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Jason’s heart was in his throat anticipating his cock sinking into that sweet hot grip.
“You’re so quiet. I’ve never heard you so quiet during sex.” There was a smile in Kennedy’s voice, almost a note of teasing.
“I don’t want to scare you.”
Kennedy chuckled. “I don’t scare easy.”
No. True enough. It was hard to think of anything that might scare Kennedy.
Jason flexed his fingers and Kennedy’s gasped, arching a little. “Jesus, yes. Do that again.”
Jason did it again, leaning forward and trying to kiss Kennedy’s mouth at that awkward angle, massaging the spongy bump with careful fingers. His own cock was rock hard, balls aching. He was afraid he was going to come the moment his dick touched Kennedy’s hole.
Not that he wasn’t willing to risk it. Jason lowered himself on top of Kennedy, relishing the feel of that powerful body beneath his own. “I can’t believe we’re here, together now,” He whispered against Kennedy’s hard shoulder. “This evening I thought…”
Kennedy wasn’t in the mood for talk. His buttocks humped back against Jason’s groin, and Jason obligingly withdrew his fingers out, replacing them in that moist heat with his dick.
So… good. He cried out as Kennedy’s sphincter muscle contracted around him. “God. Yes. Yes.” He began to thrust and tug at that hot darkness. “Oh, God. Oh, Sam.” He couldn’t have shut up to save his life.
Sam let out a deep sound, something between a groan and a growl, and began to shove back hard against him. Jason’s hands bit into his shoulders as he lunged into him, and for a few seconds it was a struggle to find the rhythm. Jason pushed aside all other thought, all other concerns, just concentrating on that moist satiny clutch, trying to drill deeper, needing to feel connection, coupled. Fire catching fire, blazing hotter. Sam’s focused silence in contrast to Jason’s desperate sounds as he pumped into him, reaching further and further for that yearned for release —
And finally…after exceptional and most enjoyable exertion…Oh God…there it was. Welling up like a hidden spring in the desert. Sudden and sweet, assuaging the terrible thirst that had come to feel like a lifetime of drought. Climax pulsed through him, refreshing and renewing him with every heartbeat.
“Sam…Sam…” Jason couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help clutching Sam like a life preserver, couldn’t help the helpless noises as he began to come, pouring out stupid emotional things while his muscles melted and his cock spumed white hot release into the rubber safety net.
He collapsed on top of Sam, gasping for breath, quivering head to foot.
A long, long time later, Sam stirred, rolling over, holding Jason to him, and pulling the covers back up. Jason settled his head on Sam’s chest, content when Sam’s arms wrapped around him, holding him close. He kissed Jason’s brow, said something that Jason didn’t catch.
Jason smiled. Sometimes tone mattered more than words.
Shipka’s remaining eye was fixed and blank, but his mouth moved.
“Ask Rodney Berguan,” he whispered.
Another voice cut across Jason’s rising horror. “Jason, you’re okay.” Calm, quiet, authoritative. “It’s a dream. You’re fine. It’s not real.”
Jason knew that voice.
He unstuck his eyelids, stopped gulping for air, stopped twitching. He began, confusedly, to take stock. Strong arms wrapped around him…his face buried in a broad, muscular chest… Sam.
He was in a hotel room with Sam. That was not a dream. The other…
His heart still thundered in his ears and his skin was slick with perspiration. He rasped, “I thought— I dreamed—”
Sam said, “I know. It’s over. You’re okay.”
He probably did know too.
Jason nodded. He knew he should move away now, reassure Sam that he wasn’t coming unglued. Not like he’d never seen a murder victim before. Never anyone he knew, but…still.
Sam’s face was resting against Jason’s hair, and Jason could hear the quiet, steady tenor of his breathing. The pulse beating against Sam’s collarbone was rock steady. He thought maybe he was even getting to like that peculiar aftershave of Kennedy’s.
Just a few moments more of this, of feeling safe and sheltered.
Not something anyone, man or woman, in their profession could admit to wanting, let alone needing, but the memory of Chris Shipka hacked to pieces…it had shaken him. The unnecessary, unhinged brutality of it. That wasn’t sane. And yeah, you could argue that turning to murder was never a sane choice, but this was a different level of madness.
It scared him.
