Page 8 of No Surrender
Simon snuggled close, leaning his head on Vic’s shoulder. His hand rested high on Vic’s thigh, a gentle brush of fingers against Vic’s cock that was far from accidental. For a while, they sat tangled up in the dark, as Simon’s long fingers stroked along Vic’s inseam, then traced the growing length beneath his zipper and slipped downward to tease along his taint.
Vic spread his legs wider and shifted to one side. He cupped the back of Simon’s head as they kissed, letting his tongue run along his fiancé’s lips. Simon opened to him with a quiet moan.
Simon’s fingers worked at Vic’s belt and then his own as the kiss continued. Vic mouthed his way from lips to stubbled jaw, kissing and licking down the column of Simon’s neck. Simon kicked off the blanket, opened their flies, and pushed jeans and boxer briefs down until he could wrap his left hand around both of their stiff cocks.
“Feels so good.” Vic’s voice was muffled against Simon’s skin. He added his grip to Simon’s, and the friction of their cocks against each other within the channel of their hands was perfect.
“Not going to last long after the day it’s been,” Vic murmured.
“That’s okay. Just taking the edge off. We can do it slow in the morning,” Simon promised.
Pre-come slicked their palms, along with some lube from the container they kept in the end table drawer. Simon brushed his thumb over the knob of Vic’s cock and began to stroke faster. They bucked together, savoring the slide and drag of sensitive skin.
“Simon!” Vic’s throaty cry as he came seemed to push Simon over the edge as well, both of them spilling over their fists, panting with the intensity of their climax.
Hearts thudding, still breathing hard, Simon dropped his head against Vic’s shoulder as aftershocks trembled through them.
“Love you,” Vic murmured and used his clean hand to tilt Simon’s chin up. Cheeks flushed, pupils blown dark with arousal, lips kiss-swollen, and skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat, Simon had never looked more beautiful.
“Love you back,” Simon replied, moving just far enough to press their lips together again. “Feel better?”
“Oh yeah,” Vic said, chuckling. He grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the end table and cleaned them both up as the movie’s credits rolled.
“Guess we missed the rest.” Vic nodded toward the screen.
Simon gave him a wicked grin. “Not really. I’d say we got a perfect ending.”
Vic turned off the TV and pulled Simon in for another kiss. “Let’s change and wash up before we fall asleep here and wake up stuck together.”
“Sounds like a plan.” They made quick work of wiping away the evidence and getting ready for bed, then turned out the lights and slipped under the covers.
“Set the alarm early,” Simon told him, his voice sleepy and sex-roughened. “Want to get your day off to a good start.” He rested his head on Vic’s shoulder, and Vic curled his arm around Simon. They’d get too warm to stay like this long, but Vic appreciated a few minutes of quiet closeness in the dark.
“Counting on it, sounds like a recipe for sweet dreams.” Vic buried his face in Simon’s hair, breathing in his shampoo and soap and the smell of sweat and sex, resolutely refusing to think beyond the moment.
2
SIMON
Simon groaned when he saw the group of reporters staked out in front of Grand Strand Ghost Tours the next morning. He had kept his word to Vic and sent his partner off with a sleepy-but-satisfying sixty-nine to cure their morning wood, but the glow dimmed as he realized he needed to maneuver past microphones and cameras to get into his shop.
Before they spotted him, Simon changed course. He headed for his favorite coffee shop, turned up the collar of his coat, and got in line, scanning the crowd to make sure none of the press had stopped off for breakfast.
Tracey Cullen, the owner of Le Mizzenmast—which the locals called Le Miz—ran the register today, and her barista, Samir, pulled lattes from the large, complex, industrial-sized espresso machine.
“Good morning, Si—”
“Shh,” Simon hissed, raising a finger to his lips as he came to the counter.
Tracey gave him a look. “You’re incognito now?” Then she glanced at the TV in the corner with news footage of the reporters outside the police department, and her eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Simon replied. “Can you please do up four large lattes and a bag of sweet rolls, put them in a tray, and let me borrow one of those sweatshirts with the logo on the back?”
“Going into the delivery business?” Tracey smirked. Today her long braids were tipped with blue and white beads for a winter theme.
“I need a secret identity,” he admitted. “Once I get inside, I don’t have to come back out until it’s time to go home.”
“Coffee with a side of witness protection, coming right up.” Tracey grinned and rang him up. “If you decide you want to order lunch, call me, and I’ll deliver.”
