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Jason’s cock was straining painfully at his trousers, so it was a desperate relief when Kennedy’s hands dropped to his fly, eased his zipper down, mindful of all that fragile skin and blindly thrusting muscle. His own hands rested motionless on Kennedy’s lean hips—he kept getting distracted by Kennedy’s relentlessly pleasurable assault—but he made the effort now, fingers fumbling with the buckle tongue, yanking the trousers open with no regard for tailoring. He wanted more of everything. Of that weight and warmth…and wholeness. And he wanted it now.
Kennedy’s dick sprang free, crowding Jason in the darkness that pressed closer, smelling of faded aftershave, musk, and imminent sex.
“Beautiful,” Kennedy said, reaching for him, and Jason’s cock nestled into his curled palm. “This is beautiful.”
Yes, it was. After a day devoted to death and dying, sex was a beautiful, life-affirming thing. An art form all its own.
Kennedy’s thumb stroked along Jason’s achingly hard length in a sensual brailing, and the moan Jason had tried to swallow tore out of his throat. Raw and honest with need.
Kennedy’s laugh was quiet, knowing. He slid an arm around Jason’s waist, hitching him up against the door—one hell of a lot of upper body strength there—and Jason grabbed for Kennedy’s shoulders, instinctively wrapping his legs around Kennedy’s hips—also no small effort. Kennedy’s hold slipped, and they half fell against the door.
Jason swallowed a half-yelp half-laugh, but Kennedy stayed on his feet. Jason wriggled for leverage against the slick surface, hiking himself up again, and with that gyration initiating more pleasurable motion. Yes to naked friction from any angle.
“Yeah. There. That’s…”
“Good,” Kennedy urged. “That’s so…”
Jason ground his hips against Kennedy’s, and Kennedy thrust back hard. Push and pull rapidly shifting into pound and pummel.
Jason arched, and Kennedy’s arms tightened around his waist. The door handle lever hit Jason in the back, but he barely noticed. Even if they fell over, he wasn’t sure it would make a difference. They were locked in a kind of sexual mortal combat now, hips rocking, cocks plunging against each other, awkward and occasionally painful, but mostly, crazily good.
This is Kennedy. This is Kennedy’s dick shoving into my groin. That is Kennedy’s dick leaking slickness…
Kennedy’s mouth was against Jason’s ear, and he was grunting with each thrust, a rough, aggressive sound that was unbearably exciting.
They were both breathing hard, sweat breaking over their bodies as they struggled and strained their way to the prize—and Jesus, this looked easier on television than it was in practice. Jason slid down a couple of centimeters, and he swore in frustration. Kennedy’s arms refastened around his back, keeping him pinned, and Jason clamped his thighs, rocking against that eager pulsing hardness.
“Christ, yes,” Jason urged. “Yes. YES.”
“Shhh. God.” Kennedy was laughing unsteadily.
They bumped and banged their way into a semblance of rhythm. The door rattled alarmingly in its frame beneath their onslaught. It didn’t matter.
You didn’t have to be in sync to make this work, and they were making it work.
Anything that felt this good would work. Jason let his head fall back again…ouch…this time Kennedy didn’t laugh at the thump, he probably didn’t hear it—Jason barely felt it as he launched himself into Kennedy’s thrusts which were coming now in short, fast bursts.
So good. So sweet. Yes. Yes. Good. I can’t believe this is Kennedy—no, don’t think about that—
Jason’s balls drew tight. Little lights danced behind his eyes. He surged up against the door one final time and went barreling down a luminous blue-green tunnel until he felt orgasm lift him like a wave scooping up his surfboard and casting him into sunlight and spray.
Brilliant…sparkling…blinding…delight. He was transported, flying high as shafts of bright and secret pleasure lanced through him, transfixing him…oh, don’t let it stop. Carried along on that sweet, sweet ride…
He had the presence of mind to shout his reaction into Kennedy’s broad and powerful shoulder—it had been way too fucking long since he’d had this relief.
He landed on the shore, wet, weak-kneed, and shaking—and didn’t object when he was gathered to his feet and guided to the bed. He didn’t recall undressing, only tumbling into cool cotton and warm arms. A sheet drifted down as light as a summer breeze and conscious thought scattered like grains of sand.
He woke to the sound of the shower.
And one hell of a headache.
Jason winced at the steady thump of blood in his temples. Where was he that there was someone using his shower? Wasn’t he supposed to be b
ack in L.A.?
The bathroom door swung wide, and Jason’s eyes jerked open as a wave of warm, soapy air—and a blast of familiar aftershave—dispelled the mental fog.
“Up and at ’em, Agent West,” Kennedy said. “We’re not on vacation.”
