“Sure.” But he doesn’t move either, and I see his gaze flick down, to my mouth I think, and my heart rate kicks up another notch. His posture and the intent look on his face keeps me right there, need and anticipation rising like smoke in my belly. “Sounds like a plan.”
Then his eyes flicker again, and I know he’s looking at my scar. Cold water washes through my limbs, but instead of making me weak, it gives me the strength I need to turn away. Heading to the stable door, I say, “Just call Pat when you work it out with your brother.” I know my voice sounds strange, and it’s because anger at myself and a ridiculous sense of disappointment are clogging my throat. Fool–fool man, to think there was even a chance… “She’ll set you up.”
She better, because I plan never to have to see Sergeant Kyle Pictou again, as long as I live.
Kyle
Vincent takes me by surprise when he turns away, and his move leaves me floundering slightly.
Somewhere in the middle of it all–watching him, seeing his reaction to Missy, his interaction with the puppies and even Bongo–I realized my attraction to Vincent couldn’t be ignored. Maybe even shouldn’t be, although the risks seem to heavily outweigh the benefits. When I’m thinking with my brain rather than my dick anyway. But I’m being pulled to him so strongly I don’t think I can resist without being hit over the head and dragged away. When I caught him watching me a couple of times, in a way that made my pulse go crazy and my cock rock hard, I knew if I didn’t make a move I’d regret it the rest of my life. I needed to know whether this attraction could go further. Couldn’t walk away without finding out.
Stupid? Completely. Or maybe more of a calculated risk, I reassure myself, hoping my math is sound.
Now, as he walks toward the door to let the dogs back in, I’m sure I didn’t imagine the expression in his eyes as I crowded him, the desire making his pupils huge, turning the dark–brown irises black. And there was no way he couldn’t see that I wanted him too. I’d made no effort to hide it, needing to see his reaction. Did he realize he’d licked the corner of his mouth as we stood staring at each other? That seeing it made me almost grab him right there and then?
I would have too, if he hadn’t blown me off.
Had I read the whole situation wrong?
Squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, I try to go back over everything, re–evaluate what I said, what he said, the expressions on his face–everything.
“Bumboclaat…“
It’s almost a whisper, but so full of shock my eyes snap open, and I’m moving to join him at the door before I even think about it, my hand automatically reaching for the sidearm that isn’t there. Getting to the door, I look out, not sure what I’ll see.
I see the dogs–nothing else–although I scan the distant line of trees and lean slightly out to check the sides of the building.
“What is it?” I keep my voice down too, just to be careful.
“Look at Missy.”
So I do, and see her standing there, while Bongo crouches in front of her, his butt in the air, tail wagging like crazy. Then suddenly, sort of stiffly, as though she’s not sure what the hell she’s doing, the Golden Retriever makes a feint at the mutt, hopping forward once. Immediately Bongo springs back, then forward again, and Missy jumps back in turn. But she’s not scared. Her tail is wagging too.
“She’s playing.” Vincent says it as though it’s the most extraordinary thing in the world. “Rass, bwoy. It’s a day for miracles.”
Something in his tone makes me look at his profile and move a little closer to his side. He doesn’t move away.
“What other miracles have you witnessed today?”
I see him inhale, his chest expanding on the deep draught of air. Then he looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “I heard you laugh.”
Why does that make me a shiver? How is it I’m suddenly sure–absolutely positive–I’m going to have sex with this man, or die trying?
“And that was miraculous?”
“Yeah.” I have my chest up against his shoulder now, leaning into him, and he still hasn’t tried to shift away. “It was.”
“Why?”
Vincent shakes his head, not replying for a moment. I breathe in his scent–soap, a hint of sweat, and a warm undertone I know is just him–as I wait for him to speak. My heart’s hammering at his closeness, at the thought of what might be about to happen.
“We used to call you Robocop.”
He says it as though that should be explanation enough and, strangely, it is.
“That’s my street persona, not all I am.”
