by SE Jakes
But even if Tom couldn’t understand the why, he did understand. He bit Prophet’s shoulder, then pushed up and eased down his own jeans, kicking them off. He’d taken his boots off before he’d rolled Prophet, which meant Tom’d definitely planned this.
If he’d come in earlier, when Prophet couldn’t get out of the flashback . . .
Tom bit his nipple and he jumped. Tom’s version of an order to stay with him. One that Prophet was more than glad to obey. He glanced at the barbell piercings laddering up Tom’s cock—more impressive when Tom was as hard as he was now. Prophet wrapped a leg around Tom’s calf as Tom eased his thighs wider, ready to make Tom fuck him now.
“Oh, you’re not taking control,” Tom told him. Before Prophet could respond, Tom rolled him half onto his side, while he remained behind Prophet’s ass, propping one of Prophet’s thighs onto his, preparing to enter him while Prophet grabbed uselessly at the rug. “Don’t you come yet.”
It took everything he had not to when the hard and fast slide of Tom’s cock took his breath away, and when Tom jerked against his prostate, he gladly lost the battle, shooting all over his belly and chest, groaning, contracting around Tom’s cock. Then Tom was cursing, and Prophet knew he was struggling not to come too.
Tom slapped his ass hard. Twice.
“Couldn’t help it,” Prophet groaned, his cheek rubbing against the rug. “And I’ll do it again. If you’d hurry.”
“Asshole. Jerked off . . . twice . . . on the flight . . . so I could do this,” Tom managed finally.
“You lubed up before you came in here?” Tom was throbbing inside of him as his own cock stayed half-hard.
“I’m a good planner.” Tom rocked his hips against Prophet, his balls touching Prophet’s ass. Prophet ground against him, like he could get the man deeper, but Tom chuckled and pulled back, obviously planning a hot, slow ride.
All of Tommy’s focus was on him. His hands alternately held Prophet down and then caressed his skin, then held him down again. The touches were proprietary. Possessive. They’d leave some marks. That was usually Tom’s kink, but right about now, Prophet was understanding the benefits of feeling Tom long after they were finished with their grind.
This was part recoupling, part reassurance that time apart didn’t lessen anything between them. Tom reasserting that he wasn’t going anywhere . . . and Prophet accepting it. His fingers wound into the plush carpet, his breathing harsh, his cock impossibly hard even though he didn’t think he’d come again soon.
His balls obviously didn’t get the message. They tightened against his body, and Tom reached his hand around, rubbing his palm against the cum on Prophet’s stomach, using it to jack Prophet’s cock slowly, so goddamned frustratingly slowly. Prophet watched the head of his cock disappear into Tom’s broad, tanned hand as his body threatened to jackknife and spill.
He forced himself under control, needing this to last. Giving himself over, letting Tom take what he wanted . . . this was the kind of helplessness Prophet wanted to handle. Tom was ramrod hard inside of him, his strokes powerful, and Prophet’s whole body throbbed.
“Jesus . . . Tom . . . this is reallyfuckinggood,” Prophet breathed in a rush of words.
“Really fucking good, baby,” Tom echoed, smiling, the way he always did when Prophet was losing control.
Prophet had lost it a long goddamned time ago when it came to Tom, but he’d be damned if he’d admit it. Out loud.
Again.
“Tommy . . .”
And then Tom murmured, “Lije,” in his ear, his voice raspy and desperate, and Prophet shuddered, suddenly as desperate as Tom sounded.
Of course, Tom noticed. And that’s when he began fucking Prophet in earnest, saying his name like a cross between a chant and a prayer, and Prophet was damned sure no one had made it sound better. No one had ever shortened it like that, but back in New Orleans, Tom had taken it and made it his own, using it every time they fucked. Like he was proving he knew Prophet, reminding Prophet that he’d let Tom in and there was no backing out now.
