Chapter 16

Not that Iwas in a hurry or anything, but I was in a hurry.

Oliver was all mine for a few hours. No kids, no hockey, no criminal activities.

God, please, by all that is holy, do not let someone call me with something work-related. I know I'm a public servant and all that, but Lord, I do like this man and want to get laid. So, if it's in your wheelhouse, and we all know it probs is, give my overworked ass one night of peace. Amen.

We pulled up in front of my complex with undue haste, the slip and slide into my end parking slot pulling a raised brow from Oliver.

"That's known as the Starsky and Hutch skid and park. It's taught at the police academy," I explained as I shifted the Buick into Park, then cut the engine.

"Oh, really? What else do they teach at the academy that's from old cop shows?"

"Well, there was this class on how to kiss someone you really want to fuck."

He chuckled. "Do tell."

"Much rather show."

I reached for him, hand cupping the back of his neck, and pulled his mouth to mine. Unlike today's cars, my baby has a split bench that allows two grown men to get at each other with no damn console in the way. Yay, Detroit, in the seventies, knew what they were doing. Big cars, big engines, big seats.

His lips were soft, pliant, and opened over mine. I slid my tongue into his mouth, sighing dreamily as the taste of Oliver and Italian food exploded on my taste buds. The kiss was messy and so fucking hot. We had to break apart, breathless, to find, then pop our seatbelt latches.

"Ahh, there we go," I purred, grabbing at him with greedy fingers, only to see him easing out of the car.

Shit. I exited as well. Oliver smiled at me over the roof. "Let's go inside. If we stay out here much longer, we'll be doing it in the front seat, and that'll be uncomfortable for both of us."

He was right. Neither of us were what you would call pocket-sized. I jangled my keys, took his hand, and led him to the breezeway for my small unit. We climbed the stairs to my second-floor apartment, the wail of a far-off siren mixing in with the muffled sounds of life in the city. He followed quietly, the metal stairs creaking under our weight as we climbed. Outside my door, I paused, a rush of unease creeping up my spine. I stalled short of sliding my key into the lock.

"We don't have to do this if you don't want to," Oliver said from behind me.

I shook my head, eyes on the small nameplate on my door. It used to read Jackson Winwood, but some punk kids had scribbled my name out and written Oink-Oink Pig Residence, which had made me snicker. So I'd left it. Not that anyone ever came here anyway, so what difference did it make? Suddenly it made all kinds of a difference that I was mortified to admit.

"I'm not the tidiest man," I confessed and got a little pat on the ass.

"I'm not here to look at your dusty tables, Jackson. I'm here to fuck you."

A shiver of anticipation danced along my skin. Knowing the inside of my place was depressing as shit, I braced myself, then began unbolting the locks. Sure, people knew a cop lived here, but that didn't mean they wouldn't rob me. Probably my status as a detective upped the chances of me being burgled.

Once the door was free, I reached around to the right, flipped on the sole light, and headed in.

"It's a bachelor pad," I said and got a smile. Then he stepped inside. The smile slipped for a second before he had it back in place. "Sorry. I… no one ever comes here. It's too… well, I don't like my place much. Just… sit down on the couch and give me… I didn't think we'd end up here or I would have… cleaned the place?"

"Jackson, it's fine, honestly," he lied. I knew it wasn't fine. The place was a rathole, and I was the king rat. Sure, I had a housekeeper who did the basics, but a fast vacuum couldn't cover the air of no shits being given clinging to the smoke-stained walls.

"My housekeeper does vacuum and dust." I moved around the place, picking up magazines, a few milk cartons, and a bag of old takeout. I chose to ignore the empty bottles strewn all over, even though I was sure Oliver had eyeballed them and found me lacking. "She's not been in for a few weeks. Her son just had a baby, so she's spending a couple of months with them."

I booted an empty beer bottle under the sofa. Oliver moved to me, his gaze penetrating.

"I know it's lacking compared to your house, but?—"

He closed the distance in one step. His hands rose to cup my face and his lips—oh, those sinful lips—touched on mine. Once, twice, thrice.

