Bad Behavior (Bad in Baltimore) (2 page)

Beach expected a rough, if not violent reaction, a quick withdraw and a slam forward, finally getting the pounding he’d been looking for, what he’d known he needed when he parked his car down here on Eager Street.

But despite an even tighter clamp from the man’s arms, it was only a long, smooth, and—damn him—perfect stroke. He shifted Beach, lifting him up and back a bit more. No wonder the guy was so good at pool. He knew his angles, that was for hell sure. And Beach didn’t care if the guy was playing Beach’s body like he owned it, that was what Beach had wanted. This, all of this, was the answer to the itch that had been driving him out of his skin. Steady, deep pressure, exquisite burn on the back stroke. The hand on his chest found a nipple under Beach’s shirt and pinched until Beach gasped, hand dropping to work his cock.

He could manage to whisper all kinds of sweet things to a partner when he was the one driving his dick into them, but right then all he could handle was an endless repetition of harsh breaths and moans.

The build inside made his lips and tongue start to shape the word
please
, as if he couldn’t manage his own climb. It was like he’d forgotten his dick was in his hand. He shivered and started working it, hand and fingers providing all the friction he needed to turn the pressure inside into one hell of an explosion.

The grip of fingers around his wrist was as tight as a handcuff, but warm and alive. It didn’t bruise as it tugged, dragging his hand back up to the ledge to join the other, leaving his cock bobbing and pushing on nothing but air.

“No.”

Beach considered himself a pretty open-minded individual, but if there was one word he was downright prejudiced against, it was that one. The barest hint of it had him either openly defiant or looking for a way to dance, charm or twist his way around it.

He chalked up his reaction to the voice. Had to be the purr of it that made him suck in a gasp as his balls grew tighter, instead of the word creating the urge to tell the guy to fuck himself from now on in.

He didn’t even yank his hand free, although the pressure of the other man’s hand atop it wasn’t enough to keep it resting on the ledge. Since he hadn’t been disappointed this far, he’d see what the guy had in mind.

“Better be worth it.”

The answer was a faster thrust, a renewed sting of skin against teeth on his neck and a drag of nails against his nipple as a hand found its way under Beach’s shirt. All of it drove electric jolts to spike into his cock, without the answering friction of his hand to ease him through it, to give it a place to build to.

Too much and not enough. But damn it felt good. He rocked back to meet the thrusts, not caring anymore if the angle was perfect. He needed. Needed rougher and harder to hold back the hunger to come, spilling from his cock and balls, shaking into his hips and belly and arms and chest until he trembled with that much want. The sensations kept building without a crest to ride them out.

What was the plan here? Because Beach was pretty sure orgasms were the endgame, and he was more than ready to collect his and say thanks and good night.

He started to tug his hand free, and the man’s fingers interlaced with his, cock still slamming into his ass deep and hard. It wasn’t that Beach couldn’t get himself off with his left hand, it just wouldn’t be as much fun. And as much as he wanted to defy the bossy son of a bitch, his curiosity won out. Maybe the guy would come and then suck Beach off, which was an appealing scenario.

Beach tightened his ass against the thick pressure, earning himself a gasp that heated his ear.

“Yeah.”

Okay. Beach worked his muscles and drove back harder, increasing the burn of friction for himself and earning the pleasure of constant strokes over his gland. So hot, melting with it, drowning in it. He gave up trying to free his hand, breath whistling out of him.

“Come.” That voice.

He wanted to. Fuck how he wanted to. But he couldn’t. Not without—

“Now.” There was a threat curling under there.

It sparked something inside him, cranked the urgency way past the red line, and still Beach couldn’t. He’d fucked guys who could. He didn’t happen to be one of them.

“I can’t.” The admission dragged at him, sinking him into a chill of disappointment and shame. His body remembered there was a big fat cock in his ass, that both his nipples hurt, that his balls were aching and full.

“Don’t have a choice.” Despite the harsh command, the man’s hand soothed and petted across Beach’s chest, soft lips and soft beard teasing at his neck under his ear.

The man released Beach’s hand and laid a hot palm low on his belly, so damned close to where it would be of some help, and kept fucking him.

Beach looked at his freed hand with fascination, wondering why he didn’t simply grab his dick and finish, then shut his eyes as the man’s rhythm shifted, short quick hard.