Prophet couldn’t say anything. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but anything that came out was pretty fucking incomprehensible. He was a ball of sensation, his entire being focused on being impaled by Tommy, owned by him for these moments. He was on his side, with Tom between his legs, bending one of Prophet’s legs forward against his belly, which let him drive his cock deeper . . . without Prophet being able to do a damned thing about it. One of his arms was half-trapped under his own body, the other trying to gain some purchase, but he gave up and let his face push against the rug as Tom just completely claimed him.
“Tommy!” he cried out as his orgasm rushed through him with an intensity he hadn’t expected so soon on the heels of his first climax. It nearly paralyzed him for several seconds, his muscles stiffening as he jerked helplessly on Tom’s cock.
“Lije . . . yeah, that’s it, baby . . . God, fuck . . .” And then Tom came, spurred on by Prophet’s climax, dragged along for the ride. Prophet could feel him pulsing through the condom.
They had to get rid of those, and soon. Soon.
He made a mental note to tell that to Tom as the man half collapsed on him for a few moments. He reached up, ran a hand through Tom’s sweat-soaked hair, yanking him down hard for a kiss. Tom’s tongue claimed his mouth, his way of telling Prophet that it wasn’t over, not until Tom said so.
And no, he wasn’t stopping. The rest of it was a blur, with Tom pulling out, turning Prophet onto his back, taking his time licking, sucking, not leaving any of Prophet’s skin untouched. And Prophet was patient enough to allow it, the haze of orgasms softening him for the moment.
That didn’t mean he wouldn’t come again. Which he did, a hot, nearly dry orgasm with his cock in Tommy’s mouth. That one pushed him over the edge, left him a strung-out, groaning mess, so full of sensation he didn’t know what the hell to do. So he lay there, spread out on the rug like a sacrifice, everything forgotten except Tom.
Tom’s body was finally sated and decidedly lazy as he stared up at Prophet from between his legs. “Didn’t you jerk off while I was gone?”
Prophet’s laugh was a low rumble of contentedness, his gray eyes closer to blue than their usual storm-colored slate. “Twice a day, yeah.”
“Still a teenager in so many ways.”
“Got that right, old man.”
He climbed up Prophet’s body and pinned him again, with Proph offering zero resistance. “Keep pushing. You won’t have a voice left.”
Prophet laughed weakly. “I’ll risk it.” He looked so comfortable, boneless, Tom knew that unless he carried Prophet to bed, they were sleeping right here where he’d brought Prophet down with his tackle.
They played this game every time he came back after being away or working a lot. It’d started out as a joke, then a bet, and finally, a source of pride for Tom.
Prophet had been shaking when Tom tackled him, but he knew Prophet wouldn’t admit he’d recently had a flashback. Tom wouldn’t push him, but he’d witnessed them enough. But if he’d stopped to coddle the man? Yeah, he would’ve had his ass handed to him, and not in a good way.
He reached up and grabbed the blanket off the couch. And a pillow. They shared it, curling on the carpet in the dark.
Tom’d only been gone for two weeks, but that was the longest he’d been away from Prophet since New Orleans. If there was other news, something that’d triggered Prophet’s flashback, Tom didn’t want to know tonight. “We gonna stay down here all night?”
“Says the man who fucking rolled me in my own doorway.”
“You said to make myself at home.”
Prophet snorted, but ran a hand through Tom’s hair at the same time. Four months out of the bayou, four months of Tom living with Prophet, but neither of them said anything about making it a permanent thing. Tom had gotten kicked out of his place unexpectedly, Prophet had taken him to his place, and that was the end of the discussion.
Four days afte
r he’d moved in, Tom had left for an EE mission. He’d come back to find that Prophet had unpacked his sad twelve or so boxes, his stuff intermingled with Prophet’s.
The sudden ease with which it had been done had hit him harder than he’d thought possible. Prophet put up a hell of a fight, but when he surrendered it was so completely, unmistakably beautiful. Actions spoke louder than anything Prophet could ever say. Even though both of them knew it was simply the calm before the inevitable storm their lives would become—could become, at any moment—they had an unspoken agreement to make the most of this normalcy. Probably the closest either of them’d ever had, Tom figured. And while it made each of them slightly antsy in their own way, for the most part it worked, and it worked well.
