On Duty

by A. R. Barley

  “I love you,” Alex murmured, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

  “I love you too.”

  “Does that mean you’ll dance with me during the next song?”

  Troy gave him a tight squeeze. “Not a chance in hell.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Four weeks after the shooting, Troy’s side was starting to feel better, but his arm was still in a cast. That didn’t stop him from running a brush through a small container of gray paint. The all-white decor had grown on him since his arrival, but Alex thought they needed a change. He sent a stripe across the back wall. “You got a favorite yet?”

  “Not yet.” Alex was propped in the doorway. “I want to see what the samples look like when they dry down.” He was wearing the same T-shirt and pajama bottoms combination he’d worn on Troy’s first day in the apartment. Only, this time Troy could twist his fingers into his elastic waistband and tug him over for a kiss.

  He tasted like cold beer and sex. Troy’s good hand dropped to palm Alex’s firm ass. “And how do you propose we pass the time?”

  “I’m drawing a blank.” Alex’s lean body plastered itself to his front. “Got any ideas?”

  “A little bit of this.” Troy’s erection lengthened as he continued to explore his boyfriend’s body. His cock wasn’t the only one paying attention. Alex was rock hard and ready to play. “A whole lot of that.”

  He moaned. Damn. It felt good to be together—and healthy enough to enjoy it. He took a deep breath, struggling to concentrate, but the air was full of Alex’s undefinable personal scent mixed with the spicy warmth of the soup on the stove.

  Alex pushed Troy back half a step and—

  Thunk. His foot connected with a can of paint. It stung, but the pain gave him a sudden moment of clarity. Soup was bubbling away on the stove, and he was supposed to be working on the apartment.

  He tried to think about anything other than the sparks coming to life under his skin. “I like your toenails.”

  “You noticed?”

  “Mango and cayenne.” He’d read the polish names when he cleared the polish bottles off the bathroom counter, but he would have noticed the color change anyway. It was freaking adorable, and it didn’t make him want Alex any less.

  All he could think about was Alex’s body. His scent. His taste. The sneaky way he’d unbuttoned Troy’s waistband and dipped his fingers under his boxers.

  Troy gasped for air. “What about the soup? Do we have time for this and that? Fucking.”

  Sharp teeth nipped at his collarbone, providing a direct contrast to the gentle way Alex’s fingers had wrapped around his cock. “Nobody’s fucking anybody, and I turned the stove off before I came in here.”

  “You’re a genius,” Troy groaned.

  “You love me for my brain?”

  “Your brain and your hands. I love your hands.” Freaking ambidextrous. Troy couldn’t wait until he got his cast off and could wrap both of his arms around Alex. Until then he’d have to make the most of his one good hand by shoving Alex’s pajama bottoms down to the ground. They scrambled to take their clothes off and then Alex pushed him down against the bed.

  The blankets were still buttery soft, but it was Alex’s silky skin he cared about, the gasps and moans coming from his mouth between kisses. Alex’s fingers dug into the ridge of muscle above his hip and Troy spread his legs.

  The sparks under his skin had turned into raging forest fires. Every hair on his body stood at attention. Every touch left him needy and wanting more.

  “Please,” he begged. “Please. I need you inside me.”

  “I love you, Hero.” Alex reached past him to retrieve lube and a condom. “But you’ve got it wrong. Today it’s your turn to be on top.”

  “Oh, God.” His hips thrust up, his cock desperately seeking attention. They’d had sex since the fight with Hoyt, many, many times, but that had always been with Alex pitching and Troy catching. He’d given Alex blow jobs—his lips tipping up into a smile even as they stretched to accommodate his lover’s thick cock—and the move had been reciprocated many times over. But he’d never pushed his way inside Alex’s firm ass.

