Edward Unconditionally Common Powers 3 (9 page)

No pain. Not a single twinge. He was tired, but not hurting. Christ, he'd lived with the pain for weeks and now, just like that, it was gone. In a weird way, he missed it.

He rolled over and tried not to think about it.

Edward had taken his pain. But it wasn't just that, and Jack knew it.

Edward had saved his life.

Whatever he'd taken from Jack could have killed Edward, and for a moment, Jack would have sworn Edward had died, but that couldn't be.

Whatever it had been, it had been meant to kill Jack.

Christ. Would it have happened tonight? Would he have died in his sleep? Just dropped dead?

How long would it have taken someone to notice he hadn't shown up for work? He was going to be off all weekend. Jack shivered at the thought of being found dead days later. He'd seen those bodies before, bloated, distorted, and reeking. For the first time in years, the desolation of being alone rocked him.

Morbid thoughts were useless. He hadn't died. He was fine. No sense in getting all bent out of shape over something that hadn't even happened. It was just too damn close for comfort, like knowing he'd missed taking a bullet, or he'd stopped at an intersection just as an eighteen-wheeler barreled through.

Fuck. It was the “your life flashes before your eyes” kind of scary.

Edward pulled onto the highway. His hands clutched the steering wheel, and he refused to acknowledge the water standing in his eyes by wiping it away. Between his terror at what had happened when he'd taken Jack's pain, and Jack's rejection of Edward's stupid advances, his stomach rebelled.

He pulled over, jumped out of the car, and ran to the side of the road. Falling to his hands and knees, he threw up into the grass, his stomach heaving until long past empty. Finished, he spit, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and got to his feet, clinging to the side of the car. He staggered around to the open door, then slumped into the seat and leaned back against the headrest.

He'd only wanted to help Jack, to help the man he'd been drawn to as if Jack held all the answers to all Edward's questions.

He'd thought Jack just had a headache. Maybe even a sinus infection. Something easy, simple, like all the other times he'd used his power. He hadn't been prepared for what he'd found, not for what had come rushing at him through their connection.

Hot, blinding agony wrapped in a pulsing fireball.

How the hell had Jack stood it all this time?

And when Edward had opened his eyes— utter darkness. A desolation that had left him like a lost child, crying in the dark for comfort. Had Jack felt that too, or was that something only Edward had felt?

Then the explosion hit, and he'd lost consciousness.

Edward took several deep breaths, inhaling and expelling air, until the trembling stopped and he'd regained some control.

He'd almost died. Maybe, for a second, he did. He wasn't sure of anything. Whatever had been inside Jack's head burst after it had entered Edward. His gift, and his life, both of which he'd always used so cavalierly, had almost been taken from him. He'd saved Jack's life, of that he was sure, but he'd come close to losing his own, and that terrified him.

Never again.

And speaking of never again... He'd done it again. Made a fool of himself by throwing himself at Jack, only to be rejected. Had he been out of his mind? A man like Jack wouldn't want him. Jack was a man's man. A Texas lawman. He was John Fucking Wayne, for God's sake.

At least this time, it hadn't been in public.

Just a private humiliation.

His face burned as he relived Jack's voice, whispering so hoarsely in his ear, searing him from the inside out. He closed his eyes and could feel the weight of the bigger man pressed into him. The heat of Jack's hard body. Jack's scent. Jack's breath. Jack's hand on top of his. Edward had had an erection as Jack trapped Edward between his body and the hard wooden door.

Edward would have dropped his jeans and let Jack fuck him at that moment.

Now, Edward just wanted to run away, like he'd run from Atlanta and all his problems there.

He snorted and rolled his eyes. If he kept doing that, eventually he'd run out of places to hide. With his track record of failure, he stood a pretty good chance of finding himself in Timbuktu, and Lord knew, he did not look good in khaki.

He could run, but he couldn't hide. Not from himself.

He needed to face facts. Get a grip on his life and come to some understanding.

There was something wrong with him.

Edward flipped down the visor and opened the mirror. He studied his reflection by the glow of the small light. Stared into his own watery eyes, searching for signs.

