Touching Evil (9 page)

Greg snorted, hands still wrapped around his prick as the soft laughter started.

"I think he's jealous." And it was a damned good thing he knew what
Greg was laughing at, or his dick might just try to shrivel up.

"I know he is, and you have a fine fucking cock, Artie. Thick and hot. Longer than I imagined it."

"You're more substantial. Not your cock. Just the everything else."
Greg was still too fucking skinny. But he was heavier than Artie'd
thought.

He got a grin, Greg leaning down to kiss one nipple. "I'd forgotten about the afterglow part."

"Are you a snuggler?" Artie could be. He'd had one guy once who'd
rolled off and gotten dressed and gone home, every time. That was
lowering for sure.

"Really? I don't want to leave. I just want to feel you." That was
unnerving as fuck, but the way Greg snuggled made up for it. He knew
it. Knew it was the way it was when Greg touched things and all, and
this close? Sharing this kind of connection, things would flow. It was
cool. Greg hummed soft and low, the covers tugged over them. "We can
rest a minute?"

"Uh-huh. We can hang out. Think about doing it again. Think about
more food." He grinned, arm sliding to pull Greg closer, getting all
the angles right.

"You're a bottomless pit." Right, like Greg could talk. "Duke gonna be okay?"

"Oh, he'll shred my sports coat. Then he'll watch a movie or
something." His fingers kept coming back to one hipbone, tracing it
over and over.

"That sports coat has seen better days." Greg just purred, cuddling into him with a sigh.

"Hey! I like it. It's comfy and it hides my gun." Just like his pillows were a little lumpy but shaped to him.

"I do like the way it makes your ass look." The compliment was just offered, casual and easy.

"Cool." Then it hit him what Greg'd said and he got tickled,
chuckling like crazy. "You perv. You've been watching my ass all this
time."

"Artie. Any gay man with eyes and the sense God gave a goat watches your ass."

He flushed hot. "Leah says some of the girls do, too. You, though? I like." Like was such a weak word for it.

"Yeah. You're good for me. Good to me." Greg kissed his chest. "And those girls don't know what they're missing."

"This is true. They'd never make it past Duke."

Chapter Six

The chrysanthemums were beautiful, blooms big as saucers, almost
drooping on their stems. Orange, white, rust, even one variegated
series—Doctor Van Hoord would be proud of him. Greg could
remember her, tiny and wizened and odd, snapping out information on
genus and phyla, her graduate students panicked and scribbling.

He moved the little wheelbarrow to the heirloom roses, pruning them
back almost viciously. Such a violent act, pruning. Snipping off
healthy branches for the well-being of the plant. Shears snipping and
snapping and cutting deep, sap wetting the blades like blood or tears
or...

"Oh, for Chrissake, Gregory, get a fucking grip. It's
gardening
."
The sound of his own voice, irritated and clipped, made him chuckle,
got him back on track. Sometimes things just needed to be about dirt
and worms and manure or a man might lose his mind.

"Should I get near you with those clippers in your hand?"

He jumped, clippers clattering to the rooftop. "Shit! You scared me. Damn. Hey. Hi. Sorry, I was in the zone."

"I tried to call your cell. You should carry it with you, Greg. Just in case." Artie looked, if anything, even more tired. Damn.

"I have it up here. Somewhere." Turned off. He thought. Maybe. He found Artie a smile. "You want a coffee?"

"Yeah. That sounds good. Are you done? I don't want to interrupt the communing."

"Less communing, more pruning." He wheeled the rose branches to the compost heap, tossing them in with the rest.

"Then coffee sounds good. It really does." Scrubbing a hand over his
face, Artie waited for him to lead the way, shoulders slumping a
little. Okay, a lot.

"You off duty, detective?" If so, Greg was so dumping Artie into the
tub with some lavender oil and a little Bach. The man needed a break.

"I am. I tell you, man, folks have gone crazy. It must be the
season, or something. We got two more cases dumped on us today, and
Leah is all swollen." Artie leaned against the roof unit while he put
shit away and opened the door.

"I'll have Alice call her. There are things that help." He got
everything locked away, ignoring the tiny little flashes that told him
Alice had been here to water and some teenagers hade come hoping for
marijuana. "Come downstairs. I'll run you a bath."

