by Calico
Okay, so he wasn't "Vic" at that point. He was an intruder, and probably off
his guard at being cornered by a white-rose-bearing assailant—but surely
that should get him angrier, make him focus more and do more damage, instead
of tensing with this palpable uneasiness.
For a moment Mac had thought it was a feint, winning his confidence, and then
he felt the stutter in Vic's movement as he took him down, and knew this
guy was pulling his punches—not pulling exactly, but doing something to
them. As if he had a second agenda. Mac half-wondered if he had been
stealing, had something valuable stashed away in his pocket that he didn't
want Mac to get acquainted with.
It hardly seemed a great survival technique; after all, come on, the guy was
up against Mac—he needed every critical hit he could land. There didn't
seem much sense in undermining the small minority of blows that actually hit
home.
Mac had hesitated, wary, and Vic had focussed and struck cleanly with more
force than Mac'd thought the patently inferior fighter was capable of. Jaw
clenched, cursing his apparently inappropriate conceit, Mac had crunched one
hand in passing against his ribs and made a feint of his own—and then they
were matched equal, glaring and circling, and Vic's fists developed the sort
of cruel accuracy that had made Mac's eyes sting for weeks in memory.
Then as they locked into rolling angrily about the floor, Mac felt the heat
of the other man's exertion billow around his own blood, and realised this
was not just a little dangerous, and snatched his gun out as fast as
possible. Yeah, get some distance into the picture.
About the time Li Ann interrupted, he had pretty much worked out why Vic had
been so off at first. And was cursing, because despite all the training and
precision and hard-graft Tang speciality drills, he couldn't help but tense
up wrongly when Vic's fingers locked around his collar, and the hot drag of
his breath against his cheek made his stomach cramp up, and no amount of
fighterly discipline was gonna make up for this one. Mac had no chance—he
had a pulse, for chrissakes. He was an all-round red-blooded
generally-hetero-but-open-to-diverse-possibilities healthy guy. And, he'd
discovered, Vic Mansfield was definitely a diverse possibility. Mac was
definitely distracted. But then, who could blame him? Vic had a pretty strong
effect on anyone within breathing distance.
Well, okay. That, at least, was what he told himself. And late at night,
one arm working his dick with the other thrown over his eyes, he admitted
that maybe it was just him, just them. That sort of thought was oddly enough
to get him off each time.
The yielding gold of evening light made Mac look good. Victor watched -
surreptitiously, of course. Mac looked good. Really good. He always looked
good, but this was, well, even better. His skin glowed warmly, his hair was a
glassy black full of splintered precious metals, and his eyes blazed.
His eyes blazed even more when he spun round and faced Vic off. "For christ's
sake, Vic, I can feel you breathing down the back of my neck! Do you have
to walk so close behind me?"
Vic blinked, then scowled—convincingly, he felt. "Excuse me? I think you're
being the tiniest bit overprotective of your personal space, there—what,
you want me on the other side of the street or something?"
"Other side of the city would do fine—"
"Works for me." He grinned. "Actually, yeah, definitely, that's got real
merit compared with most of your ideas—since then I wouldn't have to give
you a ride back to Vancouver."
Mac laughed shortly. "Sorry, but that'd be doing me a favour. A ride in
that..." His expression twisted with distaste. "...vehicle really doesn't
rate on my list of things to be seen doing today. Promise me something,
Victor, okay? If I ever die in the call of duty, you won't let them use your
truck for a hearse."
Not seen dead in it—well that was fine by Vic. "Like I said, the thought of
leaving you here is very tempting. See how well that suit survives on
public transport." He folded his arms, nodding at the horizon behind Mac's
shoulder. "Meanwhile, though, can we get moving? I wanna get back to my
farmyard vehicle before the sun goes down." He smiled nastily. "Don't
worry, the bus station is in this direction as well."
Mac rolled his eyes and turned away, then tossed back, "Sure, whatever, let's
get going—just keep away, stop treading on my fucking heels, all right?"
"Don't flatter yourself."
"Excuse me? I'm not saying you can help it—in those shoes, it's a miracle
you can walk anywhere without getting stopped by fashion police in riot gear
- but please, Vic, just make an effort to keep a few paces behind." He
started walking, then flashed him back a sudden, blinding smile. "Unless of
course, you just can't help trying to get close to me," he drawled, eyes hard
and mocking.
Vic, thinking that was a little too close to the truth for comfort, shot him
a look of disgusted disbelief. "Whatever, right." His voice swam in sarcasm.
"That's it, I'm drawn to you, moth to a flame. I've lost all vestige of
taste and now I want you, baby."
Mac ignored him, looking forward again, irritably picking up his pace. Long,
long legs... Vic lengthened his own stride, falling into place beside him. "I
don't see a reason for us not to walk next to each other," he said, tensely
aware that the irritation in his voice would read as restrained lust on any
lie detector worth its microphone.
