Chapter 1

Chapter

One

I t was a strange feeling, freedom mixed with dread. Tracey tried not to let the dread win, but it was difficult—especially the closer his Uber ride neared to the house where he’d been living for the last month.

Come on. You’re Special Agent Tracey fucking Smith. You faced down a serial sniper and won. You can do this.

Of course, he hadn’t survived that sniper encounter unscathed. He’d been shot in his right calf.

Today, his doctor let him ditch the crutches. Thus, his sense of euphoric freedom.

Finally, after weeks of physical therapy and babying the leg under a surgeon’s supervision, he could set aside the torture sticks. Crutches were evil, and he’d never hated anything more. Maybe his boyfriend and fellow Special Agent Jon Anderson would let him use the fire pit on the back patio to perform a ritual burning.

Does aluminum burn?

Thoughts of Jon brought Tracey back to that other emotion: dread.

He wasn’t afraid to tell Jon his good news. Not at all. Jon would, of course, be thrilled about his improved mobility.

The dread was due to having no reason to continue staying in Jon’s home. Tracey’s townhouse was narrow and multi-story. Jon had quickly clocked how difficult three flights of stairs would make Tracey’s recovery—particularly on the devil’s stilts. He’d all but demanded Tracey recuperate at his house.

Jon’s place in Fairfax Station, Virginia was enormous. Despite the second story and basement, the wide doorways and spacious rooms made maneuvering far easier. Most importantly, Jon was there to help when Tracey was tired or his balance was shaky.

With crutches no longer necessary, would Jon want him back at his townhouse with its multi-storied loneliness?

Of course, Tracey would go, and without complaint. But he enjoyed Jon’s company. They laughed about the same things, shared similar taste in movies, and had fun exploring their newfound relationship.

His living in Jon’s house had never been anything but temporary, but it had been great getting to know each other.

Moving home now would feel like going backward.

The Uber driver turned onto Jon’s street, and Tracey soaked in the beautiful autumn colors and a few of the neighbors’ Halloween decorations. This neighborhood did justice to his favorite time of the year.

Shoving aside his misgivings, he took a deep breath and released it slowly. His appointment had shown a bit of progress—albeit not as much as he’d hoped—and the end of the workday meant Jon would be home soon. He’d use adult words and talk to Jon, see where they stood. He had no reason to believe Jon would send him away.

A nice dinner. Maybe a little vino. Show him he likes having me around. Yeah.

As he exited the car, went inside, and stashed the stupid crutches in one of the foyer closets flanking the front door, Tracey started planning. He sent Jon a text.

Since they used the Smoldr app and its disappearing messages feature, there was no reason to fear anyone seeing their texts. It was Jon’s brilliant idea. Instead of seeking no-strings-attached hookups like the rest of the app’s users, they kept in constant communication. As soon as Jon saw and replied to his message, the interaction would vanish without a trace for coworkers or, more importantly, superiors, to find.

They could be as candid and free as they wanted.

Being two of the only queer men in the office, it wasn’t strange for them to have Smoldr as long as they kept it off their work phones. It added to the pretense that they were both single, looking, and not together and breaking the FBI’s no fraternization rule every chance they had.

Tracey

Home from the doc. Are you working late?

Jon

No. I should be home at 6ish. I want to hear all about it. All good?

Tracey

I’ll tell you when you get here. Moving along.

Jon

Good. See you soon.

Tracey put his phone away and limped into the kitchen in socked feet. He never wore shoes in the house, thanks to brutal, snowy Minnesota winters and his mother’s rule about dragging the outside in. He still wasn’t cleared to drive, so the menu would need to be from ingredients on hand.

Jon’s home was gorgeous once one looked past its McMansion attributes, which were mostly exterior. Hardwood floors gleamed in the foyer and halls while the rest of the rooms had plush carpeting. The second floor had four bedrooms, including the primary. The upstairs hallway served as a balcony overlooking the first floor to give the family room its soaring ceiling and wide-open feel. Jon’s office was off the family room, so even when he spent time immersed in work, he was nearby.

Now without Satan’s stilts, Tracey was careful walking in socks to the pantry to peruse the shelves for dinner ideas. He loved Jon’s kitchen to a ridiculous degree—everything had a place. It was well-stocked with many spices, all stored in matching jars kept alphabetically in caddies on pull-out sliding rails. He could easily access those in the back. Maybe it was a bit OCD, but its neatness made cooking a joy even with his bum leg.

