Brought to His Knees-Tough Guys Laid Low By Love
Page 26
He smiles, but there’s something wrong with it, and it’s only after I see his taillights disappear around the side of the house that I realize what I saw in his eyes was a mixture of understanding and hurt.
Chapter Eleven
Vincent
I shouldn’t have asked that of Kyle. I knew it even as the words were coming out of my mouth, but I couldn’t stop them. It was stupid, and I can’t even figure out why I did it.
Should I apologize? That’s the question I wrestle with all the way home, and even after I shower and get into bed. Inviting him to go with me to Jenalyza’s was overstepping the bounds, despite the two of us not having established where the lines are drawn. His reaction said it all; a wall of ice coming down to surround him and chill me all the way through.
Lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling, I come to a couple of decisions. The first one is that I won’t back down about going to Jenalyza’s, although I really don’t want to anymore. Doing that would be setting myself up to be his doormat–the booty–call who never says no. The second decision is that I don’t want to leave things the way they are. Although I still doubt whatever there is between us will go anywhere, I don’t want to slam the door on it either. Once upon a time only torture would have pulled an apology from me, but I’m bigger than that now. It’s no weakness to admit you’ve been wrong, especially to a friend.
He’s probably gone to bed by now, so I text, hoping I don’t wake him up.
Listen, didn’t mean to put u on the spot. Sorry.
Having got that out of the way, I roll over and try to go to sleep, but I’m joking with myself. It’s hard to sleep when you’re desperately listening for your phone to buzz. Thank God it does. Making a grab for it, I send it flying off the bedside table and only just catch it before it hits the ground.
It’s okay.
Chatty fucker isn’t he? I’m contemplating texting again, wondering what the rass to say, when another message comes through.
I get off at midnight on Saturday. I can drop off a key so you can let yourself in earlier.
My heart, already drumming from the moment I heard the first text come in, picks up the pace. I don’t know what that means. I mean, I do, in that he wants me to come over and spend the night with him, but has he changed his mind about going to Windsor?
You can leave from here to go to your cousin’s on Sunday.
Why am I so disappointed? I knew he didn’t want to go, so this is a good compromise. Yet I have to push aside stirrings of annoyance to reply.
Okay. Drop the key off in my mail slot. Apartment #3. Feeling snippy, I add: And try your best not to come around here in uniform. The neighbors already give me the side eye.
LOL! I won’t. Looking forward to Saturday night. If I get hung up on a case, I’ll text you.
Saturday suddenly seems an eternity away, and as the week goes by it feels as though it’s getting farther away rather than closer. Kyle and I text back and forth a bit, but I let him initiate the conversations. I’ve accepted the fact that if I want to keep seeing him, it’ll have to be on his terms, at his initiative. He’s the one in the closet, who has to be careful. And it’s not a relationship. The best I can hope for is that when this rush of lust wears off we can stay friends, but I don’t think that’s possible either. He probably won’t want an old fuck–buddy hanging around.
I’m determined to just enjoy whatever it is that happens, for as long as it lasts. It beats being alone without any prospect of sex at all. If I can keep concentrating on the sex, it’ll be all good.
Thursday evening I get home and find an envelope with a key in my mailbox. Just seeing it drop into my hand gives me an erection. For a man who usually goes months at a time without getting any, I’ve turned into a slobbering, desperate–what’s the male equivalent of a nympho? Just for fun, I look it up online and find the closest equivalent is a satyr. The ancient world’s original horny goats. Baaaa…
I’m about to throw away the envelope when I notice there’s a slip of paper stuck in it and I pull it out.
You don’t have to wait until Saturday, but if you come over before then, you’ll be tired at work the next day.
That makes me chuckle. Very tempting. Makes me want to throw some clothes in a bag and head over there right away, but something holds me back. I have to keep some distance, and giving in whenever he winks doesn’t seem wise, even if it is just sex. “Start as you mean to continue,” was one of my Grannie’s favorite sayings, and I believe it’s true. If he knows he can have me jump whenever he wants, he’ll take advantage of it, and I’ll end up angry at myself and him.