"Actually," Mac said, voice rich with insincere enthusiasm, "other than the
fact that the Director ordered us to and the fact that the further away you
are from me the better, I can't think of one good reason why not either!"
"Well, firstly, as if you care about her orders when she's not in the same
city," Vic said sharply, widening the space between them to prevent the risk
of brushing elbows, "and secondly, it's safer in line. Some reason, my safety
is more important to me than your freakish sense of personal-space
violation."
"Well, firstly," Mac mimicked, "if you think we stop being under her
control just because we've crossed the border then you're just as big an
idiot as I've always suspected—have you forgotten Washington already?
Would've thought that would've stuck in your mind."
"That was your fault," Vic started, then broke off when Mac ignored him.
"—And secondly, yeah, I can feel the danger radiating from this sunny
little suburb, I can just imagine getting jumped by, who would it be, two old
ladies wielding those tartan trolleys on wheels?" He flashed him a saccharine
smile. "Don't look confused, Vic, I know you've got one at home. Probably
keep your golf clubs in it, right?"
"Golf clubs in a tartan trolley? You have a weird idea of my homelife,
Ramsey."
"Hey, you strike me as the kinda guy who'd have jealously guarded golf club
membership, okay? It's a vibe you give off—right up there with 'talk slow
and maybe I'll—"
"Whatever," Vic interrupted irritably. "I think you've forgotten, though; we
aren't parked in your nice little suburb. So being jumped here isn't
actually the problem."
"Yeah," Mac agreed sarcastically, turning up the side street that led back
into the city, "I can really see sudden fierce danger lurking in the two
minutes of scary shadow between here and your truck."
"Uh, Mac? You do realise we've taken the long winding route to avoid
suspicion, don't you? So let's see, if that's required, surely it's not
difficult to work out this place can't be totally harmless?" He paused, then
affected chagrin. "Oh wait, I forgot, working things out requires
thinking—jeez, man, sorry about that. Forgot you lacked the vital
equipment in that area."
They took a left, getting the sun in their eyes. Vic could see the truck,
alone on the road; a dark block with light glancing off its side. He swept
his gaze up and down the road, squinting against the light, looking for
trouble. Nothing. Deserted, as they'd left it. Good.
"We went the long way round because the Director decided she wanted to make
us walk further," Mac told him, with the air of one talking to a small and
particularly dumb eight-year-old kid. "C'mon, Vic, you don't think this place
is actually dangerous, do you? Get real."
"With you around, everything's dangerous. You probably shouldn't go near
kitchen utensils. That reminds me, have you figured out the child lock on
your vitamins, yet?"
Mac stopped, glaring at him. "Why? You want me to come round help you break
into your latest dose of Viagra? Oh fuck, sorry, you can't get anyone to date
you, can you? Just no demand for your supply." His lips were twisted in a way
that could disable anyone with clear vision for miles around. "Strippers the
best you can do nowadays, is that right? And even them only on a bribe."
Vic glared back, pissed that the sun made a gorgeously spiked halo of Mac's
silhouette and irritably aware he was squinting so the glare probably wasn't
having the desired affect. He could feel nervous energy rushing through his
veins, just itching to boil up into a fight. "You can talk," he said, lame
even to his own ears.
Mac met his eyes with a sneer. "That's right, and I can get a date with
whoever I want, too," he said slowly, insolence radiating from him like an
aura.
"And then you wake up..."
Mac took a breath to reply, then his posture tightened, and a gleam that
looked suspiciously like relief shot through the defensive eyes. Vic started
to turn round, startled by a jarring rattle of footsteps slapping out behind
him, but Mac grabbed his arm instead and then Vic was running, Mac beside
him, being tugged unceremoniously into the mouth of a damp alley as a brawl
broke out around him. Fuck. So much for avoiding suspicion. He spun a full
360, checking the dead end was well and truly dead before bringing his fist
up into some random thug's chin—hearing the snap that told him damn, the
bastard hadn't cushioned his teeth with a nice buffer of tongue.
The thoughts going through his head when he fought generally weren't healthy,
but they did great things for focussing aggression. His knuckles stung, and
might bruise later, but it was gonna be nothing compared to the colour
already blooming on this man's eye.
He was dimly aware of Mac fighting beside him, and they held the alley
together—what, there were seven of them? That was not nice odds. Vic
ducked sideways as a fist swung dangerously close to his jaw, meeting Mac's
eyes briefly as he caught a man's wrist and jerked him backwards, then felt
him crumple under Mac's well-aimed blow. Vic tossed him down on the asphalt,
spinning to kick another assailant back against the wall. He was shivering
inside, that one hot moment of eye contact recurring on him like a demented
skin-flick, and tried to get the rush out his system with a few
unnecessarily-forceful blows.
