He slipped his fingers down the crevice between Will’s butt cheeks, seeking the tight pink bud of his anus. Splitting the peach: that’s what the Chinese Taoists called this. Such romantic terms for everything: blowing the flute and clouds and rain and jade stalk. Funny stuff but…maybe sort of nice, too.
Ever so delicately he circled Will’s opening, then slipped the tip of one oily finger inside, careful and slow.
Will held very still, goose bumps rising over his smooth, tanned skin.
Taylor pushed inside, closing his eyes at the dark-felt grip around his finger. His heart pounded hard, his own cock lifted — arisen, angry, those old Chinese would have said, but Taylor was anything but angry. Happy, excited…he stroked and pressed…satiny inside and satiny out.
“Does that feel good?” he murmured.
“Sure.” Will sounded a little winded.
Taylor silently cued Will to move onto his knees; even here they could communicate deftly without words. He guided his cock, already pearling and damp, and pushed slowly, inch by inch, into Will. “Are you —”
“Go,” Will jerked out. “Do it.”
Was Will loving it or just wanting it over with? Taylor was never quite sure, but he couldn’t stop himself at this point. Will was pushing back against him, rocking into him. Taylor thrust back, and they settled into a quick, efficient rhythm.
Oh yes. More. More of this. Harder. Deeper. Faster. Taylor’s eyes shut tight. Just feeling, feeling that gorgeous drag on the thick, pulsing shaft of his cock, feeling the heat and snug darkness, feeling everything.
Will grunted as Taylor changed angle, tried to hit the sweet spot just right.
“Good, Will?” gasped Taylor.
“Yeah. Good.”
So good — but it was good all the ways they did it. And they had done it nearly every conceivable way. At least all the ways that Taylor figured wouldn’t shock or dismay Will. Very much a meat-and-potatoes man, Will.
Will’s harsh breaths were coming in counterpoint to his own. The rich, rolling sweetness tingled through Taylor, and he cried out as Will’s body seemed to spasm around his own and he began to come in hard, hot jets clouds and rain, firing the cannon, surrender, and die…
Chapter Two
“Something on your mind?” Taylor asked as they were leaving for dinner.
“Who me?”
“Nah. The monster in your pants. Yeah, you. You seem kind of quiet tonight.”
“Nope.” But Will made an effort to snap out of his reflections.
They chatted about Will’s case as they drove over to the restaurant. Taylor didn’t ask about Monday, didn’t mention it, so Will didn’t have to evade or lie; he wouldn’t have been able to lie, anyway. Even if he had a hope of getting away with it.
Which he didn’t. He glanced at Taylor’s profile and smiled inwardly.
To look at Taylor MacAllister, you would never think he was a dangerous man.
Correction. If you knew enough to recognize that easy, sure-footed way Taylor moved, the confidence with which he carried himself, the cool, direct way he met your eyes, you’d recognize that here was a guy who could handle himself in any situation. But that required being someone of experience yourself, someone who wasn’t fooled by the fact that Taylor looked deceptively slender and graceful — almost pretty. The truth was, he was all wiry muscle and bones harder than unalloyed titanium. He was tough and relentless and utterly fearless.
He frightened Will. He frightened him because even after being shot — twice, if someone wanted to get technical about it — Taylor seemed to have no sense of his own vulnerability. Or he just didn’t care.
When they arrived at the Red Dragon restaurant at nine o’clock that evening there was an altercation going on in the parking lot. Three Hispanic youths — baby faces and gang tattoos — appeared to be hassling a young black woman. One of the punks was sitting on the hood of the woman’s Sebring convertible. Another was lounging in the backseat, drinking a can of Tecate beer — and that was the woman’s mistake for leaving the top down and the car unattended while she went inside to get her carryout. This was not a nice neighborhood.
The third asshole was blocking the girl’s retreat. He didn’t look too dangerous to Will, although the girl — young woman — was plainly upset. She was trying to escape to the safety of the restaurant, and the punk jumped in front of her, grabbing his crotch and flicking his tongue in and out lizardlike. He was still keeping a hands-off distance from her, though, and the posturing seemed mostly about amusing his compadres in the convertible. He was probably not more than eighteen. The other two looked of a similar age.
Just pulling into the parking lot signaled the end of playtime, and if more was called for —
Taylor swung sharply next to the convertible and was out of the Land Cruiser before Will had his seat belt unbuckled.
Will heard Taylor’s flat, hard, “What’s going on here?” which promptly changed the entire dynamic of the situation.
It might have changed for the worse anyway, of course, but Taylor, sleek and deceptively slight in his tight jeans and green silk shirt — with the expensive car and pugnacious attitude — triggered all their cholo insecurities and hostilities.
Will scrambled out quickly, cursing the fact that neither of them was armed because they were going out to dinner and alcoholic beverages were sure to be consumed, and they shouldn’t have to carry when they were just going out to eat, for chrissake.
“What’s goin’ on here is none of your business, culeros,” the punk hassling the girl said, drawing himself up to all his compact, muscular five-eight. The kid on the hood of the car rolled off and started for Taylor. The kid in the back raised his arm as though threatening to throw his beer can.
Will was closer. He grabbed the kid’s arm, yanked it back hard, surprising a yowl of pain out of him. “Don’t be a litterbug,” Will warned.
The kid snatched his arm to his chest, rubbing it and glaring.
