by Lisa Henry
Henry faced away. He closed his eyes as Mac fiddled with the hooks. “Aw, all that trouble to give myself tits, and you don’t want to play with them even for a little?”
Mac turned him back around, slipped the bra free, and pushed him down onto the bed. “I like you just fine the way you are.”
Henry couldn’t help himself. He rubbed his cock through his skirt, the layers of chiffon whispering. He exhaled. “You . . . you like my tits the way they are, Mac?”
Mac climbed onto the bed beside Henry. Reached up and smoothed his palm over Henry’s right nipple. Then pinched it.
Henry shuddered. “Oh, shit, yeah.”
“I like your tits, Henry,” Mac said, and lowered his mouth over Henry’s left nipple.
Oh fuck fuck fuck.
Henry arched his back, imagining that he did have tits. That he had something to push into Mac’s mouth. He grabbed at the comforter and lifted one leg, hooking it around Mac. His skirt fell open and he tilted his hips, cool air finding his cock through his lace underwear. Mac bit lightly on his nipple, and he moaned, moving one hand between his legs to stroke again. The lace suddenly itched; the underwear was too small for his swelling cock.
“Mac,” he whispered. “Get me out of these.” He tugged feebly on the frilled edge just below his hip.
Mac raised his head. “I thought we were doing this my way?”
“I need your way to involve touching my dick.”
Mac returned to sucking his nipple, but as he did, he ran a dry, cool palm up Henry’s thigh and then pushed hard against his trapped balls. Henry threw his head back, letting out a long breath. Mac pushed again, fingers teasing Henry’s cock. He snagged the edge of the underwear and lifted it just enough that he could brush his fingertip over Henry’s cockhead. As he did, he bit his nipple.
Henry rolled his hips. He didn’t speak. All the shit he’d ever said during sex—“Fuck yeah.” “Please.” “More.”—was stuff he thought johns wanted to hear. Right now he did want to beg. He did want to swear. He wanted to fucking scream. But he also wanted to let go. Wanted to see what would happen if they did this Mac’s way.
Mac slid the panties down over Henry’s cock, then made a fist around his shaft. Each time he pumped, the chiffon rubbed Henry’s slit, spreading moisture, making Henry clench his jaw to keep from gasping.
“I like what’s under your skirt too,” Mac said.
Henry tried to grin. “Everything in order?”
“I think so. I may need to take it for a test ride.”
“Just make sure you give it back when you’re done.”
Mac stood. He tossed Henry’s skirt up so that it fanned over his bare chest. Then he pulled Henry’s underwear down and off, knelt on the floor, and put his head under Henry’s skirt. Suddenly Henry couldn’t see anything except the shape of Mac shifting under the black fabric. He felt Mac’s palms on his thighs, Mac’s hot breath between his legs.
“Oh God,” he whispered. Mac tongued his balls, the base of his cock. Then Mac’s mouth was closing around him, and Henry slammed the mattress with both fists. Felt the vibrations of Mac’s chuckle travel through him, and he twisted, forcing himself to take another breath. God, he’d waited long enough for this; he didn’t want it over and done in thirty seconds.
Mac stroked the skin behind Henry’s balls with one finger as he sucked. “Yeah,” Henry whispered. The stocking on the leg hanging over the edge of the bed started to droop. Mac lifted his mouth off Henry’s cock, licked down the shaft and over his balls, and began lapping at his asshole.
The stocking fell to Henry’s ankle. He jerked his hips up and down, whimpering.
Mac slid out from under the skirt and Henry groaned in frustration. Grinning, Mac tossed the skirt over Henry’s stomach once more, then lifted Henry’s leg onto the bed and stripped both stockings off. Henry stretched his arms above his head, gripping the headboard.
Mac leaned over to the bedside table and got lube and a condom. Henry waited, panting, as Mac ripped open the condom, and then stilled as Mac rolled it on him.
“M-Mac?”
Mac stripped quickly. He uncapped the lube and squirted some on his fingers. Then, facing away from Henry, he worked his fingers into his own ass. Henry watched, eyes wide, his heart pounding.