He heard a hollow crack as another man went down, winced in delighted empathy
and spun to take out another, and then he became spectacularly aware of Mac
fighting beside him, and that was bad news. Now that they'd gone and mutually
reduced the ambush to an assortment of slumped men gazing blearily at their
fallen comrades, the sight of Mac taking the last one down against the wall
became despicably, viciously captivating.
Vic was supposed to be watching the guys on the ground. He knew that. They
were the enemy. It was standard procedure. It was a bad, bad idea to let
your guard down. He wasn't sure exactly which moment he'd actively decided to
ignore so many years of training and let his eyes drawl leisurely over his
partner as the remaining thug was taught a few nifty things about cause and
effect, but then, he suddenly wasn't sure of anything else, either.
Part of him was aghast—they could be getting ready to jump you, you dumb
fuck!—and the rest of him, the rest of him was purring, watching the
precise force of each grasp, the length of those legs, those broad shoulders,
the bulge in his silhouette where his gun was tucked hastily down the back of
his pants, his ass—worth a second look, worth about seven thousand second
looks and a quick taste besides—and then, with satisfaction, the tension
snapping through his whole body as Mac delivered one final blow and slung his
captive silently down onto the asphalt.
Vic had actually wondered if sufficient pissing off of Mac would jump-start a
bit of that physicality and score himself a quick grope, but the bulge of the
fallen man's eyes told him that no, it wasn't worth it. Better to retain the
family jewels and get in some hot visual action to recycle some time later.
"Handcuffs?"
Vic shook his head. "They've got 'em on already." He glanced down at the two
men he'd immobilised, then wryly back at Mac. "Didn't think to bring seven
pairs."
Mac grinned. "I 'spose you're not imaginative enough to be that kinky," he
slurred, almost playfully, and Vic could see his eyes were still dangerously
bright from exertion.
"Right," he agreed, hoping his abrupt breathlessness would be attributed to
the same grounds.
Mac slicked out his mobile, pressing speed dial. "I need someone to pick up
six—no, seven men from the corner of Hatch Avenue as soon as possible," he
said, after a moment. "No, don't worry. What? They're in no state to resist."
His eyes gleamed again, lasering into Vic's like electric heat, then he
murmured provocatively, "I promise."
Vic's mouth felt dry. He wondered what Mac's reaction would be if he was
suddenly faced with an earnest Vic Mansfield asking to be fucked as soon as
possible.
"Three minutes? Sure." He snapped the phone closed and slid it seamlessly
back into his jacket. "Three minutes," he said decisively, with a little nod.
"There's rope in the truck," Vic supplied helpfully, handing him the keys,
and Mac nodded and went for it. His ass looked good in the evening light,
too. He did turn a moment too quickly and catch him staring, but Vic
squinted vaguely, and hoped it wasn't too obvious that the sun couldn't get
in his eyes because, actually, he was standing safely in the lip of a dark
alley. Maybe Mac would attribute it to reflection off the truck door, or
something. He swallowed; get yourself under control, Mansfield.
It was a damn fine ass.
Was he staring? Could be. He couldn't be certain. Sure, he'd got some kind
of vibe from Vic today, but it was mostly annoying shit—made worse by the
way he himself seemed to be incessantly on the verge of a prominent hard-on -
and anyway, he wasn't exactly an unbiased observer.
Still, he felt his hips loosen as he padded back to the alley, just in case.
Vic held out his hand for the rope, all stiffly official-cop,
please-don't-handle-the-merchandise, and that was just frustrating enough for
him to ignore that palm (blunt and warm-looking; potential!, screamed his
mind,) and tie the men up himself.
Vic checked the knots, then carefully, deliberately retied one, leaving Mac a
shade off seething. He would have to have the last word. Vic turned with a
bright smile. "Yeah, lucky we're just walking through this nice safe city,
lucky we're not complacent now the truck's in sight, huh?"
His voice was earnestly sarcastic. Smug bastard. Mac glared at him, with a
view to staring him down. Vic stared back, holding the smirk in dark green
eyes for a few moments before it melted away, and then this was suddenly
wrong, suddenly heady, they were both breathing gently and there wasn't an
excuse, no distraction of ambush or convenient rainstorm, just Vic's rich
clear gaze—Mac's eyes were itching to look away or blink or maybe explode
in a shower of sparks—He dragged up his control and blinked insolently,
making a show of it.
Unfortunately, Vic looked just as good when his eyes opened again. The sun
was setting properly, and Mac told himself that that was it, that was the
reason, the light was the thing, was why Vic looked exotic and black-eyed
and gorgeous and edible and fuck but this must be showing in his face.
Something was showing in Vic's, at least. Something like loathing and
something like contempt, and something like superiority, and something like
sex. And for some bizarre, twisted reason, the loathing and the contempt and
the superiority were dragging panicked heat into his body, turning him on and
weakening his heart and blanketing the edge of his vision, while the
something like sex was merely making him about as hard as he'd ever been in
his life.
