Page 73 of Oddly Fine

“You sure you’re up for this?” Hayes whispered softly. He planted a hand on either side of Beckett’s head to support most of his weight. When he lowered his hips to meet Beckett’s, their cocks—both rock hard—were pressed together, drawing filthy moans from both of them.

“The day I refuse a blowjob is the day you take me out back, shoot me, and feed me to Nickel and Pantouffle.” Beckett sounded deadly serious, but his gaze was teasing.

Hayes fucking loved how Beckett looked right then. He’d give up a great deal in life to keep that sparkle in those gem-green eyes forever.

“Your cat would eat you.” Hayes didn’t have a shadow of a doubt about that.

“She’s a very practical feline. Nothing goes to waste,” Beckett pointed out with a shrug, as if he’d given this due consideration, and her bloodthirsty ways made perfect sense.

Hayes’ thoughts became muddled when Beckett placed his hands on the small of his back to pull their groins closer, and began thrusting against him.

“Fuck,” Beckett muttered against Haye’s neck and then gently bit Hayes’ earlobe.

Hayes smiled as he tried to pull back, intending to work his way down Beckett’s body—to fulfill his promise to give him a blowjob—but Beckett thwarted his plan, holding him firmly in place as he continued to thrust against him.

“You want to come like this?” Hayes asked, hoping Beck would hear the enthusiasm in his voice. They really didn’t do this very often—not nearly as much as Hayes would have liked. Usually, clothes went flying as soon as they started kissing. The idea of finding release while holding each other felt different—tender or more affectionate somehow. Especially with their underwear still on.

Beckett mumbled incoherently against Hayes’ neck, and grabbed his ass to he could grind them together harder, faster.

Hayes groaned and began timing his own thrusts with Beckett’s so their cocks collided in a feverish dance while still trapped by fabric. Hayes was almost painfully hard, his balls drawing up. He wouldn’t last long, not with Beckett’s heated and desperate movements as he sought his own release.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Hayes panted between thrusts, loving the intensity and passion in Beckett’s expression, his masculine beauty never greater than at this moment.

Beckett looked into Hayes’ eyes and gave him a crooked smile, then pulled his head down for a tongue-tangling kiss.

The ever-present fire that burned between them was all-consuming. Hayes couldn’t hold out any longer. Coming hard, he groaned and shook with aftershocks. That triggered Beckett’s own release as he moaned against Hayes’ mouth before collapsing with a satisfied sigh. Boneless, he laid there with his head under Hayes’ chin.

“Hmm—” was all he managed to say.

Hayes had no desire to shower again, or get out of bed. But their cum-soaked underwear had to go. Pulling off their briefs, he used the dry sections to wipe them down as best he could before tossing them to the floor. Lying back down, he nestled closer to Beckett, who slipped one leg between his, like he usually did before falling asleep. They didn’t tend to spoon together though. Since Beckett ran hot, Hayes would eventually get overheated and pull away. But some part of their bodies would stay in contact during the night. Hayes didn’t mind because it made wrapping his arms around his boyfriend the next morning that much more satisfying.

“Today was a shit show,” Beckett said.

Lying there listening to Nickel’s soft snores, Hayes was inclined to agree.

“Thanks for—” A yawn abruptly cut off whatever else Beckett was going to say.

“It was pretty tame for us—actually,” Hayes mused, since no one had tried to shoot them. That qualified as a truly civilized Monday by their standards. “No arrests, no jail cells, and no guns.” Those were typical sticking points that got them in hot water with Gill.

“And there you go, tempting the devil,” Beck said around another jaw-cracking yawn. “I hope your Glock is handy, ‘cause when the bad guys break in, I’m using you as a shield,” he mumbled, followed by light snores that sounded an awful lot like the dog’s.

It was weirdly comforting to listen to the two of them. Hayes snorted in amusement. So be it, he thought. He’d go down shielding Beckett from bullets any day of the goddamned week. Even twice on Sunday.

Chapter 13

Beckett had known his turn would eventually come around, but somehow in the whirlwind of it all, he’d hoped it wouldn’t. They’d kept the funeral service small. Or at least, that had been the plan. More people had shown up than had initially been planned for, and by the time Beckett began making his way to the front to give his speech, he realized just how crowded the church had become by the time the service started.

The Théraults weren’t religious, but their mother had insisted on having a church service. No one had dared to raise an argument. Cynthia stayed busy running around greeting all the attendees and tending to the dozens of flower arrangements that had been delivered. She didn’t sit down until the priest announced that the service was to begin shortly. By keeping busy, she’d merely postponed the inevitable surfacing of her emotions. Now they were surfacing all at once. Beckett wasn’t sure how to meet her gaze without feeling the urge to punch someone for making her sad. Except in this case, the person responsible for her emotional trauma was dead, which made any kind of punching extremely difficult.

His goddamned shirt and tie were too tight. Yanking on them a few times to loosen them, he sighed with relief when his top button popped loose from his persistent tugging. He caught sight of Hayes sitting in the second row behind his parents and siblings, dressed in a new black suit. They hadn’t packed any of their suits, so Hayes had volunteered to go shopping for the two of them while Beckett was with the family choosing a coffin. Hayes looked sharp, as always, wearing his suit like a coat of armor, cool and impenetrable. Beckett, on the other hand, was miserable wearing a suit. Like he was putting on an act. He forced himself to breathe deeply, fighting the panic he could feel rising inside him, knowing it could quite easily take control if he let it.

In typical Beckett fashion, he hadn’t prepared a speech beforehand. Hayes had broached the subject on several occasions, asking what he planned to say, but Beckett had brushed him off every time. In his view, it wasn’t a matter of denial—it was simply that he didn’t have anything that he wanted to say. He’d figured something would come to him when the time came. But the more time that passed, the angrier he became about the whole damned thing. He’d rather be anywhere but standing there in front of several dozen people to make a speech about his dearly departed brother with his hands clutching the sides of the old podium hard enough to crack the lacquered wood.

It made no sense to him. What the hell was he supposed to tell these people, most of whom he didn’t know. Who the fuck cared? After all, Franklin had two other siblings. He didn’t need Beckett to talk about jack shit. Beckett had nothing to offer this crowd. Nothing they would relate to, in any event. He wasn’t a poet, or—fuck—even a particularly nice person. In fact, he was a bonafide asshole. Franklin, if he was still here, could attest to that. In fact, he’d have probably screamed it to the rafters if he could come back from the dead. Their relationship had always been an uneasy one, so they tended to stay out of each other’s way most of the time to minimize opportunities for conflict. He’d loved his brother despite their differences of opinion on just about everything. Loved him still, but as he met his mother’s tearful gaze, his anger took control.

He had nothing kind to say. That’s what it all boiled down to. And that was the real crux of the matter. He didn’t know how to navigate his way around that little problem.

The service was well attended, but Beckett had his doubts about a lot of the people there. Had they all known and loved his brother? His brother was—had always been—as prickly as a cactus. He’d been quite adept at digging for the truth and known to be relentless, and often ruthless, in how he went about it. As a result, it was hard for Beckett to imagine that Franklin had made any real friends. Nonetheless, there were a lot of people who’d shown up for the service. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what angered him the most about standing here: that he had nothing positive to say about his brother, or that a lot of these people seated in front of him were phony, or that there had been a redeemable side to his brother that he’d missed out on somehow. Anger and grief—with a healthy dose of guilt—swirled around in his gut, making for a strange cocktail that only made this moment more difficult than it already was. Goddammit, why did Franklin have to do this to him—to them all?