Chapter Eight
THIS WASN’Tgoing to end well. If they took the time to think about it, one of them—Tag, since Bass didn’t give a fuck beyond the ache in his balls—would call a halt to it. So by unspoken mutual agreement, they kept themselves occupied so there was no chance to think.
There was just the growl of the parked motorcycle under them, impatient hands that dragged up T-shirts and tugged at jeans, and messy kisses bitten over each other’s lips. Bass tore the collar of Tag’s T-shirt as he dragged it down his chest. His fingers left sweat stains and dust worked into the pale cotton, and the faint smell of pretty-boy cologne that had stuck to the fabric was lost.
The shadows of abandoned buildings, windows boarded shut and graffiti layered in scabbed smears up to the second floor, lay over them. On the nearby building site, yellow police tape was strung through the chain-link fence and flapped in the breeze.
Tag leaned back, one arm braced against the saddle as Bass pressed hard, wet kisses into his throat and along his collarbone. His mouth left wet, red stains on Tag’s skin, ready to bruise, and this time he deliberately strayed high enough that it wouldn’t be hidden by a shirt. The next office drone in pressed chinos who thought Tag needed someone to fuck would be able to see he didn’t.
The flash of possessiveness, sharp and bitter under his tongue, caught Bass off guard. He hesitated for a second, his mouth pressed against damp skin, but the cold trickle of fear along his spine made him put it out of his mind. Bass wasn’t the sort of guy whohadthings. He didn’t live the sort of life where it was possible. There was his bike, the clothes on his back, and the boots he’d finally worn in. Everything else—the rented fleapit he lived in, the thrift-shop furniture, and the half-empty bottle of whiskey on his bedside table—could be tossed in the trash. If he got a heads-up and an hour to work, he could clear out of somewhere as though he’d never been there at all.
Boyfriends, even fuckbuddies, were harder to get rid of than a dog-eared copy ofThe Advocate.They talked more, and they remembered the cigarettes you smoked and the money card you sent a friend in prison.
Last thing he needed was this—his apology, his fresh-hatched dislike of light floral colognes, the weight in his balls—to mean something. So it didn’t. It wouldn’t.
And fuck whatever part of his brain snorted at that.
“What is it?” Tag ran his fingers through Bass’s curls and cupped his fingers around the back of his skull. Elegant doctor’s hands that had cut open Sonny’s leg as calmly as though it were a slab of underdone roast beef. Bass found that hot. He’d probably have to talk that over with a shrink one day. Tag’s voice was as ragged and uneven as the breath that hitched in his chest each time Bass slid his lips over wet skin. “Realized we’re gonna get murdered?”
“You didn’t complain when we stopped.” Bass mouthed the tight nub of Tag’s nipple through his T-shirt and then sucked on the wet cotton. He glanced up at Tag as he bit down on the sensitive skin, just hard enough to make him gasp. “Or did my cock in your hand distract you?”
It had distracted the fuck out of Bass. He’d been jerked off on the bike before—properly, not just groped through his jeans. But this was Tag’s breath warm against the nape of his neck and his fingers squeezed over the bulge of Bass’s cock. He’d nearly driven into the abandoned building site instead of stopping in front of it.
Tag flushed. The color started at his collarbone and crawled up to his ears—a little embarrassment, but mostly desire. Any hint of good sense in his eyes was shuttered as he chewed on his lower lip—his tell, maybe for poker, but definitely where his cock was involved—and dragged Bass up for a kiss. He traced the curve of Bass’s lips with his tongue in a tickled caress that sent a quiver all the way down his spine to his cock. He imagined it around his cock instead, the flick of Tag’s tongue against the underside of his shaft, and Bass’s balls tightened. He ran his hand up Tag’s thigh, across the hard muscle and warm skin under the thin denim, and leaned into the kiss.
