Chapter Three

It was the perfect cure. They ran around and around the basement, talking over the upcoming event and timing involved, especially since they had to factor in snowy conditions to get there, until gloves and coats were on the floor and they were still sweating even without the outer layers.

The laps grew fewer, kisses longer, as they stripped one another in bits and pieces, until Jack wore only jeans and a thin base-layer top, Sal shirtless in wool slacks, both still with their shoes on. The bag was open on the floor, but nearly forgotten until Jack fished out the black rope.

He threw the whole coil around Sal’s head so it settled across his chest and shoulders like a huge collar, then Jack pulled him in for deep, breathless kisses. Both were panting, flushed, bodies damp with sweat even as the snow piled up only several feet away.

Sal pulled up Jack’s shirt but was so reluctant to break a kiss it took another minute before they peeled it off him.

“This,”

Sal gasped, “was one of your better ideas.”

“Want to see some more?”

“I am fucking dying to.”

Jack walked into him, pushing him back toward the rebar jutting from concrete at the same time he made the first knot in the rope. He might need another few laps with his clothes off, but he was counting on his balls keeping him warm as they increasingly seemed to be serving as his own personal central heating.

“What’s the freezing point of lube?”

Sal asked, looking past Jack when Jack tightened the first loop around his wrist.

“Hold that thought.”

Jack ran back to the bag, back to Sal, and held up the tube. “Will you do the honors?”

“I never miss an opportunity to show off how selfless I am. Surely you’ve noticed.”

“Good. Because I’m not.”

Jack pushed the whole tube down the front of Sal’s slacks to warm up against his already rather strained briefs.

“Fucking hell!”

Sal bashed his forehead on Jack’s shoulder to relieve his feelings, hissing a breath out between his teeth.

“I didn’t put it against your skin!”

Jack tightened the second loop. “Being gentle here!”

“If that’s gentle, then get the gun!”

“Do you want me to take it back?”

“No!”

“Then don’t yell in my face about it!”

“Shit, that’s my phone.”

“In your pants? Damn, I could have sworn that was a hard-on coming along.”

“The ringtone, you asshole. That’s my ringtone. It’s in my coat pocket.”

“Are we name-calling today? I didn’t practice.”

“Either untie me or get the phone.”

“You’re seriously going to answer it?”

“I at least have to check.”

Damn life or death phone calls…

Jack ran back to Sal’s coat, fished out the phone on the third ring, and said, “Local number.”

“Answer. Probably about tonight.”

“Hello?”

“Uhm… Mr. Rausa?”

“Hang on. He’s tied up.”

Sal was just over a quick coughing fit when Jack held the phone to his ear.

“Yes? That’s me,”

Sal said, sounding perfectly composed all of a sudden.

Jack found this unaccountably irritating, like he wasn’t doing his job right if Sal could have a casual chat along the way. Sal had, in fact, taught Jack everything he knew about ropes and bonds—and most of what he knew about sex, really. Surely Jack could show off a little better than this.

“Is that right?”

Sal said. “I wouldn’t know.” He might have been sitting at his CEO’s desk, gazing idly out his picture windows.

Jack left him with the phone to hold against his jaw and rope-covered shoulder, changed the tube to Sal’s back pocket, and slipped a new loop down the front of his underwear instead, this time on the inside.

“Really?”

Sal said into the phone, tone almost bored.

Jack lightly closed his teeth on first one, then the other of Sal’s nipples, delightfully stiff with the cold and begging for attention. His fingers stayed busy with the loop.

“I can call. Yes, I do.”

He caressed briefs and slacks down Sal’s thighs, accidentally dragged the cold back of his hand across the hot, stiff tip of Sal’s cock as he reached back up, then gently tightened the loop.

“You know what? I need to go. But I’ll call him.”

Jack looked up to find Sal’s eyes were squeezed shut, his cheeks hollow from biting the insides of both. He sucked in a breath.

“Yes, thanks for calling.”

He jerked his head upright and the phone fell.

Jack caught it with one hand, the other still on the rope, and ended the call.

“Must have been terribly important. I hope I wasn’t bothering you.”

“Not even close,”

Sal scoffed. “Bring up my contacts.”

“You’re making another call? Right now?”

“They can’t reach Cassaro. One of the organizers can’t get there because of the road and they’re worried about people being late or canceling. He’ll probably want to go in now and throw his weight around, but I bet he’s screening his calls.”

While Sal talked, Jack pulled up Don Cassaro in contacts. Cassaro was the Dommarco consigliere and Sal and Jack were attending the Christmas Eve soirée at his special invite, making a point of letting all the Port Francis players know just how peaceful and full of goodwill to all the Dommarco could be. Symbols were important after the Lo Cascio wipeout, largely engineered by Sal and Jack, with a little help from overseas. Things had settled down over the past year, but memories were fresh for all, painful for some.

Don had planners and organizers to run the show for him, but Sal was right that he would want to be there in person the moment any fly flew into the works.

Jack activated the call, then once more pushed the phone to Sal’s shoulder.

Not even close, eh?

He’d see about that.

Tightening the rope again, he brushed Sal’s cock with his palm, just a hint of touch, a tease, and Sal pushed against him for more contact. Jack withdrew his hand, then stepped back all together as Sal followed him.

“What the fuck?”

Sal whispered at him. Then, “Cassaro? Oh, damn. Voicemail.” He had to wait to record.

Laughing softly at Sal’s heat-seeking cock, Jack changed tactics just when Sal was about to speak and gave him all the contact he wanted and then some.

“Shhh—”

Sal hissed, cutting himself off. “Cassaro, it’s Rausa. Listen—fffu—sounds like a bit of trouble at the venue just now. They’re trying to—err—reach you. Call me back. Or call them. We’ll—ssuh—go down there now and—yeah.”

He stumbled back from both Jack and the phone. Again, Jack caught it and pressed the red icon.

“We’re not really running down there right now? We’ve got two hours.”

Panting, Sal stumbled another step to keep his balance, hands and balls tied. “You’re the peacekeeper? What do you think?”

“Fuck.”

Jack resisted the impulse to hurl the phone out into the snow.