The kitchen was uncluttered and easy to move around in. The counters were devoid of everything but a block of high-end kitchen knives, a paper towel holder near the sink, and the coffee maker.

Of course, it was a Breville espresso machine so fancy Jon had needed to give him lessons. After a month of practice, Tracey could make lattes and macchiatos to his heart’s content. He still couldn’t do the fancy pours, but he hoped to perfect that part.

Tonight was about his mother’s meatloaf recipe, which he could make from memory. Tunes on his Spotify app kept him entertained while he mashed the potatoes. He was just brushing butter over the top of hot take-n-bake rolls he’d unearthed from the freezer when the of the overhead garage door rumbled to life.

“Perfect timing.” He raised his face as Jon entered the kitchen from the garage, and gave him a kiss, lingering for a moment. “You can set the table.”

Jon stared, his handsome face frozen as he took in the situation. “You made dinner?”

“I did. I hope you like meatloaf and mashed potatoes. It’s a little heavier than your usual fish or chicken, but it’s my mom’s recipe and my secret ingredient potatoes. Everyone tells me they’re heaven on a plate. Not trying to brag, though. Homemade gravy, too. Do you have candles somewhere?”

“Candles?” Jon was stuck in place, his messenger bag still over his shoulder.

Tracey grinned. “Yes. Candles. And maybe some wine? I thought we could celebrate.” With his arms outstretched, he did a slow spin, using his socks on the ceramic tile to their full advantage. “No more crutches.”

“Babe! That’s great news!” Jon broke into a wide grin and pulled him in for a languorous kiss, genuine happiness in those vivid blue eyes.

Tracey relaxed into the embrace, but he didn’t let the kiss go on long. “So, about those candles and wine? Before dinner goes cold?”

“Yes, of course.” Jon released him and went into the pantry, pulling down a long box from the top shelf. “Candles. With holders even.”

Then he moved from the kitchen to the basement door, shedding his bag and suit jacket on one of the dining table’s unused chairs along the way. Downstairs, there was a bar in the corner of the recreation room, including a small wine rack.

Jon emerged with a bottle of red wine. “This okay?”

“You’re the wine guy. I trust your judgment.”

Jon explained as he popped the cork to let it breathe. “It’s one of the less dry ones, so hopefully you’ll like it. It’s a Malbec. I can either shut up about wine or I can tell you more.” He set their places—candles included—while Tracey brought the food to the table. They arranged themselves so they could see through the shallow bay window overlooking the brick patio to the backyard beyond.

“You can tell me whatever you want.” Tracey hadn’t ever considered learning about wine, but Jon lit up when talking about things that interested him. “But first, I want to tell you what the doctor said.”

“Yes, that’s a much bigger deal.” Jon listened eagerly while they plated the food and began to eat.

“Like I said, I’m off the crutches. Still not cleared to drive, and man, I miss my Mustang. I’ve got more physical therapy, but I’m getting better. Unfortunately, the calf muscle isn’t healing quite like Dr. Greene hoped it would.”

“Did he say why?” Jon sampled the potatoes and stopped. “Wow, these are good.”

“Thank you.” Tracey smiled and swallowed his mouthful, keeping to the subject he needed to get out. “The doctor called it volumetric muscle loss. With wounds like mine, where a lot of muscle is affected, white blood cells signal stem cells to regenerate the muscle tissue. They don’t know the trigger, but sometimes immune cells will interrupt white blood cells and tell them to self-destruct or stop communicating with the stem cells, which stops muscle fiber regeneration. That’s what’s happening to my calf muscle.” Tracey forked mashed potato into his mouth to cover his disappointment.

“Okay. Is there a plan? Can they do something to reverse it? Or redirect the bad immune cells?”

Tracey took a sip of wine, glad he could have it. He was no longer on heavy-duty painkillers. He was improving. The signs were there.

“He didn’t say much about reversing it. They still don’t understand a lot about it. One patient heals fine while the next doesn’t. He wants to try platelet-rich plasma, which is known to stimulate stem cells. It works for arthritis in joints and some autoimmune conditions. Otherwise, I need to take it a day at a time. I’m still on desk duty. Still doing physical therapy. No driving.” He stopped before he could babble, and shoved a bite of meatloaf into his mouth.