Prophet turned on his side to stare at Tom. “I like the nickname.”
Tom had noticed, but it was the first time Prophet’d actually brought it up. He’d learned Prophet’s real name months ago, but didn’t use it outside of sex. He kissed Prophet’s collarbone, then flicked his gaze up to Prophet’s eyes. “It’s not as simple as Elijah is a Prophet. You get those same feelings I do. You predict shit.”
“Not like you, Tommy. Just seems that way. I notice things before other people, so it just looks all spooky and voodoo-like.”
Tom brushed his knuckles over Prophet’s cheek. “I like it. Suits you.”
Prophet’s face flushed. No smart-assed answer came back. Just a hint of an almost-shy smile and a change of subject. “Your trip okay?”
“Until the blizzard.”
“A dusting,” Prophet scoffed.
“It’s a foot at least.”
“I’ve offered to build a swamp out back to make you feel more at home.”
Winter in upstate New York had been brutal so far. After four days’ delay and rerouting, he was finally home. And no place had felt like an actual home to him in a really long time. “Already there,” he told Prophet.
“Did you do your paperwork?”
“Cope told me he’d file it.”
Prophet tucked an arm behind his head. “Impatient?”
“If you’re just figuring that out . . .”
Cope had clapped him on the shoulder when they’d touched down, telling him, “Go on, get out of here. Loreth’s picking me up later on, so I’ll do the debriefing with Phil.”
Tom had accepted that offer, mainly because the mission had been a simple one, as the last three had been. Short-term bodyguarding assignments of high-profile executives, completely routine, not an ounce of trouble, unless he counted the executive’s mistress showing up when the executive was hooking up with a new chick.
After he and Cope defused the situation, the executive had ended up having a threesome with the two chicks.
Now, Prophet stretched, and Tom traced his ribs with a finger. He was leaner than Tom had seen in a while—he’d upped his workouts like he was a prizefighter in training. Since John Morse was involved, Tom supposed it was the same thing. It’s why he was also training every chance he got.
Prophet wasn’t dealing with this alone.
“It’s not the same without you at EE. Everyone says so.” Tom hadn’t been sure he’d wanted to bring this up at all, but since he’d gone there. . . “He wants you back there.”
“Cope?”
“Don’t play dumb. You know I’m talking about Phil.”
Prophet frowned. “I don’t want to think about any Marines during my afterglow.”
“Come on . . . let’s go to bed.” Tom half dragged Prophet up, luring him to the bedroom with promises of more orgasms. Of course, Prophet fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. Tom went to grab something to eat and came back to bed with a turkey sandwich and chips. He put the plate on the night table, and his eye caught on a shadow in the corner of the room by the window. He moved toward it, bent down, and scooped up some sand.
He held it in his palm, remembering he’d seen sand around the box Prophet kept on his dresser. Maybe Proph had been going through some things. He stood, went to the box, and gently brushed the sand from his palm back to its rightful place.
Prophet grabbed his phone after a single ring. He’d been buried under Tom, who now shifted and muttered but didn’t fully wake up. Prophet had gotten used to these middle-of-the-night calls, usually from Mal or King, passing along intel or checking in.
But it was Zack, his first CO, who launched right in after Prophet’s “What’s up?”
“I need your help, Proph. Dean’s in trouble.”
Prophet stared out the window in the dark. Fat snowflakes drifted by, the pavement below already coated and quiet, and Tom’s breath was warm against his chest. This was real. “Tell me everything.”
LT did. And after he’d laid out the problem, Prophet said, “I’ll be there in twenty-four hours.”
After he hung up, he lay in the dark for a few minutes.
He’d dreamed about LT two nights ago. And a couple of times last week. He’d told himself it was because he was talking to his old team constantly these days, instead of just quick checking-in texts, because they were getting too close to an old wound that had never been allowed to heal.
But something about spending time with Tommy—and his voodoo shit—made Prophet realize that his own instincts had strengthened over the past year. And sometimes, things in Prophet’s life came up that coincided so goddamned eerily that he was sure someone up above was fucking with him.