It must be some internal failure. A design flaw. Something down at the cellular level that rendered him unlovable, that sent out some sort of homing beacon to the wrong sort of men and lit up the big sign on his back that said, BREAK MY HEART. As if he were some perpetual victim, caught in a never-ending loop of bad choices, bad mistakes, and bad lovers.

Except Jack wasn't the wrong sort of man. He was a good man. Honest, sincere, trustworthy, and in control. Everything Edward had never been attracted to, had always sneered at, only now it turned him on. This must be some kind of cosmic karma.

Because, to add insult to injury, Jack wasn't gay.

Edward sighed.

He was falling in love with a man who wasn't gay.

Talk about your hell and damnation.

Jack flopped onto his back, and his hand brushed his half-hard cock. He grunted. That hadn't happened since the pain started. Hard to get it up when you're in agony. Unless you're into that sort of thing, and Jack wasn't. Just plain, old-fashioned, vanilla self-gratification for him. Nothing he couldn't control, nothing to get excited about. Nothing to involve his emotions.

After weeks of not jacking off, he needed some relief. Jack leaned over, pulled open the drawer on his nightstand, and took out a small bottle of baby oil. No way would he be caught buying sex lube or one of those massage creams guaranteed to make your dick tingle. Not even online. The only computer he had access to was the one on his desk at work, and he'd never risk putting anything but business on that.

But baby oil? Everyone bought that stuff.

Jack guarded his privacy. It was necessary in a small town where everyone knew everything about each other, and what they didn't know, they were more than willing to speculate about.

The last thing he needed, as chief of police, was to not be respected, to be made the town laughingstock, or to have his personal life subject to gossip and speculation.

He'd never be in that position again. The object of ridicule, ashamed of who he was, where he'd come from. Poor white trailer-park trash, with a couple of drunks for parents. The kid no one wanted to hang with or even sit next to in school.

The best thing he'd ever done was run away and start a new life when he was sixteen. At eighteen, he'd changed his name to escape any attempt his lousy excuse for parents might make to find him and drag him back.

He had no regrets about leaving or cutting them out of his life. They were toxic, like cancer. Without them putting him down, eating away at his self-confidence, telling him he was no better than they were, he'd made something of himself, and he was damned proud of it. So what if it came with a cost. Everything worth fighting for did.

Just like he'd fought so hard to be the best cop he could be. That had gotten him noticed and moved up the ranks, until he'd been offered the job as the youngest chief of police this town had ever had. Another reason he could hold his head up with pride.

He dripped some oil into his palm, rubbed his hands together, and fisted his dick. After a few strokes, he still wasn't hard. The fire smoldered but didn't seem to catch. Jack reached for his balls, slicked them up, and squeezed, pulled, and rolled them in his hand. It felt good, but tonight it wasn't enough.

Frustrated, he rolled onto his side, his hand still working up and down his prick. He'd forgotten about Winston until the dog growled at being jostled.

“Get lost, buddy.” Winston hopped off the bed and trotted out of the room.

The dog had probably seen plenty of Edward's jack-off sessions, maybe even Edward and his lovers going at it, but he wasn't going to watch Jack.

Did Edward have a lover back in Atlanta? Of course he did; the man was gorgeous. So if he did, why all the flirting?

And why the fuck was Jack thinking about Edward's lovers, his flirting, and his whacking off? And getting irritated by it? Irritated or jealous?

No no no.

He stopped, emptied his mind, and added more oil to his hand. Then he began the process again with the same result. A half-limp dick.

What the hell was wrong with him tonight? He usually had his routine down pat. The same jerk-off session, a couple of times a week, for the last God-knew-how-many years. He knew just how he had to touch himself, just how hard, how fast, where.

It was as if his rhythm was off, and he couldn't find the right beat.

He closed his eyes and let his mind wander, but like an arrow, it flew straight back to Edward. Jack's cock swelled in his grip. “Oh shit.” He moaned.

No fucking way.

The younger man had made him lose control tonight, and Jack had struck out in violence, grabbed Edward, and thrown him against the door. Jack had reveled in the rush of adrenaline and dominance, of letting Edward know that Jack could handle him any way Jack wanted to, if he felt like it.

