Hi, I hope you’ve had a great weeked. Here are the next three parts, I was on a bit of a roll. Please excuse typos, lots of this has been written today and is very much a WIP, so it hasn’t been edited t’death…
“I’m going upstairs…before I cannae rustle up a reason not to wipe that smirk off your mush,” Mac huffed afore swishing off in his wee kiltie. Very fetching it was too, hugging the bountiful bum with aplomb.
Joe had never expected to find himelf envying a bath towel, it must be admitted. It was impossible not to crave being melded to the bad-ass in a similar fashion, but it was hard to imagine Mac—no. No, it was not.
Despite Mac’s general air of fuck-offery and glinty-eyed glare, Joe had glimpsed a gleam of something so astounding mid-shower, he’d written it off as a whisky-warmed, sleep deprived Mcblip on his gaydar. If this had been a one-off, Joe might even believe that. But it hadn’t…a wee hint of it earlier, in the attic, had made Joe blink a bit, too. Was it possible that the badass had been plundered thus? Maybe not for a long time…but that butt sure-as-snuggle-closer hadn’t seemed too adverse to being spooned in a semi-conscious state. Joe felt almost sure he’d briefly emerged from slumber to find himself curled around Mac’s body. A Mac who really hadn’t seemed to mind the bounteous bum being cradled by Joe’s hips, as cosy as can be. He’d stirred, grunted, wriggled a bit, then sunk back into that halfway world where awake and asleep seem much of a muchness.
While Joe was willing (in theory) to do the hosting honours without being miffed about never receiving a reciprocal invite…he’d have to be bloody dead not to covet the baddest ass on Earth. Or hereabouts, in Joe’s bloomin bed.
While he could be content to bottom for the forseeable if Mac was doing the topping? Joe couldn’t, hand on heart, promise that such close proximity to the sublime swell of Mac’s arse wasn’t going to drive him demented. Or, that his choke chain wouldn’t start chafing a tad after a wee while.
This truth-telling lark was getting out of hand. Trouble was, Joe did have a teeny tendency to All or Nothingness. Now and again. Hence matters going a mite amiss on occasion. Mac may claim to want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but Joe’s tongue might p’raps run away with itself a smidge more than Mac bargained for.
Joe was pondering all this while drying off after the most sublime shower he could recall for…ever. That done ‘n’ dusted, he donned His-n-His towelling attire and set off in search of Mac.
“Yeah?” When those dulcet tones wafted down the attic stairs, Joe skittered up, only to stop sharpish in the open doorway. Mac was standing, staring out of the casement window, still clad in his kiltie, dimples like devil’s thumbprints peeping o’er the top. Stroked by the first fingers of dawn filtering through the skylight, his skin gleamed a sultry shade of gold. Beyond beautiful, from back or front.
Joe had a dim recollection of reading that Johnny Depp had fallen for the rear view of Vanessa Paradis. Her neck in particular—which had seemed most reasonable—her nape being both swanlike and exceptionally elegant. That noted, he now found himself struck with newfound empathy for the fate that befell M. Depp during his perusal of paradis.
Joe’s poetic appreciation of the McCafferty rear ended a bit abruptly when his hips propelled him across the room to wrap his arms around Mac’s waist. His legs were p’raps a tad wider apart than customary for a spot of window staring, so it was very cosy indeed. Apart from the minor matter of two towels too many, it was a stance not to be sniffed at.
“What’re you thinking?” Joe murmured in Mac’s shell-like before pressing a kiss to the tip of his ear.
“Nothing really,” he mumbled. Fibber. No-one who replies ‘nothing really’ is ever thinking nothing. Really.
Even if Mac had been musing about nowt before Joe arrived, which was doubtful, this didnae seem probable with Joe’s cock parked in happy valley. He might be silently seething ‘get the fuck off me’ but surely the bad-ass would vocalise this with a bit more…vigour? A quick peer over Mac’s shoulder confirmed that his cock sure didn’t seem to mind, which p’raps explained why Mac hadn’t stomped off. Again. Stomping with a stiffy to express miffiness would be a tad tricky. It was a tossup whether the wee kiltie would help, or hinder, matters.
“Do as I say, not as I do..?” Joe wondered, ghosting his lips along the top of Mac’s shoulder.
“Nothing important,” Mac amended, rather than take issue with that particular truth.
“Okay…” Having scored one unexpected point, Joe was content to quit. Everyone was entitled to thoughts they’d rather not share. “Are you having a kip now?”
“I told you—”
“Mac, what if I don’t go abed for three days? I often don’t. You’re being daft, I’m not going to hoover up my entire stash if you fall asleep. If I sort myself out now, I can come and lie beside you. I’ll bring my jottings so I won’t get twitchy if I don’t snooze off. Okay?”
