Disclaimers: Jim belongs to Pet Fly. Duncan belongs to Panzer/Davis Productions. Written for pleasure, not profit. Intended for adult readers only, please. Contains male/male sex and strong language.

Comments are welcomed (and almost always responded to) at JBonetoo@yahoo.com

Notes: Thanks go to Liz for first planting the seed, then watering it. And my usual groveling thanks to Melis, Kady Mae and Kat for fitting beta-reading in with the rest of their ridiculously busy lives.

Summary: Duncan MacLeod and Jim Ellison take another look at each other.


Look Again [NC-17]

by Bone


I nailed the bastard today. Just like I told Duncan I would. It took seven hours, three temper tantrums on his part, two warnings from the detective in charge on my part, and it cost the Seacouver PD one folding chair, but I nailed him. I'm not sure I'll ever be invited to the Policemen's Ball here, but I don't much care. Means to an end, boys, means to an end. If I have to get mean to get the end I want, then I haven't got a problem with that. It's not like we're going to be buddies, now is it?

A couple of Seacouver's finest had the balls to question my methods. Seems to me we were just playing a variation of Good Cop, Bad Cop, except they were all good ... and I was all bad. Let them think that. To hell with 'em. They wanted the creep behind bars, and that's what they got.

End of story.

And I never laid a hand on him. Check the tape, if you don't believe me.

Besides, it was fun. Not fun like poker, or going to a ball game. More like jumping out of an airplane, hoping your parachute works. Fun like going camping in the winter when there's a chance the weather just might turn. Sometimes it's fun to risk everything. My life. My career. My reputation. So what if that means I end up spending a lot of time by myself? Sometimes it's fun to just say, "Screw this and screw you."

Okay, so I get my kicks in strange ways.

Like walking into a blues club and fucking the bartender over a desk.

I doubt Duncan MacLeod will ever know the public service he provided last night. If it's a game I play, it still has some limits, and I'd just about reached them. I left the station yesterday ready to do some serious damage to somebody, or something, or to myself if nothing else worked. I had the common sense to walk instead of arming myself with the truck, but beyond that, I had no plans except getting some relief or some release, one or the other.

I got what I needed.

I'm not sure I've ever wanted anyone as bad as I wanted Duncan. I saw him standing there behind the bar, drying a glass with a dish towel, and I wanted to be both the glass and the towel. I wanted his hands on me. He locked on to me right away, before I even closed the door. It was like he pulled me right to him, and next thing I knew I was sitting in front of him, drinking him in. Forget alcohol; I could get drunk just looking at him.

I don't really have a "type." I liked Carolyn because she was neat and precise, and she had that little lisp thing so I knew she wasn't as perfect as she wanted everyone to think. I've gone out with short, plump women and tall, skinny men. I try not to box myself in too much. But I think from the minute I set eyes on Duncan, he raised the bar for me. It's going to be tough to beat that.

I got hard as soon as I saw his eyes. Can brown eyes be bright? Because they were -- bright and hot. I finally pulled mine away and looked him over. A mouth meant for kissing ... or sucking ... long dark hair, shoulders broader than mine, chest and arm muscles his shirt couldn't begin to hide. We're both pretty much hard bodies, but from the way he stood, it looked like his thing was martial arts. We're built along the same lines, but he's more fine than me. And he was standing flush up against the counter, as close as he could get to me without just reaching over and pulling me onto his side. Made me wonder what the rest of him looked like.

So I ordered a beer, and when he went to pick up a bottle, I got an eyeful of the rest of him. A big eyeful. As far as I was concerned, that was all it took. Don't put me in front of a gorgeous man with a rock-hard erection and tell me we're just going to talk. No way. I sat there with my beer, pretending to watch the band, catching his eye when I could. Every time it happened, the intensity ratcheted up just a little. I had to sit with my legs spread just to give my dick some room to breathe. If I've ever had an erection that lasted two hours, I don't remember it. I kept imagining him coming around the bar, standing between my legs, and me pushing him slowly to his knees ...

But that, too, felt like part of the game. Anticipation's an amazing aphrodisiac. I loved watching him try not to look at me. He felt it, too. I know that. He went from being cautious to curious and then started wandering into interested. His face didn't hide anything from me. Here we were, in a crowded, noisy bar, and it felt like we were the only two people in the place.

