Daylight Again (Hell or High Water, #3)

by SE Jakes

He carefully lubed himself up . . . thought for just a second about taking the piercings out, then discarded that notion. They were smooth barbells . . . and Prophet would now get the full benefit of them.

  He eased inside of Prophet so carefully. The sensation drove Prophet to rest on his elbows until finally Tom pushed Prophet’s face down into the pillow, listening to the man’s breathing, having the sex they were supposed to have . . .

  They were making up for the last time. And if Tom had his way, they’d never need to make up for it again.

  And Prophet was rock hard, ready to come again. “You need to come again this soon, Proph? Maybe I shouldn’t let you.”

  “Tommy.” A hoarse, needy cry. A push back against his cock. Pain mingled with the ultimate pleasures as his piercings caressed Prophet so intimately. There wasn’t an ounce of fear in Prophet’s body, but it was strung as tight as a bow. “Been . . . so long. Before this . . . please . . .”

  Jesus, for Prophet to be ready again this soon . . . “You’ve been punishing yourself by not coming?”

  “Yes.”

  “No wonder . . . you were . . . such a bastard.” Tom’s words were punctuated by his thrusts, hard, purposeful, wonderfully skin to skin, no barriers between them. “Not happening again. Never . . . again.”

  “Maybe,” Prophet managed.

  “Try it. I will turn you over the nearest piece of furniture—and I don’t care where we are and who’s around—and I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk.”

  “Do it now, Tommy,” Prophet groaned.

  And Tom did.

  Feeling Tom coming inside of him was the most amazing thing. He’d known it would be, to actually have it happen, to feel the throb of the man’s dick with no barrier . . .

  No more barriers. He’d make sure of it.

  And then Tom reached down and stroked him several times with hard, firm strokes until he came again, a tight, hot climax that made him babble incoherently.

  Finally, after what seemed like days on his knees, Tom was pulling him down to him. Tom’s hands came up to twine in his hair. Prophet’s cheek was on his chest, Tom’s heartbeat pounding a crazy rhythm in his ear.

  “So fucking good, Proph,” Tom murmured.

  Prophet realized his eyes were still closed. He opened them cautiously—it was still so dark.

  This is what it’ll be like.

  “It was never like this, Tommy. Not with anyone.”

  Tom reached up and stroked his cheek with his knuckles.

  “And yeah, I’ve fucked some partners. I’ve fucked a lot of other people too, but the partners were never my partners for long. It just didn’t work.”

  “So you figured sleeping with me was a good way to get rid of me.”

  “No. I knew sleeping with you was the worst thing I could do.”

  Tom laughed. “There’s a compliment in there somewhere.”

  “Well, look at us now.”

  “Yeah. Together. Home.”

  Home. Fuck. Prophet had never been one of those guys who was all, I’m too wild to be domesticated. But he liked his place. He liked being with someone.

  And when he blurted all of that out, he heard the laughter in Tom’s voice when he said, “Yeah, I can see that about you—but the domesticated part? I’m never letting you do my laundry. Again.”

  “I didn’t know the red towel was in there,” Prophet protested.

  “You did it on purpose to get out of doing laundry.”

  “Maybe. But it worked.”

  “Fucking impossible.”

  Tom flipped him onto his back suddenly. Prophet braced himself for . . . something. And then Tom told him, seriously, “What if I’d never found you, Proph? Where the fuck would I be?”

  He sounded so serious. So worried.

  “But I’m here, Tom. You did.”

  “We both came so damned close to not being here.” Prophet couldn’t deny the truth in that. “No matter what, I’d never regret this.”

  “Me neither, Tommy.”

  Because, as much as they didn’t want anything to happen, both men were, at heart, painful realists.

  “So you can make me promise, you shit—and I did promise you—but if you think your losing your sight is going to make me leave you, you’re so fucking wrong. And I’ll spend the rest of my days proving it to you.”

  Prophet’s breath came in harsh gasps.

  “I know there are things you’re holding back. I don’t know what they are, but I know you have to. And I trust you. You need to know that.”

  “I know, Tommy.” He touched Tom’s cheek. “I’d never betray you. It’s just you now.”

