Page 78 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

Before Mike gets a chance to reply, Toby drapes himself fully over his body and wraps a hand around both of their cocks. It’s a tight fit, the circle of his fingers barely wide enough to hold them both, but even just the thought of it is enough to make Toby’s vision narrow.

Mike twitches into it, their cocks dragging together. In response, Toby moves his hand and kisses Mike again, slowly, slowly, and there’s this moment when he feels Mike giving in: he sinks into it, his fingers relaxing their tight clench on Toby’s. The frantic edge to his motions makes room for a languidness that has Toby deepening their kiss, running his tongue along Mike’s teeth. Mike lets him, even spreads his legs for a better angle, following Toby’s cues rather than fighting for dominance. He’s so, so beautiful, and Toby wants him so much that his entire chest hurts—not just the bruised rib, but his whole rib cage, lungs so wide they barely fit.

He lifts his head and stills, waiting for Mike’s eyes flutter open. It’s clear that Mike needs a second to focus.

“I want you,” Toby tells him, voice low. “You were right: I want this more than I care about whatever rules the Agency put in place. They’re a load of bullshit anyway.”

Mike’s throat moves when he swallows. Then his mouth curls into a smile that is big and real, impossible for Toby to resist. There’s no reason why he should. So he dips his head, rubs his thumb over the crown of Mike’s cock and kisses the smile right off his lips until Mike is gasping into his mouth, hips twitching in tiny, aborted movements.

“Michael,” Toby whispers, and that’s apparently all it takes for Mike to spill over Toby’s fingers. Toby isn’t far behind.

They lie in silence for a long moment that stretches into a minute, possibly two. When Toby finally removes his hand from between them, his fingers are sticky and yeah, he needs to wash those jeans before he wears them again—maybe he can throw them in with Mike’s laundry. The thought of their clothes mixed together in the washing machine makes his stomach ache sweetly.

The orgasm must have short-circuited his brain.

Mike shifts slightly, enough to remind Toby that the floor must be pretty uncomfortable. He rolls off Mike’s body, kicking his shoes off, followed by his jeans and boxers, and at least they’re both naked now, naked and a little sweaty and disgusting. That’s okay. It’s all good. When Toby turns his head, he finds Mike watching him with the faintest upward curve to his mouth.

“So.” Mike’s voice isn’t entirely steady. “Tobias Millen, huh?”

Toby’s whole body expands on a deep breath. “That’s my name.”

“Should you be telling me that?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Toby props himself up on one elbow and reaches out to drag a finger through the wet puddle on Mike’s stomach. It shouldn’t be a turn-on. It really, really is. “Right now, all I’m interested in is this house. Specifically the bedroom. More specifically the bed. I have a million questions about your bed, such as: is it comfortable? Is it big enough for us? Does it come with a headboard?”

Mike’s dark gaze follows the motion of Toby’s hand before he focuses on Toby’s face again, his smile growing. “I believe it will meet with your approval.”

“Prove it,” Toby challenges.

Instead of a reply, Mike rolls them over. His face hovers above Toby for a moment, then he grins and pushes himself off the ground, offering Toby a hand to help him up. As Toby’s center of gravity is somewhere back in New Jersey, he’s grateful for the support.

Even once he’s upright, neither of them lets go.

***

Toby wakes to the morning sun on his face and Mike’s lips wrapped around his cock. He has just enough time to touch Mike’s face, trailing his fingertips down one cheek, before he squeezes his eyes shut and comes, Mike’s hand and mouth working him through it.

While Toby is still trying to catch his breath, incapable of coordinated movement, Mike sits back on his heels to bring himself off with short, rough strokes. He never once takes his gaze off Toby, and Toby stares back evenly, glancing down just once to find Mike’s cock flushed and dark against Mike’s fingers, Toby’s own spent cock twitching helplessly at that in a vain, almost painful attempt to come again.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Toby asks, his voice sounding like sandpaper on wood. “Because if the answer’s yes, you’re doing one hell of a good job.”

In response, Mike shoots him a happy grin. With the morning silence broken by only a faint murmur of traffic and the rush of the ocean, the rhythmic sounds of Mike’s hand on his cock appear obscenely loud, and Toby manages to lift a hand and flatten his palm against Mike’s belly.

He feels the muscles bunch up an instant before Mike groans, eyes drifting shut as he spills over Toby’s hip. Fuck, he’s beautiful.

Toby bites down on his tongue, waits for Mike’s breathing to even out and his gaze to clear before waving an accusing hand at the mess on his stomach. “Trying to stake a claim, are you?” It’s meant to be a joke, but the words come out tighter than Toby intended, everything just a little too bright and overwhelming. “Because, you know, that’s all very alpha male and whatnot. Maybe rub it in too, for good measure.”

“So what if I want to?” Mike’s tone is slightly defensive. He lowers himself beside Toby, and Toby rolls over to face him, Mike’s come smearing over the sheets. They’ll have to change them—last night’s activities having taken their toll—but that’s not the issue right now. Not with Mike’s expression suddenly shuttered, gaze sliding past Toby.

“Do you want to?” Toby asks carefully.

“Forget it.”

“No.”

“Toby.”

“Mike.” Toby reaches out to trace the interlinked tattoos that span Mike’s biceps, fingertips light as he follows the pattern. “Michael. Talk to me.”

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