  “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  “Yes, please.” Alex allowed Troy to roll him onto his side. Damn. He was gorgeous. Troy’s gaze moved continuously over his body, desperate to take it in all at once. Naked and unashamed, Alex was all bright eyes and bouncing curls. His blush didn’t reach his cheeks, it stained his skin from the tips of his toes to the bulbous head of his erection. The color was almost a perfect match for the paint Troy had bought earlier that afternoon. Troy opened the lube and spread it across his greedy fingers before reaching down to cup Alex’s balls, then roving further back. He rocked one finger deep into him then another, scissoring them wide. “Am I moving too fast?”

  “No such thing.” He wasn’t the only one in a hurry. Nimble fingers tore open the condom wrapper and rolled it down into place. The touch was enough to make Troy buck and whimper. “Easy, Hero.” Alex’s nails dug into the tender skin between his cock and his thigh. “No early birds.”

  The sharp pain wasn’t enough to cause real damage, but it helped Troy focus. He forced air down into his lungs as Alex added a layer of slick to ease his way. He closed up the bottle of lube and dropped it onto the ground beside the bed. When everything was ready, he lowered himself into position.

  Tight. So damn tight. Troy gasped for air as Alex’s heat encompassed him. “Wait,” Troy whimpered. “We need more lube, more—”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Don’t worry.” Alex groaned as he settled into place, but the look on his face was one of pleasure not pain. His hips rolled. He rode Troy like a cowboy taking a turn on his favorite bronco. His movements were rhythmic and graceful. His hips jerked up. Something must have connected just right because he gasped, he moaned, he writhed, but his gaze never left Troy’s.

  He grinned.

  Oh, damn. Troy’s lips tensed. His balls tightened and his hips jerked, searching for that moment of perfect pleasure. The friction felt fantastic. His hand settled on Alex’s hip. A wave of sensation rolled over him. He was going to come. Oh, damn. He was going to come.

  “No early birds,” Alex repeated.

  “Then you’re going to need to catch up because I’m about to catch the worm.”

  Alex pulled a face. “Probably not the metaphor I should have chosen, but I’ve already caught your worm. It’s glorious.”

  Troy bit his lip to keep from laughing. It was an unusual sensation. Sex was serious business, or it always had been in the past. With Alex it was different. It was funny, irreverent, and wonderful. “I love you.”

  His grip tightened on Alex’s waist. He might not be at one hundred percent, but his doctors said he was recovering admirably. He could do this.

  Muscles flexed and tensed. His body jerked to the side and he rolled Alex over onto his back. The angle changed. Alex gasped and moaned. Precome leaked from his heavy cock to coat their bellies. Whatever rhythm they’d had before shattered as Troy’s hips moved faster, driving Alex closer to the edge. He had enough sense left to keep his cast out of the way, but he’d happily kill for use of his other hand to reach between them and jack Alex to completion.

  Alex’s eyes were lust glazed. His mouth was slick. His hair was tangled. He was a hot mess, and Troy couldn’t look away. “Touch yourself?” Troy licked his lips. “Please. Please, touch yourself. I would, but—”

  “Always happy to lend a hand for the cause.” His slim hand maneuvered its way between their bodies. Knuckles brushed against Troy’s belly. Alex convulsed. Blood roared past Troy’s ears and they both came in a cascade of pleasure.

  “Amazing.” Troy held there for a moment, locked in a moment of ab
solute perfection.

  “You better believe it.” Alex waggled his eyebrows.

  Troy rolled off of Alex, getting rid of the condom and collapsing onto the bed beside him. The crisp cotton sheets were cool against his back. Sweat streaked across his chest. He felt good. Really good.

  “We’re painting the kitchen next?” he asked. “After the bedroom?”

  Alex nuzzled his chest. “I’m thinking lime green, unless you’ve got a better idea.”

  “Peach,” he said. “When I was a kid, my mom painted the kitchen a peach color. She said it was inviting. She didn’t—” He swallowed hard. “It was a nice color.”

  “You miss her.”

  “I miss being part of a family.”

