by A. R. Barley
“Supplies.” Luke managed to gulp out. “Where are your supplies?”
“Supplies?”
“Condoms. Lube.”
There was a long pause. Dante groaned. This time it wasn’t in a good way. He rolled to the side, flopping down onto the bed beside Luke. “I don’t have any of that.”
“You’re kidding?” Luke lifted his head to stare at Dante in disbelief. He didn’t know whether to be pissed or amused. “Pretty risky, slugger. I don’t know what’s scarier, an STD or the prospect of a million little Dantes running around in the world.”
“You know I’d make cute kids.”
“Fucking adorable.” Anger made his voice crack. “Is that something we have to look forward to—”
“I haven’t been on a date in eight months,” Dante said. “Mika. She was nice, smart. We didn’t go home together. Before that it was—” there was a pause while he thought about it “—like a year? Maybe a year and a half. She didn’t even make it to dessert. Fuck, I can’t remember the last time I had sex.”
“And here I thought you were the king of the one-night stand.”
“Back in the day. In college. When I was still on patrol.” His fingers threaded through Luke’s, his tight grip almost more personal than it had been a moment earlier when he’d been palming Luke’s cock. “Those guys at the club the other night, you slept with all of them?”
“Most of them.”
“Did you like it?”
“Of course I liked it.” Luke frowned. Sometimes the sex was better than other times—he’d never be able to look at a mango in the same light again—but it was always enjoyable.
“Back when I was sleeping with somebody new every night, I didn’t always like it.” Dante sighed. “Hell, I didn’t like it most of the time.”
“Because they were women?”
“Not all of them were women.” There was a hitch in Dante’s breath. “Because I wasn’t really attracted to them, the men or the women. I could get it up, everything worked, but I always needed a drink or five first to get in the mood.”
Luke struggled to focus. Demisexual or just picky? The thought drifted through his head before being replaced by something more important: Dante’d had a beer at the bar, but there’d been no alcohol since then and plenty of greasy food. “You’re sober now?”
“As a judge.”
“And you’re hard.”
“Definitely not a problem.”
“So what’s the difference?”
“I’m attracted to you.” Dante said like it was the most obvious thing in the world even after his stunning revelation. “I’ve been attracted to you for years. Why do you think I took all those damn undercover assignments?”
“Because you watched Point Break one too many times. Either that or Miss Congeniality.”
“Sure, but it also kept me away from you,” Dante said. “It’s fucked up. You’re my foster brother, Charlie’s kid. Off-limits.”
“You having second thoughts now?”
“Hell, no.” Dante rolled over onto his side so he was facing Luke. His lips skittered across Luke’s mouth, pausing for a moment to nibble at the edge of his lip. “I’m done fighting. I want you more than I’ve wanted anyone in—anyone ever. Doesn’t mean I’m not damaged, or that I’ve got a drawer full of condoms.”
“It’s okay.”
“I don’t have lube. I jack off in the shower and that’s only when I—” He stopped short. “It’s not often. I mean, I’m clean. I’ve been tested since the last time I’ve had sex. I understand if you don’t want to risk it, but—”
“It really is okay. I trust you.” Maybe more than anyone else in the world. “But I haven’t been tested in a while, and we’re not about to risk your health.” He grinned. “Luckily, I know something you like.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Booze, bimbos, and blow jobs,” he said.
Dante winced at the reminder of the ill-advised motto he’d flaunted when he was younger, but he didn’t stop Luke from flipping over on top of him and sliding down between his knees. Muscles tightened under his touch. Luke settled a hand on each knee, pushing them wide as he left a trail of little kisses across Dante’s hip bone before dropping down to swallow him whole.
Luke bobbed his head up and down, dragging the pleasure from Dante’s taut body.
“Holy god,” Dante stuttered. “You don’t have to do this.” That didn’t stop him from thrusting to fill the back of Luke’s mouth.