Hardly an elegant package. Thank the lord and Armani for long, stylish coats.
One of the men made a noise, and Vic stubbed his heel backward into his spine
without looking away. Mac felt a shot of heat, and swallowed, and did his
best to make that look insolent as well but wasn't sure how successful he'd
been. It was like the caustic density between them had finally evolved; he'd
been waiting, but hadn't expected this; curt, skating gossamer sexuality,
effortlessly slamming aside his defences and laving deeply beneath his skin.
There was a silky flow of coolness over his skin, shocking because he felt so
warm, inevitable because the sun really was sinking and the wind was picking
up and they were in the shadow of a dead-end alley but it wasn't a great
wind-break.
Vic's eyes were so, so dark. This was ridiculous, now; they were beginning to
get looks off their captives, he was sure of it, and what's more, this was
weird, this was eerie, there was something seriously wrong about gazing
aggressively into your male partner's eyes over seven fallen bodies as the
sun went down.
Gee, ya think? Full marks for observation there, Ramsey.
Abruptly, two cars were drawing in, and Mac's head jerked round to make sure
it was their cars and not Their cars, and no, it was okay, there were the
uniforms, helpful and wary and he could understand that, because look at
them, this was two special agents standing unarmed over a whole group of
trussed-up thugs. Plus Mac felt like he was surrounded by conspicuous little
flames. You could forgive them a little wariness.
Irritatingly efficient as ever, Vic cleared everyone off; even offered to
ship someone home in the truck, and Mac hoped it didn't show that he was
incredibly grateful when the cops shook their heads. He wanted to get away,
get alone again. Hell, and for their part, the cops probably didn't want to
risk being with these mutually-smouldering weirdos somewhere where someone
might recognise them.
He noticed, with a degree of relief and another of glee, that now Vic had
started avoiding his eye. It was tempting, actually, to play with; there were
a thousand ways you could contrive to invade-yet-not your partner's space,
especially when he was flustered, and he could almost forget his own
awkwardness while enjoying the way Vic's warm, tense body held strictly away
from him.
The handcuffs felt like a prize, taking them out of Vic's hand—especially
since they were rightfully Vic's, making it a testament to his confusion that
he didn't put up a fight.
"Keys," Vic demanded, as they stood by the truck, "You had them last," and
actually Mac hadn't locked it but he wasn't about to admit that.
"My pocket," he said instead, brandishing an armful of rope.
Vic hesitated, meeting his eyes again, and Mac flashed a challenge in lieu of
a grin. A streetlight came on weakly behind him, and maybe that was why Vic's
skin was tinged temporarily pink. Mac's grin threatened to widen; he didn't
think external factors were entirely responsible for that flash of
colour...
Mac turned slightly away. "Back pocket," he elaborated, congratulating
himself on the unwitting fortune that meant he'd stored them there instead of
somewhere more accessible, and then grinned privately as Vic hesitated
further before determinedly holding Mac's coat aside and sliding his fingers
in to get the keys.
The Mac of twenty minutes ago would've thought that this was the closest he
was gonna get to Vic cupping his ass. Now, though, he had different ideas.
Vic snatched the keys out and went to unlock the door, but not before Mac had
pressed gently back into that warm, firm hand and decided he'd felt an
involuntary pressure in return.
Mac walked round the front of the truck and got in, dumping the rope behind
the seat. Vic said nothing, just shot him a sharp glance and flicked the
ignition and started driving, and that was kinda amusing too.
Mac had been expecting at least a comeback to the unlocked door, if nothing
else. The engine thrummed, and a stream of cold air issued in through the
heater. Mac thumbed it up and sat back, stretched his legs out, wrist slung
casually over his warm crotch, head back on the seat, eyes closed. He knew he
looked good. When he rubbed his wrist absently and felt a swerve of gravity
in the car, he knew Vic knew he looked good too.
It was, though, a long drive back. And for all his posture, he really
couldn't genuinely even begin to relax. His neck was giving out twinges on
all the sharp turns, and he didn't trust his breathing. Another problem with
this posture was the freedom it didn't give him to sit any other way; the
grind of his own wrist wasn't doing great things to calm the libido.
They turned onto the freeway and picked up speed, and finally the heater
kicked in, filling the compartment with seeping, slightly acrid warm air. Vic
made an annoyed noise in his throat and turned it off altogether.
Mac turned his head to his window and watched it all rove by—the different
densities of blackness, the steady sweep of freshly-woken streetlights, all
restrained by a fuzzy metal rail with invisible banisters rushing endlessly
past—and then he looked up ahead again, imagined how hot it would feel to
push into Vic's slicked up body, especially if he could drive them home at
the same time. His body tensed further, and he realised he simply wasn't
going to survive this trip unless he took the edge off some of this tension.
