?” Fitz challenged, hands resting comfortably on the wheel as they idled at a red light.
“No. No response.” As for lessons…he was pretty certain he’d just been schooled. By someone who couldn’t even identify the members of Duran Duran. Someone who thought eye-fucking you within an inch of your life was being discreet. Someone who was built like a god and kissed like one, too. He met Fitz’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “How far away is your place?”
There could be no mistaking his tone, or the heat index of the look they shared. But, still, Fitz was determined to make him work for it. “Why? Do you want to see if there’s enough of a Pottery Barn/IKEA balance? Check to make sure there’s no canopy on my bed or gay porn lying around? Flip through my vinyls and toss out all the Barbra and Whitney?”
Nik fought the urge to laugh. And won. It made him feel better about conceding in other things. “No, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” he said, quietly. “I just want to play ball.”
***
He always got itchy before a game, his skin tight and hot like he’d burn clean through if he didn’t do something with all that energy. He usually ran laps to cool off, to get back to center. This was like that. Pulling up to the high-rise condo he’d bought after signing his contract. Knowing they were going to fuck when they got inside. Fitz was so heated he could probably run a marathon and still be amped for more. When he cut his gaze to the right, he saw that Nik still hadn’t dropped the cool customer act…except that his fingertips were beating a nervous rhythm on his kneecaps. That just made him itchier: knowing that this man who’d been hired to turn him in to some sort of textbook womanizing football player was the one who’d gotten turned around instead.
Nik stayed a respectable five feet away from him in the marble-tiled lobby, and in the elevator, too. It wasn’t until they reached the 17th floor—Fitz wasn’t a penthouse kind of guy; paying off his mama’s house had been way more important—that he touched him at all. And even then it was simple. His hand closed around Fitz’s wrist, tight like a cuff. Fitz had a thing for a good pair of cuffs. Nik’s fingers were better than any fur lining. They had intent. They had power. They told him that once he and Nik were safely behind his front door, no one’s opinions would matter but their own.
And, sure enough, the minute the door shut behind them, Nik was crowding him against it. “You…” he accused, hands splaying against Fitz’s chest.
“You are a phenomenal pain in the ass. And I’ve only known you an hour. How is that even possible?”
He grinned, ducking his head so he could buss Nik’s cheek with his stubble…and then soothe the scratchiness with his lips. “I’ve been told I get even worse over time.”
Nik chuckled, bunching up his t-shirt and shoving it upwards. Fitz raised his arms to help the progress and then shrugged the barrier off, tossing it aside.
If they were on the field, he wouldn’t even need a tackle to clear this guy. Nik was slender and far tinier than the average football player. But they weren’t on the field, and Fitz was completely content to be shoved around, mastered. “You are so fucking hot.” He shuddered when Nik’s nimble fingers continued their exploration, sliding around his throat in a parody of strangulation.
“Is this how people get you to shut up?” Nik wondered, and his voice wasn’t exactly smooth. All of that classy stiff-upper-lip bullshit was being replaced by need. His thumb massaged Fitz’s pulse point, almost hard enough to leave a bruise and Fitz choked, feeling all his blood rush south to his already painful erection. Yes. Hell, yes.
Nik kissed with purpose. Like he had nothing else on his agenda today but this. And Fitz was happy to clear his own schedule, because Nik’s mouth was warm, his tongue sweeping Fitz’s into submission. It wasn’t long before he was doing the same to Fitz’s cock, palming it through his jeans with one hand, massaging it almost as cruelly and firmly as he was squeezing Fitz’s throat.
“Fuck. If you keep doing that, I’m going to come,” he gasped out, eyes practically crossing with lust.
“The hell you are.” Nik pulled back to look at him. His pupils were so dark they were almost black. “You’ll come when I say you come. Here you’re going to do exactly as I say.” He hooked his fingers in Fitz’s belt loops, tugging him forward into the living room, sidestepping the furniture like a pro, even though he’d never been there before. God, the man was efficient.
