“Good morning. Anyone care to inform me what’s going on here? I’ve seen a lot of shit in my time, but this takes the cake.”
The leopard took off his head and came toward Perry with his paw out. He was just an average, albeit red-faced, guy of about thirty-five, slightly too stocky to be a leopard, which was maybe why he’d chosen that animal. “Officer. I’m Red Bullard. I can see where this might look a little odd. But you see, this upcoming week is the Great Utah FurFest being held at the Triple Play Lodge. I’m sure you’re familiar with the lodge.”
“I am.”
“Well, we just got here a couple days early. We really needed a vacation. That explains why we’re running around in our fursuits already. We can barely contain our excitement.”
“‘Bearly’ contain,” laughed the third cartoon character, a woman dressed as a pink bear with stripes slashing her face. Her costume was extremely cute, with a fluffy round tail she could even twitch, but Perry was nonplussed.
“So you’re telling me a bunch of people dressed like you are about to descend on the Triple Play?” Perry was glad his cabin was four hundred yards from the main lodge. These folk looked as though they could get pretty wild, so to speak. “What’s the point? I mean, why do you do this?”
Red shrugged. He held his head under his furry armpit as though it were a smiling globe. “It’s a social thing. We all enjoyed cartoons as kids, and now we want to—”
The blue fox filled in for him. “Anthropomorphize them. We get together, talk, draw animals. There are skunks and wolves interacting, hugging, sharing plushies.”
“Plushies?” asked Perry.
“Stuffed animals,” said the fox.
“Well,” joked Perry. “As long as that’s all you’re sharing.”
He really couldn’t see anything they were doing wrong, and images of his cabin were calling out to his weary body, so Perry wished the cartoon characters well and took his leave. Of course, questions flooded his mind as he drove away. What would happen if children came across these guys? Did they hand out candy? Or were they strictly doing something adult that he should be leery of? He had probably let them off too easily, being bone tired as he was.
Driving back onto the main road—that was where his day became even stranger.
A black SUV was parked off a side dirt road. Perry hadn’t seen the vehicle in the week he’d been out there. Maybe feeling guilty over not investigating those costumed crusaders a bit more in-depth, Perry cranked the wheel and drove up behind the black SUV. He was immediately suspicious of the beefy, powerful vehicle. Hunters didn’t drive these tanklike things. Drug dealers did. So Perry had barely pulled to a stop before he typed the license plate number into his laptop.
One man stood by the vehicle’s hood, also typing into a laptop. He was a sharp-eyed older man with extremely handsome features—the sort who would play a drug kingpin in a movie. In fact, he was so damned handsome it was hard to believe he was in the middle of Nowheresville, Utah. It made Perry even more suspicious. Maybe he was a scientist, doing a soil study. That was the only possible explanation.
His database returned that the black vehicle was a company truck owned by a Hawkeye Corp out of DC. The handsome man squinted back at Perry, also suspicious, but kept typing in his laptop. Googling Hawkeye Corp let Perry know it was a private military contractor, and he became intrigued. What sort of skullduggery was going on in Southeast Utah?
When Perry got out of his truck with one hand on the .44 at his hip, he noticed the handsome guy had a shoulder holster under his lightweight jacket. He wore one of those military camo skullcaps that made the wearer look even more vicious and cruel. Perry was aroused in more ways than one. An almost erotic tingle ran up the front of his torso, stiffening his nipples, erecting his cock. Is this what one felt when one began to worship another man? No doubt this man was an even tougher hard case than Perry. The way he carried himself, the way he stood, so confident and self-assured. The pinpoints of his icy blue eyes told Perry he was a heartless bastard, accustomed to manhandling thugs who were far more hardened than the stuffed animal enthusiasts Perry had just encountered.
Perry touched the brim of his cap in a professional salute. He went around the assassin’s side of the truck, eager to look over his shoulder and see what he was doing on the computer. Oddly, it looked as though he’d paused a video of a TV show.
“Officer Donovan,” said Perry, reaching out a hand, hoping the guy would introduce himself as well. He had no reason to search or even question the guy.
