The Obvious

Greg Sanders/Mike Keppler. NC-17. ~5500 words. Gunkink. Follows Candyass.
Getting accidentally shot isn’t high on Greg’s list of things to do; getting accidentally shot in a hot, twisted sex game didn’t even get an honourable mention.

Coincidentally, and pretty damn impressively considering the whirlwind that had been raging in there earlier, the only thought in Greg’s head on the elevator ride up is that this is a monumentally bad idea. However, precedent is set and his feet aren’t listening to him. Possibly never will again.

Secretly, he thinks they’ve got the right idea. He wouldn’t listen to him, either.

The doors chime and part like curtains to reveal an anticlimactic, nondescript hall. Generic carpet, generic paint, generically clean. All the doors are solid brown wood with gold, sweeping numbers. It all suits, and at the same time it doesn’t. Too artificial, Greg thinks, not enough layers.

He slows to a stop in front of 602. It’s a corner apartment, tucked away from the others, buffered by a maintenance room and the stairwell. Somehow, that makes it fit a little better.

Now that he’s here, he’s not at all sure what the hell he’s doing. If it were Nick, or maybe even Sarah, they’d see through the flimsy excuse for what it was and let it slide. Then again, if it were either one of them, he’d have called first and made sure they were up for the invasion before he infected them with his sleepless chatter.

And if it were either of them, it wouldn’t be more than company following a rough night and maybe a drink he’d be after. Not that he’s exactly sure how he’s going to go about getting what he’s after. After the locker room, he meant to have a plan, a backup plan, and a contingency plan for his backup plan. Somehow, master of time that he is, he failed to schedule in the planning.

Too late now, anyway…though it really, really isn’t, not until his knuckles meet the door in a quick knock. Now it’s too late. He fusses with the files he’d dragged from the office and stares upwards, gaze falling a second later. Unable to stay still, he pushes a hand through his hair, pets it immediately back into place, and fidgets his way through the few tense seconds it takes for the to door swing open.

Mike fills the doorway, forearm propped on the frame. His jacket’s gone, the tie with it. His shirtsleeves are rolled up just below the elbow and a few smears of black stand out on the strong fingers he curls over the door.

“Greg,” he says, and Greg’s insides do a little samba. All his best fantasies over the last couple of days have cast Mike’s low purr in a supporting role. Would’ve been starring except other parts of Mr. Keppler had first billing. “Are house calls another Vegas peculiarity?”

“Quirks and foibles, that’s us.” Shuffling his weight to the other foot, Greg holds out the files. “Here’s my painfully flimsy excuse.”

Mike takes the folders and moves back a fraction. More than happy to take it for an invitation, Greg steps in from the hall, and when his arm brushes Mike’s chest, stupidly exciting little jolts of electricity spark along his nerves. The sound of the bolt being thrown is like the raw spit of a live wire crackling at his back.

The apartment suits Mike more than his office does. It’s open space, a similar level of obsessive tidiness but not as severe. A few boxes sit in a neat stack against one wall in the living room. The furniture is the usual fare: a couple of shelves, a couch, chairs, coffee table and television, all of it looking brand new.

Seems bigger than the typical Vegas apartment, a big chunk dedicated to a kitchen fancier than you’d think a single guy would need. Or at least more than Greg would. Maybe Mike cooks.

Boy, that’s a nice thought.

A small two-seater table sits in the nebulous zone between kitchen and living room. It’s covered with a cloth, bright blue streaked with black, a couple of odds and ends, and a gun. Matte black service issue.

Following his gaze, Mike says, “Cleaning it.”

Greg ventures in a little further and tucks his hands into his jeans pockets before he starts picking at things. Imagining Mike’s place is a crime scene helps until he starts thinking about gloves. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Mike slants that knowing smile his way. “Sure you did. But you’re here now.”

The folders drop into the empty chair. Mike takes the other. Normally, Greg would figure that’s a pretty damn clear hint to get gone. The thing is, Mike doesn’t do clear hints. That’s too easy.