Jon covered his hand and squeezed. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, chewing enough to swallow. “It’s not the news I wanted, but he does see incremental improvements. No more crutches. I only need painkillers if I get a cramp.” He paused, setting down his fork. “I might always have a limp. I guess there are worse things. I can still walk. It hurts, but it’s not stopping me from doing normal things. Making dinner took a good hour, and I did it without much trouble.”

“It tastes amazing.” Jon showed his appreciation with another bite.

“Thank you. Things are going the right direction, I guess.”

“But….”

“But.” Tracey took a big breath. “It’s slow. Even so, I could probably go back to my house now. If I need to.”

Jon’s chewing slowed, his gaze locked on Tracey’s face.

“I mean, I haven’t tried the stairs, but I bet they’re a lot easier now. Plus, the longer we cohabitate, the more we risk someone from work finding out about… us.”

“People at work already know some of the truth: I’m helping you recover from a gunshot wound. There’s no reason for that to be strange. According to Dr. Greene, your healing is slower than he expected.”

Something big relaxed in Tracey’s chest. “He did say that.” He raised his wine glass to hide a smile.

Jon took his hand, his grip assured. “Plus, I have plenty of bedrooms. No one has to know we’re sharing a bed.”

“Or seeing each other.”

“Exactly. And you’re still not cleared to drive. You being here makes it easier for me to drive you to and from work.” He leaned closer, angling his chin just so.

“So my staying is really a favor to you?” Tracey’s chest warmed at the humor.

“Yes. Exactly.” Jon’s smile was playful, a side of him few people got to see.

Tracey was captivated, and he closed the distance, giving Jon the kiss he was aiming for. When he pulled away, he was expecting the heavy load to be off his shoulders. When it wasn’t gone, he figured he just needed time. “Thank you.”

Jon pecked his lips in response, then went back to his food. “You’re welcome. If there’s more I can do to help, let me know.”

“You’re already doing so much.” Was that why he was still uneasy? Probably. He just needed to find a way to repay Jon for all the help. That must be it.

After dinner, Jon washed the dishes and put away the leftovers while Tracey worked through his at-home physical therapy exercises on the family room floor. He hoped to graduate to the basement, where the utility room had weight equipment and an elliptical machine. It was how Jon stayed fit despite their hectic schedule and erratic travel.

For now, Tracey settled for repetitious resistance band exercises, targeted stretches, and yoga. He put his favorite playlist through the TV and surround sound system. Memories of his first morning here played alongside the music as he warmed up on his floor mat.

He'd just gotten a cup of coffee and was ready to see Jon off to work and find something to do for the day. Jon had come into the kitchen, made his coffee, and was sorting through a pile of mail.

“Do you have a smart speaker I can connect to my phone? You know, for playlists and ordering pizza and stuff.” He was already connected to the house’s Wi-Fi.

Jon had whipped his head up, his mug halfway to his mouth and his electric gaze boring into Tracey, not a perfect black hair out of place.

“No.”

Tracey blinked. When Jon didn’t elaborate, he laughed, a bit uncertain. “That’s it? Just, ‘no?’”

“Do you know those things are listening all the time?”

“Oh. I guess I hadn’t thought about it, but yeah, they’d have to be to hear the, ‘Hey, Alexa.’”

“Not just listening. They’re recording. All. The. Time. What are they hearing?”

Based on Jon’s demeanor, he was pretty sure what the expected answer was. “Everything?”

“ Exactly . What if I wanted you to suck my dick on the couch? The speaker would be listening. What if you wanted to fuck me over the counter? The speaker would hear it. Anybody could be on the other end. No thank you.”

Tracey stared, mouth half open, then cleared his throat and gulped his coffee, trying to seem nonchalant like his dick hadn’t gone rock hard. “So, um. How soon do you have to go?”

Jon raised a brow, expression innocent as if he didn’t know precisely what he’d done. “Sutherland gave Unit 4 the day off. No work until Monday.”

Tracey had finished his mug, set it down, and hobbled with the dreaded crutches over to the couch, still visible from the table. He rearranged a few pillows, then turned back to Jon and sat.

“I can’t kneel, but we can make this work.” He patted the cushions. “No speaker. No recording. Ready when you are.”

Jon’s laughter ringing through the high ceiling had preceded him into the family room. Afterward, he’d shown Tracey the music app on the TV. As an icebreaker, that morning had worked wonders, and Tracey had felt at home ever since.