"Yeah?" Those eyes lit up, Artie reaching out to touch him, just barely grazing his shoulder. "That would be great."

"Your hands are always warm."

They headed down the stairs, the old wood creaking under their feet.

"Obviously I'm just a hot guy." There it was—that hint of humor, the ghost of a smile in Artie's voice. Better.

"Most definitely. Still, I think a long soak and a backrub..." Oh.
He could give Artie a backrub. This whole touching thing was getting
better and better.

They reached the landing and Artie grabbed him, hauling him around for a kiss. Looked like someone else liked that idea. A lot.

His eyes felt huge, hands cupping Artie's face. The heat, the flood of want, felt good.

Solid and hot against him, Artie held him close, lips moving over
his. He could feel how much Artie had wanted to call him when Leah had
to go home early, could feel how bad Artie had felt for the mom of the
little girl who'd gotten hit by a car.

"Anytime. I'll leave it on. You call." He pushed back into the kisses, trying to rub the aches and hurts away.

"You're good to me, man. Anything ... well. Anything in the mail?" The question hung there, reluctant, waiting.

"I didn't go downstairs." He wanted be alive. Awake. Just himself.

"Alice knows to tell you, though, right? I don't want another phone
call like the last one. You were messed up." It wasn't the cop talking.
It was his newfound lover. It was at once odd and comforting.

"She does. No more phone calls. Come take a bath with me. I'll touch you."

"Okay." Following along, hands skating over his clothes, his exposed
skin, Artie came with him, hungry as anything. Just needing so badly
you didn't have to be psychic to see it.

They went inside his flat, leaving the coffee and heading straight
back for the big bathroom with the garden tub. The oils. The gardenias
in the windows. The fuzzy towels. "Get naked. You like the water hot."

"I do. And I like the smell of that stuff you use." Shoes, pants, shirt, Artie stripped for him, not a bit self conscious.

He got the water started, poured the oils in. "Turn on the stereo and I'll put towels on the radiator stand."

He was almost vibrating, so excited, so thrilled to have this, to do this.

"Anything you want in particular?" Like Artie would put anything on
but mellow jazz. When the music was floating around them, Artie came
back and looped strong arms around him, lips on his neck.

He leaned his head forward, unbuttoning his shirt while offering Artie more of his nape, more of his skin.

"Mmmm. Oh, that's a cure for what ails me. For sure." Those lips
moved, tickling the tiny hairs on the base of his neck, sliding across
to sit under his ear, smooth and damp and warm. The sound he made was a
little desperate, a little needy, a lot wanting, and it was no surprise
that his cock pushed right on out when he popped the button on his fly.

"Oh. Damn, Greg. You smell good." Artie was hard, too, pressing
against his ass, one hand dropping to cup his cock, fingers pressing
the head. "Feels so soft. Your skin, I mean. The rest is hard."

"Your hands." He got the rest of his clothes off, leaned back all the way into those arms. "God, Artie."

"No one has ever even mentioned my hands before, man." If he opened
his eyes and looked down at Artie's hands on him, he couldn't see the
brief flashes of nameless faces that had come in and out of Artie's
life so fast. So fast. No one had ever
gotten
Artie before.

"No one looked. Come in the water." His fingers slid over the top of Artie's, tracing each line, each knuckle, every inch.

"Mmmhmm. As soon as I can move. You're killing me, man." They swayed, Artie's solid body just pushing and pressing.

"No. Loving you. You like it." He drew their hands down, slid them over his hips.

"I do." Rough fingers rubbed over his hipbones, under them, forefingers pressing along the seam of his torso and thigh.

His breath caught, eyes closing, heat rushing through him. "Please don't stop."

"Not gonna. Though it'd be a shame to waste that hot water. Come on.
Get in." Muscling him like he weighed nothing, even though he was half
a head taller, Artie moved them to the tub, getting them all settled
inside, arms and legs tangled.

Greg leaned back, stretching out against Artie with a soft sigh. "You good?"

"I am so good you don't even know." He got a warm, damp chuckle. "Or maybe you do."

That tickled him, got him to laughing, soft and deep. "There is very little that hot water and naked skin can't fix."

"You got that right. You've got this spot, right here..." Oh. Oh,
God, when Artie touched the underside of his thigh like that, Greg saw
fireworks. His toes curled and he rippled, his gasp just echoing and
echoing.