But it is a big part and, for the first time, I wonder how much it’s bled over into my personal life. A lot, if I’m honest. I learned early on in the job not to show any emotion, not even simple amusement, because once I let one through too many others might follow. It puts distance between me and other people–much needed distance when I’m trying so hard not to let anyone know who I really am.
What’s different about this situation, about him, that makes me take the risk? I don’t know, but I can’t turn back. It’s already too late. So I put my arm around his back and cup the side of his neck. The tendons are corded and his pulse drums, rapid and heavy, beneath my palm. It gives me extra confidence, even though he still hasn’t moved, won’t turn to look at me.
“Would Robocop do this?” I whisper right into his ear, before nudging the lobe aside and licking the hollow behind it.
He shudders. The sensation travels through him into my lips and chest, and he makes a harsh, rushed sound–part moan, part laugh–that just makes the fire in my gut flare hotter.
“Or this?”
I reach with my free hand and cup his crotch through his shirt and jeans, and this time we both moan. He’s hard–so hard–and as I squeeze slightly there’s an unmistakable pulse at the base, which is cradled by my fingers.
He inhales audibly, the breath hitching slightly as it’s drawn into his chest. “I… Sergeant…”
“Shit.” Hearing him use my rank annoys me. Is he thinking of me as a cop, or as a man? Could he be this aroused if it were the former, and he was afraid of the consequences if he told me to get lost? “I have my hand on your cock. Don’t you think ’Kyle’ would be more appropriate?”
The corner of his mouth twitches upward for a second and he turns his head slightly, just enough to look at me through the corner of his eye again. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”
That’s when I realize what the problem is, why he’s hesitating. At least, I think I do.
Letting go of his crotch, I bring that hand up and put it on his cheek, right over his scar. Vincent flinches, would have pulled away if I gave him the chance. But I don’t.
I tighten my grip slightly, turning his head until he has no choice but to face me. He’s expressionless–carefully so, I think–but there’s also something in his eyes telling me not to give up.
“Forget all the reasons we shouldn’t do this.” I’m using a tone close to my cop voice, just so I don’t let myself plead. “Forget I’m a Babylon. Forget how we met. Forget…” I run my finger down his scar, from the corner of his eye to his mouth, then let it linger there. “Forget this too, because it doesn’t mean anything to me.” Time to ask outright. I know it, but have to take a deep breath before I can. “Right here and now, Vincent, what do you want?”
A muscle jumps in the side of his jaw and his gaze searches mine. I don’t know what he sees, but I can only hope it’s enough.
“Rassclaat,“ he curses, just before he turns fully to face me.
We meet halfway, both instinctively moving into the kiss and, as our lips meet, I’m jolted by the sudden escalation of desire that singes me from the inside out.
Maybe I should be going slow, testing, seducing, but I can’t. Not when Vincent opens his lips as soon as my tongue touches them and his arms come around me, pulling me so close we’re practically fused together from mouths to hips.
My brain stutters, short cir
cuits at the taste and feel of him, the energy crackling between us and shivering under my skin. The world contracts, shrinks down to just him; the hard body pressed to mine, the full, mobile lips, moist heat of his mouth, and tangle of our tongues. Over the thunder of blood through my ears I hear low, rushed sounds–sexy, I–want–it–now mumbles and grunts–and I can’t tell which of us is making them, only that they’re turning me on even more.
We’re rocking against each other, cock to cock, legs shifting as we try to find the sweet spot, each movement just pushing me deeper into the experience. Suddenly his hands are on my bare back, having found their way beneath both my shirt and the t–shirt under it, the hot, strong fingers digging into my muscles. It makes me want to get his shirt off, get rid of the barriers between us. Makes me desperate to be skin–to–skin with him, touch him all over.
Then Vincent rolls his hips, making his cock slide and twist across mine in a motion so smooth, so intensely lust–filled, I freeze, on the edge of exploding like a kid watching his first porno.