After a day when every minute seemed harder than it had to be, the thing with Duncan went down smooth as honey. Once the music stopped and the bar cleared a little, we started talking. He introduced himself, and from the minute he put his hand in mine, I knew it was going to happen. We talked about what I was doing in Seacouver, ordinary stuff. He closed his eyes halfway when I said I spent the day interrogating a suspect and it made me wonder what he was thinking about.

I swear I could feel his body temperature go up from across the bar. I could have him. I knew it, and he knew it. All we needed was some privacy and he managed that with a maneuver so slick I'll have to remember it for the next time I have an urge to screw a complete stranger in a night club.

Ordinarily, I might have suggested we go somewhere -- my hotel, his place, wherever. But it felt like I'd been kept on a short leash for too long, and something about the way he turned to look at me when I closed the door just snapped something. A big strong guy like that, and he didn't want to tussle. He didn't want it to be a fight for who's on top, even though I think we're an even match. He wanted me to fuck him. For whatever reason, he wanted to yield, and I wanted to take. I made sure he really wanted to do it, made him tell me he wanted to, and then I just went for it.

I felt like I'd been waiting for years, not hours. As soon as I got my hands on him, I lost it. I felt like I knew him already, knew what he'd like, knew how his erection would feel under my hand, knew his mouth was something I wanted to get to know better. I know better than to screw around without a condom, but I've been lied to by the best, and when he said he was clean, he meant it. I know it. So I did it, bareback, feeling for the first time ever how hot it really is inside a man, feeling the muscle clenching tight, massaging from the inside. Pushing my way inside him, hearing him groan at how good it felt, letting myself push us both as far as we could. Being hard and high in his ass felt like coming home.

First impressions don't always mean anything. Spend enough time in the military, and on a police force, and you'll learn that anyone can pretend to be anything. Most of the people I meet lie as a matter of course; it would never occur to them to tell the truth. So to meet a man like Duncan, who didn't tease, or prevaricate, or deny that some sharp, pure thing had happened between us -- that was a little miracle.

He saw me at my best and worst, and he accepted me, accepted it. More than accepted it. He embraced it. I've got to tell you, there hasn't been much in the way of accepting and embracing in my life. I take it where I can find it.

And I found it in him.

I wanted something he could give me, and he let me take it.

The thing is ... I want more.

I want more than just that one blistering night. At the very least, I want one more blistering night. I want the chance to see if my first impression of Duncan was just my dick talking or not. Because Duncan came across to me as a good man. Not just an okay, average guy, but a good, strong man with his head on straight. I don't meet enough people like that to let one slip away when he crosses my path.

So I had a good day. I nailed the bad guy. I had the longest, hottest shower I can ever remember, and I had the biggest, juiciest steak I could find for dinner. After fighting both the suspect and my brothers in blue for two days, I'm feeling pretty self-indulgent, and the only other thing I need to make this day complete is to hear Duncan groaning my name while I'm sucking him dry.

I've got the hotel room for one more night. I've got my stuff packed and gas in the truck for tomorrow. I've got twelve more hours where I don't have to report to anybody, or get orders from anybody, or take any shit for doing my job right, and if I can find him, I'm hoping to spend most of those twelve hours naked and sweaty.

My feet remember the way to Joe's.

It looks the same. Different band tonight, but about the same number of people. I stand in the doorway again for a minute, taking a look around. All right, so I'm posing. So what? It worked before. My skin's not tingling, not like last night, and I don't even need to look behind the bar to see Duncan's not there. What surprises me a little is how disappointed I am. My heart feels like it's sitting somewhere around my Adam's apple. I head over anyway, and catch the eye of the bartender. He looks about fifty, with a shock of gray hair and a pronounced limp.

"What can I get you?"

How about Duncan MacLeod spread-eagled on a bed?

I order a beer.

When he brings it over, I ask him if he's Joe, and he looks a little surprised, but nods. I put out my hand and say, "I'm Jim Ellison. I'm a friend of Duncan's. I was hoping he'd be here tonight."

Yeah, I know; that's not too subtle, but frankly, subtle's not how I'm feeling right now.

Joe looks me over and I can't begin to guess what kind of first impression I'm making. At the very least I'm clean, shaved, and in a decent shirt and khakis. Then he does something weird. He looks over at a red-headed kid down the bar and raises one eyebrow. The kid looks at me, then gives a tiny shake of his head. What's up with that?

