Man, I hate this game.

I want to quit, take my ball and go home, I don't want to play anymore. Now if someone would just tell me how. *I* don't know and I'm the one who started it.

We were doing vision tests, down at one of the marinas, looking out to sea. Jim'd spot a boat out on the water and read its name out to me. Using binoculars, I'd check his accuracy and estimate the distance. The last one he named, I couldn't seem to find, no matter how carefully I swept with the glasses. I was ragging on him, telling him he was making one up to impress me, and he was giving it back, insinuating I needed better eyes.

Finally, he stood behind me, put his fingers gently on my cheeks, and moved my head until I was line-of-sight with it. I spotted the boat almost immediately, but before I could say anything, my attention was snagged by the way his touch lingered. He gathered up a strand of my hair that had been blown into my face, scraping it away and back to join the rest of my disorderly mess, stroking the length of it as he dropped his hand.

Wondering, I twisted, to look back at him over my shoulder, and caught his eyes with mine. His were hazy, hot, humid summer blue - passionate enough to melt me, make me limp and willing. Even if I hadn't always been curious, hadn't noticed the bod on this man, I would have lifted my face to capture some of that fire. It was that sweet to see.

It doesn't take genius to know why Jim waited a heartbeat before taking me up on my offer. He had to be at least as surprised by my willingness, as I was by his. Talk about never having a clue a guy wasn't straight!

That heartbeat was all that I needed for every insecurity, every paranoid fear a person can have to come storming out, like those black shadows from the movie Ghost. They swarmed over my simple pleasure and want, tamping it down and driving it back. 'You can't screw your research subject. What if the committee finds out? It'd invalidate the thesis. What if he walks away after it's over, and won't let me *finish* the thesis? Or complains that I sexually harassed him or something. How is this man going to respect you, listen to you, if you've been on your knees in front of him? '

Almost choking on the fear, I swallowed hard and made my decision. Uh, huh, thanks but no thanks, life is complicated enough. Knowing he would be able to read it in my eyes, thinking I would see his freeze over, I was relieved when they colored with understanding, instead.

Lifting the binoculars, I miraculously found the boat, read off the serial numbers to confirm his, and furiously pretended from that moment on that he had no effect on me. I should have run like hell in the other direction. Thesis, or no thesis.

Outwardly nothing changed between us. Since Jim's a naturally hands-on kind of person, it would have been, well, weird, if he had stopped touching me. It would have made me stand out, really, from everyone else he knew, so I accepted the casual touches and friendly pats as part of being with him. I didn't even notice, at first, that I was giving them back, in my own way. Hey, I'm pretty hands on, myself.

Underneath, every time he bent over me to look at something I was holding, or steadied me with a firm grip, my heart would start screaming in anticipation, hoping this time he would say or do something *more.* And I may be no sentinel, but it wasn't hard to read (to me, any way) that he wanted more, too.

A blind person focuses so intently on his other senses so much, it didn't surprise me that the loss of his sight was what pushed Jim into acting.

Despite the situation, I couldn't stomp down the reaction I had to him. I couldn't back long enough off to cool down, couldn't leave him alone long enough to jerk off and relieve the pressure I felt. I could feel the hunger pouring off me and filling him. It flipped me completely that I was able to take him upstairs to get ready for bed without pushing him down and satisfying both of us.

I went downstairs, fully intending to strip and masturbate until my dick fell off, if that was what it took to get rid of the yearning ache in my chest. Once I was naked, though, I knew it would be a waste of time. So I stood there, silently reciting all my reasons for not going back up stairs.

Feeling him come into my dark bedroom, I lost my place in the recitation, and never found it again. There was barely enough light to make the suggestion of his body, and that was all I needed.

Damnit, damnit, why didn't he just drop me on my stomach and fuck me? It was what I expected; it was what I thought I wanted. But he covered me like he was my skin, and I felt every inch of him try to make me a permanent part. I climaxed almost immediately, and he made little sounds of appreciation and approval, then went on as if it had only been foreplay. Maybe, for us, at that time, it was.

We made love over and over that night, and I spent the entire next day clutching it to myself, a secret I didn't want to share. I may as well have been a virgin bride, awed at how fantastic sex was. In a way, I was, I guess. Having sex is not the same as making love, and I had never done that before.

It wasn't until I woke up in a hospital bed, still half-crazy from the Golden, that the honeymoon glow gave way to reality. All my little black ghosts came spilling out, shoving my happiness back down into the pit. 'He's a cop! How are the other guys on the force suppose to respect a man screwing his partner? Life can be *deadly* for a gay cop.

'Ain't no bowl of cherries for an anthropology grad. How many important expeditions will I miss out on because no one wants to live in tight quarters like that with a fag? How many jobs will I "not be qualified for" because my SO is male? Shit, how much commitment is he going to expect from me? Man, I have a thesis to write, trips to make. Chances of getting a job in Cascade are next to none.'

By the time I called Maggie and asked her over, I was in full panic mode. I fled as soon as she got there, and came back that evening half way thinking I'd find the lock changed.

At least I had the good sense this time to be worried when the game started again. Both of us acted as if we had never been together; neither of us were willing to back off and stop *being* with each other. I kept women between us, changing them so quickly I sometimes forgot which one I was with. Jim watched me, and I swear I could see the amusement in his eyes each time I paraded another one past. It didn't stop me, and it did keep the raw edge off my hunger for him.

