Page 52 of Under Cover
“I don’t know,” Crosby whispered, still teasing. “You seem to want me. Guess I fooled you too.”
“Augh!” With a groan of frustration, Garcia yanked Crosby up by the hair and lunged into a hungry, almost violent kiss.
Crosby returned it, shoving at Garcia’s jeans, his stomach shaking in relief as the button gave and they slid down Garcia’s thighs.
Garcia pulled away long enough to hiss, “Whatcha doin’?” before Crosby put his foot in the crotch of the pants and briefs, wrapped his arms around Garcia’s waist, and lifted him out of his clothes, leaving him naked and clinging to Crosby’s shoulders as Crosby practically threw him on the bed.
Oh wow. He was naked. He was naked, and Crosby wanted to take his time.
Garcia must have seen something in his face, something a little frightening or a little awe-inspiring. “Cowboy?” he asked tentatively.
Crosby fell to his knees in front of the bed and pulled Garcia’s legs toward him. He raised up a little between them, and there was Garcia’s cock, hard and dripping, waiting for his attention.
“Do you think I didn’t want to taste your come too?” he rasped, remembering their conversation that morning—was it just that morning?
Garcia let out a low moan and propped his heels on the bed, opening himself up for Crosby’s use.
Crosby planned to use.
But first, he had to taste. He’d been going to tease, but his own clothes were binding him, chafing him, torturing him with reminders of how badly he needed to be touched. He struck, pulling Garcia’s cock into his mouth and down his throat in one quick thrust, leaving Garcia to cry out, to prop his feet on Crosby’s shoulders and beg, partly in Spanish, partly in English, for Crosby to suck him harder, faster, oh God, more!
Crosby obliged, swallowing to make his throat accommodate Garcia’s length, letting his spit drip freely down Garcia’s shaft, between his balls. He heard Garcia suck in a breath when it trickled between his cheeks.
Crosby slid his fingers along the same path as he sucked, using his lips, his tongue, even flirting with the edges of his teeth, every movement designed to drive Garcia higher, to make him quake, keep him begging.
He skated his forefinger down Garcia’s taint, into his cleft, into—
“Gah!” Garcia finally stopped talking and simply cried out. “Papi—God, please—”
Crosby thrust his finger in, finding him a little loose from the night before, but so, so sensitive. He pulled off enough to gasp, “Lube!” and spent a delirious few moments continuing to suck, continuing to thrust, while Garcia gibbered, stretching his hands to reach under the pillow.
When he finally found the lubricant, he swore and handed it off to Crosby desperately, still pleading.
Crosby removed his one finger so he could snick the cap. With a dump, he coated three of his fingers and thrust them back inside.
Garcia cried out, back arching, heels digging into Crosby’s shoulders as he came, and Crosby drank him down. Again and again he spurted into Crosby’s mouth, until he subsided against the bed, limp and sated, legs dangling over the side.
Crosby rocked back on his heels, taking in the sight of the body, so tight, so muscled, soalivein the ambient light from the window, and wiped the come off his mouth with the back of his hand.
And smiled.
Garcia shuddered one more time before trying to talk.
“Cowboy, you’d better have your clothes off by the count of five or I’m making you sleep on the floor.”
Crosby rested his forehead against Garcia’s inner thigh for a moment before standing and stripping. While he did, Garcia stood and peeled back the covers, sliding between the sheets and shivering in the spring chill. When Crosby slid in next to him, Garcia wrapped his limbs around Crosby’s body, offering his body heat, and Crosby sighed into the space between them, overcome with the amazing feeling of their bodies, skin to skin, nothing between them but need.
Garcia’s mouth on his was lush, decadent, and Crosby returned the kiss full throttle, flexing his hips and arching his cock against Garcia’s thigh. In response, Garcia moved to his back and spread his thighs again, welcoming Crosby inside, and Crosby positioned himself, needing to go.
With a grunt and a smooth thrust, he was there, held in the haven of Garcia’s chamber, warm, safe, sensitized,aroused.
Garcia let out a sigh of completion and wrapped his legs around Crosby’s hips. “Yippee kai-yay,” he moaned, and Crosby gave in to the compulsion that had nearly consumed him, rocking back and forth, fucking his lover—yes, his lover, not his partner or his colleague—with all the heart he had.
His climax rushed him, starting at the pit of his balls, roaring outward, an explosion of synapses, a climax of desire, a megaton force ofcome. It left him, cold and shaking, rutting inside Garcia’s ass, face buried in the hollow of his neck and shoulder, trying to go deeper, to crawl inside Garcia’s warmth, to be sheltered from pain, from loneliness, from isolation, forever.
Garcia gave one of those soft moans—a sweet sound Crosby never would have suspected from such a tight, hard man—and came a second, easy aftershock sort of climax that allowed Crosby to let go of the shaking fear of getting lost and finish his own.
He fell into Garcia’s arms, gulping in air, dazed and still a little frightened of everything that happened between them when the lights went down.