  “Just you.” Tom closed his eyes for just a second, soothed by the warm rub of Prophet’s palm, then opened them. “I love you. Who the fuck else could compete?”

  Prophet pulled back for a second. Repeated, “Who the fuck else could compete?” with his hand on Tom’s heart.

  Whatever Mal was hiding was bugging the shit out of Prophet. Especially because the tension between Mal and Cillian was so goddamned thick . . .

  If he didn’t know better, he’d swear that somehow Cillian was into Mal. He was still an arrogant ass, but he was also just slightly lovesick when he looked at Mal. And Mal, like Tom said, was slightly more psychotic and protective . . . but Cillian knew that.

  Which meant, at some point, Mal had broken cover. For whatever reason. And Mal would only do that with very good reason.

  But he’d been so wrapped up in his eyes, in the John shit, in what was happening with Tom, that he hadn’t delved deeply enough into it.

  So when Mal came to him to go over the plans, to deal with every possible scenario, the way they’d been taught in the military, Prophet first slid the maps to the side of the table and stared at Mal.

  Typical Mal, he rolled his eyes and mouthed, What’s up?

  “I figure if you knew about Gary, you’d have told me.”

  Mal signed, I wouldn’t leave you hanging about that. Wouldn’t leave you hanging at all, Proph.

  “But something’s up with you and Cillian—so what the fuck happened between you two?”

  Mal shrugged.

  “You’re not getting away with that shit.”

  Mal made a circle with the fingers on one hand and slid a finger on the other through it, the universal sign for fucking.

  “I knew that.”

  There’s more than one way to get fucked, Mal signed. And I’m not talking about it now. It’s under control. Obviously.

  Prophet shook his head slowly. “I don’t feel in control.”

  But I am in control—of myself and of Cillian, okay? You need to trust me and spend time dealing with your own denial.

  “Do you think I didn’t know you believed John slit your throat?”

  Mal blinked, surprised, and that wasn’t an easy thing to do to the man.

  “I get it. You were protecting me. But come on, fucker, you’re withholding intel. Then and now.”

  Mal sat back. Signed, And where do you think I learned that from? Remember that time in boot camp when—

  “Enough.” Prophet held up his hand. “You think I can’t recognize this bait-and-switch crap? I invented throwing people off the track. Mal, what happened with Cillian?”

  He was facing Mal, pointing at him, a dangerous move. Because Mal looked ready to spit fire.

  Not now, Prophet. Maybe not ever.

  “But Tom knows.”

  Why would I tell that voodoo asshole?

  Why indeed.

  Tom came home to an empty apartment. He’d known Prophet was meeting with Mal, and he saw some coffee cups on the table but no sign of either man. But the alarms had been turned on, so he figured they’d gone out to train.

  Tom had come back from a run in the woods—training with Prophet drove him crazy at times, but that didn’t mean he didn’t respect what Prophet was teaching him. So he’d practice it on his own, learn to apply the situational awareness he’d been born with to his training.
To differentiate the different types of danger feelings he sometimes got.

  He wanted to help Prophet—even more now. The stronger he got, the stronger Prophet would be.

  If Prophet decided tomorrow that he couldn’t do this job with Sadiq or with John, Tom would go with the team and let Prophet sit it out. If he was totally honest with himself, he wished that Prophet would.

  After Tom showered, he pulled on sweats and a T-shirt and went to see what there was for dinner. Trying to retain a sense of normalcy when, in less than forty-eight hours they’d be on a plane to East Africa, face-to-face with a terrorist who’d tried to kill him.

  It was then that Prophet slammed into the house. Tom turned in time to see the look on his face and knew what he was in for.

  His cock immediately got hard. Whenever Prophet got aggressive, when Prophet got mad and Tom wasn’t the source, Prophet took it out on him. And Tom loved every goddamned minute of it. He surrendered to Prophet, let him wear himself out on Tom’s body, because it gave Tom what he wanted . . . and it gave them both what they needed.

  First, though, Prophet stopped at the doorway to the kitchen, his eyes dark. “We need to talk.”

  “Hi to you too.”

