Page 97 of Second Shot

“We’re on vacation.” He bites his bottom lip. “We can do whatever we want.”

I glance around. “But out here on the terrace?”

He drops down to his knees, looking up at me with heated eyes. “Do you not want my mouth on your dick?”

I groan and push my jeans down to my knees. “Fuck yes, I want your mouth on my dick, baby.”

He grins and goes to work, pushing me against the wall and sucking me in slow, hot strokes of his mouth. The warm breeze smells like salt and wild herbs, and I groan and tangle my fingers in his hair as he takes me deeper into his tight throat.

“Oh, fuck,” I wheeze, as my balls pull up tight. His technique is so fucking good, I’m coming down his throat within minutes. I stare out at blue Aegean Sea as my heart stopping orgasm rocks through me.

He stands, kissing me, and I taste my release lingering on his tongue. I slump back against the rough wall, panting, my eyes bleary. He pulls his cock out and, eyes burning into mine, jerks himself off. With a throaty growl, he comes all over my half-hard cock.

“Fuck, you’re insatiable,” I mumble. “I’m not complaining, mind you. This was a nice way to be welcomed to Greece.”

He leans on me, kissing the side of my throat. His breath is hot against my skin, and I shiver. “I wanted to fuck you on the plane, but I couldn’t find the right time to drag you into the bathroom. I’ve been horny for seventeen fucking hours.”

I grin. “We’ll make up for it tonight.”

“Yeah. We will.” He tugs a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket and wipes us both down.He gives me one last lingering kiss, and says, “We should probably join the others now, before Niko comes looking for us.”

I laugh. “Wouldn’t want to miss one second of the fun.”

He sighs. “It’s kind of sweet how much this trip with all of us means to him.”

“It is.” I tuck my dick away and straighten my clothes.

By the time we make it back downstairs, the villa has been claimed and conquered by six professional athletes who clearly intend to make the most of their week in paradise. Foster’s already changed into board shorts and is testing the temperature of the infinity pool. Marlowe’s taken a spot on the main terrace with a beer and what looks like a Greek travel guide. Niko’s conferring with Dimitri about dinner plans and something involving a yacht tomorrow.

And Kincaid’s sitting alone at the outdoor bar with a bottle of beer, staring at his phone with an expression that suggests his conversation with Tiffany didn’t end well.

“Everything okay?” I ask, sliding onto the barstool next to him.

He looks up, and I can see the frustration and guilt warring in his blue eyes. “Yeah, just... relationship stuff. You know how it is.”

But I don’t know how it is, not really. Gabe and I had our challenges, but other than that big blow up, we rarely fight about anything. Kincaid’s dealing with something different, competing loyalties, conflicting priorities, the kind of relationship tension that makes you question what you really want.

“She’ll come around,” I offer, though I’m not sure I believe it. Long distance isn’t easy. It takes a special type of love and commitment to make something like that work.

“Will she?” he asks, but before I can answer, Niko appears beside us with the kind of perfect timing that makes me wonder if he was listening.

“Kincaid.” Niko’s voice is bright, deliberately cheerful. “Stop looking like someone died and help me figure out the music situation. This place supposedly has an awesome sound system.”

Niko touches Kincaid’s shoulder, lingering just a moment longer than necessary, his thumb brushing against Kincaid’s collarbone in a gesture that could be casual or could be something else entirely. Kincaid’s reaction is subtle but noticeable: a slight intake of breath, a tension in his shoulders that suggests he’s very aware of the contact. I highly doubt he’d react that way if Foster touched him.

Interesting.

“Yeah,” Kincaid says, his voice slightly rougher than usual. “Yeah, okay. Music. I can do music.”

He slides off the barstool and away from Niko’s touch, following his friend toward the villa’s entertainment system. It’s not lost on me that he keeps distance between him and Niko. Niko is a touchy feely guy with everyone. Maybe that makes Kincaid uncomfortable? He’s never seemed to mind it before though, but maybe he’s just super stressed because of Tiffany yelling at him.

We spend a few hours at the villa, drinking, laughing, and listening to music. But Niko made dinner reservations in town at a place called Kastro’s, so we leave the villa. He hired a car to take us into town because it’s too far to walk on foot. The big black car maneuvers through the narrow cobblestone streets that wind between whitewashed buildings. Kastro’s is perched on a cliff overlooking the harbor where traditional fishing boats bob alongside million-dollar yachts.

The restaurant itself is exactly what you'd picture for a Greek island dinner, blue and white checkered tablecloths, weathered wooden chairs, and an outdoor terrace that offers panoramic views of the Aegean. Bougainvillea cascades over a stone wall, while the scent of grilled seafood and Mediterranean herbs drifts from the open kitchen.

“This is the shit,” Marlowe says, settling into his chair with obvious satisfaction. “Real Greek food, real Greek atmosphere.”

Our server, a sun-weathered man named Yannis, greets us with enthusiasm. He’s wearing a white linen shirt and white slacks, a thick gold chain, and his comb over is losing the battle with the Aegean breeze, flapping like a surrender flag. But he’s confident and obviously used to serving wealthy tourists. When Niko explains we're celebrating a championship, Yannis’smile grows even wider.

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