Springing from his seat, Joe swooped to yank Mac’s chair toward him before leaping aboard his bad-ass’ lap. Pretty nifty work it was too; so swift it saved Mac the bother of cussing about it. Crikey. Joe’s crotch—naked beneath his robe—was crushed to a stonking boner straining against snug-as-a-bug tailoring. Too irresistible to noteth not…or murmur the list of longings it unleashed.
“F’fucksakes,” Mac may have groaned but didn’t seem too miffed that his way had just been jerked Joe’s. Nor did he protest when Joe cupped that cut-glass jaw to capture the mouth he might never have enough of. No matter whether it was twerking in a devilish grin, growling orders, set in a don’t-push-your-luck line, or...ooh, gawd. Joe was still having a hard time believing that had happened. He’d spent forever aching for kisses like these…the sort that inspired rhapsodic reams of poesy, making mere mortals wonder where it all went wrong. Or scoff. Even as they—we—devour them…and dream impossible dreams.
More… Joe couldn’t sit still, despite fearing he would be shoved off if he settled himself more…comfily in his seat. When the wee wriggle didn’t reap its just deserts ejection, Joe shuffled a smidge closer, tilting his hips to make matters more cosy. The moan that rumbled in Mac’s throat was sin itself, a sound so raw it’s rasp could strike matches. It’s effect was a metaphor too obvious to make.
“Please…” A plea as pointless as it was irrepressible while tugging on Mac’s plush lower lip with his teeth.
“No…” Mac groaned, but those glorious greens began rolling back in his head, so Joe carried on regardless. Hoping he might just be permitted to grind his way to giddy victory before Mac mustered the wherewithal to demur. That felt a mite less damning than ‘dumping Joe on his ass in a most unceremonial fashion’ so, he went with it. While the going was oh, so goood…which o’course, proved a far-too tempting turn o’phrase for fate to resist. Trouncing.
“F’fucksakes…Ssstop,” Mac hissed, grasping Joe’s hips to shove him back, sharpish. Not that far, thankfully.
“Pfhh. Suit y’self,” Joe levered himself to his feet and retrieved his right leg to turn and stomp off in a huff. He wasn’t so much miffed as…hurt. That was too pitiful to make apparent, so…miffy it was. “I’m going to my room. Alone.”
After skittering upstairs to the attic, Joe shoved the door shut behind him. Why was Mac being so stubborn? It didn’t make sense. The blow job made even less sense. It was driving Joe bonkers. He paused a mo to knead at his thighs; the cramp was so excruciating, it felt as if bashing the muscle with a hammer would help, rather than hurt. His guts were gnarled in knots, the need so gnawing, it did cross Joe’s mind to cook up a mite more than usual. That would be cutting his nose off to spite his face—in too many ways to count—but it was tricky to care when Mac was too…everything to put up with Joe’s crap for long.
He was a man at the top of his game. Joe had been a hairsbreadth from rock bottom for a tedious amount of time—for everyone who mattered—Mac included. The scant few hours he’d tolerated were plenty to conclude that Joe wasnae worth the monotony money. Or, the inevitable blight on his unblemished bad-ass rep.
Facts that made the lure of the ultimate painkiller all the more compelling. So, Joe was most dischuffed to find himself cooking up just-enough to suffice…not least when that felt a lot like Mac had won. Again.
Shrugging off his robe, Joe scrutinized his arms in hopes of happening upon a vein that wasn’t shot to shit. A likelihood less probable than Mac being seduced by their charms. At all. Ever. Who the bejeezus could be? P’raps less discerning folk who pardoned the track marks, scars and eye-sores their rose-coloured specs pronounced ‘tortured genius’? Joe didn’t believe that for one second, but it had been mooted so many times it was worth throwing in as a fallacy for Mac to scoff at.
The only likely looking candidate for a fresh botching sat atop Joe’s right wrist, which meant a left handed pass-the-sick-bucket poke about. Ah well. Sinking down into the chair, Joe tied a tourniquet and rammed the needle in, digging about a bit ’til he finally hit pay dirt. Possibly a sick-in-the-throat sensation before the crunchy-nutters made a reappearance. After pressing down the plunger, Joe sank back in his seat and let the syringe fall unheeded to the floor; surrendering to the heady rush of relief shimmering through his veins.
“Jor JOR!” Am I on a boat…’tis a tad choppy on board. “JOR! F’chrissakes! Howmuchdidy’take muttermumblefuck’n’cuss…” Mac?
“Jor…look at me…” Cool hands…blissfully cool, cupped Joe’s face. “Jor…please…”
Jorjorjunkiejoefuckingsmackheadscum… Oh, knock yourselves out, y’know you want to…
“Fine? I’ll give you fucking fine…”
The world juddered and jerked. Arms…strong, sure arms…that luscious smell. Hmm… Joe inhaled the clean, husky warmth saturating his senses, nuzzling into the curve of Mac’s neck. Then…it was gone and Joe’s body was cradled by cool instead. Sooo soothing. He was a bitalot hot. Joe blinked, trying to focus on…a sloping ceiling? Above his bed?
“Here…” A whisky-warm murmur as the mattress dipped beside Joe’s hip.
“Hmm…I’m glad…please don’t go.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Mac’s voice was a husky rasp. Like a zipper. As soothing as the cool, which was weird. Or Joe was, one or t’other. Oh no…Mac is wayyy weirder. He’s still here, for a start.