  “You knew . . . about Mal.”

  “Knew that Mal was a psychopathic asshole? Yes,” he said confidently, even as Prophet began to stalk him. And Prophet’s stalking was a beautiful thing to be sure, with just the right amount of menace to get Tom hard.

  “You knew about Mal and Cillian, Tommy.”

  Tom took a breath and wondered exactly how much Prophet knew . . . or if this was a fishing expedition. “Mal told me.”

  “You saw him fucking Cillian in the back room.”

  “It was dark.”

  Prophet got closer. “You saw them fucking.”

  Tom was pinned. “If I say yes, what do I get?”

  “Get?”

  “Yeah.”

  Prophet’s mouth quirked. “You’ll get what you need.”

  “Here’s a hint—I knew.”

  “Here’s a hint for you—I’d have given you what you wanted even if you didn’t admit it.” Prophet pushed his chest against Tom’s, until Tom hit the kitchen wall. Prophet kissed him as he tore at Tom’s shirt. He heard a tear and groaned into Prophet’s mouth. Ripped Prophet’s shirt off just as hard and a shudder ran through Prophet. He went for Prophet’s jeans, but Prophet grabbed his wrists and yanked his hands away. He backed off, spun Tom to face the wall and held his wrists behind his back. With a hand wound in Tom’s hair, he pulled him off the wall and marched him into the living room and over to the couch, the poor, abused couch that wasn’t Cillian’s. And he pushed Tom over the back.

  Tom braced his hands on the cushion as Prophet took his pants down. His fingers dug into the fabric when Prophet’s hands separated his ass cheeks and he tongued along his crack, speared his hole, ate him without mercy, leaving Tom to hump the couch.

  “If you come now, I swear I’ll spank you,” Prophet threatened, in a tone that told Tom that he wanted Tom to come right fucking now.

  The orgasm pumped from him, leaving his legs weak and his cock still hard. Prophet didn’t wait, slapped his ass four times in quick succession, leaving Tom gasping.

  “More, Tommy?”

  “Yes. Please . . .”

  “Fuck. You beg so well for what you need.”

  And Tom knew Prophet needed this as well. He pushed his ass out to catch the brunt of Prophet’s smacks, his skin hot and tingling, the pain coursing through his body and turning to the pleasure immediately. He was floating. Flying. Ready to come again when Prophet pushed inside of him, his cock stretching Tom.

  “Tommy.” Prophet’s voice was a raw gasp, a plea as Tom contracted around his cock, forcing him over the edge, needing to take him there.

  He was sweat slicked, could barely move. Prophet was helping him onto the couch, wrapping him in a blanket. Kissing his cheek, murmuring how amazing he was . . . how perfect . . . how glad he was that Tom walked into his life.

  Tom heard it all as he floated down to earth. Prophet’s words anchored him, and he realized he was clinging to Prophet, his arms around the man in a death grip. But Prophet didn’t seem to mind, remained next to him, comforting him.

  When Prophet went to get up, Tom tried to pull him back down.

  “Let me, Tommy,” he said, and he only left for a few moments, coming back with a wet washcloth and towel. He cleaned them both up, then settled in again next to Tom. “Hey.”

  Tom glanced up—he was still in that blissed-out place, but for Prophet, he brought himself back into focus. “Things okay?”

  “Yeah, they are. But I know you and Mal are hiding something. I also know it’s not something that would fuck with this mission—Mal wouldn’t do that to me. Neither would you.”

  No, Tom wouldn’t. And sure, what had happened between Mal and Cillian could absolutely fuck with the mission . . . if Mal didn’t have such a tight leash on Cillian, so to speak. If they all didn’t need one another to survive. But if Cillian decided to bail, to throw Prophet under the bus . . .

  Then again, he’d been protecting Prophet long before Mal came into Cillian’s orbit. That’s what Tom held on to now. Cillian was as protective as Prophet. And maybe that was something for Mal to hang on to as well.

  As much as Prophet didn’t want to work with Cillian, he knew that they all needed one another. There was no other way out of it.