Mac climbed onto the bed, crawled up Henry’s body, and straddled him.
Henry was breathless. “What’re you doing, Mac?”
“Taking my test ride.” And he reached behind himself and guided Henry’s cock into his ass.
Henry tipped his head back and hissed as Mac’s muscles squeezed him.
Mac was full of fucking surprises.
“How are you—?” Henry bit the question off. He reached for Mac’s hips, and dug his fingers in.
How are you still single? How are you—this big, steady, reliable yet totally surprising guy—living all alone in this house?
For a second, Henry let himself believe the fantasy. That this was real, that he could have this every day, that this bed he was lying on was the one he could wake up in each morning, and this man riding him was his. The fantasy that Henry could in some way be good enough for Mac.
“Mac,” he whispered, rocking into him. He traced a hand up Mac’s side. Slipped it lightly over the gauze still taped to Mac’s skin. He splayed his fingers against the gauze, his hand shaking. “Mac.”
He wanted to tell him that this meant something. That this wasn’t just Henry in a cheap disguise. He wanted to tell him that this mattered. Wanted to tell him he’d never fucked anybody who had risked his life for him. That single square of gauze taped over Mac’s skin meant too much. He wanted to admit that he was suddenly, surprisingly out of his depth.
He stared up at Mac—those dark, knowing eyes hooded with pleasure—and couldn’t shake the feeling that Mac knew anyhow.
Mac leaned forward. “Come on,” he urged, trapping his cock between their bodies. “Come on, Henry.”
Henry moaned, and reached up. Tugged that bald head down near his mouth. “Jesus. Came here to get fucked tonight.”
“Me first.” Mac lifted himself up again. Slammed back down.
Henry laughed, or tried to; his breath came out ragged. No way was he going to last. Not with Mac’s hot, tight heat enclosing his cock. Clenching. He ran his hands along Mac’s thighs, feeling the muscles that strained under his skin. All that strength. He curled the fingers of one hand around Mac’s cock, working the wetness along the shaft. Thrust up into Mac at the same time he jerked his cock. The shiver ran through them both.
“Shit, Henry!”
Henry wanted it to last for hours. Wanted to watch Mac’s face, that familiar frown—except this time it was there because of exertion, because of pleasure. Henry tried to lose himself in that pleasure as well, in that balancing act between pushing higher and higher without falling over the edge too soon. He wanted to make this good. Better than good. Because this was Mac.
“Henry.” Mac’s head dropped back. His neck corded. “Sebastian.”
Henry squeezed his eyes shut. He was slick with sweat, the skirt tangled around his waist suddenly hot and itchy. He was almost there. He jerked Mac’s cock faster. Needed Mac to come now, because he couldn’t hold on much longer.
Mac said his name again. “Sebastian.”
Henry shivered, his thrusts becoming erratic. Heat coiled tight in his belly, and even tighter in his balls. Every muscle in his body tensed. He stroked Mac’s cock again, and Mac came with a groan, hot cum fountaining over Henry’s fist. Henry came too, jerking and moaning.
The blood roared in his head as he sank back down onto the mattress. He kept his eyes closed, shifting his weight as Mac got off him.
“You want me to . . .?” he asked, his voice scratchy. Eyes still closed.
“I’ve got it.” Mac peeled Henry’s condom off and padded away.
Henry tugged his skirt back down.
What now?
Sweat slid down his temples. His makeup was proba
bly all fucked up.
What now?
Now was the time he got up, gathered his clothes, and got the fuck out. Shoved his money in his pocket and didn’t make eye contact, because you never knew how a trick would react to that. Dirty little faggot whore, looking him in the eye.
This was a mistake. He’d wanted it, he’d needed it, but it was a mistake all the same. Mac’s fault too. Bringing Sebastian into this and reminding him exactly who he was. How fucking vulnerable he was. Shit, even Henry hated to look Sebastian in the face.
Dirty little faggot whore.
He’d come here to do something good, but there was nothing he touched that didn’t go to shit.
The mattress dipped beside him. “Henry?”
He forced his eyes open. “Yeah?”
