Dangerous Ground 2: Old Poison (4 page)

“What would you like?” Will asked, clearly still in a generous mood.

Taylor said the truth. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Fucking. A present you give yourself,” Will deliberately misquoted, and a giggle—borne of one too many mai tais—escaped Taylor.

He'd have been happy to be taken on the sofa in the den, or the kitchen table, or even the freshly sanded floor in the hallway, but Will opted for the bedroom and all its comforts, including the mysterious bottle of passion oil.

Taylor lay on his back, shivering enjoyably as Will's blunt, oily finger slowly traced the crack of his ass.

“I like that.” He was more vocal than Will, offering feedback whether solicited or otherwise. But Will had never seemed to mind.

“Yeah?” There was a smile in Will's voice as his fingers pierced Taylor, slowly, sweetly, slipping the warm, flowery oil into his tight little hole. “And this?”

Dangerous Ground: Old Poison

19

“That too.” Taylor closed his eyes tight, savoring that slippery-fingered invasion. Will was good at this, good at making a sensual delight of preparation, and Taylor wanted that stroking touch to never end. It made him feel like he was melting inside, all the walls, all the barriers dissolving in a wet, hot thaw.

“More,” he whispered as Will's fingers gently withdrew. “More.”

Will settled over him and Taylor spread his thighs, wriggling and shifting to accommodate Will's muscular length. Taylor smiled up at Will, and Will smiled back. He sang softly, “They say it's your birthday.”

Taylor obligingly did the guitar riff in his cracked tenor.

“It's my birthday too, yeah.”

Another riff from Taylor as his restless hands caressed Will's buttocks in air guitar, drawing Will down. His hips raised to meet the frustrating, tantalizing prod of the blunt head of Will's cock as it grazed the entrance of his body.

“I'm glad it's your birthday,” Will growled. “Happy birthday to you.”

His cock finally rifted Taylor, shoved deep inside, stretching him wide open and then filling him up with a sweet, fierce throbbing. Taylor arched up to meet it, gave a deep, groan of pleasured pain. Will's muscular body pressed Taylor deep into the bed, pushing deep inside him, and Will's warm breath tickled Taylor's ear as they began to the old rock and roll, slow, sensual strokes in the push-pull argument over whether it was better to give or receive.

Energetic, forceful, but affectionate. This thrust-and-parry debate of cock and ass was no longer about winning or control. It was now teamwork to make it last as long as possible—

unfortunately, in Taylor's opinion, never quite long enough.

He gave a shout as that hot tingle began in his groin, that wild electricity in the base of his cock, that fluttering in his chest like there was too much sensation, too much emotion to contain in one body. His balls drew tight, his entire body clenched tight, his fingers sank into Will's broad back, and he began to come in great beautiful straining pulses.

He smothered his yell against Will's shoulder.

A few sweating, spent seconds later he felt Will shoot into him, deep inside him.

20

Josh Lanyon

Afterward, they watched the 1932 film
The Mistress of Atlantis
about two best friends and foreign legionnaires who fall victim to the evil queen of the lost city. For a time they amused each other commenting on the movie. Then Will dozed off and Taylor ate some of his birthday cake while his eyelids grew heavier and heavier.

The last thing he remembered hearing was hearing Lt. Saint-Avit running through the streets of Atlantis shouting for his missing comrade…

Dangerous Ground: Old Poison

21

Chapter Three

“What on God's earth is this?”

Will stepped out of Taylor's bathroom holding a blue bottle of oil labeled
UP
. He read aloud, “'Australia's Number One Erectile Performance Oil. Take control of your erection today.'”

“Hey!” Taylor yelped, casting his Levi's aside. “Put my UP down.” He was in the bathroom in two long-legged steps.

“My my. I've never noticed you having any problem keeping your up, up.”

“I don't. It's just a-a performance enhancer.”

Will scrutinized him. This was a new side of Taylor. Not that Taylor didn't go in for some screwball things.