Now. I want him now.
But I don’t want to fuck him on a concrete floor, in a kennel, where we could be discovered at any time. With a shudder I tear my mouth from his and take a half–step back, because if I don’t I’m not sure I’ll be able to restrain myself. I force my eyes open, as Vincent’s hands tighten for a moment on my sides, as if to pull me back in. Then they slide away and I take a deep breath, our surroundings truly coming into focus. It’s only then I realize that at some point I’d turned Vincent’s back to the barn wall, had been practically holding him down, devouring him.
I want more.
“Come home with me.”
Shit. It doesn’t sound much like an invitation. More like a demand. But I don’t know how to soften it–don’t know if I want to. I’m not looking for a relationship, or even a friends–with–benefits situation.
I’m looking for right now. Or as soon as humanly possible.
Vincent’s eyes are still closed, and he sucks on his lower lip for a second. Does he still taste me there? When his eyelids rise it’s only partway, so I see just a gleam beneath them. It’s sexy, his expression–the heavy eyes and damp mouth–like he’s high or coming down from an orgasm. Then he blinks a couple times and looks away.
My voice is still cop–hard when I say, “If you want to finish what we’ve started, come home with me.”
I’m pushing him and, when he doesn’t respond, I want to push more. But before I can decide what to say, how to get him to agree, he sighs and nods.
“Yeah.” His mouth twists in that habitual swift, wry way. “Okay.” And then he slips past me, and I’m left looking at his back, as he reaches for the latch on the stable door. “I’ll bring the dogs in and get this place locked up. Wait for me outside.”
He doesn’t sound happy, and I hesitate. No doubt there’s something I should say, but his tone and my need make it impossible to figure out what. All I can concentrate on is the fact that he said “yes”. So I turn and walk toward the gate, following instructions, not willing to rock the boat even slightly. I’m out in the corridor, closing the kennel gate behind me, when he calls my name. Heart dropping into my stomach, I reluctantly look back, expecting him to say he’s changed his mind.
Vincent has his back turned to me when he says, “No expectations.”
Is it a question or a statement? No clue. And although I have the stupid urge to add, But…? I know better, and just say, “Yeah.”
Then I head outside, not giving him a chance to respond.
Chapter Four
Vincent
There must be twenty times, while I’m driving behind Kyle’s truck toward his house, that I tell myself to turn off on another road, or go straight when he turns. But although my brain is telling me this is a really bad idea, the little head–bucking against my zipper in a desperate attempt to get out of my pants and have a good time–isn’t letting reason spoil the party.
I’m not an impulsive person… not anymore. Having been slapped around by life too many times to count, I try to think things through now rather than just leap first and then waste time having to analyze what went wrong.
This feels too rushed, too spur of the moment. A weird combination of my usual hook–ups–negotiated after a couple of drinks, some flirting and basic, yet important, conversation–and something more substantial. But it’s neither a semi–anonymous hook–up nor an encounter I think will lead anywhere. Not that I’m looking for anything more than a one–and–done. That will suit me fine. No. It’s just this feeling of not knowing anything about what’s about to happen.
I don’t even know where I’m going. Apparently out into the middle of nowhere, if the fields and woodlots on either side of the road are any indication. We’re probably no more than ten minutes outside of the city but there are only a couple of barns visible in the distance. No one knows where I am and I should be more worried about that, I guess, but can’t seem to make myself care.
My hands haven’t stopped shaking.
Behind all these thoughts and questions is the memory of being pressed up against the wall, Kyle’s body and kiss holding me effortlessly, happily captive. The taste of him seems to linger in my mouth, making me thirsty for more. His scent is trapped in my shirt and rises to taunt me each time I inhale. The doubts I have, all the things I really should be worrying about can’t gain traction in my head, skidding away because of just one kiss–the remembering of it.
At this point, all I want is Kyle, some privacy, and a stash of condoms.
Condoms.
Do I have any?