Whatever it is, it makes Joe relax a little and he says, "He'll be in around ten. He's finishing up some work at the dojo."

The dojo. I give myself a little pat on the back for being right about the martial arts body. Then I settle myself in for the wait. I let myself have a couple of beers; not enough to get sloshed, just enough to make the time pass. Joe's good company and we talk some about the Army once we figure out we have that in common. It turns out neither of us is too fond of the jungle.

I'm watching Joe's face when Duncan opens the door, but I don't need to see the smile to know he's in the room. I'm not clairvoyant or anything, but the air changes. The room feels smaller and hotter before I even turn around, and once I do, I can't breathe.

Damn, he looks good. He's wearing a long black coat. Underneath it is a white turtleneck sweater and black pants. He looks ... dangerous. I did Covert Ops for about four years, and I should be able to mask my feelings, but one quick glance at Joe tells me I'm not hiding a thing. This little smile plays over his mouth and he nods, as if he's confirming something he'd wondered about. Great. So much for keeping a low profile.

Duncan ruffles the hair of the redhead on the way by, with a casual "Hi Rich," and raises a hand to Joe, but he doesn't stop until he's standing in front of me with his hand already outstretched, and says, "Jim."

That's all. Just "Jim." But I'm already starting to leak; my dick's leaping to attention like a recruit on the first day of boot camp. My armpits are damp and my mouth itches and I seem to have lost vocal capacity. So I just grin at him, shake his hand, and think to myself, thank God he's here.

He brushes against me on his way to the bar, squeezing in between me and the guy next to me, his arm heavy against mine, and I can smell the soap he used, and whatever resin they use in the dojo. My mouth's watering and I still haven't actually said anything to him.

"You've met Jim?" he asks Joe, taking the beer Joe's handing him. He takes a big swallow of it, then licks his lips and turns to me, and his face is right there. I could reach right out and lick him, and he knows I'm thinking about it. The relief I feel now that he's here is unsettling. Not that I wanted it to be awkward, but it's so damn easy with him. I'm used to things being hard.

He and Joe start talking about the dojo, and except for the weight of him against my side, I'm not part of the conversation. I finally figure out that he's giving me time to pull myself together, and my estimation of him goes up yet another notch. When I think I can speak without my first words being, "How about a blowjob?", I join in, too, and for half an hour or so, we just stay that way, talking. I have to move around a little so my poor dick won't lose circulation completely, and my shoulder brushes against Duncan's chest. I'm leaning on the bar and he's standing beside me, facing me, and he makes this show of leaning over me to get a coaster and lets his hips nudge against my side, lets me feel that he's just as hard as I am, lets me know it's just the same for him.

Joe gets called away eventually, and as enjoyable as he is, I've been waiting for him to leave. All I want to do is grab Duncan, pull up that sweater and latch onto him somewhere, pull down his zipper and eat him, get him alone somewhere away from the noise and the people and just have him. He's enjoying this, this dragging things out part, just as much as he did last night. But it's worse now, because we both know how it can be. And he's touching me already, priming me, stoking and stroking; foreplay, not teasing.

We know where we're headed. It's just a matter of getting there.

"You look better," he says, and his eyes on my face feel like warm fingers, trailing from forehead to chin. "You got him?"

"I got him," I say, and he grins at the satisfaction in my voice. Hell yes, I'm proud of it.

"Good," he says, and he splays his fingers on my back for an instant. I can feel each finger, firm and strong against me, and he rubs there, then pats me twice, hard. "Good for you."

He turns his body so he's leaning on the bar, too, and says, "So you're headed back to Cascade?"

I nod. "In the morning," I say, and turn to look at him.

He's got that look. The same one he had last night when I closed the office door with my foot and said, "Do you want to do this?" The one that made me pounce on him and hold him still against the door and watch as his hips started lunging toward mine. He's looking at me like the only thing keeping us from just dropping to the floor and going for it is all these pesky people still sitting all around us.

"Let me tell Joe I'm leaving," is all he says, and I'm grateful I don't have to ask.

