The Dark Horse - lanyon Josh - Страница 11
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- 11/25
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«Fine.» I shifted onto my side and stretched out beside him, resting my head against his chest. He smelled like suntan oil and tacos and himself. Heady stuff. He put his arm around me and started the film again. I thought that maybe this was the best part of being a couple –just relaxing together, spending time with someone you could be yourself with. To my surprise I realized that I was starting to be myself with Dan. Little by little I was letting my guard down and worrying less about who he might want me to be versus who I was – I thought something in his easy acceptance of my … vulnerabilities made that possible. Of course, he hadn't had to put up with my ticks – quirks – for very long. He hadn't had more than a taste of life in the fish bowl, and we hadn't had to deal with my irregular hours or my being away for weeks on end.
There had to be some reason he wasn't already taken. It couldn't be for lack of offers. Maybe he really did have trust issues.
The movie ended and Dan said he had some paperwork to catch up before bed, heading for the spare room, which he had turned into his makeshift office. Through the wall I could hear the indistinct rumble of his voice on the phone while I did Pilates in the weight room next door. Kind of late for phone calls, I reflected, but cops don't work regular hours.
I finished working out, took a quick shower and retreated to the bedroom to watch some TV and make notes on the Charioteer screenplay. I refused to think that I wouldn't get the part. I knew how persuasive Steve could be when he wanted, and if Paul Grady was pushing for me to co-star, I knew I still had a shot. Dan joined me in the bedroom as I was idly surfing through the channels.
«One thing I never noticed about The Charioteer,» I told him. «A lot of the misunderstandings between Laurie and Ralph and even Laurie and Andrew could have been so easily resolved if they'd just talked.» «That's true of most relationships, isn't it?» «I guess so.»
Of course, Laurie hadn't asked questions because he hadn't been ready to hear the answers. He had been afraid of the answers.
«Hey, go back,» Dan ordered, pulling on a pair of plaid sleep pants, and staring at the TV. I groaned. «Turn it back.» I flipped back to the cheesy horror film. He bounced down beside me on the bed. «That's you!» «Don't remind me.» We studied the on-screen mayhem in silence. «Your hair,» Dan remarked finally. «Yes, it's the scariest thing in the film.» We watched for a few more minutes. «So … you're actually the star of this? Do you get the girl in the end?»
«Please, Dan,» I said, «This is heterosexual romance. The girl does not 'get it in the end.'»
His laugh sounded surprised – and I could guess why. I slanted a look his way and he shook his head. «You're asking for trouble, chief.» «How many times do I have to ask before I get some?»
He raised his brows and then lunged. I fell back in the nest of pillows, bringing my knee up – but watching where I put it because the last thing I wanted to do was really put him out of action. I planted my foot in his chest and he rolled over, taking me with him. We wrestled around, laughing. I liked the fact that though I was tall – six feet – Dan was taller. And I liked the fact that – although I was strong and worked out regularly – Dan was
stronger. It didn't threaten me and I didn't feel any of the competitiveness I usually would have.
He got one arm around my waist and the other around my thigh and managed to flip me over onto my back. The Swedish mattress swallowed my frame a few obliging inches. «The bed is having me for dinner,» I said, laughing up at him.
«And I'm having you for dessert,» Dan said, his voice deep and velvety. He was braced over me, knee between my thighs, one hand keeping both my wrists pinned above my head – not easy to do to another healthy adult male.
I didn't have to glance at his crotch to know he was as excited as I was – though admittedly neither of us was as excited as the guy on TV behind us selling cleaning products at the top of his voice.
I said, in a very bad imitation of James Cagney, «Okay, copper. You got me fair and square.» His lean cheek creased in amusement. «Oh? You're going to come quietly?» «I always do,» I whispered.
His eyes darkened and he shifted his weight back onto his knees. The hand formerly holding me prisoner was now stroking me, feathering down from the outside of my wrists to the insides of my elbows. I generally didn't like anyone to see – let alone touch – the scars on my arms. «No hesitation marks,» Dan had said the first time his fingertips had brushed over the ugly tracks of scars. «You weren't kidding around.»
Now my arms went relaxed and heavy under that delicate touch. I murmured my pleasure. His free hand slipped inside my boxers.
I sucked in a breath, arching blindly into his caress, reached up and yanked the soft flannel pants down, running my hands down his lean flanks. His skin felt warm and smooth. «Open your eyes,» he ordered huskily.
I lifted my lashes. Every muscular inch of him was brown and supple; his black hair, thick and glossy, fell boyishly into his eyes as he gazed down so seriously at me.
I raised my head and kissed him, a little nip of a kiss. He kissed back, wanting more as usual, wanting it slow and deep and sexy. His lips were so soft. I stilled, opened to him. Our tongues slid together, sweet and spicy. Dan groaned in the back of his throat as though it were too good to bear, sending a little shiver down my spine.
I pulled him down on top of me and we settled into each other, his hand fastening on my hip, tugging me into that fierce bulge against my belly. My own cock throbbed in time to the pound of my heart as his hand found the elastic of my boxers and I raised my hips enough for him to hitch them off. The feel of bare skin lowering on bare skin was satisfying. Our dicks scraped up against each other, old friends and good neighbors, rubbing shoulders. «What do you want?» he said breathlessly, his breath hot against my ear.
I shook my head. Too hard to form the words when I was having trouble forming the thoughts. «You,» I got out. «How?»
«Suck me?» It came as a little plea. I was a lot more comfortable giving than receiving, but tonight I craved the idea of burying myself in that wet heat. «Please.»
He chuckled at the «please.» Maybe it was funny. He lifted off me, resettled and ran a light possessive hand down my tummy, fastening on my shaft. I murmured encouragement. He bent, kissed the head of my cock and took it into his mouth. Unbelievable.
It was like stepping into a golden bath – whatever the hell that means. Wet and hot and intense. Was it the warmth or the wetness or the pressure that felt so good? Maybe the mind-blowing combination of all three? This was where all that experience came in handy. He'd obviously been on the receiving end enough to know the little things that made all the
difference. Where I offered style, he gave substance and the wonder was I didn't shoot my load in the first five seconds. «Oh, my God,» I groaned, and it did indeed feel like a religious experience.
That crazy mix of glib tongue and soft lips and the graze of teeth: sucking, nibbling, licking – but it was mostly the sucking that felt so shatteringly good – hard and then easy and then hard. I couldn't help making abject sounds as he brought me to the edge, then tilted me back, then tipped me forward into the moment.
I spilled over into pleasure, moaning and tossing my head on the pillow like I was in a high fever.
Afterwards I just lay there spent and a little stunned, and he lapped up my cream, the rough rasp of his tongue reminding me of a cat – a big eat-you-alive cat – like a panther. He braced himself over me and when his mouth took mine, I could taste myself. «Fuck me, Danny,» I begged him huskily. «Yeah?» He kissed me again, hungrily. «Sure?» I nodded, moving against him restlessly, blindly. «I want it. I do.»
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