It’s not something I carry around on a day–to–day basis, usually only sticking a few in my wallet if I’m going out with the intent to get lucky. Easing up a bit on the gas, I dig my wallet out of my back pocket. Using my knees to steer, I open it. Ahead, Kyle puts on his indicator for a right turn and I slow down even more, fumbling to get the inner flap of the wallet out of its slot. Ahhh rassclaat. There’s one lonely–looking packet in there. Muttering curses under my breath, hoping Kyle’s better prepared than I am, I toss the wallet onto the passenger seat and make the turn. His left indicator is on now and, beyond a line of trees that runs along a split–rail fence perpendicular to the road, I see what looks like an old yellow brick farmhouse with a neat expanse of lawn in front. I turn into the driveway and follow Kyle’s truck as it goes down the narrow gravel track and around to the back of the house.
He parks up close to the building and I pull in beside his vehicle, taking a deep breath as I reach down and turn off the ignition. As I’m pulling the keys out, I can see Kyle getting out of his truck. He starts to round the front, coming toward where I’m parked, and I suddenly remember my wallet. Rass. When I look over I see it’s on the seat where I’d flung it, the condom half out and very obvious. Dropping my keys onto my lap, I grab the wallet, slap it closed and, as unobtrusively as possible, stuff it back into my pocket. Then, taking a deep breath, I open my door and step out.
Kyle’s waiting at the bottom of a short flight of stairs leading up to a small deck, his foot on the first tread, his hand on the railing. Neither of us says anything as we go up the four steps then cross the deck to the door. He seems cool, almost indifferent, his poker face firmly back in place, while my legs feel like they’re about to give out and I’ve shoved my hands into my back pockets so he won’t see them shaking. I’m wishing for some of his calm when I see him fumble his keys slightly, having to make two tries to get the lock open.
His uncharacteristic clumsiness steadies me and I find myself smiling, just a little, as I follow him inside and take off my shades.
“Go on through,” he says, toeing off his sneakers. “Make yourself at home.”
I watch him line his shoes up on a rubber mat just inside the door, and I slip off my loafers. After throwing his keys and dark glasses into a basket conveniently located on a table nearby, Kyle disappears through an opening to the right. Putting my shoes beside his, I do a
s directed and head into the living area, visible right ahead.
The house looks as though it’s been completely renovated, walls taken out to create one big area. There’s a narrow staircase to the left, just past the foyer, and I discover Kyle’s in the L–shaped kitchen, which is separated from the living area by an island. Water starts running, and I glance over to see him washing his hands, probably trying to get off the puppy drool. Since I’d taken the time to stop and do the same thing before leaving the sanctuary, I keep going into the living room. Too nervous to do more than register the casually comfortable surroundings and almost extraordinary neatness, I scan the area for something to concentrate on. The only thing that seems out of place is a book on the side table next to the couch, and I gravitate toward it.
“Classic Guns,” I read the title, and pick up the book. “With a Borchardt C–93 on the cover.” I glance over to where he’s standing, still on the other side of the island, drying his hands. “The author decided to separate the dabblers from the true gun enthusiasts from the get–go, huh?” I tap the picture on the front of the book. “I wonder how many people would even know what this is.”
“You know your guns.”
Maybe it’s my imagination, but there seems to be a hint of accusation in his tone. I shrug, but keep watching him as I reply, “My father was in the JDF–Jamaica Defence Force–so I’ve been around guns, hearing about them, shooting them, since I was really young. It was one of the few interests my father and I shared. For a while I considered following in his footsteps and joining the army.”
Kyle’s shoulders relax slightly, and his eyebrows quirk. “Think you would have liked it?”
I can’t help giving a little snort of amusement. “I would have, until the other soldiers realized I was gay and beat me to death. That wouldn’t have been fun. Even though I was deep in the closet back then, I knew I was living a lie. Eventually the truth would come out, no matter how I fought it.”
Brought to His Knees-Tough Guys Laid Low By Love Page 19