So this is not how Greg expected things to go. Maybe he should’ve. If there’s one thing Mike’s good at, it’s throwing people off balance, and Greg feels like he’s treading a tightrope in the middle of a hurricane. The nervous, anticipatory thrill is so very worth every flip-flop of his heartbeat.

And if he wants to be honest about it, he hadn’t gotten much further than a fevered daydream of interrupting Mike in the middle of something juicy. Just out of the shower. Just about to get in the shower. Maybe, if his stars were aligned and all the gods loved him, smack in the middle of a porno jerkoff session.

Evidently, no one loves him, and his stars have all migrated to another universe.

But somebody throws a bone his way as Mike’s big hand closes around the gun, and he picks up the cloth abandoned on the table to polish off the barrel. Struck a little dumb by the easy way Mike handles it, and completely caught up in all the dirty, dirty jokes to be made, Greg says, “Wish I could carry one,” without really thinking about how it sounds.

Whip-quick, Mike says, “No, you don’t.”

“Well, okay,” Greg backtracks, “I didn’t mean- It’s just, you know-” and he cuts himself off with a sheepish laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. Trying to dig himself out of this hole will probably just bury him in shit sooner.

Mike makes a quietly considering noise, which Greg takes to mean he hasn’t been written off as a hopeless idiot just yet. There’s something shadowed in Mike’s eyes when his gaze flicks back to the gun, something Greg can’t quite put his finger on, but it sets every last nerve he’s got to tingling.

As usual, Greg’s mouth takes off at a sprint, the words, “Can I hold it?” flying at ludicrous speed straight out of it before his brain’s even put its boots on.

Fully expecting the smackdown he deserves for that one, Greg’s eyes go wide when Mike says, “Sure,” without missing a beat. He flips the gun over and holds it out, butt first.

Maybe a little too cautiously–in their line of work it’d be stupid not to have a healthy fear of guns even with the safety on and the damn magazine still sitting on the table–Greg curls his fingers around the grip. He sucks in a quick breath as Mike stands up, hand sliding down to cover his, and swings around behind him, all classic and cool as if he’s going to show Greg right here and now how to squeeze a few off.

Greg does his best to keep a lid on it, but oh man, Mike can show him that any day of the week. And it’s a fucking good thing Mike’s holding his hand steady on the gun. Mike is pressed up all along his back, he can feel the curve of Mike’s dick snug against his ass, and he’s really not so interested in firearms anymore. At all. Not even for the awesome metaphors.

Mike nudges his finger up over the trigger. The bottom of Greg’s stomach drops straight through the floor to East Asia, and he twists a little to look up at Mike, something on the tip of his tongue that definitely needs saying. It vanishes in a Roadrunner puff as Mike turns a second later, their mouths so close and the corner of Mike’s pulling up in a smirk. “So, you like guns as much as you like latex?”

It is absolutely in no way Greg’s fault he can’t work up enough spit to even try to answer that one.

Mike pulls the gun out of Greg’s slack grip, nods at the couch. “Have a seat.”

Talking wasn’t really the thing he’d been hoping Mike would do with his mouth after that. Still, if he weren’t up for Mike’s game of cat and mouse, he wouldn’t be here, so he shrugs out of his jacket, lays it over the back of the chair closest to the door.

Mike’s hand presses into the small of his back. A quiet metallic click sends his heart knocking against his ribs. He looks around again to find the gun pointed at the floor, Mike’s thumb on the safety. That tight, clever smile curves his mouth.

“Sit.”

“Yessir,” Greg says, and tosses off a shaky salute. He drops onto the couch, elbow slung over the top and his back propped against the arm. Those butterflies in his belly are working overtime. It feels like they’ve partnered up for the ballroom number.

“Want a drink?” Mike asks, and gives the gun a casual toss onto the cushion beside him.

Greg nearly jumps clear out of his own skin as it skids to a stop against his thigh. It sits there, completely innocuous, glinting dully in the overhead light.

Holy shit.