"Your place is fine."

I rolled my eyes as my fingers slid around his waist to grasp his beefy ass.

"Liar," I whispered, then licked my way into his mouth.

Worries about the sad state of my home drifted away as we made out languidly, exploring, teasing…

"Where's the bedroom?" he asked when we broke apart.

I rolled my hips. His cock and mine met. A moan rumbled out of both of us.

"It's right this way."

I stole one more kiss, then gave him a soft shove in the right direction. He snagged my arm, tugging me along into my stuffy bedroom.

I stole one more kiss, then gave him a soft shove in the right direction. He snagged my arm, tugging me along into my stuffy bedroom. Again, only the barest necessities greeted us. A dresser, a bed, and a window where my dead orchid sat on the sill. Planted by my double bed, we came back together, this time with more passion. Fingers yanked and pulled on buttons and zippers. I kissed his neck, then freed him from his shirt, kissing each inch of skin revealed before lust took over. I began nibbling, stroking, palming. His dick, his balls, his tight pucker.

"Fuck, I'm too close already," Oliver grunted when I toyed with his hole, his strong legs spread wide. "Lie down."

"Bossy bastard. You lie down."

His dark eyes grew hotter. I kicked off my pants and briefs, then embraced him, our cocks swaying as a moment of swordplay broke out. When he was absorbed in the battle of the dicks, I placed my hands on his pecs and pushed. He hit the bed. The headboard slamming into the wall. I had some doubts that my old frame would hold up to the workout it was about to get.

"The sheets smell like you," he said as I pounced on him like a starving canine stumbling over a rare steak. My mouth slanted over his as he moved me to my back with a slick wrestling move. When I was looking up at him in the light of a streetlamp outside my window, I gazed at perfection. His beautiful eyes, strong jaw, thick neck, powerful shoulders…

"You're the most gorgeous man that I have ever seen," I whispered, awed that someone so sinfully splendid was about to lie with me. Me. Jackson Winwood.

"No, that title goes to you."

He lowered his head to kiss me, his arms locked. I threw my legs around him, my heels resting on his ass. His hips gyrated, cock rubbing over cock, his leaking head spreading his pre-cum over my slick head. I carded my fingers into his hair, sucked on his tongue, and began saying silly things to him that I had never said to any other man. Flowery compliments about his nose, his eyebrows, his lips. We moved back and forth, him pressing me into the mattress, then me moving atop him. All the while, our dicks were throbbing hot shafts, leaving glistening trails across our thighs, bellies, and hips.

When he had me on my back, hands pinned over my head, he moved just so. The head of his cock slid downward, under my balls, and settled there. I was mindless with lust at this point, unwilling to dither around trying to assert dominance any longer. His hips flickered. His fat cockhead pressed against my hole.

"Fuck me," I gasped, arching up off the bed to try to get him inside me. All pretense was gone. I needed to be fucked. I needed to fuck him. "Lube and condoms… drawer… dresser."

"Stay there, do not move." He left the bed, raced to my dresser, and upended two drawers of socks and underwear, searching. "You asshole. You could tell me which drawer they're in."

"Nah, it's way more fun to lie here with my prick in my hand and enjoy the sights." And what a sight it was. That bubble butt of his was all kinds of delicious-looking. I had wild plans to spread those meaty cheeks, then spear him with my cock over and over until he begged me to come inside him.

He laughed, then found what he was searching for in my T-shirt drawer. I enjoyed the sight of him returning to me, the tube of lube in one hand, rope of condoms in the other.

"Just for making me search, I'm going to fuck you twice as long," he announced as he kneeled beside me.

"Your threats need work, Cowboy," I said, my gaze roaming over him, then stopping at the small white patch on his biceps. "Are you good?"

He gave me the oddest look. "I like to think so."

It took me a second. "Oh, no, not… no, I wasn't asking if you were a good fuck. I meant with your sugar and all. Are you good? Do we need to get some food or something in here? Candy or something. No, candy is bad. Right?"