A couple minutes later, we're outside the bar. It's not really cold enough for a coat, but he looks damn good in it. We're standing about three feet apart. Politely apart. Appropriately apart. Anyone could look at us and we're just two guys on a sidewalk, talking. But underneath, we're hot. Christ, we're hot. I've got to stand with my feet apart because I've got a pole here in my pants and the pleats alone aren't doing their job keeping it hidden. He's got color high in his cheeks and I'm actually sweating. This goes way beyond some superficial attraction. This is a whole new thing for me. His eyes are on fire already and we'll be lucky if we manage to get behind a closed door before we do something about this need.

"Where are you staying?" he asks.

"The Clearview," I tell him, and we turn together towards it.

I'm trying to use the few blocks' walk to calm myself down. He gives me that look again when we're halfway there, that dark, sweet, seductive look, and I have to take his arm, duck him into an alley, push him against a wall and taste him. I set my mouth on his and he opens wide, thrusting his tongue in my mouth, aggressive and burning hot. Thank God it's dark. Thank God it's late. Thank God he didn't make me wait one more minute.

I haven't done this since I was a kid, but I'm dry-humping him, shoving my erection against his, grinding them together. At each thrust, his breath catches, a sharp sound I can hear in my mouth and I can't believe I'm doing this, but I'm not going to stop. I'm not going to let him go and walk sedately to my hotel and do this like a gentleman. No, whatever we do next, I have to have this, and I have to have it now. He's not protesting; nothing like. The alley's damp and it doesn't smell too great, but it's pitch dark, and his hands are on my ass now, and he's moving my hips in circles, counter- thrusting. His tongue is halfway down my throat and I've got his hair wrapped up in my fists, handfuls of slippery soft hair. I lean on him, push him hard back against the wall and he groans at that, sinking back, taking my weight, tearing his mouth away from mine and gasping, "Harder, Jim. Do it harder."

Fuck. I can do that. I can do that all night long. I let go of his hair and brace my hands against the wall beside his head, thrust one leg between both of his and rock into him as hard as I can. I can hear his coat scrape against the brick, hear the little moans he's trying to stifle, hear people passing by the end of the alley while we're here trying not to break into pieces, trying not to make any noise, trying to wait and trying to come, both at once. He goes before I do, stiffening, his thrusts uncoordinated and jerky, turning his head so his mouth hits my hand, biting down as he comes. The feel of his teeth set in my hand pushes me too far and I bring my knee up snug under his balls and grind myself into his hip, feeling my dick lurching out wet spurts in my pants. I'm dizzy with it, shivering with it, feeling each spasm like it's starting halfway up my back and tearing through me.

He's panting into my shoulder and I'm trying to get my heart to stop jumping around in my chest. He's still got his hands on my ass and he's rubbing little circles, dipping his fingers down the cleft, rubbing there. Even through two layers of fabric it's arousing as hell, and believe it or not, I'm starting to stir again already. I'm wet and sticky and starting to get cold, but my dick's just swimming around in the last batch, working on the next one.

I guess the first thing on the agenda when we get to my room is a shower.


The hotel room is purely functional. The man standing in it, however, is purely decorative. Not in a traditional sense maybe, not at the moment, not after what I just did to him. Poor Duncan. His hair's rumpled, he's got a big wet stain on the front of his pants, and when I circle around him, I see the back of his coat is covered in brick dust. When I come in close behind him, he smells less like soap and more like spunk, and the alley, and I want to strip him down where he stands and fuck him until he can't walk straight.

He's shaking. Whether it's aftershocks from the last time, or anticipation of the next, I don't know, but it's sexy as hell. I'm shaky, too. My knees feel like jelly. This is such a dangerous game; I don't understand why he doesn't worry me at all. The only vibes I get off him are strength and purpose and excitement. As dangerous as he looks, he doesn't feel that way, and I guess there are times when you just have to go with your gut.

My gut trusts him. Wants him, too, but I like Duncan. I like how straight- forward he is. Most men wouldn't appreciate getting jumped in an alley, but he was with me all the way. As little as we know about each other, we seem to be finding common ground.

I strip off my t-shirt on the way to the bathroom and say, "I'm going to take a shower. Make yourself comfortable." I'll let him decide if he wants to join me. I suppose it would have been more polite to offer him first go at the shower, but it's too late now. The manners I have I've learned on the fly, and the etiquette of who gets to shower first after you've both come in your pants is one I've never had to think about before. Besides, he's a guy; I don't think the niceties of such things are going to bug him much. Mostly I just want us both clean and bare and preferably horizontal, in as little time and with as little effort as possible.