The rattle of glass as Mike opens the up the fridge manages to grab Greg’s attention. A drink might be good. Maybe a beer. Or two. Chaser of vodka. No ice.

“Just some water,” he says.

They shouldn’t be playing at things like this. He knows better. Hell, Mike knows better, but the more Greg’s around him, the more Greg gets to thinking as careful as he is, he’s just the kind of guy to do all the things people say you shouldn’t.

Instead of the water he’d asked for, Mike rounds the corner with a tumbler full of red dangling from his fingertips. He offers it with a slanted smile.

“Wine in a whiskey glass? Minus classy points,” Greg says, and takes a quick sip. Cranberry juice and soda water. No liquid courage for him. Mike is so fucking with him and he’s a sick, sick boy because he likes it.

Mike has this tendency to loom. Makes some people skittish. Greg’s feeling a little skittish himself right now, that gun still on the cushion and shadows cut sharp across Mike’s face. Mostly though, all he’s really thinking about is how Mike’s shirt is open down to the third button and how he’d really like to get at some skin this time around.

If this is a time around. He really, really hopes it is.

Mike props a hand on the couch near Greg’s shoulder, leans in with predatory ease. Greg nearly fumbles the glass he’s so eager to trade it for the taste of Mike’s mouth instead. A big hand skids down his chest, curves right over the front of his pants, thumb hooked in the waistband dragging it down. Just shy of a kiss, Mike pauses, says, “I assume that offer is still open.”

“Is it fucking ever.” Groping in the vague direction of the coffee table, Greg tries to set the glass down without dropping it all over the hardwood. It bangs against the edge, some flopping out over the rim onto his hand. About half a second later Greg has both hands on Mike’s face, pulling him back in for the kiss he’s been dying to take since he walked out of Mike’s office.

And Mike lets him just take it, mouth open, hand squeezing at him through his jeans, head tilting at the greedy push of Greg’s thumbs over his chin. Unlike before, there’s the slight scratch of stubble and it makes Greg’s pulse beat faster. Mike’s mouth is warm and soft and tastes a bit like cranberries.

There’s a quick tug on his zip and Greg arches into it, cushions crushed beneath his weight. Going straight for the good stuff is so his style, no wonder he likes Mike so much.

The chill press of the gun’s muzzle beneath the hinge of Greg’s jaw stops his heart cold.

“Shit,” he hisses, straight into Mike’s mouth. “Shit, shit.” He inches back, nowhere to go at first, heel slipping off the couch as he tries to get his legs under him. Then it’s up, pressed to the back of the couch and still nowhere to go, Mike’s too fucking tall. His fingers claw at the upholstery as his pulse kicks in again, bolting rabbit fast.

Mike eases back, arm straight, gun straight, barrel pointed right at his heart. Fear chases icily after the lust burning hot through his blood. He gulps down a shuddering breath and looks up, isn’t sure what he expects to find but knows it sure as hell isn’t the hunger stark in Mike’s eyes, or the tight furrow of his brow that says he knows it shouldn’t be there.

“It’s not loaded, right?” Getting accidentally shot isn’t high on Greg’s list of things to do; getting accidentally shot in a hot, twisted sex game didn’t even get an honourable mention. “Tell me it’s not loaded.”

“Safety’s off,” Mike says, and Greg heart gives another rib-crushing kick. A second later the gun slides away to point at the floor. “But it’s not loaded.”

Relief floods in but doesn’t sweep away the nervous jitters. Or the ache in his dick. He really is sick in the head.

Before he gives himself a chance to think it through, Greg grabs at Mike’s wrist. If thinking were high in his priorities tonight, he wouldn’t be sprawled on Mike Keppler’s couch with his dick half out of his jeans.

“I didn’t say no,” he says, trying to eke a bit of that dazed slur out of his voice in favour of some solid confidence. Casual, like it’s no big deal he’s about five seconds away from begging for that gun back in his face. “Or stop.”

Mike’s thumb slides over the grip. He steps back, gestures at the floor. “Stand up.”