“Mac, you’re doing it again. I’m going to get fed up and fibalot if you take no notice when I tell the truth, it’s a bit flippin’ frustrating,” Joe huffed. “Unless, o’course, you’re arguing cos you’d rather have a shag, instead.”
Mac stood by the attic window, gazing inwards, rather than out. Despite being exhausted, he was too restless to sit down; staring out of the window seemed to justify standing around like a spare spanner. The room was too littered with crap to make pacing feasible, and it wasnae a state of mind Mac cared to project when Joe walked in. Cool, calm and collected was far preferable, even if he felt anything but.
Still, the fields dotted with sheep and leafy lanes leading to a world-away from this, were but a backdrop to his thoughts. Thoughts like a seething snakepit of rapidly unravelling resolve, riddled with dread, and poleaxed by how-the-fuck has Joe-Fitzgerald capsized the plan panic. Deadly efficiency swept aside by a flutter of hurricane eyelashes and a mouth far too gifted for Mac’s own good. Much too skilled at word weaving and wielding them with finesse. Way too bewitching, whatever the bloody hell he did with it.
These most unwelcome musings were rudely interrupted by the pesky provocateur himself, who scampered up the staircase before stopping dead. Mac had to force himself to remain still, rather than glance around, when he wanted to know what mischief Joe might be up to now. That seemed as good a reason as any. Particularly the most pressing one. Mac needed to get a grip. Thirsting for the sight of Joe Fitzerald was a straitjacket short of insanity.
Nevertheless, Mac held himself static; a far too befitting description when the fucking air was fizzing with it. As were his veins, which was worse, hence his reluctance to sit down. Mac felt—rather than heard—Joe weave his way towards him. His skin was prickling with awareness, his heart hammering louder than Joe’s footsteps. Ridiculous. He’d just had the best bloody blow job for longer than he cared to remember. After fucking incredible sex.
Long scar-smattered arms, with a fresh eye-sore despoiling Joe’s right wrist, wrapped around Mac’s waist. The moment they completed their circle, he knew damn well what he’d craved. Perhaps even why he’d presented himself like a tableau for the taking. F’chrissakes, if Mac couldn’t stop endangering himself, how the hell was he supposed to keep Joe safe?
When Mac didn’t demure, the circlet tightened, clamping Joe limpet-like to his back; clammy chest plastered to his own warmer skin, scorching it. Worse, much worse, was the hungry ridge of hard heat wedged in the crack of his arse. Worse, because he’d wanted it there. It was all he could do not to arch into it, rock his hips, just a little. Fuck-NO. As if all this wasn’t minacious enough, those far too ripe and ever-ready lips brushed Mac’s neck as three simple words scored his skin.
“What’re you thinking?”
The answer to that impossible question was, of course: you. Cutting his own tongue out would be wiser than telling the truth. Hypocrite. Fuck knows why Mac bothered lying, the likelihood that Joe would let the ludicrous ‘nothing really’ slip past him was…zilch.
“Nothing important…” Couldnae be considered a lie. It was bloody blasphemy.
‘Kay.” To his astonishment, this gross defamation was allowed to go unremarked upon. Instead, Joe elected to focus on Mac’s lack of sleep. Both facts being suspicious in themselves. Together? They were an air-raid siren assault on Mac’s senses. Joe furthermore insisted that he often didnae sleep for three days. Then promised not to ‘hoover’ his entire stash should Mac submit to slumber. No doubt veritas. He’d be far more inclined to inject it.
Mac’s protestations were cut off by a tongue as quick as a whip with a mind to match. Scything through his pitiful attempt to rustle up a convincing argument against what was a reasonable proposition. Unless it was being put to you by Joe.
“Unless o’course, you’re just arguing cos you’d rather have a shag instead.”
This was not true. Until Joe mentioned it. Mac had been blanking his own boner. Despite the impossibility of ignoring Joe’s.
“No, that wasnae why I quibbled—or tried to—before being rudely interrupted. Twice.” A palm abruptly clamped across his cock. Mac sucked in a breath as sharp as the shaft of lust that blazed through his body.
“Odd that, cos your cock certainly seems to be…up for it.”
“I’m knackered,” Mac growled.
“Y’could just lie back ‘n’ think of ye olde England, if y’like. I don’t mind a bit, I’m happy to please m’self, as ’twere.” This was whispered into his ear, swiftly followed by Joe’s tongue, and the bolt of hot want that shot straight to Mac’s groin. Not content with the groan he wrenched from Mac’s lips, Joe tugged on his lobe with teasing teeth.
“Joe…” Mac growled.
“F’fucksakes…” he hissed, his teeth clenched tight enough to shatter.