The guy looked at Perry’s nametag and badge, right over his shirtfront pocket. Perry was kind of wrinkled today, and for some reason he felt acutely self-conscious. “Officer Donovan,” the guy read. Menacingly, he even had an Irish brogue. “Division of Wildlife Resources? So you’re a law enforcement official, just like any other patrolman.”
Perry couldn’t tell if this was a good thing or a bad thing in the military man’s eyes. “We work with other state and federal agencies,” he admitted cautiously. He was the one who should be questioning the stranger. He was on Perry’s land, after all, all the way from Washington, DC. “We have the same powers as other law enforcement officials. I could arrest you, for example, for not telling me what you’re doing by the side of the road in McQueen Valley, Utah, watching videos.”
The man smiled, not showing any teeth. “At the moment? Just catching up on my Breaking Bad viewing, enjoying the warm sun.”
Perry knew the guy was deflecting—taking the focus off other, more nefarious activities. “And you’re carrying around a concealed forty-five cal pistol because…” He didn’t wait for the guy to answer. “Listen, I ran your plates. I know you work for Hawkeye, a private military contractor in DC. Do you want to share what you’re doing out here? I need all the eyes and ears I can get, and if you’re going to be around for awhile, maybe we can work together on some of these fucking poachers.” Perry handed the guy his business card with the number of the Turn-in-a-Poacher hotline. He got almost all of his tips from fellow hunters and outdoorsmen who also didn’t want to see wildlife decimated. Fellow law enforcement types usually shared information as well.
The guy gave him his own card with barely any information other than his alleged name, Rowan O’Shea. As for what he was doing out there, all he’d say was, “I’m tracking down a fugitive guilty of some federal offenses.”
“The Winterhawk bomber?”
Perry could tell he’d hit a nerve. A muscle in Rowan’s cheek twitched. Rowan wasn’t so unreadable and mysterious after all. “Something like that.” He assumed a relaxed stance now, maybe prepared to confide more in Perry. “If I show you a photograph, will you commit it to memory? Let me know the second you see this twerp anywhere?”
“Of course.”
Perry had to stand close to Rowan to get a view of the laptop screen that didn’t blind him with sun glare. The man smelled of musky fresh sweat that for some obscure reason turned Perry on. Why was he reacting like this? He’d never engaged in gay activities like so many of the men forced to spend almost all of their time in the wilderness. He knew that his partner Gabriel enjoyed toying with random campers and hikers. Lots of people came out here to BASE jump, free spirits who weren’t averse to having their cock sucked by a muscular wildlife officer. Back in the Southern Region when he and Gabriel were on patrol, Gabriel would give him a key word—usually “campfire”—to let him know they were near someone he wanted to mess with. It was all right. The men played willingly with Gabriel. It was amazing how many men lost their inhibitions when out in the wilderness, mellow with beer, and near an authority figure wearing a badge. Gabriel told Perry that most men got off on the illicit angle of having their cock sucked by a six-foot-five stud. And, of course, most men merely liked having their cock sucked, period. By anyone.
Perry had never participated. He identified himself as straight to the core.
Am I one of those gullible bi-curious dickwads? Here I am, stunned and turned on
in the middle of the wilderness by an authority figure. And I haven’t even had a beer. Guy works for a private military contractor. But he could just be Hawkeye’s janitor who stole their SUV and laptop. Perry doubted it. Rowan was so buff and tough he seemed made of fiber. “All right. I can memorize that face. I can guarantee you I haven’t seen him yet, but I’ll notify you the second I do. Is he armed and dangerous?”
When Rowan looked into his eyes, Perry became painfully aware of how close they stood together. Rowan didn’t back off, and neither did Perry. “I’ll say. Just put a tail on him if you see him and notify me immediately. I just got here yesterday and I haven’t put a BOLO out on him. We have no hard evidence against him yet—this is just a hunch I’ve been playing for a few months.”
“Are you planning to stay in the area until you find him?”
“That, or I get intel that he moved somewhere else. I’ve got a divining rod in his cell but it only works within a hundred feet, and I have no idea what sort of vehicle he’s driving.”
Perry didn’t know what a divining rod was, so instead he asked, “Name?”
“Sean Hinton. Not like that’ll help.”