“Just nodded off. It wasn’t…”
“It wasnae what?” Mac prompted, when Joe seemed to forget the rest of his sentence.
“I thought—” Mac broke off, muttering something like ‘whatthefuckdoint’me’ beneath his breath. That couldn’t be right…what the fuck am I t’do with you?
“S’okay. I’m sleepy, s’all,” Joe yawned. Soo tired…too wound-up to sleep for…he had no idea. None at all…
It was still dark when Joe prised his lids apart. Not pitch-black: moonlight bleached the attic to bone and shades of silver grey, lending it a ghostly beauty. There seemed to be someone in Joe’s bed; huffing soft, sleepy snuffs of breath behind him. Spooky. Adam? In my bed? Spookier still…but hadn’t he gone back to London? Crikey. Mac? Still here. Beside Joe. Behind Joe. Fast asleep. Lifting his hand, he skimmed it over his own thigh, a smidge further back, ’til his fingers brushed the soft scratch of hair. Legs. Bare. Mac must have finally peeled those fancy strides off. The Mcbadass, oh, so nearly naked. In Joe’s bed. If he just tilted back a bit…
“Jor…” It was a sigh of sound rather than a word when Joe’s shoulder brushed silken skin.
“Yeah?” Was Mac still asleep?
“S’dark…still night.” he mutter-mumbled.
“I need a smoke, go back to sleep,” Joe whispered
“Smack!? You passed out a few hours ago!” Mac spluttered, jolting to awareness.
“Smoke not smack, y’daftie. Mac?” Joe shuffled forward a smidge to turn over and face him.
“Thank you…for putting me to bed n’all…”
“S’okay. I thought—” Breaking off abruptly, Mac clamped bruising fingers to Joe’s thigh. Sending a bolt of lust blazing through his body; as breathtaking as it was brutal. “…you’d—Fuck.”
Mac snatched his hand away but before Joe could grieve its loss, the back of his head was clasped and their mouths crashed together. Mac’s lips—hot, hungry—demanding what Joe was only too glad to give. Oh, the joy of splaying his palm across the sleep-warm skin of Mac’s back…at last. Eclipsed when panther hips snapped against him in a slam of cotton-clad-steel. A smidge too high, but strewwth; thick, hard, hot…huge.
Joe firmed the press of his fingers; cleaving them closer still. Skin to skin, chest to chest, sheer bliss. P’raps if he slid his hand a little lower…Joe’s fingertips brushed Mac’s waistband; he froze, waiting… The bad-ass either didn’t notice, or mind, but he didnae demur when Joe edged beneath the elastic…nor when he inched an itty bit further. Quite the contrary, to Joe’s utter astonishment, Mac pressed his weight forwards. Crikey… Joe could be accused of much—and oft was—but never of being slow on the uptake. Lickety-spit, Joe was clasping the sublime swell of a cheek and rocking back to tug Mac atop him.
Every burnished inch of his bad-ass was pressing Joe into the bed; a wall of hard heat as heady as it was heavy. Joe’s palm was clamped across the sumptuous curve it had coveted all day…his lips being devoured by the most mind-boggling mouth that had ever graced them with kisses. Heaven. P’raps he was still away in the land of nod…or adrift on opium dreams? No. He couldn’t be, because the bad-ass abruptly snatched himself away. Cold air slammed against Joe’s skin—heavier than Mac’s weight had been—crushing his chest.
“Ma—” His name cut off sharpish when Joe’s bicep was grasped in a death grip and yanked, flipping him over onto his front. His face was still buried in the pillow when his legs were shoved apart for knees to settle between them. Joe had yet to get his breath back when his hips were tugged up with a swift jerk…and he all-but passed out. Unless, he had. No other explanation made sense, nor was it likely to any time soooon. Or ever again…by the time Mac was done with his dastardly dappling.
Stonethecrows’n’strewthalmighty. “AAHH!” The air blasted from Joe’s lungs, expelled by the flicker of moist heat at his very core. Mac’s tongue. Darting into Joe’s darkest dreamscape. Never had he dared imagine that the meanest mo-fo on earth (or thereabouts) would dally that where the sun don’t shine. Joe wasn’t that daft.
His entire self seemed to melt into the bed as ecstasy licked along his veins, radiating through every fibre of his being. If he’d had the wherewithal to think about it, Joe’s head might’ve exploded, such was the scorch of shock to his system…but he could scarce summon the brain cells to turn his head in a bid to breathe. Or, gasp a lot and unleash random syllables that made more sense than thissss.
“Ma-fuck-ah-god-gnr-ahh..” It p’raps sounded if he was being strangled but Joe was past caring about owt but the slinky skills of that tongue: flickering like a firefly, spearing Joe’s soul with impossible bliss. “Mac! Please…” he begged as the blighter indulged in a wee swirl hell-bent on obliterating foolhardy grey matter still lingering about. Joe didn’t have the foggiest what he was pleading for. Please…more? Don’t stop? Please-don’t-leave-me? Promise-you’ll-stay-forever-or-thereabouts…
“Please…?” Mac enquired, before blowing a stream of cool air across well-sluiced skin. Ooooh.
“Me…or thisss..?” Mac’s sultry rasp was spine-tingling in itself, but the hips that snapped against Joe in a slam of hard heat were incendiary.
“Yesss…” Joe may have sighed. Hmm… Mac’s cock. Parked in happy valley. Bare-bad-assed-naked. P’raps his pants had finally melted undie duress.