Now, he went through a few yoga positions recommended by his physical therapist. He had to admit, the surround sound system was way better than a single little smart speaker.

“Mind if I join you?” Jon dropped to the floor and copied his position without waiting for an answer. Tracey never said no anyway. He loved when they did this together.

Jon was beautiful, and it was fun to ogle him. Not to mention he was a successful distraction from the probability of a lifetime of muscular deficiency courtesy of the Family Man, the sniper who’d shot Tracey while taking him hostage. At least the concussion he’d suffered during the ordeal hadn’t led to long-term issues. Surprising, given the car crashes the Family Man had caused. Yes, crash es , plural.

Shake it off. Watch Jon’s ass.

Downward dog put Jon’s beautiful butt on display. Tracey let himself drool.

Glass breaking, tires squealing. Burned rubber. The seatbelt biting. Yanked through the sunroof. An SUV on its side. Unable to stand. Hard muzzle pressed into his jaw.

No.

From downward dog to warrior pose. It was great stretch for his calf, and he could control the angle of his toes for more or less pressure. Concentrate, concentrate.

Not to mention, Jon’s warrior was attention-worthy. Those biceps bunched and flexed until they disappeared under his t-shirt sleeves. He admired that tight physique down to strong thighs, one knee bent to a perfect ninety-degree angle, the other straight to the side. Jon’s balance was a thing of beauty.

“This would be better if you weren’t wearing a shirt.” He was pleased his voice didn’t waver.

“No peace in the world. People killing people. All over the place.”

Shut up! Shut the fuck up!

Jon laughed and pulled off his shirt, then spread his arms again. His beautiful back was on display, the muscles smooth as they tapered toward his round ass beneath the gym shorts he’d changed into after cleaning the kitchen.

Tracey dug deep to block Jacob Finch’s voice— “No peace. People killing people.” The sniper haunted him at the worst possible moments.

You’re dead. You can’t hurt me anymore.

He waited for the next invasion, Finch’s next taunt, the loud pop of Special Agent Sarena Mercado’s killing shot, which had taken Finch down. Nothing happened.

The remainder of his workout was pleasant. Jon transitioned through the poses with him, waggling his eyebrows suggestively but otherwise not interfering so Tracey could complete the routine for his leg’s benefit.

Despite the workout not being as vigorous as his previous training sessions, Tracey broke a sweat and needed a shower. The disquiet from the memories, coupled with mediocre news from his doctor’s appointment and lingering unease, had him feeling particularly raw. When Jon offered to accompany him upstairs to spend the rest of the evening relaxing in bed, he readily accepted.

“Moment of truth.” He eyed the stairs, swallowing against a sudden wave of nervousness.

“You’ve got this.”

“Without further ado….” Tracey gripped the railing and started up, wincing when the transition between steps put pressure on his calf. “It hurts to put all my weight on the ball of my right foot.”

“I bet. That’s when your muscle is its most flexed. Can you stand it?”

He tried again, breathing through it. “It’s not awesome, but you know what?”

“What?” Jon’s fingertips brushed the small of his back.

He appreciated not being babied, but loved knowing Jon was there just in case. “It’s so much easier without those fucking torture sticks. Both arms free. No balancing on a device that keeps me from feeling the floor.”

“Fuck those asshole crutches.”

“Fuck ’em. My armpits are crying in relief.”

“I bet.”

“Jon?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, babe.”

“There’s no ‘of course.’ You’ve helped me so much. I’m grateful.”

They reached the top of the steps, the balcony overlooking the family room ahead, the door to their—Jon’s—bedroom to the right. Tracey turned to enter, but Jon stopped him with a hand on his elbow.

“I’m glad you’re here, Tracey. Really glad.”

The meaning wasn’t lost on Tracey. He almost hadn’t been here.

S leep wasn’t Tracey’s problem, thanks to the guided meditation fellow agent Perry Vaughn provided him.

Dreams were the trouble. Tonight, he was the passenger in a government-issued SUV, unable to see the driver.

They were stuck in a perpetual car chase, an unknown pursuer slamming into them. Over and over, the vehicle flipped and rolled. He got dizzy with the constant spinning. The only reprieve was when he was yanked through breaking glass—until the muzzle of a gun jammed into his jaw.

These nightmares weren’t hard to understand.