Shakily, Greg climbs to his feet. That safe sort of fear you get watching scary movies curled up on your couch at night twists tight through his gut. No bullets, no worries.

But that doesn’t stop his breath from catching as the gun’s sight scrapes over his cheek.

“What does this say about you,” Mike says, moving in close, free hand coming up to cup the base of Greg’s skull. His mouth follows the path of the gun until it dips down over Greg’s throat and he veers off to drag in a slow breath near Greg’s ear. “That you get hard playing with guns?”

“Don’t know.” Tentatively, Greg puts his hands to Mike’s waist. Holding on, sure, because his knees feel rubbery as overcooked noodles. Maybe a little more catering to the bad guy vibe Mike’s got going on here. It suits him way too well. “What’s it say about you?”

Mike’s fist closes in the front of his shirt. “I’m not as nice a guy as you think I am.”

The grin Greg had ready in reply to that one falls straight off his face as Mike yanks him off balance, twists and sends him careening back into the wall by the couch. It doesn’t hurt but it knocks the breath out of him, shock more than anything. No chance to catch it either before the gun shoved up under his chin forces his head back, throat taut.

People have rules for this sort of thing. Well, smart people do. Greg is so far past smart right now he’s not even on the same planet. He’s not about to stop Mike and talk red light green light over a little bit of shoving around.

Mike’s the one who goes for the kiss first this time around. The two, possibly three functioning brain cells left in Greg’s head just up and call it quits as Mike’s lips nudge at his slack mouth. Not even a real kiss and Greg hears himself moaning for it, fingers hooking into Mike’s belt to try to drag him closer.

The warm brush of Mike’s tongue vanishes, replaced by cold, hard metal laid sideways across his mouth. He sucks in a quick, trembling breath.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” Mike asks.

Greg squeezes his eyes shut. Seriously, if he’d had the first clue Mike would get like this, he would’ve trotted straight into the guy’s office with an arsenal on a sliver platter days ago. Sure, Mike had that unconventional streak, with the reverse forensics and oh yeah, kinky sex games in the labs, but this is off the charts. It’s crazy. Full on insane.

It’s fucking awesome.

Head spinning with all the possibilities of what trick is going to slip out of Mike’s sleeve next, Greg says, “Yes.” His lips drag against the gun’s barrel and his tongue flicks out over them automatically, sharp taste of metal exploding in his mouth.

The gun slides away and then Mike’s kissing him for real. Tongue shoved in his mouth, hard and a little messy because it takes him a second to get with the program. It’s just that Mike doesn’t seem the kissing type. Perfunctory pecks, nothing lewd in public, no full steam ahead macking on a guy.

As soon as he goes to kiss back, Mike lays the gun flush to his face. “I didn’t say you could kiss me.”

Greg mumbles, “Okay,” because like hell he’s going to argue at this point, and Mike’s mouth back on his smears it to nothing. It’s a little weird, like he’s flaking out on his half of the fun, and at the same time stupidly amazing as Mike eases in closer, long line of their bodies pressed tightly together, and just keeps on kissing him.

The edges of Mike’s teeth scrape over his lip. A hard bite has him jerking back on reflex, head knocking against the wall. He hisses out a muffled curse as Mike follows, catches him by the jaw and holds him there. The soft pass of Mike’s tongue soothes the tiny hurt.

Greg is more than ready to call uncle except then Mike might stop.

With one last little tug on his lip, Mike stops.

Slumping against the wall, Greg uses the break to catch his breath. And while he likes breathing fine enough, tries to make a daily habit of it, he’d really rather Mike keep kissing him. “Why’d you stop?”

“Because I want you to turn around.” The gun thumping back onto the couch distracts Greg momentarily from the hand Mike runs down his side. “Arms up on the wall.”

“Arms up, huh?” Still game, Greg turns and does as he’s told. Generally, he’s pretty good at following orders, except when there are some pretty glaring errors. Such as Mike curling big fingers over the sharp cut of his hips, casually pulling jeans and underwear both down to his knees, and then walking away.