“Bedroom’s down the hall to the left,” Fitz offered, just in case his internal GPS had flaws. But, honestly, it seemed like nothing about Nik Shah had flaws. When he pushed Fitz down on the mattress of his King-sized monstrosity of a bed and began to strip, it revealed rock-hard abs, a lickable collarbone, and arms that probably couldn’t bench-press nearly what Fitz could…but would hold him down just fine. As Nik’s designer jeans came off, revealing a thick, cut cock, Fitz’s hips bucked, his own dick throbbing in response. He was already so close. He nearly lost it when he tugged down his zipper, freed himself, and wriggled out of his jeans. But he rode the edge, sucking in air and digging his fingers into the mattress. You’ll come when I say you come.
“Is this what you do, Mr. Fitzpatrick?” Nik was on his knees at the foot of the bed, leaning back on his heels. His head tilted, and he studied Fitz until he was practically fidgeting against the duvet from that gaze alone. “You pick up men and let them fuck you soundly in the comfort of your own home, with no one in the football league the wiser?”
“No…” His mouth quirked, daring Nik to kiss him again. “Sometimes I fuck them.”
A noise somewhere between a laugh and a growl escaped Nik’s throat. He ducked his head, muttering something that sounded like “perfect” but could’ve been an insult for all Fitz knew. He took the brief moments of not being bound by the other man’s attention to reach into the bedside table for the practically untouched box of condoms and full tube of lube. It had been a while and this…this was definitely worth the wait.
***
Emerson Fitzpatrick was stunning. A veritable god of a man. Spread out before him on the mammoth bed like a sumptuous buffet. Nik knew it was utterly stupid to screw on the job, to shag somebody he barely even knew. These were lessons he’d learned in his twenties…but ones he felt completely compelled to throw out the window now, thanks to the erection he could no longer ignore. What had seemed manageable in the car was killing him now. He’d warned Fitz not to come, but he was dancing on the edge of doing that himself…losing all of his control because Fitz tasted like sarcasm and enthusiasm and a dash of submission. Choke him and he bloomed. Bruise him and he gasped. Tell him “no” and he panted “yes.” He was the very definition of a team player.
He moved over Fitz, reaching for one of the foil-wrapped packets he’d so thoughtfully strewn across the bed. While he sheathed himself, Fitz uncapped the lube and slicked up. Nik had to bite his own lip, and then Fitz’s, to keep from shooting off at the visual of Fitz’s big, blunt fingers preparing himself. He had no shame, sprawling there, open and ready, and it was the sexiest thing Nik had seen in ages. They kissed for minutes on end, until Nik was dizzy and aching and nudging Fitz’s knees apart…shoving them back against the mattress with enough force that Fitz cried out.
“Don’t stop,” he said, when Nik automatically stilled above him. “Don’t stop until you’re screaming.”
Nik hadn’t lied to him earlier when he’d said he didn’t scream. It was true. He didn’t. But Fitz never needed to know why. Never needed to hear about dark, desolate, nights spent with his voice muffled against pillows so no one would hear him getting off. All Fitz needed was now. “What? No safe word, Mr. Fitzpatrick?” he asked roughly, cock poised at the ready.
“I don’t want to be safe, baby,” he shrugged before reaching up to stroke Nik’s cheek in an absurdly tender, absurdly beyond-his-years, sort of way. “Out there? Yeah. But not with you. So tell me what to do. I’ll listen. Fuck me. I’ll take it.”
Unbelievable. The kid was unbelievable. Nik groaned, surging down to assault him with his mouth and tongue and teeth. Fitz’s fingers anchored in his hair, urging him on. This time, when he settled between his knees, there was no noise except the heavy sound of their mingled breathing and the quiet directions Nik was given. Not to pass, not to “hike.” Not to head towards the end zone (though that’s exactly where he was headed). But to “fuck me” and do it “harder,” and “right there.” Each time his hips made contact with Fitz’s pelvis, the motion rubbed the swollen head of Fitz’s cock against Nik’s belly, leaving damp trails, like play diagrams, in its wake. Nik ran his hands up Fitz’s sweat-slick torso, fingers once again closing around his throat.