Jacob Finch chanted like a deranged narrator on a loudspeaker. “No peace, no peace, no peace.”

While Jon had been present in the real-life Finch clusterfuck, he was never in Tracey’s nightmares. The life-saving bullet Sarena Mercado fired always, always missed its mark in the dream and embedded in Tracey’s body. Sometimes in his chest. Sometimes in his forehead. His world would go black.

They said dying in your dreams wasn’t possible.

Tracey died in his all the time.

Like right now.

He jerked awake and rocketed up, taking great, gulping breaths, fighting the nauseating dizziness of a tumbling vehicle and misplaced bullet.

“Trace?”

Jon pulled him into a tight embrace, his arms warm. It was as good as putting a foot on the floor to stop a spinning room. His vertigo faded. He clung to that lifeline, burying his face in Jon’s neck.

“It’s okay. Breathe, baby. It’s not real. Finch is dead. You’re here with me. It’s eleven forty-two on Thursday, October nineteenth. You’re home. Not in St. Louis. You’re okay. I promise, you’ll be okay.”

Jon’s warmth against his cold, clammy skin sent a shiver through his whole body. A mighty throb shockwaved up his calf and thigh, and he couldn’t help releasing a whimper.

“Pain?”

A nod was all he could manage. If he spoke, he’d sob.

“Want a pill?”

A head shake.

“What can I do?”

They’d been through these episodes enough that Jon wouldn’t push him to talk. It was futile. After several minutes, some throat clearing and croaked attempts at words, he finally got the air he needed to speak.

“Just hold me.”

“Always.”

Jon rearranged them so Tracey’s head was on his chest, an arm across his waist. They lay entangled for several minutes, Jon’s hands roaming in soothing circles up and down his back and arm. Tracey threw his leg over the top of Jon’s, and he flexed his foot to test his calf for spasms. It wasn’t so bad now.

“Good?”

“Yeah, I think so. No charley horses. So far.”

Those were the worst, when the muscle bunched, and Tracey screamed in agony. On those nights, a heavy-duty painkiller from his dwindling prescription helped. It was hit or miss if Jon massaging his leg could relax the muscle. Sometimes a hot bath worked, even as Tracey practically sobbed in Jon’s arms. Those cramps were no joke.

“Fucking nightmares.”

Jon chuckled. “I can relate.”

Tracey hesitated, then figured it was better to say it. “I’d hate waking up alone after that.” It was true, but his earlier unease during dinner burbled to his mental surface. He had enough to deal with right now, so he shoved it away.

Jon peered at him, features barely outlined by the residual streetlight through the window. “I like you here. Considering I’m not the best sleeper either, this situation benefits us both.”

“Not sure how when my flailing around wakes you up.”

Jon kissed the top of his head. “I don’t mind. I like your company. And you smell good.”

“Ugh. I smell like rancid sweat. Need another shower.”

“If you shower now, you’ll never get back to sleep.” Jon rolled so he was on top. “You smell like a man, and I happen to like it.” He buried his nose in Tracey’s collarbone and inhaled like a connoisseur savoring a fine wine.

“Flatterer.”

Instead of answering, Jon kissed the junction of Tracey’s neck and shoulder, sending a different kind of shiver down his spine. Nuzzling, he murmured, “I’m telling the truth. I love the way you smell. It makes me want to devour you.”

The nightmare’s dregs fell away, and Tracey let himself be redirected. “No one’s stopping you.”

Jon rested on his elbows to look Tracey in the eye, his fingers caressing Tracey’s face, smoothing along his beard. He’d grown it during his medical leave, and per FBI regulations, was keeping it neatly trimmed. “Are you up for it?”

Tracey smiled. “Define ‘it.’”

“You define it. I’m happy to make you feel good in whatever way you want. And I’m not the one healing from a gunshot wound.”

In answer, Tracey kissed him, parting Jon’s lips with a tentative poke of his tongue, not sure if he should go brush his teeth before diving in. Jon didn’t seem to care, dialing the kiss up to eleven.

Between them, Jon’s cock lengthened and Tracey pressed his hips into it, reveling in Jon’s arousal. Since first coming together, they’d explored quite a bit between the sheets, but Jon let Tracey set the pace. He was, after all, the baby bisexual in this relationship.

