Page 23 of Out of Control

“For real?”

He huffed. “We’ve already been over this. I don’t lie to you. I’ve never even tried. I said I would be here, and I will. Go take your shower. And you’d better make yours cold too. Maybe it’ll shock a little common sense into you.”

“I’ve got plenty of—”

“No. You don’t. You have the common sense of a spoon.”

“Do not.”

“You also stink.”

Sure enough, that distracted Spencer. The guy hated to be dirty or greasy or smell bad. At least that hadn’t changed about him.

Drago watched Spencer get up and leave the room, his thighs powerful and the bulge of his ass above them juicy and perfect.

Made for squeezing, that ass was. He knew, beneath the camo pants and desert camo shirt, Spencer was tanned and ripped. But unlike him, Spencer’s skin would be kissed with gold, never too darkly tanned nor too rough. His overwhelming impression of Spencer had always been acres of muscles covered by foil sheets of shining gold.

Even the guy’s light brown hair was threaded through with strands of gold. Surely the filaments of his heart were gold as well.

Spencer would not be sashaying down the stairs naked in a few minutes, of course. He would come down fully dressed, buttoned-up and hidden from view in body, mind, and soul.

A long time ago, he’d glimpsed the relaxed, confident man Spencer could have chosen to become had he embraced living authentically in his own skin. But he’d pushed too hard. Too fast. He’d demanded that Spencer come out. Publicly acknowledge him and acknowledge their relationship. And Spencer had run away—literally run away from him—rather than jump off that cliff.

Bitterness still burned beneath his sternum at the thought of waking up to the news of the hotel bombing and then realizing Spencer wasn’t in bed beside him. The bastard had snuck out in the middle of the night, using all of his prodigious stealth skills to slink away like the coward he was at love—

Let it go.

Water under the bridge, man.

Ancient history.

But it still hurt like a bitch.

Besides, he was usually the one who did the sneaking out in the dead of night, not the other way around. Spencer was the one and only man he’d ever wanted to wake up beside in the morning….

…it was barely dawn, but the morning was already heating up. A ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, the only thing stirring in the rosy light. A muezzin sang a nasal call to prayer in the distance, but Beirut had yet to wake to its daily chaotic bustle.

Spencer shifted beside him and the sheet slipped below his waist. The upper curves of his muscular ass came into view, along with the enticing crack leading to the hottest virgin ass he’d ever had. For once, he’d taken his time with a lover, using his mouth and hands to bring Spencer nearly to gasping release before turning him over, positioning him on his elbows and knees and lubing him up.

It had been torture trying to control his urge to slam home, but he’d gone painstakingly slowly, giving Spencer’s ass muscles, both external and internal, time to relax. To open. To pull him in hungrily.

Spencer’s first gasp of pleasure-pain was a sound he would never forget. The strength of the guy…. His sphincter had been as tight as a vise, almost too tight to push past. He had to grab Spencer’s hips for purchase before he was able to wedge himself into the tight opening.

Then, all at once, Spencer’s ass released, opening for him all the way. He couldn’t help himself. He’d slammed home, sheathing himself in Spencer’s body until his balls rested against Spencer’s.

Spencer’s head turned to the side, his mouth open in shock and awe, and Drago had leaned down over him, kissing that wet, welcoming mouth. He’d reached around to grip Spencer’s rock-hard cock, stroking up and down the shaft, slippery with Spencer’s precum, while he’d driven home again and again, lost in the miracle of this man giving himself body and soul to him….

The water upstairs turned off.

Drago swore under his breath.

In the ensuing decade, he hadn’t met another man who’d even tempted him to try again at a serious long-term relationship. In his own way, he’d run away from Spencer, too. He’d accepted assignments in the most dangerous corners of the world, hopping from one country to another, one undercover mission to the next, never landing anywhere long enough to meet a nice guy, fall in love, and God forbid, settle down.

It was so much easier to be a rolling stone than to stop and try to grow even a speck of moss.

Christ, he was waxing maudlin tonight.

A floorboard shifted upstairs, and he envisioned Spencer drying himself with the clean Turkish towel he’d laid out on top of the toilet after his own shower.

---