There was a gas station, poorly lit, coming up ahead, with a sign that
boasted grease even from half a mile away.
"Hey."
"Hmm?"
"Hey, pull over."
Vic frowned, still looking at the road. "Because...?"
"I've gotta take a piss."
Vic's frown didn't entirely go away, but he went for the brake and drew
obligingly off the road.
Mac smiled. "You want anything?" he asked lightly, one hand on the door
catch.
"No thanks."
Liar, he grinned. "Sure, whatever."
Vic had stopped them inconveniently right in the back corner of the gas
ranks, and it was a bit of a stretch to the little shop. Mac made the most of
it, imagining Vic's eyes tracing hot snakes down his back.
Coming out of the washroom and back into the shop, Mac wondered if Vic could
see him as he paid for a tube of mints at the counter; it was brightly lit,
and the truck was effectively invisible, so that'd make it risk-free. Vic
could stare without any fear of being caught.
Then he realised sheepishly that it didn't matter whether Vic was getting
some sort of voyeuristic kick out of watching him or not—the thought
counted, and the thought of Vic sitting there, perhaps gripping the wheel,
perhaps rubbing the heel of his hand over his crotch, maybe spreading his
thighs and sitting forward, biting that oh-so-bitable lip—yeah, those
thoughts counted a lot. It'd been all he could do not to jack off in the
men's room, plagued as he was.
He almost had, actually; very tempting, to get back in the truck feeling
languid and satisfied, while Vic still buzzed sexily with all that tension.
On the other hand, experiencing that tension first hand, that would easily
make up for a bit longer doing the agonised squirming thing—and he was
feeling pretty confident he'd be able get something out of this situation,
even if Vic wouldn't respect him in the morning... Because that would make
such a change, right?
He wondered if the cctv would pick up on his hard-on, if some night security
guard somewhere was getting het up for the safety of the cashier. Then he
thought about buying condoms, and Vic's reaction if he tossed a packet into
his lap when he returned, and actually hesitated when the woman asked if he
wanted anything else.
"No, that's it; thanks," he said, a moment later, trying not to grin. Okay,
so maybe he'd regret this later, but given the tension of the situation
already, returning with what was basically a request for Vic to come over and
bounce on his cock, that might just scare him off a bit.
Little hot spikes tightened all over him as his imagination kicked in and
treated him to some personalised top-quality porn. He paused at the wide
glass door, one hand drawing coolness from the red plastic handle. He should
have known better than to have thought about that. Or about Vic straddling
his lap on strained thighs, sinking down hard with a curse between his teeth.
Like, he really should have known better. As he walked back through the
aisles of silent gas pumps, breathing deep lungfuls of petrol-tainted air, he
warned himself that mental images came remarkably quick this evening.
Then again, given the right ass, so could he.
Vic's fingers tightened on the wheel as Mac coasted the door open again.
Couldn't he do anything without reminding Vic of sex and how much he needed
some with this guy? Apparently not. Mac offered him a mint (handjob),
shrugged lightly when he refused (the squirm he'd make with Vic's mouth on
his cock), then slotted his seatbelt in with a click (oh lord) and tested it
absently with one finger (he was gonna pass out).
Then he appeared to be considering something. Vic sat there, willing himself
to get his act together and drive, failing spectacularly. His thighs were
aching softly, and he needed to be touched; the lack of defined sensation was
driving him mad.
Mac glanced over at him, and Vic wanted to look away, but this was like last
time, in the alley, this was like last time but in a confined private space
and therefore infinitely more dangerous. His breath heated, and then Mac
shrugged again and said "what the hell," and leaned over sharply, reaching
for him and then they were kissing—he was being kissed. It went incredibly
well, one of Mac's proprietary hands slotting warmly between Vic's thighs,
the other holding his head still as Vic squirmed against his seatbelt and had
his mouth invaded, and wondered what life had been like before it had
transcended into something that felt kinda like a kiss, kinda like being
treated to the ride of his life, and kinda like world war three.
He moaned helplessly and melted into it. When Mac drew back, they were both
breathing fast and hard. Mac gave him a shaky grin and nodded. "Right, yeah,"
and then, as an afterthought, "jesus."
Mac paused again, swallowed, then made an unsteadily grand gesture with one
sweeping hand. "The right time, and the wrong place." He was still idly
handling Vic's thigh, and Vic realised with a start that he'd spread his legs
almost without thinking, body trying to offer about as much access as any man
could possibly appreciate.
He swallowed, nodded, and tore his gaze away. His seatbelt was digging into
his arm where he'd twisted; would probably leave a red mark. He moved the car
forward, hoping like hell that no one was interested in making him drive on
anything other than autopilot, and moved his leg against Mac's hand.
Mac squeezed, and they moved back onto the road with the smallest of jolts
going through the car's system in response. Mac snorted gently and took his
hand away, then muttered "oh, jesus," and put it back, fingertips pressing
right up against Vic's crotch, making him take a sharp breath and arch his
back.