Since that first time in St. Louis, Tracey had topped Jon several times, but he had yet to bottom. At first, the idea was unnerving. Then his recovery took his focus. Lately, he’d been imagining taking Jon’s cock. He was still nervous, but no longer firmly camped in the land of “no.”

Tracey parted his thighs and gripped Jon’s ass, pointedly digging his fingers into those beautiful gluteus muscles. “I want you to fuck me.”

Jon paused, returning to his elbows. “You sure?”

“Yes?”

“Are you asking or telling?” Jon’s smile was infectious, and some of the pressure receded.

“Telling. But you’ll, um, you’ll tell me if I’m doing something wrong, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“I may… have some questions first.”

Rolling to the side, Jon settled in, tracing his fingertips along Tracey’s chest. “Fire away.”

Tracey swallowed, suddenly embarrassed beyond belief. “The gross stuff? You know.”

“Ah, the gross stuff.” Jon was completely relaxed as though they weren’t discussing the less savory logistics of anal sex. “You know this, Tracey. You’ve already showered once tonight. Those psyllium husk fiber supplements we take are a bottom’s best friend. But if you’re really not convinced things are as regular as regular can be, there are a couple of kits under the sink. You can, uh, take care of business and we don’t ever have to speak of this part again if you don’t want to.”

Tracey raised a brow. “Do you do this stuff?”

Jon grinned. “I do, if I know in advance. But here’s a little secret, Trace. Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Sex is a beautiful, hot, sexy mess sometimes. Not that I’m into… gross stuff, but I like spontaneity. The fiber supplements work, at least for me. But I’m also not weirded out by a little clean up. It comes with the territory. You do what you need for your comfort, but don’t worry about my judgment. There are always jerks, but I promise I’m not that guy.”

Thinking about it, Tracey ran his fingers around Jon’s cheekbones and down his jaw to trace the edge of his bottom lip. “I’m overthinking this, aren’t I?”

“It’s new to you. It’s understandable.”

“I’m nervous about… you know. Something going in my butthole. Does it hurt?”

Jon smiled and kissed the tip of Tracey’s finger. “It can at first, even if we’re careful. But then, there’s a moment where the pain subsides, and everything relaxes, and you just need . For some guys, that need is to get the dick out. For me, it’s nirvana. It’s hard to explain. Not everyone likes it, but for those of us who do, it’s incredible.”

Tracey nodded. “So I won’t know which one I am unless I try it.”

“Or you could have an opinion in the middle, who knows? It’s okay not to do it on the spur of the moment after you’re already tense from a nightmare. We can plan this better.”

He was already shaking his head. “The flaw in that logic is I’ll have time to build it up and freak out. I need spur of the moment. You’re right, the fiber thing works, and I’ve showered. I want this.”

Jon studied him for a moment. “You sure?”

“Yes. Jon Anderson, please pop my anal cherry.”

Half laughing, half groaning, Jon kissed him.

Talking through his insecurities made Tracey feel better, but it had also dampened his ardor. However, Jon’s kisses and caresses revved him up again. Gooseflesh rippled along his skin, and his dick perked in moments.

At the Bureau, Jon Anderson was poised, intensely controlled, and hard to read. It was how he got the nickname “Ice Man.” At home, however, he was relaxed and comfortable, letting Tracey past his walls. This man was fucking gorgeous and considerate. Yes, he was reserved, but he was also kind and protective. Tracey should feel lucky to be here.

Jon’s weight anchored him to the bed. He distracted himself by running his fingers through that normally perfect hair. Tonight, Jon’s attention was intense. And Tracey was nervous to bottom.

It was normal to feel like his skin didn’t fit.

Jon spent time kissing down Tracey’s chest, laving his tongue around his nipples, taking advantage of their sensitivity so Tracey’s focus was split when Jon’s hand lowered between his legs.

He bypassed his aching dick to rub behind his balls to the skin of his perineum. Tracey widened his legs, torn between sensations in a way that had him growing more and more aroused.

It was like this with Jon; each time they came together, he discovered something new about sex, about himself. Tracey was learning new ways to come, unearthing Jon’s erotic tells, and finding a new appreciation of the human body—especially his boyfriend’s.

Sometimes, Jon teased him to the begging point. That didn’t appear to be the intention tonight. He was more deliberate as he massaged the sensitive skin around Tracey’s hole.