It doesn't look like he's going to join me, so I just rinse off real quick, dry off, swish some Scope around my mouth and go back out. He's taken his coat off, and his shirt, and his boots and socks. He's unbuttoned his pants and he's sitting on the side of the bed with his elbows on his knees.

My heart thuds once. Second thoughts? No; he wouldn't be sitting there in bare feet if he didn't want to be here. Just thinking, maybe. He looks up at me and tilts his head. He looks pretty serious.

"I don't do this very often," he says quietly.

I tuck the towel more firmly around me and step away a little, bracing my butt on the bureau.

"I don't either," I tell him, and he nods. "Actually, it's the first time I've ever ... you know ... with someone I just met."

I hesitate to call him a stranger. I feel like I know him, ridiculous as that sounds given that we've said about a dozen words to each other in our entire acquaintance.

"I'm usually pretty careful," I continue, wanting him to understand. "It's not something I can be real open about, when I'm home."

God, that came out all wrong. It sounds like I came on to him just because I'm not on my home turf. Shit.

But he's smiling a little, and he says, "Everybody needs a place where they can just be themselves for awhile."

He understands. He heard more than I said, and he understands.

I want him to know it's more than just that, even if I feel like I'm putting myself out on a limb he never asked me to walk. "I'm not sure when you met me last night I was entirely myself," I tell him. "I'm not usually that ... rough."

"I know," he says calmly. "You were in a war, of sorts. I know what that's like. Sometimes in situations like that you find things inside you didn't know you had. It doesn't mean that's who you are."

He doesn't elaborate more than that. I don't know what action he's seen, but looking at his eyes, there's no question that he knows what he's talking about. It is a war, and I fight it every day. I fight it hard because going soft is a good way to get yourself killed, but sometimes I think maybe I'm losing whatever softness I have left in me.

"Remember how you held my arms up, so I couldn't move?" he says, and his voice is husky and I can picture the moment with perfect clarity. I remember how the pulse in his wrist jumped under my thumb; I remember how he leaned forward and bit my jaw, sending me spinning.

I nod.

He holds out his arms. "No bruises, Jim."

His wrists are strong, the tendons visible, dark hair feathering the back, the underside smooth and golden. There's not a mark on him. Maybe I wasn't as rough as I thought.

"You weren't too rough, Jim. I don't think you'd let yourself be too rough," he says. Then he points to my hand. "I'm the one who lost it," he says.

I look down. There, below my thumb, in the meat of my palm, is a set of teeth marks, and another perfect picture jumps into my head. I can see him stiffen, see his head whip to the side, and feel the sting of his teeth on my hand.

"We all get a little primitive sometimes, Jim. I don't mind. And you shouldn't, either."

With that, he pushes himself up and heads in to the bathroom, unzipping his pants as he goes.

Primitive. That's how I feel when I'm interrogating someone. Primitive and on edge and holding very tightly to what's left in me that's human. Sometimes I even have to let that go. The hell of it is that I enjoy it so much. And that I'm so good at it. Some men are born to be diplomats. Some are born to be teachers. Me? I intimidate people into confessing crimes. That's what I'm good at.

Most of the time, I even think they did it.

I have a knack, Simon says. A nose for it. Like I can smell it when they're lying. It's not a smell exactly. But I do seem to know somehow. So I'm their number one guy. I'm the one they send on little assignments like this. I'm the one who gets to wrangle with department heads who have more testosterone than sense, or who get so tangled up in bureaucracy and procedure they wouldn't know a sure hit if it bit them on the ass.

And to do it, I have to leave behind some pieces of James J. Ellison. Like the piece that remembered Carolyn's favorite candy bar. Like the part that wanted to learn to play the piano.

Like the part of me that would just as soon be on the bottom.

I drop the towel and go sit on the bed. I can still feel the warmth from his body on the spread. I don't have to be that Jim Ellison all the time. I don't have to be primitive and rough. Not with Duncan. I think he'd let me show him any part of me I want, any part of me I can.

I've got ten more hours to just be myself.

Whoever that might be.

I stretch out on the bed. King-size. I slide over until I'm diagonal on it, and my whole body fits, stretched and all. I put my arms above my head and arch my back, feeling one pop after another up my spine. I flex my heels and feel my calf muscles bunch. God, that feels good. Letting go feels good. It's a luxury I don't often have. Keeping it tight and tense is part of the game; getting the kinks out isn't.