He was blushing now—and rightly so—as he snatched at the bottle Will held. They wrestled briefly; then Taylor grabbed the bottle and tossed it under the sink.

“I was looking for shaving cream,” Will told him mildly. “I forgot mine.”

“I use an electric razor; you know that.”

He did know that. He knew pretty much everything about Taylor, but every so often Taylor surprised him. Like with the UP oil. The funny thing was, the idea of that oil vaguely excited him too.
Firmer, fuller, harder. More responsive erections
. That all sounded pretty good. The idea of Taylor, damp from his shower, massaging that oil into the shaft and head of his penis every morning; his hard, thin hands moving briskly on himself—or no, moving slowly, languidly on himself—

Will gulped. For chrissake! They'd just spent the night and the morning fooling around. It was like being seventeen again. He asked briskly, “Anyway, where do you want to go for breakfast? Or lunch?”

22

Josh Lanyon

Taylor, still uncharacteristically rattled, was squeezing past him out of the bathroom, muttering about coffee mugs and soap foam. It was, well, endearing.

Will caught him by the arm. “Hey. MacAllister.”

Taylor stopped. Faced him.

Will opened his mouth, but he lost his nerve. Couldn't say it.

“What?”

You know I…

Taylor raised his brows.

Will shook his head and turned back to the mirror. He gave his reflection a sheepish look.

* * * *

Verve was their favorite place for breakfast, as they did biscuits with milk gravy, something Will was partial to. Taylor opted for a veggie omelet and black coffee.

It was a sunny, pleasant morning. The sun was shining, the sky had that extra blue tint to it that spring brought. They talked leisurely of this and that, and then Taylor brought up work and the following week.

Will had put all thought of that aside—or mostly aside—so as to not spoil Taylor's birthday, but he had known he was going to have to bring it up at some point that day. Now the moment was on them; there was no putting it off, as much as he hated to spoil this lovely morning.

He waited till Taylor paused, and then he said, “Listen, I have to tell you something.”

Maybe the bad news was written in his face, or maybe it was something in the tone of his voice. The line of Taylor's body stayed relaxed and easy, but Will could feel his tension like a fine wire drawn tight between them. “Yeah?”

“On Monday”—Will took a deep breath—“you're working with Varga.”

For a second he thought Taylor hadn't heard him or hadn't understood. He continued to stare at Will, narrow-eyed, as though a pirate ship had appeared on the horizon. Then he said flatly, “Was that your idea?”

Dangerous Ground: Old Poison

23

“My idea? No, it wasn't my idea.” Will was both taken aback and indignant. “Of course it wasn't my idea.”

Taylor didn't say a word, just stared at him with those wide green eyes. Such an odd color.

Like old, oxidized pennies.

“Why the hell would you think it was my idea?”

“You said from the first that it would be a bad idea to try and balance being lovers with being partners.”

“That's right, but we went ahead with it, didn't we.” It wasn't a question.

“But you're not happy about it.”

Will kept his voice down, but it wasn't easy. “What are you talking about?”

Taylor bit out, “You're not happy with it. You wish it hadn't happened. You'd have preferred that things stay the way they were.”

Startled, because there was truth to that, Will didn't have an immediate answer.

Taylor's face grew tighter, all stark bones and shadowed planes in the bright Ventura sunlight.

“Yeah, but it did happen,” Will said in a low voice. “And there's no going back from it.”

Taylor hadn't moved. In fact, he was so still, he barely seemed to breathe. No reaction at all. And that wasn't like him.

Suddenly awkward, Will said, “Anyway, the reteaming is just temporary.”

“Who are you partnered with?”

Fuck
. Well, there was no getting around it. It was just that Taylor was taking it even worse than Will had imagined he would—and Will hadn't even got to the really bad part yet. Bad from Taylor's point of view, anyway.

“I'm not—I'm working a visa fraud case. Illegal aliens using forged docs to unlawfully gain employment to naval bases in the region.”

“Naval bases,” Taylor said slowly. And then, dangerously, “Who are you working it with?”

