| He's worn
the green shirt because he's seen Sam look at him more
when he's
wearing it. He's thought about Sam putting his
hands on it.
It feels like silk against his flushed, sweat-damp skin;
it's too hot
in here, too hot in the pub. In a far corner of
his mind he knows
it was supposed to look good, supposed to draw Sam's
eyes away from the
plonk all night. He's downed enough beer to keep a
small brewery
in business for a month but he's still stone-cold sober
- almost - and
it's good to see the humble apology on his irritatingly
prudish DI's
face as he presses him into the wall. "How do you think I became a DCI? Do you think they give away badges in those lucky bags?" "No." So sincere. It made his dick twitch. He holds Sam in place a moment too long; Sam's hands on chest aren't pushing, they're stroking, stunning Gene into silence as he suddenly loses control of the argument and the heat turns from anger to something else... Gene swallows hard, drunk enough to admit he wants this, sober enough to know his self-control is slipping through his fingers and that he doesn't care. This is something else, something alien to him, but sometimes Sam makes him feel like he can fly if he just takes the chance and jumps. It scares the shit out of him but he can't say that, can't hand over that kind of power. They stand there, staring at one another, that smile playing on Sam's lips, hands resting flat against Gene's chest - he can feel the heat through the thin layer of his shirt - fingertips stroking small arcs on the silky material. Sam's thumb finds the hard nub of his nipple and circles it once, holding his gaze. No-one, no-one has ever done that to him before so there was no way of knowing that there was a direct path from there to his cock. He does it again, slowly, and Gene can feel himself start to lean into the touch. Sam's other hand slides up to his shoulder and the heat of his palm feels like a scald through the thin fabric and then those fingers are in his hair, hard against his scalp. Gene hears himself whimper when the movement of Sam's thumb stops but when he slides his hand down to his arse and brings their hips and mouths together he stops breathing all together. Gene knows he should be stopping this, not encouraging it, they're on duty - the plonk who fancies Sam is just beyond the door along with at least thirty blokes who would tear a couple of queers apart in seconds. But Sam's hands are incredible, his mouth is obscene and Gene's mind's presenting him with images he's never had in his head before. They should take this upstairs, outside, anywhere but here. Instead he presses against Sam, pushing him into the wall, feels the pressure of fingers tightening on his arse and in his hair as feels the answering hardness of Sam's cock against his own. Sam's tongue is working its way towards the back of his throat, arching his back, rubbing against him. Sam's all hard lines under his hands as he works them up under the white patterned shirt, hesitantly touching hot skin. The hand that was in his hair is inside his shirt now, under the collar, fingers spread wide and digging into his shoulder hard enough to leave marks. Tentatively Gene strokes his thumb across Sam's flat nipple. He feels Sam tense up and knows he's having the same effect Sam had on him. It's the greatest turn-on. His messed up twisted stupid brain tells him that it's the very fact that Sam's so responsive that's making him horny enough to pound him through this wall and into next week. Someone who wants him back, someone who feels something that approximates passion for him. If Sam cooled down, he would too, he tells himself. There are teasing fingertips skimming over his chest, looking for other places that felt good, that would make him shudder. Been a long time since anyone's been concerned about his pleasure beyond a quick orgasm. He has to admit it's been a while since he's cared about that too. He doesn't want Sam to stop touching him or scraping his nails down his spine or kissing him or pushing into him likes he's trying to climb inside him but if he comes Sam will stop and that's the last thing he wants. Closing his eyes he tries to concentrate on Sam's fingers, on his tongue, on everything but the exquisite pressure rubbing up against his cock. He can't stop the growl that escapes his throat to be swallowed by the other man. And then Sam pulls back slightly and he thinks 'Shite, this is it' but a firm hand is pressing against his cock, stroking the fabric up and down and Gene can't even kiss him any more because now he can think of nothing else except the heat of Sam's palm through two layers too many and how he's going to come any second. "Stop," and he can't believe he's saying it, can't believe he's putting his own hand over Sam's, slowing the touch even though it's almost too late. "Stop, Sam...." The rhythm eases but the pressure remains, and breathless Sam asks him, "What?" "I..." He doesn't know what he wants to say. Wants to make him promise this isn't a one-wank stand, wants to make him promise they can go somewhere later, strip naked and touch each other; do this again but without the layers. "I...." he says again. Sam drags his hand away, eyes narrowing, but he's not going to let him go. It doesn't take more than a quarter of a step forward to push him back against the wall, hold him there with his weight, bracing himself on sweating palms against the wall. "Later ...?" It was meant to be a statement of intent but it comes out as question. Sam stares at him, and by the expression in his eyes not only did it come out as a question, it sounded almost as desperate as he feels. He's panting as hard as Gene is but he nods once. "Later." Still there's the problem of his erection pushing hard against his fly, and Sam has the same problem. He steps away, shuts his eyes, tries to think of anything other than the heated expression in Sam's gaze, tries to picture some of the fucking awful things he's seen in his life and suddenly he's the one who is backed up against the wall and he opens his eyes to see Sam dropping to his knees in front of him, not looking at him, hands reaching for his flies. "Christ! Sam!" His hands hover just above Sam's head but he can already feel Sam's breath on his