Page 38 of Out of Control

Honestly, with the way the two of them had been crisscrossing the globe over the past decade, he was surprised their paths hadn’t crossed more often. Maybe Drago had been actively avoiding him. Lord knew he’d been avoiding Drago. Once, he’d been in Guam training with his SEAL team when Drago had passed through, and he’d made sure to be out in the jungle on maneuvers. Another time, they’d briefly been at Bagram Air Base simultaneously. But that facility was huge, and he’d had no trouble making sure they never bumped into each other.

But Fate had a hell of a sense of humor. Here he was in bed with the man—the one man he most desperately wanted to get into bed with, and the one man he most desperately didn’t want to get into bed with.

Temptation surged through him—temptation to lean down and kiss those generous lips, to taste the smoky essence of his old lover, to strip off their clothes and ravish him, or maybe let himself be ravished.

His crotch stirred with interest, and he forced the fantasies down. Or at least he tried. His shorts filled and his balls felt achy and swollen. A need to bury himself in Drago’s laughing, welcoming body tore through him. He usually took care of his own needs in the shower, but a quick hand job was nothing at all like the release of actual sex.

God. It had been ten years since he’d made love with a man. With this man. Ten years of yearning and imagination and desire brutally suppressed in the name of focusing solely on his job. And now here Drago was, sprawled out in bed beside him, undoubtedly willing and able to scratch Spencer’s unbearable itch.

It would be so easy. Just reach out. Cup that bulge in Dray’s pants, stroke him into a thick, hard pole he could impale himself on. An urge to wake up Drago and beg to fuck themselves senseless rolled over him.

Maybe Drago was right. Maybe he had become uptight. Bitter. Dried-up. And maybe Dray was also right that what he needed was a serious fucking to remind him who he really was. To break through all the layers of self-discipline and self-denial he’d cloaked himself in for all these years. Sometimes he felt like he lived in an emotional straitjacket only Drago had the power to release him from.

But at what cost?

The remainder of his career? His self-respect? His heart? For as sure as they were lying here together, Drago would break his heart again, if for no other reason than to get even with Spencer for breaking his.

Frustrated, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, reciting in his mind all the myriad reasons getting back with Drago Thorpe was a terrible idea.

He fell asleep cataloguing Dray’s worst qualities: impulsive, reckless, wild….

…All of which made him the most incredible lover….

Chapter Eight

SPENCER WOKEup slowly. Groggy as hell. Disoriented.

Bright light. Too bright.Squeeze eyes shut.

Headache. Pounding through his skull in thick waves that nearly blinded him.

Aches and pains all over his body, as if he’d slept crammed into a tiny box for a few days.Try to stretch.Huh. His body didn’t respond.

Something was wrong.

But what?

No answer.

He tried to string thoughts together, but nothing came. His brain was disjointed, as if all its component parts had disconnected from one another and refused to communicate. Each one sent him random signals, but in no particular order or logic.

Floating in the weird limbo, he let the impressions flow past.

Clacking noise.

Faint odor of cigarette smoke and sweat.

Swaying.

Movement?

He dragged his eyelids, which weighed a ton, open a crack. In spite of the breathtaking pain of the light, he forced his eyelids open another millimeter.

There was someone beside him. Dark beard stubble. Dark tan. Right. Drago. Dozing beside him.

Snippets of memory started coming back to him. A visit to the Grand Med Memorial. An argument. Handcuffs. He’d handcuffed Drago to him. Fallen asleep in bed beside Dray.

He registered a window directly beyond Drago. A window that shouldn’t be there. A bench seat across from him. What the—?

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