So the next time he texts, I tell him I’ll see him Saturday, not before. He sends a frownie face in return, followed by: Don’t make me give you the PORC stare…
The WHAT?
Pissed Off Rez Cop stare. That’s what Denny calls it.
That makes me laugh so hard I have to wipe my eyes before I can reply.
Your brother deserves a beating 4 real. I thought any reference to pigs made cops see red?
Why do you think he calls it that? BTW he’s still bigger than me…
I shake my head, but even after he says he has to go, break’s over, I’m still chuckling. I’d been tempted to go to the sanctuary and ’accidentally’ be there when his brother came to see the pups, but I’d restrained myself. The last thing I need is Kyle thinking I’m trying to wheedle my way into his family’s consciousness. Nope, I’m not brave enough to touch that one.
By Saturday evening, I’m as jumpy as ants on a skillet, but I make myself wait. Have dinner. Pretend to watch a show on TV. Finally, at about ten o’clock, I give myself permission to leave and drive out to his place. Walking into his house by myself feels strange, but good. He’s placed a lot of trust in me, and I appreciate it. Then I find myself wondering what I should be doing when he gets home… Should I just sit on the couch–my second favorite piece of furniture in his house, only narrowly beaten by his bed–or should I go upstairs? Be dressed or naked? Smothered in the tofu equivalent of whipped cream and laid out on the kitchen island?
I snort with laughter, although imagining Kyle licking something off me makes me hard. In the end I opt for the armchair and watching a movie, my phone in my hand in case he texts.
At twenty past twelve, I hear a Hemi engine coming along the road, and my heart goes into overdrive. Lawd, I’ve missed him. Who knew four days could feel like forever?
The truck door slams, then I hear his key in the door, and I can hardly draw breath. I knew I wanted to be with him again but didn’t know how much until this moment.
I know I’m in trouble when he doesn’t stop to take off his shoes but comes into the living room immediately, his boots clunking on the hardwood floor. I haven’t seen him in uniform for a long time and I can’t believe how good he looks. Full black suits him, makes him look even bigger, more masculine, if that’s possible.
He stops at the far side of the coffee table and gives me a hard look–the PORC stare–but the heat in his gaze makes thinking of it like that anything but funny.
“There’s a very unhappy Constable back at the station, wondering why her sergeant took off like a bat out of hell and left her to finish up the paperwork alone.”
I get up and go right to him, unable to resist.
“Then let’s make her sacrifice worthwhile. What you say?”
He grabs me, gives me one of his mind–bending kisses, and we end up on the couch. And we don’t make it upstairs until a long time afterwards.
Kyle
I wake up Sunday morning feeling as if I’ve been hit by a truck. The first day off after four days of twelve hour shifts is always rough, but Vincent and I had stayed up until almost three, gorging ourselves on each other. Apparently having sex repeatedly, in a variety of positions, is the equivalent of spending eight hours in the gym. Every muscle aches, but as I force my eyes open I’m also smiling.
It’s only eight–a late start for me–but I decide
not to get up. One day without my usual five kilometer run won’t hurt. I’m also tempted to wake Vincent, who’s flat on his stomach, still sleeping beside me. He has one arm slung across my ribs, one leg sticking out from under the covers. His face is turned away from me, buried deep in the pillow, so all I can see is the back of his head. The remembered sensation of his hair against my palms as I held him, watched him blow me, saw my cock sliding in and out of his mouth, sends a hot shiver down my spine, and my morning erection gets harder. The temptation to wake him, maybe by kissing and licking my way along that long, strong back, makes my breathing grow shallow.
Am I the same person who was just thinking how destroyed he was? Being with Vincent after not seeing him for four days has made me greedy. Besides, if I wake him up now, get him to have sex again, he’ll be too tired to drive the two hours to Windsor.