skin - one moment through cotton, the next directly against his aching cock. Sam's head lifts and he smiles, "Later, I know. But you can't go out there with this, you'll upset the punters." The next thing Gene knows is wet heat surrounding him and he has to bite his hand to stop himself from crying out. In his whole life he's only ever had two women suck him off - two distinct and memorable occasions - and Sam's better than both of them. He's doing it like he means it, like he wants it, hollowing his cheeks, stroking the underside of Gene's heavy, pulsing cock with his tongue, eyes open and looking up at him. He wants to shut his eyes so that he can try and forget where they are but he can't tear his eyes from the sight of Sam on his knees. Fingers encircle the base of his cock, stop him thrusting into that hot welcoming mouth and he groans with frustration and claws at the air. His balls are encased in warmth, fitted into Sam's palm, fingertips stroking behind them, pressing firmly against a part of him no one but he and his doctor has ever touched. Gene can feel his climax building, unable to think of anything but Sam on his knees in front of him and the pressure building in his balls. "Sam." It's a warning that he's going to come, that he should bloody move or he'll come in his mouth but Sam doesn't pull away, not like the women. He watches those long eyelashes flutter down onto pale cheeks and then Sam's looking right up at him without fear or anger and doing something incredible with his tongue and then he can't stop himself from coming. Gene thumps his head back against the wall behind him, groaning against the hand stuffed into his mouth. His legs feel like jelly, Sam hands at his waist and his mouth still sucking on him the only things holding him upright. He can't believe Sam's swallowed. He stares down at the man licking him clean, tucking him back into his trousers, zipping him up gently. Sam gets to his feet and presses his lips to Gene's - salty and bitter. "Later." Fuck the lot of them out there. Fuck the investigation. Now. Not later. He puts a stupidly shaking hand on the side of Sam's face and holds him there; close enough that he can smell himself on Sam's lips which are shiny and swollen. "Sam," he manages and then runs out of words. "Later," Sam repeats and smiles at him. The next hours last forever. He tries to kick the bastard Reds out but Sam turns it around and they end up staying for more whiskey, more beer. Finally the pub empties. He makes himself comfortable across a couple of tables, lying flat out, alcohol mixing in his blood with the remaining high or his orgasm. There are noises - Sam and the plonk clearing up - and eventually fingers comb slowly through his hair. It's incredible but Cartwright's still there so he stays still. Sam says he smells like a brewery and the plonk is asking him questions in a voice like his old teacher and he wants to tell her to piss off and leave them alone because he can see out of the corner of his eye Sam there with his hands in his pockets and it's pulling the fabric taut over his crotch and why doesn't she just leave? He hopes his fall off the tables convinces her he's not going to be much use tonight. "So we got nothing." He hears her walk away, and Sam follows. They talk quietly at the bar and he hears the locks being thrown again. Sam says goodbye to her and Gene knows she's lingering. He closes his eyes and wills her to leave and finally the door closes again, Sam locks up, locks them in together - and despite the alcohol sizzling in his blood stream and the orgasm a couple of hours ago, his dick twitches at the idea of a very personal lock-in. Soft footsteps approach where he's lying on the floor next to the tables, the creasing of material, and those wonderful fingers are back in his hair, massaging his scalp, sliding to the back of his neck. "Still want that pint on the way home?" Sam murmurs. "Come 'ere." He reaches up and drags Sam down to him. The kiss is clumsy because he's a bit pissed to be honest but then teeth graze his lower lip and the haze clears a bit. Their mouths mesh together, lips and teeth, Sam turning awkwardly, and there's nothing left in Gene that cares about Sam's gender or the lack of tits and the presence of another cock. He wants to touch, wants Sam to touch him, wants to feel everything he felt earlier. Wants Sam to feel it too. Wants to make him come so hard his head spins. Sam's hands are under his shirt, skimming his belly and Gene groans and tugs the shirt out of the waist of the sinfully tight trousers that men with arses like that should not be allowed to wear. Sam's on all fours next to him, fingers working the buttons of his shirt open while his own hands slide over Sam's taut belly. Sam breaks the kiss and Gene starts to protest, struggling to form sounds that are actually words, when hard lips touch one nipple and the words shatter into nonsense and his world fades to black. "What time is it?" His head feels like a dustbin being kicked around the pavements by yobbos and he doesn't know who he's talking to. Or he does, just can't see.... "It's quarter to four." Sam's amused voice comes from somewhere close by. "You fell asleep." Typical. Bloody typical. Best sex he's had in ages, years, and he fell asleep in the middle of it. A groan escapes of its own accord and he gingerly opens his eyes. "Was I boring you?" He's relieved at the humour in those words. One chance, he's blown it - and not in a good way - but at least Sam's still talking to him. "Far from it, Sam." He wants to promise, for what he'd felt yesterday, he knows he'd beg. "Next time I'll make sure I get hold of you before the booze does." "Next time?" Hope shines through the sticky mess of his head. "Unless you don't - " "- No! Next time's good. Next time's� very good." A warm hand settles on the crown of his head; Sam's stayed close enough to touch and it brings a crazy smile to Gene's face. Fingers brush through his hair. "Go back to sleep. We've got a murderer to find in the morning." The voice of reason, the gentle pressure against his scalp, Gene's eyes close and he dreams he's dating a short-haired Manchester United player with a fancy car and a lot of strange ideas about how to handle City's defence. |