But now he didn’t squeeze. He caressed. He catalogued. He memorized.
Fitz’s head was thrown back, pupils and irises blending together in a fathomless, beautiful, darkness. His breaths came in ragged bursts, and though his free hand was wedged between them, he was still following directions and not touching himself, lest he come without permission. “Please,” he begged, trying to get closer, to take Nik deeper. “Please, can I…?”
There was a “tight end” joke dying to be made, but Nik was in no position to laugh. Sweat beaded his skin, his own lungs seemed to be collapsing in on themselves as he slammed into Fitz again and again. “Yes,” he hissed, finally. Giving them both the freedom they were seeking. “For God’s sake, yes.”
They both came in a rush, one after the other, falling back against the bed in a wet, sticky tangle of limbs. Nik’s arms folded from the strain he’d put them through, and he flopped on top of Fitz, uncaring of being bathed in sweat and come. It was the best he’d felt all day. Possibly all year. All bloody decade.
“So, how’s my image now?” Fitz murmured sleepily against his ear. “Up to snuff, Captain Consultant?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Perfect…” Nik laughed softly, and indulged the temptation to kiss his throat and the sweaty hollow of his collarbone. “I’d say you’re still giving me fits.”
Secured
It’s a dance they do. Hands brushing as they reach for the same mug on the countertop. Jockeying for space as they pass one another in the narrow hallway, his elbow glancing across the side of her breast. His knee tapping hers as he spreads out on the couch. They touch too much and not enough.
Mia’s supposed to be protecting him, this brilliant American researcher with dangerous intel locked away in his mind, but she also has to protect herself. Fr
om wanting to palm his unshaven jaw. From staring at his ass in one of the two pairs of faded jeans he was allowed to pack. From the low rasp of his voice shaving away her defenses. From everything Dr. John “Jack” Wilder is. The safe house is too small for the two of them, for this enormous thing between them. And there is nothing safe about that.
It’s been a week. He’s only just stopped resenting the situation, only just stopped resenting her. But this new normal isn’t better. It’s awkward and loaded and…and she’s compromised. Already thinking of him as more than an assignment. Already imagining him in her bed instead of in his own just down the hall. She needs to call in for a transfer. Get someone new on Jack’s detail ASAP. She hasn’t worked her butt off in security for fifteen years to blow it now, like this. Tomorrow, she tells herself, I’ll do it tomorrow.
He comes up behind her in the galley-style kitchen just as she’s made peace with that inevitability. Reaches up to grab his favorite tea from a shelf above her head. And the stretch of him is like a caress. No, a full-body massage.
“Sorry,” he rumbles against her hair. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
It’s a lie. They both know it. This is the dance. Him this close. Her forgetting what exactly it was that he interrupted. The pretense that they’re not engaging in a twisted kind of foreplay. Mia wants to lean into him. She wants to trade her strength for his just for a moment or two. He craves that, too, she knows, after endless hours of her telling him what to do and making him play by her rules. She breathes it in. His want. His unspoken need. And when she exhales, it’s with five quiet words: “I’m quitting in the morning.”
“What?” Jack goes still at her back. His hands come down on the counter on either side of her, effectively caging her…though she could easily break the barrier if she chose. “You’re leaving me?”
For someone who was initially so eager to be rid of her, he sounds surprisingly bewildered and hurt. She repeats herself. Stares down at his forearms, which are exposed by the pushed-up sleeves of his flannel shirt. They’re dusted with dark hair, suntanned and strong. Not what the arms of a man who spends all day in a lab should look like. “I need to go,” she adds. “It’s what’s best for you. We can’t risk your safety.”
Dil or No Dil Page 3