Bo kissed Lucky’s eyelids and ran his callused fingertips over Lucky’s skin, skating over a nipple, brushing against the straw-colored hair on Lucky’s chest.
He wrapped his fingers around Lucky’s wrists, raised them over Lucky’s head and pinned them to the floor. His gaze smoldering hot enough to melt lead, he descended, forcing his mouth down hard on Lucky’s.
What did it cost him to give the roughness Lucky wanted while risking his own triggers?
“You don’t have to,” Lucky murmured against Bo’s mouth.
“I want to.” Bo released Lucky’s arms to slide a cushioning hand between Lucky’s skull and the tile floor. He took both their cocks in the other hand.
Lucky grabbed any bit of Bo his arms could reach. Tugging, holding, never letting go. Not merely sex. Something beyond sex. Something better than a million random back alley encounters with a million random guys. Sex once meant a hurried fuck with some nameless guy. No kisses, no gentle caresses. Just hard, fast, and mean, until they came, zipped up, and slunk away without a backward glance.
With Bo, he’d learned to make sex more than a race to the finish line.
Lucky found friction for his cock against Bo’s thigh, and Bo answered in kind. They fell into rhythm, mouths joined, bodies melded together.
The two of them. Nothing to intrude on them here. How had Lucky ever existed without Bo? How had he ever…
“Oh, damn,” Bo said. That had to be the most erotic thing ever, especially when he jerked, once, twice, three times, adding slipperiness to Lucky’s thigh, all while staring deeply into Lucky’s eyes. Too deep. No secrets, no hidden thoughts.
Laid open. Bare. And trusting Bo to never use Lucky’s weaknesses against him.
Lucky fought not to come, focusing everything on the sheer bliss on Bo’s face, the way he tried to keep pumping Lucky when all his brain cells pooled up in a big puddle of contentment. Where Lucky would be in…
Spasms hit with the force of a bomb. He gave up fighting and let loose, moaning out his passion. Bo grabbed Lucky’s cheeks and swallowed the moan in a frantic play of tongue against tongue. The ebbing shockwaves crested again.
For moments the pleasure held him tight, as tightly as Bo’s arms. Lucky lay on the floor, half on and half off his lover, each breath, each heartbeat a precious gift.
Reality crashed down. He’d proposed, and Bo had said no.
Even sex couldn’t dull the pain.
Chapter Eight
Damned if he did, and damned if he didn’t. Lucky stared at the sheet of paper in his hand, mind still reeling from the doctor’s words.“Congratulations. You’re a match for the patient.”And not a single homophobic crack. Yet.
A shadow fell over Lucky’s desk, too narrow for Walter and not libido-amping, so not Bo. The hand holding a cup of coffee his way sported long red fingernails. “What do you want, Johnson?” He took the peace offering—or bribe, depending on the next words out of her mouth.
“Um… Have you forgotten? We have a distribution center to evaluate today.”
“Wha…?” Oh, yeah, right. Work wasn’t about to stop because Lucky had his head up his ass. It never had before either. “Yeah. Give me a second.” He shoved the doctor’s report in his desk drawer and slammed the drawer on his fingers. “Shit! Motherfuck!” He shook his wounded digits. That hurt!
“Hmm… two cuss words in five seconds. Nice. But nowhere near your record. Now get your ass in gear. We’re burning daylight.”
In a perfect world, Bo would pop in about now, allowing Lucky to rant and rave, whimper and cry, or whatever else might happen when he showed the paper.
Although the last few months had come close, Lucky’d never lived in a perfect world. He tapped out assignments for the rookies under his care and sent them off in an e-mail. Heh. How to spoil a whole lot of people’s day with one simple “send”.
He tried to pretend he didn’t have to rush to keep up with Johnson’s longer strides. At the reception desk, Lisa smiled and waved.
Lucky never should have eased up on his natural growly personality around her. Now she acted like he deserved a good morning smile. Or maybe she’d intended the smile for Johnson and missed.
Either way, Lisa wasn’t too bad a person and didn’t blab around work about how many times she and her husband had attended cookouts at his house—courtesy of Bo’s invitations—bringing along her curtain climbing, drool puddle of a crumb snatcher.
Cute li’l bugger. And if faced with death or saying those words out loud, he’d take death. Hell, he’d survived the grim reaper before.
The moment they stepped in the elevator and the doors closed, Johnson scowled down at Lucky. “Spill.”
Lucky cradled his cup to his chest. “Spill good coffee? Sacrilege!”