"I'm gonna fucking crash," he warned, picking up speed in a vain hope of
getting away from the torture—or getting to a place where it could continue
indefinitely.
"There, up ahead," Mac said quickly, nodding at an exit.
"D'you know where it goes?"
"D'you care?" Mac retorted, and Vic laughed softly and realised he didn't, he
couldn't less, he was absolutely past caring in every shape and form of the
word—except about time, he cared about time, especially when it was the
specific time between getting his hands on Mac's cock, as soon as possible,
and now, right now, when he was probably showing the steering wheel the drive
of its life but it wasn't nearly as important as Mac's grip on his thigh.
"No," he said belatedly, taking the exit hard, driving for a few aching
minutes before seeing a smaller road with darkness up ahead, and as long as
this wasn't some house full of prying kids then it was good enough.
He heard the click of Mac's seatbelt as the truck's tires grated harshly to a
stop, and the sound went through him like electricity. He cut the engine and
suddenly didn't care if it was a house, kids or no kids, didn't care if they
were being broadcast on national fucking TV at 8am in Sweden, he absolutely
had nothing more important on his mind than killing the lights and getting
Mac's tongue back into the picture. Into his mouth—well, that'd do for a
start.
He got his own seatbelt off about the time Mac got one arm behind his back
and hauled him closer, twinges of pain flashing through unlikely places as he
realised just how little movement the seats afforded him—and then he was
being kissed again, practically being roughed up, and Mac got his jacket out
the way and brought them together, and by the time Vic had got his legs
untangled and sorted out up from down and heaven from Mac's mouth, he was
straddling Mac's thighs with his arms around Mac's neck.
He did a momentary spot check—apparent reality, yes; out-of-body
experience, no; his own name, fading rapidly—and then gave up, as Mac
settled suddenly into a more precise kiss, tongue strolling viciously round
his mouth like he owned the place, tasting of mouth-watering neutrality.
Vic arched his back, and Mac panted hotly against his mouth, then said, "Wait
a bit," and got his hands under Vic's ass and eased himself down, until Vic
was sitting directly against Mac's cock with Mac's hands moulded against his
hips. That angle probably hurt his back, Vic thought distractedly, but since
Mac was pushing up hard and didn't seem to care, and since the noises they
were making didn't invite interruption, he could let it go.
Then he caught up with himself and wondered if he'd died a painless death,
and absently hoped so, given that this would clearly never happen during his
lifetime. His entire body felt warm, grating and tingling inside his clothes,
and he kept having to duck to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling, and all
in all it was a very nice way to end the evening.
Hell; or begin it.
Mac leaned forward, kissing his neck, nuzzling his collar out the way and
biting at his collarbones until he hissed. His fingers pushed up into Mac's
soft, slightly gel-stiff hair, gripping hard, tilting Mac's head mindlessly
into a better angle to get at his skin.
Mac made another short noise, wordless and intoxicating, and Vic decided that
hell yeah, this was good, this was incredibly good and why not go for it, why
not see if they could make it that much better...
"Fuck me," he invited, grinding his ass against Mac's cock, feeling it rub up
rigidly through two layers of unnecessary clothing.
Mac's fingers tightened on his hips.
Encouraged, Vic continued, lips brushing against Mac's hair, "C'mon, I've
been thinking about this since the day I met you, I can feel you want it and
hey, no one can see—" Mac's grip was almost hurting, and Vic wriggled again.
"Mac, c'mon, I really, really want you—"
"If you don't stop talking," Mac snapped sharply, taking hold of his
shoulders and holding Vic back until they were eye to eye, "these incredibly
expensive pants are gonna meet a pretty undignified sticky end."
Vic grinned, bearing down hard on Mac's lap and watching a sort of agonised
lust seethe through the dark eyes, then said distinctly, "We wouldn't want
that to happen. I guess you'd better do me, save 'em."
This time, Mac really did look pained. "I can't," he growled, then clamped
fingers over Vic's lips before he could respond, "I haven't got anything.
Wouldn't be safe." He paused, then looked hopeful. "Wait; you?"
Vic, who'd been two seconds away from giving those fingers the time of their
lives, buried his forehead in Mac's shoulder and groaned. "Aw, fuck."
"Or not." Mac's voice was warm and gritty by his ear.
"Right, yeah. Okay." He sat up again, squirmed resentfully on Mac's cock -
the man gasped—and then said plaintively, "I thought you got some in that
gas station."
"I thought that would be pre-empting myself," Mac said, grinning wryly.
Vic grinned too, then tilted his head suggestively, and purred, "But, you
were already thinking about fucking me..."