And Edward had surrendered, made that dick-hardening little moan.

Jack slipped his hand over the tip of his prick, his thumb smeared precum over its head. He hissed his pleasure, and his eyes shuttered. Thrusting his hips, his dick slid through his hand, a poor substitute for the tightness and heat he craved.

For a moment tonight, he'd had Edward pinned beneath him. He'd pressed into that tight little ass as he assured Edward he wasn't gay and didn't want him.

Christ, he got so fucking hard just thinking about Edward. Okay, so what if he was attracted to Edward? Attraction was merely that, attraction. Not need, not want. Not, for Christ's sake, love.

Those things were too dangerous, opened a man up to weakness. Jack had given them up a long time ago when life had picked him up by the throat, shook him until his teeth rattled, and then tossed him aside, broken and bitter.

Thoughts, on the other hand, were safe. Merely fantasy. People thought about things they'd never do in real life all the time to get turned on. And Jack was definitely turned on. More than he'd been in a very long time.

His eyes closed as he pictured Edward's smaller body beneath his. Jack's hips jerked as his stroke faltered. He pulled on his cock, hard and fast, as the need in his body built. Bowstring taut, his body vibrated, but release eluded him.

Growling, Jack rolled onto his back, one hand on his dick, the other rubbing the tender flesh beneath his balls, a placed he'd discovered on his body that usually sent him over the edge. Close, his orgasm built in his balls, but it slipped away again.

With a cry of frustration, he sat up, knocked the pillows off the bed, and knelt facing the headboard. He clutched the top rail as he jerked off with frantic motions. Slammed one hand against the wall above the bed as he rocked his hips back and forth, sliding his dick in the tight grip of his other hand, striving for release. Begging his body to let go and fucking let him come.

“Oh, Christ,” he gasped as he gave in to the knowledge and awareness.

He'd wanted to fuck Edward against that door. Use his dick as a battering ram in Edward's tight, hot ass. And it would be so fucking tight, he just knew it. And scorching hot, so hot it'd burn him like a brand.

As his cock thrust, hitting the wood, it left smears of precum, evidence of the dangerous truth.

Jack slapped the wall harder as the head of his penis banged against the headboard, against Edward's ass. The pain was so sweet. So fucking sweet.

Jack reached the cliff, raced toward it, and then hung on the edge for what seemed the longest moment of his life.

“Oh fuck, Edward,” he whispered and plunged over the edge.

His balls tightened, and with a final thrust and cry, he sat back on his heels and came. Jack watched as streams of cum hit the headboard, his dick pulsing. Christ, he thought he'd never stop shooting spunk, stop his body's shuddering, but at last, he came up empty.

White ropes of jism dripped down the dark-stained mahogany like raindrops on a windshield.

Groaning, he fell backward. His heart pounded like a son of a bitch, his shaft hypersensitive to the slightest touch, and its head ached from being battered.

Shit. He'd never jerked off like that before, with so much anger, passion, and primal need. So out of control.

He waited until his breathing eased, then rolled out of bed, wet a cloth, and cleaned off his headboard. Then he put the pillows back, climbed in, and pulled the covers up to his waist.

It was just a fantasy and didn't mean a goddamned thing.

Edward unlocked the door to his grandmother's house with his new key and quietly stepped inside. All he wanted was to take his bags, go to his room, and get under the covers. And never come out.

How in the world could he face Jack again?

He'd just have to pretend as if nothing had happened. And it was the truth, nothing happened. Damn it.

At least, not on Jack's part. But Edward had gone out on that fragile limb, exposed his emotions, and had been knocked off it. Really, he had to stop doing that.

Confidence shattered, he undressed, brushed his teeth, and put on his pajamas. Tonight he needed the black silk pair. Slipping on the loose pants, he took a moment to enjoy the way the pure silk caressed his skin. This pair had always made him feel better. He knew about comfort food, but for him, texture soothed his soul. Food he could take or leave, and he'd never been one for drugs or alcohol, just the occasional glass of white wine with dinner.