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“So hot… So tight…” Sam growled. “So sweet…”
Sam’s fingers sank into his buttocks, leaving bruises for sure, and he pumped his hips fiercely into Jason, taking him now with short, powerful thrusts, driving him on as they performed their own frantic, ferocious bullet catch.
Jason’s orgasm had been lurking in the wings since Sam’s hand had closed caressingly about his balls. It needed nothing more than a few waves of that most intimate of wands to bring about detonation. His cock felt ready to burst, his balls clenched tight. Colored stars danced behind his eyes. Sparks seemed to dance at the root of his cock, tingle at the base of his spine.
Sim Sala Bim and abra-fucking-cadabra.
He began to come. Come so hard he would not have been surprised to see actual fireworks.
That spray of hot, wet release seemed to send Sam toppling over the edge. He yelled and bucked and came too in stringy, silvery jets of semen like silly strings. Sam reached out, and Jason collapsed in his arms. Sam folded him close, and they lay together, hearts pounding in time, breath rising and falling, still one.
So good. Maybe the best yet.
Magic.
Chapter Nineteen
“We could have breakfast in bed,” Jason said dreamily sometime later.
Sam had been gazing at the ceiling. He turned to look at Jason. “Is that what you’d like?”
“You’re on vacation. I’m technically on sick leave. I could phone Dreyfus and tell her not to worry about picking me up. I’ll come in later.”
“You don’t have to go in at all. That’s actually the point of sick leave.”
Jason wrinkled his nose. “True.”
“But?”
“Why don’t I tell you while we fix breakfast?”
Cooking breakfast together. That was a first. It felt sort of luxurious just to be together doing simple couple-type things like arguing over scrambled vs. fried and hunting for the Tabasco sauce.
And while Sam did say, “This kitchen isn’t big enough for both of us,” when Jason bumped into him a second time, he was smiling and there was a teasing warmth in his eyes.
“We make a good team,” Jason said when they carried their piled plates of scrambled eggs and turkey bacon and hash-brown potatoes back to the bedroom.
“Not too bad,” Sam acknowledged. “The bacon could be crisper.”
Jason joked, “Is that supposed to be a double entendre?”
Sam’s smile was twisted. “No. I think my bacon is probably crisp enough already.”
Jason laughed, but he sobered. He ate a few bites of egg and potato, then put his plate aside and said, “About my consulting gig with the Cheyenne RA.”
Sam swallowed a mouthful of coffee and raised his brows in inquiry.
“I may have expanded, or say, slightly pushed the boundaries of my purview.”
Sam said, “I’m not going to like this, am I.” It was not a question.
“No,” Jason admitted. “For the record, I did strenuously resist getting pulled into the murder investigation.”
Sam put his coffee cup down. He set his breakfast plate aside. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”
Jason filled him in on everything that had happened since Sam had left for Colorado on Tuesday morning.
At the end of his recital, Sam said, “Let me see if I can summarize. You believe the theft of Michael Khan’s art collection is unconnected to his murder? You believe the Khan homicide is connected to the earlier death—possibly suicide, possibly homicide—of a man named Mateo Santos?”