Mac rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Christ—of course I fucking was—Vic,
I've been thinking about fucking you for the last six months, but it's not
like you're consistent, it's not like you don't blow hot and cold so often
I start thinking you're never gonna blow me at all—so it's not like you
coming on to me hard after doing in some thugs makes me somehow know you're
not gonna run a mile! I mean, come on."
Vic shivered, faced with a lot of hot, frustrated Mac Ramsey, and determined
to do this more often. Next time, with the proper supplies. "As if," he
said distinctly, staring wickedly down into his eyes. "You knew exactly
what you were doing when you came back and dragged me practically over on top
of you—"
"But that was after I got back, wasn't it?" Mac mouthed back, ducking up to
run his tongue through Vic's mouth, then settling back with a challenging
little smirk. "The look on your face convinced me—there's blowing hot and
cold, and then there's just steaming."
Vic shifted deliberately in his lap, smoothly reasserting himself. "You've
gone off the subject," he said, elaborating unnecessarily, "as in, fucking
me?"
"Oh, god..." Mac arched up into him. "Okay, yeah, you got me, I'm thinking
about it right now—as if I ever stopped—I'm thinking I would fucking
love to bend you over that seat and fuck you senseless without taking off
any more clothes than's strictly necessary, but it's not gonna happen."
So much for reassertion. Vic looked over at the seat in question, feeling a
sexy version of shellshocked, and said faintly, "I wouldn't fit. The
gearstick's in the way."
Mac laughed shortly, "I'll give you gearstick," and then shook his head and
spread his arms and said wildly, "Fine, then, here, I'd love it," his hands
moved to Vic's hips again, pulling down, "holding you down, holding you
sitting on my dick with your legs around my waist, I would fucking love
that—"
Vic closed his eyes and ground down and groaned, so ready to imagine that,
and said abruptly, "Let's go somewhere then, c'mon, let's get a motel and
just do it, I fucking need this now —"
Mac was shaking his head, eyes closed defiantly. "No way, two reasons why no
way, because first you're in no condition to drive and second I'm in no
condition to let you." His eyes flashed open, glinting up at him. "And third,
hell, you can imagine a queer-friendly hotel round here? One not full of the
Director's yesmen?" His voice sounded rough and exquisitely frustrated.
Vic opened his eyes, and Mac was sparkling, a little amused and a little
annoyed and very sexy. "You only said two reasons," he pointed out, surprised
he'd managed to remember something as unimportant as words that weren't 'do',
'now', or 'me', and then surprised himself even more by teasing,
straight-faced, "And plus, if you're worried about her finding out, you
think this truck's not rigged with surveillance?"
Mac's eyes widened for a long classic moment, and then his grip tightened
viciously and he tossed Vic a dark glare, "You bastard—I actually thought
you were serious—" He bit at Vic's lower lip, then breathed, "I should do
it anyway, fuck protection, I should just screw you raw right here and hope
she has got a way of watching," and then he paused and leaned back, and
said, "Hey, how'd you escape it, anyway? You don't strike me as the evasive
type, and I know she's got my car fixed up..."
Vic smiled sweetly, bitten lip tingling like white noise. "I didn't escape
it. But it's easy enough to disarm." He processed for a second, then raised
his eyebrows incredulously, "waaait a second, Mac, baby, are you saying you
haven't yet taken out the cameras in your room?"
Mac took breath to speak, then just closed his eyes tight. "Fuck," he said
distinctly.
Vic grinned, thinking, hey, not often he got one over the other guy, and then
leaned in inspirationally and licked Mac's ear, chasing it with a whispered,
"aw, fuck, and would I love to get a hold of those tapes..."
Mac turned his head quickly and crushed their mouths together, pushing his
velvet tongue into Vic's mouth and sucking sharply, and Vic's world folded
open into a slick red altercation of hot, wet action. Yeah, Mac kissed like a
dream. He'd forgotten that in the last few minutes, something he sure
wouldn't be doing again.
He felt Mac's hand coming up against the back of his head, and he slid down
and they started rocking again, harder this time, heat swaying round him,
slashing through his cock every time it pressed into the firm solid Mac that
seemed intent on bringing him off as quickly and messily as possible.
He mm-ed quietly, hands coming up to Mac's head, and then Mac broke apart and
said harshly, "Wait, are you telling me your flat's not monitored?"
"Mm-hm," Vic said urgently, mouth tingling, needing more, not having gotten
passed the mm-ing stage yet. He dragged words back into his throat. "Yeah?"
"So can we go back there? It's not such a long way..."
Mac sounded roughly eager, and that was doing great things for Vic's general
wellbeing, given that right now this was as good as he'd felt in tens of
months, but at the same time, Mac just wasn't seeing sense. "No way, to quote
someone who's currently as close as he's ever been to getting a really fine
blowjob—there is no way I am driving in this condition." He kissed Mac's
chin, aiming for his mouth and missing when Mac tossed his head back
frustratedly, and so turned it into an exploration of the man's slightly
rough, slightly salty jaw.
