Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water ) (15 page)

He’d made Etienne drop him off down the road so Tom wouldn’t hear the car coming, and obviously his voodoo-ometer was off, because he whirled around, surprised. Drew his weapon.

For a second, he kept it raised between them. Prophet stared at it and then at him, and Tom slowly lowered his arm and rested the gun back on an old table that was covered in paint, like the floor.

The little shit just stood there, surrounded by canvases in progress, looking at him defiantly. His face was bruised, his knuckles bloody, and it was hard to imagine that not more than eight hours ago, they had been fucking. And closer to common ground than Prophet could’ve ever hoped for.

Prophet strolled in, closed the door behind him with a slam. Grabbed a chair, turned it around, and sat, his arms folded over its back. “So . . . you and Cope.”

Tom furrowed his brow. “Me and Cope?”

“You’re getting along, then? You spent a lot of quality time with him.”

“He’s straight, you know.”

“Did you hit on him without realizing that?”

“God,” Tom snarled, “I want to hit
you
when you act like that with me.” And yep, the brawl had made his anger worse. The place reverberated with it.

“Business as usual,” Prophet said quietly. “Good to know nothing’s changed.”

“Right.
Nothing’s
changed.”

“Emphasis noted.” The silence stretched between them like a lonely road. “So, did you kill your ex-boyfriend?”

“Jesus H. Christ, Prophet.”

“It’s a legitimate question.”

“Only from an asshole. And Miles is
not
my fucking ex-boyfriend.” Tom ran a hand through his hair. It was longer than Prophet was used to. A couple of months in EE did that to most operatives.

He also noted that the bracelet he was used to seeing on Tommy’s wrist was gone. He glanced at the table, where Tom’s gun and wallet were, and the bracelet lay there, most likely taken off when he was booked, but not put back on. “I’m supposed to call my watchdog off,” he said quietly.

Tom blinked. Comprehended faster than he’d pretended to. “Is that what you’re doing?”

“It’s better if you stop following him.”

“You’re into doing what Cillian tells you to?” Tom’s voice was low and dangerous.

“I’m into people not being in my business.”

“Right. Just a select few are allowed in.”

“I don’t want anyone in more danger because of me than they need to be.”

“Right.” Tom’s drawl was as thick as the tension.

“I didn’t kill
your
ex,” Prophet said, in part to change the topic. And, in part to piss Tom off. “But he did call me. Wanted me to meet him.”

Tom’s hands fisted, then opened. “About what?”

“You.”

“Are you making this shit up?”

“Why would I do that? Figured Etienne and I should pool our knowledge and figure out why the fuck you were almost framed.”

“I know why.”

“Want to share with the class?”

Tom threw himself into a seat. Based on his expression, the answer was a solid no, but Prophet never let that stop him. “Not really, Teach.”

“Sarcasm’s my domain, not yours,” Prophet informed him seriously. “Who the fuck was Miles to you?”

“Someone who made my goddamned life hell when I was growing up. Just like ninety percent of the fucking parish. Happy now?” Tom stood so fast the chair fell behind him.

“Thrilled,” Prophet said dryly. “Now sit the fuck back down, because Teach isn’t done.”

Tom fought the urge to say
make me
, because that would make everything so much worse. His temper was already tipped and it wouldn’t be hard to slam him back over that edge.

Please, Proph, don’t push me there
, he begged silently, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. His stomach recoiled at the look in Prophet’s eyes. Eyes, between the color of slate and granite, liquid steel, a black-bellied cloud, low and dangerous enough to make Tom’s throat tighten.

So he sat, because he couldn’t hide from Prophet’s gaze.

Finally, Prophet stood. Shoved the chair out of the way as he slowly closed the distance between them. “You separated from me back there. That’s a lot different than disagreeing on which way to go. You don’t fucking separate from me. We work together.”

“Thought we weren’t partners.”

“We were working together today. Christ, T, do you do this on goddamned purpose? Push your partners away so you can prove no one listens to you?”

