I'll Be Your Last (2 page)

“Sure, Fred.” Mack nodded one sharp jerk of his head and raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was righteous indignation.
Fuck.
He was a professional, a cop, but he didn’t want anything to do with the pretty boy. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to suspect he was gay, and sporting a hard-on for the new guy would be a dead giveaway.

“Sure, Fred,” Woody echoed, flashing that smile again. “No problem.”

Back in the squad room, Mack watched the kid talk with the others. Heat crawling through his belly and balls, inching down the insides of his thighs, he knew if he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself diving right into deep shit. The kid looked innocent as a baby, but Mack’s reaction to Woody Kane was hot as fire. Innocence and sex.

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He tried to ignore the twist in his gut, needed to ignore the pretty boy’s presence. Lusting after the kid and letting it show would destroy the life he’d built for himself.

At the end of shift, the team converged on a cop bar a block from the station, open early, very early in the morning, to let off some adrenaline before going home. The bar was much less dingy than the squad room and a lot warmer. The owner, a former cop, knew what the guys needed after a shift—a secure place to wind down after an op, unwatered drinks, and some comfort snacks. A wooden bar took up the long side of the narrow space. Sparkling mirrors behind it reflected glasses and bottles of booze. Neon signs advertised popular beers. A jukebox filled the back corner playing songs from the fifties to the present. Wooden booths marched down the side opposite the bar, tables down the center. Two factory workers just off their own third shift hunkered together at the bar. Otherwise, the cops had the place to themselves.

The team took over a booth and pulled a table over to make room for everyone. Mack glanced at the familiar faces of Arne, Rich, and Sam. They slumped in their seats, elbows leaning on the table. Sam Cooley rubbed at his big face and ended up fingering the stud in his ear.

The kid straddled a chair, bracing muscled, hairy forearms on the back. Mack caught himself staring but took a moment longer than was wise to look away. Jean-clad thighs jutted out on either side of the seat. His jaw clenched hard in arousal at the stock-masculine pose.

How would all that sinew and muscle feel clamped around his waist?

He had to suck in a breath, praying none of the guys could read his mind. Gulping his beer, he shifted his gaze and focused on the bottle’s label as if it imparted the most important information in the world.

His deeply-rooted sexual desires had always been at odds with his work life. The Marines and cops were not always known as the most tolerant of professions, but he’d loved the power and pride of the military. It had led him to police work, to the protection of the most
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vulnerable in society. This meant he’d had to hide a big part of his life, especially at work. If another cop was gay, he didn’t want to know about it. His privacy was important.

These days he did his prowling out of town where no one knew him. He was king of one-night stands, not even one night, just an hour. That was enough time to fuck a sweet, tight ass. No kissing and nothing else involving intimacy. Shooting his wad into another guy, a tight chute contracting around his cock, and releasing his frustration was his only goal.

Was Woody’s cock thick, too? His hardening penis throbbed inconveniently, eyelids drooping to half-mast.
Damn.
Mack’s gaze dipped to the other man’s feet. He suppressed a laugh at the unreliable connection between foot and cock size. B
ut damn, the kid has big feet.

He fought the fantasy of clamping his lips around the pretty boy’s dick and sucking every ounce of cum out of him.

It might be time for another trip out of town since he had the next couple days off. His sensitive cock surged in his jeans, shoving at his zipper in anticipation, a drop of pre-cum oozing warmly from its tip.

Thankfully, the bar was dark, and no one would notice the wet spot on the front of his pants. Although, after an adrenaline-charged op, hard-ons were not that uncommon. Soldiers, cops, firemen, all were familiar with that state. Fucking another ass would make him forget Woody Kane’s.

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It started from their first glance at the house they’d raided and got worse with their sparring words at the station. Woodrow “Woody” Kane felt the animosity as well as the sexual tension from Mack in every receptive inch of his body. He didn’t usually like to rile someone when first meeting him, but there was no way he’d let the arrogant son of a bitch bully him because he was younger.

Dislike? Distrust? Hostility? It all rolled off the guy in waves. If Penchant wasn’t gay, he didn’t know gay. Gay and in hiding, if he didn’t miss his bet. Despite—or because of all that—his cock had swollen in an instant, excruciating arousal at the first sight of the other man, and he’d be damned if it wasn’t mutual.

