Fair Play (All's Fair Book 2) (6 page)

Chapter Nine

Tucker’s Xterra was parked in the garage, so he had to be home. It took Elliot a few minutes to locate him outside, sleeping in the hammock Tucker had installed behind the cabin.

Clearly he was not concerned about a return visit from yesterday’s assailant. Elliot studied him for a few seconds while Tucker slept peacefully—and loudly—on.

His recumbent body was completely relaxed. One large hand held a copy of
Summit Chase
to his chest. Tucker was currently reading all the old Destroyer novels, which it seemed were boyhood favorites. Last weekend’s sunburn had finally faded and his face was the color of his freckles. It was a good face. Handsome, sure, but it was a face of strength and character. The tips of his red eyelashes were gold. His mouth looked soft, his expression mildly soulful, no doubt admiring in his dreams the bold exploits of CURE assassin Remo Williams.

Elliot’s mouth curved into a reluctant smile. He was still troubled by Tucker’s unexpectedly hardline attitude toward Roland, and he was uneasy about Tucker’s uncharacteristic behavior the night before. But it was hard to stay mad at someone you loved. That was a fact. And where was the benefit in hanging on to anger anyway?

He wrapped a hand around one of the low tree branches, leaning down to kiss Tucker’s parted lips. Tucker’s eyes flew open, his body galvanized into action, launching up from the hammock and grabbing Elliot around the neck. The rope at the head of the hammock broke, and down they both went in a tangle of arms and legs.

The ground was grassy and covered with pine needles, but between Elliot’s reconstructed knee and newly repaired arm, it was a hard landing all the same.

“
Ouch
. Goddamn it!”

“Shit!
Elliot?
”

Tucker sounded so flabbergasted that Elliot sputtered, “Who the hell did you think it was?”

“Are you okay?” Tucker sat up, looking and sounding genuinely contrite as he tried to pull his fist out of the web of cotton ropes. “Did you hurt yourself?” The contrition—and the fact that he couldn’t free his hand at first—went a ways to disarming Elliot’s exasperation.

He lifted up, pulled Tucker’s book out and tossed it at him. The paperback bounced off Tucker’s broad chest. “Nice reflexes, Lance. Did you think the Kissing Bandit jumped you?”

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Tucker muttered.

“Not sure that makes me feel better.”

Tucker untangled himself from the web of the hammock and leaned over Elliot, who was still lying supine, maybe enjoying Tucker’s discomfiture a little too much. Yeah, probably.

Tucker gazed down at him intently. “Why aren’t you getting up?” He frowned. “
Are
you hurt?”

Elliot could feel his mouth curving into a reluctant smile. He shook his head.

“I don’t trust that smile,” Tucker said.

Elliot started to answer, but a yawn caught him off guard, and he laughed instead. “You know you’re tired when pine needles on dirt feels comfortable. I think I’ve had about nine hours of sleep in the last seventy-two.”

This admission seemed to soften Tucker still further. “I should have come back last night. I was beat, but that was no excuse. I knew you couldn’t be as cool as you sounded.”

“I could have asked you to come home.”

“You could have.” Tucker’s smile was twisted. “I’d have had to check your ID when I got here.” He rose and reached down, offering Elliot a hand. Elliot slapped his palm against Tucker’s and accepted help getting to his feet. He brushed off the pine needles sticking to his jeans and shirt.

“I talked to Seattle PD after I talked to you,” Tucker said as they walked into the house.

Elliot threw him a surprised look. “You did?”

“I did, yeah. They interviewed MacAuley this morning. He’s got a rock-solid alibi for yesterday. Furthermore, he’s agreed to cooperate fully with the police and supply a list of email addresses for everyone who subscribes to his blog and who commented on that particular post. According to the cops, he’s cooperating every step of the way. He says he’s absolutely confident none of his supporters were involved in either attack on your father.”

“He can’t know that for sure.”

“Agreed. Which is why Seattle PD plans on going through that list name by name.”

Elliot absorbed this silently. Uppermost was surprise that Tucker had done this for him when he so clearly did not approve of Elliot involving himself in the investigation.

“Thanks,” he said. It sounded more grudging than he intended.

They reached the back door and Elliot held it open for Tucker, following him into the cool interior of the house.