Shit, I really needed to hone up on my diabetic knowledge. Oliver, being a great guy, kissed me senseless, worked his thigh between mine, and found my opening with two thick, slick fingers.

"I'm good, but thanks for asking, and worrying."

My body thrummed with want as he began to work me open, his fingers spreading wide, then twisting time and again.

"Don't want you… to pass out… crucial moment. Fuck! Christ. Shit. Damn, that is… right there. Yeah, candy is dandy, but a prostate tickle is quicker." He chortled at my ramblings. "I'm punch drunk for cock. Get inside me, Oliver."

"You cops are so bossy," he said, tsked, and moved over me. I rested a foot on his shoulder, and one on his lower back, as he pushed into me. The burn was intense. "Breathe, baby."

"I am… breathing. Your cock… is enormous."

"Flattery will get you thoroughly ransacked," he huffed, eased out, and then moved back in. This happened time and again, each thrust in a little deeper until he was buried to the hilt. "Breathe, baby, just breathe."

I loved the sound of that word rushing out of him as he battled to maintain control. Baby. I'd never been anyone's baby before. I arched up, then clenched. He trembled, growled, and then began giving me the ransacking he'd promised. The man had tremendous stamina. His legs were strong, powering him like twin pistons that pumped endlessly. My flagging cock sprang back into life when his fat cockhead found my prostate. Windless and senseless from the fucking I was getting, I whimpered and whined, gasped and groaned. Somehow, in the fury of our joining, I managed to get a hand on my cock. The other was above my head, keeping my skull from kissing my thrift shop headboard.

The room was thick with the sounds and scents of sex. Oliver was purposeful off the ice, just as he was on it. Sweat ran to the tip of his nose, then fell to my chest. That was what pushed me over. The sight of his perspiration dropping to my sweaty pectoral. I cried out something, no clue what, as a fire lit at the base of my spine. My balls contracted, my dick swelled, and I tumbled into the light. Cum pulsed out of me, coating my fingers and speckling my belly.

"So pretty. That's it, come for me, baby," Oliver ground out while pushing in for one final soul-searing thrust. His head snapped back as he came. A glorious sight I hoped I got to witness for years to come.

Yeah, I was greedy. And so head over heels nuts over this man that I dared to dream of a future together. Me. Jackson Winwood. Had fallen in love. The man who couldn't manage to keep a freaking plant alive was daring to fantasize about something as emotionally demanding as a—GULP!—relationship. What did I know about such things? Emotions required nurturing. They needed to be watered weekly with love, fertilized with respect, and given access to sunny windows. I tended to bring out the opposite of tender feelings in most people, got my liquid nutrition from a Wild Turkey bottle, and spent most of my time in the darkness with seedy people doing illegal things. I'd kill any kind of decent, normal relationship faster than Van Helsing would stake a vampire.

"Are you okay?" Oliver asked, his words heated puffs tickling my face.

"Yeah, no, good… best I've been in… fuck, forever I think," I admitted, the candid reply easing the look of concern. "Kiss me?"

"Gladly," he replied, lowering his mouth to mine as he eased out, and I knew the moment of intimacy and revelations had passed. "I need to…"

He waved at his latex-sheathed cock as he moved to the side.

"Oh right, the bathroom is across the hall. Can't miss it. Only room in the place with a crapper."

He stole one final kiss, then left me lying in my bed, ass tender, heart and mind befuddled. I eased up to a sitting position, keeping my sight on his glorious ass until he entered my tiny bathroom and closed the door. Funny how guys who'd been as intimate as us could still feel funny taking a leak in front of the other. Jittery now that the easy stuff was over, I got up, winced at the twang in my sore hole, and found the nearest dirty shirt to wipe the cooling spunk off my belly. Yeah, the sex stuff, that was easy. Hormone-driven, cock in the lead, no need to feel anything other than pleasure.

But the ball of whatever it was in my chest right now? Hell, that was tougher. This wad of emotion was the hardest thing ever, and it terrified me right down to my cells.

