The melting of tension in the too-taut set of Mac’s shoulders was palpable as Joe massaged shower gel into the gnarls knotted beneath burnished skin. His bad-ass stood, head tipped back, lids closed, cloaked in a kind of calm as Joe smoothed a sponge across the sinewy planes of his chest…down arms that seemed sculpted by sweating it out in combat, as opposed to some fancy schmancy gym. Allowing himself to be turned for Joe to swirl soapy circles across the entrancing interplay of muscle and bone lacing Mac’s back. Leaving him all molten bronze, more amenable than imaginable when he’d arrived in a blaze of bad-assery.
Joe didn’t think Mac would protest if the southward sweep of his palm ventured where it was itching to…but decided it would be best to seek permission. Seeing as he was endeavouring to toe the terms, as t’were. Here ‘n’ there.
“D’you want me to finish washing you?” Joe murmured, for fear he might shatter something…precious.
Just yes. No ifs ’n’ buts, nor prevaricating t’boot. Mac was the most confounding creature Joe had ever met. His bad-ass bolshiness was as hot as hell but it was the glint in his grin that kept Joe guessing. He could never quite get a read on Mac; his eyes and mouth oft seemed at odds. Those glittering greens might be spitting sparks…while his lips twitched with a wicked twerk. What’s more, both were intentional; two expressions at once. On one face. Scoundrel.
Joe’s hands were actually trembling in anticipation when he sank to his knees before Mac. His cock was glistening a blood-engorged bronze, as thick as it was weighty when Joe finally furled his fingers around it. Lust-heavy lids flared wide when Joe flicked his tongue at the droplet of water clinging to its tip. The green was dark with desire, marbled like malachite in the spotlights.
“Joe please…” His throaty rasp was the first time Mac had expressed a wish for something, rather than telling Joe what he intended to take. No…give. Everything he’d ‘taken’ had been a gift. He’d punished Joe with pleasure. Or, more precisely, the promise of its withdrawal, if—when—Joe failed him.
If that was Mac’s game? Joe could play ball. Mac’s way, ’tis then. Joe would just have to do a damn good job of making the bad-ass rue the rustling up of his oh, so cunning plan.
In the meantime… Joe closed his lips around the head of Mac’s cock. At last. Ooh, this. His scent was as luscious as the taste that exploded on Joe’s tongue while drawing Mac deeper into his mouth. Deeper still, all the way, ’til he bumped the back of Joe’s throat. Mac let his head thunk back against the tiles with a groan that sounded lots like Joe’s name, “Joor…” ground out through gritted teeth. Swiftly followed by a sharp gasp when Joe hollowed his cheeks.
“Fuck!” A hand found his hair, clutching tight during a lingering retreat in which Joe mapped every millimetre he could reach with his tongue. Revelling in every rumbly moan and broken breath he coaxed from Mac’s lips. Sucking harder, faster, mixing it up, slowing right down and eliciting a grumble of protest when he let Mac slip from his lips. Glassy green struggled open to peer muzzily at Joe like a mole from his hole, disturbed from a snooze. Still as sexy as sin itself. Somehow. Devilishly dishevelled.
“Take what you want, Mac…” Joe whispered. Who better to watch and learn from, than Mac himself, lulled by whisky and languid steam-soused air…
“Gnrh…” A half-arsed protest that didn’t sound a lot like ‘no’, so Joe swooped, whisking his hand away to fasten around the hilt of his cock. ’Twas with a groan like grinding gears that Mac dragged himself back and paused, afore unleashing a thrust so smooth it was a melody of motion…most at odds with the slamming of his head against the wall.