“Exactly. Mac…can I sit on your cock? Pleease…”
Mac’s head, which felt far too heavy for his neck to support, started sinking against Joe’s shoulder. “‘No’ is going to sound a lot like a fib…just saying.”
“You’re insatiable…” Mac groaned.
“It’s not my so-hard-it’s-quivering cock in my hand,” Joe pointed out.
“If you think I’m going to lie there like a dildo, while you entertain yourself on my cock, you’re barking up the wrong tree, Fitzgerald,” Mac snarled, when a sudden surge of energy, from Christ knows where, blazed through his body. One moment Mac was standing there—suspecting he might keel over if Joe wasnae propping him up—the next, his self-preservation instincts finally kicked in. Spinning around, Mac ducked beneath Joe’s armpit and hoisted him onto a shoulder, ignoring his gasp of shock (and his own irrepressible smirk) while striding over to the bed.
“If you think I’m going to lie there like a dildo, while you entertain yourself on my cock, you’re barking up the wrong tree, Fitzgerald…”
No one else could’ve wielded a wodge of obscenity with such sublime finesse. Mere moments later, Joe found himself flat on his back on the bed. Dumped there by a bronzed god who stood, hands on hips, glinting at Joe in the lazy light where dawn gives way to day.
“I have no idea how many, let’s call them ‘members of your entourage’, you’ve treated like toys to discard when you were bored of playing with them…” Mac growled. “But. Considering me a shiny new acquisition would be…foolish.”
Mac tossed foolish at Joe with all the potential of a hand grenade; one he’d have to juggle like a scorching hot potato if it took physical form, mid-lob.
Mac was every bit as lethal as Joe had been promised. Twice as intoxicating. Every move as swift and precise as a blade slicing the air. The rare exceptions? Those intriguing glimpses behind the curtain when Mac’s iron-clad control slipped a smidge…but those perversely made him more compelling, rather than less.
“I do not intend to repeat myself again. A summation, if you please.” Mac ordered. Strewwth. ‘Twas a wonder Joe’s marbles didn’t melt out of his ears; his bones went distinctly buttery. Crikey, he could barely blink, let alone form a sentence.
Joe could, however, remember every word with utter clarity. On accounts of them being all-but branded on his brain.
“You’re not…a toy. To discard, when I’m done. Playing…” Joe managed. As if his mouth had been hot-wired to comply with dastardly decrees.
“Pray continue…” Mac oozed. Like treacle drizzled over Joe’s naked chest.
“It would be hot potato hand grenade to—”
“Where the hell did you get the potato?” Mac spluttered, despite clamping his lips shut the second he’d sent the spud sailing Joe’s way.
Playing hot potato ping-pong with Mac was much more fun than playing anything else, with anyone else, it must be admitted. Shiny new toy or no.
Quite why Mac kept banging on about such a travesty of truth beggared belief. Joe didn’t have the foggiest idea how he’d contrived to diminish—demolish—his importance to such a staggering degree. In a matter of hours, he’d made himself the most prized ‘acquisition’ Joe had ever got his mitts on. Acquisition in ‘hired to protect Joe’ terms. Not in a personal property sense. Could anyone ‘own’ Mac? Had a single individual ever done so, rather than (ultimately) the Commander-in-chief of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces? The Queen herself.
No son of Major Fitzgerald RM could fail to recognise the stamp of military in Mac’s meticulous manner. Or packing technique. He hadnae been a bloody squaddie, either. Mac’s metaphorical boots were buffed to such a high sheen, his toe-caps were blinding.
While the Press had made great play of the fact Joe’s dad was a decorated Marine, they’d never paused to ponder his wee son’s pride in that fact. Only the Major’s lack of it in the inglorious fruit of his loins. Joe had devoured every snippet of info he could glean along the way, with much the appetite he’d consumed guitar chords and narcotics. In a nutshell, he knew his stuff.
He also knew ’nuff about his bad-ass to feel pretty sure that Mac’s Japanese Endurance Show proclivities had been no mere tease. Mac was quite capable of tackling one of the most arduous training regimes in existence and emerging amongst the ten percent who survived it (literally on occasion). If Mac hadnae earned himself a coveted beige beret, Joe would have to eat his hatstand (again).
All of which guaranteed high stakes, but the only ‘toy’ Joe had clutched in his sticky mitts? Was the gun he’d grabbed, all geared up and raring to play the ultimate game of Russian Roulette. With the man who’d been named his nemesis.
Trouble was, Joe was starting to wonder if he wanted to win at all, if that meant he’d lose his bad-ass. Blimey, it would be a helluva hard job to conceal that truth, so Joe would have to make very sure Mac remained blissfully oblivious.