While Tracey respected the multi-faceted approach to playing his body like an instrument, he needed Jon close. Hands alongside Jon’s jawline, he pulled him into a fierce kiss just as Jon’s finger breached him. Gasping, he let the sensation wash over him, accepting both the finger and Jon’s tongue simultaneously.

It overwhelmed him, and he stopped kissing to rest their foreheads together.

“Okay?”

He couldn’t speak, so he nodded, trying to decide if he liked the sensation. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried this in the shower.

“Let me get the lube and a condom.” Jon kissed his lips and then disappeared for a moment, rolling to his nightstand drawer for supplies.

He quickly returned, and Tracey hauled him on top, having missed him even for those few seconds. He wanted him as close as possible.

“Still good?”

“Yes. Please keep going.”

Jon slicked his fingers, and before Tracey knew it, the single digit was back, sliding home with an ease that surprised him. It felt good, better than he’d thought it would. Until suddenly, it wasn’t enough.

“More.”

Jon kissed down Tracey’s neck as he added another, and oh God, yeah, that stretch hurt a little bit. Tracey’s breathing was harsh and loud, and he hugged Jon tight. But he didn’t stop him. In a few minutes, this too became pleasurable-to-not-enough.

Jon fingered him for a good long time, kissing him deep and rutting against his hip until they were both a writhing mass of pleasure, flesh, and heartbeats.

“Jon, enough already. Fuck me. Please, please, please.”

With a chuckle, Jon withdrew and rolled on the condom. His hands shook, and Tracey realized perhaps the slowdown wasn’t only for his benefit. So when Jon positioned a pillow beneath Tracey’s hips and carefully hiked his thighs over his forearms, the head of his dick poised to enter him, he didn’t comment on the deliberately measured pace.

He caressed Jon’s beautiful face, with cheekbones that could cut glass, and those fierce blue eyes. This moment would be burned into his memory, and he was glad it was now, with someone so careful, who made sure he was ready.

The stretch and burn seared him into his physicality like nothing else ever had. Jon fell forward to cradle him close, one hand between them to gently guide his hard dick into Tracey at a measured pace. Then, his pelvis was against Tracey’s ass and his hand slid up to curl around Tracey’s shoulder.

“Are you in? All the way?”

“Yes.” The word was breathy, like Jon was as overwhelmed as Tracey. “I need to move soon. Are you okay?”

“I don’t know. It’s… a lot.”

Jon’s hips thrust minutely, and Tracey gasped.

“Do that again.”

He did, and the initial burn in Tracey’s core gave way to something else, something inside that needed . Jon was right. There was no describing this with words, but he needed Jon to move.

He tested a tiny hip roll of his own and groaned, not only because it angled Jon’s cock in a way that emphasized the stretch of his rim, but also added friction to his dick against Jon’s abs. Oh, this was nice. Very, very nice.

Twining his arms and legs around Jon, Tracey held on for dear life. “Jon?”

“Mmm?”

“Go.”

Jon got the memo and fucked Tracey in ways his fantasies of bottoming could never have conceived. He turned him inside out, made him fly, and gave his chills their own chills. When his nerves sang Tracey desperately grabbed his dick and stroked.

“You gonna come?” Jon reared up and held Tracey’s legs behind the knees, his focus split between Tracey’s face and his dick disappearing into Tracey’s body.

“I—God. I fucking hoooooope sooooooo.” Tracey couldn’t help howling as everything in his whole being snapped like a too-tight guitar string, and let go. His orgasm obliterated him outward from his core, like a tidal wave rippling through every cell and reverberating back on itself.

Jon groaned at Tracey’s spunk jetting up his chest. He buried his erection deep as those spasms milked his answering climax. Tracey’s comedown waned, and he watched the last vestiges of Jon’s big moment before he collapsed forward, carelessly smearing Tracey’s spend between them.

Tracey lazily flapped his hands along Jon’s back, having zero energy to hug him like he wanted. He kissed where he could reach, though—Jon’s temple and cheek, his shoulder, and as Jon turned his face, those plush lips. They were breathing too hard to maintain it, though.

Then Tracey started laughing.

“What? What’s funny?”

“I can’t believe I was scared to bottom. We are definitely doing that again.”

Jon grinned into Tracey’s neck. “Okay. But take it easy. We can’t have you limping into work tomorrow.”

“Uh, Jon?”

“Yeah?”

“I already limp. It’s the perfect cover.”

“Oh God. You do. I’m in so much trouble.”