“Stay put,” Mike says, pre-empting his protest. “I’m not planning on leaving you there.”

“Good to know. Because for a second, I might’ve thought this was the beginning of the kinky voyeur part of the play.”

A warm, quiet chuckle, dark and rich around the edges like pure chocolate, comes floating in from the bedroom. It chases a shiver up Greg’s spine. Supplies, of course. They’d need something if Mike’s planning on fucking him.

Holy shit. Oh holy shit. Mike’s planning on fucking him.

He swallows a moan, knocks his forehead gently against the wall. He sure as hell hopes Mike’s planning on fucking him, because if not, he’s just going to have to convince him what an incredibly brilliant idea it is.

A handful of seconds later, Mike’s back, saying, “It was a little.” Fingertips trail up the outside of Greg’s thigh, cut in under the curve of his ass. A few slip between, spread the cheeks just a little to graze dry over his hole. Mouthing at the back of his bowed neck, Mike says, “Wanted to do this the first time.”

Completely on board with the plan, Greg helpfully shakes his jeans the rest of the way down and skids his feet as far apart as they’ll go. The hem of his tee catches on his cock, bitch of a tease for what he really wants, and hides Mike’s hand mostly from view as strong fingers wrap firmly around it and jack him once, nice and slow.

What it doesn’t hide is the catch and drag of latex. Puffing out a quick breath, Greg says, “Knew I wasn’t the only one.”

“Definitely not the only one.” Demonstrating once again that they really need to have a talk about timing, Mike pulls his hand away. There’s a snap-click, loud enough in Mike’s big apartment to have Greg’s muscles jumping, and then those fingers are back, lube-slick latex sliding right over his hole, nothing so much as a pause or a warning or a may-I-please before one’s pushing up into him, thick and blunt, fucking perfect.

It slides free and Greg rides up on his toes as another replaces it immediately. Back and forth, and Mike makes that same soft noise of approval as he rocks into the easy push. Mike’s other hand twists up the back of his shirt in a fist and presses between his shoulder blades. When Mike pushes harder, forcing him flush against the wall, he slides his arms up out of the way.

Giving dry lips a quick lick, he says, “I can take more,” and just like that it’s both fingers sinking in slowly to the knuckle, like that’s all Mike wanted to hear. He lets out a ragged moan and tries to inch a little further back, give Mike some more space to work with.

The seams of Greg’s shirt cut in at the arms and Mike’s knuckles grate against his spine. “Don’t move. I like you like this.”

And okay, fuck, nobody’s going to argue with that. Least of all him.

“I hope you’re going to fuck me.” Greg rubs his mouth dry on his shoulder. If this keeps up much longer he’s going to say screw it and jerk off all over Mike’s wall. Mike probably wouldn’t appreciate it. God, he can just imagine how Mike would demonstrate how much he didn’t appreciate it. “I really, really hope you’re going to fuck me. Soon gets my very emphatic vote. I’m on the election team.”

Mike’s hand skids away, backs of his knuckles dragging wetly over Greg’s ass. “You’re as patient as you are subtle.”

Really soon.”

Determined to drive him absolutely stark raving mad, Mike pushes between his legs, rubs the back of his sac slick. As soon as he can remember what words are, and how to string them together in a meaningfully firm sentence, Greg’s going to have something to say about this teasing business. Mike was the one who vetoed teasing last time, the hypocrite, and then turned around and teased him stupid over a little kiss.

Seems like forever before Mike’s fingers push between the cheeks of his ass again, little bit of pressure to make sure he’s spread wide and ready. This time when he shuffles out from the wall, Mike lets him.

When Mike’s cock touches him, it’s just hot skin on skin. He sucks a hissing breath in through his teeth.

Mike lays an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his neck. “Tell me yes.”

For a minute, he doesn’t have a clue what the hell Mike’s talking about. Then it’s holy shit, shit, shit careening at breakneck speed through his head. Bareback. Mike wants to do him bareback.