  That earned him a little snort of disbelief. “Don’t worry. You’re adopted. My family loves you. If we break up tomorrow, they’re keeping you. I’m the one who’d be out in the cold for Thanksgiving dinner. Not that we’re breaking up anytime soon.” Alex ran a long finger across Troy’s chest, tracing a thin line of scar tissue across his left biceps. “We’re going to grow old together. Think you can live that long?”

  “Of course—”

  “I’m serious. I’m not asking you to stop rescuing people—I knew you were a hero when I dragged you home that first night—but you have to take better care of yourself.” His brow was pinched. His expression was just a little too serious for someone who should still be caught in the gentle lapping waves of afterglow. “That’s an order.”

  Troy desperately wanted to laugh it off, but it was impossible. He wasn’t a patchwork doll anymore. He’d need physical therapy, but the scars would fade over time.

  Eventually he’d go back to work.

  But he’d never forget how it felt to be weak while Alex was in danger.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  That was one order it would be easy to obey.

  * * * * *

  Look for BROKEN PROTOCOL, the next book in the SMOKE & BULLETS series, coming from A.R. Barley and Carina Press in 2018.

  To find out about other books by A.R. Barley or to be alerted to new releases, sign up for her monthly newsletter here or at http://bit.ly/ARBarleyMailingList.

  Now Available from Carina Press and A.R. Barley

  Falling for the drag queen next door...

  Read on for an excerpt from OUTSIDE THE LINES (Boundaries, Book 3)

  Outside the Lines

  A.R. Barley

  Wednesday night at Ale Mary’s was never going to be jam-packed, but as Halston’s one and only gay nightclub it still drew a pretty good midweek crowd. So Chi-Chi wasn’t surprised when a long-legged man with soft blue eyes, a touch of gray in his curly brown hair, and dimples—freaking dimples—plopped himself down on the next seat over.

  But then the newcomer turned in his direction. “Thank God, I thought I was the only normal one here.”

  Chi-Chi cocked his head to the side. He’d been called a lot of things over the years—some of them more flattering than others—but no one had ever used the word normal. He glanced down just to check.

  Yup, he was still a five-foot-two drag queen with a little too much junk in the trunk. Normal had nothing to do with it.

  “I’m bi, but I never know where I belong in a place like this,” Dimples continued, his voice low and melodic. “I mean, most of the guys my age are wearing leather—but I’m not exactly into whips and chains—and then there are the boys in the tight pants. Beautiful, truly, but not exactly long-term relationship material.”

  There was a short pause. Chi-Chi glanced around just in case he’d missed Dimples’s friend. Nope, the guy was still talking to him. He was cute too, despite the stain on the hem of his wrinkled blue button-down. Was that oatmeal? “Are you looking for relationship advice or a fashion critique?”

  “Either one works as long as I can buy you a beer.”

  “Make it a hard cider and you’ve got a deal, papi.”

  He grinned and summoned the bartender with a wave. “Whatever’s good on tap and a hard cider for the lady.”

  Fuck, now Chi-Chi got it.

  Tuesday was technically his night off, but when Nick had called to offer him an extra shift he hadn’t wanted to turn it down—tuition was due in another week and every dollar helped.

  The last-minute scheduling meant he hadn’t had time to pile on the glitter or lace himself into a sequined gown. Instead, he’d walked over in what he was wearing: a pink cotton dress with white polka dots, white Converse All Stars, and a gold bow in his hair. His makeup was expertly applied but discreet.

  He looked like a girl, which meant his new bisexual friend was hitting on him for all the wrong reasons.

  The pint glass of hard cider landed in front of Chi-Chi and he took a long swallow, wishing it was something harder.

  Dimples was just his type, all long limbs and rumpled confidence. Laugh lines crowded his eyes and made him look friendly. His fingers were long and capable, with a powder-blue Band-Aid around his left thumb. For a moment Chi-Chi wondered what they’d feel like digging into his ass, but then Dimples went to pick up his beer and spilled half the glass down his shirt.

