Cloister cracked up, and his dimples woke up at last. Laughter wasn’t a usual element of Javi’s sex life. He liked his encounters to be planned, intense, and mutually satiating—not funny. So he was surprised at how hard the rough growl of Cloister’s easy humor left him.
He didn’t like surprises, so he dragged Cloister around the counter and shut him up with a rough, scraping kiss. The tickle of laughter lingered on his tongue for a second in the tilt of Cloister’s mouth and the hitch of his breath, and then disappeared under the hungry bite of want.
Better.
Chapter Twenty-Three
THERE WASa hook on the back of the bedroom door. Usually Cloister’s dress uniform lived there between outings, pressed and vaguely ominous in its dry-cleaning bag. Now it was crumpled on the floor, and both of Cloister’s hands were clenched around the hook.
“Don’t move.” Javi had kissed the order into his mouth as he wrapped Cloister’s hands around the hook. Cloister hadn’t moved. That nagged at him like a pin in a freshly opened shirt and poked at him every time he almost lost himself in the flood of sensation that threatened to take his knees out from under him. Hot mouth, eager tongue, the damp chill of spit drying on his hard cock. It needled—enough to stop him losing himself in the slick pressure on his cock and the wet fingers kneading his balls—never quite enough to actually turn into movement.
Cloister clenched his jaw, tilted his head back, and pressed his skull hard against the door. His breathing was ragged, and his body was stretched out long and lean against the wood. The muscles in his thighs clenched, taut under the skin as he braced himself.
“Fuck,” he groaned. He arched his hips up from the door, and his shoulder blades dug into the wood as Javi worked his tongue against the underside of Cloister’s cock. His balls felt like rocks, dragged up tight and aching between his thighs, and if he wanted, he could just let go of the hook.
He didn’t.
Javi drew back and let Cloister’s cock slide out of his mouth. It tilted up toward Cloister’s stomach, the head tight and shiny with Javi’s spit and a gloss of precome. Javi threw his head back and tracked up Cloister’s ribs to his shoulders and upraised arms.
“Got over that problem with authority?” he asked.
“No,” Cloister rasped. “Not entirely.”
“You’re not moving, though,” Javi pointed out. He stood up. His shirt hung loose over his shoulders, and his cock pressed against the fly of his trousers—trousers that were probably too expensive to be kneeling in on an old carpet. Definitely too expensive to be pressing against Cloister with sweat and come staining the pale gray fabric. Javi slid a hand over his hip and cupped the curve of his ass in one hand. He squeezed his fingers into the firm flesh and muscle. His lips brushed Cloister’s cheek as he said, “Goodboy.”
Yeah. Cloister let go of the hook. No.
“You’re a prick.” He grabbed Javi’s shoulders. “You know that?”
Javi shrugged. “I think you’ve mentioned it. Once or twice,” he said. He flexed his fingers around the handful of Cloister’s ass, and he smirked. “Yet you still want to fuck me.”
Hard to argue with that. Cloister kissed him instead and tightened his fingers on Javi’s shoulders as he crushed his mouth against his. He could feel Javi’s sharp intake of breath stealing the air out of his throat and the hard jut of his erection against his hip.
Space in a trailer tended to be limited. It didn’t bother Cloister. Five years and his life in Plenty could still fit in a couple of bags if he needed it to. And sometimes it could be useful. One step forward—a half step backward for Javi—and the edge of the bed bumped against their legs. Then all it took was a shove. Javi landed on the mattress and flexed his fingers in the crisp white sheets. Then Cloister crawled on after him. He propped himself up over Javi’s sprawled body and balanced his weight on his arms.
“Any way we could fuck without talking?” he asked.
A sharp smile twisted Javi’s mouth. “I don’t see that happening,” he said. “You?”
There was a sharp tension to the question and in the tight line of Javi’s body. Not unhappiness, exactly. It was more pissiness. The same bitten-back, pissy irritation that festered behind gritted teeth in the field every time people—and once, well, twice if you counted today, Cloister—did something Javi hadn’t approved ahead of time.
Cloister’s cock was aching so hard he could feel the blood rushing to it. He wanted to fuck orbefucked. Either would do as long as it was hard, hot, and sticky enough to wear his brain out and turn it off. To cut short the guilt-inducing list of the people hehadn’tbeen able to bring home. It wasn’t like he didn’t know the names—the list started with his brother and ended with Julie-Anne Judson, who went missing in the mountains—and his mother’s tear-cracked, Midwest-flat voice narrated it. He didn’t need that stomach punch tonight.
One of the advantages of screwing the sort of man who turned up for a booty call at past midnight with a bag of cheap food and a hard-on had to be that you didn’t have to care about them. Except, of course, he did anyway. Cloister Witte—damned romantic and eternal goddamn doormat.
“Go on, then,” he said as he dipped his head to press a stubble-rough kiss against the crease of Javi’s neck. He could taste salt and the sharp, musky dryness of the cologne on Javi’s skin. “Spit it out.”
Javi twisted his fingers in Cloister’s hair and tugged his head back until they were looking at each other.
“Did you get hit on the head?” he asked, and he lifted his knee so his thigh pressed against Cloister’s cock. “You haven’t come yet, idiot, and for your information, I swallow.”
That mental image—bruised lips, sweat, the swipe of Javi’s tongue after a drop of salty come, and Cloister’s cock drained and wet—clenched lust from Cloister’s knees to his shoulders and everything in between. He swallowed hard, and his breath didn’t want to cooperate.
“Tell me what you want me to do to you,” Cloister got out, his voice harsh as gravel in his throat. He sat back, knelt across Javi’s thighs, and tried to ignore the ache in his balls. “Order me about, Special Agent. You know you want to.”
Javi stared up at him as he considered that with his dark eyes hooded thoughtfully. After a moment he stretched up, the muscles in his stomach and chest slid elegantly under his pale amber skin, and he folded his arms behind his head.
“Since you don’t want to talk,” he said, his voice harsh and strained, “why don’t you find something better to do with your mouth? Suck me off, Deputy.”