Or it did until he vanished, walked out one night, promising to be back in time to go camping. I was so damned angry with him, after he got back home! Pacing around my room, I told myself over and over that it was just part and parcel of living with a cop. He could always walk out and never come back in again. It could happen to me, too, since I was a part of that life.

It only made me angrier. Finally, I stormed upstairs, wanting to fight with him and not caring about what. I never had a chance to open my mouth. Well, I did, but Jim filled it with a kiss so fast words never escaped. I kissed him back, hard, punishing him with it for scaring me. He soaked it up, gave it back as pleasure.

I bit, scratched, pummeled; he moaned, held me closer, gentled me without ever saying a word. As close as we had been our first night, I needed more this time, had to have more, was desperate to be part of him in some way. He responded by sliding off the bed and going onto his knees to offer me the opening to his body.

Ashamed as I am to admit it, I never hesitated. First I opened him with my mouth, marveling at the taste and texture. Then I used a finger, fumbling first with a tube of ky, added another finger, searching for and finding his hot spot. Shivers chased over his back as I did, but he held still and let me do what I wanted.

Part of me wishes I could say I was as considerate as any man could be faced with an act he'd lusted after for weeks. I can't; it was damn near rape. Though he was as hot and tight as a beginner I used him like an old whore who'd been reduced to selling it for pocket change. The only comfort I have from the memory is that he gave back as hard as he got, shouting incoherently from the pleasure.

The last of my fear and anger went with the sperm I sent into him, and, before shame and remorse could take over, he pulled away. Climbing into the bed, he pulled me down onto him, and started grinding his erection onto me. I lost it again, pretty quickly, and never really surfaced again until the dawn began to light the loft.

Those first rays found me on my knees behind him, inside him again. Knowing he was sore and hurting, I was pumping very slowly, deliberately trying to keep the head of my cock right on his prostate. Succeeding, too, if the white-knuckled grip on the headboard was any indication. I realized I could see my hands on his ass cheeks, where I was holding him open. Fascinated, I pulled out, watching myself leave his body, then slammed back in, amazed I fit. The impact sent a ripple through him, and I followed it with my eyes, up his back, into his shoulders and neck, where it became a cry of pleasure. I dragged my gaze back down to where we were joined, did it again.

It only took a few more like that to send me off again, and when my head cleared, I was still behind him, leaning heavily on my hands. I eased back a bit, to take my weight off Jim, and saw the imprints of my hands red and hot on his cheeks. It was obvious they would become bruises. Looking at his back, I saw they would go nicely with the ones I'd left there, and would compliment the bites, some of which were still bleeding.

Appalled, I froze in place, and Jim eased himself flat onto his belly, not quite able to muffle the pained groan he made as I slid out of him. It hit me abruptly, the bites might not be the only place he was bleeding, and that spurred me into dashing downstairs for a wash cloth and antiseptic.

I didn't go back up. Hands shaking, I checked for signs of blood on me and my pubic hair. Then I climbed into the shower and stayed there until the cold water pickled me, and I could blame the shudders in me on the cold.

It was just *way* too intense, ok? I know I didn't hurt him, that he loved it as much as I loved doing to him. But I had the feeling I could have cut his throat and he would have spent his last breath screaming in pleasure because *I* did it. And, gods help, me, if I had thought it would bring him off, I probably would have done it, the state I was in.

That kind of emotion is *not* what I am into, what I can handle. It's too close to obsession, too close to surrendering not just heart and body, but mind.

By the end of the day, though, I had talked myself into believing it had been over the edge because we'd been walking on it for so long. If I wasn't going to leave, and there was no question I had that kind of strength, I was simply going to have to give into our little game before we built to the danger point.

It's easy to tell when we're near it - Jim gets rude, in an off-hand way that's not hard to forgive because he doesn't mean a word of it. He's just... hurting. Usually, I can shrug it off, but sometimes, hell, I'm hurting, too.

It's never been as violent, again, though I was afraid it was going to be once. To be truthful, I was so *glad* to get out of that damned elevator alive and breathing, if he had pushed me to the ground right there in the lobby, I would have landed with my pants off and legs open. The disappointment was nasty when Joel pulled me out; but it died painlessly when I saw the look on Jim's face in the truck. It was my turn to be punished for scaring the bejesus out of my partner, and I hoped he was as thorough with me as I had been with him. And just as rough, because I deserved it.

This was Jim we were talking about, right? Of course that's not what happened. I turned into his arms at the door, opened my mouth for him meekly, expecting to be devoured. He did, completely, hungrily, joyously, lovingly, utterly, totally. If there's a place on my body he didn't kiss, lick, and nibble, I've grown it since then. We came explosively in each other's mouth, at the same time, without either of us ever deciding what we were going to do.

I don't remember getting to the couch, but waking up next to him on it is the most cherished memory I have. Asleep, my hard as nails, loyal as a Mountie, stubborn as hell, cop friend lover addiction looks like an angel. He cuddles like you're the source of all his sweet dreams, and can hold off his nightmares forever.

I fell in love with the son of a bitch all over again, lying there and watching him sleep. He woke up, thanked me - thanked me! - and we started the day, and our stupid little game all over again.

I don't want to play any more. I should run, not walk to the nearest planet and stay here until he gives up on me. I should find some place else to live, make him believe I've gotten everything I need from him. I should stop pretending I *can* leave him. I don't know how.

Please, does anybody know *how?*

The End