“Now.” The man growled it.

Tension and yielding in a giant tangle. Straining for it, knowing one thing would be enough to free him but he didn’t know what it was, until the solid punch of it shocked him. It was everywhere. In his ass. His balls. His dick. Oh God, so sweet and hot and electric in his dick. A powerful jerk wrung the first shot out of him in a burst of light behind his eyelids, and then all the aftershocks, each one its own slice of heaven as he came back down.

Beach found himself wishing their audience had stuck around, because that certainly deserved a round of applause. He’d clap himself as soon as he got his coordination back and got what now felt like a cannon out of his ass.

His bad leg was shaking with exhaustion. Hell, everything felt shaky. Still, he could manage a hand job, though, or even a suck if he sat on the toilet to do it.

The pleasure faded away. There was no high on earth like an orgasm, but the price was that you didn’t get to stay there long and there was no way to up the dose right away. That was the only downside to sex. The sorry, sagging aftermath. He leaned forward in an effort to get the man’s dick out of his ass and found himself wrapped up in something between a hug and a restraint.

“No.”

There was that word again.

“I could—”

“No.” He stretched Beach’s hands back out to the ledge and fucked him.

It hurt. Not in a God-I’m-dying-get-it-out way, but it definitely wasn’t comfortable. And there was no reason Beach couldn’t stop it. The man obviously could have won in a battle of strength, but Beach knew the man would let him go if Beach made it an issue.

No.
It had never been a sexy-sounding word before. And even if there was no way Beach was going to be getting off from it, something about this felt good, despite the scrape of the cock in his ass. The man’s hands trailed down his arms, his shoulders, the sides of his chest to land on his hips.

“Good,” he murmured in Beach’s ear, following the comment with a choked groan. “So good.”

Beach’s dick ached as it tried to get back in the game, but he had to content himself with the tingle from the man’s pattern of caresses, the way his breath and beard tickled Beach’s neck. The surprising warmth from listening to the man’s control began to shatter. Beach put a hand back, urging the man closer. Faster.

“Yeah.”

The raw feeling in the smoky voice made Beach tighten his muscles around the cock fucking into him, dragging out another stuttered
good
before he felt the man come, the lock and snap of muscles, the convulsive jerk of hips. Beach rode it out with him, and when the man finally pulled out, Beach swallowed back the burn of disappointment. He wiped his forehead on his forearm, still holding on to the ledge to relieve the pressure on his leg.

The condom hit the water in the bowl, and the roar of the flush echoed around the stall, but Beach thought he heard “That was sweet,” before the man brushed a kiss against his cheek and left.

It took a few minutes before Beach was ready for the world. His leg throbbed, a spiking pain underneath like a fresh break. His next round of sex would be horizontal, definitely. By the time Beach decided he didn’t look or walk quite so rode hard and put up wet, the man with the tattoos, goatee and velvet-sin voice wasn’t lingering around the pool table, or anywhere in the barroom. Which may have saved Beach the humiliation of forcing his number on the man and begging him to schedule a repeat.

After retrieving his cane, Beach made his way out to his Spider, dropping the top as the engine purred and rumbled. He’d always imagined the sound like a tiger getting a belly scratch. Now it reminded him of the gravelly notes in the voice that had whispered in his ear in the bathroom. The one that had told him no and made Beach listen. He was shaking off his stupidity and putting the car in gear when his phone went off.

He let himself enjoy a few more moments of a fantasy where the man had recognized Beach somehow, found his number and was calling to set up something blissfully horizontal and twice as hot. But it was only a computer-generated voice. Female, impersonal. But to Beach it always held a bit of a derisive sneer as it told him to report to the probation office for testing tomorrow. Thank God sex was the drug that didn’t leave any traces.

Tai’s computer had barely finished moaning and grinding to life that morning when Sutton dumped a bunch of files on his desk.

“Here’s your latest share from the Bob fallout.”

Tai scanned the pile. “Eight?” And two of them were thicker than average. “Overtime authorization come with them?”

His boss shook his head. “Sometimes you gotta take one for the team.”

“Or eight.” Tai hauled the files closer. Everybody had more shit now while Bob was suspended and Leslie was out on medical leave. His mom was fond of saying the only reward for a job well done was another job, but Tai hadn’t ever noticed her slacking off, house or hospital.

