Death of a Pirate King - lanyon Josh. Страница 38

I lifted my lashes and met Jake’s tawny stare. Another switch flipped, and with something like shock I felt my cock rising as I finally turned back on. My breath caught on a half sob; relief made me a little giddy, and I leaned against him, making fun of us both like his kisses were making me swoon.

But I didn’t fool him. His arms wrapped around me and he said softly, against my ear, “Okay?”

“Oh yeah,” I said, nodding into his shoulder. “You don’t know.” I craned my head, seeking his mouth again, and he was right there, opening to my kiss, welcoming me home.

He tasted dark and bittersweet, like my memories -- only more intense. My heart pounded hard, blood drumming away in my ears, like spring’s freshet after the ice began to break. I kissed him with all the hardness and hunger in me -- let him feel it all: my anger and grief and frustration. When we finally broke apart Jake didn't look shocked; he looked…predatory. Hot. Ravenous. Forty days in the wilderness and -- well, not paradise at the end of it -- maybe steak dinner with all the trimmings. His eyes glittered.

“Oh, baby,” he muttered, and I laughed unsteadily as his hands slid beneath my T-shirt, shoving the thin cotton up to find bare skin. And it felt wonderful, those big hard callused hands moving over me, stroking and petting, relearning…

His dick was hard, rock hard through the Levi’s -- he had to be in pain -- and I pressed closer, rubbing against him. Briefly, I wondered how much of this was me wanting the past back, the remembrance of all that heat and power -- tempered with the occasional tenderness -- because there were safer and saner ways to relive old times. We weren’t either of us the same people, and this…was…madness.

And yet we were kissing again. We were locked onto each other as though we had just discovered this incredible thing you could do with two mouths pressing close and moist against each other. And the taste of him…the flavor of him… Horrifyingly, unbearably sweet -- sweet in the way crack must feel hitting the bloodstream of an addict after years of staying clean.

As our kiss deepened, one of his big hands slid down and palmed my ass, and I groaned, desperate for that closeness -- why the hell were we wearing so many clothes on a hot summer night? I wrapped my arms around him, and he moved right into them. He felt harder, leaner, fiercer than I remembered -- all taut muscle and energy. He was smiling against my mouth, liking my hunger, my demand.

Fleetingly I wondered what Paul Kane was like with him. What Kate -- his wife -- was like. But I shunted those thoughts away, because I wasn’t going to stop. Air raid sirens couldn’t have stopped me.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Oh, yeah.” Agreeing with everything I wasn’t saying. Huge mistake this, and we both had to know it -- and I’d’ve killed anyone who tried to get between us. His fingers fumbled with the top rivet of my jeans, worked it free as my shaking hands fastened on his waistband, yanked at his belt buckle. He made a furious, desperate sound in the back of his throat, bit the curve of my neck and shoulder.

I sucked in a sharp breath, grabbed at his shirt while he bent to jerk my Levi’s down. A couple of his shirt buttons popped off and flew across the room. My laugh didn’t sound like me, although I thought the idea of him eventually staggering out of my place with his clothes in tatters was pretty damned funny, and he yanked my boxers down, freeing my cock -- which immediately began to wave with Pick Me! Pick Me! enthusiasm. Some body parts never learn.

Shrugging out of the damaged shirt, Jake said roughly, “I still dream about you.”

“I have nightmares about you.” I dragged my T-shirt over my head, threw it aside.

He gave another of those choked laughs as he stepped out of his trousers and briefs, his cock bobbing up, looking red and somehow disheveled. And for a strangely polite moment our dicks bowed and scraped to each other in formal greeting -- like the first act of The Mikado or something, and then his cock kissed me hello, and mine nuzzled him back. Our attitude queer and quaint, all right.

Jake pulled me back against him, like any space between us was too much, and his dick pressed painfully into my naked belly. I wound my arms around his neck again as he picked me up, backing me against the wall -- hard.

“Ow,” I muttered, wriggling into better position as he hefted me higher. I hooked my legs around his hips. I’d forgotten how strong he was.

“Sorry…” His hands smoothed the small of my back as he cradled me close, his face resting in the curve of my shoulder for a moment. “So sorry,” he said, and his voice sounded choked. But maybe it just sounded that way smothered against my skin because when he raised his head, his eyes were dry -- shadowy in this light -- and there was nothing to read in his face. His breath warmed my face, a hint of beer but mostly just himself.

The blond hair on his chest teased my nipples; his dick was poking rudely up along my crack. I pushed back instinctively, but he shifted so our cocks were rubbing against each other instead. It felt good. Very good. Just that. Friction. It’s not always a bad thing.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I replied ruefully.

He rested one hand against my face, cupping my jaw. I tried to look away, but he leaned in, licking my mouth and then nipping my lower lip, a delicate sting. I closed my eyes and he rubbed his face against mine, the rough velvet of his jaw rasping against my mouth and nose and eyelids.

“I missed you,” he whispered against my face, and he kissed me again.

A shiver rippled through me, and then another, and I was disgusted to find myself trembling -- adrenaline overload, that’s all that was. I lowered my brow to his shoulder, humping against him. He humped back and we began to pick up the pace.

Ramming against him, breathing him in, I drew back enough to look down between our bodies and I could see Jake’s cock, wet-tipped and huge and flushed, driving against my own. It was fascinating watching us scraping and parrying with each other, hips rocking, slipping right into that old rhythm.

Not a dream. This was Jake. Jake and me. It was for real. Painfully, exquisitely real.

He hitched me more comfortably against the wall, I threw my head back, banging it, hardly noticing as the two Edward Borein etchings of Spanish missions swung gently back and forth against the plaster. Tightening my thighs around him, I arched my spine. He thrust against me, and I bucked right back. We rubbed and ground against each other in what felt like an increasingly desperate race for release.

The buzz started in the root of my cock, like sparks shooting up -- flaring along my nerves like wildfire, racing out of control. My balls tightened, and I jerked my hips in confined, fierce movements. The pictures on the wall rattled.

Jake groaned deep from within, thrusting back hard, and then the past and present seemed to fuse in a white-hot tangle like a magnetic storm dancing across the sun’s surface. I slammed into him, hanging on for dear life, and Jake clutched me back like I was his life preserver in a lake of fire.

“Jesus Christ!” he cried out.

And that fountain of sorrow splashed up between us, baptizing belly and chest and chin. I yelled, and somewhere across the universe heard Jake yelling back.

Echo and answer, and it went on and on in lovely aftershocks, rippling out into infinity until at last it faded away.

And then I sagged forward, utterly spent, emptied…light as air. I felt like I could have floated up and out…slipping through the open window and drifting away across the rooftops and satellite dishes and telephone wires…sailing away into the faintly smiling stars.

He was breathing harshly against my ear. And beyond that sound I could hear the building creaking as though in the wake of a storm.