That thought surprises me, it’s so conniving. I’m usually far too straightforward to bother with pretenses like that, but it still grates that he’s determined to go to his cousin’s house instead of staying with me. It’s completely unreasonable–I know it–but it’s the only day I know of we’ll both have off for the next two weeks and I want to spend it with him. Not necessarily in bed, although that wouldn’t be a terrible way to pass the time, but there are other things we could do.
Yeah. Sit around and play Ring of Steel. Talk. Eat. I can’t offer him anything more than that. How can I blame him for preferring to spend his day off with friends, rather than cooped up here with me?
Realistically, unless I’m willing to offer him more, I have to take whatever he’ll give. And I don’t have anything more than stolen, secretive sex to contribute to his life.
Easing from under his arm, I slide out of the bed, glad he’s such a heavy sleeper. Suddenly full of pent–up energy, almost angry, I decide to go for a run after all. It’ll smooth me out, so that when he gets up I’ll be able to feed him some breakfast and send him off with a kiss, not pick a fight or try to con him into not going to Windsor.
Yet running as hard as I can, pushing my aching muscles to their limit, doesn’t do much to improve my mood. When I get back, I hear the shower going and I can’t stop myself from going upstairs, stripping my clothes off before I even get to the bathroom door. Pushing aside the shower curtain, I get into the bathtub with him. I can’t let him say anything, try to stop me, so I kiss him immediately, dragging his wet, slick body to mine. He’s soapy, and the suds let my hands slide unimpeded over his skin. I take full advantage of that, touching him everywhere I can, like I’m learning his body all over again. Vincent groans into my mouth, and I inhale it, drink it in. Maybe I can’t offer him more than this, but this thing between us is pretty fantastic just the way it is.
Dragging my lips from his, I nip my way across his cheek–scratchy with morning whiskers–to his neck, then down to where it meets his shoulder. There’s a spot… I bite down gently, and Vincent shudders.
“Kyle…”
“I know.” I don’t know anything, but I’ll say whatever it takes to make this last a little longer. “Just let me…”
He’s erect, and I kiss my way down his chest while taking the soap from his unresisting fingers. Tonguing his nipple, I rotate the bar to get my hand sudsy, then fist him. He shudders again, one hand gripping and relaxing on my shoulder, the other trying to find purchase in my hair. When I sink to my knees in front of him, and turn him sideways to wash off his cock, he doesn’t protest, just leans against the wall of the shower, his thigh muscles trembling.
There’s something almost violent about my need to make him come. I want to know I can wring one more orgasm from him. And I hope that the entire time he’s on the road, while he’s with his cousin–shit, even two years from now–he’ll be remembering me, on my knees in the shower sucking his cock, pushing one soapy finger and then two into his sweet, tight ass. Urging him to fuck my mouth as I take him deep, as deep as I can.
He curses, his cock softening slightly, his hips rocking, thrusting with short, hard strokes. “I’m–”
A groan interrupts his words, and he spurts, not filling my mouth the way he had the night before, but coming all the same.
I lick him clean, then get up. He reaches for my cock, but I hold his wrist and shake my head. “No time. You need to get on the road soon if you want to get to your cousin in time. I have to feed you before you go too.”
Those dark, questioning eyes search my face, and he shrugs slightly. “I can get something to eat on the road. You don’t have to cook for me.”
“I want to.” When he glances down at my erection, I touch myself and say, “Don’t worry about this. It’s not important. Believe me, after last night I’m surprised I can even get it up. I’m in no way deprived.”
That makes him give a snort of laughter, but he’s still watching me, trying to figure out what’s happening. So I slip past him to go under the shower and start soaping myself. Looking back at him, I say, “Go on and dry off. I’ll be out in a minute.”
He nods before stepping out of the shower, and I turn my face into the spray, filled with a kind of savage satisfaction at the ache in my balls, the slowly receding engorgement of my cock. Fitting punishment, I think, although I’m not sure what it is I’m paying penance for.