Luke had to concentrate, relaxing his throat to accommodate Dante’s length. He nosed the soft bed of ginger pubic hair before pulling up and away. “I don’t have to do anything.” He licked a long line down Dante’s thigh, tasting his salty skin. “I want to.”
The electricity that had been dancing between them all night gave Luke a direct jolt to the heart as he reached down to finger his own erection. He stroked himself slow and steady as he bent down to take Dante into his mouth again.
“Oh god.” There were no mistaking Dante’s words or his stuttered breathing. No matter how much he’d pretended in the past, this was real. The long fingers burying themselves desperately in Luke’s hair, holding him in place as his hips pumped forward, slowly, tentatively, were real.
Luke hummed his encouragement, increasing the suction on the head of Dante’s cock and he lost all control. His hips thrust up and down in earnest now. His entire body jolting with the effort as he fucked Luke’s mouth.
He was so damn close, so fucking close.
And Luke was only a step behind him, his hand still moving against his own erection.
Dante groaned and came in Luke’s mouth before collapsing limp against the mattress.
For a moment everything paused then the same hands that had been so interested in holding Luke in place a moment earlier dragged him upwards. Dante’s hand replaced Luke’s on his cock. His earlier skill was gone in a fresh rush of endorphins and electricity, but that didn’t make the pleasure any less exquisite.
Dante.
It was Dante’s hand on him. Dante’s lips fumbling to kiss him.
Heat arced from his heart to his groin before shooting straight out his dick. The earth moved and life as he knew it ended. Luke shuddered and came in sticky white ropes that coated their skin. “Goddamn,” he muttered. “That was good.”
“Fan-freaking-tastic.”
“Only one way to make it better.”
“What’s that?”
“Pancakes in the morning.”
Dante shook his head. “You’re spoiled.”
“You’ve got a problem with that?”
“Why should I start now?”
Chapter Sixteen
There’d been yogurt pancakes on the table Dante’s first morning in the Parsons house. Half of them had been burnt. “That’s what I get for letting the kid cook,” Charlie’d explained. “He nearly burned the place down last year making Christmas cookies.” After a few more near escapes, a consensus had been reached and Dante’d been the one helping out in the kitchen while Luke mowed the lawn and did the laundry.
In the years since, Luke’s skills hadn’t improved in the slightest.
He could burn water.
Maybe that was why he’d decided to go into firefighting.
Either way, Dante wasn’t about to let him make a mess of his countertops. “You sure you don’t want me to bring you pancakes in bed?” he asked as Luke followed him into the kitchen.
“I want to help.”
Like a bullet to the brain. Dante considered for a moment before pointing Luke toward the rickety table at the far end of the galley kitchen. “Sit down there. I’ll make us some coffee, and you can help me measure out ingredients.”
“You’re not going to let me near the stove?” Luke sprawled into the nearest chair, his legs spread wide. He’d pulled on the forest green briefs he’d been wearing the night before and nothing else. Sunlight gleamed against acres of naked skin. His green eyes twinkled. “Probably a smart move
.”
Dante suddenly felt overdressed in a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, but there was no taking off clothing now. Besides, the tank top offered some protection from Luke’s roving gaze. He banged open the nearest cabinet and retrieved the coffee and filters.
The machine was tucked neatly away on the counter top. He’d filled the water up the day before. It was the work of a moment to insert a fresh filter and pour in rich black grounds. He turned the coffee machine on and leaned against the chipped linoleum counter as it burbled its way toward wakefulness.
When the first drop of coffee sizzled its way into the carafe, Dante began opening cupboards, collecting the dry ingredients for the Parsons family pancakes. Flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder. He bent over and pulled out the drawer next to the sink to grab a pair of large bowls and a set of measuring cups.
He’d made the pancakes so many times—in Charlie Parsons’s kitchen, in his varied apartments, even in the occasional borrowed kitchen while he was undercover—he didn’t need to look at the recipe anymore.