Duncan comes back in the room while I'm contorted, trying to get that last pop out of the base of my spine. "Lean on me, will you?" I ask him, and he obliges, putting his weight on my elbow and pushing me farther toward the bed until I hear that last crack. "Ahhh, that's better," I tell him and he smacks me lightly on the hip before standing up again. I move over to the side of the bed and grab hold of the ends of the towel he's got draped across his neck.

"Where do you think you're going?" I growl at him, grinning.

He points to the light switch on the wall, but I shake my head. "Leave them on. I want to see you."

When I say that, his eyes get bright again, and I can see his dick start to fill. I don't see many uncircumcised penises these days, and his is a beauty. Thick, heavy, long, and getting longer by the second. When I can pull my eyes away from it, and back up to his face, he's flushed. "Do you mind?" I ask.

He shakes his head and steps a little bit closer. "Whatever you want, Jim. Anything."

Whatever I want. Anything. I want another night. And another day. And another night after that. I want to know if we can talk with our clothes on. I want to know how he ended up with a dojo in Seacouver when it sounds like he belongs in Edinburgh. I want to stay here for awhile and count his ribs with my fingers while he sleeps.

I don't think I can have any of that. I think I can have my ten hours, and be glad of them. And right now, what I want is to take him in my mouth. I've tasted him soft. Now I want to taste him hard. I'm hard, too, just from watching him. I think we could stand on opposite sides of the room and just watch each other get erect without saying a word. We could probably come just from the watching, but what a waste that would be.

I put a hand out, tracing the line of hair down his belly. His skin is smooth and soft, without a freckle or a scar. He's perfect. His dick bounces against my chin when I reach closer and he laughs a little, his hands going to my shoulders, rubbing real lightly. I let my chin scrape against the head of his dick, just now poking through the foreskin, and he stops laughing. He moves one hand to his penis and rubs it against me again, against the beard stubble there, and breathes in hard. I like seeing his fingers on his own dick, like how comfortable he is with himself. I lick the fingers that are holding his erection, and he likes that, too. He's leaning his knees on the bed now, still standing, but having a little trouble concentrating, I think.

I lick him again, letting my tongue wander through his fingers to the salty skin of his dick, then going lower, nuzzling my nose in his balls, sniffing him there, licking there. He's got a death grip on my shoulder now, and he's starting to pump himself. It's got to be the hottest thing I've ever seen. I'm so close to him I can see his dick twitching in his hand on the downstroke, see the wet stuff start leaking out the top. Enough watching. Time for tasting. I get up on my knees on the bed and lean over, taking the head of his dick in my mouth. He starts to take his hand away, but I make him leave it there, and stop licking him long enough to say, "Do it yourself. You know what you like."

At that, he moves his hand from my shoulder to the back of my head and leans over to kiss me, hard and fast, his hand cradling my head while the other starts a more definite motion on his dick. He lets go of my mouth and I have it back on his dick by the time he's standing up straight again. This way he can thrust in as much as he wants, but still do his own thing. I don't know why this turns me on so much, but it does. I start some suction on the head of his dick and he gasps out, "Hold still." So I stay right there, crouched over him, sucking strong, flicking my tongue in the slit, tasting salty, bittersweet stuff and feeling the spongy head swell in my mouth. He's pumping steady now, long strokes that bring his fingers right up against my mouth.

When I think he's almost there, I grab at a finger with my mouth the next time it brushes by and I keep it there, sucking it and his dick at the same time and he shouts something in a language I don't know and my mouth is flooded with come, just flooded. Some if it leaks back out onto his stomach and pubic hair. Some it's on his finger. I swallowed the rest and I've got it from nose to chin. It's like having an explosion of Duncan smell and taste. I'll be smelling that smell in my sleep.

I lick him clean, and when I look up at him, he rubs two fingers across my chin and licks them off himself. That's when my dick really starts to beg for attention. I get back up on my knees and put my hands on his neck, bringing him down for another kiss, a harder, longer, wetter kiss that tastes like him now, like his semen and saliva and just him. I pull him close enough to rub against him and my hips start moving, circling and thrusting against his stomach, against the parts I just licked clean, against the still-soft parts.

Duncan's pushing on my shoulder, pushing hard before it even registers, and he says, "Lie back. Spread your legs."

