The Movie-Town Murders (The Art of Murder 5)

Sam breathed a half laugh, murmured, “You can’t hide from me, West,” before leaning in to touch Jason’s mouth with the gentlest of nuzzles.

Jason’s breath hitched, his heart thumped loudly in his ears as Sam’s tongue slid across his lower lip, moist, tantalizing, unexpectedly soft.

Arousal washed through Jason, swept him along, drowning all thought, drowning everything but longing for Sam’s mouth, Sam’s body, Sam.

He locked his hands behind Sam’s head, feeling the soft crispness of his hair, the hard outline of skull, the tension of muscles in his neck and shoulders, and drew Sam’s head down.

He whispered, “I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I really, really love you.”

“Yeah?” Sam whispered back.

Jason nodded.

Their mouths touched again, delicately, lightly, then fiercely, Jason’s eyelids quivering beneath that delicious assault of lips and tongue. His bones seemed to dissolve, and he clutched Sam’s shoulders, feeling the shudder that rippled through him, absorbing that little earthquake into himself.

“Christ.” Sam groaned. His hands ran caressingly down Jason’s back, clenched his buttocks, hiking him up.

Jason moaned in response, wrapping his legs around Sam, lost in the dark, moist sweetness of Sam’s mouth. He was absently aware they were maneuvering past the dining alcove with its pale-blue sideboard and padded benches, shuffling across toward the white settee in the living room, vaguely conscious when hardwood gave way to terracotta tile.

They tumbled onto the settee, Jason fumbling for the fastening of Sam’s jeans, Sam groping for Jason’s waistband. There seemed to be a forest of hands and dicks to work through before Jason finally, with a gasp of relief, was free of the constraint of clothes. Sam pushed Jason’s hands aside, yanked his own jeans and briefs down, and his cock sprang free.

Sam’s erection was huge, notable for size and color and weight, the scent of mown grass—that would be the Escentric Molecules Molecule 03—and imminent sex. His hands clamped on Jason’s buttocks, and he began to thrust against him.

It was hot and rough and Jason was already cresting—even the dampening recollection that Horace might be wandering somewhere outside couldn’t stem the tide.

He threw his head back, crying, “Oh fuck, fuck, Sam. Oh, oh, oh…yeah, baby!”

A funny laugh tore out of Sam, but he didn’t break rhythm, didn’t lose the plot, muttering, “Slow down, West. Christ…”

It’s not a race. Jason had heard that before.

Maybe it always felt like a race because they had so little time together. One of them always having to grab the phone, catch a plane, catch a bad guy.

Sam changed his grip, grew caressing, cherishing, stroking Jason’s chest, sternum, belly, smiling grimly at Jason’s little gasps and gulps.

He said quite seriously, “You’re my favorite thing in the world, West.”

Jason laughed, but honest to God. He didn’t seem to need more than this: Sam saying something funny and the hot, swollen press of genitals. He didn’t seem to need much more than Sam.

Sam reached between their bodies, gently cupping Jason’s balls, as though relearning them. Jason opened his mouth to Sam’s tongue as Sam began to thrust against him, harder, faster. Jason arched up, and holy moly, that was an awkward angle…

It happened without further preliminaries, the orgasm simply bubbling up and spilling over, that uncorked welcome home, welcome back, welcome to anything I have, leaving them both gulping for air, spent and shaking and soaked right there on the too-small settee.

For long, shuddering moments, Jason lay slumped against Sam, listening to the quick thump of Sam’s heart, the splash and swash of people on the canal—even at midnight—a car rolling down the alley behind the house, tires grinding gravel, the drapes sighing against the open window.

Sam’s arms were warm and supportive. Jason tipped his face up, and Sam was smiling faintly, eyes closed.

“Thank God for Scotchgard,” Jason said, and Sam opened his eyes.

They both started laughing.