Boy, you’re reaching with that one.

Maybe. Anything’s possible.

At the bar, he surreptitiously watched Mack watching him. He sat there, one ankle hooked over the other knee, his foot fidgeting up and down. The man was hard in every way, his stark features emphasized by the knit cap pulled tightly down over his hair, dark wisps sticking out the sides, a solid, muscular body sensed through the layers of clothes. Gorgeous cobalt eyes, crinkling at the outer corners and framed by dark lashes and eyebrows, kindled a rising heat he couldn’t tamp down. Mack’s shoulders were massive. The dark T-shirt beneath a faded flannel shirt wrapped tautly around what was possibly a six-pack belly.

A six-pack he’d love to taste. He’d drag a teasing tongue over the skin, leaving sharp love bites in a trail to the man’s cock.

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On the op, they’d shared a look, and, as brief as it had been, he’d been shaken to the core. Was Penchant out? He didn’t think it was likely. He wasn’t out either, at least not to the department.

An eye-opener for Woody had been an intense, six-month affair with a man so far in the closet he couldn’t see the light when the door opened and it was switched on. And it had been heartbreaking. He’d cared so much for Brad Payne. He’d given the relationship his all, believing his love would give Brad the courage to accept what he was and tell his parents he was gay. Then, that last night, they’d been out to a movie and had run into Brad’s folks, of all people. He could see it in the father’s eyes, see the suspicion and disgust. And the fear. In that moment, he realized what Brad was up against. What really killed him was Brad’s walking away as if they were strangers and had just spoken to each other that moment. That betrayal hurt. He decided he’d never let himself get involved with another man not honest, at the very least, with himself.

In that case, Woody would be wise to forget he’d ever lusted after Penchant’s shoulders and that he ached to check out the striated belly.

And he absolutely would not fantasize about the man’s ass. Or hunger for the feel of Penchant’s imagined broad-headed cock breaching the tight ring of his asshole. No amount of lube would make that comfortable. It wasn’t supposed to be comfortable, but it would be so fucking, voluptuously hot.

Trying to stay focused on his conversation with Sam Cooley, he felt the heat of Mack’s concentrated gaze on the side of his face. His neck prickled with the sensuality.
Don’t make it too obvious, guy.
But he couldn’t stop himself from picturing the man’s cock—his hard, thick, long, wide-tipped, slit-leaking sweet, salty-fluid cock.
God,
stop this before you embarrass yourself.
His own cock filled painfully, thickened and lengthened inside his jeans.
Shit.
He needed to get laid and by someone who didn’t resemble Mack Penchant in any way. He needed to get this guy out of his head. Nothing would
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ever happen between them. It would be personal and career suicide in their line of work.

He missed being in a committed relationship, though. He missed Brad, but Mack Penchant was out of bounds, although he couldn’t help but wonder if Mack was attracted to him—at least a little. His antagonism could hide fear. And lust.

When the team left the bar, they walked back to the station parking lot in twos and threes. The eastern sky over Lake Michigan was brightening, the orange disk of sun breaking through the clouds.

It was getting pretty cold out, which was normal for late fall in Chicago. Snow had been forecast for the next couple days, and he could already feel the damp creeping into his bones. Buttoning his jacket and jamming his hands in the pockets, Woody heated up watching Mack’s ass. He shook his head. That was not a good idea.

What he needed to do was the smart thing and keep away.

* * * *

But a few days later, Woody sauntered past Mack’s desk and couldn’t help provoking him, drawling, “So, do I still look like a choir boy?” Smirking at the other man, he stroked the thick brush he’d grown on his chin and upper lip. He had no trouble quickly growing facial hair, and the thought of proving it to Penchant was quite satisfying, not to mention arousing. Maybe his sign of masculinity turned Mack on, too.

Mack’s burst of laughter took him off guard, surprising him that the rich, deep sound turned
him
on. That laughter transformed the stern, cold features to younger looking and almost—sweet.
Wow!
His blue eyes sparkled in humor, and red patches flushed his cheekbones.

He looked more human and approachable.
This is bad.