“That’s not fair.”

“And now you’re hiding out here—”

Tom stood and shoved his chair out of the way too. “I’m not hiding.”

“Really?’

“Lew knows I’m here. The sheriff knows I’m here. The whole fucking parish does.”

“Is that why I wasn’t informed, because I’m not part of your fucking parish?”

“You don’t need any of this shit coming down on you because of me,” Tom said.

Prophet’s jaw clenched, and he paused, like he was taking a moment to acknowledge the painful irony of those words. But then, “Did you lose it in the fight today?”

Tom winced internally. “I don’t remember.” His voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears.

“Let me guess—Lew put you in a cell with fuckups. Maybe even told them you used to be a deputy, right?”

Tom refused to answer, so Prophet continued, demanding, “You do know where the cops were planning on putting you if you hadn’t been released, right? General population, right? Letting everyone know you were a cop
and
a Fed.” Prophet sucked in a deep breath and growled, “And maybe, just fucking maybe, if you’d waited for me, you wouldn’t be in this goddamned mess.”

“Because you would’ve stopped me from running into a house with a body on the floor?”

“I think you’d have more goddamned sense, considering the reputation you apparently have in this shithole.”

That definitely hit the mark Prophet had to have been aiming for. Tom placed a hand over his chest because it felt like Prophet’s words had pierced his goddamned heart, and Prophet looked pleased. But he was apparently far from done.

Tom backed up as Prophet advanced toward him. But he ran out of space and hit the wall. Prophet didn’t stop, his gray eyes boring into Tom’s, so dark and angry and somehow freaking exquisite at the same time. His hair was longer, fell across his forehead, and Tom remembered holding Prophet in place by it earlier. When he’d been in control.

Semi-control.

He wasn’t in that position now if Prophet’s predatory stance was any indication. And the man moved fast, grabbing him, picking him up, and Tom struggled for just a second before Prophet growled, “Don’t you goddamned fight me. Not now. Not fucking now.”

Tom stopped. Prophet dumped him unceremoniously onto the bed, and Tom struggled to get a grip on anything, including himself, but then Prophet straddled him.

“I don’t know what the fuck to do with you, T,” Prophet murmured. “Don’t know how to get through to you.”

“Don’t people normally say that to you?” Tom wiseassed back and instantly regretted it. Because the look on Prophet’s face told him two things—he’d been right, and he’d given Prophet ideas about how to get through to Tom. He saw it in the flash of anger before Prophet’s expression settled into the calm of a man who knew he was in charge and planned on keeping it that way.

Which meant that Tom was completely at the mercy of Prophet’s impending wildness, could feel it shaking the space between them like a stampede of wild horses.

No one had ever tamed Prophet. Tom could only hope to possibly keep the man’s interest while letting him run wild.

He swallowed hard as Prophet put his hands on the collar of his T-shirt and then ripped it in half as if it were made of paper. A clean split down the middle, and then he left it hanging there on Tom’s shoulders.

Tom stilled, left his hands at his sides. Prophet hadn’t commanded him to. Not with words, anyway, but it was times like this that Tom could truly see how completely badassed the man hovering over him was.

He wanted that. Craved it.

Prophet smiled then, the smile of someone who had a secret. He ran a finger around Tom’s nipple, tugged the bar almost absently, as whatever plan he was concocting unfolded inside his head.

In a split second, the mood changed. Prophet eased off him, and before Tom had time to miss the contact, Prophet flipped him so he landed on his face. Prophet yanked his arms up behind his back, like he was going to handcuff Tom, but used the ends of the shirt to tie him instead, which also partially immobilized his shoulders. The bindings were tight and impossible to rip, based on the position Prophet had him in.

He heard a couple of drawers opening and closing, but Prophet still held him in place with one hand. And then Prophet reached under him, unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans and pulled them down, along with his boxer briefs—carefully, no doubt because of the piercings. And then he slowly eased Tom’s hips into the air, spreading his thighs wide, which left Tom naked, open, and vulnerable.