Mac loomed over him, and for a moment Henry’s heart faltered. Then Mac kissed him gently. “Are you staying the night?”
That’s not a good idea.
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No bullshit. Just yes.
The knot of unease in Henry’s gut loosened. “I can stay a few hours, but then I have to get back to Vi.”
“Okay.” Mac smoothed Henry’s hair back. “So, do you want to eat?”
“No.” Henry reached out and linked his fingers through Mac’s. “Maybe I just want to lie here and make out for a while.”
Mac grinned. “That could work too.”
“You don’t need to drive me,” Henry said. “I can get a taxi.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“Thanks.” Henry didn’t look him in the eye.
Mac wondered what the hell had happened to the guy who’d showed up at his house in drag. The guy who’d gone undercover at St. Albinus. The guy with a dumb plan, a reckless grin, and no fear. Something had changed. In the bedroom, somewhere between Henry and Sebastian, something had changed. He felt like he’d lost Henry, and Sebastian was still out of his reach. Still hiding in the shadows. Mac didn’t know how to draw him into the open. A part of him wondered if he wanted to. Who the hell was Sebastian Hanes anyway? Apart from the best sex he’d had in longer than he could remember.
Of course it was, that sour voice in the back of Mac’s head told him. He’s a professional.
He watched Henry adjust the silver top so that it hid the straps of his bra. Mac dressed too, pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt and feeling as though every piece of clothing he added was as solid and impenetrable as armor. That whatever closeness they’d had was gone now.
“Henry,” he said at last. “Will you look at me?”
Henry turned. His brilliant smile wavered a little at the edges. “Sure, Mac.”
Mac sat down heavily on the end of the bed. He took Henry’s hand and drew him near. Widened his legs to bring Henry close. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Henry lied. Very obviously lied. “Mac and Cheese. Perfect together, remember?”
“I remember.” He searched Henry’s face. “Look, I don’t want to do the whole awkward postsex talk, but me and you, are we okay?”
“Sure.”
Mac frowned up at him. “Henry, c’mon, don’t bullshit me.”
Henry put his arms around Mac’s neck and leaned down to kiss him on the head. “We’re okay. We’re peachy.”
“I don’t want what just happened to . . . to ruin what we had.”
Henry drew back. “Mac, please. This isn’t a teen movie. Sex doesn’t ruin anything. Sex makes everything better. You wanted it, and I wanted it, and I came so hard I’m pretty sure I blew a few blood vessels. It was fun.”
“Fun,” Mac said cautiously.
Henry rubbed against him. “Yeah. Fun. You know how to have fun, right, Mac?”
Henry had recovered, and Sebastian had retreated back behind the walls that Henry had built for him. And apparently they were going to pretend that every bit of vulnerability he’d shown to Mac had never happened, or was nothing more than part of the game. Mac wondered if that was why he’d dressed as a woman, really. To give himself permission to be vulnerable, just for a little while. Or to at least have something to blame it on if it happened. Because he hadn’t come dressed as a femme fatale or a cold seductress whose unapologetic sexuality was her weapon of choice. He’d come dressed like an ordinary girl on a date. He’d been nervous.
Mac forced a smile. “Of course I do.”
“Yeah.” Henry stepped back. “I’d say you do.”
Mac drove him to the hotel. Henry stared out the window the whole time. Seemed like ages ago, their first drive together from Dayton to the Indianapolis field office. And Henry had chatted the whole way, seizing every opportunity to antagonize him. Mac had thought, What a privileged little shit. What a stupid kid. Clever, yeah—too clever for his own good. But stupid. Convinced that cheating people was a game.
Mac’s job was to read people. To think like a criminal. To understand why people did the shitty things they did. So how had he missed so much about Henry? The sadness, the fear? The loneliness? It wasn’t just cockiness, which was what he’d seen in Henry at first. If Henry didn’t believe in himself, in his ability to lie, to manipulate, to get what he needed—then Viola was in trouble. Henry had to believe his own illusion. Had to. There was no other option.
Unless . . .
Unless what? Unless Mac gave him money? Dusted him off and said, Use this for good only, and sent Henry into a new, reformed life?
