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This time it was Dante who moaned just as his questing fingers rasped across André’s prostate. André shouted. No sentences, just begging and want, andmoreandplease don’t stop. Somehow, though, he had the wherewithal to fist his cock in a tight grip and keep himself from coming.
The fingers pulled out of his ass, leaving him briefly empty and needy. He didn’t have to wait more than a few seconds before Dante’s cock was tapping against his entrance and pushing inside him. Dante seemed to remember that André liked it slow. He reveled in the vague burn and resistance his ass offered while Dante burrowed further into his body.Resistance is futile.
Strong fingers gripped his hips, holding him in place. André arched his back and spread his knees, taking Dante as far inside as he could.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he babbled, all semblance of control and actual speech gone.
“I’m trying to go slow, but,” Dante groaned, his hips jerking against André’s, “I don’t know how long I can hold out. I fucking love this.”
“Just... fuck me.” Dante shoved inside him again, going deep, scraping across the bundle of nerves that set André on fire. “I’m gonna come. I can’t, oh fuck...”
Dante kept pounding into him. To André, it seemed like he could feel everything everywhere all at once. Dante’s cock stretching his hole. The bristly scrape of pubes against his ass. Beads of sweat dripping from Dante’s forehead—even though it was late October and not warm at all. The air in the bedroom had heated, caressing both their bodies.
They were setting their own inferno.
Dante groaned again, deep and growly, so deep André felt the sound in his chest, and then the condom was filling with the warmth of Dante’s come. André’s balls were rock hard, and the spark at the base of his spine was ready to burst into flame. Jamming a hand underneath himself again, André intended to stroke himself to completion. But Dante managed a series of frenzied thrusts that launched André over the edge before he could.
Come gushed over his fingers and onto the sheets, and André had the random thought he was going to need to change them later.
After Dante left again.
Shit.
Mercifully, there was no emergency call from dispatch in the night. After the last few weeks filled with fielding panicked calls from Cooper Springs residents about the remains, André needed a break. Lani didn’t expect him in until the afternoon. Fingers crossed, there would continue to be no emergencies and he could spend the morning brooding about Dante.
Dante, who’d stayed the night.
It was only five a.m. André supposed staying the night was a stretch of the imagination. He glanced out the kitchen window where there was nothing but darkness; the sun wasn’t even hinting that it might be up soon. And Dante Castone was still in André’s bed.
That hadn’t happened often. Usually he was gone before André woke.
Just in case he’d imagined him, André padded back to his bedroom door and peeked inside. Dante was sprawled face down, a pillow over his head, and the blankets pulled up so only the tip of his chin was visible.
Yep. He was really still there.
Back in the kitchen, André poured himself a cup of coffee and stood at the counter eating a quick breakfast of granola with yogurt mixed in. He was going to have to take a dreaded trip to the grocery store. The whole Dante thing was throwing him off his stride. Normally he’d have already gone for a run, done something to burn off the excess energy that was thrumming across his skin.
Maybe it was his body still reacting to all the attention last night. He wasn’t complaining. Dante in his bed had been the cause of two orgasms and the best night’s sleep he’d had in months.
A muffled thump followed by soft footsteps told him Dante was awake. The bathroom door shut and soon enough he heard the sound of the toilet flushing and the sink running. André’s stomach twisted as he readied himself for the inevitable “see you later” conversation.
Dante stepped into the kitchen. Aside from the jeans he’d been wearing the night before, he’d found one of André’s older Marshals Service sweatshirts.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Dante said, his voice a bit hoarse.
“No,” André replied while trying not to swallow his tongue at the sight of Dante’s chest challenging the confines of his shirt. What was it about a man—specifically that man—wearing his clothes? It was just a ratty sweatshirt, not a wedding ring. “Coffee?” he offered, turning away from the distraction that was Dante to grab a second mug from the cupboard.
“God, yes.”
“Milk or anything?” For fuck’s sake, he didn’t even know if the man took cream in his coffee. The realization was a welcome dash of cold water over his soft romantic thoughts. He needed to be focusing on the remains, the Harlow family, the prowlers north of town, the HR issue that was Deputy Trent—not fucking Dante Castone. Both literally and figuratively.
“Just plain, thanks.”
André busied himself pouring a black cup of coffee and shoving his wishful thinking back into the box where it belonged. He reminded himself why he’d taken the police chief’s position in Cooper Springs—to start new, not to fall back into an old, unhealthy habit. As he handed the steaming mug to Dante, their fingers brushed against each other, sending a shock of electricity directly to André’s heart.
“So, why are you in Cooper Springs?”And when are you leaving...André left that part implied.
Instead of answering, Dante sipped at his coffee. “Good coffee.”