When everything was measured out, he passed the bowl to Luke with a spoon. “Stir.”
“Spoil sport,” Luke said before doing as he was told.
Dante rolled his eyes and popped open the refrigerator to acquire the rest of the ingredients. Eggs, yogurt, butter, and an oversized container of blueberries.
Oh, boy.
His stomach growled hungrily as he washed the blueberries before dumping them into the second bowl with the eggs and the yogurt. Everything got mixed briskly until the liquid ran purple.
“Put everything together.” He put the second bowl on the table in front of Luke before turning on the stove and sliding a frying pan into place. He dropped a little pat of butter into place and turned on the old electric burner. It took a few minutes for the stove to heat up, but eventually the butter began to melt.
“You’re good at this,” Luke said.
“Your dad’s better.”
“Dad’s been making pancakes since the Stone Age. Don’t let that take away from what you’re doing.” He stood up and placed the bowl full of goopy batter onto the counter beside the stove. “Besides, these days he only makes them on special occasions.”
Dante frowned. “You’re saying last night wasn’t a special occasion?”
“Last night was fantastic.” Luke didn’t go back to his assigned seat, choosing instead to lean against the counter less than a foot away. “But I’m hoping for a repeat performance real soon.”
Damn. If Dante reached out they’d be touching. If he leaned to one side they’d be kissing. He concentrated on making the pancakes.
Unfortunately, Luke didn’t have his focus. Gentle fingers reached out to skim his arm as he poured out the first two pancakes.
“You’ve never shown me the whole thing.” Luke traced the edge of a dark tattoo.
“I haven’t shown anyone,” Dante grunted.
The tattoo was personal.
It was private.
But they were standing barefoot in his kitchen making pancakes.
Luke was practically bare-assed.
They’d passed personal and private about a hundred miles back.
The pancakes were beginning to bubble. He grabbed the spatula from the container of tools next to the stove and flipped them over. Then he grabbed his tank top by the back of the neck and lifted it as high as it would go. One, two, three, he counted silently before dropping the cloth back into place.
“Pretty.” Luke ignored every personal boundary he’d ever put in place and lifted the back of his shirt up again. “Angel wings. Definitely not what I expected, but I like them.”
“You need your vision checked. I’m no angel.”
“The feathers beg to differ.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t pick the design. If I’m an angel it’s the fallen kind.”
“Who picked the design?” Luke asked.
“The artist,” Dante explained. “The guy’s a freaking genius with a needle, works out of a little shop in the Bronx. I needed something big, and he needed a model for his portfolio. He designed and inked the whole thing. Took him six whole months.”
“You needed something big?”
Luke had always been a smart fucker. Dante should have known better than to think he could sneak that word choice past him.
Luke’s hand flattened against his spine, sending a spike of awareness down Dante’s skin. His touch felt so damn good, right up until his fingers caught on the thick scar tissue disguised in the shading of the wings.
Dante got a plate down from the nearby cabinet and flipped the pancakes onto it. “You want to eat?”
“I’ll wait for you.” Luke’s hands never stopped moving, exploring, even while Dante made more pancakes. At first he just traced the edges of the inked feather but then he was running his fingers over Dante’s scars, the newer ones he’d gotten in the police department as well as the older ones that seemed like they cut deep all the way to Dante’s soul.
He didn’t drop his hand until the pancakes were stacked four inches high. Dante got a second plate and a pair of forks. No maple syrup, just a fine dusting of powdered sugar. They squeezed into place on opposite sides of the little kitchen table.
Dante cut a triangular slice of pancake and took a bite. Delicious.
Luke didn’t even look at his plate. “When you were living on the streets, you didn’t just arm-wrestle for petty cash. Tell me about it.”
“Nothing to tell.” Dante refused to look Luke in the eye. Their relationship had been doomed since before it began. There was no way he was good enough for Charlie’s son, but that didn’t mean he’d expected it to be over so quickly.