Joe watched, rapt as Mac flexed to and fro, sinuous spine building a momentum as sublime as the sight of his bad-ass lost to bliss. Each breath more ragged, his jaw ever tighter. There was a brief gleam of green when Joe swallowed him down before Mac screwed his eyes shut, praps trying to stave off the orgasm tantalizing Joe’s taste buds. A tad too late…
“Joorrrrrr!” Never had his name sounded as erotic as the r’s that rolled off Mac’s tongue when his hips spasmed and stilled, trembling as he spilled in a hot rush Joe swallowed down. Nor had he seen a sight as magnificent as Mac in that freeze-frame moment Joe committed to memory. Head thrown back, baring the golden arch of his throat, tendons standing as proud as the customary tilt of Mac’s chin. Hmm…
Joe took his own sweet time relinquishing Mac’s cock, sluicing him clean along the way. Releasing him reluctantly, Joe clasped thighs that could crack walnuts and slithered the length of Mac’s body while straightening up.
“Jorr…” His voice sounded parched, as if Mac’s throat had been sanded. Joe pressed a kiss into his hair, inhaling its heady scent, rather than risk shattering the perfect stillness. Even the sultry air seemed suspended. Locked together in a swirl of steam like sea mist; a thousand unsaid words or none at all shimmering in the silence.
Mac reluctantly raised his head, dreading all he deserved to see in that devouring gaze. A gleam of triumph…smug satisfaction…maybe worst of all? Himself, skinny-dipping in pools of drowning darkness. Laid bare, mirrored back.
Their gazes met. Christ…will I ever get ‘used’ to those eyes? Did anyone? Was that possible? Might there ever come a day when they didnae seem extraordinary and were just ‘Joe’s eyes’? Even unuttered, those words sent a shiver of awareness down Mac’s spine. Now, he’d lost his thread of thought. Something along the lines of not being clobbered by his own inadequacies as he’d feared? Instead, Mac found himself staring into black holes of liquid longing; as haunted as they were haunting. Vulnerability so raw it snatched his breath away. Where the hell was the triumph? The smug satisfaction? Mac couldnae compute what he should see with the writ-too-large-to-misread reality.
Joe had brought Mac to his knees merely by sinking to his own. My way. My terms? Obliterated mid-blowjob…and yet, Joe looked…lost. Mac’s head was awash with white noise, too blindsided to see straight. Did that even make sense? How much whisky have I drunk, exactly? Nowhere near enough, was the answer to that. If he was unconscious, then he couldnae think at all. That would be a result. Nor could Mac drown. In brown. Or embark on a ludicrous internal monologue while doing so.
As Post-Special-Forces professions went, Mac’s suited him just fine. His least-fit for civvy street short-comings? His finest assets. The more furious he felt, the more efficient he was. Maintained at a low simmer, the rage kept him sharp, as lethal as the reputation it served. The perfect release valve to syphon off some spleen before tackling the tattered remnants of the rest of Mac’s life. Until who the fuck is Joe Fitzgerald, of course. Agent Provocateur, par excellence.
This torrent of inner effluent left Mac feeling as if he might suffocate in the steam-filled confines of the cubicle. He needed some air, sharpish. Shutting off the shower, he scraped his sodden hair back and…attempted some sort of sentence.
“Joe?” Well…it was a start?
“What are you…up to, when you’re done, dry, whatever…?”
“Going to my room for a smoke and a drink? You needn’t worry. Promise.” It was damn near impossible to doubt such wide-eyed sincerity…as many must’ve found to their cost. Nevertheless, Mac decided to give Joe the benefit of the doubt. He may have lost his mind but: why lie when that would be obvious before many minutes had elapsed? Mac needed to know if Joe’s word was worth fuck all.
“’Kay. Don’t make me regret it…or you’ll find yourself on a choke chain.” Mac tossed over his shoulder before snatching up a towel to give himself a perfunctory swipe. Then tugged a dry one off the rail to secure around his waist. It was a bit bloody wee but it would have to do.
“Choke chain?” The expression on Joe’s face segued from blameless innocence to incorrigible leer in the blink of an eye. “Hmm, kinky.” Topped off with a wink.
“The growl and glinty glare isnae helping matters, y’know,” Joe grinned. As unabashed as he was unrepentant about that.
“I’m going upstairs…before I cannae rustle up a reason not to wipe that smirk off your mush.” Mac retorted, turning to stomp from the bathroom. A ‘bad-ass’ exit possibly best pulled off in anything but a tiny towel skirt.