“Right. Of course he’s using an alias.” It was thrilling to once again be hot on the trail of a criminal. Perry was all about the poachers, drug smugglers, and arsonists, but this was a political bomber who had blown up a congressman. Or so he presumed that’s who Rowan O’Shea sought.
Rowan looked deeply into Perry’s eyes, Perry presumed, to see if he was a man he could trust with this sensitive information. Every cell in Perry’s body was on fire. This mercenary had some very basic primordial effect on him, some ability to manipulate him with just a glance or tilt of the head. Perry didn’t like feeling like a helpless victim, even a victim of someone’s sex appeal. He was unaccustomed to being the submissive one, usually being the guy doing the arresting, handing out the tickets, and exerting control over others’ destinies. Now he felt small, feeble, at the mercy of this tough guy. He would’ve felt emasculated if he didn’t have such an insistent hard-on.
His voice even sounded feeble when he practically begged, “Can you tell me anything else about Mr. Hinton that might help if I see him?”
“Yeah,” said Rowan, moving even closer. It was still balmy and warm in McQueen Valley in October, and Perry only wore the short-sleeved khaki officer’s shirt and brown cotton work pants. He was slammed by the potency of the older man’s body heat, and his nipples erected against the harsh cloth of his shirt. Rowan intently studied Perry as though wondering whether he could trust him, his eyes drinking in Perry’s throat, his naked clavicle, the top shirt button undone. “He’s gone rogue so I think he’s working alone. He’s a renegade—likes going against the grain of established order.” He gazed almost longingly at Perry’s lower lip.
Before Perry could ask if Hinton was indeed the Winterhawk Bomber, Rowan kissed him. Shocked at first to find himself in such a predicament, Perry allowed Rowan to press him back against the warm metal of the SUV’s black hood. Accustomed to reacting in a lightning-fast manner to criminals, all of Perry’s self-defense training suddenly evaporated. It was as though some powerful, innate instinct in him overcame his reasoning brain. He was being controlled by this untamed side of himself as he parted his lips, allowing Rowan to slip his tongue between them.
Lapping away at the underside of Perry’s tongue, Rowan wasted no time in sliding his palm up Perry’s thigh and grabbing a handful of erect cock. Perry gasped, Rowan’s fat tongue between his teeth like a delicate oyster. It was incredible how much more potent and erotic it was, being handled by another man. Maybe his partner Gabriel had something there. Rowan rubbed the ridge of his glans through the brown fabric of his uniform. His prick elongated in the mercenary’s hand with a mind of its own. His rebellious cock was demonstrating to the mysterious assassin that it wanted to be caressed, stroked, aroused.
What is wrong with me? Lack of sleep? This perverted deviant is all over me like honey on a hot biscuit. And I’m not doing a thing to stop it.
Indeed, Perry was acting as though he encouraged this kinky behavior, against his own better nature. Rowan uttered a deep, resonant groan, lunging his hips against Perry’s while sucking Perry’s lower lip into his mouth. Perry must have been so completely distracted because the next thing he knew, his wrists were encased in his own handcuffs at the small of his back.
It was enough to finally force him to pull away, gasping in horror. “What the fuck, man?” How the hell had Rowan whipped the cuffs from their case on his duty belt so swiftly? Perry was thoroughly trained in arrest methods, defensive tactics, and the proper use of force! He wasn’t even aware when he was being cuffed with his own cuffs?
The corners of Rowan’s mouth curled with a sly, devious delight. “I like a man in uniform.”
Suddenly Rowan vanished. He was on his knees before Perry, unbuckling his belt like a quick escape artist. Rowan could have easily disarmed him or worse from this position, but he didn’t seem to be taking advantage of his upper hand. He seemed to genuinely desire Perry, eagerly lifting his long, fat prick from his briefs, snuffling his face in Perry’s crotch. His tongue snaked around the spheres of Perry’s full balls, and he nibbled and bit at the sac. Rowan’s sole goal seemed to be sexual satisfaction. Not to harm Perry, but to pleasure him.
Well, hell. I would’ve let him suck my cock without the handcuffs.
But the handcuffs sure are nice.
