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Authors: Josh Lanyon
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evidenced by the warm gusts against the back of Will's neck, but his body was waking up and taking an interest. Will was faintly amused by that heat and hardness pushing against him, that unconscious urgency. Taylor was the randiest guy Will had ever met—well, who actually possessed a brain to go with the balls.
It seemed sort of a shame to waste this. He shifted around, gathering Taylor close, interrupting but not rejecting. Taylor started awake, blinking dazedly into Will's eyes, his mouth soft and young looking—he rarely looked that vulnerable.
“Hey, wanna fuck?” Will whispered hopefully, and Taylor started laughing.
“Beat the clock?”
Will nodded, and they shifted around some more, trying to accommodate legs and arms and cocks.
“We don't have any passion oil here,” Taylor regretted.
“Use the homemade brand,” Will suggested.
Taylor did, his fingers slick with his own slippery urgency. He was inclined to be overly conscientious about this part, and Will shoved back against him. “Let's go. Move it or lose it.”
48
Josh Lanyon
Taylor chose to move it. He shoved his cock into Will's body, sank into him pedal to metal, and began to drive. He thrust into Will's tight heat in a steady rocking motion, and Will moved to match that smooth, steady rhythm. Taylor timed it expertly, like a driver taking a winding mountain road, decelerating in and accelerating out, long, smooth strokes, whipping around the curves, drawing his cock all the way out to the rim of tight muscle, then pushing back hard.
Will closed his eyes tight, just focusing on that pumping rhythm as Taylor sped up, pushed them both harder, faster…they were going to break the odometer this morning…and there it was.
The finish line. Blazing sensation peaking, overloading…
Taylor's hands were going to leave bruises, and Will didn't mind, because that warm glow was spreading through every cell of his body in the wake of those pulses of shocking delight.
They could only spare a few minutes to hang on to each other, damp and flushed and muscles trembling in their own tracks. Will kissed the bridge of Taylor's cheek, and Taylor kissed his jaw, and then they were rolling free of each other, up and running.
Taylor had taken him with gentle, relentless strength, and for the first time Will had stopped struggling against it—mentally, that was—and just enjoyed the fact that Taylor was taking control, driving them. Part of what Will loved about him was that rough and reckless strength. Maybe because he looked like the kind of guy who should be going to art museums and babbling about postmodernism, but he was a hard-nosed, hard-ass cop at heart. Taylor's tenderness always took him by surprise.
* * * *
The fourteen-hour time difference between Vietnam and Los Angeles created a slight problem for Taylor. He arrived later at the office than he'd planned. That had been Will's fault.
Will woke up horny and happy. It was just his nature.
Not that Taylor was complaining.
Even without the time difference, there was no way Taylor was going to find time to squeeze in a call during a day spent bargain hunting and babysitting.
Madame Kasambala had decided to hit the garment district, in particular Santee Alley, famous for its bargains and carnival-like atmosphere.
Dangerous Ground: Old Poison
49
Carnival-like was putting it mildly, and the security nightmare presented by Santee Alley made Taylor homesick for dear old Rodeo Drive, with its snooty shopkeepers and private security.
“I'm going to kill her myself,” Varga muttered as they watched their charge pawing scornfully through piles of knockoff Prada bags.
“I'm thinking homicide, double-suicide pact,” Taylor said.
Varga giggled, surprising him. She had a very endearing giggle.
Slowly but surely they were beginning to figure out how to work together. It wasn't like with Will; it was never going to be like it was with Will, but it wasn't the rather-work-for-the-postal-service
It seemed sort of a shame to waste this. He shifted around, gathering Taylor close, interrupting but not rejecting. Taylor started awake, blinking dazedly into Will's eyes, his mouth soft and young looking—he rarely looked that vulnerable.
“Hey, wanna fuck?” Will whispered hopefully, and Taylor started laughing.
“Beat the clock?”
Will nodded, and they shifted around some more, trying to accommodate legs and arms and cocks.
“We don't have any passion oil here,” Taylor regretted.
“Use the homemade brand,” Will suggested.
Taylor did, his fingers slick with his own slippery urgency. He was inclined to be overly conscientious about this part, and Will shoved back against him. “Let's go. Move it or lose it.”
48
Josh Lanyon
Taylor chose to move it. He shoved his cock into Will's body, sank into him pedal to metal, and began to drive. He thrust into Will's tight heat in a steady rocking motion, and Will moved to match that smooth, steady rhythm. Taylor timed it expertly, like a driver taking a winding mountain road, decelerating in and accelerating out, long, smooth strokes, whipping around the curves, drawing his cock all the way out to the rim of tight muscle, then pushing back hard.
Will closed his eyes tight, just focusing on that pumping rhythm as Taylor sped up, pushed them both harder, faster…they were going to break the odometer this morning…and there it was.
The finish line. Blazing sensation peaking, overloading…
Taylor's hands were going to leave bruises, and Will didn't mind, because that warm glow was spreading through every cell of his body in the wake of those pulses of shocking delight.
They could only spare a few minutes to hang on to each other, damp and flushed and muscles trembling in their own tracks. Will kissed the bridge of Taylor's cheek, and Taylor kissed his jaw, and then they were rolling free of each other, up and running.
Taylor had taken him with gentle, relentless strength, and for the first time Will had stopped struggling against it—mentally, that was—and just enjoyed the fact that Taylor was taking control, driving them. Part of what Will loved about him was that rough and reckless strength. Maybe because he looked like the kind of guy who should be going to art museums and babbling about postmodernism, but he was a hard-nosed, hard-ass cop at heart. Taylor's tenderness always took him by surprise.
* * * *
The fourteen-hour time difference between Vietnam and Los Angeles created a slight problem for Taylor. He arrived later at the office than he'd planned. That had been Will's fault.
Will woke up horny and happy. It was just his nature.
Not that Taylor was complaining.
Even without the time difference, there was no way Taylor was going to find time to squeeze in a call during a day spent bargain hunting and babysitting.
Madame Kasambala had decided to hit the garment district, in particular Santee Alley, famous for its bargains and carnival-like atmosphere.
Dangerous Ground: Old Poison
49
Carnival-like was putting it mildly, and the security nightmare presented by Santee Alley made Taylor homesick for dear old Rodeo Drive, with its snooty shopkeepers and private security.
“I'm going to kill her myself,” Varga muttered as they watched their charge pawing scornfully through piles of knockoff Prada bags.
“I'm thinking homicide, double-suicide pact,” Taylor said.
Varga giggled, surprising him. She had a very endearing giggle.
Slowly but surely they were beginning to figure out how to work together. It wasn't like with Will; it was never going to be like it was with Will, but it wasn't the rather-work-for-the-postal-service
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