Cock riding slick in the cleft of his ass, mostly too late and still waiting for that answer, Mike nudges at his jaw.

Greg swallows hard and twists to close the distance between their mouths. It’s not quite yes but it sure as hell isn’t no, and fuck, fuck, they both know better. Blowjob on a whim, playing with guns, bareback fuck. He trusts Mike enough to believe he wouldn’t ask if he weren’t safe, but Greg’s never had unprotected sex in his life and Mike’s naked dick is right there.

Then Mike’s fingers are skidding away, palms pressed hard into the cheeks of his ass keeping them spread, and the blunt, wet head of Mike’s cock is at his hole. Pressing in, little by little, a slow, smouldering burn that razes every last nerve ending he’s got.

Resting his forehead against the fist he has braced on the wall, Greg lets his mouth go slack, gulps down air. A guy needs more than a second to get used to the sweet slow drag of nothing in the way. A rough groan steamrolls the plea for a minute, he really just needs a minute, straight into the ground. It’s already too much, hot air shunted back in his face, hot line of Mike at his back, hot push of Mike’s dick into him, opening him up sure and steady and driving every last thought kicking and screaming out of his head.

The snug press of Mike’s balls right up against his ass sends a full-body shiver rippling through him. Mike’s hands are tight on his hips, holding him up as much as holding him in place. His tee slips down between them and Mike makes one of those displeased noises like when something doesn’t go exactly right in the lab. He has just enough time to get his arms up a couple seconds later as Mike yanks it off over his head.

The first lazy roll of Mike’s hips squeezes a low moan out thought the hard press of his teeth into his lip. Hands skim up over his back, his shoulders. One settles there and the other drops to splay possessively wide on his chest. The light scratch of barely-there stubble on the curve of his arm sends ticklish pleasure spiralling down low.

With another one of those languid thrusts and a lingering kiss to his shoulder, Mike asks, “Want to get on your knees?”

Greg breathes out a harsh noise. When Mike’s chest presses to his back again, the thin layer of his dress shirt is still between them, barely unbuttoned. The open fly of Mike’s slacks grazes the tops of his thighs. He’s naked, pinned to the wall, and everything feels like more this way. Feels dirtier, grittier. Makes it hard to talk. “Said you liked it like this.”

There’s a quick, stinging bite to the peak of his spine, then Mike says, “Said I liked you like this.”

Greg pulls in another too-hot breath. “So fuck me like this.”

The slow, easy rhythm Mike’s set falters, hardens. Fingers curve against Greg’s chest, blunt nails digging in just a little. His mouth opens against Greg’s shoulder in the brief idea of a kiss before he pulls away, and the hand he has curled over it tightens to the point of bruising.

Mike drags him away from the wall shuffling step by step until his arms are stretched long, elbows locked to brace himself. It feels like Mike’s fingers slot in exactly the same place on his hips as before, not digging in yet but close, getting closer. Next time they fuck–god, he hopes there’s a next time and this isn’t the last hurrah before one of them comes to their senses–he’ll have a bright new set of bruises to show off. He’s got the feeling that’s just the sort of thing that’ll drive Mike straight out of his mind for a change.

A rough, grinding thrust almost knocks Greg’s legs out from under him, and Mike holds on tighter, fucks harder. Something like an apology crackles like static in his ears and he moans it away, shoves back for more. There are worse ways to end up concussed than being fucked into a wall.

Mike shudders, makes this low, ragged sound barely caught deep in his throat. All the warning he’s got to give before he starts to pull out, and he can’t, not yet.

Greg’s hand skids down off the wall, clamps over the one Mike still has on his side. He doesn’t even bother to try holding back the racket he’s making as Mike shudders, fucks back in as deep as he can take it. Maybe he should have his head checked for doing shit like this but if they’re going bareback, they’re going to go it all the way.

“Fuck,” Mike breathes, and grinds like he wants to get a little deeper, his grip loosening just enough for blood to come rushing back and start forming those bruises Greg can already feel.