"Hey, are you sure you're okay? I called your name a few times," Oliver asked, his arms coming around me from behind. I started. He smelled of lime-green soap. His chest was toasty warm against my chilling back.

My first reaction was to make some sort of asshole wisecrack about how his enormous cock had left me senseless. And while that was true to an extent—although my bunghole was wishing it could claim to be numb—that was covering up where my head really was.

I melted into his arms, sighing like a spring debutante, and tried this once to be open.

"I was caught up in the feelings that I'm feeling." He kissed my bare shoulder as I held my tacky tee to my thundering heart. "Wow, that was lame. I won't be putting Bob Dylan out of work as a lyricist anytime soon."

"I think what you said was beautiful, Jackson," he whispered as he pressed tiny little pecks along my shoulder and neck. My eyes flickered shut when he held me close. "I'm not exactly a poet either. I knock people down for a living. I'm feeling a lot of feelings right now too, if that helps."

"It does," I confessed, inhaling the unique blend of my soap and Oliver's skin as the aroma enveloped me. "You think we could maybe do more of this?"

"Fucking? Oh yeah."

That made me chuckle. "No, well, yes, fucking obviously, because I need to get my dick into that sweet ass of yours sometime soon, but the other things like this, too. This right here is about as perfect a moment as I have ever experienced with another human being. Just being loved, sated, held firm in your arms…" I paused to blink away some kind of huge feeling threatening to make me weepy. No one wanted that. Crying and cops? Nope, not going to happen. "I'd like to do more of this dating and embracing after sex stuff."

"Cuddling?" he teased, then tugged on my earlobe with his teeth.

"Oh please, as if a cop and a hockey player would ever cuddle." I turned to gaze upon him, capturing his face between my hands, and kissed him soundly on the lips. "Maybe we can call it lounging. Yeah, lounging. Sounds like something two macho dudes would do. We can lounge after having sex."

"You're a total idiot."

He wrapped his arms around my middle, then used his hip in some sort of slick wrestling move to topple my not-so-tiny self to my bed. We grappled for a minute or two, me trying to use all the self-defense moves I had learned at the academy to free myself from his grip until I realized that being in his grip was kind of turning me on. My dick was half hard, resting snugly under his balls as he sat on my pelvis, smirking down at me in victory.

"If we had the lube, you could sit on my dick and ride me like a mustang, Cowboy," I said, my voice gravelly.

His expression changed from amused to aroused in the blink of an eye. "Let me find it," he said, and my dick grew another inch. "You know, I think I might be falling for you," he added.

"Yeah?" This sounded like dangerous territory. Was he really ready for this?

"Even though I have all these memories in my head, it's like Melissa is telling me… I'm falling hard," he added, and his skin pinkened.

"I think—" From somewhere not in the bed, the sound of a cell phone ringing sliced into the night like a shiv. It was Mack. The ringtone was unmistakable. "Fuck," I huffed, fully prepared to ignore it. Let someone else take the call. Maybe the two new guys that had just started could go play with the gangland lords and Mafia dons this once. All the play left Oliver's eyes, and he slid off me, lube in hand, dick fat and hard, to look at me sprawled in my bed unmoving.

"That's you," he said. I nodded. "Aren't you going to answer it?"

I huffed in exasperation, still debating if I could somehow not see what my partner wanted at ten minutes past midnight.

"Sometimes, I hate my fucking job," I snarled as I rolled from the bed to find my phone. When I located my pants, I nearly tore the back pocket off in my pique. "Mack, this had better be fucking important," I growled into the phone instead of hello.

"It is. It's Lazlo Richter, the receptionist at the clinic. Someone knocked the security guy out and tied him up, and hell, the kid's just been admitted to the Holy Trinity ER with a gunshot wound."

"The fuck? I thought we'd closed this down."

"It looks bad, Jackson."

"I… yeah, be right there." I ended the call just as Oliver padded into view, still clutching the lube, still looking like every dream I had ever dreamed. Fuck this fucking world. "Hey, Oliver, so something has happened…"