fifty pound laptop was capable of doing was downloading antivirus definitions and firmware updates.
I'd turned to Sudoku to fill the spare hours. Seven or eight out of the nine boxes usually added up for me. I thought that was pretty good
I loosened my tie and found Jacob had been watching me from his post in the doorway. He crossed the minuscule kitchen in about a step and a half and backed me into the formica countertop beside the sink. A spot that used to house an old coffeemaker and a can opener had been packed tight with all kinds of contraptions that Jacob needed to make dinner from scratch: a crock pot; a tabletop grill; four different bottles of oil and half a dozen vinegars. And an even bigger coffeemaker, which I wholeheartedly endorsed.
Jacob's mouth pressed against mine while the handle of the tabletop grill jabbed me in the low back. I was tired. I'd woken up early and been clenched up tight all day with the stress of coming out to Zig, but the day's fatigue melted away the second Jacob's tongue pushed between my lips.
There was probably a time for lazy, tender lovemaking on a white down comforter with a bottle of champagne chilling beside the bed and a bowl of ripe strawberries at the ready—but Jacob and I never seemed to synch up with it. One of us was either at work, or had just returned from it, carrying around an image in our heads of a crime so sickening that it made fluffy boas and hearts and flowers feel pretty useless.
Jacob deepened the kiss as he straddled my leg, his quads clamping onto my thigh. He drove me into the countertop even harder, and the grill handle drilled me from behind like it was impatient to get going with our ménage a trois.
I pulled my lips from Jacob's and gasped out, "Grill." He trailed kisses down my jaw, my neck, ending with a bite that was hard enough to hurt—in that wow-what-a-turn-on way, not the ow-get-a-bandaid way. He always let up before he left a mark. It was hard enough for me to function as a cop, what with the drugs (or the longing for them) and the gay and the half-seen corpses floating around all the time. I didn't need hickeys that I was struggling to hide on top of everything else.
Jacob got that. And yet, when his teeth pressed into my vulnerable neck and a rumble of pleasure started building up low in his throat, I sensed a quivering restraint that told me he'd love to just let loose, sink his teeth in until he tasted just the faintest hint of copper ... and of course that idea made me insanely hard.
Jacob tossed the grill into the sink with one hand—that really loud cracking noise didn't bode well—and wedged his other hand between my legs. He cupped his palm over my balls and rolled them together, wringing a desperate noise out of my throat that I hadn't realized I'd been holding back. His thigh drove his hand into me harder, and I felt a serious rush to my balls as he sent me soaring up the precipice even through my lousy work pants.
"I want to fuck you," he purred behind my ear as he nuzzled my hair. "You want it?"
"Y-yeah." Okay, so I hadn't mastered the dirty talk yet. It didn't mean I didn't totally get off on Jacob saying all that hot, nasty stuff. He flipped me around and dropped my pants around my ankles while I nudged a glass bottle back into the mass of stuff on the countertop before it could tip into the sink and shatter.
Jacob grabbed the bottle away from me. Olive oil. Okay. At least it wasn't the one with a bunch of garlic cloves at the bottom, or the big sprig of something in the middle that looked like part of last year's Christmas tree.
Clothes-rustling noises, bottle-opening noises, and then his fingers were inside me while I tried to figure out where to put my elbows without punctuating our evening with broken glass. My cock got even stiffer at the feel of his fingers, the sound of his voice mumbling its disjointed stream of dirty talk: "Sweet, sweet ass, God, you're so tight. Oh, fuck, yeah...."
I stared at the crowded
I'd turned to Sudoku to fill the spare hours. Seven or eight out of the nine boxes usually added up for me. I thought that was pretty good
I loosened my tie and found Jacob had been watching me from his post in the doorway. He crossed the minuscule kitchen in about a step and a half and backed me into the formica countertop beside the sink. A spot that used to house an old coffeemaker and a can opener had been packed tight with all kinds of contraptions that Jacob needed to make dinner from scratch: a crock pot; a tabletop grill; four different bottles of oil and half a dozen vinegars. And an even bigger coffeemaker, which I wholeheartedly endorsed.
Jacob's mouth pressed against mine while the handle of the tabletop grill jabbed me in the low back. I was tired. I'd woken up early and been clenched up tight all day with the stress of coming out to Zig, but the day's fatigue melted away the second Jacob's tongue pushed between my lips.
There was probably a time for lazy, tender lovemaking on a white down comforter with a bottle of champagne chilling beside the bed and a bowl of ripe strawberries at the ready—but Jacob and I never seemed to synch up with it. One of us was either at work, or had just returned from it, carrying around an image in our heads of a crime so sickening that it made fluffy boas and hearts and flowers feel pretty useless.
Jacob deepened the kiss as he straddled my leg, his quads clamping onto my thigh. He drove me into the countertop even harder, and the grill handle drilled me from behind like it was impatient to get going with our ménage a trois.
I pulled my lips from Jacob's and gasped out, "Grill." He trailed kisses down my jaw, my neck, ending with a bite that was hard enough to hurt—in that wow-what-a-turn-on way, not the ow-get-a-bandaid way. He always let up before he left a mark. It was hard enough for me to function as a cop, what with the drugs (or the longing for them) and the gay and the half-seen corpses floating around all the time. I didn't need hickeys that I was struggling to hide on top of everything else.
Jacob got that. And yet, when his teeth pressed into my vulnerable neck and a rumble of pleasure started building up low in his throat, I sensed a quivering restraint that told me he'd love to just let loose, sink his teeth in until he tasted just the faintest hint of copper ... and of course that idea made me insanely hard.
Jacob tossed the grill into the sink with one hand—that really loud cracking noise didn't bode well—and wedged his other hand between my legs. He cupped his palm over my balls and rolled them together, wringing a desperate noise out of my throat that I hadn't realized I'd been holding back. His thigh drove his hand into me harder, and I felt a serious rush to my balls as he sent me soaring up the precipice even through my lousy work pants.
"I want to fuck you," he purred behind my ear as he nuzzled my hair. "You want it?"
"Y-yeah." Okay, so I hadn't mastered the dirty talk yet. It didn't mean I didn't totally get off on Jacob saying all that hot, nasty stuff. He flipped me around and dropped my pants around my ankles while I nudged a glass bottle back into the mass of stuff on the countertop before it could tip into the sink and shatter.
Jacob grabbed the bottle away from me. Olive oil. Okay. At least it wasn't the one with a bunch of garlic cloves at the bottom, or the big sprig of something in the middle that looked like part of last year's Christmas tree.
Clothes-rustling noises, bottle-opening noises, and then his fingers were inside me while I tried to figure out where to put my elbows without punctuating our evening with broken glass. My cock got even stiffer at the feel of his fingers, the sound of his voice mumbling its disjointed stream of dirty talk: "Sweet, sweet ass, God, you're so tight. Oh, fuck, yeah...."
I stared at the crowded
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