  And they all still thought the intel was on target. Mal was playing the part of one of the informants—literally pretending to be one of Cillian’s informants to Cillian’s former boss, Trent. So Mal basically held Cillian’s life in his hands.

  “Getting anything on the voodoo-meter?” he asked Tom now from the couch in their living room.

  “About Cillian? I wish,” Tom muttered. “So fucking tense around here.”

  After several hours of training, Prophet wasn’t feeling all that tense. His training was as much to keep his mind settled as it was in preparation for the physical parts of the upcoming mission.

  He and Tom were back on track—and he was really fucking grateful for that.

  They were set to leave in the morning, had a private plane at the ready, thanks to Cillian’s friend—aka, the guy pretending to sell Gary. Prophet would board with Tom, Mal, and Cillian in a few hours, that way anyone surveilling the plane tomorrow wouldn’t see anything out of order.

  Last night, Tom had told him that he’d always known that most of the shit shown in spy movies was exaggerated, but in another way, it absolutely didn’t go far enough to show the length spies went to in order to keep their covers.

  “It’s a house of cards, but it’s all we’ve got,” Prophet had explained. Every second he trained, he pictured the mission, step-by-step from the time the plane touched down onward. He’d seen the plans of the compound, but that wasn’t one hundred percent foolproof. Gary would attempt to signal yes or no, but if that was too risky, they’d deal with it once he finished his end of the job.

  “Do you think we’ll get lucky?” Tom asked now.

  Prophet shifted on the cushions. “As in . . . do I think John will be there? No. I don’t think he and Sadiq are ever in the same country at the same time.”

  “Dammit. Proph—” Tom touched his arm, and Prophet jerked around to look at the security monitors—and at the man who’d managed to bypass all the alarms and was now at Cillian’s door with a drawn weapon.

  “Back me up, Tom—and text Cillian,” he said, stood and grabbed his own weapon from the table where he’d taken to keeping it over the past weeks. He slid the door open when Tom motioned that the man had gone into Cillian’s apartment and held up the phone.

  “He knows.”

  “Good. Stay here and run a check of the perimeters.”

  Tom didn’t argue, began punching buttons as Proph slid down the bannister and listened at the partially open door to Cillian’s apartment.

  There was dead silen
ce, which made Prophet’s hackles rise, and then there was the sound of a silenced gunshot. He eased the door open and entered to the left with his weapon drawn . . . and saw Cillian standing over a dead man.

  “Who is he?” Prophet grunted.

  “My former boss at SB-20,” Cillian said casually.

  “Did you know he was coming?”

  “Perhaps. I figured it was better to get rid of him before he tried to follow us.”

  “And telling me that was going to happen when?”

  “This part?” Cillian motioned to the dead man. “This isn’t your problem. Trent was always my problem, the way John is your problem.”

  Prophet couldn’t argue. And there’d been no indication that Trent had fucked anything up with the Sadiq intel, but Trent’s agent was following in Cillian’s footsteps, and there was no way Prophet was letting anyone take down Sadiq or John but him and his team. Mal had been feeding the SB-20 agent who’d taken Cillian’s place with the wrong intel—successfully—for the past week. And Hook was helping to reroute messages to Sadiq so the terrorist wouldn’t have a reason to veer from his own plan.

  Now, Cillian told him, “It was only a matter of time before Sadiq went down. He’s good, but we’re better.”

  Prophet shook his head. He didn’t tell Cillian that he felt like they were getting as far as they were with Sadiq because John was pulling away, leaving him out to dry. Yeah, probably other men couldn’t have gotten as far as Mal and Prophet had, but . . .

  “You don’t look convinced.”

  “This shit?” He pointed at Trent. “This is messy. I don’t like messy where I fucking live. Especially with Remy. So you’re going to have to get the fuck out of here once this is all over.”

  “Once this is all over, I’ll have the same number of people trying to kill me as you will. Actually, fewer, since the last time I checked, you’re wanted in far more countries. And several states.”

  Prophet narrowed his eyes at Cillian. “Get rid of him. We leave in an hour, just in case there are more where he came from.”

  “I think that’s an excellent plan.”

  “Where’s Gary?”

  “Safe,” Cillian said. “Not here.”