Mac growled, making vibrations buzz faintly over his tongue. "Okay, okay,
look, don't do that, oh god, you wanna cause permanent brain-damage or
what?" His hands swept down Vic's back, fingers sliding under his waistband,
then slid round to the front. "I'm gonna need days to recover at this
rate," he grouched, then made a pleased noise as Vic kissed him instead.
"You better just beat me off," Vic advised indistinctly, eventually, "y'know,
distract me or something. Cause I really wouldn't wanna take your IQ down any
further than it already is—"
"Still a markedly higher score than yours," Mac muttered distractedly,
getting Vic's pants open.
Vic hissed, his clever comeback scrambled into hot ashes as Mac wrapped his
fingers round his cock, and all the heat that'd been roaming aimlessly round
his body got direction, big time. "Yeah, oh, mm, oh yeah," he managed
faintly, sweat breaking out all down his back, hips pushing up, and then he
gasped as Mac seemed to get into his own, fist secure and tight, working him
over as thoroughly as Vic would do himself. No hesitation, no awkward
fingernails, just hard, self-assured contact.
It struck Vic suddenly, as his stomach started trembling and his head fell
flung back, that Mac must've practised on a great many men to get this
confident. He knew Mac was free with women, but men, that was a whole
'nother situation... It turned him on, though. Oh yeah, and it was just
such a surprise, that imagining Mac bringing off other guys would make his
cock leap hard in Mac's fingers.
He was panting, as Mac's hand slid up and down his cock, blurring into one
long continuous shot of rapid-fire pleasure, building and combing through his
awareness like vengeful rounds of sheet lightning. When Mac suddenly bent his
knees, forcing Vic's thighs apart and vulnerable and twisting his strokes
viciously hard, Vic came sharply, reeling and gasping, hitting his head on
the roof and clenching his teeth hard enough to see stars.
He slumped down, lungs heaving, and recovered, slowly becoming aware of the
way Mac was still bolt-hard beneath him, and eventually lifted his head. The
truck reeked of sex, sweat and sex, and he was sitting here in his partner's
lap with a whole lot of post-orgasm tingling going on. Riiiight.
Mac's eyes were smouldery, dark-dark and practically radiating heat waves.
"Oh my fucking god," Mac said slowly, carefully, voice sounding like it
needed dry-cleaning.
Vic grinned at him. "I could echo that, if you hadn't just blown the top of
my head off."
Mac laughed shortly, huskily, "Fuck it, Mansfield, you almost blew the top
off mine," and he tucked Vic back into his (rather sticky) pants and edged
him over. "C'mon, now, drive," he ordered, and Vic let himself get helped
bonelessly back into his seat before realising that oh, wait, he appeared to
be sitting here without Mac's cock pushed down the back of his throat. How
did that happen? Very odd. Eerie.
"Waitasecond," he started, then broke off at Mac's barely controlled glare,
and found himself easing the car into third and backing out down the road. He
kicked an unopened tube of mints away from the gas pedal. His stomach was
rubbing harshly against his damp waistband when he breathed, still faster
than usual. He turned out onto the freeway without indicating, barely
glancing behind as the car picked up speed. An extreme pleasure was zinging
in little dashes through his skin, darting deep, supremely distracting.
"That's it," Mac muttered, taking a slow steadying breath. His voice caught
Vic's cock and held it.
"I was kinda hoping to be giving you head at about this point," Vic pointed
out helpfully, testing the water.
Mac made a strangled noise, then growled, "Look, the moment we get back to
your place I'm gonna do so many filthy things to you you're not gonna
remember which way is up, okay, but if you kill me along the way by saying
things like that then you're just never gonna know the full extent of my
imagination."
Vic felt a concentrated shot of heat sink through him at the promise, and
felt warm and sticky and hungry in all sorts of interesting ways. "Okay," he
managed, glancing ahead and grinning fiercely at the line of pale glowing
droplets that marked the freeway stretched out before him. "Okay." He
wondered what the Director would think when Mac didn't arrive home tonight,
and felt a streak of defiancé flick through him. This, they would keep
separate. She couldn't control everything.
Mac was silent next to him, practically humming; Vic could almost feel the
testosterone coming off him in waves. Vic grinned and edged back in his seat,
sighing languidly for show. "Love that afterglow," he purred, then added,
"Though I'm not sure I'm wide awake enough to drive," in a slightly teasing
voice, glancing away from the road to check if he had his attention.
Mac didn't look over. His hand slid back in between Vic's thighs, squeezing
possessively, spreading him again. "I'll keep you awake."
Density = M over V
e was a fighter, for fuck's sake. Designed for hostile takeover. He'd
trained, he'd learned, he'd burnt a drawl of natural grace into all his
movements, he was familiar with every art of aggression—and so he noticed
when Vic's response was several shades off natural.