Top file was some sixteen-year-old busted for shoplifting. When Tai flipped through and got a look at the parents’ occupations, he was surprised they hadn’t been able to make it all go away. Then he got a look at the priors. Some people loved wasting second chances, and third, and fourth. But that wasn’t something he had to get to right away.

The next one was a mess. Bob must have been shoving it to the back while he spent his time drinking and driving around underage girls. Tai was still sorting through the file when switchboard called to tell him David Beauchamp was reporting in. The name meant nothing, which meant he was one of Bob’s. Tai yanked out the file and ran through it.

David Beauchamp at thirty-four was where that sixteen-year-old was headed. Charges dismissed, violations and misdemeanors all reduced by the intervention of more money than everyone in this office would make in a lifetime. Beauchamp’s sole occupation was to keep the family lawyer in business. Tai moved through to the present. Christ, Beauchamp had been the one to take the header off the bridge back in March, then get busted in May for criminal trespass out on Fort Carroll. The office got one or two of those cases every damned year. Most of them urban adventurers looking for online fame with videos of the dangerously crumbling fort. Tai wished the island would sink the fuck back into the bay. Failing that, become Anne Arundel County’s problem. They had enough shit to deal with here.

Beauchamp had been seen as a flight risk and had substance-abuse issues, so they’d slapped a monitor on him to track his whereabouts and to read alcohol intake. Tai checked the monitoring system on the computer. No ethanol alarm, but Beauchamp had been flagged for location last night.

All the chances in the world, and all the advantages, and Beauchamp still had to act like an asshole. Maybe Tai would just throw him back at the judge for violating probation terms. Except given the way things worked for a guy like Beauchamp, he’d be back in Tai’s office the next day with a shit-eating grin on his face.

As the man made his way in front of Tai’s desk, Tai glanced around the computer screen enough to catch a glimpse of a cane. The grip on it, the light drag in his step said it wasn’t only decoration, but it could be a sympathy game.

A vocal gasp made Tai think the limp and cane were part of the same pity ploy.

“Sit down.” Tai spat out before he flipped through the file again, looking for the medical reports. Coma, fracture of the tibia—the jump off the bridge? No, the trespass on Fort Carroll. So Beauchamp wasn’t just a party boy, he was a klutzy one. Tai went back to the monitor.

“Want to tell me your whereabouts last night?”

“I would think you already know the answer to that, Officer Fonoti.” Beauchamp’s voice was amused. These cases made Tai sick. Give him a street punk any day over someone who’d had everything handed to him and threw it away. “Since our whereabouts happened to coincide so forcefully.”

Tai snapped a look at the man in the chair. No. No fucking way. Admittedly he hadn’t been paying much attention to the guy’s looks after ascertaining the basics, fuckable and asking for it. It had been a good time, the guy playing along like he knew the ropes. He’d bet it wouldn’t have taken much to get the guy to drop to his knees and kiss Tai’s boots.

But last night, there hadn’t been a cane. Tai hadn’t been interested in a lot of details beyond getting his dick up a nice—God, he’d been tight—ass. Tai tugged on his pant leg to free up space. He couldn’t get his brain to connect the smug bastard in front of him with the eager, obedient screw he’d had last night. The way he’d groaned and shook and how hard he clenched down. Tai had to tug on his pant leg again.

Despite all the evidence, Tai took another look at the program on the monitor. Beauchamp, David A had been at 130 West Eager Street from 8:52 until 10:38. Tai had gotten there at seven thirty.

“I was informed my probation officer would be closely monitoring my activities, but I didn’t realize how closely,” Beauchamp said with a slow blink, a smile curving over an unshaved chin.

Tai had been threatened by gang leaders, self-labeled drug lords, and your basic, foaming-at-the-mouth douche bags with anger issues. He’d listened to sob stories about hungry children, cheating girlfriends and backstabbing friends. If any of that could screw with his judgment, he wouldn’t have been able to do his job. And he was good at his job. He knew the rules, knew about the boundaries with clients. Hell, it didn’t take the Corrections and Probations Officer’s Manual to figure out the rule on fucking probies. Just one word. Don’t.