Will said, careful to keep any inflection from his voice, “I'm acting in liaison with the navy. With David Bradley.”

24

Josh Lanyon

For one taut second Taylor didn't move, and then he was up and out of his seat, striding for the gate that led from the patio to the sidewalk.

“
Taylor
!”

Uncomfortably aware that they now had the attention of most of the diners on the patio, Will threw a bunch of bills down and took off after Taylor.

Instead of heading for the car, Taylor was cannoning down the pavement, head down like a bull—yeah, like the bullhead he was. Will, unwilling to bowl right through people, lost valuable seconds trying to catch him. No way in hell was he going to
run
after Taylor.

He couldn't believe this. Where the hell did Taylor think he was going? Was he planning to walk home? Catch a taxi? Who the hell knew? Did he?

Will's gut was churning. It was partly anger, largely directed at himself for not finding a better way to break it to Taylor, but most of it was that sick feeling that came anytime he knew he'd hurt Taylor. Taylor had a rep for being a tough bastard, and he was, but…

God only knew what he made of something like this, and Will couldn't help but remember the last time Taylor had thought Will was getting serious about David Bradley.

He darted around two middle-aged women with piles of shopping bags between them, dodged a kid on a skateboard—illegal here, by the way—and sidestepped a couple of guys on cell phones who sounded like they were talking to each other.

Taylor was still flying down the street, charging along in his white-faced fury. Will put on a burst of speed as Taylor reached the corner of the sidewalk, pausing—amazingly—the few seconds before the crossing light turned green.

The light turned, the perky pedestrian symbol glowing white-green, and Taylor stepped out ahead of the rest of the people milling on the corner. At the same time, a battered Chevy pulling away from the curb accelerated, tires squealing as the driver tried too late to make the light.

A woman on the corner screamed in warning. Will saw Taylor's head jerk up, too late, to see the car bearing down on him.

* * * *

Dangerous Ground: Old Poison

25

Taylor had barely time to recognize his serious miscalculation when something significantly big and muscular hurtled full bodied into him, knocking him halfway across the intersection. He landed hard and unprepared, the breath knocked out of him, hands and knees burning as asphalt scraped away skin.

He felt the hot breath of the car rushing past, tires squealing, the smell of rubber and exhaust and hot tar.

Sluggishly, he was aware of people screaming. But I had the right-of-way, he thought.

That was shock, though, not logic. Will was beside him, getting to his knees, which took care of Taylor's immediate concerns. He'd known the minute that solid mass of bone and muscle had crashed into him that it had to be Will.

“The sonofabitch didn't stop.” Will swore bitterly, examining his bloody elbow.

“Why should he? He didn't hit us.” Taylor staggered to his feet, offered a hand to Will, who took it and let himself be pulled up.

They examined each other quickly, awkwardly—it was hard to forget what had precipitated that close call. Wincing at more than scrapes and bruises, Taylor considered his own grazed hands. Will must have noticed, because he reached out, catching Taylor's wrists and studying his palms.

After what seemed a smoldering sort of moment, he released Taylor, saying curtly, “You'll live.”

“Thanks to you,” Taylor admitted. No point in pretending otherwise. He owed Will that one.

Will was apparently too pissed to want to take credit. He turned away, heading back across the intersection, asking whether anyone had managed to get a license-plate number. The witnesses—those who had stuck around—were already disagreeing about whether Taylor had stepped out before the light turned green.

This was not the place to conduct an inquiry, and Taylor couldn't understand Will's insistence on trying. As there were no longer any pedestrians sprawled in the intersection, the opposite street traffic was now trying to make its left-hand turn and impatient motorists were laying on the horn. He followed Will to the curbside, frowning, as Will tried to insist on someone supplying a make on the car or some kind of ID on the driver.

26

Josh Lanyon

A brown Chevy, according to Will. Why did that ring a bell?

Either nobody could or would volunteer any part of a license-plate number. The crowd had already dispersed as people remembered they had places to be and things to do. It wasn't as though there had actually been an accident; it was just another close call, and they happened every day.