It was strange, but being bound, powerless, actually gave Perry a sense of power. He knew it turned Rowan on to see a uniformed authority figure helpless like this. And Rowan’s arousal made Perry feel wicked, just brimming with virility.
But of course, there was still one small part of his being that protested such treatment. Even as he spread his feet apart on the red dirt to give Rowan better access to his throbbing balls, Perry found himself snarling, “What the fuck is the big idea, you weirdo? You do know I’m going to fucking haul you in for assaulting an officer.” But even as he said this, Perry’s inner mind was urging Suck me. Take my big throbbing prick in your hot mouth.
He almost yelled at Rowan to get back to it when he momentarily leaned back on his heels and looked up at Perry. Perry struggled in his bonds, wanting to belt his assailant upside the head. “I don’t think you will, when I’m done with you.” And, smiling that sly smile, Rowan dove onto Perry’s dick, spearing it down his throat.
Holy mother of God. This is the best cocksucking of my entire life. Don’t. Stop. Don’t. Stop. Don’t stop.
Because he couldn’t grip the back of Rowan’s skull and thrust his cock into his mouth that way, Perry swiveled his hips, arching them against Rowan. His spine undulated as he slid his ass down the side of the SUV, bending at the knees. It was obvious that he drove his throbbing prick into his newfound friend out of lust. He didn’t jerk and wriggle his arms against the cuffs out of fear or terror, or even anger at being violated so ruthlessly. No, he squirmed and quivered because the thrill Rowan was giving him was threatening to overwhelm him.
He could have easily kneed Rowan in the Adam’s apple. He could have delivered a striking head butt while they were still at each other’s eye level, although in his experience that tactic caused more injury to himself than the criminal. But he could have done something, anything other than wriggling against this burning hot SUV like a damned pole dancer, plunging his bursting cock down the hot throat of a stranger.
All thoughts vanished from Perry’s mind when he came explosively. Rowan coaxed the biggest orgasm of his life from him, his talented tongue giving hard, fat strokes to the underside of his prick, his teeth barely nibbling at the glans almost like nails on a blackboard. Perry heard a strangled, animal cry that must have emanated from his own lungs, as Rowan’s mouth was currently stuffed with his bursting dick. He threw his head back and squeezed his eyes shut until the direct sun caused a blaze of black-red to coat his entire vision. His hips shivered and jerked as Rowan dexterously mil
ked every last ecstatic drop from him, gulping it down like a starving man.
By the time Rowan was done draining him, Perry realized he had slid so far down the SUV his ass was nearly against the tire. Pleasure pooled in his groin, spreading outward like a warm benefaction down his thighs and up his abdomen. He realized he’d been holding his breath, and he now panted, struggling to stand straight against the truck.
Of course Rowan sat back, smacking his lips. Of course the arrogant bastard would. He knew he had prevailed. He even swept his hungry eyes up and down Perry’s torso, as though about to pounce on him in a wild fuck.
“You fucking bastard,” said Perry. “Let me go.” He didn’t say anything about throwing the book at Rowan. As Rowan had predicted, he wouldn’t.
Standing, Rowan regarded him casually. His arms swung freely at his sides, and he seemed completely unashamed of his own erection nestled in his 501s against his hipbone. He put a hand on his hip as though to display the erection—and his Glock in its holster. “You need to brush up on the proper techniques. You just allowed me to completely take you down.”
Perry narrowed his eyes at his nemesis. “If you don’t uncuff me I’m going to take you down, all right.”
Rowan smiled as he casually unhooked Perry’s key ring from his duty belt. Obviously, being arrested for assault was the farthest thing from Rowan’s mind. Rowan was so full of himself, so arrogant and pompous. It should have been annoying, but it only intrigued Perry further. How did he get to be so confident, so sure of himself? The more of a colossal asswad Rowan was, the more interested Perry became. Rowan’s eyes glittered with lust as he clicked the key into the cuff. “You’re a beautiful, sweet man, did you know that?”
Perry thrashed his arms about once one wrist was freed. He backed away from Rowan several steps as he whipped off the last cuff. “What’s the fucking meaning of all that?” He lost no time inserting the cuffs into their case and stuffing his flaccid cock back into his pants.
The Grass Is Greener [McQueen Was My Valley 3] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) Page 4