Page 4 of The Bounty
Heat and awareness exploded between them, and Wags rocked back on his heels. He wasn’t blind. Blaine was an attractive man, compact and leanly muscled, with a firm arse that Wags had most certainly not noticed when he’d been bent over that pool table. Like he also hadn’t noticed the exposed strip of smooth, pale skin between the waistband of his jeans and the hem of his hoodie. Because Blaine was his target, a case file. And Blaine had absolutely zero idea who he was. Risky on all counts. Riskier even than the tourists he’d just run off. “Maybe I rescued you out of the goodness of my heart.”
“Don’t,” Blaine said. “I tried that. Never works out.” He closed the distance between them, forcing Wags back a step, then another, until his back hit the wall. “So back to my original question…” He flattened his palms on Wags’s abs and coasted them up his torso, fingertips under the lapels of his denim jacket, hands spreading closer to his nipples—and fuck, if he teased them, Wags would have no hope of not rutting forward. There’d been no one since he and Philippe had separated. His body—his cock, more precisely—was fighting his brain for control of this situation. Take Blaine up on his tempting offer, or do the right thing and take him into custody. Get him to safety.
Blaine pressing his hard body along his, the impressive length of his cock against Wags’s hip, was not helping. Wags bit his bottom lip, libido racing. Fuck, what a young man with stamina could do with a piece like that. How it would fill his mouth, heavy on his tongue. How hard and long he could fuck him with it. And what the hell did a young man like Blaine see in a washed-up, middle-aged divorcé like him?
His mind latched on to that last question, to those undeniable facts, and he forced out the words he needed to say to defuse the escalating heat between them. “We shouldn’t. I’m fifteen years older than you, and?—”
Blaine rocked his hips forward. “That doesn’t—” He froze, eyes growing wide. “Wait, how do you know how old I am?”
“Blaine…” His eyes grew wider still, and Wags realized his slip. Two pieces of information—age and name—a stranger wouldn’t know. “Shit.”
And the runner was off again, ripping out of his arms and toward the street. He barely made it a few steps, though, before two men appeared from around the corner, blocking his exit. Distinctly not tourists. Big and muscled, with tattoos on their knuckles and weapons in harnesses beneath their coats.
Cursing, Blaine spun back in Wags’s direction and did the last thing Wags expected, pinning him against the wall again and craning up so his lips brushed his cheek, his whisper hot in Wags’s ear. “Can you protect me from them too?”
And then Blaine’s lips were on his. Chapped and warm, firm and demanding, forcing Wags to open for his tongue that swept inside, tangling with his in a groan-inducing kiss that Wags ached to drown in. Like he ached to run his hands all over Blaine’s body, to bury his face between those firm cheeks he’d most certainly noticed, to ride his arse and spill his come all over it.
“Now they won’t suspect you,” Blaine whispered against his lips before ending the fantasy and ripping himself out of Wags’s arms again. He darted back inside the bar, leaving Wags a lust-fueled mess.
Alone in the alley, facing down the pair of advancing thugs.
But as lust-dazed as Wags was, he realized what Blaine had just done for him. Provided cover. So when he swaggered into the way of the two men, he played it up like he’d done inside with the tourists, pretending to be drunk and left hanging. Not a stretch, his erection fighting a war with his jeans. “I didn’t even get his name…” Pouting, he fell back against the door and stroked his cock, going for more shock value.
And just like with the tourists inside, he got the reaction he wanted. The thugs rolled their eyes and turned on their heels, exiting the alley and rounding the corner toward the front of the pub.
“No use!” he called out. After twenty-eight days, he knew the drill. Blaine was long gone. And this time, Wags had been the one who helped him escape. He rested his head back against the door and closed his eyes. “Fuck.”
Four
Wags sank to his knees, not giving a damn about his aching joints, not arsed at all that his last pair of clean jeans was about to be ruined inside and out. All that mattered were the dark, hooded eyes gazing down at him, the plump cock hanging out of Blaine’s unzipped jeans, the black-painted nails scraping across his scalp as Blaine yanked him forward with a grunt. Wags closed his eyes and parted his lips, hungry for the hot, silky steel gliding across his tongue, the salty precome flooding his senses, the moans ringing in his ears.
Ringing…
Not a moan.
A trilling chime.
Fuck.
Wags threw out an arm, silencing the bad ringing while Blaine’s moans continued in his drowsy head. His own joining the chorus as he curled his fingers around his stiff cock, jerking himself as he’d done countless times since Friday. He fondled his balls with his other hand, imagining they were Blaine’s, heavy in his hand like his cock on his tongue.
He shuttled his fist faster, harder, in time with Fantasy Blaine’s jutting hips, shoving his cock down Wags’s throat, gagging him.
Stealing his breath and another sleepless night.
Fucking his mouth.
Fucking his arse.
He flipped himself over and shoved a pillow between his legs, groaning at the blessed friction. Shoved three slick fingers between his lips and sucked, imagining it was Blaine he tasted, Blaine fucking him into the mattress, Blaine shouting with him as they came together.
The trilling resumed.
He silenced the alarm once more, but before he could toss the phone back onto the nightstand, the device vibrated in his hand.
He squinted at the text.
Marsh: See you in 20.