He had no choice but to rest his cheek against the sheet, so aware of how bound he was, so painfully aware that he both hated this and desperately wanted this at the same time. He had no real way to move without throwing himself completely off-balance.

He’d have to rely on Prophet, let him take what he wanted, what they both needed.

As if to prove that point, Prophet trailed a slickly lubed finger between his ass checks, pressed against his opening, and Tom groaned. Tried to push against the finger and couldn’t. Prophet put a hand on his shoulder to both steady him and keep him from moving, from seeking the pleasure he wanted.

Prophet’s finger breached him, but it was too damned gentle. Tom tried to breathe, closed his eyes, tried to go with it. He was rewarded with a second finger and a sharp twist that made Prophet’s fingertips brush his gland. He whimpered as his body demanded more, immediately.

Prophet, though, was content with setting a leisurely rhythm, taking and keeping charge. Tom buried his face into the sheets, muttered, “C’mon Proph,” and was rewarded with a hard slap on his ass.

And by reward, he meant
reward
.

Tom blew out a hard breath at the sharp sting and waited for more. When none came, he begged, “Come on. You promised.”

“Fucker. Not supposed to enjoy it.”

But there was no way Prophet believed that. He was as intimately acquainted with the pleasure-pain continuum that Tom skated across as Tom was, because it was mapped all over his body.

As if reading his mind, Prophet reached his hand around and tugged a nipple bar hard. Tom hissed, and Prophet delivered several more hard, heated slaps. Tom wanted to reach around and grab his cock, tugged on the bonds in frustration. And the bastard chuckled. Moved his hand to play with Tom’s cock piercings, a slight pull on each of them until Tom was jumping out of his skin.

And so it went—slaps mixed with tugs, until Tom was so mixed up with the sensations that he didn’t know if he was coming or going. And he didn’t care as long as Prophet didn’t stop.

Finally, Prophet lined up behind him, dragged his cock along Tom’s ass, thrusting back and forth with that minimal contact that would never be enough. Tom’s skin was slick with sweat, and he’d nearly bitten through the sheets in an effort not to curse Prophet out for making him goddamned suffer.

And then Prophet was inside him, a long, not-so-slow slide that had Tom full-fledged cursing, yanking at the bindings, trying to get free and get closer to Prophet.

Prophet drew his cock out and in, the same goddamned slow pace he’d already set. A hand on his shoulder, holding him tight to the bed, the other on Tom’s hip. He thrust as he pulled Tom’s hips to him to make the force of his thrusts greater. Tom was trembling, inside and out. “Fucking the fight out of me?”

“Keep digging yourself deeper,” Prophet told him, slapping his already sore ass, and fuck, Prophet knew he would.

Several deep thrusts had Tom whimpering. Begging. Headed toward incoherence, which was obviously how Prophet wanted it.

“Please, Proph. You know what I need.”

“Yeah, Tommy. I do,” Prophet said quietly.

His hips snapped against Tom, flesh slapped flesh, and their groans and curses filled the room. Tom came with jerky motions as Prophet’s cock pressed against his gland, continuing to milk him, prolonging his orgasm much longer than he could ever remember it being before.

It was only after he was able to see again that he realized Prophet hadn’t come. And he didn’t seem to want to. He remained inside Tom, his body close as he rubbed a hand over Tom’s back instead, asked, “What did the police say to you when they released you?”

Not the normal post-sex talk, but nothing was fucking normal anymore. “They told me not to leave the city limits of New Orleans or these parishes.”

“Was I right about what happened to you in that cell?”

Tom glanced at him over his shoulder but couldn’t bring himself to admit it. “I tripped. Down the stairs.”

“I will fucking kill Lew.” Prophet ran a hand along Tom’s side. “Ribs?”

“Just bruised. And I’m not telling you what happened, Proph, because I don’t want you to do anything stupid. I’ve already done enough, okay?”