Page 10 of Out of Control

He dumped Drago’s limp body on the floor and cuffed his hands around the steel support post in the middle of the front room. Then he hauled in their gear and padlocked the gate. There. They were as safe as they could be in this lawless place beyond the edge of civilization, rife with smugglers, refugees, and the occasional journalist.

He stared down at Drago, taking in the strong, familiar features. There were a few new wrinkles around the eyes, and the roundness of youth had given way to hard maturity in his jaw and cheekbones. The lines of Drago’s body—the muscular legs, the rise of his shoulders from that lean waist, the wreathed muscles of his arms visible even in relaxation—made him think of classical art. If da Vinci had ever imagined and painted a panther in human form, this is what the creature would have looked like.

Taking advantage of the moment, he shamelessly rememorized Drago. For the past decade, when he’d been exhausted, wrung out, and lonely on an op, he’d closed his eyes and envisioned this face. And here the guy was again. Back in his life as suddenly as he’d left it. Although in all fairness, he’d been the one to walk out on Dray.

But it had been Drago’s fault.

He crouched down and rolled Drago into a more comfortable position that wouldn’t have the guy waking up in a few hours with limbs tingling and painful from lack of circulation.

Aww, heck. That scent. Most men’s sweat had a sour stink to it, but Drago’s musk was smooth and sexy. The guy could bottle it and sell it as cologne, for crying out loud.

He would never forget waking up with that scent on his bedsheets, his pillow. On his skin. God, he’d loved wearing the smell of this man—

Loved. Past tense.

He stepped back from the temptation to run his fingers through those sable waves of hair, to stroke that face, to taste that skin once more. No way on God’s green earth was he getting entangled with this man again, not physically, not emotionally. He knew from painful experience that Drago was an addiction that would nearly kill him to let go of.

Sitting on the floor and leaning back against a wall, well out of reach of Drago, he dozed while the second dose of tranquilizer worked its way through Dray’s system. Out of general principle, he slept with a handgun gripped in his fist.

He woke with a jolt as Drago said in disgust, “Really? Handcuffs? Isn’t this a little kinky for you, Captain Wholesomeness Police?”

“Good morning to you too, Commander Asshat,” Spencer retorted. He sighed and asked slightly more civilly, “How are you feeling?”

“You mean after you drugged me and dragged me to East-of-Buttfuck, Nowhere? Where are we, anyway? I feel like shit.”

Spencer smiled a little. He felt about the same, minus the brain fog he knew Drago had to be fighting off. He watched cautiously as Dray sat up, flexed his broad shoulders, and rolled his head around on that thick column of a neck, all corded muscle and tendon. Although Drago, part Italian, part Lebanese by heritage, was naturally olive-skinned, he sported a dark tan on top of that now. If the guy had let his beard grow in thick and full, nobody would know he wasn’t a local.

“Uncuff me. I have to piss.”

“No can do. Not until we’ve had a conversation.”

“Spence. I really do have to piss.”

Spencer huffed and climbed to his feet. He went to the kitchen and fetched the bucket he was using as a chamber pot. He set it down in front of Drago and backed away quickly.

The bastard held up his hands, rattling the handcuffs against the metal post. “You’ll have to undo my zipper.”

“You can reach it. Don’t be an asshole.”

“Don’t want to take the opportunity to fondle my epic dick, huh? Too bad.”

Sigh. Drago was gonna be an asshole this morning. Not that Spencer could blame him. If he’d been drugged and woken up handcuffed somewhere after being told he’d been renditioned, he’d probably be a wee bit cranky too.

The sound of piss hitting the metal bucket rang behind him, and he fought to keep an image of the man’s dusky cock, every bit as thick and muscular as the rest of him, from rising in his mind.

God, he’d coveted that cock. He’d loved stroking it, licking it, sucking it, impaling himself on it, fucking it every way he could imagine—

Nope.

Nope, nope, nope.Sonot going there again.

He strolled over to the vertical metal shutters over the front windows and peered out through the slits.

Weird. Nobody was outside. As innobody.

Usually the dusty street bustled in the morning with women garbed from head to toe in black, heading for the market before the heat really set in. Men dressed in more practical white tended to sit in doorways, gossip, and sip the hypercaffeinated sludge the locals called coffee.

But none of that was happening today. It might as well be a ghost town. He peered left and right and couldn’t spot any vehicles moving on the main drag. A sense of… waiting… permeated the air. All it lacked was a tumbleweed rolling across the street and a pair of gunfighters at each end, fingers twitching over their holstered six-shooters.

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