He darted his tongue between Tag’s lips and explored the slick, wet inside of his mouth and the smooth line of his teeth. Tag groaned. The sound was tangled between their mouths as he slid his hand under the collar of Bass’s shirt, stroked the taut bands of muscle, and traced his fingers along the sharp hook of his shoulder blades.
“Who else have you fucked, Doc?” Bass asked as he caught Tag’s lower lip between his teeth and tugged on it gently. “A guilty hand job with your ex in his car? Picked up some other tight-assed stranger from the internet? Bet they weren’t as good as me.”
He had no right to complain. Even before Bass fucked it up, their thing hadn’t involved any sort of expectation that they wouldn’t fuck around. He still wanted to hear it, to feel the sharp goad of jealousy as he reminded Tag exactly why he’d come running when Bass called him.
He didn’t get jealous. Envious sometimes, he supposed, when he saw one of his exes as they settled in with something real with someone else. Or maybe that was more… regret. Resignation. Something bittersweet and then gone, spent in a sweaty ass or spilled over his own sheets and some new porn.
But he’d felt jealous, felt an unexpected scrape at the nape of his neck when he saw Tag lean into the pretty-boy date’s side, laugh at something he said, and look like they fit. It wasn’t going to change anything, but the adrenaline jolt of it persisted. He kind of liked it, in a masochistic way. It was half exactly what he deserved, and half challenge to make Tag forget all about his pretty boy… again.
“That’s none of your—” Tag’s voice cut off on a gasp as Bass slid a hand between their bodies and grabbed his junk.
The dark denim was stiffer, newer, than Bass’s old, worn-down-to-thread-and-cotton jeans. New enough that Bass indulged his new kink with the notion that Tag had bought them just for his date, and he felt the sticky, jealous burn flare again. Tag squirmed under the rough-handed grope, dug his fingers into Bass’s back hard enough to leave a mark, and whimpered. Bass squeezed the hard bulge, the zipper rough against his palm, and smirked as Tag bit down on his lower lip and dropped his head back.
“What was that?” Bass asked, the words murmured against Tag’s damp throat. “I didn’t hear you. How many?”
He kneaded Tag’s erection again, the denim folded around his fingers just as Tag opened his mouth to answer. This time he didn’t even get out the “none of” before he choked on a moan. His arm gave way, and he went down onto his elbow, body sprawled over the saddle.
“—fuckingbusiness,” Tag finally managed to get out. “Asshole.”
Bass couldn’t disagree with that. Hell, Tag didn’t know the half of it…. Never would either unless the shit really hit the fan one of these days. He shrugged and pushed Tag’s shirt up his chest so he could undo his jeans, button and zipper parted to reveal a vee of pale skin and a narrow trail of dark hair.
“Tell me, did you jerk off to my pictures?” he asked as he followed the line of hair from Tag’s belly button down to his still denim-pinned cock. “Even after what I did?”
Tag closed his eyes and bit his tongue, the tip of it trapped firmly between his teeth. He squirmed against the bike as Bass stroked his cock, hand shoved down into Tag’s jeans.
“Admit it, and I’ll give you something better to think about when you jerk it,” Bass prodded. Precome slicked his fingers, wet and sticky as he rubbed it back along Tag’s shaft. As he worked, Tag moaned and arched his hips off the saddle, his stomach muscles drawn long and tight under his wrinkled shirt.
“I deleted them,” Tag said finally. “Didn’t… exactly… want to think about you.”
Insecurity dug cold little fingers into the nape of Bass’s neck. He knew what he was, what he had to be for his life to work, but he was a good fuck. He got who he wanted for a night on sweaty sheets—or wherever—or an hour out of the day as he bent them over a desk or shoved them against a wall. That was what he had to offer, and usually that was enough.
It obviously was now. He had Tag’s cock hard and slick in his hand, his body tight as a wire fromwantas he leaned back. Bass was still under his skin. That was what mattered, not whether or not he’d deleted a couple of pictures.