My heart and my dick both jump. Whatever he wants. Anything.

He crawls between my legs, pushing on my knees, opening me up. How did he know? How did he know? Oh God, I can't remember ever being this exposed. Jesus, the lights are on, my knees are up and he can see every inch of me. Every single inch, every hidden place. I feel like he can see right up inside me to all those faces I have to wear that don't belong to me. I feel like he's stripping them all away and it's just me, exposed and hungry.

He's still soft, so I don't think he's looking to penetrate. I'd let him, in a heartbeat. If he doesn't do something soon, it's going to be all over, and I try to tell him that, but he just shushes me with a hand over my mouth, and even that takes me one step closer to the edge. He's looking at me, looking at me from head to toe, like he likes what he sees. Like he's trying to decide exactly what he wants to do to me. When his eyes hit my crotch, I have to close mine. If I watch him looking at me, it's over.

The next thing I feel is a cool finger, slick with something he found somewhere, stroking between my balls and my anus. He's pressing hard there, with two fingers now, and I groan before I can stop it.

"Feel good?" he asks, almost whispering, and I nod.

"Better than good," I manage to answer him, but it gets choked off at the end because he's sliding those same two fingers around the outside of the hole there, circling twice then sliding in both at once. My insides are shocked and clamp down on him, hurting me and I'm sure hurting him, and he leans over, putting his mouth in the middle of my chest, making soothing noises, petting me, and I can feel things start to loosen up. He changes angle and delves in again and it's already better, it's already feeling more good than bad. He sits up so he can go deeper and I open my eyes again, looking at the size of him, the danger of him, crouched there between my thighs, with his fingers inches deep inside me.

This isn't something you do with a one-night stand. I don't know how I know that, but I do.

He's not aroused, but he's enjoying what he's doing. It shows in everything from the light in his eyes to the gentleness of his fingers. It shows in how slowly he's moving, how much care he's taking. He's taking all that urgency from earlier and he's dragging it out into something deeper and closer and sweeter.

He's making it about the two of us, not just two random men with a chemical reaction.

I'm breathing heavy; I can see my diaphragm shake with every breath and I can see my heartbeat there. I could count my pulse in my dick if I tried. I don't think I've ever been harder in my life. It's standing out parallel over my stomach, straining up, a whole little life-force all its own. If he doesn't touch me soon, I'm going to scream, or beg. He must be watching me pretty closely because when I start making fists in the sheets to keep from just grabbing myself and ending this, he reaches for me, sliding another slick hand down the whole length of my dick, from tip to root, then slipping back up again. "Oh yes, just like that," I whisper and he does it again and his fingers in my ass move again and now he's hitting that spot inside and outside, jerking me off from both directions, thrusting and pumping, pumping and thrusting, stronger and faster until I'm lunging my hips up to meet his hand, then down on his fingers, stretching myself around two fingers, then a third that makes its way in, stretched beyond capacity, beyond any ability to control it, any ability to reason.

When the third finger hits my prostate, it's all over and I heave up, sitting up on his fingers, driving myself down on him while I spit streams of semen on his hand and my chest. I can't breathe. I can't breathe at all, and all I can see is his hand, still on me, rubbing me, rubbing all the wet stuff into my skin. I lean back on my hands, still impaled on his fingers and he wiggles them around, sending more shock waves through me, surprising one more streak of come out of me. He tries it again, but I'm sensitive to the point of pain now and I lift myself off his hand and collapse back on the bed.

"Jesus Christ, Duncan," I pant out, one hand over my thundering heart. "I think I'm too old for that."

He laughs out loud and drops down beside me, putting his hand over mine. "Trust me, Jim, you're not too old for that."

When I can breathe again, I get us wet washcloths and we clean up a little, and I leave him some room and opportunity to leave if he wants. But he just slides under the covers and points to the light switch. "Now can we turn them off?" he asks, with a very nice smile.

He wants to stay.

He rolls toward me when I crawl in beside him and a warm heavy hand drops back on my chest. I slide my arm around his back and bring him in so his head is on my shoulder.

He's going to stay.

He accepted the game face, but he liked it when I let my guard down. He liked it when I let him in; let myself just be me for awhile.

Like I said; it's a luxury.

I have nine hours left, and I can spend them with him.

I can be myself, but I don't have to be by myself.

I hope he's not planning on sleeping.

The End