Greg has all of ten seconds to feel smug about how Mike’s hand is a little shaky reaching for his cock before his mind blanks on the sloppy push of Mike’s dick still inside him. He smacks the flat of his fist against the wall and tries to hold out just to hear Mike’s short, sharp grunts when his body clamps down. Barely half a minute in he loses it, heat coiling tight, tighter, all the air punched out of his lungs when he comes and he’s still shuddering his way through it as Mike’s cock slips free.

He’s a boneless sack of good for nothing when Mike hauls him up and he lets himself slump lax and lazy against Mike’s solid chest. Mike’s slippery hand drags over the cut of his thigh, smearing his skin filthy with his own come, and he thinks about maybe working up a twitch of indignity.

He forgets all about it when Mike nuzzles at the sweat-damp slope of his throat.

“Hope you don’t mind me borrowing your shower,” he says, and hardly recognises the croak of his own voice. Completely wrecked, it sounds worse than a highway pileup.

“I thought you might.” Mike’s palm sweeps up over Greg’s belly, stuttering dry. Dips back down and up again, a slow, lazy caress that isn’t helping him get his brain back online at all. “No hurry,” he says, echo of before.

“You’re not the one-” Greg swallows the hitch in his voice. “You know.”

Mike makes that agreeably pleased noise of his.

A hand comes up dangerously close to Greg’s face and he shies back on instinct, runs into the solid wall of Mike and puffs out a sigh. “So I might be the one who needs a shower, but you’re pretty filthy.”

“Is that a no?” Mike’s fingers hover close to his mouth. The glove’s long gone.

Ignoring the jitter of his insides, Greg licks at the pads of Mike’s fingers. It’s not that he’s got something against the taste of his own come. It’s just, sucking on Mike’s fingers like that, his mouth opening to take them a little deeper at the slightest push, it isn’t at all what he’s used to. Of course, he’s not really used to fucking his co-workers or letting somebody do him without a rubber and hey, Mike’s not too concerned about those pesky facts of life either.

“You know, you could stay awhile,” Mike says. Snake-quick, his fingers pin Greg’s tongue down before Greg can so much as burble. “No strings. Think about it.”

Mike’s hold on him doesn’t so much as fall away as it loosens enough for him to step free. Feeling ridiculous with his jeans still tangled around his ankles, he kicks it all off, sneakers included, fully intent on leaving them in a heap in the middle of Mike’s tidy living room.

“That’s a pretty fancy kitchen you have there,” Greg says. His fingers itch to trace the shadowed lines of muscle hinted at beneath Mike’s open shirt. He didn’t manage to get the guy naked this time around either, so that one stays on the to do list. Just to see if he can get away with it, he slides a hand up under the hem, tries not to stare too hard at the slowly softening curve of Mike’s dick.

But wait a second. Screw that. Greg hitches the hem up with his wrist, answers the crook of Mike’s eyebrows with a smile. If Mike can fuck him with it, then he can stare at it. Period.

He was smack in the middle of insinuating something but damn if he can remember it now.

Fortunately, Mike’s a smart guy and obviously doesn’t suffer Greg’s post-coital cognitive failure. “Takeout is as much as you’ll get out of me after that.”

That gets a curl of pride blossoming warm in his gut. “Done deal,” Greg says, and hopes he doesn’t fall flat on his face on his way to the bathroom. As healthy as his ego is, that would still take a sizeable chunk out of it. And he knows Mike’s watching.

Just over threshold over Mike’s neat and tidy bathroom, Greg pauses, backtracks just around the corner. Mike is watching. Greg grins.

“Kung Pao chicken?” Mike says, and Greg can’t hide a flash of surprise. “I believe I remember you extolling its virtues at great length.”

Once, for probably two, three minutes tops, and Mike hadn’t even been involved in the conversation. “Uh, yeah,” Greg says. “Thanks.”

Mike says, “My pleasure,” and with his gaze gone south, for once Greg isn’t left wondering.

End

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