Tucker threw over his shoulder, “Also—don’t shoot the messenger—we’ve had two phone calls from the press since I’ve been home. Not only did they track Roland down, they connected you to the Pioneer Courthouse Square shooting.”

“
Fuck.
”

“I know. On the bright side, no one seems to know that the unsub was using a crossbow.”

“Good.”

“So far it’s just local media. But...”

Elliot swore again, more quietly. It wasn’t like he was hiding out on Goose Island, but there had been a lot of unwelcome attention and publicity after the shooting, and he did not want to be in the limelight again. Ever.

Tucker got a Hale’s Kölsch out of the fridge, removed the cap, and handed it to Elliot. He got a second beer for himself. He took a long swallow and set the bottle on the counter. “Listen, I didn’t mean that
die by the sword
comment the way it sounded. It was a lousy choice of words.”

Elliot kept his tone neutral. “How did you mean it?”

“I meant that your dad is living with the consequences of decisions he’s made in the past, and he’d be the first person to say so. He wants you out of this, whatever it is, and I respect him enough to believe he knows what he’s talking about. He has good reasons for that decision.”

Elliot was shaking his head before Tucker finished. “We’re not going to agree.”

“I know we’re not going to agree. But I’m trying to explain that, despite our differences, I don’t have it in for your dad. I like your dad. I don’t agree with his politics or his idea of civil disobedience or vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner, but I think he’s a decent man and he’s been a good father to you.”

It was an unexpected concession. Even so, it would be crazy to get choked up over it, right? Elliot grunted acknowledgment. He tilted the bottle and drank.

When he lowered the bottle, Tucker was still staring at him with a sort of grim earnestness. “And since I know I can’t stop you from getting involved,” Tucker said, “and since police departments have long memories and not every officer is eager to help a guy who used to say things like ‘the only good pig is a dead pig,’ I’ll help you as much as I can. But you’ve got to agree you won’t go riding off on your own and that you’ll keep me informed of anything and everything you find out.”

“Anything and everything I find out about what?”

“About where Roland is and who might be trying to take Roland out.”

Was there some reason Elliot would want to keep that information from Tucker?

Tucker’s gaze didn’t waver, but you didn’t live with a guy for six months and not get to know a few things about him.

Not a lie. But not the complete truth either.

Elliot shrugged. “Sure,” he said.

* * *

Because there was a chance Roland might call, they could not take the phone off the hook. But Tucker must have been sufficiently discouraging in his earlier conversations with the press because they were undisturbed when they went upstairs to “talk.”

That was Tucker’s code for sex. “You want to go upstairs and talk?” he’d say with perfect seriousness.

Sometimes Elliot would tease him. “What do you need to talk about?”

“I’ll tell you when I get you upstairs,” Tucker would growl. Or words to that effect.

Not that Elliot was complaining, let alone protesting. This had to be one of the best things about committing to partnership: the near-guarantee of sex whenever and wherever requested.

“What are you smirking about?” Tucker questioned.

Elliot’s smile was self-mocking. “Just...afternoon delight.”

Tucker brightened. “Right?” He studied Elliot and his expression grew intent, serious. He craned his head, pressed his mouth to Elliot’s, and Elliot opened to that urgency, pliable beneath Tucker’s soft lips and hot kisses, murmuring approval and assent when Tucker’s tongue pushed inside. Tucker kissed him deeply, passionately, then withdrew to trail moist, satiny kisses down Elliot’s throat...chest...abdomen...

“Don’t stop there,” Elliot whispered.

“But that’s not what you want.” The smile was back in Tucker’s voice.

And he was right. That was not what Elliot wanted. Oh, he liked that—who wouldn’t like that?—but what he really liked, what he really
needed
was quite different.

Despite his insistence on independence, even a little emotional distance, when it came to sex, the dynamic between them changed. Elliot had an overwhelming desire—need—to be overpowered in bed. He liked to be fucked—quite literally—into submission. In his youth he had struggled with this self-knowledge, resisted it, but as he’d grown up and gained experience he’d eventually accepted the truth that, as important as it was to him to be confident, competent and in control of all other aspects of his life, in bed he was a complete and abject bottom. Between the sheets, he needed,
craved
, giving up authority to someone stronger and more powerful. For him, that sense of helplessness, the real if temporary lack of control, was the difference between good sex and
great
sex.