Why didn’t he have any freaking condoms? The blow job had been amazing—mind-blowing—but if they were only going to have one night together, he’d have liked to know what it was like to bury himself inside Luke’s tight ass at least once.
He cleared his throat. “I was a thug and not a very good one. The first time I met your dad, he caught me knocking over a liquor store up in Morningside Heights. At least, that was the plan. By the time he got there, the shop owner had me mopping out the walk-in freezer at the end of a shotgun.”
“No shit?”
“Any other cop would have taken me straight to booking. Charlie bought me a sandwich and dropped me off at the closest shelter.”
“My dad’s a good guy.”
“The best.”
“Is that how you got the scars?” Luke asked. “Some crotchety shopkeeper came after you with a bullwhip like Indiana Jones?”
“You watch too many movies.” Dante ate some more pancakes. “The scars are from before. Back when I was living with my mom.”
“You never told me how she died.”
“Only the good die young. That means Nancy Green’s functionally immortal. I’m pretty sure she lives near 125th.”
“If she’s not dead, then—” Luke must have remembered that he’d been demanding pancakes for days because he shoved a whole one into his mouth and started chewing enthusiastically.
Fuck it. Luke already knew about Dante’s trouble in the sack and his tattoo. He might as well open up a vein and bleed out the rest of his secrets. “You know the East River Park? My mom used to take me down there when I was a kid. She’d lean against the railing and smoke a cigarette while I watched the tankers come in. All those ships, I used to make up stories about the men who worked on them. The tugboats too. It was supposed to be a special treat.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Yeah, well, I was young. It took me a couple of years to realize that it was where she met her dealer. He’d sell her pills, party drugs. Whatever was new. Mostly painkillers. The good stuff.”
Dante put down his fork. His hands were shaking, but he couldn’t stop now. “Anytime she had money or something to sell, we’d be down at the park. One time my grandma gave me a train set for Christmas. Nice stuff. Wooden. It went straight to the pawn shop, and we were do
wn there watching the tankers roll in.”
He couldn’t look at Luke’s face.
He refused to see the pity in his eyes.
“Of course, we went down there even when she didn’t have something to sell. She’d fuck him in the restrooms. Or one of his buddies.” His gut churned and his muscles rolled. Skin stretched across his back. If he concentrated, he could feel the hard scar tissue puckering and pulling across his shoulder blades. “Then one day, one of his friends asked about me.”
“You were just a kid.”
“I was twelve years old, and I just wanted to make my mom happy. Twenty minutes and she’d have what she needed. It was just supposed to be twenty minutes.”
Luke’s hand covered his, refusing to let go even when Dante tried to pull away. His lungs were heaving. “I didn’t know he had a bottle.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
Light haloed around the edge of his vision. When was the last time he’d told someone that story? Never. Charlie knew most of it, but he’d pieced it together from drips and drabs. Dante had never actually said the words before.
“You know the funny thing?” he said. “I didn’t even leave that night. It took me six days.”
Luke must have stood up and walked around the table because a moment later strong arms dropped around Dante’s middle. They stayed like that for at least five minutes, not saying anything.
It was better than Dante had expected.
“This mean you’re not throwing me to the curb?”
“It’s your apartment.”
“And you’re not walking away.”
“You think I’d leave just because you have a rotten mother?” Luke laughed, but the sound was brittle and sharp. “Trust me. Neither of us has the high ground there. I’ve met good moms—Alex’s sisters all make Carol Brady look like a total slacker—but I don’t have much personal experience.”
“Carol Brady was a slacker. Alice did all the work.” Dante’s voice was rough with emotion. He swallowed back a rolling wave of nausea. “You want to know the worst part? It’s still with me, no matter how hard I try to shake it. I didn’t even let them give me Vicodin when I got shot. The doctors always offer, but I don’t take anything stronger than ibuprofen 800.”