When we go downstairs, he sits at the island and watches as I fry sausages and make an enormous omelet, packed with asparagus, green pepper and cheese, for us to share. Neither of us seem to have too much of any importance to say. We talk about the Jays and their surprisingly good start to the season, speculating whether they can keep it going or if the wheels will fall off again. He mentions he’s on a different rotation this coming week, filling in for a colleague who needs an earlier shift to be able to participate in her daughter’s pre–wedding celebrations. He’ll be working eleven to nine… I wonder if he’d want to come back and spend the night again tonight, but don’t feel right asking. I realize I’m gripping the spatula like it’s my Glock, and force my fingers to relax.
“Kyle.” I look up, meeting his gaze, trying not to give anything away with my expression. “I’m off on Wednesday. Want to get together?”
I don’t want him throwing me bones.
I mentally snort at myself. Yes, I do. “That would be good.” Trying to keep it casual. “Come after work on Tuesday night.”
He hesitates, looks as if he’s about to say something, then does that mouth–twist thing. “Sounds good.”
I flip the omelet and sourly consider the next couple of days without seeing him. But what can I expect? He has a life. Probably wants to spend time at the shelter with Bongo, see friends, stuff I could do with him if I wasn’t so stuck in my lies. I can’t even think of anything I can suggest we do together on Wednesday. Realistically, we could go anywhere we wanted. Male friends do shit together all the time–go fishing or to the range, and since he likes guns that would be perfect–but I can’t keep my hands off him. I can’t take the chance of just forgetting myself and, say, kissing him in public.
“You have anything planned for today?”
He’s trying to make conversation, and I realize I’ve fallen back into my habitual silence. I don’t want him to think I’m moping or whatever. Or worse, considering what happened after the first time we’d slept together, that I’m going to be like this every time we have sex. I drum up a smile from somewhere.
“I thought of calling Denny and seeing what they’re up to. Maybe go by so I can hear how the puppy visit went.” I chuckle. “We were right. Damon claims not to be able to choose one. He’s trying to get them to agree to three.”
Vincent laughs too, and I think there’s relief mixed in with the amusement. “Boy after my own heart.”
And just like that the atmosphere between us lightens, and although I’m still unsettled and annoyed, I can cope with it, keep it hidden.
After we’ve eaten, he goes up to get his bag and I put the dishes in the sink. As he comes back down, I find myself wanting to ask if he remembered to
get gas, if he wants a snack for the road, if he’s sure he doesn’t want to blow off his cousin and blow me instead. Of course I don’t say any of those things, just follow him outside in my bare feet and try not to look as morose as I feel.
“See you Tuesday night,” he says, after tossing his bag onto the back seat. “Have fun with your family.”
“You too.”
“Okay, thanks.” He starts to get into the SUV, then stops.
Coming back over to me, he kisses me, slow and deep–a seduction special–and I pull him in to take it even deeper. When we pull apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“Yeah,” he says, rolling the word out like he does when we make love–I mean have sex. “Yeah, Tuesday.”
Then he leans in again for a quick nip of my bottom lip before he turns and swaggers back to his vehicle. Shit, that walk gets me every time.
“Drive safe.” Cop voice again. “I don’t fix tickets.”
Vincent just laughs and closes the door. I refuse to stand and watch him drive away, so I head back into the house, but I listen to the sound of the SUV until I can’t hear it anymore. Then I stand in the kitchen and look around, wondering why nothing seems to be the same as it was before. Wondering when everything will go back to normal.
Chapter Twelve
Vincent
Kyle and I fall into a pattern of sorts. Depending on our schedules, we get together two or three times a week, always at his place, of course. It wouldn’t do for an officer of the law, who’s firmly in the closet, to be seen spending the night in one of the seamier sides of town. Worse with an ex–posse–wannabe. Not to mention the fact I’m black. Although most of the people I’ve met in Canada aren’t prejudiced, there’s always that certain element who fancy themselves white supremacists, and we have a few in my neighborhood. I swear it’s because of my scar, which rightfully says I’ve lived through some serious shit, and probably erroneously seems to indicate I’m capable of giving some equally serious shit right back, that I haven’t had any problems.