The sex was always great with Tucker. And it was no different now. He used his weight to hold Elliot down, pushing him into the mattress, covering him with unyielding, muscular strength. Elliot arched up, panting, tense with anticipation. Tucker gripped Elliot’s chin and parted his mouth with his own, kissing him until Elliot made the weak acquiescent sounds that always seemed to incite Tucker further. He pushed his tongue into Elliot’s mouth, kissing him so long, so deeply, spots swam in front of Elliot’s eyes.

That ruthlessness was a big part of what Elliot enjoyed. Well,
ruthless
was probably not the right word, he mentally corrected as Tucker drew back enough to rasp, “Knee okay?”

“God, yes. Just do it, Tucker!” Elliot tossed restlessly on the mattress, and Tucker’s big, freckled fists closed around Elliot’s wrists, pinning his arms to his side. Elliot opened his eyes. He tried to raise his hands, testing that grip, and Tucker held him still.

“No, Elliot.” Tucker’s voice was rough. “You’re ready when
I
say you’re ready.”

Elliot moaned.

But Tucker wouldn’t be rushed. He half lifted, bringing his knee up and rubbing it deliberately against Elliot’s balls, pressing his kneecap against the sensitive strip of flesh between sac and opening, making Elliot feel his vulnerability, his helplessness. Elliot spread his legs, giving Tucker better access. Tucker nudged harder. Elliot moaned again and humped against Tucker’s leg.

“You like this?”

Elliot nodded frantically.

Tucker’s touch grew slower, teasing. “This?”

Elliot’s breath hitched.

“Tell me,” Tucker ordered.

Elliot whispered, “So good.
Tucker
. Oh God. It’s...so good with you. It’s never been like this with anyone else. Never.
God
—” He broke off, panting as Tucker did it again, pressing his large, hairy, muscular knee with conscious and careful force behind Elliot’s balls, not a threat, not a warning, just a reminder of who was boss. Elliot writhed with delighted desperation.

“Yeah. Because I know what you want. And I can give you what you need.” Tucker’s voice was warm. There was a smile in there somewhere, a little amusement, but affectionate amusement. That was the beauty of sex with someone who loved you and all your quirks and kinks.

“Are you going to say it?”

Eyes closed, Elliot murmured, “Fuck me, Tucker.”

Tucker made a disapproving sound. “Come on, Elliot.”

Elliot’s eyes snapped open. “Tucker, for Christ’s sake. I’m begging you.”

“Say it,” Tucker ordered softly. Soft but stern.

And that made it easy because Tucker was in charge here. Hell, he was less than an inch away from castrating him. Elliot
had
to obey. “Love. Make love to me. Please.
Please
, Tucker.” And now he
was
begging. Now there were tears in his eyes and his heart felt too big for his ribcage because once again, little by little, Tucker stripped away his defenses, robbed him of the self-deception, took away the games until all that was left was this naked honesty.

And finally Tucker relented, forcing him over onto his belly and then his knees. Then the teasing but mercifully swift application of lubricant, and
finally
Tucker gave Elliot what he craved. His big, warm hands parted Elliot’s ass cheeks wide and his engorged cock pushed slowly, purposefully inside Elliot’s body, piercing him so deeply, so sweetly. Elliot cried out as though Tucker had penetrated his heart. That was how it felt sometimes. Tucker reaching all the way to his heart, mind, soul.

Tucker only gave him a second or two and then he began to thrust, hips rocking against Elliot’s ass. Brisk and possessive.
You.
Belong.
To.
Me
.
Now.

And Elliot pushed back, not fighting, trying to find and follow Tucker’s rhythm.
I...belong...to...you
.

Tucker changed to long, deep strokes, and Elliot lost the pace, bit off a frustrated protest, but obediently shifted gears too. Tucker let him settle in before suddenly changing it up again, this time angling his thrusts to hit the swollen nub inside Elliot’s body.

Elliot cried out at that galvanizing flash of pleasure.

Tucker’s cock grazed his prostate again, and Elliot yelled and came in a hot gush.

* * *

The languorous afternoon light carding through the birches and Douglas firs dappled the room in green-gold.

“I love you so much,” Tucker said. It was not a declaration. He seemed to be thinking it over, even puzzling over it.