Unless Mac said, Move in with me, and Henry threw his arms around him and said, Oh, Mac, yes, a thousand times yes!
And what, Viola would move in too? Live in the spare room, and Henry and Mac would care for her together?
He snorted.
“What?” Henry glanced over at him.
He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
When they pulled up at the hotel, he left the car running and got out when Henry did. They stood on the sidewalk together. Mac couldn’t think of anything to say, so he opened his mouth to remind Henry to come to the office in the morning for the OPR interview. But he couldn’t say it, because Henry was looking at him with an expression he didn’t understand; that he worried he was misinterpreting in the dark, because it looked like fear, but more than that. Fear and . . . what? Resolve?
Henry surprised him by stepping forward and putting his arms around him. He rested his head against Mac’s shoulder and let out a breath that passed through the fabric of his shirt, warming his skin. “I don’t want to run anymore,” he said softly.
Mac brought his arms up and tightened them around Henry. Wanted to close his eyes, but kept them open and looked at the lights of the city. He set his chin on Henry’s dark hair. “You don’t have to.”
Henry tensed. “Gonna have to someday.”
“No. There are other ways.”
“You know ’em? I’m all ears.”
Mac sighed, and strands of Henry’s hair fluttered. “There’s time to figure it out. You hear me? We have time.”
“How much?” Henry sounded young.
“I don’t know. But we’ll figure it out.” Must have seemed like an empty promise to Henry, but it wasn’t empty. Mac meant it with everything in him. He just wasn’t sure exactly how to deliver. He was in this now, for good. Standing there with Henry surrendering to him, he knew he couldn’t walk away even if he wanted to.
“We?”
“Yep.”
Henry tried to step back, but Mac wouldn’t let him. Henry looked up. “Fuck, Mac, I don’t want you to . . . to . . .”
“To what?”
“To give up . . . whatever you’d have to give up.”
“What would I have to give up?”
“You’ve got a job you love where you do good things for people. You can’t . . . There’s no room for me. I’d spoil your reputation.”
“Enough.”
“I know you’re—you were probably lonely. I get that. Me too. I think that’s why we—why we’re here now.” Henry stumbled every few words. �
��We were both . . . We are both . . . But, um, we’ll both lose. If we go any further. Don’t you think?”
Mac took him by the shoulders. “That’s not what I think.”
“You want to do good things,” Henry went on, his eyes searching Mac’s. “That’s why you want to know about Sebastian. You think you can fix me or something, but it’s not going to work. I’ll always be who I am. And who I am won’t work with who you are.”
“Says who?”
Henry gave a small, bitter laugh and dipped his head.
“Mac and Cheese go great together.”
Henry shook his head, staring at the ground now. “It’s not a very natural food, you know? Someone had to think to put reeking, fermented milk on top of pasta.”
“Well, it wasn’t a half-bad idea, you have to admit.”
“It’s processed. It’s manufactured.” Henry looked up again. “It’s fake.”
Mac wanted to make a joke. Something about how he liked orange cheese. But he couldn’t just brush off Henry’s fears like that. Henry was giving him something honest here. So all he said, softly, was, “Stay.”
It wasn’t enough.
Henry stepped back. “I’ll see you around.”
Then he turned, his skirt flying on the breeze, and vanished into the hotel.
Remy was asleep on the folded-out couch when Henry got back to the room.
He checked on Viola.
She was awake, leafing through a book on garden birds. “Where’d you get that?” he asked, sitting on the bed beside her.
“Remy gave it to me.”
That was Remy. Picking up random stuff at garage sales and secondhand shops. Not just items he might dress up and resell for far more than they were worth, but books and costume pieces. Maps. Knickknacks he’d keep until the day he got desperate enough to sell them for drug money. “Those are nice pictures.”
Viola nodded. The one she was looking at was a black and yellow bird with a large, blunt beak. “Evening Grosbeak,” the caption said.
“I’m gonna go to bed now,” Henry said. “Are you gonna get some sleep? It’s late.”
“I can stay on my own.” She studied the page intently. “You didn’t have to leave Remy with me.”