  Damn, the man needed a keeper, but Chi-Chi wasn’t signing up for the job.

  No more straight guys, ever. That included a bisexual man who’d hit on what he thought was the only woman in a gay bar.

  Chi-Chi might like wearing makeup and dresses, but he was still all man. Even if he was a compact model. He deserved to be with someone who could appreciate him for everything he had to offer. Someone who wouldn’t abandon him the next morning.

  “Freaking cold.” Dimples picked up a napkin and patted at his shirt. “Maybe I should take it as a sign. Give up on this whole dating thing.”

  “Maybe you just need to start out slower,” Chi-Chi suggested. “The club scene can be intimidating if you’ve been out of it for a while. Have you thought about going online? Meeting someone in a coffee shop?”

  He could picture Dimples in one of the nicer places near campus—like the Bluebird Cafe where he worked most mornings—seated in a wingback chair with a book on his knee and a latte in his hand. Foamy. Of course, in Chi-Chi’s fantasy he was sitting across from him, engaged in sparkling conversation, not sliding him his drink and hoping for a good tip.

  Time to get back to reality. Chi-Chi glanced at his cell phone. It was time for his set to start. He took another long swig on his drink, enjoying the extra zing the hard cider sent through his body, and slipped off the stool. “Think about it.”

  “What about you? Would you like to get coffee sometime?” Dimples asked.

  Chi-Chi blinked. When was the last time someone had asked him out for coffee? Just coffee? Most guys he met at Ale Mary’s were just looking for a suck or a jerk in the alley behind the nightclub. He could count on one hand the men who’d bothered to take him home to a real bed, but still... Dimples didn’t know who he was...

  He sighed. “I’d love to, papi, but that’s my cue.”

  Familiar music was already starting to play through the club’s hidden speakers, the soft strains of a piano. It wasn’t his usual opener—the club kids who flooded the bar on Friday and Saturday weren’t much for the blues—but Chi-Chi could get more creative during the middle of the week. His hips began to sway in time to the antique rhythm. “If you’re still here when I’m done we can talk.”

  “I’ll be here,” his new friend promised, the strength of his voice sending a nice thrum through Chi-Chi’s veins.

  But twenty minutes later, when Chi-Chi switched over from blues to old school rock and roll, the stool at the bar was empty. Dimples hadn’t even had the guts to turn him down in person. The jerk.

  “This one’s for the lovers.” He grabbed his iPhone and swiped through until he found the track he was lookin
g for. His white tennis shoes tapped out the beat as he reached for the microphone. Time to kick ass.

  * * *

  Mitch used to be punctual. He remembered those days fondly. He’d shown up to dinners on time and never missed a committee meeting. Of course, that was before. Before his marriage had started disintegrating around him...before Melissa had been so unhappy...before a blood vessel had burst and he’d become a single father to two kids in one tragic night. Now he was lucky if he got to his meetings at all.

  But he’d had high hopes for the end-of-summer barbecue his neighbor was hosting next door. How could he be late going twenty feet? But that had been before the lunch disaster, the suicidal goldfish, and the fight over Sadie’s wardrobe.

  Apparently the only thing good enough for the party was the pink sundress she’d already worn three times that week. There was no time for the washing machine. He’d inspected it for obvious stains and tugged it on over her tangled wheat curls. Damn, he really should do something about that, but reaching for a hairbrush would only start another fight—and a possible meltdown.

  Melissa had always managed to pull Sadie’s hair back into a neat ponytail, but since her death there’d been more important things to think about than hairstyles. Maybe he should just cut it short, but those curls made Sadie look so much like her mother...besides, cutting her hair would mean giving in. It would be just one more reason for Melissa’s parents to think he couldn’t take care of his own children.

  “Come on.” Sadie bounced up and down excitedly. “I want to meet the princess.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. Mitch’s eleven-year-old son was smart, capable, and a wiseass. At least his clothes were clean, a pair of khakis and a rich green polo. “I told you there’s no princess.”