"And ... and you have one on your wrist. Here." Greg's fingertips found it, drew a slow lazy circle around it.

Artie's cock jerked against Greg's back. "I do. Oh, damn, Greg. That's good."

He nodded, drew that hand up to his mouth, lips and teeth working that little sweet spot. Yeah. Yeah, it was good.

Grunting, moving hard enough to make the water slosh, Artie rubbed,
practically purring. That rough, half-broken voice just went right
through him, making him shiver. The shaking intensified when Artie used
his free hand to touch and stroke, reaching down to cup Greg's cock
again.

Hard enough he ached, Greg just whimpered, hips rocking, floating in
the water and trying to push toward that hand. "I feel you. Lord. It's
... It's fine, Artie."

"Uh-huh. Good. I ... smells good. Feels right." They rocked, Artie
pressing up against him, fingers closing around him nice and firm,
pulling.

He nodded, stubble making a rough noise against Artie's inner arm.
Every place that flushed on that muscled arm he nuzzled and nipped,
leaving his mark. Groaning, panting, Artie just let him go, watching
him, kissing his shoulders. The fascination hadn't faded at all with a
little familiarity. In fact, Artie seemed even more intent on him.

He licked the light band of skin Artie's grandpa-watch usually
covered, the curve of elbow that smelled warm and musky, the puckered
bit of skin from a fight back when Artie was a rookie and working the
streets.

All the while Artie worked him, too, hand moving on him, from tip to
base and below to tease his balls, then back up. When Artie started
getting toothy he knew the impatience was building. The need. He
shifted his hips back, Artie's heavy cock sliding along his crease. He
smiled as Artie groaned, bucked a little. Oh, someone liked that.

So he did it again.

"God. Greg. That. Damn." Growly. That rough-as-gravel voice just scraped over his nerves.

"Yeah." He was almost humming with it, lifting himself up a little
in the water and then easing himself back down, rubbing that sensitive
shaft the whole way.

The hand around him tightened, using his cock as leverage to pull
him back even harder. They became a circle of pleasure, from Artie's
hand on him to his ass rubbing that thick prick. It was—oh, sweet
fuck. With the water splashing against him and his nipples hard and
that hand and Artie's need all mingled with his and ... "Artie. Artie,
I. You."

"Got me, Greg. Any way you want me. Not gonna hurt you, though." No.
No, Artie wouldn't ever do that. He hated it when anyone did with a
passion that burned almost as bright as Artie's want.

"No. No, you won't. I know. Please." Come to bed, Artie. Come to bed.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." Artie grunted, legs and arms and belly muscles
going tense as Artie heaved them up out of the tub, water just
streaming everywhere. God, that man had brute strength.

Greg moaned, grabbing a towel as soon as Artie let his feet hit the
floor, getting the bare minimum of water off them before heading for
the bed.

Following close on his heels, Artie pushed him down on the bed and
reached unerringly for the lube in the side table, settling between his
spread legs. "Fuck, Greg. Pretty."

He drew his legs up and back, spreading wider, trying not to feel like he hadn't been a lot younger last time he'd done this.

"Gonna be good, Greg. Gonna be fine." Bless him, Artie knew. Knew
and took such care, getting his fingers good and wet before pressing
them between Greg's legs, right up against his hole. The other big hand
stroked his belly, soothing him.

He moaned, arching a little under the touch. "Your hands..."

Artie wanted to say they were made for touching him but thought it
was too corny. Too cute. One finger circled his hole, pushing and
pressing. Opening him up, Artie pushed in deeper, all the way in,
finger crooking inside him.

He cried out, the jolt inside of him strong, almost shocking. "Oh. Again. Not hurting me. Please. Do it again."

"You got it." He did, too, Artie teasing him, testing him, finger
sliding in and out. When he became slick, open and easy, a second
finger joined the first, pushing him higher and higher.

It was amazing, the way things felt, the way Artie pushed inside
him. Greg kept his eyes open, kept watching, assuring himself he was
there. Real. Solid.

"Right here. God, you're hot inside." Hot, and tight, and Artie
could hardly believe it either. Greg felt the awe. "One more, man? I
don't want to push too hard."