Woody’s drive to one of his usual gay-bar haunts out of town had been a mixed bag. He’d had no trouble hooking up, but to his chagrin, his temporary sexual partner had the same body type as Penchant,
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even though he’d not purposely sought that out. He’d given the guy just what he’d wanted—an ass fucking it would take him a long time to forget.

Woody’d just wanted to come, and it was Penchant’s ass he envisioned through the whole thing.
Shit. Fuck. Damn. You need to
get Mack Penchant out of your head!

“Okay, fellas.” Fred Bonney called for everyone’s attention, shifting his gaze from Woody to Mack to Rich. “You three are going to the wholesale flower market on South Lower Wacker.”
Whoo-hoo
s and catcalls came from the other guys in the squad room. Fred groaned and held his hand up. “Ha-ha, now listen up. Mack and Rich, you’re haulers moving pallets from trucks to the stalls. Woody, you’re a flower buyer.”

“I should wear something else, then,” Woody said, looking down at his jeans and hooded sweatshirt. “Do I need a suit or what?”

“Actually, just jeans and a dress shirt is fine. You’re a floral designer. Since that last tip was bogus, I made some calls of my own.

The dealers hang out behind the warehouse. Since the weather’s getting colder, they’re probably going underground soon. We need to get them before that happens. I don’t want to lose them again.”

“How reliable is your intel, sarge?”

Fred grimaced. “About seventy-five percent sure.”

“Good enough for me,” said Mack. “So when and what time do we start? And do we have ID on these guys?”

“Yeah.” Fred handed around surveillance photos of the suspects.

“The Sanchez cartel uses the wholesaler, Flowers and Greens, to bring the drug into the country.”

“We already knew that,” offered Mack.

“But we don’t know who they deliver it to. That’s what you’re going to find out. Don’t make any moves, just find out. It might be to more than one floral outlet. It might be just one. So, Woody, keep your eyes and ears open around the stalls. Rich and Mack, do the same on the loading docks.”

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“Are we sure the people we’re working with aren’t involved?” asked Rich.

“Yeah, in fact, the owner of the shop Woody’ll be working out of is the one who alerted us to the situation. Mack, you and Rich start tomorrow morning. Be there at four.”

“In the morning?” Mack winced, then frowned in Rich’s direction.

Fred laughed. “Yeah, Mack. In the morning.”

“How about me?” Woody asked.

Fred turned to him. “Six. Be there at six and check in at Posies Galore.”

“Oh, God, better you than me, kid,” Mack taunted. “Posies Galore? D’ya think you can handle that?”

“I can handle anything that comes my way,” Woody snapped, letting his temper get the better of him.

Mack half rose from his chair.

Cooley held him back with a hand on his shoulder.

* * * *

At the end of shift, Mack spotted Woody in the locker room.

“What was your problem back there?” Woody went on the offensive.

Mack slammed the metal door back and jerkily grabbed his jacket out. “You forgot to call me
old man
this time.”

“That’s all? Then quit calling me ‘kid!’ Quit treating me like some snot-nosed child.Can we just have a truce?” Woody turned big brown eyes on him. “We’ve got to get along here. That’s all that matters on the job. And I’m not so bad once you get to know me.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Mack grudgingly agreed. He’d have to stop letting the kid get to him. It was a dead giveaway. Very much aware they were the only ones in the locker room, Mack ducked his head, surreptitiously watching Woody pull off his shirt, exposing a fine set of pecs and a flat stomach. The kid didn’t sport a six-pack like his, but
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he’d still like to bite that belly. The kid’s nipples were tight and hard in the cool room. Mack’s gut clenched at the thought of clamping those sharp points between his teeth. He turned away fast before he gave away the fierce arousal flooding his cock.

All his life, narrow hips, tight asses, and long, thick, erect cocks had turned him on. Muscled chests, flat chests, men’s faces, beards, scruffy stubble, it all aroused him.
Damn it.
The kid had all that, and,
yeah
, it turned him on. Another man at work hadn’t affected him this way in a long time. He’d had erotic thoughts about other cops but was always able to control them without being obvious. Woody could break down the barriers he’d painstakingly built up over the years.