He’d also started noticing how much past he had—and was learning that unpacking it was the only way to have some peace. So he’d started by letting Tom in. Part of that was the physical unpacking of the boxes Tom’d been dragging around with him—forcing him to settle. Because Prophet wasn’t the only one with commitment issues.
Still, unpacking Tom had been more for Tom than for him, because in Prophet’s eyes, the man had already moved in everywhere: Prophet’s place. His room. His heart. And Prophet knew when it was time to give up the ghost. It was too late to save himself.
For Tom’s bodyguarding, missions, they’d settled into a routine. Tom would get called in with Cope and he’d go; Prophet would threaten Cope with severe bodily harm if anything happened to Tom; Cope would tell him to fuck off; and then to deal with Tommy being gone, Prophet would throw himself into the planning of the biggest mission of his life. Because the trap was elaborate, and Prophet needed to ensure that it was far sturdier than the house of cards it appeared to be.
At one point, Tom came back with another tattoo hidden under the bracelet he’d worn since his and Prophet’s first mission together. A tattoo that was almost an exact replica of the bracelet.
“So no one can take it off me again,” he’d said in response to Prophet’s unasked question. Because when Tom had been jailed in New Orleans, he’d been forced to take it off, and he’d then waited until Prophet could put it back on him.
The superstitious voodoo bastard.
But Prophet had to admit it made him smile when Tom wasn’t looking. And once he’d discovered it, he’d taken the time to trace it with his tongue and nip it with his teeth, marking Tom hard, wanting to give tangible proof to his feelings.
When Tom found out about the other shit—his eyes, everything else he was hiding—he might run, but Prophet resigned himself to the fact that his heart could get ripped out. Again. And it would be worse this time. Way worse, because Prophet knew more, felt more, loved harder.
Tom heard the change of cadence in Prophet’s voice immediately. Even half-asleep, he knew the difference between usual news received and trouble—and Prophet’s tone meant the latter.
He slid out of bed, headed toward the living room where Prophet was sitting on the windowsill, staring out, unmoving. He didn’t glance in Tom’s direction, but there’s no way he didn’t know Tom was there.
Instead of attempting to figure anything out, he went to the kitchen to put on coffee. Because they’d need it. And he’d just poured the mugs and put the eight tons of sugar and lots of milk int
o Prophet’s coffee, when Prophet came up next to him. As he reached for the mug, he put his cheek against Tom’s bare shoulder, rubbed his scratchy stubble against Tom’s skin. He did that often, in different spots, with his cheek or with a bite, all of it marking Tom. Tom didn’t think Proph even knew he was doing it.
He took a sip of his own coffee, penned in against the counter by Prophet’s body, his chest pressing against Tom’s back. Over the past several weeks, he’d gotten very little sleep, but he was on full alert now.
Prophet finally said, “I’ve got to go to Djibouti.”
“That’s a requirement now?”
Prophet snorted, then moved away so Tom could turn and face him.
“No. It’s a favor for my old CO. His brother, also a former SEAL, has been living and working there for years. And he’s been kidnapped. LT’s already on his way with the ransom.” He paused, then added, “And no, this isn’t John-related.”
“You’re sure?”
“LT retired before that last mission. Dean was out before John and I enlisted.” Prophet’s phone gave the distinctive beep of a text message. He punched a few keys, then looked up at Tom. “Will you come with me?”
The man was so serious, like he thought Tom would actually think about saying no. Like Tom wouldn’t have insisted on going, whether invited or not.
But being asked like this? It was fucking everything. “When do we leave?”
Prophet gave a small smile, almost shy, before he ducked his head to text more. “Two hours.”
“If this was about John, the answer would’ve been the same.”
“I know.”
The coffee had cooled enough for Tom to finish his mug in several quick gulps before pouring another mug. “I’m going to grab a quick shower.”
“I’ll join you. But check in with Phil first, yeah?” Proph didn’t look up from his phone.
“Yeah. All right to mention this?”
Prophet glanced up at him. “Phil knows the guy. So yeah.”
“Won’t he wonder why LT didn’t call him instead?”